| |
AT THE KITCHEN DOOR a short, round woman with flashing eyes attempted to slam the door in Tom's face.
"Everything seems normal here," Tom told me over his shoulder.
When she noticed me, the cook blushed a brilliant pink and hid her hands in her apron. I’d seen someone just like her baking cookies in my first picture book.
"This is Richard Quinn," Tom told her. "He's the gentleman who is going to look after things here while Marie and I are away.”
I noted that Tom's French now far surpassed my own. I also caught a hard, meaningful look pass between the two at the part where I would be 'looking after things.'
The occasion called for charm, so I adopted a sincere smile and kissed the cook's hand.
"Happy...to...meet," Pascaline smiled shyly. "Welcome to Mont Madelaine."
Tom rocked back on his heels and tucked in his chin as if something special had happened.
Masking my confusion, I replied, "Merci."
"Oh no, no, no," Tom quickly corrected me. "English, my dear boy!"
"I’m happy to meet you, too," I told Pascaline's lively blue eyes, then retreated behind my host.
"Well, how about that!" Tom practically giggled when we were far enough down the hall. "You've accomplished what no other man has, Richie-boy. You got Pascaline to speak English. Sorry, but I'm afraid you'll have to stick to it now."
"What do you mean?"
"Since you're an American living in London, she assumes you speak only English. You'll have to pretend you can't speak French. Don't you see?”
“Not really.”
“Marie has been teaching the old darling bits of English for years. So have I. An awful lot of English-speaking guests come around here, you'd be surprised. But until now Pascaline refused to use it. Bless her, I think she's giving Marie and me a sign that she'll get along with you while we're away. Damn sweet, don't you think?"
"I guess around the chateau I could pretend. What can it hurt?"
Tom thumped me on the back. "Thanks, Sport. Glad you understand."
The only thing I understood was that Tom was fond of Pascaline and didn’t want her embarrassed, and, as I said, what could it hurt?
Having arrived at the cloister door to the banquet hall, the protective bridegroom in Tom re-emerged. He began to lecture me about my prospective dinner conversation.
"Nothing about war, please. Marie's a pacifist."
"I never talked about it right after it happened. Why would I now?"
"Right. Just checking. And nothing about Lily's death, please. Or Paris. Or money. I think Marie is worried about what I'm spending on our honeymoon. Or..."
I finally broke in. "I'll choose a harmless topic–I'll talk about myself."
"Right," he said, not looking at all relieved. Then he took a deep breath and opened the door. Tom deflated when he discovered Marie wasn’t there, but I was too stunned by the magnificence of the room to miss her.
Marsford's dining hall was an expansive stone rectangle too homey for a church and too cozy for a castle. Four banquet tables might have filled the room comfortably or twenty-five dancing couples. Massive stone arches trimmed with ivy and elves dominated the shorter walls, but a domed fireplace to my near right softened the effect. Set into the far wall were intricately carved walnut doors. Inside the arch above them was a small musicians' gallery with three lesser arches of its own. Leading to a patio overlooking the water were two sets of stained-glass doors of transparent glass mixed with pink and blue. The artist's imagination was evident everywhere, but most effectively in the long rows of pedestals lining the walls. Each supported a bust of an unusual face skillfully sculpted from black marble. They peopled the room with shadowy silhouettes that seemed to breathe in the flickering candlelight.
"Marsford did those, of course, but he also carved the base of this." Tom gestured toward a large oak table set for formal dining. Instead of a cloth, placemats had been used to show off the glowing wood and the intricately scrolled pedestal underneath.
"Incredible!" I exclaimed. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”
Tom beamed with the pride of a parent. "Thought you'd be impressed," he admitted. "This is probably the best room, but you won't be disappointed with the rest. Hugh made a project of one area a year for several years."
"I can't wait to see everything," I told him truthfully.
Just then Marie came through the carved doors at the far end of the room. She was petite and rather cherubic with deep brown eyes that exhibited all sorts of potential. Medium-short, brunette hair was flipped away from her face in a becoming style that bounced as she approached us. Tom rushed to her side as if he feared she would hurt herself walking. While he performed the introduction, Marie squeezed my hand and let the mirth play in her eyes. Evidently her husband's antics amused her as much as they did me.
"Tom does not understand being pregnant is the most natural thing in the world," she confided in careful English.
"W ith your good example I’m sure he’ll soon get used to it," I replied, amazed by my own quick thinking. At least it became clear why the wedding should not have been delayed. My glance asked Tom why he hadn’t mentioned his prospective family.
