Chateau D'Armor Page 6

  He did not answer immediately and Jesamine thought her question troubled him, although heaven knew why, and he was looking at her thoughtfully, almost in the way that Paul had—as if he suspected her motives. “For a while, mademoiselle,” he said quietly.

  “You were here?” she asked, and he shrugged, that eloquent response to so many questions. “It must have been hard for you,” she suggested. “For everyone, of course, but for a priest particularly so, I imagine.”

  “War is hard on everyone, mademoiselle,” he observed.

  “Yes, of course.” She smiled and pulled a rueful face, as if apologising for her lack of years. “I’m too young to have been born then, of course,” she said.

  “Naturellement!”

  Her next observation was inevitable, when she thought about it, and she really meant nothing significant by it, despite the priest’s rather dramatic reaction. “The d’Armors were here too, of course,” she said. “They must have been involved in some way, I’m sure—I can’t believe they weren’t!”

  They had walked part way along the overgrown path to the church, but Pere Dominic came to a stop suddenly and looked at her narrowly. “Mademoiselle,” he said firmly but quietly, “the famille d’Armor have always been held in respect in Grosvallee, it is not my place to discuss their private affairs with a journaliste!”

  Jesamine stared at him for a second, surprised by the vehemence of his objection, then she shook her head slowly and sought to remedy the impression she had apparently given him—that she was there to pry into the affairs of the d’Armor family. The same worry that Paul seemed to have and which now puzzled her more than ever.

  “Oh, but you’re wrong, Father,” she said anxiously.

  “I think you have curiosity about the daughter of the family whose guest you are, mademoiselle, and I cannot allow myself to be your informant!”

  “Louise d’Armor?” Jesamine’s heart was thudding at her ribs suddenly and she looked at the old priest for several seconds before it occurred to her to deny the charge he made against her. It was possible, more, it was likely, that he had been her confessor. He would know more about her mystery than anyone else. “But, Father,” she said, “I know nothing about Louise d’Armor, she hasn’t even been mentioned.”

  “Precisement!” Pere Dominic said firmly. “So you come seeking the information you require elsewhere! I am discouraged, mademoiselle—I had misjudged you!”

  “You’re misjudging me now, Father!” she insisted earnestly. “I didn’t come here to ask about Louise d’Armor—I simply mentioned that the family must have been here during the war. I promised Paul, Monsieur Paul d’Armor, that I wouldn’t pry into anything else, and I haven’t!”

  For several moments the old priest said nothing, his grey head was bowed and he seemed to have left her, in spirit if not in body. Then he raised his head suddenly and there was a hint of a smile on his weathered face as he looked at her. “Forgive me, mademoiselle,” he said, “I was perhaps too hasty in my judgment. Time has healed many things, but it is still too easy to—suspect!”

  “Of course!” She had no idea what he was referring to and it was unthinkable that she could even allude to the existence of Louise d’Armor now, much as she would have liked to. “In fact, Father,” she told him, “I’m here to write a history of a mutual ancestor I share with the d’Armors—Charles Louis Vernais, the last Comte d’Armor.”

  “Ah, mais oui!” His relief was obvious. “It is to discover history that you are here, mademoiselle! Your own ancestor also, you say?”

  “That’s right,” Jesamine agreed, thankful to be back on good terms. “Monsieur and Madame d’Armor have been very helpful but I wondered, Father, if there was anything more you could tell me about him. Perhaps if I could see where he’s buried.”

  The old man was interested in her task, that was evident, but he was shaking his head regretfully over her last request. “Non, mon enfant,” he told her gently. “The famille d’Armor have their own private chapel in the grounds of the chateau, they are buried there—I also am cure there.”

  “Oh!” The news stunned her for a moment, and she sifted through all the information the d’Armor family had given her regarding Charles Louis Vernais. Not once had they mentioned the existence of a private chapel in the chateau grounds. “Thank you, Father!” She smiled at the old priest, knowing he did not realise that he had, for all his caution, told her something about his patrons that she did not know before.

