Текст книги "Time for Silence"

Автор книги: Philippa Carr

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“Have you practiced it throughout your life?”

“So much that I have become an adept at the art, little Lucinda. That is why you see me so content with life.”

He made me laugh, as he always did. He gave the impression that he was rather wicked and that, because of this, he understood other people’s foibles and did not judge them as harshly as some people might.

“Beware the saint,” he said once. “Beware the man—or woman—who flaunts his or her high standards. He…or she…often does not live up to them and will be very hard on others who fall short. Live your life as best you can, and by that I mean enjoy it and leave other people to do the same.”

Then he told me of how he had come out one morning to find poor old Diable on the lake with his head down in the water. It was most unusual. He did not realize at once what had happened. He shouted. He took a stick and stirred the water. The swan did not move. Poor Diable. He was dead. It was the end of his dominance. “It was rather sad,” he added.

“And poor little Ange?”

“She missed the old tyrant. She sailed the lake alone for a while and in less than a year she was dead. Now you see we have these white swans. Are they not beautiful and peaceful, too? Now you do not have to take a stick as you approach the lake in readiness for a surprise attack. But something has gone. Strange, is it not? How we grow to love the villains of this world! Unfair, it is true. But vice can sometimes be more attractive than virtue.”

“Can bad things really be more attractive than good ones?” I asked.

“Alas, the perversity of the world!” he sighed.

He was always interesting to listen to and I fancied he liked to talk to me. In fact, I was sure of this when Annabelinda showed signs of jealousy.

I should have been disappointed if I did not pay my yearly visit to the château.

Aunt Belinda came there sometimes. I could see that she amused her father. The Princesse found her agreeable, too. There was a great deal of entertaining since Jean Pascal’s marriage, and people with high-sounding titles were often present.

“They are waiting for another revolution,” Annabelinda said. “This time in their favor so that they can all come back to past glory.”

I agreed with Annabelinda that one of the year’s most anticipated events was our visit to France.

When we were at the château we were expected to speak French. It was supposed to be good for us. Jean Pascal laughed at our accents.

“You should be able to speak as fluently in French as I do in English,” he said. “It is considered to be essential for the education of all but peasants and the English.”

It was in the year 1912, when I was thirteen years old, when the question of education arose.

Aunt Belinda had prevailed on Sir Robert to agree with her that Annabelinda should go to a school in Belgium. The school she had chosen belonged to a French woman, a friend of Jean Pascal, an aristocrat naturally. From this school a girl would emerge speaking perfect French, fully equipped to converse with the highest in the land, perhaps not academically brilliant but blessed with all the social graces.

Annabelinda was enthusiastic, but there was one thing she needed to make the project wholly acceptable to her. I was faintly surprised to learn that it was my presence. Perhaps I should not have been. Annabelinda had always needed an audience, and for so many years I had been the perfect one. Nothing would satisfy her other than my going to Belgium with her.

My mother was against the idea at first.

“All that way!” she cried. “And for so long!”

“It’s no farther than Scotland,” said Aunt Belinda.

“We are not talking of going to Scotland.”

“You should think of your child. Children must always come first,” she added hypocritically, which exasperated my mother, because there had never been anyone who came first with Belinda other than herself.

Aunt Celeste gave her opinion. “I know Lucinda would get a first-class education,” she said. “My brother assures me of this. The school has a high reputation. Girls of good family from all over Europe go there.”

“There are good schools in England,” said my mother.

My father thought it was not a bad idea for a girl to have a year or so in a foreign school. There was nothing like it for perfecting the language. “They are teaching German, too. She would get the right accent and that makes all the difference.”

I myself was intrigued by the idea. I thought of the superiority which Annabelinda would display when she came home. I wanted to go, for I knew I had to go away to school sooner or later. I was getting beyond governesses. I knew as much as they did and was almost equipped to be a governess myself. Every day my desire to go with Annabelinda grew stronger. My mother knew this and was undecided.

Aunt Celeste, who said little and understood a good deal, realized that at the back of my mother’s mind was the fact that I should be close to Jean Pascal, whom she did not trust.

