Chateau D'Armor Read online

  “Ghosts?”

  She stared at him as if mesmerised, at the strong tanned face below that swathe of thick untidy fair hair, and the grey eyes fixed suddenly on her mouth with an intensity that made her tremble. He pulled her towards him slowly, until his mouth hovered close to her own, his breath warming her lips.

  For a moment he did nothing but gaze down at her and it was impossible, with him being so close, to judge the expression on his face. Then, briefly, he pursed his lips and brushed hers with a promise of a kiss that stirred her senses into chaos. “Take care not to raise them, ma belle,” he warned in a voice barely above a whisper. “I do not like ghosts!”

  Jesamine had no time to question his meaning, or to recover from the blatant seduction of that half-kiss, before he turned swiftly and was striding back down the stairs with her eyes following him dazedly. Heaven knew what ghosts it was he feared she would raise, but she could safely guess that Louise d’Armor, his mother, was one of them.

  That unexpected meeting with Paul on the stairs seemed to have put everything else out of her mind, and it was only when she was on her way up to her room after breakfast that Jesamine remembered her decision to tell Monsieur d’Armor that she would be leaving the following week-end.

  Paul had said little during breakfast, but once or twice she had felt his eyes on her and again experienced that odd little shiver of sensation along her spine. Possibly he had been waiting for her to raise the matter of her leaving, perhaps he was even anxious to have the fact confirmed, for he had left her in no doubt that he would be happier when she was gone.

  In some way his admitted mistrust of her was more hurtful than annoying, and she wished she was not so sentient to the moods of Paul d’Armor. No man had come so close to completely undermining her self-confidence as he did, and it left her feeling horribly vulnerable and unsure of herself. The sooner she went home to the familiar and comforting company of James, the better. With James she always knew where she was, with Paul d’Armor she never did.

  It was a threat of rain in the air that decided her to browse through her host’s not inconsiderable library rather than venture out. She did not speak or understand French, but there were many beautiful first editions among the collection, she knew, and it was as good a way as any to spend a wet morning.

  The library was at the back of the house, a big shadowy room, completely lined with bookshelves, and smelling, as libraries almost always seemed to, of a curious mixture of dust, ink and musty paper. The shelves ranged along all four sides of the room with space left only for four long windows, two of which looked out over the gardens at the back of the chateau and the thick belt of trees that half hid the far end of the building.

  It was quiet, of course, and she felt a curious sense of invasion as she looked around the silent book-lined walls. Perhaps there was something about her ancestor, Charles Louis Vernais, among the hundreds of books, there was certainly no harm in looking. Although she was officially on holiday she still had an avid interest in anything to do with him, and a library this size was bound to cover all manner of subjects.

  She walked around the room slowly, stopping now and then to admire the beautiful leather bindings with gold leaf lettering and she had circuited three sides of the room when she suddenly came to a stop, frowning curiously as she reached out a hand.

  The book she took from the shelf was bound in beautiful red calf and its leaves were gold-edged, but it was its title that caught her attention rather than its beauty. Embossed on its spine in fine gold lettering were the words “Le Chateau d’Armor”, and in smaller letters further down, the name of the author. Who the author was did not concern her at the moment, but the fact that there was a book written about the chateau itself was an unexpected find, and she turned it over in her hands eagerly.

  It was doubtful it had been read above once, for the pages adhered closely together and were difficult to part, but she handled them with as much care as her impatience allowed. The paper was of good quality and the book must have cost a great deal to produce, so probably it was a private and limited edition. Perhaps, as with so many other treasures in the chateau, the present owners did not even know of its existence.

  It was in French, of course, and therefore illegible to her, but it was quite lavishly illustrated and the drawings were excellent. There were even some photographs, although they were indistinct and of the sepia tone used by early photographers. Satisfied that she had at last made a find, Jesamine sat down in one of the deep comfortable armchairs the room was provided with and began to look through it in earnest.

  The illustrations gave her an even better idea of the construction of the chateau than actually staying there did, and her heart beat breathtakingly hard when she turned another page and came upon a drawing of what she recognised as part of the gallery upstairs—what would at home be called a landing. It showed the long panelled wall just beyond the head of the stairs, with the window at the far end, and there was no mistaking the location.

  Her own bedroom lay only a couple of yards along on the other side and beyond, where it turned a corner, into shadowy darkness as shown on the drawing, was another wing of the building and other bedrooms, including Paul’s. The illustration was clearly and explicitly drawn and an opening, not a doorway, in the dark wood panelling made sense of Charles Louis Vernais’s escape right from under the noses of the revolutionaries.

  Some mention had been made, when she was told the story of the escape, of a secret way out, but no details had been given and no one had offered to show her the location of the escape route. In her more doubting moments she had believed that the secret panel was merely a colourful embellishment to an already romantic story. But now that she had proof of it in her hands she could feel excitement coursing through her like an electrical charge.

  For the first time she felt an impatient frustration at not being able to read French, for surely somewhere among those indecipherable words was the information she needed to work the ancient bolt-hole. Another turn of the page and the information fell into her hands—a smaller drawing of one of the ornate beading strips that dissected the panelling at intervals, and she pored over it eagerly for several minutes before she was convinced she could identify it.

