Devil At Archangel. Sara Craven
inclined her head. ‘We were at school together—also my sister Madeleine. Your godmother never spoke of her either?’
Christina swallowed. ‘No. I don’t think she ever mentioned her schooldays. It always seemed that any friends she had were here in this village.’
‘Latterly that would have been true.’ Mrs Brandon shifted her weight slightly and Christina saw with compassion that she was in pain. But it was only a fleeting impression, and when the bright dark eyes met hers again, they were calm. ‘Yet we corresponded for many years. I last heard from her some eighteen months ago.’
She glanced around. ‘I regret that I am unable to stand for long periods and there does not appear to be a chair …’
‘No, everything went for the sale.’ Try as she would, Christina could not keep that note of desolation completely out of her voice.
‘Then perhaps you know of some more comfortable surroundings where we could talk—where there will not be so many memories, hein?’
Christina paused. She could see absolutely no reason why this old friend of Aunt Grace should want to talk to her, apart from sheer kindness of heart in wishing to comfort her in her bereavement. But this she could not quite believe, although she would have been at a loss to explain why. The strongest impression she got from Mrs Brandon was one of cool self-containment. It was hard to imagine her wasting time on meaningless gestures of sympathy. She wondered why she had come now instead of for the funeral, and who had informed her of Aunt Grace’s death in the first place. She had had the task of passing on the sad news to Aunt Grace’s friends and acquaintances and she knew quite well she had not written to anyone called Brandon. Perhaps Mrs Brandon was here at the auction because she too had wished to buy some last souvenir of her friend, but again this seemed to be out of character.
But why am I saying that? she thought, appalled. I’ve only just met her. She’s a stranger to me. I shouldn’t be attributing motives or anything else to her on first meeting.
She smiled over-brightly, trying to compensate for her own guilty feelings.
‘There is the place where I’m staying,’ she said, a trace of doubt creeping into her voice. Somehow she could not visualise Marcelle Brandon among the faded tapestry covers and mock horse brasses of Mrs Thurston’s sitting room at the Bay Horse.
‘But that would be ideal,’ her visitor said smoothly, scooping up Christina’s mental arguments and dismissing them before they could find utterance. ‘Perhaps there might also be some coffee.’
‘I’m not sure about that,’ Christina admitted. ‘There’ll certainly be tea.’
And tea there was, accompanied by some rather powdery scones. Marcelle Brandon appeared to bear up philosophically under this, but Christina noticed that she barely touched her cup and merely crumbled one of the scones on her plate. Although she had said she wanted to talk, she seemed in no hurry to break the silence that had sprung up between them. She seemed, Christina thought idly, a thousand miles away, her mind fixed on some interior vision, not altogether pleasant. Then she reproached herself for an over-active imagination. After all, this woman had been a close friend of her godmother’s. It was natural that she should seem a little withdrawn. It could not be a happy experience for her to be here now, knowing that they would never meet again.
She cleared her throat. ‘You were very fond of my godmother, madame?’
Mrs Brandon seemed to return with a start to her present surroundings. She lifted one elegantly shaped eyebrow. ‘Naturellement, or I should hardly be here.’
‘No.’ Christina flushed slightly. Then she took her courage in both hands. ‘Forgive me, madame, but I don’t really understand why you have come.’ She swallowed. ‘I—I suppose it’s none of my business, but …’
But the half-expected snub was not forthcoming. Instead Mrs Brandon smiled slightly.
‘Au contraire. It is precisely on your business that I have come. Your godmother wrote to me when she first suspected she might be seriously ill. She never mentioned this to you? No, I thought not. She was concerned as to what might become of you when she died as she was aware that any financial provision she might make in her will would in all probability be contested in the courts, and this would be both costly and unpleasant for you. Her niece—is it not?—plainly resented you already and would have accused you of exerting undue influence on your godmother if she had made you a bequest as she wished.’
Christina nodded dully. ‘Mrs Webster doesn’t like me—not that we’ve met very often. She hardly came near Aunt Grace when she was alive …’ She paused, aware that she might be giving away too much, but Mrs Brandon gave an understanding nod.
‘You are very young, ma chère—Christina, is it not? And you do not yet fully comprehend the way of the world.’
‘If it’s the Websters’ way, I don’t think I want to comprehend it,’ Christina flashed back, then bit her lip.
Mrs Brandon laughed and leaned back in her chair, taking a cigarette from her bag and fitting it into a silver holder. ‘Bon,’ she approved, a little mockingly. ‘I am glad you are not wholly lacking in spirit. You are such a little pale thing. I did not expect …’ She broke off and lit her cigarette. Blowing out a cloud of fragrant smoke, she regarded Christina through half-closed eyes. ‘Tell me, ma chère, what plans have you made? You cannot, one would imagine, intend to stay here?’
‘Oh, no.’ Christina shook her head. ‘That—that would be out of the question, even if I wanted to. I have to get a job.’
‘Very commendable. Have you anything in mind?’
Christina hesitated. It was humiliating to have to admit the truth—that with her lack of qualification she would have to take what she could get and be thankful.
‘Because, if not, I have a plan to put to you,’ Mrs Brandon continued as if she had not noticed the awkward little pause. ‘I myself am looking for a secretary/companion and I think you would suit me very well, if you were willing.’
Christina set her tea cup back on the tray with a hand that shook slightly.
‘It’s very kind of you, madame,’ she said quietly. ‘But I’m sure I’ll be able to find something. I—I don’t need charity, however kindly meant.’
‘You think I offer charity? Then you do not know me very well. I do not offer a sinecure, my child. I suffer from arthritis, as you have seen, and I am not a patient sufferer—my temper has never been of the sweetest. Also there is the isolation. We have none of the entertainments or amusements that young people of your age seem to expect nowadays—no discothèques or night clubs.’
In spite of herself, Christina had to smile. ‘I should hardly miss that kind of thing,’ she returned drily. ‘The Swinging Seventies seem to have passed me by up to now.’ She sent the older woman an inquiring glance. ‘You say your home is isolated, madame? Where do you live? I gather it’s somewhere in France, but …’
Mrs Brandon shook her head. ‘I have never lived in France. I was born, as was Madeleine, my sister, on Martinique in the West Indies. We both attended a convent school in England, and that was where we met your godmother. When I married, I went to live on Ste Victoire, another island, though not so large as Martinique and belonging to the British. In fact, my husband and his brother, who is now dead, owned the greater part of it, and our family still lives at Archangel.’
‘Archangel?’ Christina’s face was alive with interest. ‘What an unusual name for a house.’
‘Yes—and the story behind it is also unusual. It is not merely a house, you understand. There is also a plantation. And because so much of it is private property, Ste Victoire has not been developed and spoiled as so many others have been. I think you would like it there.’
Christina swallowed hard, trying to hold on to reality. Was this really happening to her? Was she actually