Sea of Darkness: A World of Gothic: France Page 3

  “Rather unsettling, I think. I prefer a nice marble Aphrodite myself.” Monsieur Harcourt extinguished his cheroot in a small porcelain bowl on a stand nearby and offered me his arm. “Shall I show the way, mademoiselle?”

  “Merci.” I took his arm, and felt steadied by being near another living, breathing person. “If Monsieur Monsard sent back many items from the islands, where are they kept?”

  He shrugged. “I'm sure Madeline does not want to see them. I imagine they're mostly stashed in a store-room in the east wing, never to see the light of day again. A great pity.”

  “How so?” I asked as we made our way out of the gallery and up a flight of stairs.

  “There are many here in France quite fascinated by our colonies. They would love to see such things, to learn more about their purpose. Perhaps even to buy them for their own collections. I fear poor Madeline has only been left a small income for running such a large house.”

  I thought of the door at the end of the corridor, of the housekeeper's warning. “Is that why the east wing is kept locked? To deter thieves?”

  His handsome jaw tightened. “I'm sure there are many reasons for such measures. You must not worry, though, Mademoiselle Duplessis. My sister does have the means to afford a companion, and it is most reassuring that she will be looked after. I do so worry about her.”

  “Is she so very ill, then?”

  “As I said, Madeline has always been delicate, ever since we were children, and our parents always worried about her. But she has always been a bright spirit, too, always laughing and cheerful. Since her husband left, she has become sad and pale, quiet. She seldom leaves her room. I fear grief is quite crushing her.”

  Grief—or being at an isolated place like Pierpont? “I hope I can help her.”

  He smiled. “I am sure you can, mademoiselle. You do seem a sensible sort of lady. Perhaps soon you could persuade her to be rid of Monsieur Monsard's poor legacy and retire to Paris or Nice. A change of scene.”

  I nodded. A change of scene to sunshine and society was often prescribed for melancholy, and I confessed I would enjoy seeing a place like Nice for myself. But would Madame Monsard agree? It sounded as if she clung close to Pierpont. “If this is her home...”

  Monsieur Harcourt looked at me closely. “What do you think of the chateau?”

  “It is quite interesting, full of history. I have never seen anyplace like it.”

  “But what if you had to live here, day after day, for years, as Madeline has? It would wear you away, as it does everyone who comes near it.”

  I felt quite alarmed by his sudden taut, bitter tone. “What do you mean, Monsieur Harcourt?”

  He suddenly smiled, his dark mood vanished like a cloud behind the sun. “I mean nothing, mademoiselle. Merely fancies. I sometimes paint, you see, and it gives me an artistic temperament susceptible to bad dreams. Ah, here we are at your own corridor.”

  I looked around, surprised to find myself in the familiar hallway. I had been so preoccupied by our conversation I did not see where we went. I was sure I couldn't find that gallery again. “Thank you for your help, Monsieur Harcourt.”

  “Not at all. I enjoy playing the rescuing white knight whenever I can. I hope we shall meet again soon.”

  He gave a polite bow and turned to leave. Once he was gone, the silence seemed heavy again, oppressive. I glanced at the closed door to the east wing and shivered, hurrying to escape into my own chamber.

  The Rose Room was just as I had left it, my brush on the dressing stand, my parents' wedding photograph on the desk, my books lined up on the shelf. The hour grew quite late, yet I still felt strangely restless. I couldn't help but think of the portraits, the “march of time” as Monsieur Harcourt put it. I unlocked my window and pushed it open, letting in a rush of cold, clear night air.

  The fresh air smelled of something crisp and green from the garden, and I hoped it would clear my head of the spell Pierpont cast. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply. I remembered that I had to write to Monsieur Favril and tell him of my arrival. But what could I say about my uncertain feelings without seeming full of delusions?

  A different smell suddenly wound its way through the crispness of the night breeze. A heavy, sweet scent, like a hothouse garden, humid and heady. I opened my eyes, wondering where such a perfume could come from. There were no such blossoms anywhere in the shadowy garden, no fresh vases in my room. It seemed to wrap itself around me, and then disappeared on the wind.

