‘Yes, she does, she bloomed overnight, after you left at the end of August.’ Collie’s light-coloured eyes drifted to the skirted table at one side of the fireplace, her glance resting on the silver-framed photograph of her late husband, Claude Duvalier, and his only sister Yvonne, whom he had raised. ‘She has such a strong look of Claude these days, don’t you agree?’
‘Why yes, she does, now that you mention it,’ Rosie answered. ‘And her personality’s similar to his—she’s outgoing and fun. Full of energy, as he was.’
‘Yes.’ There was a sorrowful little silence before Collie said, ‘It’s so sweet of you to send her a cheque every month, for the bit of work she does for you. But it’s not necessary, Rosie, really it isn’t. She’s happy to do it, and to learn about designing from you. Nor do you have to keep sending me money either. It’s lovely of you, but I can manage on what Claude left me, truly.’
‘I want to do it, Collie, want to make your life easier, if I possibly can. God knows, running this place eats up all of your father’s income, and there’s not much left for him or you at the end of the day. So let me help out when I can. Goodness, I don’t give either you or Yvonne very much. It’s only pin money.’
‘You’re so good to us, such an angel,’ Collie murmured, and looked away as tears unexpectedly welled.
SEVENTEEN
‘Mademoiselle Colette looks so much better, n’est-ce pas?’ the housekeeper said, without looking up, continuing to unpack the last of Rosie’s four suitcases as she spoke.
‘She certainly has a good colour, and her eyes are very bright and sparkling, Annie,’ Rosie replied, placing several sweaters in the drawer of a chest and closing it. ‘But she’s awfully thin.’
‘Mais oui, c’est vrai.’ Annie looked up and glanced across at Rosie, nodding her grey head vigorously, a thoughtful look settling on her face as she took Rosie’s dressing gown out of the case and placed it on the bed.
Annie, like her husband Gaston, had been born in the village and had worked at the château all of her life. She had started out as a kitchen maid at fifteen, worked her way up to become housekeeper and now, at fifty-five, was part of the family after forty years in their employ. She knew each one of them intimately, coped with all of their idiosyncrasies without batting an eyelash, and never broke a confidence. She would take their secrets to the grave with her, they were convinced of that, and they were correct in this assumption.
Closing the empty suitcase, Annie glanced across at Rosie once more, and volunteered, ‘Collie has always been slender. When she was a little girl, I used to call her the épouvantail… how do you say in English? The crow scare?’
‘No, the scarecrow,’ Rosie corrected, and smiled in amusement. From their very first meeting, she had appreciated Annie, who ran the château like an admiral on the bridge of a battleship, absolutely confident of herself and her judgement, and totally in control of her vessel. She ran a tight ship, at that. She was not only hardworking and devoted to the count and his family but compassionate and perceptive, being a good judge of character and human nature. Rosie considered her to be a miracle-worker, and she often wondered what they would do without her.
Annie exclaimed, ‘That is right! She was the scarecrow. So thin, nothing but arms and legs, and the body of a boy. Ah well, not much has changed, has it? But it does not matter, it is her nature to be skinny the way she is. Madame la comtesse, her late mother—’ Annie broke off, crossed herself, muttered, ‘God rest her soul, poor woman,’ cleared her throat and continued, ‘Madame la comtesse was also slender and very boyish. That look—ah, it runs in the family of her mother, the great Caron-Bougivals.’ Shaking her head in the energetic manner she had, Annie added, in an even more emphatic voice, ‘C’est pas important, her weight. You have known Colette for years, you must recall that she has always been like a stick of asparagus.’
‘Yes, she has,’ Rosie agreed, knowing that Annie was correct. Nevertheless, she was still worried. A short while ago, when she had first arrived and went to see Collie in her study, she had been shocked. How easily she had felt the bones of her body through her sweater when she hugged her; it had seemed to Rosie that there was very little flesh on that small, delicate frame.
