Tempting Fate (20 page)

“Closer to two hundred. It was his favorite.” She continued on up the stairs, and when they reached the narrow gallery, she pointed to the right. “This way. As you see, there are six doors along the corridor. Your parlor is the second door on the right. I’ve had the place fitted out, so you will find a water closet just across the hall, that door with the glass knob instead of gold handles, and although we do not have electricity yet, there is gas-light in all the rooms, so you won’t be forced to stumble around in the dark with only a candle for illumination.” She had walked to the door and opened it. “I think you will find towels and soap set out for you if you wish to bathe. There are robes in the bathroom closet.”

Dazed by the attractiveness of his hostess and astonished by her courtesy, James was able to mumble a few words before ducking into his room. The parlor was small but gorgeous. There were a short sofa and two chairs facing the little fireplace. All were upholstered in sculptured velvet. An Oriental carpet covered a good portion of the floor, and where it did not reach, there were small, handmade Spanish rugs. A gilt-trimmed walnut secretaire stood against the wall, the high-backed chair in front of it cushioned with brocaded pillows. James whistled slowly. He went and peered into the bedroom.

The windows were covered by full-length draperies of heavy rust satin. The bed—unusually large—was covered with a spread of Italian bargello-work. An armoire of carved ash stood against one wall, and a much more modern dressing table in the Art Nouveau style was opposite it. James stepped into the bedroom, wondering idly if there had been a mistake. The carpet underfoot had been woven in Denmark more than eighty years ago, for the state visit of the heir to the Spanish throne.

There was a knock at the parlor door, and James hastened to open it. A servant stood waiting with James’ two suitcases in his hands. “We’ve put your automobile in the shed, next to Madame’s,” he said as he brought the luggage into the parlor. “Is there anything you’ll require from me just now?”

“Um … No, I don’t think so.” James still was not certain whether or not he was expected to tip the servants, and so he motioned for the bags to be put down, and then said, “I’m not sure of the customs here, and I’m so afraid I might inadvertently offend one of you or Madame. If you will tell me…”

The servant gave him a knowing smile. “Yes, sir. It’s not always easy to know what’s expected. Here at Montalia, most of us are used to getting a doucement when a guest leaves, commensurate with the service we’ve extended, naturally. I’m Herriot, by the way. I’ll see to your automobile while you’re here.”

James nodded to the man. “I appreciate that. Thank you, Herriot.”

“You’re welcome, Monsieur Tree.” He left the room quickly, and James heard his steps fade down the hall.

When he had finished unpacking, James decided on a bath. He crossed the hall and found everything to be as Madelaine had said it would be. The tub was long and deep, sitting, on ball-and-claw gilded feet almost in the middle of the room. James drew himself a bath and settled back for a long soak.

He was dressed in fresh clothes an hour later, and decided to venture downstairs. He made one wrong turn, but at last found himself back in the entry hall. It was late afternoon now, and he was aware that somewhere in the château there was activity, but no one had found him. He was beginning to feel a little foolish when Madelaine emerged from one of the corridors, smiling.

She had also changed, and would have looked appropriate in the pages of
Bon Ton.
Her dress of lilac silk had a slightly raised waist and a patterned bodice not unlike some of the paintings by Klimpt. Around her shoulders she had draped a long cashmere shawl the color of bittersweet chocolate. “Ah, Monsieur Tree, I’m glad you’ve come down. You’re quite elegant. I do like those new collars, don’t you?”

James had bought his suit in London, his only real extravagance since leaving the United States. He had not worn it often, though of late it had been useful in his various dealings with the displaced landowners he had contacted. He had discovered that it was to his advantage to appear expensively groomed without being ostentatious. Until now he had not been gratified by the few compliments he had received. He looked down at his hostess and smiled. “Thank you, Madame de Montalia.”

“Are all Americans so formal? I’ve been told that you’re all too casual, but you conduct yourself as if you were at a ball.” She indicated another of the halls. “This leads to the addition. I’ve had the salon des fenêtres set up for a buffet. I’m afraid we’re in no position to offer multicourse meals here. However, my cook has done what she can and Nanette is a most ingenious woman. If you don’t mind, I will keep you company and we will talk.”

