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Now she had to face the fact that it could all have been a sham.
Isabelle had loved another man—had given herself to him with disastrous consequences—and here was Sabine, the living proof, the cuckoo in the conventional Russell family nest.
She wondered if Hugh Russell had ever hinted that his wife should have her baby adopted. According to Miss Russell, Isabelle had forced him to treat her child as his own—had even made it a condition of their marriage.
He had loved her, Sabine thought, but how had she felt about him? Was it love or simply gratitude because he had offered her a safe haven? She would never know.
Biting her lip, Sabine walked over to the wardrobe, and flung open its door. They were still hanging there on their plastic covers—the classic suits, the dateless dresses, with the shoes, always plain courts, racked neatly beneath them.
She lifted down the big suitcase from the top of the wardrobe, and, placing it on the bed, began to fill it, folding the garments as carefully as Isabelle would have done.
At times, a faint remembrance of the scent her mother used to wear drifted up from the folds of the clothing. That was the most personally evocative thing of all, Sabine thought, wincing, and she could understand why Hugh had always shied away from clearing out his wife’s things. It was interesting too, she realised, that he’d never allowed his sister to dispose of them either.
But then, he wouldn’t have wanted to see Isabelle’s treasured possessions grimly thrust into bin-bags and left outside for collection.
It took nearly an hour for her to empty the wardrobe and dressing-table. She didn’t hurry, using the time to do some serious thinking. It occurred to her for the first time that there were a couple of curious anomalies in her childhood.
Firstly, although Isabelle had kindled her love for foreign languages by teaching her their own native tongue, at the same time she’d been strangely reticent about her own life. When Sabine asked about France and French life, Isabelle had talked exclusively about Paris where she’d trained as a commercial artist. For that reason, Sabine had always assumed that her mother was a Parisienne by birth.
But assumptions, as she’d discovered that day, could be dangerous, and Isabelle had never actually stated where she was born. She’d never spoken about family either. Sabine had asked if she had any grandparents in France, or any other uncles and aunts. It seemed unjust if she was saddled with Aunt Ruth alone, but Isabelle had said there was no one, adding, ‘Hélas.’
The other odd thing, she realised, was that they’d never been on holiday to France. Nor could she recollect that it had ever been suggested they should do so. It was as if the subject had been taboo.
Yet they’d been to Spain, Italy and Greece time after time, and surely it would have been natural for Isabelle to want to show off the country of her birth.
Why did I never think of this before? she wondered blankly. Presumably because I was too young, and because life was so full in other ways that I never had time or any real reason to question it.
She’d left the top dressing-table drawer until last. It still contained a handful of cosmetics, and, at the very back, her mother’s suede jewellery case. Sabine extracted it gently. Her mother had been quite specific about it. ‘My jewellery case and all its contents to my daughter Sabine’, her will had read, with the added proviso that the bequest should only take place after Hugh Russell’s own death. Maman’s perception had probably told how impossible it would be for him to part with any of her things in his lifetime.
In fact, there was very little inside the case, just her watch, a few pairs of earrings, and her cultured pearl necklace. The tray didn’t fit very well, she noticed, and when she lifted it out she discovered why. Under it was a small flat package wrapped in yellowing tissue paper.
Sabine removed the paper carefully, trying not to tear it, feeling in many ways like an intruder. An oval silver medallion and chain slid into her hand, and she studied it, frowning. She knew all Isabelle’s small store of jewellery, and she’d certainly never seen this before, although she had to admit it was a beautiful thing. Moreover, it looked old, and by its weight in her hand could also be valuable. And equally clearly, concealed in the base of the box, it had not been for public view.
There was some kind of engraving on the medallion, and she took it over to the window for a closer look. The design wasn’t very clear, but she could just make out a building shaped like a tower, she thought, tracing the outline with her fingertip, and beneath it a flower which might or might not be a rose.
Sabine looked at it for a long moment, aware of a faint stirring in her consciousness, some elusive memory, fleetingly brought to life. But as she reached for it, tried to bring it into sharper focus, it was gone. Just another unanswered question, she acknowledged with a small sigh, as she re-wrapped it.
She was about to replace it when she noticed that the satin lining in the bottom of the case had been torn away from one edge, and stitched back into place with large clumsy stitches.
Not Maman’s style at all, she thought, frowning. I wonder when that happened?
She ran her fingers over the base, finding an unexpected bulkiness. There was something there—under the lining. She found a pair of nail scissors and cut the stitches.
The something was an elderly manila envelope, secured with a rubber band.
Slowly Sabine opened it, and emptied the contents on to the dressing-table. A latch-key attached to a ring in the shape of a small enamelled owl fell out first to be followed by a thin folder of photographs, a picture postcard, a label from a wine bottle, and, lastly, some kind of official document in French.
It was a mixed bunch, she thought wonderingly. Rather like that game where you had to memorise so many objects on a tray.
She picked up the document, and spread it open. Her heart seemed to be beating very slowly and loudly as she looked down it. She read it carefully twice, but her conclusion was the same both times. It was some kind of title deed to a house in France. A house called Les Hiboux, sited in the département of the Dordogne, which she knew was in the south-west, near a community called Issigeac. Not that it meant a thing to her.
‘My jewellery case and all its contents to my daughter Sabine’.
All its contents.
She felt cold suddenly, and pushed everything back into the envelope. She would look at the rest later. For now, she had enough shocks to assimilate, she thought, as she put the case into her bag, and took a last look round.
She left the envelope on her dining table while she prepared her evening meal. Everywhere she went in the flat, she seemed to catch sight of it out of the corner of her eye. It was not to be ignored.
She’d called at the library on her way home and borrowed some books on the Dordogne. She glanced through them as she ate. The actual region where the house was situated was called the Périgord, and it was divided up into the White, the Green and the Black. Les Hiboux was in the Périgord Noir, which was called that, apparently, because of all the trees, particularly oaks, in the area. It was also a major tourist centre.
Issigeac, she discovered, was south of Bergerac, and on the edge of its wine-growing area.
Part of the Périgord’s fame, she read, rested on its cuisine, which included wild mushrooms, pâté de foie gras, and the ultimate luxury of truffles. Walnuts were another speciality, cultivated for salad oil, and also for a strong local liqueur.
She made a pot of strong coffee, and reached for the envelope. Les Hiboux, she thought, as the owl keyring fell into her hand. Hibou was French for owl. She put it to one side, and opened the folder of photographs.
There weren’t many, and they were all black and white. She studied them, frowning. They were just ordinary, rather amateurish snapshots. There were a couple of two children, a girl barely past the toddler stage in a sunbonnet and ruffled dress, and a much older boy, all arms and legs and ferocious scowl, staring pugnaciously at the camera. Maman