Picking up the empty suitcase, Annie carried it over to the door which opened into the adjoining sitting room, where she had already stacked the others. Then she swung to face Rosie. ‘Is there anything else I can help you with, Madame de Montfleurie?’
Rosie shook her head. ‘Non, merci beaucoup.’
Annie gave her the benefit of a warm smile. ‘I am glad you are home, and so are Gaston, Dominique, Marcel and Fannie. Everybody at the château is happy, and because you are here, everything will now be all right, bien sûr.’
Wondering what exactly she meant by this statement, a repetition of what Gaston had said earlier, Rosie frowned, and asked, ‘Have there been lots of problems then, Annie?’
‘Non, non, Madame. Well—not exactly. Monsieur le comte…’ She shook her head. ‘He is so grave, so serious these days, he hardly ever smiles any more, and looks perpetually worried. And Mademoiselle Collie is still grieving for her husband, I am sure of that. But when you arrive, ah, then it is so different. La famille joyeuse, très gaie. C’est vrai, Madame. Oh yes, this is very true, what I say.’
‘I’m glad to hear that, Annie. But I want to ask you something else. When I was in California a couple of weeks ago, Yvonne told me that Collie wasn’t feeling well. Was that so?’
‘Yes. But I do not believe she was ill. She was—how shall I put it? Full of her terrible sorrow, I think. She has her moments of intense grief. They come unexpectedly, I know this, but eventually they do go away. How she loved Monsieur Duvalier, and oh how she misses him. That accident! So bad, so bad. Oh mon Dieu!’ Annie made the sign of the cross and shivered involuntarily.
‘I understand,’ Rosie murmured. ‘So you think it was grief that made her unwell a few weeks ago?’
‘Oui. And please, Madame, don’t worry so much about her. She will be all right. I know her since before she was born. She is strong, that one. Now, I had better go downstairs to the kitchens. I must help Dominique make preparations for the dinner. I will send Marcel to take away the empty cases.’
‘Thanks, Annie. And thank you so much for helping me to unpack.’
‘It’s nothing, Madame de Montfleurie. It’s always my pleasure to do anything for you.’
***
Left alone, Rosie busied herself in her bedroom for the next ten minutes or so, putting the rest of her things away, and then she walked through into the adjoining sitting room.
This was a graceful room, large, airy in feeling, with a high ceiling, and many tall windows overlooking the gardens and the Cher river beyond. The windows were so high and wide, the sky was virtually pulled inside the room, and the vistas visible through them were panoramic.
Decorated in soft shades of sky-blue and cream, with touches of greyish-pink and a pale mustardy-yellow, the room had a certain kind of faded elegance that bespoke ancient lineage and impoverished aristocracy, but at the same time it was an eminently comfortable room, one Rosie loved.
Many of the silk, taffeta and brocade fabrics used in the room were old, had long since lost their true colour, and the Aubusson carpet, dating back to the eighteenth century, was worn in spots. But it was a genuine treasure. The wood pieces were handsome, and most notable of these was a Louis XVI bureau plat, made of yew wood and decorated with ormolu. This stood between two windows at the far end of the room, and it was a desk of museum quality. So was a marble-topped console table, its base intricately carved with cherubs. Comfortable sofas and chairs, and several occasional tables of fruit wood inlaid with marquetry, rounded out the furnishings, and the whole was pleasing to the eye.
Over the years the count had been obliged to sell off many of the less valuable possessions, in order to preserve the rest of them, to maintain the château and its grounds properly, and to make ends meet. This w
as because the income from investments, inherited from his father, was not sufficient to meet the basic needs of Montfleurie; also, although the French Government gave monetary support to historic seats such as the château, the amount the count received was small, nominal really.
However, in the past three years his finances had begun to improve, and the steady drain of beautiful objects to auction houses in Paris and antique dealers on the Quai Voltaire had finally stopped, to his considerable relief.
This was because he had opened the château to the public, and begun to sell all manner of souvenirs, the most popular being a series of replica medieval toys and dolls which Rosie had designed, using as models an antique collection she had found in the attics.
