Precious Things (4 page)

‘I'll start processing everything this afternoon, and our accountant should be able to deposit the money, minus our fees, first thing tomorrow morning,' Maggie told the woman briskly, sliding the papers across the table.

‘Thank God. I'll need it to pay the lawyers,' muttered Suzanne, eyeing Maggie as she scrawled her signature. Pointing a bony, accusatory finger at Maggie's left hand, she asked sourly, ‘Is that a wedding ring?'

‘Yes,' answered Maggie, glancing down at the bright citrine cocktail ring she and Tim had chosen together from a beautiful old antiques shop near St James.

‘How long have you been married then?' asked Suzanne, watching Maggie stand up and gather up all her things.

‘Nearly ten years,' Maggie said, loath to say much more.

‘Give it time. They all go looking in the end,' Suzanne said, raising her eyebrows in a way which made Maggie hate her.

Maggie turned away, ostensibly to allow one of the removalists struggling with a carved Indian wedding throne to move past, but also to hide her involuntary flicker of disgust.
Not Tim
, she told herself.
Please, may we never become as poisonous or bitter as the Wilkinsons.
Maggie cheered herself by remembering how lovely and patient Tim had been recently. Last weekend, when he'd seen how stressed she was about preparing for today's special auction, he'd taken the girls to the National Film Theatre for a matinee session, followed by a trip to the London Eye, just so she could go into work. ‘You're a prince among men,' Maggie had laughed, kissing him gratefully on the forehead. But she'd meant it, of course, because it was true.

Maggie checked her watch. If she left now, she could be back home by the time Tim and Pearl arrived. She might even be able to slip in twenty minutes in the bath first. A good, hot bath always seemed to help soothe her thoughts and shrug off the effects of a stressful day. And then she could sit down with Tim and talk about this promotion over a glass of red wine.

Maggie had the sudden urge to call her mother. This was exactly the sort of thing you were meant to share with your parents, she told herself – success at work, and news of a promotion. Without giving it a second thought, she picked up the phone.

‘Yes?' came her mother's voice, sharp through the handset. Maggie could just picture her, standing there in the old living room with a dissatisfied frown on her face.

‘Mum? Hi, it's me,' Maggie said.

‘Oh. Margaret. Why are you calling?'

‘Uh . . .' Maggie foundered, hearing her voice go small and feeling like she was twelve again. ‘I was just calling to say hi.'

‘That's nice,' said her mother, making it sound like it was the very opposite, ‘but now's not a good time. Your father's been up to his old tricks again, and who do you think is left to deal with the fallout? Me, of course. There's been three hang-ups this week. Every time I answer the phone. Well, I'll have him know I can't be treated like that . . .' Maggie listened as her mother went off on a rant about her father's failings, and by the time she hung up she was feeling more exhausted than she had all day.

Maggie pushed her chair away from her desk and rubbed her eyes. She picked up her bag, but her gaze fell upon the box Zac had brought in earlier. Impulsively Maggie dropped her bag by her desk. She had five minutes, she'd just take the quickest of looks. Really, the last thing she needed was more bits of material to take home, clean and mend, but she wasn't able to resist a piece of gorgeous vintage fabric. And there was that bench against the whitewashed wall in their courtyard at home, promising to look so lovely in the summertime if she tossed a heap of colourful cushions onto it . . .

Maggie sifted through the box, inspecting her haul. There was a length of paisley fabric but it was terribly stained in all but a few places. Still, she could probably salvage a few scraps for Pearl's quilt. And the yellowed length of lace she pulled out next would look gorgeous once it was a snowy white once again and draped over the velvet chair in her bedroom.

As she separated the contents of the box into piles of ‘save' and ‘bin', the dusky scent of patchouli permeated the air. Maggie could see now that the base of the box had something caught on its folded flaps. A greying piece of linen, all wadded up into a stiff-looking ball.
Remembering some of the horrors she'd discovered in job lots before – sad-looking prosthetics and fake teeth, food-stained napkins and once even a pair of horrible, well-worn Y-fronts – Maggie picked up a pencil from her desk and cautiously unhooked the crumpled piece of material.