“The Princesse has a high opinion of the school,” she told my mother. “She will keep an eye on the girls. I know Madame Rochère, the owner of the school. She is a very capable lady. Mind you, the school is not very near the château, but the Princesse has a house not very far from it and she and Jean Pascal stay there only very occasionally. The house is not in Belgium but close to the border in Valenciennes. Madame Rochère is a very responsible person—a little strict perhaps, but discipline is good. I am sure Annabelinda will benefit from it…and Lucinda, too. They should go together, Lucie. It will be so much better for them if they have each other.”

At last my mother succumbed, and this was largely due to my enthusiasm.

I wanted to go. It would be exciting, different from anything I had done before. Besides, Annabelinda would be with me.

So, it was to be. Annabelinda and I had an exciting month making our preparations, and on the twenty-fifth of September of that year 1912 we left England in the company of Aunt Celeste.

I had said a fond farewell to my parents, who came to Dover with Aunt Belinda to see us depart with Aunt Celeste on the Channel ferry. We were to go to the Princesse’s house in Valenciennes, where we would stay overnight before leaving for the school the next day. The Princesse would be there to greet us. The distance from her house to the school was not great, for the school was situated some miles west of the city of Mons.

My mother was slightly less disturbed because of Aunt Celeste’s presence and the fact that Jean Pascal was staying in the Médoc because he would be needed during the imminent grape harvest.

Aunt Celeste had assured my mother and Aunt Belinda that the Princesse would be most assiduous in her care of us. The school allowed pupils an occasional weekend if there was some relative or friend nearby to whom they could go, and the Princesse would be there if we needed her. Moreover, Celeste herself could go over frequently. I heard my mother say that she had rarely seen Celeste so contented as she was now, taking part in the care of Annabelinda and me.

“It is a pity she did not have children,” she added. “It would have made all the difference to her life.”

Well, we were now bringing her a little interest, and the truth was that although I hated leaving my parents, I could not help being excited at the prospect before me; and the fact that this excitement was mixed with apprehension did not spoil it in the least. I could see that Annabelinda felt much the same as I did.

After the night in Valenciennes we took the train across the border into Belgium. The Princesse accompanied us. It was not a very long journey to the town of Mons, and soon we were in the carriage driving the few miles from the station to the school.

We drew up before a large gray stone gatehouse. Beyond it I could see nothing but pine trees. There was a gray stone wall which seemed to extend for miles, and on this was a large board painted white with black letters: LA PINIÈRE. PENSION DE JUENES DEMOISELLES.

“The Pine Grove,” said Annabelinda. “Doesn’t it sound exciting?”

A man came out of the gatehouse and looked searchingly at us all.

“Mademoiselle Denver and Mademoiselle Greenham are the new pupils,” said Aunt Celeste.

The man pursed his lips and waved for us to continue.

“He did not look very pleased to see us,” I said.

“It’s just his way,” replied Aunt Celeste.

We drove along a wide path on either side of which pines grew thickly. Their redolence was strong in the air. We had driven for half a mile or so before the school came into sight.

I caught my breath in wonder. I had not imagined anything like this. It was large and imposing, set back from well-kept lawns on which a fountain played. Clearly, it had stood there for centuries—at least five, I guessed. I heard later that it had been built in the midfifteenth century and had been the property of the Rochère family for the past three hundred years, and that thirty years ago, when she must have been an enterprising twenty years of age, Madame Rochère realized that if she wished to keep the château she must find an income somehow. The school had seemed a good idea, and so it proved to be.

I had learned a little about architecture because of our house at Marchlands, which was quite old, and the Denvers’ place had always interested me. Robert had unearthed a number of books for me in the library at Caddington Manor, because he knew of my interest.

So now I recognized the conventionally Gothic style, and later I delighted in details such as the finials molded in the granite.

“It’s ancient!” I cried. “It’s wonderful…!”

The others were too concerned with our arrival to listen to me. We alighted and mounted the six stone steps to a door.

There was a huge knocker on the iron-studded door, held in place by the head of a fierce-looking warrior.

Aunt Celeste knocked, and after a pause a shutter was drawn back.

“It is Madame Lansdon with the girls,” said Aunt Celeste.

The door was slowly opened. A man stood there. He surveyed us and nodded, gabbled something which I could not understand and stood aside for us to enter. When we were inside, Celeste spoke to him; he nodded and disappeared.