While this new venture had not made him a rich man, the money earned from entrance fees, brochures, the toys and other products was becoming quite substantial. In fact, the revenues collected this past spring and summer were enough to keep the place running efficiently for the next six months. Also, the little family industry, mostly created by Rosie’s ingenuity, ensured that the count would not get further into debt.
As he was forever saying to her, ‘Thanks to your talent, practicality and persuasiveness, I can balance the books these days, and, finally, I am able to keep the bankers at bay.’
Rosie thought of money now as she noticed several ugly damp spots on the ceiling, in a corner just above a window. They had not been there in August. But she doubted there was a single spare franc readily available for repairs and a paint job. Certainly not this month, with Christmas coming, and so many responsibilities and commitments for Henri de Montfleurie to handle.
Never mind, she thought, I’ll do it myself, after the plumber has fixed the leak, and once the holidays are over. Gaston and his brother will help me. All we need is plaster and white paint. Not too hard to come by, I’m sure. Rosie prided herself on her do-it-yourself decorating ability, a skill she had picked up from studio carpenters, other craftsmen and set designers who worked on movies. And whatever costs were involved she would take care of.
Reaching for her canvas carry-all, she placed it on an upholstered bench, and began to take out manila folders of the research she had started for Gavin’s film of Napoleon, as well as the grey briefcase from Concorde, in which she had stowed her personal papers, along with various other items.
Included among these was the silver-framed photograph of the group, taken in New York so long ago. It always travelled with her wherever she went. She placed it next to those already arranged on top of an antique chest of drawers, and Nell, Gavin, Kevin, Sunny and Mikey were suddenly gazing out at her, their faces smiling.
How young and beautiful they looked, so untouched by life. And how innocent.
But we lost our innocence long ago, she murmured to herself. Life got at us, changed us, toughened us, disappointed us, destroyed our illusions, and even some of our hopes and dreams. Perhaps irrevocably. And we all took the wrong roads.
‘The roads we didn’t take, where would they have led?’ she said aloud to the empty room, remembering the words of a song in Follies, that marvellous Sondheim musical of the early seventies. It had starred Alexis Smith, John McMartin, Yvonne de Carlo and Gene Nelson, and whenever she listened to the Broadway album she was entranced by the words and music, as well as entertained.
Then she thought: Perhaps we didn’t take the wrong roads. Maybe they were the right roads for each of us. Perhaps what we are living now is our destiny… what is meant to be is meant to be.
Certainly she and Gavin, Nell and Kevin had pursued their professional dreams, had been successful in their given careers, if not in their personal lives. For, according to Nell, Gavin was no better off in that area than they were.
Sighing under her breath, she straightened the frame and paused for a moment to study the photograph of Colette and Claude, taken here on the terrace at Montfleurie several summers ago.
It was a colour photograph and very true to life.
How beautiful Collie looked, her face tanned, her dark curls ruffled by the breeze, her generous mouth ripe with laughter, her eyes radiantly blue, the colour of the sky above. And Claude, youthful, handsome, his eyes full of adoration for his young wife. And how thin Collie looked in this picture—and of course Annie was right, she had been like a stick most of her life.
But something troubled Rosie about Collie’s extreme slenderness now; it was somehow dismaying to her. She’s so frail, Rosie thought. That’s what it is about her that is so different. She’s become terribly, terribly frail since I’ve been gone these past three months. Her worry about her sister-in-law flared as she turned away, continuing to put her many possessions where they belonged.
At one moment, as she hovered over the bureau plat, filling its drawers with papers, she glanced out of the window and caught her breath in delight.
The high-flung sky was vividly blue, filled with gauzy clouds, and there was a sheen on the river like the glaze on ancient porcelain. The late-afternoon sunlight was glorious, the gardens spread out before her burnished, almost molten, and they looked as though they had been brushstroked with gold. It seemed to Rosie that everything outside appeared to shimmer in the extraordinary light.