She was just about to discard the grubby-looking thing to the bin pile when her eye was caught by a smattering of tarnished beads, dull and yellowed with age, glinting out from a monogrammed linen handkerchief. It was embroidered with the initials
A.F.
No, it was two items stuck together, Maggie realised, the monogrammed hankie caught up by the sharp edges of a dusty diamante. She sneezed.

Tossing the handkerchief into the save pile, Maggie pulled the chair closer to her desk to examine the beaded piece. She drew her desk light towards her then gently teased out the stiff folds and patted it into shape. She felt something shift inside her. A warm pulse quickened in her chest, and she found herself sitting up straighter to inspect the piece more closely. From the setting of the stones and material, the item looked to be either Victorian or Edwardian, and there was something . . . fascinating about it. Darkly alluring, almost, even in its ravaged state.

‘What are you?' she murmured out loud.

Was it a collar, a crown, or possibly even a belt for a wasp-waisted woman? Maggie wasn't sure. The piece glimmered mutely at her from her desk, as though holding fast to its secrets.
Intriguing
, Maggie thought, knowing she should be leaving now to go home, but unable to stop staring, willing it to yield up more information . . .
Go on, tell me something
, she thought, waiting. And then chided herself; she really was being silly. But it seemed somehow . . . alive, almost.

Finally, Maggie tore her eyes away and dropped the thing into a Ziploc bag, before stuffing it deep inside her tote.
I'll play with you later
, she thought.

Maggie scooped up her laptop and a few files, then gathered up her bag and coat, before switching off the light with a decisive snap
.

AIMÉE: Normandy, 1891

‘No, Aimée, it's too cold, you'll catch your death. Think of your lungs. You're still too fragile for such a journey.' Her father folded himself inside the coarse grey greatcoat he always wore on visits to town. Waxed moustache hairs twitched at the corner of his lip – Aimée could tell he was eager to be gone.

‘Besides, you have your special project.' Father patted her on the cheek, referring to her sewing, the only pastime of which he seemed to approve. ‘Faustine tells me it's not yet complete. Not long to go now.' He meant the collar, to be attached to Maman's wedding dress. It was the final flourish for her dowry, the ceremony to be held in a day's time. ‘Your parlour will be warmer. Stay there, my dear.'

‘Yes, Father.' Aimée kept her hands locked behind her back so he couldn't see her bitten nails – she knew how much he hated that.

Gaston opened the heavy door for him, and Aimée braced herself against the rush of cold air, feeling an involuntary shiver course through her. Dismissing her without another word, her father went down the stone steps to the waiting carriage. The door slammed shut. Standing in the draughty hallway, Aimée cursed her meekness under her breath, aware that Gaston's eyes were still on her. Her cheeks burned at the thought of his gaze, and how he had seen the patronising way Father patted her cheek. There was little, if anything, left of the chest infection she had caught last winter. It was just another of his excuses, his need always to control her. She had caught a glimpse of the wedge of landscape in the open door beyond Father's shoulder – frost dusting the fields and a clear, crisp
morning sky – a perfect day. She could almost cry with frustration at being stuck inside.

Turning away from the door, Aimée caught Gaston's eye in a rare moment of boldness and thought she saw the slightest hint of complicity in his small smile. She paused for a moment, then dropped her head. Walking back towards the stairs, she caught sight of herself in the ornate hall mirror.
What a fright!
she thought, scowling back at her reflection as she would have liked to scowl at Father.

Lifting up her skirts, she walked up the stone staircase with a heavy sigh. But Father was right, she supposed – there was still so much to do.

In her private sitting room, with a fire crackling in the grate, Aimée had to talk herself into picking up her needle and thread. It would help if she had someone to confide in, someone to talk to, but what chance had she ever had to develop a friendship?

Even Faustine is Father's creature
, she thought, watching the pretty young maidservant deposit a tray of hot chocolate and madeleine biscuits on a side table before silently closing the door behind her. Aimée felt a flush of jealousy towards the maid. For her freedom, and the loose red curls and freckles which made her look so much younger and fresher than Aimée felt.

Perhaps marriage would change things for her. Hope fluttered inside her chest, but was soon quashed by darker thoughts . . . Unless Bernard turned out to be the same as Father. And why would he be any different? Aimée told herself firmly to behave. She picked up the collar.
If I keep thinking like this
, she told herself,
I will go mad . . .

Pricking her finger on the needle, Aimée sucked at the blood seeping from the stinging puncture and noticed the small stain smearing the fabric beneath.