It was then that I had my first encounter with Madame Rochère. She had come to meet us personally. I had a notion later that this was due to the presence of the Princesse, whom she greeted with respectful formality; and after a gracious acknowledgement of Celeste, who, as the sister of Jean Pascal, was worthy of some consideration also, she turned to us.

“And these are to be my girls,” she said.

“That is so,” answered Celeste.

Madame Rochère was silent for a few seconds, nodding her head as she assessed us. I was aware of Annabelinda’s attempt to look nonchalant, but even she could not quite manage this in the presence of Madame Rochère.

She turned to Celeste and the Princesse.

“Madame la Princesse, Madame Lansdon, you will take a little wine to refresh yourselves after the journey while the girls shall go straight to their dormitory and settle in?”

The Princesse bowed her head graciously and Aunt Celeste said it sounded like an excellent idea.

Madame Rochère lifted a hand and, as though by magic, a woman appeared on the stairs.

“Ah, Mademoiselle Artois.” Madame Rochère turned to the Princesse and Celeste. “Mademoiselle Artois is my house mistress. She will take the girls. They may settle into their quarters and later be brought down to say good-bye to you before you leave. If that is what you wish, of course….”

“That would be very acceptable,” said Celeste.

Mademoiselle Artois was a woman in her mid-forties, I imagined. She might have seemed very severe, but after our meeting with Madame Rochère, she appeared to be comparatively mild.

She spoke to us in English, for which we were thankful, but although she had a fair command of the language, her accent and intonation now and then left us grappling for understanding.

She led us past the gray stone walls of the gallery, which were hung with axes and murderous-looking weapons, to the wide staircase. We followed her up to the first floor and came to a long hall in which I should have liked to pause to study the tapestry (which looked very ancient) and portraits that lined the walls.

There were more stairs and more rooms to be passed through, for the dormitories were at the very top.

Mademoiselle Artois addressed Annabelinda. “You should have a room of your own because you are fifteen years of age. Most girls have their own room when they are fifteen.” She turned to me. “You have thirteen years only. You will therefore share with three others…all of your age.”

I was rather glad. There was an eeriness about the place and I felt I should be more comfortable in the company of others.

We were in a corridor with a row of doors. As we passed, I saw one half open and I fancied there was someone behind trying to peep out—one of the pupils, I thought, anxious to take a look at the newcomers.

Mademoiselle Artois looked at Annabelinda. “I know that you are fifteen, but unfortunately, there is not a room vacant until the end of term, so you must share. Yours will be a room for two. It may well be that the girl with whom you will share is there now waiting to greet you.”

We went past more doors and paused before one. Mademoiselle opened it, and as she did so a girl who had been sitting on the bed rose. She was plumpish with long, dark hair which was tied back with a red ribbon. I noticed her sparkling dark eyes.

“Ah, Lucia,” said Mademoiselle Artois. “This is Annabelinda Denver, who will share with you until the end of term, or till another single room is available.” She turned back to Annabelinda. “This is Lucia Durotti. Lucia is Italian. You will help each other with your languages.”

Lucia and Annabelinda surveyed each other with interest.

“You must tell Annabelinda which wardrobe is yours…and explain to her what she will want to know,” said Mademoiselle Artois. “She will want to wash, I am sure, and unpack. Show her, Lucia.”

“Yes, mademoiselle,” said Lucia, turning to Annabelinda with a smile.

“And now it is your turn,” said Mademoiselle Artois to me, and we moved into the corridor.

She paused before another door and opened it.

A girl was in the room.

“You are here, Caroline,” said Mademoiselle Artois. “Good. This is Lucinda Greenham, who will be in your dormitory. You will show her where things are and help her when need be.” She turned to me. “There will be four of you in this room: Caroline Egerton, yourself, Yvonne Castelle, who is French, and Helga Spiegel, who is Austrian. We like to mix our nationalities, you see. It is helpful for languages. We cannot always do this, because there are more French and English girls than any others. But it is Madame Rochère’s wish that we mix you as much as possible.”

“I understand, Mademoiselle Artois,” I said.

“Caroline is here to meet you because she is English and that will make it easier for you at first I shall leave you now. Caroline will show you your wardrobe, and before your family leaves you may come down to say good-bye to them. I shall send someone to bring you down…” she looked at the watch pinned on her blouse “…in, say…fifteen minutes. That should be about right.”

