As I went up to my room my emotions were overwhelming If I had been wise I should have analysed them. I should have been wise, but of course I wasn’t.

Five

My interest in the Comte and his affairs added such a zest to my life that each morning I would awaken with a feeling of expectation, telling myself that this very day might be the one when I would learn something new, begin to understand him more, and perhaps find the clue which would tell me whether he was a murderer or a much-maligned man.

Then, without warning, he went to Paris, and I heard that he would return just before Christmas when there would be guests at the chateau. I shall find myself on the edge of affairs, I thought, looking in from outside.

I took on my new duties with enthusiasm and I was rather pleased to find that Genevieve by no means resented me but was in fact eager to learn English. The prospect of going to school was a terrifying one, but it was too far in the future to be a real menace. She would ask me questions about England when we went for our rides and we even found some amusement in our English conversations. She was taking lessons with the cure, and although none shared her lessons, she often saw the Bastide children on their way to the cure’s house and I believed it was good for her to mix with the other children.

One morning while I was in the gallery Philippe came in. When the Comte was not at the castle he seemed to take on a new stature. Now he looked like a pale shadow of his cousin, but having been made more and more aware of the Comte’s virility, I was struck afresh by the weakness almost effeminacy of Philippe.

But his smile was very friendly as he asked how the work was progressing.

“You are skilful,” he commented when I showed him.

“It is care that is needed as much as skill.”

“And expert knowledge.” He was standing before the picture I had restored.

“One has the feeling that one could put out a hand and touch those emeralds,” he said.

“The skill of the painter, not the restorer.”

He continued to gaze wistfully at the picture and once more I sensed his deep love for the chateau and everything connected with it. That was how I should feel were I a member of such a family.

Turning suddenly and catching my eyes on him, he looked faintly embarrassed as though he were wondering whether he should say what was in his mind. Then he said quickly: “Mademoiselle Lawson, are you happy here?”

“Happy? I find the work very satisfying.”

“The work, yes. I know how you feel about that. I was thinking of.. ” He made a gesture with his hand.

‘... the atmosphere here . the family. ” I looked surprised and he went on: ” There was that unfortunate affair of the dress. “

“It is all forgotten now.” I wondered whether my face betrayed my pleasure as I thought of the green dress.

“In a household like this one …” He stopped as though he did not know how to go on.

“If you found it intolerable here …” he went on hurriedly, ‘if you wished to leave . “

To leave! “

“I meant if it became difficult. My cousin might… er …” He abandoned what he had been going to say, but I knew he was thinking, as I was, of the green velvet dress and the fact that the Comte had given it to me. He saw something significant in that. But it was evidently too dangerous to discuss. How he feared his cousin! He smiled brightly.

“A friend of mine has a fine collection of pictures and some are in need of restoration. They could keep you busy for a long time, I have no doubt.”

“It will be a long time before I finish here.”

“My friend. Monsieur de la Monelle, needs his pictures restored immediately. I thought that if you were unhappy here … or you felt you would like to get away …”

“I have no wish to leave this work.”

He looked alarmed, fearful that he had said too much.

“It was only a suggestion.”

“You are very kind to be so concerned.”

His smile was very charming.

“I feel responsible. On that first occasion I could have sent you away.”

“But you didn’t. I appreciate that.”

“Perhaps it would have been better.”

“Oh no! I find the work here absorbing.”

“It’s a wonderful old place.” He spoke almost eagerly.

“But it is not the happiest of households, and in view of what happened in the past. My cousin’s wife died, you know, in rather mysterious circumstances.”

“I have heard that.”

“And my cousin can be rather ruthless in getting what he wants. I shouldn’t have said that. He has been good to me. I am here … it is now my home … thanks to him. It is only that I have this feeling of responsibility towards you and I would like you to know that if you did need my help … Mademoiselle Lawson, I hope you will say nothing of this to my cousin.”

“I understand. I shan’t mention it.”

“But please bear in mind: if my cousin … if you should feel you ought to get away, please come to me.”

He went to one of the paintings and asked questions about it, but I did not think he was paying attention to the answers.

When his eyes met mine they were rather shy, diffident, but very warm.

He was certainly anxious on my behalf and I understood that he was warning me about the Comte.

I felt I had a good friend in the chateau.

Christmas was almost upon us. Genevieve and I were riding every day and there was a marked improvement in her English. I told her of our Christmases in England and how we brought in the holly and the mistletoe; how we kissed under the mistletoe; how everyone had to have a stir at the Christmas puddings and what a great day it was when they were boiling and we hauled out the tiny basin, with the ‘taster’ in it. What an important moment that was when we each had our spoonful, for the taster was an indication of what the whole boiling of puddings would be.

“My grandmother was alive then,” I said.

“That was my mother’s mother. She was French and had to learn all our customs, but she took to them very quickly and she would never have dreamt of giving up any of them. ”

“Tell me some more, miss,” begged Genevieve.

So I told her how I used to sit on a high stool beside my mother and help stone the raisins and peel the almonds.

“I used to eat them whenever I could.”

That amused Genevieve.

