Almost Gone

CHAPTER EIGHT

Cassie held her breath as Margot’s angry footsteps retreated down the passage. Glancing around the table, she saw she wasn’t the only one shocked into silence by the blonde woman’s vicious outburst. Marc’s eyes were saucer-wide and his mouth was tightly closed. Ella was sucking her thumb. Antoinette was scowling in wordless fury.

With a muttered oath, Pierre pushed back his chair.

“I’ll deal with it,” he said, striding to the door. “Put the children to bed.”

Relieved to have a job to do, Cassie stood up, glancing at the plates and dishes littering the table. Should she clear the table, or ask the children to help? Tension hung in the air as thick as smoke. She wished for a normal, everyday family activity like washing up to help dissolve it.

Antoinette saw the direction of her gaze.

“Leave everything,” she snapped. “Someone clears up later.”

Forcing cheerfulness into her tone, Cassie said, “Well, then, it’s bedtime.”

“I don’t want to go to bed,” Marc protested, swinging his chair back. As the chair overbalanced he screamed in mock fright, grabbing at the tablecloth. Cassie leaped to his rescue. She was fast enough to stop the chair from falling over, but too late to prevent Marc upsetting two of the glasses and sending a plate crashing to the floor.

“Upstairs,” she ordered, trying to sound stern, but her voice was high and unsteady with exhaustion.

“I want to go outside,” Marc announced, sprinting toward the French doors. Remembering how he’d outrun her in the forest, Cassie dove after him. He’d already unlocked the door by the time she caught up, but she was able to grab him and stop him from opening it. She saw their reflections in the dark glass. The young boy with his rebellious hair and unrepentant expression—and herself. Her fingers clutching his shoulders, eyes wide and anxious, face sheet-white.

Seeing herself in that unexpected moment made her realize how badly she’d failed in her duties so far. It had been a full day since she’d arrived, and not for one minute had she been in charge. She was fooling herself if she thought otherwise. Her expectations of fitting in with the family and being loved, or at least liked, by the children could not have been more unrealistic. They didn’t have a shred of respect for her, and she had no idea how she could change things.

“Bedtime,” she repeated wearily. Keeping her left hand firmly on Marc’s shoulder, she removed the key from the lock. Noticing a hook high on the wall, she reached up and hung it there. She marched Marc upstairs without letting go. Ella trotted alongside and Antoinette trailed despondently behind, slamming her bedroom door without so much as a good night.

“Do you want me to read you a story?” she asked Marc, but he shook his head.

“All right. Into bed, then. You can get up early tomorrow and play with your soldiers if you go to sleep now.”

It was the only incentive she could think of but it seemed to work; or maybe tiredness had finally caught up with the young boy. At any rate, to her relief, he did as she asked. She pulled the duvet up, noticing her hands were trembling from sheer exhaustion. If he made another break for freedom she knew she would burst into tears. She wasn’t convinced that he would stay in bed, but for now, at least, her job was done.

“I want a story.” Ella tugged her arm. “Will you read me one?”

“Of course.” Cassie walked to her bedroom and chose a book from the small selection on the shelf. Ella jumped into bed, bouncing on the mattress with excitement, and Cassie wondered how often she’d been read to in the past, because it didn’t seem to be a customary part of her routine. Although, she supposed, there wasn’t much about Ella’s childhood that had been normal so far.

She read the shortest story she could find, only to have Ella insist on a second one. The words were swimming in front of her eyes by the time she reached the end and closed the book. Looking up, Cassie saw to her relief that the reading had soothed Ella, and she was finally asleep.

She turned off the lamp and closed the door. Walking back down the corridor, she checked on Marc, keeping as quiet as she could. Thankfully, the room was still dark and she could hear soft breathing.

When she opened Antoinette’s door, the light was on. Antoinette was sitting up in bed scribbling notes in a pink-covered book.

“You knock before coming in,” she chastised Cassie. “It is a rule.”

“I’m sorry. I promise I’ll do that from now on,” Cassie apologized. She dreaded that Antoinette would escalate the broken rule into an argument, but instead she turned back to her notebook, writing a few more words before closing it.

“Are you finishing off homework?” Cassie asked, surprised because Antoinette didn’t seem like a person who’d put things off till the last minute. Her room was immaculate. The clothes she’d taken off earlier were folded in the laundry basket, and her school bag, neatly packed, was set under a perfectly tidy white desk.

She wondered whether Antoinette felt as if her life was lacking control, and was trying to exert it in her immediate environment. Or maybe, since the dark-haired girl had made it clear she resented the presence of an au pair, she was trying to prove she didn’t need anyone to take care of her.

“My homework is done. I was writing in my personal diary,” Antoinette told her.

“Do you do that every night?”

“I do it when I am angry.” She placed the lid back on her pen.

“I’m sorry about what happened tonight,” Cassie sympathized, feeling as if she were treading on ice that might shatter at any moment.

“Margot hates me and I hate her,” Antoinette said, her voice trembling slightly.

“No, I don’t think that’s true,” Cassie protested, but Antoinette shook her head.

“It is true. I hate her. I wish she was dead. She’s said things like that before. It makes me so angry I could kill her.”

Cassie stared at her in shock.

It wasn’t only Antoinette’s words, but the calm way she spoke them, that chilled her. She had no idea how she should respond. Was it even normal for a twelve-year-old to have these murderous thoughts? Antoinette should surely be helped to manage this anger by somebody better qualified. A counselor, a psychologist, even a parish priest.

Well, in the absence of anyone competent, she guessed she was the only one available.

Cassie sifted through her own memories, trying to remember what she’d said and done at that age. How she’d reacted and what she’d felt when her own situation had spiraled out of control. Had she ever wanted to kill anybody?

She suddenly remembered one of her dad’s girlfriends, Elaine, a blonde with long red fingernails and a high, shrieking laugh. They’d hated each other on sight. During the six months that Elaine had been on the scene, Cassie had loathed her with a vengeance. She couldn’t remember wishing her dead, but she’d definitely wished her gone.

Probably this was the same thing. Antoinette was being more outspoken, that was all.

“What Margot said wasn’t fair in the least,” Cassie agreed, because it hadn’t been. “But people say things in anger they don’t mean.”

Of course, they also came out with the truth when they were angry but she wasn’t going to go down that road.

“Oh, she meant it,” Antoinette assured her. She was fidgeting with the pen, twisting its lid violently from side to side.

“And Papa always takes her side now. He thinks only of her and never of us. It was different when my mother was alive.”

Cassie nodded sympathetically. This, too, was her experience.

“I know,” she said.

“How do you know?” Antoinette looked up at her curiously.

“My mother died when I was young. My father also brought new girlfriends—er, I mean a new fiancée—into the house. It caused a lot of clashes and hostilities. They disliked me, I disliked them. Luckily I had an older sister.”

Hastily Cassie corrected herself again.

“I have an older sister, Jacqui. She stood up to my dad and helped protect me when there were fights.”

Antoinette nodded in agreement.

“You took my side tonight. Nobody has done that before. Thank you for doing that.”