  There was no one about when she emerged from the library and she could not help feeling just a little guilty as she climbed the marble stairs to the gallery. Maybe she should tell someone before she went seeking the panel, but this was something she wanted to do alone and she quelled her uneasy conscience firmly.

  The exact spot was less easy to identify than she expected, but she eventually located it. How the mechanism worked she did not really know, but she pressed her hands all along the strip of beading shown in the illustration and, after only a few seconds, stepped back with a soft gasp of surprise, staring at the gaping hole that suddenly appeared in the panelled wall. It was only a narrow opening and it released a smell of dampness and the must of age that was distinctly unpleasant, but its discovery was wonderfully exciting.

  It was still difficult to believe, although priest holes and secret rooms existed in any number of old houses in England, and there was no reason to suppose the French were any less inventive. For several seconds she stood on the threshold of the opening, her heart hammering hard at her ribs, not quite sure what to do next. A first tentative look inspired further boldness, and within moments she had summoned enough courage to step over the slight ledge and peer into the solid blackness. It looked to be a narrow passageway going off to her right and only a couple of feet beyond that what appeared to be a flight of steps leading downwards, she went no further yet but stayed with one foot still on the carpeted gallery and a hand on the edge of the panel.

  It would be impossible to go any further in without a light of some kind, and she hesitated only briefly before going back to her bedroom in search of some means of illumination. The furnishings of the room yielded only a pair of tall blue candles in a silver holder and, after a moment’s hesi
tation, she lit one of them, holding it for a moment until it burned more steadily. Its flickering flame looked very wan and feeble in the light of day, but no doubt in the deep gloom behind the panelled wall it would provide sufficient light for her to see her way.

  There was still no one about when she left her room, but the panel was closed again, and she stood for a moment with an anxiously beating heart wondering who had closed it. There was no one about and surely if someone had closed it again, they would have waited to see who it was that had discovered its secret. Eventually she convinced herself that the process was probably automatic, and she once more pressed the appropriate place to reopen it.

  It was as she stepped through that she realised how melodramatic the whole thing was. It was surely the most outlandish thing she had done in her journalistic career, and James, had he been there, would doubtlessly have counselled extreme caution. There might not be another way out at the other end, she had yet to find that out, and if there wasn’t then her ultimate fate did not bear thinking about, but somehow she was firmly convinced there was, for Charles Louis had left this way, and so could she.

  There was very little headroom, Charles Louis must have bent almost double to use it, and it was festooned with centuries of cobwebs. Also she had the horrible idea that there were rats lurking somewhere in the darkness, for she detected soft scratching sounds in the darkness ahead.

  She started visibly and the candle flame flickered when the panel behind her closed with a barely audible thud, but she was not to be deterred now, not with the chance of actually following in Charles Louis’s footsteps, and she felt a thrill of excitement as she started off. The descending steps loomed before her almost at once and she stared down into the total pitch blackness, shivering in her thin summer dress.

  The descent seemed endless, but the steps gave way at last to a long vaulted passage and she stood for a moment and peered ahead before going on. Heaven knew where she was, but so far she felt she must still be in the confines of the chateau, the passage ahead possibly led to somewhere outside the building itself, somewhere in the grounds, perhaps.

  Having come so far there seemed no point in turning back now, so she went on, her footsteps swishing coldly on the stone floor, and eventually came up against a dead end, a stone archway that looked as if it should have had a door set in it, only it hadn’t.

  There was nothing so subtle here as a carved beading, but a plain iron ring set against the stone archway, that yielded only when she set the candle down and used both hands to pull on it. The resulting creaks and cracks set her heart hammering fearfully, but at last the seemingly solid wall swung outwards and away from her, and she drew in a long deep breath, her eyes closed as she enjoyed the comparative freshness of the air.

  There was daylight too and she had no further need of the candle, so she blew out its flickering flame and looked about her. The sweet heady smell of incense gave her her first clue, even before she stepped through the opening, and she was not too surprised to find herself in a small church, somewhere just behind the altar and partially concealed by the ornately carved rood-screen. There was no one about and she guessed it was much less often used than it once had been, for she felt certain that she was in the private family chapel of the d’Armor family.

  She felt undeniably excited as she walked round through the chancel and into the nave, for she was without doubt treading the very same path that her intrepid ancestor had taken to avoid the revolutionaries at his door, and somehow it seemed the most important discovery she had yet made.

  There was a chill, still silence about her that held the sadness of ages, but she refused to be overawed by it, and walked on, drawn by the only sign of life in the little church, beside herself—flickering candles and a huge copper vase filled with roses.

  There were plaques all round the walls, bearing names and dates, memorials to past d’Armors, but only one had candles before it and that copper vase with its glorious display of summer roses. It was a shrine rather than simply a plaque as the rest were, and she simply had to know who it was for.

  She crossed the nave and noted as she did so the rich velvet upholstery on the pews and the matching hassocks. It was a little gem of a church, but catered as much for the bodily comfort of its worshippers as for their spiritual wellbeing.

