The Black Swan (17 page)

And here I was, a guest under his roof! No wonder I felt uneasy.

I did suggest to Belinda that we could not stay here indefinitely. Perhaps we should think about making a date for our return.

She looked at me in amazement. “We haven’t been here two weeks yet.”

“That’s quite a long time to stay in people’s houses.”

“
People’s
houses. This is my father’s.”

“Yes … your father … but not mine. I was just wondering, I was thinking it was about time I …”

“What do you want to go back for? You’re supposed to be enjoying yourself. You are putting the past behind you and where could you do that better than here?”

“I was just thinking …”

“You’re an idiot, Lucie. Stop thinking! Just enjoy all this. I think it’s wonderful. Don’t grudge me my father.”

“As if I would.”

“He’s been very nice to you. He always brings you into everything.”

“Yes, I know. But I think I ought to go and leave you two together.”

“Don’t talk nonsense,” she said; and as usual, when she had decided something, she assumed that settled the matter. So I knew it was useless to talk to her about going home.

I cherished those days when I could get away on my own. On this particular one I had gone into the grounds and into the little wood. I knew that Jean Pascal and Belinda were going to the vineyards that morning. The implication had been that I should go with them, but it had not been absolutely arranged. So I went off and was not to be found when they were ready to go.

After they left I experienced a wonderful sense of freedom. I went to the stables where a groom saddled a horse for me at my request; and I had the pleasure of riding out alone.

It was a lovely morning. It would probably be too hot later in the day but at that time it was perfect.

I told myself I must remember which way I came for the country was unfamiliar to me. I must not get lost or there would be a ban on my riding alone which was my chief pleasure.

I left the château grounds and after about ten minutes, I came to a little wood of pine trees. A rider was coming toward me. There was something familiar about her. She drew level and we looked at each other, both a little puzzled, trying to remember, I supposed, where we had met before.

The woman smiled suddenly. “I know,” she cried. “Of course, it was on the Channel steamer. I’m Phillida Fitzgerald. Do you remember? We talked for a few minutes.”

It was coming back. The pleasant-faced woman who was going with her brother to recuperate near Bordeaux.

“I remember well …”

“And you were …?”

“Lucie Lansdon.”

“That’s right. What a coincidence! Well, perhaps not so … as we are in the neighborhood. Isn’t it lovely country?”

“It is. Are you better?”

“Yes. Did I tell you I was convalescing? I really am much better. Even my brother is pleased.”

“Is he here?”

“He’s at our place.”

“Are you staying near here?” I asked.

“Yes, quite near. We’ve rented a house. We didn’t greatly care for the hotel. So we looked round and found this place. A good deal of letting goes on nowadays in these parts. Some people prefer it to staying in a hotel.”

“I suppose they do.”

“My brother likes it much better. It’s a nice little house … lovely setting. Not far from here. There is a couple who live in a sort of cabin in the grounds. They look after us. They go with the house. They’re quite good. We like it.”

“How long are you staying?”

“For a few more weeks, I suppose. Nothing definite. We’ve taken the house for a month and if we want to renew at any time I don’t think there would be much difficulty.”

“It has worked out well then.”

She nodded. “What of you?”

“I’m staying at the Château Bourdon.”

“With friends … I think you said. That must be wonderful really. Look. Why don’t you come back with me and have a cup of coffee. Angelique … the female side of the couple … makes excellent coffee.”

“It sounds like a good idea.”

“Come on then. Roland will be amused. He says I pick up people. Well, I like meeting people. I like talking to people. And after all, we’re not strangers, are we? We met on the boat.”

“I certainly don’t feel we are.”

She laughed and turned her horse back the way she had obviously come. I followed. We rode for about a mile until we came to the village of Lengore.

“It’s charming,” she told me, “particularly on market days. I love shopping. They all laugh at my atrocious accent. But I can laugh with them. I know how awful it is. The house is just on the outskirts of the village.”

We came to it. It was small and of gray stone, surrounded by a pleasant garden. She pointed out to me what she called the cabin where Angelique and her spouse lived. There was a stretch of grass on which a few chickens scratched while a rooster perched proudly on a low stone wall watching over his hens.