When she left us, Caroline Egerton and I stood surveying each other for a few minutes. She had brown eyes, brown hair and a pleasant smile, so I felt it would not be difficult to be friends with her. Then she showed me where to put my clothes and helped me to unpack. She asked me where I came from and what my father did and why I had come with another girl. I answered all these questions and asked a few of my own. She told me that it was “all right” at the school. She had been here two years. The older girls were given a fair amount of freedom, and there was a great deal of attention given to the social side.

“Very French,” she said. “Very formal. Madame Rochère is an old tyrant. Arty’s all right. A bit soft, but not bad, because you can get away with things.”

I asked about Yvonne Castelle and Helga Spiegel.

“Oh, they’re all right. We have some fun…talking after lights out and that sort of thing. Sometimes girls come in from other rooms. That’s forbidden. There would be trouble if we were caught.”

“Have you ever been?”

“Once. The fuss! We were kept in from recreation for a week…and had to write masses of lines. But it was worth it.”

“What do you do when the girls come in?”

“Talk.”

“What about?”

“School matters,” said Caroline mysteriously.

I was beginning to get intrigued, and by the time I was taken down to say good-bye to Aunt Celeste and the Princesse, I felt I knew Caroline very well.

When I made the acquaintance of Yvonne Castelle and Helga Spiegel I discovered that Yvonne had been at the school for a year, Helga a little longer. They were all eager to instruct me in procedure, and Caroline, who had a streak of motherliness in her nature and had been instructed by Mademoiselle Artois to “keep an eye on the newcomer,” watched over me with assiduous care, which in those early days was comforting. Within a week, I felt I had been there for much longer, and because I shared a dormitory with these three girls, they became my special friends.

Caroline was a sort of leader. She enjoyed her role, and I noticed she extended her motherliness to the others as well as to me. Helga was more serious than the rest of us. She was very eager to do well at her studies, because her parents had struggled hard to send her to such a school. Yvonne was the sophisticated one. She knew about Life, she told us.

I did fairly well at lessons and was assessed as adequate for my age, and I fit in comfortably with the group.

I did not see very much of Annabelinda. At school she was known as Anna B. Grace Hebburn, who was the daughter of a duke and therefore was valued by Madame Rochère as “good for the school,” was a sort of head girl, having reached the dizzying pinnacle of seventeen years. Grace had decided—as she said somewhat inelegantly—that “Annabelinda” was “too much of a mouthful” and in the future Annabelinda should be known as Anna B.

Grace’s rival for Madame Rochère’s esteem was Marie de Langais, who was reputed to have descended from the royal family of France. Marie was a rather languid girl of certain good looks who did little to feed the rivalry, and Madame Rochère must have decided that an existing dukedom was worth more to the school than a connection with a monarchy now defunct for so many years. So Grace reigned supreme and her order that “Anna B” should be used in the future was respected.

At La Pinière there was great emphasis on the social graces. The objective was to mold us into young ladies who would be acceptable in the highest echelons of society, rather than into scholars. Consequently, great store was set on the dancing lessons, piano lessons and what was called conversazione.

This last activity took place in the great hall, the walls of which were hung with faded tapestry and portraits. Here we would sit under the searching eyes of Madame Rochère herself, who would suddenly address one of us and expect us to carry on a lively and witty conversation, which was usually about current events.

Each day we had a talk on what was happening in the world. This was delivered by a Monsieur Bourreau, who also gave piano lessons. Madame Rochère said the purpose was to turn us into young ladies who could be conversant on all matters of interest, including world affairs.

Anna B, as she was known now on Grace Hebbum’s orders, was enjoying school. Her great crony was her roommate, Lucia Durotti. They were constantly whispering together. Anna B loved dancing and was commended for it. Occasionally our paths met, but she was two years older than I and age is often an insurmountable barrier at school.

I was informed by Caroline that there was going to be a feast in the dormitory. “We have some biscuits and a tin of condensed milk—quite a big one. We also have a tin opener and a spoon. I brought them with me from home. I was waiting until everyone settled in before we had the feast. It’s my party, so I shall say who is to come. Everyone can bring a guest, so there’ll be eight of us.”