  I resolutely pulled the window shut and locked it, turning toward my bed. If I was imagining such things, it was definitely time for rest. Surely everything would look brighter, clearer, in the morning.

  Chapter Four

  I opened my eyes and found myself looking into only darkness. For a moment, I forgot where I was, and cold confusion made me shiver. Where was I? Not in that bare rented room in Rouen; certainly not in my chamber in my father's apartment, with all my familiar things around me. I felt pressed down, suffocated.

  At last I managed to break free of whatever held me frozen, and I sat up with a gasp. I blinked, and managed to make out the shapes of furniture in the shadows. An armoire, a desk, two chairs by the cold fireplace where the flames had faded. Then I remembered—I was at the Chateau de Pierpont.

  I forced myself to take a deep, steadying breath. What woke me? A dream? I couldn't remember any nightmare. I was so tired by the journey, by my new circumstances, that I fell asleep almost as soon as I lay down.

  I did remember looking out my window at the night sky, and that hint of a strange tropical perfume. There was no such scent in the air now, only the furniture polish of lemon-tinged beeswax, a hint of woodsmoke. The curtains at the window were firmly drawn, just as I left them.

  I fumbled to light the candle on my bedside table, and let out a little sigh of relief when the light filled a little space. I saw it was indeed just an ordinary room, filled with everyday things.

  I slipped out of bed and wrapped a shawl over my muslin nightdress before I went to the fireplace to try and stir up the embers. Pierpont was indeed chilly in the night. As I took up the wrought iron poker, I glanced at my parents' photograph on the desk. How young they looked then, on their wedding day! They tried to look solemn, as befitted a couple at such an important moment, dressed in their finest clothes, my father's dark suit and cravat, my mother's white lace. Her spinel bracelet gleamed on her gloved wrist.

  They had no idea on that day of the sorrows the world held for them. My heart ached for them, missed them. Their faces, lost now except in my memory, made me think of the long row of painted Monsards in the gallery. History and time must creep forward and forward, leaving them all behind.

  I remembered Monsieur Harcourt's face as he spoke about those portraits, about Monsieur Monsard who had died so far away and left his wife alone. Perhaps he, too, felt the sadness that lingered in these walls.

  I pushed away all thoughts of Monsieur Harcourt and his Apollo-like face. There was no room in my life now for romance, even of the fanciful daydream sort. I was at Pierpont to do a job, and my future depended on it.

  I finally stirred the fire back to life, and warmed my chilled hands as I sat down in one of the cushioned chairs. Slowly, any lingering bad dreams dissipated, and the chateau was only a house again. The walls no longer seemed to creep close to me, and I wondered what the next day would hold.

  I began to feel sleepy again at last, and rose to my feet to return to bed. As I took a step, I heard something in the corridor outside my room, a rustle, and something like a smothered laugh.

  “Is someone there?” I called out. There was no answer, and I wondered if perhaps it was Madame Monsard, wandering from her own room in need of assistance. It seemed much too early for any servants to be about.

  I steeled myself to move forward, and threw open the door. The corridor was quite empty.

  There was a banging noise, as if a door slammed in the distance. It seemed to come from the deep shadows at the
end of the long hall, where the locked entrance to the east wing waited. Yet who would be going there so late at night?

  Something drew me to walk toward it, even as my mind shouted at me to stay put, to lock my own door and hide in bed. The hall was cold, and I found the door still firmly closed and locked, silent and stolid behind its iron-bound wood. I twisted the handle again to be sure. It didn't even move.

  “Perhaps I'm still dreaming,” I whispered. The iron handle felt real enough, though, as well as the prickle of the rug under my bare feet, the chilly draft that swept around me. The cold breeze seemed to carry the scent of those heavy, sweet tropical flowers.

  I backed away from the door. I longed with all my might to run, to turn and flee and never stop until I was far away from Pierpont. It was a terrible feeling; I had never considered myself a coward. Life alone in the world was a daunting matter, and I was only slowly learning to face it. Yet that door, that whiff of strange perfume, that distant laugh, made me want to scream.

