Almost Gone. Ophelia Night
the email when I was in town. The agency said the flight lands at four in the morning.” Turning to the ornate wooden hall table, she shoved a Venetian glass paperweight aside and brandished a page defensively. “Here. See?”
Pierre glanced at the page and sighed.
“It says four p.m. Not four a.m. The driver you booked obviously knew the difference, so here she is.” He turned to Cassie and held out his hand. “I am Pierre Dubois. This is my fiancée, Margot.”
He didn’t introduce the maid. Instead, Margot snapped at her to go and make up the room opposite the children’s bedrooms, and the maid hurried away.
“Where are the children? Are they in bed already? They should meet Cassie,” Pierre said.
Margot shook her head. “They were having supper.”
“So late? Did I not tell you that supper must be early on school nights? Even though they are on holiday, they should be in bed already to stay on schedule.”
Margot stared at him and shrugged angrily before walking over to the doorway on the right, stiletto heels clicking.
“Antoinette?” she called. “Ella? Marc?”
She was rewarded by a thunder of feet and loud cries.
A dark-haired boy sprinted into the foyer, clutching a doll by her hair. He was closely pursued by a younger, chubby girl in a flood of tears.
“Give my Barbie back!” she screamed.
Skidding to a stop as he saw the adults, the boy made a dash for the staircase. As he hurtled toward it, his shoulder caught the curved side of a large blue and gold vase.
Cassie clapped her hands over her mouth in horror as the vase teetered on its plinth, then crashed to the floor where it shattered. Shards of colorful glass spilled across the dark wooden boards.
The shocked silence was broken by Pierre’s enraged bellow.
“Marc! Give Ella her doll.”
Feet dragging, lower lip jutting, Marc shuffled back past the wreckage. Reluctantly he handed the doll to Pierre, who passed it to Ella. Her sobbing subsided as she smoothed the doll’s hair.
“That was a Durand art glass vase,” Margot hissed at the young boy. “Antique. Irreplaceable. Do you have no respect for your father’s possessions?”
A sullen silence was the only response.
“Where is Antoinette?” Pierre asked, sounding frustrated.
Margot glanced up and, following her gaze, Cassie saw a slim, dark-haired girl at the top of the stairs—she looked to be the eldest of the three by a few years. Elegantly dressed in a perfectly ironed frock, she waited with a hand on the balustrade until she had the family’s full attention. Then, chin high, she descended.
Anxious to make a good impression, Cassie cleared her throat and attempted a friendly greeting.
“Hello, children. My name’s Cassie. I’m so pleased to be here, and happy to be looking after you.”
Ella smiled shyly in return. Marc glared unrelentingly at the floor. And Antoinette met her gaze for a long, challenging moment. Then, without a word, she turned her back on her.
“If you will excuse me, Papa,” she said to Pierre. “I have homework to finish before bedtime.”
“Of course,” Pierre said, and Antoinette flounced upstairs again.
Cassie felt her face flame with embarrassment at the deliberate snub. She wondered if she should say something, make light of the situation or try to excuse Antoinette’s rude behavior, but she was unable to think of suitable words.
Margot muttered furiously, “I told you, Pierre. The teenage moods are starting already,” and Cassie realized that she hadn’t been the only one Antoinette had ignored.
“At least she was doing her homework, despite nobody helping her with it,” Pierre countered. “Ella, Marc, why don’t you both introduce yourselves properly to Cassie?”
There was a short silence. Clearly, introductions weren’t going to happen without a fight. But perhaps she could ease the tension with a few questions.
“Well, Marc, I know your name but I’d like to find out how old you are,” she said.
“I’m eight,” he muttered.
Glancing between him and Pierre, she could see a definite family resemblance. The unruly hair, the strong chin, the bright blue eyes. Even the way they frowned was similar. The other children were also dark, but Ella and Antoinette had more delicate features.
“And Ella, what’s your age?”
“I am nearly six,” the small girl announced proudly. “My birthday is the day after Christmas.”
“That’s a good day to have a birthday. I hope it means you get lots of extra presents.”
Ella gave a surprised smile, as if this was an advantage she hadn’t yet considered.
“Antoinette is the oldest of all of us. She’s twelve,” she said.
Pierre clapped his hands. “Right, it’s bedtime now. Margot, will you show Cassie the house after you’ve put the children to bed. She will need to know her way around. Make it quick. We must leave by seven.”
“I still have to finish getting ready,” Margot replied in acid tones. “You can put the children to bed, and call a butler to clear up this mess. I will show Cassie the house.”
Pierre drew an angry breath before glancing at Cassie and pressing his lips together. She guessed her presence had made him swallow his words.
“Upstairs and into bed,” he said, and the two children followed him reluctantly up the staircase. She was heartened to see that Ella turned and gave her a small wave.
“Come with me, Cassie,” Margot ordered.
Cassie followed Margot through the doorway on the left and found herself in a formal lounge with exquisite, showpiece furniture, and tapestries lining the walls. The room was huge and chilly; there was no fire lit in the massive fireplace.
“This lounge is seldom used, and the children are not allowed in here. The main dining room is beyond—the same rules apply.”
Cassie wondered how often the massive mahogany dining table was used—it looked pristine and she counted sixteen high-backed chairs. Three more vases, similar to the one Marc had broken earlier, stood on the darkly polished sideboard. She couldn’t imagine happy dinner table conversation flowing in this austere and silent space.
What would it feel like growing up in such a house, where whole areas were off limits because of furnishings that could be damaged? She guessed that it might make a child feel as if they were less important than the furniture.
“This we call the Blue Room.” It was a smaller lounge, wallpapered in navy, with large French doors. Cassie guessed they opened out onto a patio or courtyard, but it was fully dark, and all she could see were the room’s dim lights reflected in the glass. She wished the house had higher-wattage globes—all the rooms were gloomy, with shadows lurking in the corners.
A sculpture caught her eye… the marble statue’s stand had been broken, so it lay face up on a table. Its features looked blank and immobile, as if the stone were coating a dead person’s face. Its limbs were chunky and rudely carved. Cassie shivered, looking away from the creepy sight.
“That is one of our most valuable pieces,” Margot informed her. “Marc knocked it over last week. We will have it repaired soon.”
Cassie thought about the young boy’s destructive energy and the way he had knocked his shoulder into the vase earlier. Had the action been totally accidental? Or had there been a subliminal desire to shatter the glass, to get himself noticed in a world where possessions seemed to take priority?
Margot led her back the way they had come. “The rooms down that passage are kept locked. The kitchen is this way, to the right, and beyond it are the servants’