For Rosalind, there was nowhere else on earth like Montfleurie, and, unable to resist the pull of her beloved gardens, she grabbed her loden cape off the sofa, where she had thrown it earlier, and hurried out. Flinging the cape over her shoulders, she flew down the long corridor in the direction of the back stairs, having no wish, at this moment, to meet anyone coming up the main staircase.
EIGHTEEN
Within the space of a few seconds, Rosie was slamming the door of the back porch behind her and speeding along the stone-flagged path towards the river. Her cape billowed out behind her like a sail as she covered the ground almost at a run.
Rosie was heading for one of her favourite spots in the vast and endless gardens, a tumbledown pile of stones known as Black Hawk’s Keep, so named because it had been built by Fulk Nerra, the Black Hawk.
The ancient, crumbling building, reduced to a pile of stones by the passing of the centuries, had been a watch tower once. Strategically placed on high ground, above a bend in the river Cher, it was the perfect spot for keeping watch over Montfleurie, keeping marauders at bay in the Middle Ages.
In the eighteenth century, trees had been planted around the ruins, and its stones were overgrown with moss and lichen; in summer all kinds of pretty flowers sprouted up through cracks and crevices. It was a unique little corner, with a strange and captivating beauty all of its own, and it was redolent of the past, and of the history of France.
The ancient and decrepit battlements, decaying though they were, plus the profusion of trees, served to create a sheltered spot, and often in the summer months the family enjoyed having picnics here. For years Rosie had used it as a place to work and sketch, or to read and relax, or simply daydream.
She was out of breath as she reached the half-demolished archway that had once been the main doorway into the tower. But she did not slow her pace until she was on the far side of the ruins and out of sight of the château, hidden from view.
Here she sat down on the stone bench which one of the de Montfleurie ancestors had placed there hundreds of years earlier, and gazed out across the winding, flowing waters of the Cher. Everything was quiet, absolutely still. The only sound was the thudding of her heart. Slowly, the pounding in her chest lessened; her breathing became more normal, and she began to relax.
Wrapping the cloak around her for warmth, she leaned her body against the trunk of the tree behind her, and let herself be soothed by the gentleness of her surroundings, the beauty of nature in all its abundance.
How peaceful it was, this spot where once violent battles had raged when Fulk Nerra, warlord, predator and ruler of the area, had stalked this valley. The dust of the battlegrounds had settled long, long ago, and to Rosie it was now a most gentle place, a place to be alone, a place to think.
<
br /> Her thoughts were concentrated on Guy, her husband of the past eight years. She was wondering what would become of them both. They rarely saw each other these days, and when they did there were disturbing undercurrents between them. And certainly there was no chance of making the marriage work, not after five years of estrangement, plus a lot of ill will on his part.
Aware that Guy harboured bad feelings towards her, Rosie had discussed this problem time and again with Collie. And Collie had invariably pointed out that Guy was hostile to everyone, not only to her, and eventually she had come to agree with her sister-in-law. But the situation in which she was sitting was growing more ridiculous with the passing of the years; not only that, it was unhealthy, in Rosie’s opinion, but she was unable to do anything to change it.
The unexpected snapping of a twig, the rustling of footsteps through fallen leaves, made Rosie sit up straighter. At once she was alerted, and realized that someone was approaching.
Swinging her head, she peered about, hoping that it was not Guy who had followed her here. She was not in the right frame of mind to be alone with him. Not yet, at any rate. She had to adjust to his presence, to arm herself against him, to be in readiness for his verbal onslaughts, to be on her guard, before she could confront him head on.
Much to her relief, it was not him. She leapt to her feet, a smile breaking through her glumness as Henri, Count de Montfleurie, came into view, raising his hand in greeting, his expression loving, his eyes warm, welcoming.
Rosie ran to him, and they embraced affectionately, hugging each other hard. Finally he held her away from him, looking into her face intently, his wise brown eyes searching, quizzical. After kissing her on both cheeks, he asked, ‘Are you all right? You’re not upset, are you? Guy’s not upset you, has he, Rosie?’