Sea of Darkness: A World of Gothic: France Read online

  Sea of Darkness

  A World of Gothic  France

  RITA-Nominated Author

  Amanda McCabe

  copyright © 2016 by Amanda McCabe

  All Rights Reserved

  http://ammandamccabe.com

  These stories are works of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Amanda McCabe.

  Cover Art © Steven Novak

  Table of Contents

  copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Excerpt: Blood Stained Memories

  Excerpt: Dark Hunt

  Chapter One

  Rouen, 1890

  I couldn't help but feel that I was suddenly living a life that was not my own.

  I folded my hands tightly on the handle of the valise on my lap, the old, cracked leather case that held nearly all I owned in the world, and studied the room around me. That sense of cold distance, as if I saw everything in a dream, grew stronger as I watched the receptionist at his desk, the crowds that hurried past in a blur of identical dark suits. No one spoke loudly there, in the city council's mairie. They merely murmured to each other, making the rustle of papers on the receptionist's desk all the louder.

  A mairie was always a discreet place, especially the section that housed the foreign services, as I remembered well from when I accompanied my father there as a child. Then, as we journeyed there from our comfortable apartment so he could give them his translation work, I had been awed by it all. The soaring, vaulted ceilings of the old buildings, the stone staircases, the solemn air of quiet, secret importance. It was almost frightening, and I was always glad when we returned home to our books and fires, our own company.

  Now, though, there was no one to return to, no Papa waiting for me, no fine apartment. There was only a tiny room in a dusty boarding house along a back street. A room I would soon be hard-pressed to pay for, since I had lost my most recent position as a governess.

  Two men passing by darted curious looks my way, and I tucked my shabby boots further beneath the hem of my black dress. I felt so very out of place in that grand entrance hall, and not just because a woman was rarely seen in those official places. My gown and coat, the plain gray hat pinned to my upswept brown hair, had once been most respectable, made of fine silk and wool and of a fashionable cut, though plainly sewn. Now, after many months of careful sponging and mending, they were just as shabby as the boots.

  Thank goodness they could not see the hole in the toe of my stocking.

  I touched the one fine thing I did still own, a gold filigree bracelet set with a dark purple spinel stone that had once belonged to the mother I barely remembered. It was hidden under my black glove, and it gave me a small boost of courage.

  The men glanced back at me just before they disappeared up a flight of stone steps. I couldn't blame them for being curious; I was curious myself. The note summoning me to the office, signed by a Monsieur Mathieu Favril, chief secretary of the foreign office, was a great surprise. I hadn't been near the place since my father died over a year before, and I had no desire to see those chilly halls again.

  But there seemed to be little choice in the matter. A government summons could not be ignored. And I had just lost my position tutoring the Domreys' unruly children, my third job since Papa died, and I was left alone with no income. Perhaps something was still owed to my father for his work here, and this Monsieur Favril wished to pay it. That was what I hoped, anyway.

  Otherwise, I could not fathom why I was there. I had done nothing illegal that I knew of.

  I touched my bracelet again, and looked at the clock that ticked away its moments above the busy receptionist's desk. I had been rather early, but it was now past the appointed time, and Monsieur Favril had not appeared. I could feel my nerves tightening, my toes longing to tap.

  At last, just as I had resolved to jump up and leave, a door across the hall opened and a man appeared. He was dressed as the others, in a somber dark suit, gray waistcoat and cream cravat, but there the resemblance ended. He was quite tall, powerfully lean beneath the fine dark wool of his coat, and looked too much like one of the Grecian statues in some of my father's history books, all sculpted, hard angles. His golden hair, brushed ruthlessly back and tamed from any urge to curl, set off his austere, sharp features. His eyes, the palest gray, chilly as January ice, seemed to see everything, every secret and hope and fear, in only one glance.

  I suddenly wished I had fled when I had the chance.

  “Mademoiselle Sandrine Duplessis?” he said, his voice as ice-tinged as his eyes.

  I slowly rose to my feet, clutching tighter to my valise. “I am Mademoiselle Duplessis.”

  He smiled, and it only marginally thawed his expression. He came toward me to offer his hand, and I caught the faintest whiff of his scent, surprisingly warm and citrus-clean, like the air of a lemon grove after rain. It was disconcertingly delicious.

  I forced myself to stand very still, telling myself sternly that I was only hungry, and that was why his cologne made me feel so dizzy.

  “I am sorry to have kept you waiting,” he said. “I am Monsieur Favril. It was kind of you to call on us at such short notice.”

  “Not at all,” I answered. “My father did always enjoy his work for your office.”

  Those gray eyes narrowed, though his polite smile never wavered. “That is what I hope to speak to you about, mademoiselle. If you will come into my office? My secretary will send for some tea.”

