Devil In Velvet. Anne Mather
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she was impressed by his effortless transition from French to English. ‘My father told us you had bought this place unseen.’ He stepped aside, ignoring André’s evident disapproval. ‘Have you decided to stay at Rochefort?’
‘Rochefort?’ Harriet frowned, recognising the name of the chateau. ‘Don’t you mean—Rochelac?’
Paul glanced mockingly at his father, and then shrugged his shoulders. ‘Probably,’ he affirmed indifferently. ‘Are you going to stay?’
‘That is not your concern,’ put in his father grimly, but Paul was not deterred.
‘I might be able to be of some assistance,’ he protested innocently, but Harriet could see his father was not deceived. Perhaps she ought not to be either, she thought shrewdly, and turning to André said:
‘Don’t let us keep you, monsieur. As you said, you have work to do.’
‘Very well.’ André cast his son another irritated look. ‘I will have the other items of furniture delivered later this morning.’
‘Thank you.’
Harriet’s lips moved in the polite semblance of a smile, but there was no warmth in it. Paul glanced from one to the other of them, and his eyes narrowed speculatively, but his father’s hand upon his shoulder propelled him towards the door.
‘If you have any other problems, don’t hesitate to get in touch with me,’ André added as they left, but it was not until they had gone that Harriet realised she did not even know where he lived.
As soon as they were alone, Susan rushed across the the room and hugged her aunt. ‘Thank you, thank you!’ she cried excitedly, but Harriet was in no mood to appreciate her gratitude.
‘Don’t thank me,’ she averred shortly. ‘We’re both going to have to work like slaves before we can begin to enjoy this holiday!’
At least hard labour served to put all thoughts of André Laroche out of her mind. With the aid of a wedge of wood and a hammer, she managed to get the upstairs window open, although shutting it again might prove a problem, and set Susan to scrubbing the bedroom floor. Meanwhile, she shifted everything out of the kitchen and set about cleaning the walls and cupboards. The salon would have to wait, but as they would not be spending much time in there, it wasn’t so important.
Outside, she discovered a shed adjoining the privy which contained some primitive gardening tools. Picking up a heavy scythe, she swung it experimentally through the air, and got quite a shock when a cluster of sunflower heads fell at her feet. It was sharper than she had imagined, and surveying the tangled garden she thought that perhaps it was just as well. But like the salon the garden would have to wait until another day.
Back in the kitchen, the air was stifling. Susan’s fire was still smouldering away, but Harriet was loath to put it out until the cooking stove arrived. They had not had a hot meal since yesterday lunchtime, and she was determined to fry some eggs and bacon today, on the fire if necessary. She was not keen to put her sleek, non-stick frying pan over the flames, but needs must, and Susan deserved something more substantial than bread and cheese.
By half past eleven, the kitchen was beginning to look presentable, although she needed some paint to colourwash the walls and ceiling. But at least it was clean, the table scrubbed and shining.
Upstairs, Susan had made a fair job of the bedroom, and together they tugged the old mattress downstairs and out into the garden. The frame took a little more dismantling, and they left the base for whoever brought the single beds to dispose of.
The sound of a lumbering vehicle making its way down the lane brought them both to the windows, and Harriet was relieved when she saw that it was a lorry loaded with furniture. Already the place was beginning to assume their identity, and had it not been for André, she thought she would have been content.
The driver of the vehicle introduced himself as Bertrand Madoc. He was a short, thick-set individual, with a shock of grey hair and twinkling button brown eyes. Harriet thought he was scarcely big enough to carry the bed-frame down from upstairs, but she was soon proved wrong. He was immensely strong, and made light work of shifting out the base and the old washstand.
‘I say,’ exclaimed Susan in dismay, ‘I’ve just cleaned that!’ but Bertrand just shook his head.
‘Attendez, mademoiselle!’ he told her reassuringly, and Susan unwillingly agreed to wait and see.
It soon became apparent that two single beds and a cooking stove were not all André had despatched. There was a small armoire and dressing table, beautifully carved, that Harriet recognised as being old and rather valuable; a pair of matching velvet chairs and a chaise-longue, somewhat faded, but obviously period pieces, and a nineteenth-century escritoire which when the dresser was removed did not look out of place in the small salon.
Bertrand would have carried the dresser out to the lorry, but Harriet stopped him, realising that it was exactly what she needed in the kitchen to store plates and dishes. She just wished she had had time to clean out the salon before the new pieces were installed, but it was too late now.
It was irritating having to feel gratitude towards André, but his kindness could not be denied. She wondered uncharitably whether this was his way of putting her in his debt, and then dismissed the notion by assuring herself that she had paid him adequately for the privilege of living here. Still, she couldn’t help wondering where he had got all these things from. Surely it would have been cheaper to buy new modern furniture than these period pieces, unless he had access to some mouldering chateau. Not for the first time she wondered what he had been doing at the St Germain salerooms that day eight years ago, and suddenly she realised why the name Rochelac had seemed so familiar. Among the articles for sale that day had been pieces from the Chateau de Rochefort! Of course! Why hadn’t she remembered this before? So what was André? Some sort of agent for the impoverished aristocracy?
Bertrand completed his task in less than an hour, refusing to accept Harriet’s offer of refreshment. Instead, he climbed back into his lorry, and she had to hurry to catch him before he closed the door of his cab. ‘Please,’ she exclaimed in his language, ‘thank—thank Monsieur Laroche for me.’
‘You will no doubt be able to thank him personally,’ Bertrand replied comfortably, and with a deprecating smile, reversed away.
Harriet walked back to the house speculating on his words. He sounded so sure about it. Did everyone know of André’s visits to the house? Did no one object? Well, she decided grimly, she did, and displayed an unsmiling acceptance in the face of Susan’s enthusiasm.
Still, she could not remain indifferent for long. The cooker, heated by Calor gas, was new and a gleaming oven invited-experimentation. The dresser, too, looked infinitely more attractive with plates on its shelves, and not even the gaps in the now-clean windows could detract the sun’s rays from shining through the panes that were there.
Harriet carried their cases upstairs, and Susan unpacked their clothes while she made up the beds. Although the headboards were of reproduction design, the bases were interior sprung, and with the sprigged cotton bedspreads Harriet had brought gave the room a bright appearance.
Susan soon disposed of the suitcases. Trousers, skirts and dresses hung away easily in the armoire, while their underclothes folded neatly into the drawers of the dressing table.
‘Oh, doesn’t it look nice!’ she exclaimed, when she had finished, the suitcases stowed away in a corner out of sight. ‘Surely you’re glad you stayed now, aren’t you?’
Harriet relented, putting an arm around the girl’s shoulders. ‘All right,’ she agreed. ‘You were right—this place does have possibilities.’
But after lunch it was too hot to do anything else. Susan put on her bikini and took a dip in the stream, and then stretched out on a rug, impervious to Harriet’s admonitions to watch out for ants.
Harriet herself carried the wooden rocker outdoors, and with the