He shrugged and changed the subject.
"Pascaline used English when she met Richie, Darling. Isn't it miraculous?"
"Yes, it is," Marie agreed.
"So, um, I thought it best if we pretended Richie here doesn't speak French. What do you think?"
With Tom working her chair Marie sat down safely at the table. "That would be very sweet, if he doesn't mind," she said. "Pascaline knows in her heart what Americans have done to preserve the chateau, but speaking English still hurts her pride. So you see, she has given you a generous welcome."
I decided Tom's wife was a living advertisement for soap and water. While capturing me with her direct gaze and engaging smile, she summoned up visions of sunshine on a blue-checkered breakfast table and the fragrance of warm toast and coffee. I could tell immediately Tom had bought himself the slippers, the hassock, the pipe, and the six rambunctious kids all chasing the cat around a vine-covered cottage. I could picture him slipping out to the corner deli in the rain calling, "No trouble," over his shoulder, then wiping his feet when he returned. Furthermore, I could see him loving every minute of it. Yes, Tom was going to be a very happy family man–sooner than he planned, apparently.
As the dinner began, I tried to discover whether Marie was capable of irresponsible fancies. By the time my salad bowl was empty I’d come up with several reasons why she might have decided her grandmother's death was murder, including jittery nerves over her pregnancy, her impending marriage, or both. However, my speculations had no factual content, so before the soup arrived I managed to reassure myself the accident was triggered by the vandals' attempted break-in, the frightened reaction of the black cat, or perhaps a malfunction of the alarm.
Tom must have decided I really was a suitable topic for conversation, because he began to describe my very detailed style of painting and all his objections to it. Marie sent me apologetic glances, but it was vintage Tom after he’d drunk a little wine. I’d often defended myself against similar sortees in the past by verbally poking a few of his own bruises. Since he’d been reluctant to discuss the fallen stone wall, I decided to mention it when I got the chance.
Tom balked at my question, but Marie embraced the subject.
"That wall! Oh, what a night!" she lamented. "We were out with some friends, but we came back by twelve. Tom heard a noise, so he crept into the garden very, very quietly. Thump! He got hit on the head, just so!" She demonstrated. "I called for the police,” she added, “but they were no help. The wall was completely torn apart and whoever did it was gone."
"Why would someone rip down a stone wall?" I wondered.
"Pure mischief." Tom pushed his wine glass forward for emphasis. "No other reason. It was part of the entrance to Marsford's studio, nothing behind it but flowers and shrubs. Pure michief, plain and simple." Tom's voice rasped through the tension in his throat.
I asked where the others were, “the cook and the gardener?"
Marie answered. "Henri goes home at five–he has a family in the village. Lily was asleep, and so was Pascaline." She looked to Tom for confirmation.
He nodded and told me, "Lily was slightly deaf, and Pascaline sleeps very soundly."
"You said there were other incidents, too."
Another nod. "A large planter was dug out and turned over. Henri discovered that the morning after it happened." He tore off a piece of bread before adding, “A passageway to the beach was tampered with, but it's been corroded shut for a hundred years. Also a few statues were knocked over and the alarms went off twice. Well, three times." Tom halted his bread-buttering to see if his wife planned to mention Lily's death.
Her face had stiffened, but she remained silent, so Tom continued. "After the alarm went off the first time, there was a break of almost three months. Everything else occurred during the past two months."
"Any idea how they’re getting in?"
"Probably over the wall," Tom replied. "Unfortunately, there are a few secluded spots on your side where it could be managed."
I thought the vandals had escaped much too easily to have scaled a ten-foot wall, yet I said nothing for the time being. Judging by the way Marie’s forehead creased and her lips pursed, the topic depressed her, so I switched the subject again.
"Tell me," I said brightly, "Would Marsford make an interesting subject for an article? Or was his life too peaches and creamy for good reading?"
The new husband and wife flashed looks at each other, and Tom drew in a deep breath.
Marie recovered first. "Do you write?" she asked.
Tom cut in before I could answer. "Oh, yes! Flowery long descriptions that would make you blush."
Marie covered a wince behind her napkin, but Tom was tuned into her every vibration. "Richie writes articles about artists for magazines," he quickly amended. "I suppose he's rather good at it. He might even entice some tourists to tramp down here for a gawk at old Hugh's stuff. Lord knows we could use the tourists. And I'm sure it wouldn't be necessary to mention the suicide. Right, Richie?" He lifted his patrician eyebrows to suggest that I lie, if necessary.
Marie simply pointed her eyes at me.