Page 61 of The Gathering Storm (Morland Dynasty #36)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Polly was in the Steward’s Room one morning, looking at accounts, when James came in with a telegram in his hand. ‘For me?’ she said, looking up.
‘No, for me,’ James said. ‘It’s from Charlie.’ He handed it to her.
WE ARE AT THE CHATEAU + GREAT THINGS AFOOT + I NEED A GOOD MAN + PLEASE COME AT ONCE + FERN MISSES YOU ++
‘What great things?’ Polly said.
‘Now, how would I know?’ James said impatiently. ‘But if he needs me, I think I should go.’
‘You’ve forgiven him for the Russian business?’ Polly asked.
‘That wasn’t his fault. I never blamed him for it. I just couldn’t stay in Paris, or be around them, with all the memories. But I’m over that part now. And he’s not in Paris, anyway. He’s at the chateau.’
Polly smiled. ‘The fact is you’re restless, you want a new adventure. You don’t need to justify yourself to me, Jamie. You can come and go as you please.’
‘Yes, but I know you depend on me. I couldn’t just go if you’re not happy about it.’
‘I’ll be fine. Go with my blessing.’
His face cleared. ‘I’ll go and cable Charlie.’
He got a reply within hours, telling him to catch the five-thirty ferry from Dover, and detailing the trains to take from Calais to Paris and Paris to Tours, where he would be met by Charlie’s car.
This was the sort of thing he would be doing, he thought, looking up trains and arranging travel.
It was what he had done in Paris. And what ‘great thing’ was Charlie planning now?
A ripple of excitement went through him.
‘The five-thirty ferry!’ he exclaimed. He counted up journey times in his head. ‘I’ll have to get a train about noon. I must go and pack.’
‘I’ll come and help you,’ Polly said. ‘And I’ll drive you to the station.’
‘Thanks, that will be a help.’ He headed for the door. ‘Do you think I need to pack my evening clothes?’
‘For Charlie Bedaux and his “great things”? Certainly,’ Polly said, hurrying after him. Of course she would not try to stop him going. But she felt hollow already, knowing how she would miss him.
Clouds had obscured the twilight, and it was dark when James arrived at Tours station, with its magnificent facade of pale stone and vast semi-circular glass canopies, the elaborate columns topped with allegorical figures.
He had expected to be met by Charlie’s Hispano-Suiza, but there was only a battered taxi sitting out front, gently chugging as though waiting for him.
The driver – a villainous-looking individual with a beret pulled down almost to his eyes – nodded to him.
James slung his luggage into the back and got in beside him.
The taxi stank of French cigarettes; a rosary and a baby’s shoe dangled from the mirror.
He looked at his watch. It was well past nine o’clock.
They would have finished dinner, and he was starving.
But what he wanted most was a hot bath. Fern and Charlie’s improvements to the chateau had included a bathroom for every bedroom, with a hot-water system so effective it could fill and empty a bathtub in less than one minute.
Soon after leaving the town, they turned off the main road onto a country lane.
‘This isn’t the way we came last time,’ James said, wondering if he was being kidnapped. The driver looked capable of it.
‘We go in the back way,’ the driver said tersely.
A few minutes later they slowed, and James saw a man sitting on a white staddle-stone at the side of the road.
He stood as they approached, holding his shotgun in front of him in a casual-but-ready manner.
The driver flashed his lights, the man stepped back, touching his hat-brim, and they turned into a gap in the hedge James had not noticed until then.
It was a track barely wide enough for a car – branches scraped against the taxi on both sides – and to judge from the jouncing it was a rough one.
Branches met overhead so they crawled along a green tunnel, lit before them by the headlamps and closing in black behind them.
Eventually the taxi turned sharp right through a gateway and stopped.
The driver turned off the engine in a terminal manner, and James climbed out into what was evidently the service yard of the chateau.
On one side the massive stone walls rose to the sky; on the other sides there were lower, less grand annexes. He’d not seen this part before.
A door in a cottagey building on the right opened, letting out a slice of yellow light, and James went towards it.
A comfortable black-clad servant greeted him in French, told him that Monsieur and Madame were occupied with their guests and begged his indulgence.