They had passed several small, oddly-shaped rooms, but at last the corridor widened, and then opened onto the most recently-built part of the château. The pink-and-copper light of sunset streamed in the long curve of windows. The mountains rising around the château were either fallen into darkest shadow or touched with unreal brightness. The room itself was alive with light, warm and luminous as the hearthside at home.

“Here,” said Madelaine, leading James toward the early-nineteenth-century table which stood near the window. “Sit, and I will tell Herriot and Claude that we’re ready.”

James was at least a foot taller than she, rangy in a way she had been told was unique to the American West. Yet he felt malleable as wax to her, and did not protest as she pulled out a chair for him. He sat and waited while she went to a small door and gave her orders.

“Now then, Mr. Tree,” she said, coming back to the table and taking the other chair. “You wish to talk with me. Behold me, at your disposal.” She propped her elbows on the table and smiled at him. “You have a very strong chin, Mr. Tree.”

This last comment threw him off guard completely. “Madame … I … That is to say…” Sternly he told himself that he could not let her affect him this way. “Madame de Montalia,” he said with all the propriety he could muster, “you’re kind to say such things to me, but I would much rather we discuss your situation here.”

“Would you?” She said it too lightly for the question to be a challenge, but there was mirth in her lovely, intelligent face. “Very well, Mr. Tree, tell me what it is you wish to know.”

James cleared his throat. “I told you in my letter that I’m doing a series of articles—”

She interrupted him impatiently. “Yes, I understood your letter. You were quite succinct. But as I indicated in my reply, and as you have doubtless observed for yourself, I am not much deprived here. In fact, there are advantages to being at Montalia. One of them, I must admit, is that I am not forced day after day to see the ravages inflicted on this poor country of mine.” Her face had grown somber. “France has an unhappy history, Mr. Tree. Men have gone to battle in a glorious tide and returned in little more than a trickle. Think of the wretched men returning from Moscow with Napoleon. How many of them fell in those endless snows, wrapped in shrouds of ice! They followed that ridiculous Corsican in whatever direction he marched, and believed his promise of an exalted France. So the British and the Italians and the Egyptians and the Russians fed their soil with French bones.” She had been staring at the far wall, an abstracted expression in her eyes, but came back to herself with a shake of the head. “It’s not the best topic for conversation at a meal, is it? I had not intended…”

James laid one of his large hands over hers. “No, Madame. Don’t apologize.” His cognac-colored eyes met hers with an intensity he did not want to deny. “You may tell me whatever you want.”

Madelaine gave a rueful shake to her head. “I doubt it, Mr. Tree, but I thank you for the gesture.” Then she looked up as Claude came into the salon. “Very good. If you’ll put the dishes out on the sideboard…”

“Of course, Madame,” Claude said, and set the two silver-covered serving trays down as she had instructed him. “Monsieur Tree has a choice of squab and lamb. There are four vegetables to come, and a salad. Nanette regrets that she was not able to prepare the cream-of-spinach soup she had intended.” As he spoke he removed the covers of the serving dishes and the room became redolent with the smell of the food. “If you will excuse me, I will fetch the vegetables.”

“Do you dine like this every evening?” James asked, enjoying the luxury of the rich scents.

“Of course not. In fact, I have a … condition which limits my diet severely.” She said it cheerfully enough, but with a finality which did not encourage him to pursue the matter, “As soon as Claude returns, take what you want of the dishes set out. Have as much or as little as you wish. My servants eat well, but we waste little here.” She had sat back in her chair; one hand toyed with the fringe of her cashmere shawl.

Again James felt a moment’s awkwardness. “I’m sorry,” he said, wishing he had something more helpful or gallant to offer.

“I’m not. In my life I have found that most difficulties have … compensations.” She nodded toward the little door. “Here’s Claude with the vegetables. You must choose your supper, Mr. Tree.” She watched him as he made his selections, and then indulged in the most trivial of dinner conversation while James had his meal.

By the time the serving dishes and plates, cups, and service had been removed, the salon des fenêtres was dark. A fire had been laid in the hearth, and Madelaine rose to set it alight. She knelt by the fireplace, and as the first fragile flames trembled on the dry wood, the gentle light showed her features to James so magically that he wished he could find the excuse to kneel next to her, to put his arm around her shoulder. He doubted he would have the audacity to do more than that, but for a moment, while she gave her attention to the fire, he imagined what it might be like to have her in his arms.