  She took leave of Pere Dominic and started to walk back to the Chateau d’Armor, even though she had spoken to no one else. There was a great deal on her mind as she walked back along the vine-bordered road, not least the reason why no one had told her of the existence of the private chapel where Charles Louis was buried.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THERE was little use pretending she had any reason to stay any longer at the Chateau d’Armor, although Jesamine would have liked to think there was. In the four full days she had already been there she had accumulated as much data as she could possibly use in one article, and last night she had spent quite a long time typing it out on her portable.

  James still had to take his photographs, of course, but he would be arriving from Nantes in a few hours and after that she could not possibly claim she needed more time. The whole thing was finished, packed into an envelope in her handbag and ready to post.

  It was a fine bright morning and that made it even harder to leave, for the view from her bedroom window looked so enchanting in the morning sunlight. Louise Sutton, from her place in the alcove, looked out with her innocent eyes and filled her with a curious restlessness, a desire to know more about the family who had housed her for so long without even knowing who she was. But it was no use, her reason for being there was finished, and she had no alternative but to go home.

  Downstairs in the white-walled breakfast room she found herself in the company of Paul d’Armor and his grandfather.

  Madame d’Armor was not yet up and somehow Jesamine missed her this morning, for she felt oddly vulnerable in the company of the two men with the prospect before her of telling them she was leaving.

  Francois d’Armor, a prisoner in his chair as always, looked remarkably fresh for first thing in the morning, but she had very soon come to the conclusion that the old man had a remarkably resilient spirit, despite his physical handicap. She was a little startled to realise that she would actually miss him quite a lot, and especially his fund of historical tales which he told with such verve and panache.

  Paul sat facing her, in his usual position at the table, and she tried hard not to notice things about him that she found so incredibly disturbing to her self-control. Small, seemingly unimportant things that she always noticed about him and wished she did not. For one thing, the way his muscular brown arms were revealed by the rolled-up sleeves of a blue denim shirt, and his throat and the first few inches of broad chest that were visible in the open neck.

  He had said little to her as yet, nothing beyond a brief good morning, but she was no less physically aware of him, and she consoled herself with the fact that it was probably as well she was leaving, before she fell in love with him.

  There were any number of reasons why she would like to have stayed longer at the chateau. There was the mystery of Louise d’Armor, for one thing, and the curious reticence and suspicion of the old priest in the village. Then there was the complete silence of an otherwise garrulous old man on the subject of his only child—a series of intriguing, half-learned things that aroused her journalistic curiosity and which were unlikely to be explained now.

  Most of all, though, she was reluctant to say goodbye to Paul d’Armor. If she allowed herself to fall in love with him it was almost certain he would cause her much the same kind of heartache that Louise Sutton had known, but still she wanted to know him better. It remained to be seen what his reaction would be to her going.

  “I shan’t like leaving,” she said as she poured herself coffee, “I’ve
enjoyed myself so much; but I must go tomorrow.”

  She was uncertain whether or not Paul looked up when she said it, although after their conversation yesterday he must feel some surprise. She had implied then that she was prepared to take rooms in the village if he made it impossible for her to stay on at the chateau, and at the time she had meant every word. It was only after a phone call from James last night, telling her of his imminent arrival, that she had realised there would be no valid reason for her to stay on after today, and she had decided to break the news to her host this morning at breakfast.

  It was evident how old Francois d’Armor felt, for his bright old eyes expressed frank disappointment. “You mean to leave us so soon, mademoiselle?” he asked, and Jesamine smiled ruefully.

  “I’m afraid so, Monsieur d’Armor,” she said. “I should have told you sooner instead of springing it on you so abruptly this morning, but— well, quite frankly I didn’t realise until last night after James rang that there’s no reason for me to stay any longer. I have the article here all ready to post, and James should be here some time this morning to take the photographs.”

  “Ah! Your friend is recovered?”

