20
Consequences
“Good morning, dear!” chirruped the old cousins.
Rose smiled weakly. “Good morning.”
“How are you feeling this morning, dear?” asked old Cousin Wendy brightly as she sat down.
Rose hadn’t been downstairs at all yesterday, she’d felt too rotten. “Much better, thanks,” she said, smiling palely:
Old Cousin Iris informed her brightly that most of the family had breakfasted, and dear Gilles and dear Linnet had gone out riding. Old Cousin Wendy nodded pleasedly as she did so.
“Good,” said Rose palely, not pointing out that Linnet’s riding consisted of sitting on without falling off.
Jacques was serving this morning. He offered her coffee.
“Sans lait, merci, Jacques,” said Rose weakly.
Jacques poured coffee and offered croissants. Rose took a croissant and put it on her gilt-edged, blue-circled, floral plate. It just sat there amongst the roses, heartsease and forget-me-nots, looking at her.
Jacques offered jam and butter. Palely Rose refused.
Old Cousin Wendy told her brightly that dear Marie-Claire had gone for a walk with Léon! Old Cousin Iris nodded pleasedly as she did so. Rose nodded and smiled weakly.
The old cousins watched Rose sitting there looking at her pitch-black coffee and her croissant. After a few moments Cousin Wendy ventured: “There is some nice tea, dear.”
“English tea,” agreed Cousin Iris, nodding pleasedly. “And toast.”
“I’m not really very hungry,” she said weakly. ‘‘And I usually have croissants and coffee in the morning.”
Jacques hadn’t understood the dialogue but he’d understood the body language. He came forward and anxiously asked if everything was all right. Rose replied glumly in French that it was: she just wasn’t hungry. Jacques suggested a special remedy that had been in the family for generations. Wincing, Rose refused this kind offer.
“I do miss my English papers,” said Cousin Wendy with a bright smile as Rose picked up her coffee cup.
“Yes,” agreed Cousin Iris, nodding. “We usually read the papers over our breakfast, you see, dear.”
“What? Oh. Yeah, Kyle used to read the Advertiser,” said Rose dully.
The two elderly English ladies exchanged a quick glance and said nothing, just nodded brightly.
Rose sipped black coffee, wincing. The two old cousins drank tea and ate toast à l’anglaise. After a little Cousin Iris asked Rose what she’d thought of doing today.
“Oh—nothing.” She took a look at their faces and made an effort to pull herself together. “Um—would you like to come for a drive? I could take you in the Renault.”
Cousin Wendy and Cousin Iris made fluttering noises that eventually devolved into: Since it was Monday perhaps it would be nice to take a little run over to Tôq—if dear Rose didn’t mind and if dear Roma didn’t need them for anything, of course!
Rose couldn’t imagine what Roma would need the two old ducks for! They were both in their eighties: little, thin, bent figures that barely looked capable of lifting a broom, let alone doing anything practical around the house. And as both of their frail, cracked, little-old-lady voices were very up-market Pommy little-old-lady voices, Rose had a fair idea that they’d never had to do anything practical round a house in their entire lives. She agreed they could run over to Tôq.
When she’d finished her coffee—the croissant was still looking at her—she asked who was still left.
Cousin Wendy and Cousin Iris explained antiphonally that Isabelle and Zizi had left yesterday, but that dear Gordon and dear Felicity—Rose repressed a wince—who had been staying with Pauline and Mathieu for the weekend, had come over last night and taken over the room the Fleuriot du Hamels had had. Little Chantal was still here, Cousin Iris added brightly. Rose looked blank, then remembered that was the name of Annie’s friend.
“What about the men?” she asked as Jacques kindly poured more coffee for her.
The old cousins explained that all three of Pauline’s and Mathieu’s boys were still here, and Guy’s friend.
“Gérard Fleuriot du Hamel?” asked Rose.
They nodded brightly.
“Woolly bully,” she muttered to herself.
The old ladies looked at her doubtfully.
Bernadette scrubbed pans fiercely. “Hé bien?” she demanded.
“Monsieur Guy came in about ten minutes ago and was hopping mad when I said Madame Rose had gone over to Tôq for the afternoon with les vieilles dames,” reported Jacques.
“Serve him right for missing lunch!” she said vigorously.
“D’ac’,” he agreed.
“Marie-Claire’s driving back to Paris with le Léon de Sidonie et le petit this afternoon,” volunteered Estelle meekly.
“We know,” grunted Bernadette. “That child should be in school,” she added.
“It’s only one day. And after all, it was a big party,” said Estelle.
Bernadette snorted.
“Are they coming down for Easter?” asked Jacques.
“Don’t ask me,” replied Bernadette grimly. “No-one’s told me about their plans.”
Jacques swallowed nervously.
“Madame la Comtesse has told you how long the English relations are staying,” ventured Estelle.
“Ta gueule,” she grunted.
Estelle subsided.
Jacques was inspecting a bunch of green stuff on the table. “What’s this?”
Bernadette sniffed. “Don’t ask me. That Simone brought it. From the glasshouses.”
Jacques backed off hurriedly.
“Japanese something,” fluted Estelle.
Bernadette snorted.
“A salad vegetable?” ventured Jacques.
“Don’t ask me,” returned Bernadette immediately.
“Bernadette, I thought you were pleased about Léon and Marie-Claire?” quavered Estelle.