“Daydreaming, Mr. Tree?” she asked as she came back to the table.

James hoped that the room was not bright enough for her to see his face darken. “It’s a little late for that.”

“What an equivocal answer,” she remarked. “Would you like to sit closer to the fire? Shall I light the bracket lamps?”

“As you wish,” he said, rising from the table and taking a step or two toward the fire. “It might be nice to sit and talk.”

“Then, please.” She drew a Directoire couch nearer the hearth. “Here. It’s not as substantial as the furniture in the other chambers, but you’ll find it comfortable enough. The bolster is pleasant to lean upon. I fear you won’t be able to stretch out on it—you’d overlap the ends.”

Though he was not at all sure he wanted to, James took his seat on the couch and braced his elbow against one of the bolsters, discovering it was not as soft or as flimsy as he feared. When he was a bit more settled, he began, “You said this was home to you. Will you tell me a bit about Montalia, and yourself?”

Madelaine’s smile was so vulnerable that James had to restrain his impulse to pull her into the shelter of his arms. “I was born here. This château has been in the family for a very long time. There are records in the muniment room that go back to the time this was little more than a fortified tower in the eleven hundreds. Montalia is a worn-down version of the original name: Montagne de Italia, from the days when the borders between the two countries were not as certain a thing as they are now. So, Montalia it became, and so did we. My own parents lived here a great deal of the time, although they were somewhat estranged after I went to be taught by the Sisters of Sainte Ursule. I went to Paris when I was nineteen, to be presented, you understand, by my aunt. My father came to attend my fête, and while he was in Paris, he died. My mother did not wish to come back here; she did not live much longer. So I am heir to Montalia.”

James felt his heart go out to his hostess. To have such great responsibility put on her shoulders while she was still so young. “You said you were nineteen then. What are you now?”

“Older, Mr. Tree. A great deal older.” She stared into the fire. “You bring back a great many memories.”

“You were at your other château when the war broke out?” He wanted a better sense of the order of events so that he could present them to his readers. At least, he tried to persuade himself that was the reason.

“Yes. Monbussy came into my hands a while ago. It’s sad to hear it has been damaged. This war has blighted everything.” She dropped to her knees on the ottoman cushion near the fireplace. “I am fortunate, Mr. Tree. I have this retreat of mine, but there are countless others not as lucky or as prosperous as I, and they suffer greatly. I gave a small holding of mine in Normandy over to a family who had been my neighbors, but that is nothing more than a gesture, a handful of sand taken from the beach.” She leaned back and turned away from him.

“Without you the family would have been much worse off,” James pointed out in a desire to mitigate her hurt.

“And without the war they would not have needed my aid at all.” Madelaine brought her fist under her jaw, bracing her chin. “Do you know, Mr. Tree, I have lost count of the number of deaths I’ve been told of? There was a time, when I was first in Paris, when a … dear friend of mine pointed out to me that humankind preys upon itself far more than any other hazard of this world, except perhaps plague.”

James was touched with grief. “A journalist I met, an older man named Vaughn Whitstowe, died of the influenza a few weeks ago. He had a cough, and then he grew weak, and then he was dead.” He looked down at his hands. He ought not mention himself. That was not why he was here.

“A pity, but so many things are.” The remark was intended to be cynical, or at least resigned, but it was neither. Madelaine stared at James, and felt his eyes on her. From her reclining posture, he appeared a great distance away. “Would you like to come nearer?”

“Madame…” He got off the couch and went to her as if blinded by the fire; he stood above her. “Madame…”

“My name,” she said softly, “is Madelaine. Madelaine Roxanne Bertrane de Montalia.” It had been a long time since she had given anyone her full name, but something in this American stirred her.

James’ mouth was suddenly dry, his lips hot. “Madelaine.” He liked the name. At that moment he almost adored her. He wanted to stretch out on the floor beside her, to hold her. The rest eluded him, for although he was not inexperienced, he had confined his adventures to women who made no demands of him but payment: he had never permitted himself to gratify any need but lust. “You’re…”