“It’s a little primitive in some ways,” said Phillida. “But my brother says that this is what we have come here for. There are two or three barns … good for storage … and a field, too, so we have plenty of space. We hire the horses for the time we are here … and Pierre—that’s Angelique’s husband—looks after them as he does the chickens and a couple of geese. So you see, it really is the country life.”

She pushed open a door and we were in a room with stone walls and tiled floor. There was an enormous fireplace and a kettle hanging on a chain. Leading from this was another room into which she led me. It was fitted with two armchairs and a sofa. Her brother stood up and laid aside the book he had been reading. He looked puzzled at first until Phillida explained.

“Look whom I have found,” she cried. “It’s Miss Lucie Lansdon. Come on, Roland, you remember. On the boat coming over.” She turned to me. “Roland doesn’t remember people like I do. But then, of course, we had a long chat. He only saw you briefly.”

“But I do remember,” he said. He held out his hand. “How do you do, Miss Lansdon. How nice to see you.”

“Wasn’t it a coincidence?” said Phillida. “We just happened to come face-to-face near that pine copse. Then it all came back to me … how we’d met and talked.”

“Well, it’s a pleasure,” said her brother.

“What about some coffee?” said Phillida. “I’ve lured her here with a promise of Angelique’s special brew.”

“Come and sit down,” he said.

“Yes, that’s right, and I’ll go and see about the coffee.”

She went and I was left alone with Roland.

I said, “You seem to be comfortable here.”

“Oh yes. It’s more pleasant than a hotel.”

“I can see that.”

“And the couple takes on everything, so there is nothing for my sister to worry about.”

“Is she better? I gathered she had come here for some sort of convalescence.”

“The place suits her. But I don’t know how long we shall be able to stay. I shall have to go back eventually, but I do want to make sure she is quite well before we return. It’s a weakness in the chest. Our climate is too damp for her. This dry heat suits her better.”

“She seems absolutely well.”

“That’s Phillida. She refuses to accept ill health. She has a wonderful spirit.”

“You and she are obviously very good friends.”

“Brother and sister. But I admit there is a special closeness. Our parents died. They were killed together in a railway accident. To lose them both at one time … well, you can imagine what that meant. She said she would look after me. I said I would look after her.”

“Well, you both seem to be making a good job of it.”

Phillida came back. “Coffee will be served very shortly,” she said. “I want to show Miss Lansdon the house.”

“After coffee,” said Roland.

“Oh come. It won’t take more than a few minutes.” She grimaced at me. “There’s not much of it, and there is just time before coffee arrives. I’ll whip you round in five minutes. It’s not Château Bourdon, you know. It was Bourdon, wasn’t it? I remembered because I’d heard it before.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Vast and imposing, I believe.”

“I suppose it is … rather.”

“Well, come and see our humble abode. You stay here, Roly, in case Angelique brings the coffee in.”

She took me up a spiral staircase which led from the sitting room. There were two rooms on the next floor. “This is the best bedroom, my domain. Roland insisted on my having this room. The other room is a sort of dressing room-sitting room. Then there’s another floor … to the attics really.” We climbed the stairs to a room in which on one side the ceiling sloped and one had to stoop to approach the small window which looked down on the patch of green and the hens. The geese were down there too.

She laughed. “It’s fun in a way. Different from your château, I daresay. Roland sleeps up here, It’s difficult for him to stand upright all the time … and it’s amusing, for a holiday, of course. And that’s all. Château Fitzgerald. Now let’s get down to that coffee.”

She was right about the coffee. It was delicious.

I found them both interesting and I liked their obvious affection for each other. They made me feel that it was a special pleasure to have a visitor from home.

“Isn’t it wonderful to be able to talk naturally, Roland? Rather than to have to stumble over your words and when you do get a comprehensible sentence they come back to you with such a rush—thinking mistakenly that you have mastered their language. And then you are completely lost.” Phillida laughed.

They wanted to know about me. I could see that they remembered the tragedy by the pains they took to avoid mentioning it.