Bernadette had had time to think it over. “She hasn’t got a brain in her head. And she can barely fry an egg.”
“Eugh—non… But her heart’s in the right place!” she offered.
Bernadette grunted.
Estelle produced a handkerchief from the pocket of her overall and stealthily wiped her eyes.
“Don’t start that,” she warned.
“Non, non, Bernadette,” Estelle agreed meekly.
“Where is that Simone?” demanded Bernadette.
“I’m not sure,” quavered Estelle.
“Dusting the dining-room,” said Jacques.
“Oh. –That reminds me, if that Frois woman doesn’t turn up tomorrow, she’s sacked,” she said grimly.
No-one pointed out that the reason Mme Frois hadn’t turned up today was that it wasn’t one of her days. Or that she rarely failed them, and then only for an emergency at home.
“You can dry these,” noted Bernadette grimly.
Estelle hurried over to her side and began drying pans.
“That green muck there,” the cook noted grimly, “can go out to the pig.”
“That Simone, she’s told Mademoiselle Linnette she brought it,” quavered Estelle. “I heard her.”
Bernadette took a deep breath.
“Oui: Mademoiselle Linnette said that there are some interesting experiments going on with Japanese greens,” offered Jacques.
Bernadette gave him an amazed stare.
“I suppose it’s horrible,” he said weakly.
“It tastes like a mixture of nothing and raw mustard leaves. Is that horrible enough for ya?”
He gulped.
“Give it to the PIG!” she shouted.
Jacques took the bundle of greens out to the pig.
In his absence Estelle said nervously: “I thought Marie-Claire seemed really happy.”
Bernadette sniffed.
“And so did Léon!” she said vigorously.
“Possibly.”
“She just needs to settle down with a good man.”
“Possibly.”
Estelle gave up. She dried pans in silence.
After a few moments Bernadette allowed: “Well, Sidonie seems to think it could work out.”
Estelle nodded hopefully.
After a moment Bernadette said: “If you ask me, Monsieur Gilles ought to do something about that Guy!”
“Oh!” she said in great enlightenment. “Yes, I agree, Bernadette!”
Bernadette got out mixing bowls and implements with a great clattering. “And next time you see that Bonnard woman, you can tell her from me that the château won’t be needing her quinces any more. With my compliments.”
“But Bernadette, she has the best quinces in the district! –I’ll tell her!” she said quickly, subsiding.
Bernadette sifted flour viciously.
“What are you making?” quavered Estelle.
“Le ‘tea-cake’ anglais de la Cousine Venn-dee,” she said grimly.
Estelle subsided definitively.
“Delicious!” pronounced Cousin Wendy, nodding pleasedly.
Cousin Iris nodded pleasedly in agreement with her.
“Yes; Bernadette’s a treasure,” said Roma placidly. She offered tea-cake to the McEwans. Felicity refused it politely: she was on a diet. Gordon took a large piece, looking defiant: he was supposed to be on a diet, too. His wife glared but didn’t reprove him in his cousin’s house.
“What a good thing you warned us there were no nice tea-shops in Tôq, Roma, dear!” said old Cousin Iris brightly.
Cousin Wendy nodded pleasedly in agreement with her.
“Yeah, otherwise, we could have spent the whole afternoon scouring Tôq for tea-shops,” said Rose with a grin.
Gordon McEwan choked; his wife glared at him.
“Well, exactly!” said Cousin Wendy, nodding pleasedly.
Cousin Iris nodded pleasedly in agreement with her.
Feebly Gilles offered: “Tea-shops aren’t a French tradition.”
“No, exactly, dear!” agreed Cousin Iris brightly. “I don’t know how you manage, Roma, dear!”
Cousin Wendy nodded pleasedly in agreement with her.
Rose, Linnet and Roma’s son all looked expectantly at her, but she merely said placidly: “I suppose I’ve got used to it.”
“In any case, nobody needs five huge meals a day,” noted Felicity McEwan grimly.
“No, that’s right,” agreed Linnet innocently. “Let alone six: I can never manage anything at supper-time!”
There was a short pause.
“She means on top of one of Bernadette’s wonderful dinners,” said Roma placidly to her English relations.
“That beef she did last night was wonderful,” said Gordon McEwan with a sigh. “We just can’t seem to get beef of that quality in England, any more.”
“Charolais,” said Gilles. “I know a farmer who runs Charolais, just on the other side of Tôq: I’ll take you over tomorrow, if you would like it, Gordon.”
Gordon agreed eagerly without consulting his wife. Felicity asked Linnet in a discontented voice what she was doing tomorrow, then. Linnet replied placidly that she was going over to Semences ULR, as Annick Durand from the Research Division had invited her over there. They were going to have an in-depth look at the current research projects.
“Who?” said Gilles.
“You know, Gilles: she’s a tall lady with black hair and glasses. Um... about forty, I suppose,” said Linnet vaguely. “She’s Jean-Louis Duvallier’s boss, technically speaking, but she doesn’t tell him what to do, they only consult together. I don’t think it’s because he’s a man, I think it’s just that she’s sensible and she knows how good at his job he is. –He’s younger than her, isn’t he?” she added vaguely.
There was an infinitesimal pause.
“Yes. But he is very bright,” said Gilles grimly.