I was excited and immediately asked Anna B. She received the invitation with some hauteur and could not immediately decide whether it was beneath her dignity to accept. When I confided to Helga that Anna B thought she was too old to come, Helga said she was not sure whom she would ask so why shouldn’t it be Lucia Durotti. Then there would be another older one and it wouldn’t be so bad for Anna B.

When these invitations were offered the two girls accepted with alacrity.

Yvonne asked Thérèse de la Montaine, whose home was not far away from the school and who knew about the Rochère family and the old house before it had become a pension for demoiselles.

“It can be fun listening to her,” said Yvonne.

Caroline’s guest was Marie Christine du Bray, who was very sad at this time. It was only six months since both her parents had been killed in a railway accident. Marie Christine had been with them at the time but had escaped injury. She had been ill from emotional upset and was not yet fully recovered. Her family thought it would be best for her to be at school surrounded by people of her own age. Caroline had taken it upon herself to keep an eye on her.

We were all very excited about the feast. Secrecy was the order of the day.

“We do not want gate-crashers,” said Caroline. “There would be noise and the possibility of exposure. And you know what that means. Detention! Lines! Weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth. ‘Sometimes I despair of you girls.’ ” Caroline was a good mimic and could give a fair imitation of Mademoiselle Artois.

Of course, the fact that what we were about to do was forbidden provided most of the excitement. There was nothing so very delectable about a biscuit and a few teaspoonfuls of a rather sickly condensed milk taken from a communal spoon. The great attraction of the enterprise was the aura of midnight feasts…and forbidden fruit.

The time came. Eight of us were in our dormitory seated on two beds, four on one, four on another, facing one another.

The can of milk was opened with some difficulty and there were squeals of excitement when some of it was spilled on the bedclothes, followed by frantic efforts to wipe them clean. The biscuits were handed around and consumed.

“Be careful of the crumbs,” warned Caroline. “Arty has the eyes of a hawk.”

The conversation was carried on half in English and half in French, often embracing the two, which made it easy to speak, such as, “Parlez doucement. Est-ce que vous want old Arty to hear?” There was a great deal of laughter, made more hilarious because it had to be suppressed; and there was no doubt that we were all enjoying ourselves immensely.

Then Yvonne remembered the reason why Thérèse de la Montaine had been asked, and she was eager for her guest to shine in the company; when the conversation flagged and the giggles were less spontaneous, she said, “Tell us about Madame Rochère and this house.”

“It’s a very old house,” put in Caroline. “There must be some stories about it. There are always stories about old houses. Does it have a ghost?”

“There is one ghost I know of,” said Thérèse. “It’s a lady who walks at night.”

We all looked around the room expectantly.

“Not here,” said Thérèse, “though I suppose quite a lot of the old ancestors are cross about the house being changed. Ghosts don’t like it when rooms are changed. Well, it would disturb them, wouldn’t it?”

“Fancy having your haunting place changed!” said Helga.

“And a lot of girls put in it,” Yvonne added.

“Having midnight feasts in it,” said Anna B.

“I wonder they don’t all come out and haunt us,” said Lucia.

“It’s not our fault,” pointed out Caroline. “We didn’t make the change. We’re what you might call victims of circumstance. I think it is Madame Rochère who should look out.”

“She’d frighten any ghost away,” declared Lucia.

“How long is it since Madame Rochère made the change?” Yvonne prompted her guest.

“I think it was about thirty years ago. Old houses take a lot of money to keep up. The Rochères lost a lot of their property in the revolution…so then they came to this one, just over the border. They lived here as they had in their French château…and then of course Madame Rochère couldn’t afford to keep it up any longer. She’d married Monsieur Rochère, but hers was a great French family, too, and this house was very important to her. Monsieur Rochère died quite young and as she couldn’t keep up the house she decided to turn it into a school.”

“We all know that,” said Anna B. “What about the ghost?”

“Oh, that was long before…about two hundred years.”

“Time doesn’t count with ghosts,” said Anna B. “They can go on haunting for hundreds of years.”

“This was a lady….”

“It’s always ladies,” retorted Anna B. “They are better haunters than men.”

“It’s because more awful things happen to them,” said Caroline. “They have a reason to come back…for retribution.”

“Well, what about this ghost?” asked Yvonne.

“Well,” said Thérèse, “it’s a lady. She was young and beautiful.”