“Oh, miss, fancy your being a little girl once.”

I told her about waking on Christmas morning to find my stocking filled.

“We put our shoes by the fireplace … at least some people do. I don’t.”

“Why don’t you?”

“Nounou would be the only one to remember. And you can’t have one pair of shoes; you want a lot, otherwise it’s no fun.”

“You tell me.”

“Well, you put your shoes round the fireplace on Christmas Eve when you come in from Midnight Mass and then you go to bed. In the morning, the little presents are inside your shoes and the big ones round it.

We did it when my mother was alive. “

“And then you stopped?”

She nodded.

“It’s a nice custom.”

“Your mother died,” she said.

“How did she die?”

“She was ill for a long time. I nursed her.”

“You were grown up then?”

“Yes, I suppose you would call it that.”

“Oh, miss. I believe you were always grown up.”

We called in at the Bastides’ on our way back to the chateau. I had encouraged this because I felt that she should meet people outside the chateau, particularly children, and although Yves and Margot were younger than she was and Gabrielle older, at least they were nearer her age than anyone else she knew.

There was excitement in that household because of the nearness of Christmas whispering in corners and hinting at secrets.

Yves and Margot were busy making the creche. Genevieve watched them with interest and, while I talked to Madame Bastide, went over to join them.

“The children are so excited,” said Madame Bastide.

“It is always so. Margot tells us every morning how many hours it is until Christmas Day.”

We watched them arrange the brown paper to look like rocks. Yves took out his painting set and painted moss on it and Margot started to colour the stable brown. On the floor lay the little sheep which they had made themselves and which they would set up on the rocks. I watched Genevieve. She was quite fascinated.

She looked into the cradle.

“It’s empty,” she said rather scornfully.

“Of course it’s empty! Jesus isn’t born yet,” retorted Yves.

“It is a miracle,” Margot told her.

“We go to bed on Christmas Eve .. “

“After we put our shoes round the fire …” added Yves.

“Yes, we do that… and the cradle is empty and then … on Christmas morning when we get up to look, the little ‘| Jesus is lying in it.”

Genevieve was silent.

After a while she said: “Can I do something?”

“Yes,” replied Yves.

“We want more shepherds’ crooks. Do you know how to make them?”

“No,” she said humbly.

“Margot will show you.”

I watched the two girls, their heads close together, and I said to myself: This is what she needs.

Madame Bastide followed my gaze. She said: “And you think Monsieur Ie Comte will allow this? You think he will agree to this friendship between our children and his daughter?”

I said: “I have never seen her so … relaxed, so unconscious of herself.”

“Ah, but Monsieur Ie Comte will not wish his daughter to be carefree.

He wants her to be the grand lady of the chateau. “

“This companionship is what she needs. You have invited me to join you on Christmas Day. May I bring her with me? She has talked about Christmas so wistfully.”

“You think it will be permitted?”

“We can try,” I said.

“But Monsieur Ie Comte … ?”

“I will answer to him,” I replied boldly.

A few days before Christmas the Comte returned to the chateau. I had expected that he would seek me out to discover either how his daughter or his paintings were progressing, but he did no such thing. This was probably because he was thinking of the guests who would soon be arriving.

There would be fifteen people, I heard from Nounou. Not so many as usually came, but entertaining was rather a delicate matter when there was no lady of the house.

I was out riding with Genevieve the day before Christmas Eve when we met a party of riders from the chateau. The Comte rode at the head of them and beside him was a beautiful young woman. She wore a high black riding-hat swathed with grey and there was a grey cravat at her throat. The masculinity of her riding-habit served to-accentuate her femininity, and I noticed at once how bright was her hair, how delicate her features. She was like a piece of china from the collection in the blue drawing-room which I had seen once or twice.

Such women always made me feel even taller than I was, even more plain.

“Here is my daughter,” said the Comte, greeting us almost affectionately.

We pulled up, the four of us, for the rest of the party were some way behind.

“With her governess?” added the beautiful creature.

“Certainly not. This is Miss Lawson from England who is restoring our pictures.”

I saw the blue eyes take on a coolly appraising expression.

“Genevieve, you will have met Mademoiselle de la Monelle.”

Mademoiselle de la Monelle! I had heard the name before.

“Yes, Papa,” said Genevieve.

“Good day, mademoiselle.”

“Mademoiselle Lawson, Mademoiselle de la Monelle.”

We greeted each other.

“Pictures must be quite fascinating,” she said.

I knew then. This was the name of the people whom Philippe had mentioned as having pictures to be restored.

“Miss Lawson thinks so.” And to us, so cutting short the encounter:

“Were you returning?”

We said we were and rode on.

“Would you say she was beautiful?” asked Genevieve.

“What was that?”

“You’re not listening,” accused Genevieve and repeated the question.

“I should think most people would.”

“I said you, miss. Do you think so?”

“She has a type of looks which most people admire.”

“Well, I don’t like her.”

“I hope you won’t take your scissors to her room, because if you did anything like that there would be trouble … not only for you but for others. Have you thought of what has happened to poor Mademoiselle Dubois?”