“Yes, of course, I’ve read his work. But so’s she. Anyway, would you like to come, Felicity?” she said kindly.
“No, thank you, Linnet, I’m afraid it would all be quite beyond me,” she said firmly.
“Me, too, before you ask,” said Rose hurriedly. “We could go into Tôq, if you like, Felicity. Or over to Touques-les-Bains—but it’s a bit of a dump.”
Felicity was just voting for Tôq when the door opened and Guy came in, rather flushed and windblown. He blenched.
“Good afternoon, Guy,” said Roma placidly in English.
“Eugh—good aftair-noon,” he said carefully.
“Good afternoon, Guy!” chorused the old cousins, beaming at him.
“Afternoon,” grunted Gordon McEwan, avoiding eye-contact. His wife merely smiled brightly.
“Hullo, Guy,” said Linnet mildly. “Have you been for a walk?”
“Eugh... Yes,” he said feebly.
“Come and sit down; we’re having tea,” said Roma cheerfully.
“Un five-o’clock,” said Rose in a horribly neutral voice.
“Oui.” Guy looked uncertainly at her. Rose was sitting in a small brocade armchair. There was a spare chair next to her. She didn’t smile at him or indicate in any way she wanted him to sit there. Uncertainly he sat down next to her.
“Tea?” said Roma politely.
“Eugh—oui, merci, Tante Roma.”
“Speak English, dear, or our guests won’t understand you,” she said placidly.
Guy swallowed.
“I don’t think he understood!” said Rose brightly.
“I un-dair-stand,” he said carefully.
Roma offered cake, smiling encouragingly.
“That’s Cousin Wendy’s special tea-cake,” explained Linnet kindly. “And that other one’s the orange cake that Bernadette often makes.”
“Granny McEwan’s recipe,” murmured Gilles.
“Of course!” cried old Cousin Wendy.
Cousin Iris began to explain that it wasn’t really the late Mrs McEwan’s recipe; it was an old McEwan family recipe, and she could remember eating just the very same cake in Uncle George’s house when she’d been a very, very little girl...
“L’odeur du tilleul et le goût de madeleines?” murmured Gilles, raising his eyebrows slightly at Guy.
He reddened but said: “Alors, c’est du temps perdu qu’elle parle?”
“Speak English,” replied Gilles, grinning.
Gordon McEwan choked.
“Vairy funny, Gilles,” said Guy feebly, reddening.
“Don’t tease him, Gilles,” said Roma firmly. “This cake is very nice, Guy,” she said carefully.
Guy went redder than ever, but muttered: “Thank you,” and took a piece of tea-cake.
Gordon began to talk about beef cattle again. Guy looked on limply, not understanding more than a word in twenty.
“Have a piece of orange cake?” suggested Rose brightly.
“No, thank you, I am not hong-gray,” he said carefully.
“Know what it reminds me of?” said Rose dreamily to her sister. “Those ghastly French lessons they made me waste my time on, the year I started secondary school. ‘Mer-cee-yuh, djuh n’ay-ee pah fam.’”
Linnet bit her lip. “Don’t be awful,” she said faintly.
Rose sniffed faintly. “Good when the boot’s on the other foot, eh?”
Linnet gulped, and Gordon interrupted his dissertation on the virtues of Aberdeen Angus to chuckle richly.
Guy of course hadn’t understood everything that Rose had said, but he’d understood enough, and he glared angrily.
“Don’t tease him, Rose,” said Gilles in the exact tone his mother had used earlier.
At this Rose’s face looked as if it was about to explode. She rolled her lips very tightly together and made a muffled choking sound.
“I do not—” Guy broke off. “I don’t need your protection from Rose, thank you!” he said angrily to Gilles in French.
Gilles raised his eyebrows. “Oh? I thought you did,” he said in English.
“Que dit-il?” said Rose blankly to her sister.
Linnet gasped, failed to control herself and broke down in giggles.
“Yes, very funny, my dears, but I think that’s enough,” said Roma firmly.
“Sorry, Roma,” said Rose, gulping.
“Sorry,” echoed Linnet faintly. She blew her nose hard.
“Gilles?” said his mother.
“Hein? Oh! Sorry, Maman. I will be good.” He got up, picked up the plate of small sandwiches in one hand and the orange cake in the other and offered them round.
Cousin Wendy began to talk determinedly about the good old days in Uncle George’s time. Remember the rose garden in summer, Iris? The summers seemed to last forever, back then! Iris nobly backed her up, nodding brightly. Felicity and Roma politely looked interested and asked questions…
After quite some time Guy murmured very quietly to Rose, in French: “May I speak to you?”
Rose shrugged.
“Please! Could we go for a walk?”
“It’s too cold, and it’s getting dark.”
He swallowed. “Then—eugh—then come for a game of billiards?”
“I can’t play.”
“I have to speak to you,” he muttered.
Rose shrugged.
Guy perceived that Tante Roma’s eye was upon them. He subsided, reddening.
A few moments passed, and then Rose got up, excused herself to the company on the score of going up to see how Fergie was getting on, and vanished.
Guy chewed his lip. The English conversation flowed on around him unheeded. Should he go after her? No, he’d made enough of a fool of himself already. Merde!
Rose successfully avoided him for the rest of the week. Guy’s mood deteriorated, but he stuck it out grimly. He finally caught up with her on the Friday afternoon. She was in the small downstairs room where the engagement presents had been displayed.
