The Devil at Archangel (2 page)

Certainly she had always been quite encouraging when any of the

local young men showed even a random interest in Christina. But

such dates as she had had were few and far between. Christina had

felt uncomfortably on several occasions as though her escorts were

doing her some kind of favour, and she would not have been human if

she had not resented this. After all, her mirror showed that she was

not unattractive with her long straight fall of honey-blonde hair, and

her thickly lashed grey-green eyes. In deference to Aunt Grace's

stated preferences, she had never worn extravagantly trendy clothes

and she had wondered sometimes whether outsiders considered her

dowdy.

Since Aunt Grace's death, it had occurred to her that the attitude of

some of the boys who had dated her might have sprung from the fact

that they knew how poor her financial prospects were. It was an

unpleasant thought, but it had to be faced. Many of the local families

were well-to- do and would expect any future daughter-in-law to be

drawn from approximately the same financial background and social

standing as themselves. They might be kind, but they would not lose

sight of the fact that she was only Aunt Grace's companion.

It was a depressing thought and one she did not feel too inclined to

pursue. She glanced at her wristwatch. The sale was barely half over

as yet, but she thought it might be best if she slipped away. For one

thing, she wanted to avoid another encounter with the Websters, who

would be bound to inquire in carrying voices if she had managed to

find another job yet. Christina sighed. She did not want to have to

admit the humiliating truth—that her few diffident applications for

posts so far had not even reached the stage of being invited for an

interview.

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 Mar- celle 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, l and who had

informed her of Aunt Grace's death in the I 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 I too had wished to buy some last souvenir of her friend,

but 1 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 I 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 1 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 chere
—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 riot 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 chere,
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 discotheques 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