CHAPTER 25
Having taken her leave of her brother and her aunt, Léonie followed Marieta up the staircase and along the first-floor passageway that ran the length of the house. The maid paused to indicate to her the location of the water closet and, adjacent to it, a spacious bathroom, in the centre of which stood a huge copper bath, before continuing to her bedroom.
‘The Yellow Room, Madomaisèla,’ said Marieta, standing back to allow Léonie to enter. ‘Hot water is on the washstand. Is there anything else you need?’
‘Everything looks most satisfactory.’
The maid bobbed and withdrew.
Léonie looked around with pleasure at the room that was to be her home for the next four weeks. It was a well-appointed chamber, both handsome and comfortable, overlooking the lawns to the south of the property. The window was open, and from below, she could hear the quiet chink of crockery and china as the servants cleared the table.
The walls were covered in a delicate paper of pink and purple flowers, matching the curtains and linen, which gave an impression of light despite the deep hues of the mahogany furniture. The bed – quite the largest Léonie had ever seen – sat like an Egyptian barge in the centre of the room, its ornate head and footboards polished and gleaming. Beside it sat a claw-footed armoire on which stood a candle in a brass holder, a glass, and a jug of water covered with an embroidered white napkin to keep away the flies. Her workbox had also been placed there, together with her book of cartridge papers and painting accoutrements. Her travelling easel was propped up against the armoire on the floor.
Léonie crossed the room to a tall wardrobe. The surround was carved in the same elaborate Egyptian style and there were two long mirrors set into the doors, which reflected the room behind her. She opened the right-hand door, setting the hangers rattling on the rail, to look at her petticoats, afternoon dresses, evening gowns and jackets hanging arranged in neat rows. Everything had been unpacked.
In the large chest of drawers beside the closet she found her undergarments and smaller articles of clothing, camisoles, corsets, blouses, stockings, folded neatly in the deep, heavy drawers that smelled of fresh lavender.
The fireplace was on the wall facing the door, and above it, a mirror with a mahogany frame. In the centre of the mantelpiece was a gilt and porcelain Sèvres clock much like the one in the drawing room at home.
Léonie removed her dress, cotton lisle stockings, combinations and corset, draping garments across the carpet and armchair. In her chemise and undergarments, she poured the steaming water from the jug into the basin. She washed her face and hands, then dabbed under her arms and in the hollow between her breasts. When she had finished, she pulled her blue cashmere dressing gown from where it had been hung on a heavy brass hook on the back of the door, then sat down at the dressing table in front of the middle of the three long casement windows.
Pin by metal pin, she undid her unruly copper hair, letting it fall loose to her slender waist, then tilted the looking glass towards her and began to brush in wide, long strokes until it lay unravelled like a skein of silk down her back.
Out of the corner of her eye, a movement in the gardens below snagged her attention.
‘Anatole,’ she muttered, fearing that perhaps her brother had decided to ignore Isolde’s request that he remain inside after all.
Hoping he had done so.
Pushing the unworthy sentiment from her mind, Léonie replaced her hairbrush on the dressing table and slipped round to stand before the centre window. The last vestiges of day had all but bade farewell to the sky. As her eyes became accustomed to the dusk, she noticed another movement, this time at the far boundary of the lawns by the high box hedge, beyond the ornamental lake.
Now she could clearly see a figure. He was bare-headed and had a furtive walk, every few steps turning and glancing behind him, as if he thought he was being followed.
A trick of the light?
The figure disappeared into the shadows. Léonie fancied she heard a church bell toll in the valley below, a thin and mournful single note, but when she strained to listen, the only sounds she could distinguish were those of the countryside at dusk. The whispering of the wind in the trees and the mixed twilight chorus of birdsong. Then the piercing shriek of an owl preparing for a night’s hunting.