  I wanted to protest, to say I would surely not be in that hushed place long enough for refreshments, but my rumbling stomach told me otherwise. I nodded, and followed him through the open door. Monsieur Favril's office was simply but luxuriously furnished in dark carved woods and lush green upholstery, shelves of books lining the walls and the windows draped in gray velvet. I thought he must surely be something important there, but nothing gave away any title.

  “Please, mademoiselle, do be seated,” he said as he held out one of the soft-cushioned chairs. “You must be wondering why I invited you here.”

  The chair was deliciously comfortable. I tried not to sigh as I sank into it. Soft chairs, like new boots and baths not icy cold, were things I had nearly forgotten. Yet even that was not quite enough to remove the disquiet I had felt since stepping into that quiet, shadowy lobby of officialdom.

  “You said it has to do with my father's work, Monsieur Favril?” I said. I nearly jumped up again at the sound of a sudden knock at the door, but it was just the receptionist with a tea tray.

  When he departed, Monsieur Favril answered, “It is, in a way. Your father did much excellent work for us here, he was a brilliant man.”

  I nodded as he handed me a thin china cup. I took a long sip, savoring the smoky Indian brew. If nothing else, this visit would give me a tiny respite from the world outside.

  But what would save me from the world in there?

 
“My father was a great scholar,” I said, and that was true. My father had spoken many languages, including Greek, Latin, and Sanskrit, as well as modern tongues, and known all there was to know about mythology from around the world. He had written several articles on the subject, and had many students.

  But being a sometimes-tutor and writer had not paid a great deal, and my mother's noble family had cut her off when she insisted on marrying a scholar. She had died when I was four, so I knew little of her at all. My whole life it had just been my father and me, and our little world of books in our comfortable apartment.

  Until that world came crashing down, crumbling like the ancient civilizations my father studied.

  “And he taught you much of what he knew,” Monsieur Favril said.

  “Some of what he knew. I acted as his secretary at times,” I answered. I had mostly sent articles to publications, made sure my father was paid, did a bit of translating for him.

  “Did he ever speak of the Oro civilization in the Society Islands, particularly Tahiti?”

  I nodded. He had indeed mentioned the islands, though it was not his first area of expertise. He was always fascinated by the new knowledge collected by traveling scientists. “When my father died, he was working on a guide to the mythologies of the world. He included the islands, though he had only begun his work on them. He felt that we here at home in France should know more about our colonies.”

  “And he was quite right.” Monsieur Favril held out a plate of cakes. He smiled, but the expression did not quite reach those pale eyes. “That is why I feel you are just the person who can help us now.”

  I warily took one of the tempting confections. “How so, Monsieur Favril? If you need translation work, as my father did for you...”

  “It's a bit more involved than that.” He sat back in his chair, his elegantly manicured hands folded as he studied me closely. “I would like to offer you a position, Mademoiselle Duplessis.”

  I was startled. “A position? Here?”

  “At a chateau, near the sea. Chateau de Pierpont. A lady there, Madame Monsard, requires a companion. She is the wife of one of our officers, a fine gentleman who has long served the foreign office. Monsieur Monsard sadly died in Tahiti recently.”

  “I am most sorry to hear that,” I said sincerely. How sad for the gentleman to die so far from home. “I fear I have no experience as a lady's companion.”

  “It cannot be too complicated. You have been employed as a governess, I understand, but have recently most abruptly left that position.”

  What else did he know about me? I studied him closely, but his polite smile gave nothing away. “It is true. But surely teaching children is very different.”

  “I would imagine acting as a companion would be easier. A grown lady would surely be—quieter.”

  One would certainly hope so. I shuddered to remember the Domrey children, their pranks and shriekings. But somehow I had the feeling there was more to this job offer, that Monsieur Favril did not seek to aid me from mere kindness to my father. “I am surprised the foreign office is acting as an employment agency.”

  He laughed. The sound seemed to completely transform him, melting the ice around him and making him seem younger. “It is a bit outside my usual duties. Monsieur Monsard was a valued employee, as was your father. If we can help their families now...”

  It was an admirable sentiment indeed, but I was still sure that was not the whole tale. “What is Madame Monsard like, monsieur?”

  “I fear she is an invalid, grown even more ill after her husband's death. She rarely leaves the chateau, which has been in the Monsard family for generations. She is an educated lady who once wrote poetry herself, so the normal sort of companion would not do for her.”

  “So I would read to her, talk with her? I fear I have no nursing experience.” Except for looking after my father at the end. I shuddered to remember how thin and pale he had grown, how helpless and sad. I did not want to go through that again, not so soon.

  “She has a physician and trained nurses. You would be merely a companion, a friend. Or rather, not merely.”

  “What else would I be, monsieur?”

  He smiled again. “Monsieur Monsard was in the islands for a long while. We could use someone to look about the Chateau de Pierpont, perhaps see what he left there of his life on Tahiti, among the Oro. We need to know more about them. That is all.”

  “I would have thought Madame Monsard would send back anything to do with his job after his death.”