  I refused to give in to the fear, though. This job was all I had, my best chance. I couldn't let silly dreams drive me away. I turned and walked as quickly as I could without running back to my own door.

  But all my bravado nearly collapsed when I saw someone coming up the stairs. A dark figure, moving slowly.

  “Wh—who is there?” I called out.

  “Just Marie, mademoiselle,” the figure answered. The cheerful, ordinary voice made me feel most foolish, and I had to laugh at myself. “I've come to light the fires and leave madame her morning tea.”

  As she moved closer, I saw it was indeed the friendly maidservant, a tray in her hands, her black dress making her blend into the shadows. She gave a puzzled frown as she took in my nightdress and bare feet. I probably looked like a wild creature in my fright.

  “What are you doing up so early, mademoiselle?” she asked.

  I swallowed hard and tried to smile. “I just thought I heard someone here in the corridor. I came out to see if they needed help.”

  Marie's eyes widened. “You heard someone?”

  “Oui. I thought it might be Madame Monsard.”

  “She takes a sleeping powder, and never gets up so early.” Marie glanced past me at madame's closed door. “Did they say anything?”

  “No, it was just footsteps, and a door slamming. Could it be one of the other servants, or maybe Monsieur Harcourt?”

  Marie shook her head. “Monsieur sleeps in the west wing, and no one is about now but me. Madame Monsard likes her tea to be waiting when she wakes, so I rise early to leave it for her.”

  “I am sure I heard something,” I said, but in truth now I was not so sure. Perhaps it was indeed a dream.

  Marie put down her tray on a small table outside madame's chamber, and gently took my arm to steer me back toward my own room. “Here, mademoiselle, let's build up your fire again. You seem chilled through.”

  I was grateful for the company of another person as Marie urged me to sit down and relight the fire that had gone out again when I left the room. It seemed reassuringly normal.

  “You really shouldn't go out alone here at night, mademoiselle,” Marie said, her voice a bit shaky.

  “Why not? Is it against a rule?”

  “There aren't so very many rules here, mademoiselle, not like at other houses where I've worked. Madame Monsard mostly keeps to herself. But the house is so very large, it's easy to get lost, and so many rooms are closed off. The floors and walls need some repair. I would be afraid of mice, or falling through a rotted floor.”

  Rot and mice were certainly valid fears in such an old chateau. Yet I had the strange feeling that Marie was not telling me everything. “Do you hear things at night, Marie?”

  She shook her head, not looking at me. “I stay mostly in the servants' quarters, mademoiselle. But, well—just be careful. I do like you, mademoiselle, and I hope you stay. Madame Monsard needs someone to help her.”

  “Does her brother not help her?”

  Marie sighed. “He hardly talks to her. I sometimes wonder why he came here to visit at all.”

  I frowned. That was not the impression I got from Monsieur Harcourt, who had seemed concerned about his sister now that she was widowed and alone. “And Monsieur Monsard? What was he like?”

  “I never met him. He went away to those heathen islands long ago, and just sent back crates full of such odd things. They say he was handsome, though, and when he was here madame was well and happy. They threw splendid parties. It must have been a lovely place then, though I know there have always been ghost stories here. The Monsards have lived here for ages.”

  I nodded, thinking of the portrait I had seen of the young couple, the man with the carved staff and the dark eyes. “Perhaps it is grief making madame ill?”

  “The doctors don't know. She just keeps on wasting away, poor lady. Yet she is the kindest of souls.” Marie turned to me, her expression beseeching. “Just promise me you will not go out alone at night again, mademoiselle.”

  “I shall try not to,” I said, disquieted by the girl's obvious fear. “Thank you, Marie.”

  “You should try to get a bit more sleep. It will be dawn soon.”

  I knew she was right. I had to begin my new tasks in only a few hours, and found myself exhausted by my strange dreams and my cold trek through the empty corridors. I let Marie help me back into my abandoned bed, but after she left I found I could not fall asleep. I kept thinking of slamming doors and locked rooms, strange perfumes.

  I only knew one thing for sure—I could not let fear defeat me now.