Realising the exposed skin on her arms was covered in goosebumps, Léonie finally shut the casement and withdrew. After a moment’s hesitation, she drew the curtains. The figure had almost certainly been one of the gardeners, the worse for drink, or a boy on a dare taking an illicit short cut across the lawns, but there was something distasteful about the spectacle, threatening. In truth, she was uncomfortable to have witnessed it. She felt disturbed by what she had seen.
The silence of the room was disturbed, suddenly, by a sharp rap on the door.
‘Who is it?’ she cried.
‘C’est moi,’ Anatole called back. ‘Are you decent? May I come in?’
‘Attend, j’arrive.’
Léonie fastened her robe and smoothed her hair from her face, surprised to find her hands were shaking.
‘Whatever is wrong?’ he said, when she opened the door. ‘You sounded quite alarmed.’
‘I am fine,’ she snapped.
‘Are you sure, petite? You’re as white as a sheet.’
‘You were not out walking on the lawns?’ she asked suddenly. ‘No more than a few minutes past?’
Anatole shook his head. ‘I did remain on the terrace for a few moments after you had withdrawn, but for no longer than the time it took to smoke a cigarette. Why?’
‘I . . . ’ Léonie began, then reconsidered. ‘Never mind. It doesn’t matter.’
He tipped her clothes to the floor and took possession of the armchair.
Probably just one of the stable boys.
Anatole fished his cigarette case and his box of wax Vestas from his pocket and put them on the table.
‘Not in here,’ pleaded Léonie. ‘Your tobacco is noxious stuff.’
He shrugged, then reached into his other pocket and pulled out a small blue pamphlet.
‘Here. I have brought you something to help pass the time.’
He strolled across the room, handed the monograph to her, and then sat back in the chair.
‘Voilà,’ he said. ‘Diables et Esprits Maléfiques et Phantômes de la Montagne.’
Léonie wasn’t listening. Her eyes darted once more in the direction of the window. Wondering if whatever she had seen was still out there.
‘Are you certain you are all right? You really are awfully pale.’
Anatole’s voice drew her back. Léonie looked down at the volume in her hand, as if wondering how it had got to be there.
‘I am fine,’ she snapped, embarrassed. ‘Whatever manner of book is it?’
‘Haven’t a clue. Looks quite dreadful, but it seems your sort of thing! Found it gathering dust in the library. The author is someone Isolde intends to invite to supper on Saturday night, a Monsieur Audric Baillard. There are passages about the Domaine de la Cade. It appears there are all sorts of stories about devils, evil spirits and ghosts associated with this region, particularly this estate, stretching back to the religious wars of the seventeenth century.’ He smiled across at her.
Léonie narrowed her eyes suspiciously. ‘And what spurred you to this act of generosity?’
‘Can a brother not, out of the goodness of his heart, undertake an act of random kindness for his sister?’
‘Certain brothers, indeed, yes. But you?’
He held up his hands in surrender. ‘Very well, I confess I thought it might keep you out of mischief.’
Anatole ducked as Léonie threw a pillow at him.
‘Missed,’ he laughed. ‘Very poor shot.’ He swept up his cigarette case and matches from the table, sprang to his feet and within a matter of strides was at the door. ‘Let me know how you get on with Monsieur Baillard. I think we should accept Isolde’s invitation to join her for drinks later in the drawing room. Yes?’
‘Do you not think it odd that there is to be no dinner this evening?’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Do you have an appetite?’
‘Well, no. I do not, but even—’
Anatole put his finger to his lips. ‘Well then, shush.’ He opened the door. ‘Enjoy the book, petite. I shall expect a full report later.’
Léonie listened to his whistling and the firm tread of his boots getting fainter and fainter as he made his way along the passage to his own room.
Then, the closing of another door. Peace descended upon the house once more.
Léonie fetched the pillow from where it had fallen and climbed up on to the bed. She drew up her knees, settled herself comfortably, and opened the book.
The clock on the mantelpiece chimed the half-hour.