‘Perfect,' she muttered to herself.

Aimée felt the hot anger bubbling up inside her. She was held so firmly within the confines of the estate, she always felt as tense and tightly wound as a spring. She yearned to go outside. But somehow Father's firmness – his aloof, controlling nature hidden in the guise of care – always had the capacity to undo her. It scattered her resolve as easily as dandelion seeds in a breeze. When Father made his pronouncements, they may as well have been set in stone. So when he said, ‘Bernard Montfort has asked for your hand in marriage, I accepted on your behalf,' the sound of his voice was drowned out by a rushing in her ears.

Father continued. ‘Your union is the best solution for our . . . difficulties. And Bernard will enjoy the benefits of continuing our esteemed name. He's not from a fine family, but he's amassed a good fortune in his forty-some years. And you shall live in the luxury once common for all de la Coursignons. You, my dear, will save this estate.'

She heard herself make a sound in response, her mind fumbling for the words. When he frowned, she realised she'd not yet said anything intelligible. She tried again.

‘Thank you, Father.' Aimée's heart sank to the pit of her stomach, where even now it remained.

The sun rose and fell through the bay windows and clouds scudded across the sky. Faustine came and went, bearing lunch on a tray and then, later, afternoon tea. Aimée steadily worked on, and as Faustine slipped out with the latest set of untouched plates, she sat back, aware she was almost finished. Her skull ached, and a twisted sheet of tension unfurled across her right shoulder. She realised she'd been sitting here for much of the day, hunched over her sewing. The light had leached from the enclosed sitting room and the window framed a sky the pale purple of a bruise.

Aimée longed to be breathing in the cold air outside, drawing it deep into her lungs. She could almost feel the wind gusting around her as she galloped along. But there was very little chance left for riding today.
Maybe never again
, she told herself, feeling suddenly bleak.
Unless Bernard approves.

When Aimée thought of Bernard, her husband-to-be, all she could identify was a deep quiver within her, like an instrument's strings being plucked for tuning. She tried capturing the sensation before it dissipated. Bernard's earnest features inspired a deep stony dread within her belly, but something else as well . . . She couldn't quite put her finger on it. They'd only met a few times: when he had arrived with Father at the estate one day and had been introduced to her, then at a deathly dull dinner Father had held, and the third time, just the day before, when he had called upon her alone. They had walked silently alongside each other up the poplar-lined drive, passing Gaston as he returned from town with the mail. The valet's eyes had met Aimée's for a moment, and she had felt her usual involuntary reaction – a flush, a catching of breath. Gaston had only arrived at the château recently, but Aimée had felt an inexorable pull towards him from his very first day, as though he were a dark star steadily drawing her towards him.

Aimée closed her eyes momentarily, seeing again that flash of olive-skinned neck, where his dark curls met a starched white collar. Her instinct was to expose and claim it with a furtive, cat-like lick. His scent as he'd passed by was a mixture of sweat and lanolin and some rich, unidentified spice which seemed to have invaded her very being.

‘That's your father's new servant, is it not?' Bernard had asked, looking over his shoulder.

‘Gaston,' she said, the valet's name lingering upon her tongue.

‘Your father speaks highly of him. Says he's the master of discretion.'

Flustered, Aimée dropped her glove on the ground. They both looked at it for a moment, then Bernard bent to retrieve it. Aimée glanced at the ruddy, lined flesh on the back of his neck – the result of his years at sea, under harsh sunlight – and felt, rather than heard, the insistent thrum of a single played note inside her, growing ever more insistent. Straightening up, Bernard looked her in the eye as he handed the glove to her. Aimée lowered her gaze to his hand – large, with bony knuckles – and found herself with a sudden vision of her wedding night. But it was Gaston's long, slender fingers – not
Bernard's – that she saw stroking her beneath crisp linen sheets, lifting her nightgown . . . Aimée shuddered slightly. Although with excitement or revulsion, she couldn't tell. Bernard glanced away.

Father had explained to her that Bernard was a lieutenant with the Marine Marchande. Why he had never married before now, Aimée didn't know. She might be naïve, but she had heard the stories about sailors. Although he may very well ask the same question of her: by most people's standards, Aimée was too old to be married. Twenty-seven. Practically ancient. She was lucky to be marrying now, she knew. She'd overheard Faustine talking about her with the other maids, but had hastened away, unable to bear their false coos and sympathy.

