“I am so sorry I disturbed you.” The woman was too apologetic. That
little matter was over and it was my fault for falling asleep and not hearing her knock. I told her this and added: “So Monsieur de la Talle has asked you to show me the gallery.
I am most eager to see the pictures. “
“I know little about pictures, but…”
“You say you are the governess. So there are children in the chateau.”
“There is only Genevieve. Monsieur Ie Comte has only one child.”
My curiosity was strong, but one could not ask questions. She hesitated as though she wanted to talk; and how I wanted to know! But I was in command of myself and growing more and more optimistic as the moments passed. It was wonderful what the brief rest and the food, the wash and change of clothes had done for me.
She sighed.
“Genevieve is very difficult.”
“Children often are. How old is she?”
“Fourteen.”
“Then I am sure you can easily control her.”
She gave me an incredulous look; then her mouth twisted slightly.
“It is evident. Mademoiselle Lawson, that you do not know Genevieve.”
“Spoilt, I imagine, being the only one?”
“Spoilt!” Her voice had an odd note. Fear? Apprehension? I couldn’t quite place it.
“Oh, that… as well.”
She was ineffectual. That much was obvious. The last person I should have chosen as a governess. If they would choose a woman like this for such a post surely my chances of getting the restoration commission were good. Although I was a woman I must look far more capable than this poor creature. And wouldn’t the Comte consider the education of his only child as important as the restoration of his pictures? That remained to be seen, of course. I was impatient for my encounter with this man.
“I can tell you. Mademoiselle Lawson, that to control that girl is impossible.”
“Perhaps you are not stern enough,” I said lightly, then changed the subject.
“This is a vast place. Are we near the gallery?”
“I will show you. You will get lost here at first. I did. In fact even now I often find myself in difficulties.”
You would always find yourself in difficulties, I thought.
“I suppose you have been here for some time,” I asked, merely to make conversation as we passed out of the room and went along a corridor to a flight of stairs.
“Quite a long time … eight months.”
I laughed.
“You call that long?”
“The others didn’t stay as long. No one else stayed longer than six.”
My mind switched from the carving on the banister to the daughter of the house. So this was why Mademoiselle Dubois remained. Genevieve was so spoilt that it was difficult to keep a governess. One would have thought that the stern King in his Castle could have controlled his daughter. But perhaps he did not care enough. And the Comtesse?
Strangely enough before Mademoiselle Dubois had mentioned the daughter I had not thought of a Com tesse. Naturally there must be one, since there was a child. She was probably with the Comte now and that was why I had been received by the cousin.
“In fact,” she went on, “I am constantly telling myself that I shall go. The trouble is …”
She did not finish, nor did she need to because I under stood very well. Where could she go? I pictured her in some dreary lodging. or perhaps she had a family. But in any case she would have to earn a living. There were many like her desperately exchanging pride and dignity for food and shelter. Oh yes, I understood absolutely. None better, for it was a fate I could envisage for myself. The gentlewoman without means. What could be more difficult to bear than genteel poverty! Brought up to consider oneself a lady, educated as well as perhaps better than the people one must serve. Continually aware of being kept in one’s place. Living with neither the vulgar gusto of the servants below stairs nor with the comfort of the family. To exist in a sort of limbo. Oh, it was intolerable, and yet how often inevitable. Poor Mademoiselle Dubois! She did not know what pity she aroused in me and what fears.
“There are always disadvantages in every post,” I comforted.
“Oh yes, indeed yes. And here there is so much …”
“The chateau seems to be a storehouse of treasures,”
“I believe the pictures are worth a fortune.”
“So I have heard.” My voice was warm. I put out a hand to touch the linenfold panelling of the room through which we were passing. A beautiful place, I thought; but these ancient edifices were in constant need of attention. We had passed into a large room, the kind which in England we called a solarium, because it was so planned to catch the sun, and I paused to examine the coat of arms on the walls. It was fairly recent and I wondered whether there might be murals under the lime wash I thought it very possible. I remembered the excitement when my father had once discovered some valuable wall-painting which had been hidden for a couple of centuries. What a triumph if I could make such a discovery! The personal triumph would of course be secondary and I had thought of that only because of my reception. It would be a triumph for art as all such discoveries are.
“And the Comte is doubtless very proud of them.”
“I… I don’t know.”
“He must be. In any case he is concerned enough to want them examined and if necessary restored. Art treasures are a heritage. It is a privilege to own them and one has to remember that art great art doesn’t belong to one person.”
I stopped. I was on my favourite hobby horse, as Father would say. He had warned me.
“Those who are interested probably share your knowledge; those who are not are bored. “
He was right, and Mademoiselle Dubois fitted into the second category.
She laughed, a small tinkly laugh without any mirth or pleasure in it.
“I should hardly expect the Comte to express his feelings to me.”
No, I thought. Nor should I. “Oh, dear,” she murmured.
“I hope I haven’t lost my way. Oh, no … this is it.”
“We are now almost in the centre of the chateau,” I said.
“This is the original structure. I should say we are immediately beneath the round tower.”
She looked at me incredulously.
“My father’s profession was the restoration of old houses,” I explained.
“I learned a great deal from him. In fact we worked together.”
She seemed momentarily to resent that in me which was the exact reverse of her own character. She said almost severely: “I know that a man was expected.”
“My father was expected. He was coming about three years ago and then for some reason the appointment was cancelled.”
“About three years ago,” she said blankly.
“That would be when …”
I waited, and as she did not continue I said: “That would be before you were here, wouldn’t it? My father was coming and somewhat peremptorily he was told it was not convenient. He died almost a year ago and as I have continued with work that was outstanding naturally I came in his place.”
She looked as though such a procedure was far from natural and I secretly agreed with her. But I had no intention of betraying myself to her as she had betrayed herself to me.
“You speak very good French for an Englishwoman.”
“I am bilingual. My mother was French, my father English.”
“That is fortunate … in the circumstances.”
“In any circumstances it is fortunate to be in command of languages.”
My mother had said I was too tutorial. It was a trait I should curb. I fancy it had increased since Father had died. He once said I was like a ship firing all guns to show I was equipped to defend myself just in case another should be preparing to open fire on me.
“You are right, of course,” said Mademoiselle Dubois meekly.