  She nodded and smiled. “Yes, thank heaven. He rang last night, rather late, to say that he’d left hospital and he’ll be here this morning. It won’t take him very long to take the pictures we need, and after that—”

  She shrugged and for the first time realised that as a means of conveying inexpressible meanings, the Gallic shrug was unsurpassable. It must have conveyed exactly how she felt too, for Francois d’Armor was watching her closely, with shrewd dark eyes. “But you do not wish to leave?” he guessed.

  The swift glance she gave in Paul’s direction was more instinctive than deliberate, but his grandfather did not fail to notice that either, and Jesamine saw his eyes narrow suddenly, as if in speculation. “I’ve enjoyed being here,” she admitted without hesitation. “I’ve really enjoyed it more than anything else I’ve done, because for one thing I’ve never worked in such marvellous surroundings before.”

  “Also you discover your ancestor, la belle Louise,” he reminded her, and Jesamine smiled.

  “That was a wonderful and unexpected bonus,” she said. “I never thought I’d actually see what she looked like and then suddenly—you produce a picture of her and give a whole new dimension to her story!”

  “There can be no mistake that it is Mademoiselle Sutton, eh?” he asked with a smile. “She is—tres belle, like her many times granddaughter!”

  “It was very observant of Madame d’Armor to spot the likeness,” Jesamine said. “I can still hardly believe it!”

  “But there is no mistake, mon enfant,” he assured her. “None at all, eh, Paul?”

  Having his opinion sought, Paul looked up from buttering a roll and studied her face for a moment with those steady grey eyes. “None at all,” he agreed after a moment or two, and Jesamine determinedly kept her own eyes averted.

  “The face of an angel, n'est-ce pas?” the old man persisted, and Paul took a moment or two to answer. When he did it was in French and too soft-voiced for her to have caught the words properly, even had she been able to understand them.

  “That is where we differ, I’m afraid,” she said, and laughed in a way that sounded oddly defensive. “I lay no claim to being an angel!”

  “Mais non,” old Francois said, “and neither was your ancestor, ma chere!” He reached across and squeezed her fingers. “No matter, mademoiselle, we have enjoyed your company, angel or no, and I am reluctant to see you go!”

  “You’ve been very generous and helpful, Monsieur d’Armor.” She smiled at him, her glance flicking only briefly in Paul’s direction. “I’m very grateful to you for all you’ve done, but it is possible to overstay one’s welcome and I’ll have absolutely no excuse, once James has taken his pictures, to stay any longer.” She laughed and was startled to realise how forced it sounded. “I have to admit,” she said, “that I’ve taken much longer over this assignment than I usually do— thanks to your wonderful hospitality.” He leaned forward again across the table and once more his bony fingers enclosed her hand, his smile friendly and persuasive. “Then will you not stay on and enjoy more of our hospitality, mon enfant?” he asked, and squeezed her fingers gently. “You are a free agent, are you not? You have the time to stay with us for longer if you wish?”

  “Oh yes, I have the time,” Jesamine agreed, almost too stunned by the invitation to think clearly. She would have given much to know what Paul d’Armor was thinking, but he had not even looked up as far as she could tell, though she could guess he would not view his grandfather’s impulsive gesture with much enthusiasm.

  “Also, are you not family?” the old man said, pressing on with the plea.

  It was difficult not to look across at Paul, but she managed it and shook her head to deny her right to claim kinship. “I can’t really claim to belong to your family, Monsieur d’Armor,” she told him.

  “Ah! A mere matter of a few generations!” old Francois insisted with a sweeping gesture of his hand. “Why should we not extend a welcome to you when you are so much the image of our fille de la nuit? Charles Louis Vernais, I am sure, would rise from his grave to reproach us if we did not persuade you to stay when you are so much the image of his belle Louise!”

  The offer was tempting, there was no denying it, but Jesamine was aware from the corner of her eye that Paul was taking an interest at last, and watching her closely. The glint in his eyes could even have been a warning, she could not tell, and she hesitated. “I—I’m not sure if I should, Monsieur d’Armor,” she told the old man “It seems rather an imposition after you’ve been so helpful, to inflict myself on you for even longer. You must surely be anxious to have your home to yourselves again.”