  Chapter Five

  That morning I was finally to meet my employer. I only wished I had more than a few hours fitful sleep to sustain me.

  I brushed my straight, brown hair and pinned it up neatly, and dressed in one of my plain gray dresses, with only a narrow lace collar to soften its harsh lines. When I glanced in the mirror, I fancied I looked calm and collected, the perfect lady's companion. Inside, though, I still felt I would jump out of my skin at any sudden noise. My thoughts kept spinning around the night before.

  It all seemed like a dream now—the noises, the heady perfume, even the rows of faces staring down at me from the gallery walls. If Marie had not also been there, I would think it was a dream and thus would be able to dismiss it.

  I took another gulp of the strong tea the maid delivered that morning, along with the note summoning me to Madame Monsard's bedside. It was most bracing, and I had to admit that in the light of day I felt rather foolish. Pierpont was an old house, to be sure, with stylistic quirks and hidden nooks aplenty, but it was just a house. There was nothing to fear from it.

  I fastened my mother's spinel bracelet to my wrist and was ready to venture forth. I left my room, and hurried toward madame's suite next door, trying to look at the locked east wing. A faint, sweet voice answered my knock.

  “Do come in!”

  I slipped inside, and found myself in a fairyland of blue and silver, like a snow queen's bedchamber. It all seemed a piece with Pierpont's storybook atmosphere. Pale blue satin drapes covered the windows, blotting out the grayish light of the day, and more blue satin, trimmed with silver lace, hung from the carved posters of the huge bed. There was no work desk, but there was a large, white-painted dressing table, draped with a cloud of white tulle and blue ribbons. A sparkling array of crystal bottles and pots littered the surface, along with a tangle of pearls and diamonds spilling out of an ivory jewel box.

  An elaborate cut-glass chandelier hung from the center of the white plaster ceiling, its scrolling decoration as elaborate as a wedding cake, all roses and vines. But the only light came from the fireplace. The crackling flames illuminated a pair of blue velvet chairs and a matching chaise, with a heap of gleaming silk gowns and lush furs heaped on its cushions. Above the cluttered mantel hung a portrait of a young lady in frothy white lace, in the crinoline fashion of years ago. Her golden hair shimmered, and her blue eyes were laughing. It was the same lady from the
couple's portrait in the gallery, but brighter, freer.

  “So you are my new companion,” a soft voice said from somewhere in that vast sea of a bed. “Come closer, let me look at you.”

  As I tiptoed cautiously forward, I finally caught a glimpse of my employer. It was indeed the same girl in the paintings, looking hardly any older but much thinner and quite pale. Her heart-shaped face under the frills of a lace cap was all sharply-pointed cheekbones and chin, and her slim frame was almost smothered in a ruffled nightdress and blue cashmere shawl. She held out a hand to beckon me closer, and I saw that her diamond and pearl wedding ring was loose on her finger. Her smile was kind and sweet.

  “I am Sandrine Duplessis, madame,” I said. “I'm very glad to meet you.”

  She gave a little, chirping laugh. “Not as glad as I am to meet you! It has been so lonely here these last weeks. Chere Mathieu is so kind to help me find a new companion. He is always so concerned. My husband had such dear friends. Sit here, my dear, and tell me all about yourself.”

  I perched on the edge of a cushioned chair drawn close to the bed. As I did so, I noticed a clutter of glass medicine bottles on the bedside table, along with a half-full glass of ruby-red wine. I wondered if that had something to do with the brightness of madame's eyes, the way her thin fingers nervously plucked at the satin blankets.

  “I fear there is not much to tell, madame,” I said.

  “Mathieu says that you recently lost your father?”

  “Oui. He was a scholar who did some translation work for Monsieur Favril's office, and I sometimes served as his secretary.”

  “But he did not leave you provided for?”

  “I fear not.” I smiled as I thought of Papa, so intelligent, so focused—so distant from the cares of the real world.

  Madame Monsard sighed. “Men can be so very careless. They think of no one but themselves, and then we are left alone to carry on as best we can in a cruel world. Were you not sorry to leave Rouen? We are so isolated here.”