“They always are,” said Anna B.

“Do you want to hear about this ghost or not?” asked Lucia.

“Get on and tell us,” replied Anna B.

“Well, she was young and beautiful. She had married the heir of La Pinière and then her husband caught a pox and his life was in danger.”

“You get spots all over,” said Lucia. “And you are marked for life.”

“That’s right,” went on Thérèse. “She should have left him alone. It was very infectious. Everyone warned her, but she insisted on nursing him herself. She would not let anyone else do it. She was with him night and day and she did it all herself. They said she was risking her life, for people died of it, you know.”

“We did know,” said Anna B. “What happened to her? She died, I expect.”

“Not then. Her husband was cured. It was all due to her nursing. He was better and there were no marks on him at all. All the spots had gone and left no scars. He was more handsome than ever. But no sooner was he on the way to recovery than she found she was suffering from the pox, which she had caught.”

“From him!” said Lucia.

“Of course from him,” said Anna B, “who else?”

“Get on with the story,” cried Yvonne.

“Well, her beauty was gone. She was covered in spots.”

“And he nursed her back to health,” cut in Lucia.

“He certainly did not. She got better but her face was all pitted. She wore a veil over it, and he…well, he didn’t love her anymore because she had lost her beauty…in caring for him.”

“What a sad tale,” said Helga.

“There’s more to come. He neglected her. He had a mistress!”

There was a long sigh from everyone present. The girls were all sitting up. The story had taken on a new dimension with the introduction of the mistress.

“You see, she had lost her looks from the pox, and then he did this to her. And what did she do?”

“Killed the mistress…or him?” suggested Anna B.

“No, she did not. She went up to the top of the tower…and jumped right down and killed herself.”

There was a shocked silence.

“And,” went on Thérèse, “she now walks. She is the ghost. She can’t rest. Every now and then she walks through the hall right up the spiral staircase…you know, the one that leads to the tower. You can hear her footsteps on the stone, they say.”

“I’ve never heard them,” said Helga.

“You have to be sensitive to hear them,” Thérèse told her.

“I’m sensitive,” said Caroline.

“So am I,” we all cried.

“Well, perhaps you’ll hear them one day.”

“Has anyone seen her?”

“One of the girls said she did. She had long, flowing hair and there was a veil over her face.”

“I’d like to see her,” said Anna B.

“Perhaps you will,” replied Yvonne.

“What do you say to a ghost?” asked Lucia.

“You don’t say anything, of course,” retorted Thérèse. “You’re too frightened.”

“Perhaps one of us will see her,” I said.

“Who knows?” replied Thérèse.

After that we talked of ghosts. No one had seen any, but they had of course heard a great deal about them.

The clock in the tower struck two before the guests departed, and after having made sure that there were no crumbs to attract Mademoiselle Artois’s attention, we all went to bed.

After that night there was a good deal of talk about ghosts in general and in particular about the lady who had been disfigured by smallpox and had thrown herself from the top of the tower. An account of the midnight feast and the revelations of Thérèse were whispered from dormitory to dormitory.

We four used to talk about it continuously, after lights out. Anna B was quite interested, too. She said it showed how you had to be on your guard with men and it was a lesson: If they caught smallpox, never nurse them.

Some girls said they had heard footsteps in the night…steps walking across the hall and out to the tower.

I saw a little more of Anna B after that night; the feast had brought us closer, for those who could provide such an entertainment were not to be despised, even if they were only thirteen years old.

If I met her she would pause and talk and I was able to ask how she was getting on. She said she quite liked it. She loved the dancing, and she got on very well with Lucia. She did not ask how I was getting on. But that was typical of her.

One day I had a great surprise.

It was about half past four. We had finished lessons for the day and this was our rest period, when we could go to our dormitories to read or chat together.

I thought I would take a little walk in the gardens, which were very beautiful. This we were allowed to do, providing we did not go beyond the grounds.

As I was coming out of the house, I caught sight of Anna B. She was hurrying toward the shrubbery and I went after her.

She was some way ahead, and fearing that when she entered the shrubbery I should lose sight of her, I called her name.

She looked around. “Oh, it’s you,” she said, and went on walking. I ran up to her.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“Oh…nowhere.”

“Really, Anna B. One doesn’t go nowhere.”