At last, I said, “My father was shot outside our house. You probably read about it.”

“Yes,” said Roland quietly. “It must have been a terrible shock for you.”

I nodded. “But … I have so many kind friends. There is my sister particularly. She lives in Cornwall though and that is quite a long way from London.”

“I suppose you visit her often,” said Roland.

“Yes, and I expect I shall more and more. I think she would like me to go and live with her and her family.”

“But you are as yet undecided?” asked Phillida.

“Well, I feel a little …”

They exchanged glances and I knew a message passed between them. It was to drop the subject.

“The rural life is very amusing and interesting for a time,” said Roland, “but I wonder how long one could find that sort of thing amusing.”

“Where is your home?” I asked.

“Well, we really come from Yorkshire. We are in wool, actually. But I am in London a good deal. We have a small
pied-à-terre
there. Everyone has to be in London sooner or later. It was my father who decided that we must have an office there to deal with the business—most of which is conducted in Yorkshire, of course. He died just as he had set up the office … and I was to be in charge of it.”

“Have some more coffee,” said Phillida. “Angelique gets quite cross if people don’t show they appreciate what she produces.”

“It’s a failing with good cooks,” added Roland.

“How long do you intend to stay in France?” asked Phillida, filling my cup.

“I am unsure. So much depends on Belinda.”

“She is traveling with you, I suppose.”

“Yes.” I felt the need of a little explanation. “She is my stepmother’s niece. It is her father who owns the château.”

“I see,” said Roland.

“I hope you don’t go too soon,” added Phillida. “It’s great fun to meet one’s compatriots in a foreign land.”

Roland smiled indulgently at his sister.

“Well, you agree with me, don’t you, Roland?” she insisted.

“I do on this occasion,” he replied.

“You must come and see us again,” said Phillida.

“I’d like to,” I told them. “But this reminds me … I ought to be going.” I looked at the clock on the wall. “
Déjeuner
will be served in an hour. They will be wondering what has become of me if I am late.”

“We’ll take you back,” said Roland. “It’s about half an hour, I reckon, wouldn’t you, Phillida?”

“I should think so. We are really quite close neighbors.”

“Well, there is not much time.”

“I can see Miss Lansdon is getting anxious,” said Roland, “so we’ll leave now.”

I thought how kind and gentle he was. He reminded me of Joel. He was a complete contrast to Jean Pascal.

Within five minutes we were leaving the house. We chatted about the countryside as we rode along. It had been a very interesting morning.

They left me within sight of the château. It was Roland’s suggestion that they should do so. Phillida would have liked to come closer, I was sure, with a hope of meeting Belinda or Jean Pascal. But, firmly and quietly, Roland insisted. He was so tactful. He thought it was better for me to arrive alone and not have to give an immediate explanation of our meeting.

So I was back in good time. I felt better than I had for a long time. It gave me a comfortable feeling to remind myself that I had friends in the neighborhood.

When I went down to
déjeuner
Belinda and Jean Pascal were already there.

“What happened to you this morning, Lucie?” asked Jean Pascal.

“Oh … I went for a ride.”

“We couldn’t find you,” scolded Belinda. “Mon père was most put out.”

“I knew you were going to the vineyard. I didn’t think you would want me with you.”

“Of course we expected you to be with us,” said Jean Pascal.

“It was very interesting,” added Belinda. “You missed something very good.”

“I had an interesting morning, too.”

“Doing what?” asked Belinda.

“I met some people.”

There was silence for a few seconds. Then Jean Pascal said, “People? What people?”

“There was a young woman whom I met on the Channel boat. We had chatted for a while. Didn’t I tell you?”

“I didn’t know you’d met anyone,” said Belinda.

“It was when we were on deck and I wandered off on my own. I was leaning over the rail and so was she. We talked. She said they were staying near Bordeaux.”

“And you just met by chance?” said Jean Pascal.

“Yes. They are actually staying quite nearby.”

“They?”

“She and her brother. They’ve rented a house for a month or so. She took me back with her and they gave me coffee.”