“What are you doing?” he said feebly, seeing she had a notepad in her hand and was writing busily.
“Making a list. James—and—Kate McEwan and—family,” she said in English, very slowly, writing it done. “One—horrible—cruet set that—Frogs—don’t—use.”
Guy looked over her shoulder. “Oh: you’re listing the presents.”
“Then they can all be put away,” said Rose helpfully in French.
“Why can’t your sister do this for herself?” he said grimly.
“She’s not that interested,” said Rose vaguely. “‘E. Fleuriot du Hamel’—is that your friend Emmanuel?”
“Probably.”
“Emmanuel Fleuriot du Hamel: one—silver—box,” said Rose in English.
Guy looked over her shoulder. “You’ve written ‘one silver box’?” he said in French.
“Ouais.”
“In French one would say it’s a cigarette box.”
“Hein?”
“It is silver, but it’s a cigarette box,” he said, feeling like a fool—the which was no doubt her intention, little bitch!
“For—ci-ga-rettes,” said Rose slowly in English, writing it.
“Oui, c’est ca. Eugh—on the other hand, it could be Eugène Fleuriot du Hamel,” Guy said feebly.
“I don’t remember an Eugène: was he there?”
“He’s a bachelor cousin of Zizi’s. Tall and thin, quite distinguished-looking; then he opens his mouth and you realize he’s as thick as a brick. Eugh—no, actually, I don’t think he was there.”
“It can’t be from him, then.”
“Mais si!” he cried. “Naturally one would send an engagement present! It could well be from him!”
“Oh, naturally one would, would one?” said Rose. “Okay, then: who’s most likely to have given them a silver cigarette box, that little cretin Emmanuel or this dumb old Eugène?”
“I’d say old Eugène,” he said limply.
Rose crossed out “Emmanuel” and wrote above it “Eugène??”
Guy bit his lip. “C’est ça,” he gulped.
“Pierre and Catherine—Langlois. One—glass—dish,” said Rose slowly, writing.
“Please stop doing that, Rose, I have to speak to you!”
“I can’t stop, Roma says that the thank-you notes have to go out by the end of the week without fail.
“But it’s nothing to do with you!”
Rose ignored him.
“Listen, I apologize for the business at the dance,” he said hoarsely,
Rose ignored him.
“It was just a stupid joke: I didn’t mean anything by it!” he said hoarsely.
Rose ignored him.
“Rose, please! Listen to me!”
Rose ignored him.
“I swear to you, I meant nothing by it: it was a stupid joke, and—and I’d had too much to drink and I didn’t think. Well, I never thought you’d take it so badly,” he ended on a sulky note.
“Is this china box a cigarette box?”
“What? No!” he said impatiently.
“One—china—box,” said Rose. “Pink,” she added.
“For God’s sake! Stop doing that and listen to me!” he cried.
“I can’t stop.”
“Listen, I’ve said I apologize: what more do you want?”
Rose replied without looking up. “I’m not interested in whether you apologize or not. Shut up and piss off: I’ve got better things to do than listen to you. One—dancing—lady,” she added slowly in English.
“Hein? That’s Meissen!” he cried.
“Fous le camp.”
“Rose, can’t you understand that it was only a joke and it—it doesn’t indicate what I feel about you?”
Rose lowered her notepad and looked up. “It indicates precisely what you feel about me, you retarded little jerk. Not that I care, I never took you seriously in the first place. But I’m not interested in having a thing with a dumb little adolescent that thinks that sort of thing’s funny. Now go—away.”
“I was serious!” he cried.
Rose replied with extreme calm: “Bullshit, Guy.”
“I was serious! I was thinking of— Rose,” he said in a trembling voice, tears starting to his eyes: “I love you; I want to marry you.”
Rose made a rude noise. “You want to marry my share of the tontine money, ya mean.”
“That’s not true!” he cried fiercely.
“Oh, no? It’s true according to Jean-Paul and Fabien.”
“What?” he gasped. “When—when did they say that?”
“Eugh... Jean-Paul on Tuesday evening when we were playing cards and you’d gone off in a huff to the bachelors’ room. And Fabien on Wednesday morning, because I thought Jean-Paul might have been having a go at me, and I asked him if it was true.”
“It’s not true,” he croaked.
“Don’t bother,” said Rose in a remarkably neutral voice. “Jean-Paul reckons you’ve been boasting for months that you can marry me any time you please.”
Guy gulped. “I may have once said something stupid along those lines—yes. But that was before I’d met you, Rose!”
“Bullshit, Guy. Jean-Paul said you came down here on purpose to try and meet me behind the family’s back, and you told him only a couple of weeks back that it was in the bag, or words to that effect. Snapping your fingers came into it, I think.”
“Mais non!”
Rose eyed him drily.
Guy was very red. “That was all a stupid mistake.”
“Wasn’t it, though: yeah.”
“I love you,” he repeated sulkily.
“And as a matter of fact,” said Rose thoughtfully, ignoring this, “your grandfather took me aside only the other day and told me that in spite of your pathetic behaviour you’d make a good catch because you belong to one of the best families of France, and I could do a lot worse. Or some such crap, I didn’t really listen.”
“You can’t blame me for what that old fool may say! He’s got no right to poke his nose into my business!” he cried.