Was there anything Monsieur desired? Something to eat and drink, James said.
She would have a plateau sent up to his room tout de suite , she said.
She took him to his room, pointing out the bathroom and WC on the way.
The passages and stairs were covered with plain drugget, the walls were painted white, and he guessed this was the staff quarters.
His room was plain but pleasant, and everything seemed to be new: there was a faint smell of fresh plaster.
The bed was covered with a mauve-and-white cotton counterpane, and someone had put a vase of marguerites and mauve stocks on the dressing-table.
In a corner there was a wash basin, where the water gushed from the tap piping hot, and a fresh cake of soap sat in a china dish.
Such little touches made him feel like a welcome guest, even though he was there to work.
He’d had time only to wash his hands when the tray arrived, brought by a rosy-cheeked maid who blushed when he thanked her in French and scuttled away without speaking or meeting his eyes.
After a bowl of soup, bread, a wedge of delectable paté, some fruit and a carafe of wine, he felt too sleepy to bother with a bath, so he contented himself with a good wash at the basin and climbed into bed.
He woke very early the following morning.
No-one would be up yet, he thought, but it was already light outside and the sun was slanting through the curtains, so he decided to get up and have a wander around before the day claimed him.
Outside the early air was chilly but with the promise of heat; collared doves were hooting monotonously somewhere, and the air smelt of dewy grass.
A striped cat stalking delicately across the yard hoisted its tail in greeting and veered out of its way to brush his legs in passing.
In the left-hand corner of the yard he found a narrow, stone-flagged path that went under an arch and round the side of the main building to the front.
Here there were the beautiful lawns he remembered, with an edging of trees, and beds of flowers.
The chateau was enchanting, a fairy-tale confection of bulbous towers and spire-topped turrets, all in a pale creamy stone now gilded in the first light of a summer morning.
On one side the lawns fell quite steeply to a river; on another there was a broad gravel sweep that stopped abruptly at a drop-off, with a fine view across a valley to a magnificent many-arched viaduct.
The grounds were extensive, mostly wooded, running down to the river below – he could just see the gleam of it between the trees.
From the gravelled sweep a tree-lined avenue passed down to the front gates.
When he saw a servant opening the main door, he decided there was a good chance of something to eat if he returned to the staff quarters.
He retraced his steps, encountered the rosy maid again and asked if anyone was up.
Not yet, but soon, she told him. Madame and Monsieur were always up early, as was also His Royal Highness, who liked to perform la gymnastique suédoise first thing in the morning.
‘His Royal Highness?’ James queried.
She looked at him, wide-eyed, seeming surprised at his ignorance. It was here at the Chateau de Candé that the wedding was to take place, did he not know?
The wedding? he asked.
The wedding of His Royal Highness and Madame Saint-Saens. It was very romantic. His Royal Highness was only lately arrived, but Madame Saint-Saens had been staying here already many weeks.
She had pronounced the name in French, and her accent was strong and rustic, so it took him a moment to realise that Madame Saint-Saens was in fact Madame Simpson, and the Royal Highness must therefore be the Duke of Windsor.
So that was what Charlie wanted his help with.
James had had no idea they were involved with it.
They were lending them their exquisite chateau for les noces .
And James was to witness the wedding that had changed history, the wedding everyone would surely be talking about.
‘Good God,’ he said.
The centuria moved at last, from the high sierra north and eastwards to a plain in Aragon, where the Communists were besieging a small town that had been occupied by the Fascists since the autumn.
The high plain was subject to fierce, cold winds, but there were more signs of life: this flat land had evidently been cultivated, and though it had been abandoned when the war began, Nature had reasserted itself, so that the bare sticks of the grape vines budded, the green blades of winter barley thrust through where the fields had not been trampled, and the orchards first blossomed, then came into leaf.
There were unlifted potatoes in one field, which made a welcome addition to the diet, though the field was closer to the Fascist line and under observation.
They had to lie flat and dig them up with their hands, and if they were spotted the machine-gun fire would throw up earth and stones all around them.
But there was always somebody in the company who thought the reward worth the risk.