Aimée's gaze fell away from the window. She looked down towards the collar, realising there was very little work left to complete. Picking it up again, she added several tiny seed-like beads. Then the last one. She tied off the hanging line of thread with a firm, fast knot, and used a pair of small embroidery scissors to snip off the excess.

There. It was finished.

Standing up, Aimée noted the numbness creeping along her thighs. She arched her back like the stray black cat that hung around the kitchens, mewling for scraps before being shooed away. She remained bent for a good few moments, teasing out the ache in her shoulders and neck by stretching further with each outward breath. She shook herself like a wild, free creature, then picked up the ornate collar with its glinting beads. She crossed over to the fireplace and lifted her handiwork up to her throat. Moving her head from side to side before the massive gilt mirror hanging above the mantelpiece, Aimée saw how the collar sparkled and shone in the lamplight. Originally she'd imagined a beaded ruff of sorts, a glittering adornment she could wear in place of jewels. Her father had kept all of her mother's jewellery after her death. Aimée had no idea what he'd done with it, but he hadn't offered any of it to her – not even when she'd become engaged. Not the rings, necklaces and bracelets, not even Maman's braided hair locket.

Yet in the late afternoon light, the finished collar looked different from the way she'd imagined it. Studying it now through half-closed lids, Aimée imagined the collar to be a brace or a trap, teeth sprung closed about her neck, choking out her breath. At the same time it was spectacular – her finest work yet. Shards of light reflected in the diamantes and beads as she moved, caressing the pearly surfaces. Glowing against the pale skin of her neck, it seemed to illuminate her from within.

It's beautiful
, Aimée thought.
Which is more than can be said for me
.

Feeling suffocated by the weight of the collar all of a sudden, she cast it on the mantel and instead examined herself in the mirror: the sharp nose set above thin lips, the bones jutting out from beneath her bodice. At least her skin was blessedly clear, if a little sallow.
So plain
,
apart from around the eyes
, she thought.
Certainly my best feature. Not as pretty as hers, but with that same sloe-eyed shape. Not for nothing was she called Amandine . . .

Aimée could still see Maman – those eyes, such mesmerising eyes – regarding her, but the smoke-haired beauty of her memories was long gone. Now she was just a shadow, flitting at the edges of her consciousness. Aimée's memories of Maman had faded when Father had removed her portrait from the hall. Had he destroyed it? Aimée never dared ask, much as she would have liked to hang it in her room. She had only been five when her mother died. Old enough to remember, but still too young to make any sense of it. She hadn't been able to comprehend the finality of death, asking Nounou incessantly when her mother would be coming back home.

The old familiar ache constricted in her chest. How different things might have been had Maman lived. What advice would she have given her for her marriage? Maman would never see her as a grown woman, never know what it was like to hold grandchildren in her arms. Aimée closed her eyes against tears.

I may be plain
, she thought, snatching up the collar again and moving away from the mirror,
but I'm clever with needle and thread, and sharper in more ways than they realise. Maman was too.
Nounou had told
her the stories. Beloved old Nounou, who had been Maman's nanny once too. How her mother had had so many suitors, but had chosen Father over all the men who pursued her. She admired Father's keen intelligence, Nounou said, shaking her head sadly.

Aimée longed to ask more about her parents, about what they'd been like when they were young, but the old woman had been gone for many years now. Aimée had been thirteen when Nounou had left, relinquishing her to Father's sole care. She had felt the loss like a sharp blow, and had found herself grieving two parents – Maman and Nounou. She had never known such emptiness. She'd believed then that Nounou had never really loved her. How could she have, and then left? Father had refused to discuss it, or speak about either of the women with her. Aimée had seen the alarm in his eyes at her tears.

Now in her darkening parlour, Aimée thought of all the hours she'd spent sewing. ‘The only proper occupation for a young lady of your class,' Father always said, nodding approvingly, when he saw her at work. Except it was different for Aimée. Most other women she knew, judging from the limited social calls Father let her go on, sewed together in fragrant, giggling groups, gossiping and laughing, trading confidences as easily as threads. Aimée was always on her own. Finishing and perfecting her skills in the utter silence that accompanied the grave.