“Well, that’s true. But he said,” said Rose, slowly picking up a vase and examining it narrowly, “that he’d talked it over with you and you were willing. Something about recognizing what you owed to your family name to the extent of wanting to bring my share of the tontine money back into the family, I think.”
Guy’s jaw sagged.
Rose put the vase down and eyed him drily. “Well?”
“It wasn’t like that,” he said weakly. “Last time the old fool spoke to me about it I told him to get stuffed.”
She sniffed.
“Look, okay: I said a lot of stupid things that I never really meant!” he cried in anguish.
“Did you? Too bloody bad, I’m not interested in dumb adolescents that go round shooting their mouths off to little boys and old men in order to show off,” said Rose genially. “Now get out before I scream.”
“LISTEN to me, you stupid little bitch!” he shouted.
“I’m going to scream,” noted Rose calmly.
Guy grabbed her shoulders. “I love you! We could make a go of it: I know we come from different backgrounds, but—”
Rose suddenly went very red. “FOUS LE CAMP!” she shouted.
“Rose, please—”
“T’es MÉPRISABLE!” shouted Rose. “FOUS LE CAMP!”
“But I love you, I swear it!”
“FOUS LE CAMP!” shouted Rose.
Guy attempted to pull her to him and kiss her. Rose wrenched herself away. “Don’t dare to touch me!” she hissed.
“But I love you, I swear it! I want to marry you, Rose!”
“Don’t do me any favours, mate,” said Rose in English, suddenly very calm.
“Comment?” he stammered.
Rose repeated her remark in French. She went over to the bell. “Get out, before I ask Jacques to throw you out.”
“Listen: I can explain everything—”
“You—make—me—sick,” said Rose very slowly and clearly in English.
Guy went very red.
“Geddit? You—make—me—sick.”
“You’ll regret this!” he stuttered.
“Bull-shit, Guy,” said Rose slowly and clearly in English.
“I’ll never ask you again, you ungrateful little bitch!” he shouted, tears standing on his cheeks.
“Good. Get out,” said Rose in English.
“SALOPE!” he shouted. He rushed out, slamming the door after him.
“Pathetic little rat,” said Rose grimly.
She attempted to get on with listing the engagement presents, but found her hands were shaking so much she couldn’t. “Bastard,” she muttered, sniffling slightly.
Perhaps if the rest of the family had been at home that Friday afternoon things would not have turned out as they did. But the house was almost empty: Bertrand, having, as he felt, made a fool of himself in speaking to Rose the other day, had gone back to Paris; Gilles and Gordon McEwan were out and about on the estate; Roma had taken the old ladies and Felicity over to spend the day with Pauline; and Jean-Paul, Fabien and Annie had collected up some guns and the dogs and taken Chantal and Gégé—who by this time had ranged himself firmly with the anti-Guy faction—out for a good long walk: rather more to get away from Guy than in order to actually shoot anything.
Linnet, Sidonie and Fergie had gone into the village just after lunch in Sidonie’s little car: Sidonie had some errands to run. And she had quietly decided that they might also look in on Dr Vaks: Mademoiselle Linnette had been sick these last two mornings and Sidonie didn’t think it was anything to do with the rich food at the party last weekend. And after that they might run on over to Jean-Pierre Gautier’s poultry farm and collect a couple of birds and a few eggs for Bernadette. And if that fool of a Michelle Boilly had any fresh cheese today they might drop in there, too. Besides, Linnette would like to see les jolies chèvres! Linnet had agreed placidly that she would, since Estelle had previously alerted her to the fact that Mme Boilly was a distant cousin of Sidonie’s and also a former children’s nurse, and that the two had always been deadly rivals—and that Sidonie was dying to show off her new charge to her. Or make that charges, plural: she’d only said feebly to Sidonie that she felt a bit peculiar and the old woman had been all over her like a rash.
The little downstairs room was utterly silent after Guy had rushed out. After a few moments Rose went over to the window seat on legs that trembled and sat down, her hands still shaking. Soon she heard the roar of a car’s engine. She could see the corner of the stable block and the garages from here: Guy’s Porsche shot out and roared off down the drive.
“Pig,” she muttered.
After a minute she shouted: “PIG!” Then she burst into tears, threw herself face-down on the window seat, and sobbed and sobbed.
Nobody came in: the house was quiet. Eventually Rose sat up, gulping, and blew her nose. She looked blankly at the notepad in her hand. “Oh,” she said dully. She got up and went over to the table laden with presents. “They don’t need all this crap,” she muttered. A tear slid down her cheek: she wiped it away with the back of her hand. “They’ve got more stuff here than Kyle and me had in the whole of our lives,” she muttered.
There was a short silence.
“Well, BUGGER him!” said Rose loudly. She marched out into the hall. Her parka was hanging up there. She put it on. The keys to the Renault were in its pocket: Rose went out and, muttering to herself about fresh air and sod all Frogs anyway, got into the Renault and roared off down the drive.
Georges Vaks found the Renault with its nose in a ditch on his way back from a distant cottage on the Touques-les-Bains road, about two hours later. He leapt out of his ancient station-waggon, heart pounding, as he recognized the curly fair head and the blue anorak slumped over the steering wheel.
“Rose!” he gasped.
Rose lifted her head slowly. Tears ran down her cheeks. “Oh. ’S you,” she said soggily in English. “I’m stuck.”