  “But how can such charming company grow tedious?” Francois d’Armor demanded, and Jesamine flicked a brief, curious glance in Paul’s direction.

  “Perhaps,” she ventured, “Monsieur Paul—”

  “Paul would be delighted, naturellement,” she was assured. His dark eyes glowed wickedly from below his sparse white brows and seemed to give lie to those eighty-eight years he claimed. “Also I would delight in your company, ma chere,” he told her, “for you listen without complaint to my histoire!”

  “That’s because I enjoy listening,” Jesamine said with a smile. “My own grandfather’s a wonderful story-teller, and you have the same gift.”

  “Then, chere mademoiselle,” he said, squeezing her fingers, “encouragez moi, s’il vous plait!”

  She was weakening, Jesamine thought, as she had known she would, and there was no real reason why she should not accept the invitation. After all, Francois d’Armor was still the nominal head of his household—but she wished Paul would do something more positive than sit there silently eating his breakfast, as if he had little or no interest in the matter.

  He could not pretend it did not affect him, for he had expressed his opinion far too forcibly for her to believe that was so, but if only he would say something. She looked across at him from the concealment of her lashes and was startled to find herself looking straight into those cool, challenging eyes.

  “It is possible that Mademoiselle is considering something I have said to her, Grandpere,” he suggested quietly, and his grandfather frowned curiously.

  “Comment?”

  A smile touched Paul’s mouth and gleamed in the depths of his grey eyes, so that Jesamine hastily looked away. “I had reason to suspect that Mademoiselle Arden was becoming too curious about matters that do not concern her,” he explained frankly, “and I informed her that, should that prove so, I would have no hesitation in—throwing her out. Is that not the phrase, mademoiselle?”

  Jesamine flushed. She was not easily flustered, but Paul d’Armor seemed to possess the ability to find her weak spots with disconcerting ease, and it made her feel horribly vulnerable. “That’s the phrase, monsieur,” she agreed, determinedly steadyin
g her voice.

  “Mon dieu!” the old man said with surprising force. “I cannot believe it!”

  “But you can see why I hesitate to accept your invitation, Monsieur d’Armor,” Jesamine said. “I wouldn’t want to stay if Monsieur Paul suspects me of prying into—secrets.”

  “There are no secrets, mademoiselle!” the old man stated firmly, and once more looked at his grandson as if he considered he had taken leave of his senses. “Have you no galanterie, mon cher Paul?”

  “None!” Paul declared flatly, and his eyes gleamed like grey steel. “Mademoiselle Arden will tell you so, Grandpere!”

  “Then I will ask her pardon!” the old man retorted sharply, and turned once more to Jesamine. “Mademoiselle Arden!” he appealed, “must I be deprived of your company by my grandson’s inhospitalite? For a short time at least, will you not remain with us, s’il vous plait?”

  With her own inclinations very much in favour of accepting, Jesamine found it hard to refuse, even though Paul’s attitude left her in little doubt how he felt about the idea. There was also Madame d’Armor, whose opinion had not yet been sought. It was quite possible that she would share her grandson’s view, in fact Jesamine would be surprised if she did not.

  She had proved a pleasant enough hostess, once her initial suspicions had been lulled, but a prolonged stay was a different matter from the few days she was expecting to have a stranger under her roof. In the meantime, Francois d’Armor was pressing for an answer. “Mademoiselle?” he prompted, and Jesamine, ever a creature of impulse, glanced briefly again at Paul d’Armor, then nodded.

  If Paul objected then she would have to deal with his objections if and when they arose, but the thought of staying on, for however long, offered an exciting prospect she could not resist. “Thank you, Monsieur d’Armor,” she said. “I’d love to stay, if you’re quite sure I shan’t be—”

  “You will be welcome to stay as long as you wish,” Francois informed her, and looked at his grandson with a suggestion of the same haughty challenge that Paul himself so often expressed. “I cannot believe that my sentiments do not equally apply to my grandson,” he said, “but if he dislikes the idea of a lovely girl staying in his home, then he is not the man I have always believed him to be!”