“One forgets it is only important to oneself. That girl was my life. She was so beautiful … and to think of her carried off. Sometimes it is more than I can bear.”
“I do understand,” I said.
“Now tell me about yourself.”
“I am staying here for a while.”
“Monsieur Bouchere was a great friend of your mother, Marie-Christine tells me.”
“Yes,” put in Marie-Christine. “When her mother died, Mademoiselle Tremaston came to us … to get away from the place where it happened. She is planning what she will do.”
“I hope all will go well with you, my dear. Do you like this wine? I make it myself. France is the country of the best wines.”
Nounou was clearly regretting her outburst and, having betrayed her emotions over the death of Marianne, was now trying to lead the conversation along more conventional lines. We chatted for a while about the neighbourhood and the difference between the French and English way of life—and in the midst of this, Candice arrived.
We heard her coming and Marie-Christine leaped to her feet.
“Tante Candice, Tante Candice … I am here with Nounou! I’ve brought Mademoiselle Tremaston to see you.”
Candice came into the room. She was tall, slim and good-looking, and she reminded me faintly of the picture I had seen of her twin sister, Marianne. Her colouring was similar to that of the girl in the picture, but more subdued; her eyes were more solemn and she completely lacked the expression of mischief which had made the other so arresting. She was a pale shadow of her sister.
She seemed very self-contained and quickly recovered from the surprise of seeing Marie-Christine with a visitor.
I was introduced to her.
“I heard you were at La Maison Grise,” she said. “It’s hard to keep secrets in a village. Marie-Christine is looking after you, I see.”
“We are great friends,” announced Marie-Christine. “I am teaching Mademoiselle Tremaston French and she is teaching me English.”
“That seems a very good arrangement. You knew Monsieur Bouchere in London, I believe.”
“Yes, he was a friend of my mother.”
“Her mother was a famous actress,” said Marie-Christine.
“I have heard that,” said Candice. “Tell me, how are you liking France? It is different, I suppose.”
“Yes, it is, and I am enjoying it.”
“And La Maison Grise is an interesting house, is it not?”
“Very.”
“Have you been to Paris yet?”
“No … not yet.”
“You will go, of course.”
“I hope to … soon. We have talked of it. We shall shop … and I hope to see Marie-Christine’s father’s studio.”
Her face hardened perceptibly. I thought immediately: She has strong feelings about him, and she cannot hide them at the mention of his name.
She said: “Paris is a very interesting city.”
“I very much look forward to a visit.”
“Do you intend to stay long in France?”
“She is going to stay for a long time,” said Marie-Christine. “Great-uncle Robert says she must regard La Maison as her home.”
I said: “My plans are undecided.”
“Because her mother … the famous actress … is dead,” put in Marie-Christine.
“I am sorry,” said Candice. “Death can be … devastating.”
I thought: The memory of Marianne haunts this place. Candice feels it no less than Nounou.
Candice said lightly: “This house was an old mill. I must show you round while you are here. It has just been an ordinary residence since my grandfather’s day, but it still retains some of the old characteristics.”
“I should love to see it,” I said.
“Then let us go now. We’ll come back to you later, Nounou.”
Nounou nodded and we left her.
“It has been my home always,” said Candice. “One gets attached to such places. Of course, I never knew it when the mill was working.”
She showed me the house. It seemed small after La Maison Grise, but then most houses would be. It was comfortable and cosy.
“The Grillons live on the top floor,” she told me. “They look after everything. Jean does the garden and looks after the horse and carriage. He is a very useful man to have about the house. Louise cooks and does the housework. There are just the two of us, and they are adequate. Nounou used to do quite a bit, but she is getting past it now. I’m afraid she meanders on about the past. I hope she wasn’t boring you.”
“She was telling Mademoiselle Tremaston about my mother,” said Marie-Christine.
I noticed an expression of faint annoyance cross Candice’s face.
“Oh yes,” she said. “It’s an obsession with her. She never got over my sister’s death. She brings up the subject continually … even with people who can’t possibly be interested. Sudden death is such a shock.”
“I know that well,” I told her. “My mother died unexpectedly when she was young.”
“Then you will understand and forgive poor Nounou. This was our room … the nursery. Nounou cleans and polishes here herself. It’s her domain, really. I think she sits here and remembers little incidents from the past. I don’t know whether it is good for her or not.”
“I expect she gets some satisfaction from it. People do from memories.”
I saw the two little beds … the dressing table … the window that looked out on the stream and the windmill.
“It’s very picturesque,” I said.
She took me out of doors and we walked through the garden to the stream.
“We used to play in the mill when we were children,” said Candice. “Nounou was terrified. She was always afraid there would be some accident.”
We walked back across the garden to the house. Nounou was waiting for us in the salon. I thanked them both for their hospitality and told them how much I had enjoyed the visit.
“You must come again,” said Candice.
Marie-Christine was smiling with satisfaction as we mounted our horses and rode away.
“There!” she said. “You’ve met Tante Candice and Nounou.”
“It was very interesting, and they were very kind.”
“Why shouldn’t they be?”
“Sometimes unexpected callers are not welcome.”
“Tante Candice is my mother’s sister and I am her niece. Nounou was their nurse. That means they should always be glad to see me.”
“She does not seem very anxious to see the family into which her sister married, and you are part of that.”
“That’s because she blames my father for my mother’s death.”
“Blames your father! I thought it was a riding accident.”
“All the same, she blames him. I know she does. That’s why she doesn’t come to La Maison.”
“Who told you this?”
“No one. I just know.”
“You have a vivid imagination, Marie-Christine.”
“You disappoint me. You sound just like old Dupont.”
“Tell me …” I began. But Marie-Christine had set her face in stubborn lines and rode on ahead of me, and in due course we reached La Maison Grise.
It had been an interesting and unusual afternoon.
I mentioned the visit to Angele. She was somewhat taken aback. “Marie-Christine took you there! Really, she can be quite mischievous at times. We don’t have very much contact with Candice.
It’s due to her. She never seems to want to see us. It may be that memories are too painful. We were never on very friendly terms … although Marianne was constantly at the mill with her sister and the old nurse.”
“It must have been a terrible blow to them both.”
“You met the nurse, did you? She doted on the two girls. I think the shock was rather much for her. One of the servants here is friendly with Louise Grillon, and occasionally a little gossip seeps through. The old nurse was particularly devoted to Marianne, and she hasn’t been the same since she died. That’s according to Louise Grillon. Gerard was a fool to marry the girl. It was not exactly a manage de convenance. We were all disappointed, but he was quite besotted about her. An artist’s model! Well, she was supposed to be very attractive.”