“Yes, it is me,” he said carefully. “What has happened?”
“Oh—nothing,” said Rose airily; as if tears weren’t still dripping down her cheeks. “I only—” She burst into loud, hopeless sobs, not attempting to put her hands to her face or anything of that nature, just sobbing loudly and uncontrollably while she looked straight at him.
After quite a struggle the doctor got her out of her car and into his.
“Don’t—take—me—back—there!” sobbed Rose in English.
“You do not wish to go to the château?”
“No!” she sobbed.
“Okay. You weell come with me to my house, yes?”
“Yes!” she sobbed.
She cried all the way.
Georges eventually got her into bed with a strong sedative and a cup of tea. He didn’t reveal that it was his own bed: he did have a spare room, but it was unfurnished. Rose didn’t appear to notice.
The doctor didn’t manage to get the full story out of her. He tried, but all he got was sobs, so he decided not to push it. None of the La Rance people could enlighten him.
Rather naturally, no-one at the ball had purveyed the splendid joke that had been going round to the Comte; and for whatever reasons Rose hadn’t mentioned it, or Guy, to her sister. Eventually, on the following Saturday evening, Gilles called the quailing Jean-Paul and Fabien into his study.
“I don’t think it’s a coincidence that Guy disappears on the same afternoon that Rose drives the Renault into a ditch and collapses in what amounts to a nervous breakdown,” he said grimly.
Fabien gulped and looked helplessly at his brother.
“Well?” said Gilles.
Jean-Paul bit his lip. “How bad is she?”
“Bad enough: all she’ll do is cry. Vaks has got her sedated, but every time he mentions coming back home to us, she cries again.”
“Merde,” he muttered.
There was a short silence.
“Bernadette tells me,” said Gilles grimly, “that rumours are going round the village about Rose being seen in Tôq in Guy’s company over the past several weeks.”
“Merde, so it is true!” gulped Jean-Paul.
“What is?” he said very loudly and clearly.
“Eugh... we were hoping it was just one of Guy’s stupid lies, Oncle Gilles. You know: boasting,” he ended weakly.
“WHAT WAS?” he shouted.
Jean-Paul gulped again. “Apparently Guy came down here and buh-bumped into Rose about a month back.”
“On purpose,” said Fabien.
“‘On purpose?’” echoed Gilles in an evil voice.
Jean-Paul quailed. “We didn’t know for sure— Well, what I mean is. he said he was going to come down here and get hold of the sister behind your back, only—eugh...”
“We thought he was boasting again,” said Fabien. “Well, Jean-Paul did,” he said helpfully. “I didn’t know anything about it until he told me—Guy never said anything to me.”
The Comte became aware that Fabien’s brother was goggling at him incredulously. He gave him a hard look. Fabien looked from one to the other of them in bewilderment.
“Oh,” he said lamely. “I mean he didn’t tell me about that, specifically. He’s been boasting about how he could get hold of one of the Australiennes and—and marry her, ever since we heard about the tontine.”
“So I’ve heard. –Well?” he said to Jean-Paul.
“What, Oncle Gilles?” he quavered.
“What HAPPENED?”
“He did meet Rose by accident when he was here—um, I mean he was over at Touques-les-Bains on business, he didn’t know she'd be there, but he did say that he’d take the chance to bump into her accidentally if he could,” he admitted miserably. “And—and they had a few dates... Well—eugh—they did sleep together, but there’s nothing in that! And me and Fabien were absolutely sure there was nothing in it: I mean, that she hadn’t fallen for him seriously! –Weren’t we?” he added plaintively.
Fabien jumped. “Oui. Well, I only heard about it about two weeks back, but—” He met his uncle’s eye. “Oui,” he said miserably. “Actually, I thought Rose was too sensible to fall for him.”
“And as a matter of fact,” said Jean-Paul on a defiant note, “we thought he seemed keener on her than she did on him! Well, that’s what me and Gégé thought.”
Gilles stared at him.
Jean-Paul swallowed. “He even gave her the phone number of his flat!”
Gilles stared at him.
“He never gives girls his number, Oncle Gilles!” explained Fabien quickly.
“They ring him up and pester him,” elaborated Jean-Paul limply.
Gilles took a deep breath. “Do I have this right? Guy discussed his affaire with Rose not only with you, Jean-Paul, but with Gérard Fleuriot du Hamel?”
Jean-Paul shuffled his feet. “There’s nothing in that.”
“No,” agreed Fabien.
“Be quiet,” said Gilles blightingly. Fabien turned puce, and was silent.
“Go on, Jean-Paul. What did he say? That he was going to marry her to get his hands on her share of the tontine money?”
“Eugh… Well, not then, Oncle Gilles. Not exactly. He said—well, he just said that—eugh—that she was mad about him, and if he wanted”—he gulped—“to bother, he could... pick her up like a ripe plum.”
There was a short pause.
“He did say something about twenty-five percent of the tontine money, only I didn’t take much notice,” admitted Jean-Paul. “Well, I mean, he’s been saying all sorts of stupid things, for months!” he cried, as storm-clouds gathered on his uncle’s brow.
“Yes, even stupider: Emmanuel said Gégé told him that at one stage he said he could get la petite dame bumped... off,” ended Fabien, his voice fading out weakly.