  “Nothing like that, Mademoiselle Duplessis. Merely—whatever looks interesting. Your father surely educated you about other cultures.”

  He wanted a spy in the Monsard house? Had Monsieur Monsard been some sort of double agent in Tahiti, involved in secret doings so far away? Against my will, I was rather intrigued. Working with my father had always created such curiosity in my mind, a wondrous world of different places, different sorts of people. Curiosity had no place for a governess, for a woman no more than a servant.

  But curiosity could be dangerous, too.

  “Positions are hard to find for ladies in your situation, Mademoiselle Duplessis,” Monsieur Favril said. “I understand Pierpont is rather isolated. Madame Monsard is willing to be most generous for your trouble, as are we.”

  He named a wage that was, indeed, most generous. If I stayed with Madame Monsard for a year, I could have a small nest egg to open my own little shop in Rouen, or even a little school. I would imagine no such opportunity would come my way again soon.

  “It was kind of you to think of me for this position, Monsieur Favril,” I said carefully. “When would Madame Monsard require me to begin?”

  Monsieur Favril smiled, and seemed to relax a bit as if he was relieved. Was this really such a difficult position to fill? Why would that be? “Next week would be most satisfactory. You may need a small advance; warm clothes are a requirement by the sea at this time of year, I am sure. I can have a coach convey you there.”

  He handed me a small purse, clinking heavily with coins. When I peeked inside, I was relieved to know the old boots could finally go. But there still lingered that touch of disquiet—what was this job really all about? What would I find at the Chateau de Pierpont? “You are most generous, monsieur.”

  “Just remember, Mademoiselle Duplessis—if you see anything of interest at all, or require any assistance, write to me immediately.”

  Require assistance? It sounded rather ominous. Yet Monsieur Favril was correct—good positions were hard to find, and I was in no place to turn this one down, no matter what hidden aspects there were about it. I could only pray that I would find all well at the Chateau de Pierpont.

  But I had a strange, cold feeling I would not.

  Chapter Two

  “There, mademoiselle. You can see Pierpont,” the carriage driver said as the vehicle lurched around a corner of the steep road. He slowed the horses and gestured at a building that seemed to rest below in a valley, hidden from the rest of the world. “Once, they say, it was the most beautiful place in Normandy. Royalty visited its halls.”

  “Really?” My curiosity about Pierpont, which had been great ever since I heard of the position there, soared even higher. The houses and apartments I had shared with my father were always comfortable and respectable, but never a place for royalty. I leaned out the open window of the carriage and studied my surroundings with avid interest.

  We had left the closest village far behind, and journeyed into what seemed to me like a wild fairy-land.

  The sky, a dramatic swirl of pearl gray clouds, lowered over winding fields of scrubby browns and dark greens, all windswept and lonely on such a dreary day. Only occasionally was there a sudden flash of color, blue or red in a flower that had missed been scythed down or flattened by the cold wind, and a few times I glimpsed a cottage or farmhouse in the distance. They were all low and heavy, built of gray stone with a dark brown slate roof in the Norman style.

  Out there, in suc
h a lonely place, the silence seemed oppressively loud. The voice of the wind, the distant shriek of birds, it all seemed so close yet so far away. The land was deceptive.

  I finally saw what the driver indicated, the Chateau de Pierpont. From that distance, it looked almost like a child's plaything, a toy chateau built of tiny gray bricks forming fanciful towers and rotundas. The slate-gray mansard roof sloped downward, its color melding with the sky. The windows glinted, almost like eyes blinking out at the world beyond, but the only sign of real life was the silvery curls of smoke from the chimneys. The mist that seemed caught in the valley swirled around the house, as if trying to conceal it from the outside world.

  My father had been a scholar, a man who scoffed at fairy tales and believed that mythology was useful only to judge how past civilizations lived. Yet I had one book when growing up that had belonged to my mother, La belle au bois dormant, The sleeping beauty. The house made me think of the sketches in those old pages, of Beauty's cursed castle surrounded by the mists of time, hidden from the world as its inhabitants dreamed the years away.

  I shivered, and drew my new cloak closer around me. Monsieur Favril was right; I was glad of its thick, sturdy wool now. “It seems most isolated.”

  The driver gave me a smile. I'm sure he meant it to be reassuring, but I saw the pity in it. “Just beyond those hills, mademoiselle, is the sea, and a village not so far away, along with the old monastery. It's not so remote as it seems.”

  I nodded. I could hear the waves, or fancied I could anyway. The endless rush and ebb of the water on the rocky shore. I would have to go explore it later, for I had the sudden strange fear that the chateau would try to hold me in that valley, if I let it.

  The carriage lurched down the slope of the lane and turned through a set of tall, wrought iron gates, propped open in stout stone walls. Surely they had once been imposing, intricately worked into twisting vine shapes, topped with gilded finials and a painted family crest. Now the iron was rusted in spots, the gilt flaking.