  There was no other light in the church but the daylight that came in through the elaborate stained glass windows and the flickering glow of the candles below the plaque, so that she stood on tiptoe to read the inscription. It was only a small oval of lighter stone set in the sombre granite walls, and seemed to be comparatively recent, and in a less ornate script than most of the older tablets.

  “LOUISE CLOTHILDE”, she read in a small breathless whisper, “beloved only child of Francois d’Armor and his wife Clothilde. 1920-1942.”

  It was such a simple inscription and infinitely touching when one counted the few years between the two dates, and Jesamine looked at it for a long time, trying to imagine what had happened to this other Louise, who had been Paul’s mother. Wondering too, why he went to such pains to keep her from finding out about her.

  She gazed up at the tablet for quite a long time, drawn by some aura that seemed always to surround the name of Louise d’Armor, and wondering if she would ever know the truth about her. Sighing deeply, she turned, ready to make her way back via the chateau gardens rather than return through that chill tortuous route of Charles Louis’s.

  As she turned someone stepped out from the shadows beside the low arched door, and stood facing her, a bright angry glitter in his steel grey eyes. “So, mademoiselle,” Paul d’Armor said in a softly menacing voice, “you still pry into matters that do not concern you!”

  CHAPTER SIX

  “PAUL!”

  The name came from her lips in a stunned whisper, and Jesamine did not even notice the unaccustomed familiarity of it, only stared at him as if he was some ghost raised from those dozens of names around the walls. Her heart beat so hard that she felt breathless as she stood in the cool shadows of the little church and looked at him.

  She had not expected to see anyone, least of all Paul d’Armor, and her mind raced wildly as she sought for words to explain her being there. Heaven knew how long he had been watching her from the shadows beside the door, but he must have seen her looking at the memorial plaque in the wall, and his anger was in no doubt.

  He gave her no time to say anything else but his name, but raked his eyes over her slim figure. They noted the damp smears of mould from the passage walls on the light skirt of her dress, and the fine wisp of cobwebs that veiled her dark hair where she had broken their barrier. There was a smear of damp dust on one cheek too which told its own story, and she knew she had no need to find words to explain how she came to be there.

  “So, you have discovered the route d’evasion?” he said, and frowned impatiently as he always did when she failed to understand his language. “The escape route!” he repeated, and Jesamine nodded.

  Her gaze went instinctively to the half hidden entrance to the passage behind the rood-screen. It was closed, she noted, and felt oddly trapped suddenly. “I—I found it by accident,” she told him, then almost immediately regretted the very meek and apologetic tone of her explanation. “I don’t really see that you can call it prying, Monsieur Paul!”

  The grey eyes still regarded her with a relentless steadiness that was quite unnerving, and she began to wish that she had told someone after all about her intention. At least then she could not have been accused of concealing her exploration of the hidden passage.

  “If we had wished you to see our private chapel we would have informed you of its existence,” Paul said. “Since we did not, Mademoiselle Arden, you may conclude that we had no wish to have you probe so deeply into our personal affairs!”

  “Oh, will you please believe me,” Jesamine said in a small tight voice, “I’m not prying and probing into anything! My only interest is in Charles Louis Vernais, no one else!”
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  The grey eyes swept over her once more, steely and arrogant, and plainly unbelieving. “Your interest in Charles Louis Vernais surely ended when you completed your histoire,” he said in a flat hard voice. “Mais non, mademoiselle, the unpalatable truth is that you are a journalist—your business it to pry and probe!”

  “No!” She spoke much more loudly and vehemently than she intended, and she had for the moment forgotten where she was. Realising it suddenly, she looked around at the silent chapel and bit her lip in vexation for her own forgetfulness. “I can’t quarrel with you here,” she told him, “it isn’t right!”

  Paul neither agreed nor disagreed, but curled his strong fingers about her bare arm and drew her with him through the low arched doorway into the uncertain sunshine outside. It smelled fresh and damp after the recent rain and was incredibly quiet and peaceful.

  The area was completely surrounded by trees, which probably accounted for the fact that she had never noticed the chapel before from a more conventional approach. Around the church itself the ground was cleared, and one look was enough to tell her that this was the private burial ground of the d’Armors’ that Pere Dominic had told her about.

  White marble tombs gleamed wetly in the pale sun, not ornately festooned with carvings, as she would have expected, but rather severe and cold-looking, while further back some much older gravestones, more humble in size, stood crumbling amid the cropped turf and towering chestnuts.

  It was still not the place to raise angry voices, she felt, but Paul apparently did not share her view, for, still keeping his hold on her, he turned her to face him, standing for a moment in silence while he studied her flushed face. “Perhaps you would care to continue our—quarrel out here!” he suggested, his eyes glittering the familiar challenge.

  But Jesamine had no desire at all to quarrel with him, much less to have him look at her the way he was now, with a suggestion of curl in his lower lip, as if he found her beneath contempt. She shook her head slowly. “I’d rather not quarrel with you at all,” she told him. “It isn’t necessary, and I—”