Gilles took a very deep breath. He picked up the phone. His young relatives watched numbly.
“Yes: good evening, Maître Ferry,” he said courteously. “I’m so sorry to disturb you at this hour: I hope you weren’t in the middle of your dinner? ...Good. I wonder, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, could you come up to La Rance later this evening and bring my will? I wish to change it without delay.”
Jean-Paul shut his eyes and winced. Fabien grimaced.
“Non, non, after you’ve dined, of course, mon cher Michel!”
When he hung up Fabien said glumly: “I suppose we deserve it. Only we never took him seriously: you know what he is. Always boasting about something or other, and usually half of it’s fantasies.”
Gilles sighed. “I’m not blaming you, Fabien: you apparently knew very little of the matter. I’m not even blaming you, Jean-Paul,” he said with a hard look at him, “though you apparently knew rather more. What I am going to do is see that Guy never gets a sou from my estate.”
They gulped.
“Is that all you know, Jean-Paul?” he said, reaching for the phone again.
“Oui—eugh, non!” he gasped. “Didn’t you hear about the bet, Oncle Gilles?”
Gilles put the receiver down. “What bet?”
Glumly Jean-Paul told him.
“I see. That would appear to have precipitated the crisis, then. I don’t imagine that in Rose’s precarious mental state it helped much to find Guy considers her as some sort of worthless object, to be handed about as he pleases.”
His young relatives looked at him miserably.
“I’m about to ring Mathieu,” he said, picking up the receiver again. “You may go or stay, as you wish.”
They vanished.
Gilles’s lips thinned. He dialled.
Mathieu had angrily declared Guy’s behaviour to be the last straw. Pauline had also declared it angrily to be the last straw, and immediately reported her son’s iniquities to his grandmother. The two ladies agreed that Guy’s allowance should be cut off forthwith. This didn’t have much visible result: Guy had vanished.
Everybody assumed he was sulking. After quite some time, when there was still no sign of him, Mathieu got on to his fellow Motos Totos directors. Guy’s income from the firm was being paid into a bank in Lichtenstein. One of the young men thought, very vaguely, that Guy at one time had said he’d like to open up a Motos Totos branch in America—but they’d never actually discussed… Mathieu got a promise out of them to let him know the moment they heard anything, but he could see that though they promised quite sincerely, they weren’t holding their breath.
Then they got a postcard from Copenhagen. Pauline by this time was frantic, so Mathieu rushed up there, but by the time he found the hotel where Guy had been registered, he’d vanished.
Grimly Pauline decided that he was still sulking, and quite probably deliberately trying to throw a scare into them as well. No doubt he’d turn up when it pleased him, so they’d better stop worrying about him.
Mathieu agreed. He was aware that she didn’t stop worrying, but there was nothing he could do about this.
In Dr Vaks’s shabby house Linnet perched on the end of her sister’s bed with Fergie on her knee, looking at Rose hopefully.
“I’m not coming back to the flamin’ château,” she warned.
Linnet replied calmly: “No.”
Rose sighed. “I dunno what it is, but I just feel as if I can’t hack it there any more.”
“It is a bit much,” agreed Linnet placidly.
Rose peered at her. “You okay?”
“Yes. But then, I’ve got Gilles. And I really love Roma and Bernadette and Sidonie and Estelle.”
Fergie immediately chirped: “Nounours, il aime Grannie et Bernadette et Sidonie et Estelle et Jacques et—”
“Ouais,” said Linnet placidly, hugging her. “Tout le monde aime tout le monde. Hush.”
“Fozzie Bear, il aime Grannie et Bernadette et—”
“J’espère qu’il aime aussi Gilles,” said Rose drily.
“OUAIS! You’re silly, Mummy!” she cried bilingually.
“Roma reckons we should encourage her to keep up her English,” offered Linnet on a weak note.
“Encourage her? Muddle ’er,” Rose muttered.
“Mm.” Linnet looked at her anxiously.
“It’s all right,” she said with a sigh. “Georges has talked me into going up to see Dr Raulet next week.”
“Good.”
There was a short silence.
“Um—Sidonie was thinking,” gulped Linnet, “that—um—if you don’t want to come back to La Rance—um—what about the other half of this house? Well, the house next-door: they’re quite separate, really. What is that English word?”
“J’aime Sidonie!”
“Yes. We know. Shut up, Fergie,” said Linnet, hugging her. “I know: semi-detached,” she said to her sister.
“Uh—yeah. The other half of this? Isn’t it a dump?”
“No, it’s... Um, I sort of understood what she said but I can’t translate it. I mean, I don’t know the English words. Well, it isn’t falling down. It needs plaster.”
“Replastering...” she murmured.
Linnet looked at her hopefully.
“I suppose…” said Rose with a sigh.
Pinkening, Linnet said: “And then Fergie and you could live in it, you see, and Sidonie could go back to her cottage for a while, and be around to keep an eye on you!”
“Mm.”
“I saw Catherine Langlois yesterday, and her and Simone would love to go shopping for furniture with you,” said Linnet on a hopeful note.
Rose smiled faintly. “It’d be better than having bits and pieces from the château foisted on me. Well, I suppose they’re nice: antiques and so on... I’d rather have all new stuff.”
Linnet, Catherine and Simone had all thought so: Linnet beamed at her.
“I can live in a little house,” stated Fergie.
