“My grandmother was alive then,” I said.
“That was my mother’s mother. She was French and had to learn all our customs, but she took to them very quickly and she would never have dreamt of giving up any of them. ”
“Tell me some more, miss,” begged Genevieve.
So I told her how I used to sit on a high stool beside my mother and help stone the raisins and peel the almonds.
“I used to eat them whenever I could.”
That amused Genevieve.
“Oh, miss, fancy your being a little girl once.”
I told her about waking on Christmas morning to find my stocking filled.
“We put our shoes by the fireplace … at least some people do. I don’t.”
“Why don’t you?”
“Nounou would be the only one to remember. And you can’t have one pair of shoes; you want a lot, otherwise it’s no fun.”
“You tell me.”
“Well, you put your shoes round the fireplace on Christmas Eve when you come in from Midnight Mass and then you go to bed. In the morning, the little presents are inside your shoes and the big ones round it.
We did it when my mother was alive. “
“And then you stopped?”
She nodded.
“It’s a nice custom.”
“Your mother died,” she said.
“How did she die?”
“She was ill for a long time. I nursed her.”
“You were grown up then?”
“Yes, I suppose you would call it that.”
“Oh, miss. I believe you were always grown up.”
We called in at the Bastides’ on our way back to the chateau. I had encouraged this because I felt that she should meet people outside the chateau, particularly children, and although Yves and Margot were younger than she was and Gabrielle older, at least they were nearer her age than anyone else she knew.
There was excitement in that household because of the nearness of Christmas whispering in corners and hinting at secrets.
Yves and Margot were busy making the creche. Genevieve watched them with interest and, while I talked to Madame Bastide, went over to join them.
“The children are so excited,” said Madame Bastide.
“It is always so. Margot tells us every morning how many hours it is until Christmas Day.”
We watched them arrange the brown paper to look like rocks. Yves took out his painting set and painted moss on it and Margot started to colour the stable brown. On the floor lay the little sheep which they had made themselves and which they would set up on the rocks. I watched Genevieve. She was quite fascinated.
She looked into the cradle.
“It’s empty,” she said rather scornfully.
“Of course it’s empty! Jesus isn’t born yet,” retorted Yves.
“It is a miracle,” Margot told her.
“We go to bed on Christmas Eve .. “
“After we put our shoes round the fire …” added Yves.
“Yes, we do that… and the cradle is empty and then … on Christmas morning when we get up to look, the little ‘| Jesus is lying in it.”
Genevieve was silent.
After a while she said: “Can I do something?”
“Yes,” replied Yves.
“We want more shepherds’ crooks. Do you know how to make them?”
“No,” she said humbly.
“Margot will show you.”
I watched the two girls, their heads close together, and I said to myself: This is what she needs.
Madame Bastide followed my gaze. She said: “And you think Monsieur Ie Comte will allow this? You think he will agree to this friendship between our children and his daughter?”
I said: “I have never seen her so … relaxed, so unconscious of herself.”
“Ah, but Monsieur Ie Comte will not wish his daughter to be carefree.
He wants her to be the grand lady of the chateau. “
“This companionship is what she needs. You have invited me to join you on Christmas Day. May I bring her with me? She has talked about Christmas so wistfully.”
“You think it will be permitted?”
“We can try,” I said.
“But Monsieur Ie Comte … ?”
“I will answer to him,” I replied boldly.
A few days before Christmas the Comte returned to the chateau. I had expected that he would seek me out to discover either how his daughter or his paintings were progressing, but he did no such thing. This was probably because he was thinking of the guests who would soon be arriving.
There would be fifteen people, I heard from Nounou. Not so many as usually came, but entertaining was rather a delicate matter when there was no lady of the house.
I was out riding with Genevieve the day before Christmas Eve when we met a party of riders from the chateau. The Comte rode at the head of them and beside him was a beautiful young woman. She wore a high black riding-hat swathed with grey and there was a grey cravat at her throat. The masculinity of her riding-habit served to-accentuate her femininity, and I noticed at once how bright was her hair, how delicate her features. She was like a piece of china from the collection in the blue drawing-room which I had seen once or twice.
Such women always made me feel even taller than I was, even more plain.
“Here is my daughter,” said the Comte, greeting us almost affectionately.
We pulled up, the four of us, for the rest of the party were some way behind.
“With her governess?” added the beautiful creature.
“Certainly not. This is Miss Lawson from England who is restoring our pictures.”
I saw the blue eyes take on a coolly appraising expression.
“Genevieve, you will have met Mademoiselle de la Monelle.”
Mademoiselle de la Monelle! I had heard the name before.
“Yes, Papa,” said Genevieve.
“Good day, mademoiselle.”
“Mademoiselle Lawson, Mademoiselle de la Monelle.”
We greeted each other.
“Pictures must be quite fascinating,” she said.
I knew then. This was the name of the people whom Philippe had mentioned as having pictures to be restored.
“Miss Lawson thinks so.” And to us, so cutting short the encounter:
“Were you returning?”
We said we were and rode on.
“Would you say she was beautiful?” asked Genevieve.
“What was that?”
“You’re not listening,” accused Genevieve and repeated the question.
“I should think most people would.”
“I said you, miss. Do you think so?”
“She has a type of looks which most people admire.”
“Well, I don’t like her.”
“I hope you won’t take your scissors to her room, because if you did anything like that there would be trouble … not only for you but for others. Have you thought of what has happened to poor Mademoiselle Dubois?”
“She was a silly old woman.”
“That’s no reason for being unkind to her.”
She laughed rather slyly.
“Well, you came out of that affair well, didn’t you? It’s a lovely dress my father gave you. I don’t suppose you ever had a dress like that in your life before. So you see I really did you a good turn.”
“I don’t agree. It was an embarrassing situation for us all.”
“Poor old Esquilles! It wasn’t fair really. She didn’t want to go. You wouldn’t want to go either.”
“No, I shouldn’t. I’m very interested in my work.”
“And in us?”
“Certainly I hope to see you more fluent in your English than you are.” Then I relented and said: “No, I should not want to leave you, Genevieve.”
She smiled, but almost immediately the malicious look came into her face.