“I must think about it. I had wondered whether to try to get some post… perhaps in a hospital … where I could do something for sick people.”
He shook his head. “It is you who need to be looked after. You just come with me.”
“Shall you think me ungrateful if I say I should like to consider it?”
He waved a hand. “I give you one day … two days … but you must come. It is right for you. I promise you, there will be a new life … new people … new country. This will fade.”
“Robert, thank you, thank you. I will think of it very seriously. I think you may be right. But I do need to collect my thoughts. Please give me time.”
“I give,” he said, with a little smile.
I was wavering. Since Robert had made his suggestion, my interest was stirring and my melancholy had lifted a little. I knew I was wrong to steep myself in sorrow as I was doing here. I had to move on. I must stop thinking of what might have been and accept the fact that there was never going to be a life with Roderick. I had to move on: and here was Robert, throwing me a lifeline.
He was good to me during those days. I knew that he was very anxious that I should go with him. He wanted to do his duty towards my mother’s daughter, because he had cared so deeply for her. His desire to look after me was as earnest as Charlie’s had been.
This time I must be more careful. I must know what I was going to do. At least Robert did not have a wife who would have resented his friendship with my mother. I would sway in my intentions. I would ask myself whether it would not, after all, be better to stay here. To look for some work to do.
“Robert,” I said. “Tell me about your home.”
“I do have a place in Paris,” he said. “But my home is about five or six miles outside the city.”
“In the country?”
He nodded. “It is a pleasant old place. It survived the Revolution … miraculously … and the family have been there for centuries.”
“A stately home, I suppose?”
“Well, La Maison Grise might just qualify for that description.”
“La Maison Grise? The Grey House.”
“It is so. Built of that grey stone which stays where it was put … no matter wind or weather.”
“And your family?”
“There are not so many of us now. There is my sister, Angele. She has always lived there. Daughters often stay on, even after they are married. When Angele married her husband, Henri du Carron, he helped with the estate. It worked out well. I had business in Paris and he was there to look after things.”
“And he died?”
“Yes. Quite young. He had a heart attack. It was sad. Gerard was only seventeen when it happened.”
“Gerard?”
“He is my sister’s son … my nephew. He will inherit La Maison Grise when I die.”
“You have no children?”
“No, alas.”
“You have not mentioned your wife.”
“It is eight years since I lost her. She had been an invalid for some years.”
“So at La Maison Grise there is just your sister and her son.”
“Gerard is there rarely. He has a studio in Paris. He is an artist. Angele runs the house, and there is Marie-Christine.”
“You have mentioned a … great-niece, is it?”
“Yes. She is my great-niece and Gerard’s daughter.”
“So Gerard is married.”
“He is widowed. It was a tragedy. It is three years since she died. Marie-Christine is now … well, twelve, I suppose.”
“So your household consists of your sister, Angele, who is Madame du Carron, and her granddaughter, Marie-Christine? Is she there all the time, or does she live with her father?”
“She visits him now and then, but La Maison Grise is really her home. My sister naturally looks after her.”
“So it is a small household. Do you think they would mind my visiting you?”
“I am sure they would be delighted.”
I was thinking seriously about going. There did not seem to be any complications.
So I made up my mind to visit La Maison Grise; and it was comforting to discover that the decision lifted my spirits considerably.
Robert and I had had a smooth sea crossing and on landing had taken the train to Paris, where the family coach had been waiting for us. It was a somewhat cumbersome vehicle with the Bouchere arms emblazoned on its side. I was introduced to Jacques, the coachman, and after our luggage had been put into the carriage we set out.
Robert made light conversation and, as we drove through Paris, he pointed out certain landmarks. I was bewildered by my first glimpse of that city of which I had heard so much. I caught glimpses of wide boulevards, bridges and gardens. I listened to Robert’s explanations, but I think I was too concerned with what I should find at La Maison Grise to be greatly influenced by the city just then. That was something I could discover later.
“Prepare for a longish drive,” said Robert as we left the city behind us. “We are going south. This is the road to Nice and Cannes, but they are a long way off. France is a big country.”
I sat back, listening to the clop-clop of the horses’ hoofs.
“It seems almost as though they know the way,” I commented.
“Oh, they do. They have done it so many times, and it is usually these two who make the journey. Castor and Pollux—the Heavenly Twins. They are, I regret to tell you, not really apt names. They are far from heavenly, those two! But they can always be trusted to get us home. You will see how they prick up their ears and make an extra spurt when we are within a mile of home.”
I wondered whether Robert was a little nervous. He seemed to be trying hard to make cosy conversation.
It was late afternoon when we reached the house. We had come through an avenue of trees and had gone about half a mile before it came into view. It was appropriately named, for it was indeed grey, but the green foliage around it robbed it of the sombre aspect it might otherwise have had. At either end were the cylindrical towers, aptly named “pepper pot,” which are characteristic of French architecture. In front of the house were several stone steps leading to a terrace, and this gave a delightful touch of homeliness and softened the effect of the harsh grey stone.
We had pulled up, and two grooms appeared. Robert alighted and helped me down.
One of the grooms asked if we had had a good journey.
“Yes, thank you,” said Robert. “This is Mademoiselle Tremaston. We shall have to find a horse for her to ride while she is here.”
The groom spoke in rapid French.
“He says he will be there to help you choose. I’ll take you to the stables tomorrow and we shall fit you up.”
A terrible sense of loss crept over me, as I remembered my lessons with Roderick. I was longing with great intensity to be back at Leverson. I knew I should never forget. Why had I thought I might, merely by coming away?
Robert was saying: “I want to show you some of our villages. You’ll find them interesting. They are different from those in England.”
“I shall look forward to that,” I said.
He took my arm and we mounted the terrace steps. I noticed that the shrubs in the white tubs were very well cared for.
I commented on them and Robert said: “That is Angele’s doing. She said the house had an unwelcoming look, and they help to dispel that. Perhaps she is right.”
“I can imagine that would be so.”
We were facing an iron-studded door. It opened suddenly and a manservant stood there.
“Ah, good day, Georges,” said Robert. “We’re here. This is Mademoiselle Tremaston.”
Georges was a small man with dark hair and bright, alert eyes. He studied me and bowed. I sensed this was a somewhat formal household.
I stepped into a hall, at the end of which was a staircase, and at the foot of this was a woman. She came forward to greet me and I knew at once that she was Madame du Carron, Angele, for she was sufficiently like Robert for me to guess that she was his sister.