“Yes. You and Mummy, eh?” said Linnet.
“And you!”
“Um—no. Aunty Linnet’ll be just up the road at La Rance,” Linnet assured her.
“And Sidonie!”
“No, Sidonie’ll be just down the road in her cottage. You’ll like that, Fergie, you’ll see her every day.”
“Every day. –Mummy’s sick,” said Fergie.
“Not really,” said Linnet, going very red.
“I’m getting better, Fergie. –I’m never gonna be able to cope with the local shops, ya realize that, do ya?” said Rose to her sister.
“You know the words, though.”
“Not that. Cooking stuff from scratch. What I mean is, they cook everything from scratch!”
“Catherine doesn’t, so much. She buys stuff from the supermarkets over in Tôq.”
Rose brightened slightly. “Oh, yeah.”
“You’ll have to have a car,” said Linnet.
“Who’ve ya got lined up to help me choose that, between ya? The twins? Gilles in person? Old Jeannot? –No, hang on: it’ll be Sidonie’s cousin Fernand Blum that runs the garage,” she said heavily.
Linnet bit her lip. Her shoulders shook silently.
“By cripes,” said Rose weakly.
“He—he was awfully kind. He asked after you and he gave Fergie a fuzzy toy, didn’t he, Fergie?”
“J’aime le cousin Fernand!” she piped. “Il m’a donné un petit nounours!”
“Voilà,” said Linnet limply to her sister.
“Yeah. –Is it a little teddy?”
Linnet swallowed. “More like a ferret, really. One of those things they hang in car windows. Never mind, she loves it.”
Rose smiled weakly. After a moment she admitted: “Looks like I’ll have to get better, eh?”
Linnet nodded anxiously. “Um... Rose, what did he do?”
“Nothing,” she said. A tear ran down her cheek. She wiped it away fiercely with the back of her hand. “Nothing. It was stupid. I just fancied him. Well, I fancied myself fancying him, I suppose. You know: thought I still had it, or something.”
Linnet looked at her anxiously but didn’t say anything.
“Well,” said Rose, sniffing slightly, but pulling herself up a little against her pillows, “never mind me. What’s all this about Sidonie going back to her cottage ‘for a while’?”
Linnet thought her sister had overlooked that. She blushed and smiled self-consciously. “Oh—well—Georges says I’m pregnant.”
“If Georges says it, it’s gotta be right!” admitted Rose, grinning. “You pleased?”
“Mm,” she said, nodding.
“Good. I s’pose Gilles is over the moon?”
“Over the moon and trying to keep me in cottonwool!” admitted Linnet, laughing.
“Yeah. –It had better be a boy.”
“If it’s not he says we’ll count it as a practice run, and try again.”
Rose choked. After a moment she said slyly: “Preggy on your wedding day, eh?”
“Help: yes, I suppose so!” admitted Linnet, laughing again.
Rose leaned her head right back and sighed. “Yeah. Aunty Mim’ll appreciate that.”
Linnet watched her anxiously but Rose just looked up unseeingly at Georges Vaks’s cracked plaster ceiling. “So—um—you will think about the house?” she gulped.
“Mm? Oh: haven’t got much option, have I?” she said ruefully. “Um—no, okay. S’pose I might as well.” She sighed. “At least I’ll be within reach of Georges. Don’t think I could— Well, it’ll be good to have him right next-door if Fergie comes down with croup or something.”
“Yes. He’s nice, isn’t he?” said Linnet timidly.
Rose sighed again. “He’s a decent old stick, yeah.”
Linnet looked at her dubiously but didn’t pursue the point.
Unfortunately there was no-one to whom she could report this last remark with any confidence that they’d be able to discuss its implications in the way she uneasily felt they ought to be discussed. True, Roma’s native language was English but, as the cousins’ recent visit had just forcibly brought home to her, it wasn’t the same brand of English. Oh, dear. Was Bernadette right, and Rose would turn to Georges Vaks in the end? Or was Sidonie right in saying that he was what she needed now but not necessarily what she’d want for the rest of her life, once she’d got over her psychological disturbance and was herself again?
It didn’t occur to Linnet—and certainly not to any of the old ladies at the château—that a “psychological disturbance” was not the same as a dose of croup, and that possibly Rose would never be the old Rose again. Perhaps Catherine and Pierre Langlois, being modern young educated French persons, would have been able to discuss the matter, but Linnet was too shy to bring up such a subject with comparative strangers.
The lease of the other half of the old stone house on the outskirts of Touques Le Minard was duly acquired in Rose’s name, and Catherine and Simone had a lovely time taking her to all the furniture shops within a fifty-mile radius; and Pauline took her shopping for linens and curtainings both locally and in Paris; and Rose eventually moved into her half of the house.
Georges Vaks did nothing to thrust himself on her: he didn’t think she needed that sort of complication in her life. He remained supportive and friendly, there when she needed him, but no more.
Rose went on seeing Dr Raulet. As she spoke to no-one about what went on at these sessions, no-one knew what progress the psychiatrist considered her to be making. But she was manifestly happier and very busy about her little house, and Fergie was happy and well cared for; so her friends and relatives concluded, as time went on, that she was over the worst of it.
Next chapter:
https://frazerinheritance1-adelaidesdaughters.blogspot.com/2024/06/life-goes-on.html
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