Devil At Archangel

Besides, she still had the rest of the day in front of her. She could catch the afternoon train to London perhaps and go round some of the agencies that Mrs Webster had mentioned. Perhaps in cases like hers, the personal approach was best. Anyway, time was growing short and she had to find some means of earning her living before her small savings ran out altogether. She had to shake herself out of this painful dream world and take up her life again. There was nothing here for her now, and maybe it had done her no harm to be convinced of the fact.

She took one last and rather sad look at the garden and turned away towards the door.

Then she saw that she was not alone and a startled involuntary ‘Oh!’ broke from her lips. She had not the slightest inkling of any approach, and there was something in the stance of the woman in the doorway that suggested rather uncomfortably to Christina that she had been there quietly for quite some time.

She was not a tall woman, but she had a definite presence, aided by the fact that she was exquisitely dressed in a hyacinth-blue Italian knitted suit. Her shoes and bag looked handmade, and she leaned on a slender ebony cane with a silver handle.

‘Miss Bennett?’ Her voice was calm and low-pitched with more than a trace of some foreign accent.

Christina hesitated for some reason that she could not herself have defined. Then ‘Yes,’ she acknowledged in a low voice. ‘But I’m afraid I don’t know …’

‘As you say, we have never met.’ The other woman smiled slowly, revealing white and even teeth. Yet I assure you, mademoiselle, that I do not in the least regard you as a stranger. In many ways, I feel we are old friends.’ She gave another faint smile at the bewildered expression on Christina’s face.

‘I see that I must explain myself more fully. I am Marcelle Brandon, mademoiselle. Did your godmother never speak of me to you?’

‘Never, as far as I can remember,’ Christina told her honestly. ‘You—you were a friend of hers?’

She found it difficult to credit in many ways even as she spoke. Aunt Grace had been so thoroughly English—never even journeying abroad as far as Christina knew. It was impossible to imagine how she could have struck up any kind of relationship with this rather exotic-looking stranger.

The other 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 being offered a job on a Caribbean island—something she had never contemplated even in her wildest dreams? But in spite of her inner excitement, a small voice of sanity still prevailed.

‘But why me? There must be hundreds of people far better qualified than I am who would give their eye teeth for a job like that?’

‘Not as many as you would think,’ Mrs Brandon returned. ‘As I have said, the island is very remote and has few of the glamorous trappings one associates with such a place. We lead quiet lives in privacy. This is not the Caribbean of the travel posters, I assure you. I should warn you too that there are many dangerous reefs around our shores, and that in stormy weather we are often cut off for weeks on end. We have learned to be self-sufficient, because we have had to be.’

Christina shook her head. ‘I still can’t really believe this is happening,’ she said rather quaintly. ‘Nor can I understand why you think I would be suitable. After all, you know hardly anything about me.’

‘I know sufficient,’ Mrs Brandon said quietly. ‘I know from her letters that Grace was most fond of you.’ She leaned forward and placed her hand over Christina’s. ‘Would it make any difference if I told you that it was your godmother’s dearest wish that you should come to me?’

‘No,’ Christina said unhappily. ‘Or—perhaps not in the way you might think. You see, madame, it is charity after all, and I don’t want that. I’ve got to learn to be independent. It’s very kind of you, and I’m sure Aunt Grace had the best of intentions, but I would hate to think I’d been—well—palmed off on to someone …’

‘What is this “palmed off"?’ Mrs Brandon’s tone was cold and she sat back in her chair again, her brows drawn together in a quelling frown. Her glance chilled Christina. ‘You leap to conclusions, my child. If anyone performs a charity, it will be you. A young fresh face to keep me company—young, willing feet to carry messages. You imagine you will not earn your salary? I promise you that you will. There are many lonely spinsters I could choose if I wished to be charitable. But I am a selfish old woman. I wish for someone decorative, and above all someone who will not bore me with a lot of sentimental chatter about past times I have no wish to remember. The young are so impatient generally. They wish the bright lights—the beach parties, and that I cannot offer. But you, I think, have learned the art of patience.’