Devil In Velvet

‘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 aid of a notebook and pencil, jotted down the items she thought they might need. But even that became too much of an effort after a while, and she allowed the pencil to fall from her hand and stretched out lazily. Not even a breeze stirred the trees in the lane, and the silence was broken only by the occasional sounds of birds and insects, and the soft babbling of the stream.

Unfortunately, with time on her hands, her thoughts turned irresistibly to André Laroche, and the amazing coincidence of his owning this house. Perhaps it was as well she had not probed more deeply into its history or she might never have come here at all.

Unwillingly, her mind drifted back to her first encounter with the man who was to have such a destructive influence on her life. Eight years ago, she had been eighteen and on her first buying trip with Charles Hockney in Paris. She had been thrilled at the experience of handling items which hitherto she had only read about, and their visits to the various salerooms had revealed a wealth of beauty and craftsmanship even to her uneducated eyes. Perhaps that was when she had first conceived her love of porcelain—when she held a pair of exquisite Mennecy figures in her hands, and learned to distinguish the marks of the Duc de Villeroy, the factory’s founder—or was it simply that afterwards she remembered every detail of that trip with an exactitude that far outweighed its importance?

Whatever the truth might be, she could still recall standing beside Charles at the back of the saleroom in the Place St Germain, watching the auctioneer at work. She had suddenly become aware that someone was watching her, and although Charles thought she was engrossed in the sale, she had turned her head and met the intent gaze of a man standing at the other side of the room. He was taller than many of the people there, lean and dark, with the kind of uneven features that are so much more attractive than bland good looks. Deep-set eyes, high cheekbones, a prominent nose, and a mouth that had a slightly cruel twist, she thought. She even remembered what he was wearing–a dark blue velvet suit and a matching silk shirt which on anyone else would have looked effeminate. Harriet had never encountered anyone like him before, and the way he was looking at her made her feel curiously weak inside, and just a little frightened. He wasn’t like the young men she was used to associating with, and he certainly wasn’t like Charles, who was plump and shortsighted, and inclined to baldness. She guessed this man was in his thirties, twenty years younger than Charles, with all the experience of a man who knows he is attractive to women.

Blind panic invaded her later when he made an excuse to speak to Charles—and through him to Harriet. But the panic had been unwarranted, she acknowledged now. He had been charming, fascinating, and so easy to talk to. He had asked her about her job and her ambitions, and how long she was staying in Paris, so that Harriet began to feel she really must be something special. She had left the saleroom in a state of euphoria which had only lasted as long as it took Charles to bring her down to earth again.

Then the following day he had telephoned her at the hotel, and she forgot Charles’ warnings and agreed to meet him for dinner that evening. Charles did not approve, but he could not forbid her to go, and even if he had, she thought she would probably have disobeyed him.

André took her to a restaurant in Montmartre, where they ate grilled lobster and Camembert, and Harriet drank more wine than she had ever done before. It crossed her mind that he might be trying to get her slightly drunk, but by then she was too bemused to do anything about it.