another beautifully carved wardrobe.
I took a few steps in, across a well-worn oriental rug that partly covered the age-darkened burnished floorboards. When I turned to look at Jacqui I could feel the breadth of my own smile.
“I know,” she said. “It’s all like this. The whole house.” Standing in the doorway that connected our two rooms, she pointed sideways at another door set in the same wall. “That takes you back into the corridor. The bathroom’s at the far end. If you only need the toilet there’s a little washroom just beside the stairs.” She glanced at her mobile. “It’s just gone six o’clock. Claudine, if I recall correctly, likes to have aperitifs at seven. I think I might have a bath and tidy up, if that’s all right with you?”
“Of course.”
“You won’t mind being left alone a minute?”
“Jacqui, please. I’m not a child.”
“Right, then. I won’t be long.”
Alone, I faced the large round mirror hanging just above the fireplace. “I’m not a child,” I said again, to no one.
My reflection seemed prepared to back me up on that. I’d chosen my clothes carefully that morning, toning down my use of color so that even in a sweater and a pair of jeans, I nearly looked the part of a professional.
But Jacqui, in her briefing on our drive in from the airport, had assured me Claudine always dressed smartly for dinner. Not a custom that I’d ever understood, and since the food would taste the same no matter what I wore while eating it, I’d never seen the point.
I did, however, see the point of trying to convince my hostess I could do the job that I’d been sent to do. And that meant blending in. I knew the trick of that.
Deliberately I turned my back on what the mirror showed me, found my suitcase, and began to change.
* * *
Claudine Pelletier was studying my skirt.
It was one of my favorites, a rich voided velvet on silk chiffon, cut on the bias and wonderfully weighted to swirl round my ankles whenever I walked. I was sitting just now, facing Jacqui and Claudine across the round tea table in the salon on the ground floor—an elegant room lit by sconces and table lamps, with a piano between two tall French windows that faced out towards the front terrace and drive.
My cousin, as ever, was flawlessly dressed with each hair in its place, but it heartened me to see that Claudine appeared to have hair that, like mine, had a mind of its own. Hers was graying attractively, silver strands glittering under the lamplight amid the black, looking like nothing so much as the tinsel that sparkled on the little Christmas tree out in the entry hall.
I could see that tree from where I sat—the twin set of doors to the entry hall had been propped open—and if I turned and looked past Claudine’s shoulder I had a straight view through an open arch into the dining room, clear to the back of the house where another door set at an angle led into the kitchen. Denise had been back and forth twice through that door, setting out our aperitifs: sherry and slices of thin bread spread with pink pâté.
Claudine told me now, “It’s a very unusual color.”
It took me a moment to realize she meant my skirt, not the pâté.
She asked, “Is it violet or blue?”
I glanced down at the fabric. “It’s indigo. Blue.” I could name nearly all shades of blue. It was my favorite color; the color that made me feel centered and calm.
“Yes, I see.” Claudine nodded. “It’s lovely.” Her English was polished, and she used contractions and idioms with so much ease that I wondered if she’d lived or studied in England, but I didn’t ask her. I tried not to ask people too many questions, in case I asked ones they considered too personal.
I simply returned her smile, noticing for the first time that her brown eyes were youthful. That didn’t surprise me. Although she’d told Jacqui she’d just celebrated her sixty-third birthday, she looked ten years younger, her face full and all but
I took a few steps in, across a well-worn oriental rug that partly covered the age-darkened burnished floorboards. When I turned to look at Jacqui I could feel the breadth of my own smile.
“I know,” she said. “It’s all like this. The whole house.” Standing in the doorway that connected our two rooms, she pointed sideways at another door set in the same wall. “That takes you back into the corridor. The bathroom’s at the far end. If you only need the toilet there’s a little washroom just beside the stairs.” She glanced at her mobile. “It’s just gone six o’clock. Claudine, if I recall correctly, likes to have aperitifs at seven. I think I might have a bath and tidy up, if that’s all right with you?”
“Of course.”
“You won’t mind being left alone a minute?”
“Jacqui, please. I’m not a child.”
“Right, then. I won’t be long.”
Alone, I faced the large round mirror hanging just above the fireplace. “I’m not a child,” I said again, to no one.
My reflection seemed prepared to back me up on that. I’d chosen my clothes carefully that morning, toning down my use of color so that even in a sweater and a pair of jeans, I nearly looked the part of a professional.
But Jacqui, in her briefing on our drive in from the airport, had assured me Claudine always dressed smartly for dinner. Not a custom that I’d ever understood, and since the food would taste the same no matter what I wore while eating it, I’d never seen the point.
I did, however, see the point of trying to convince my hostess I could do the job that I’d been sent to do. And that meant blending in. I knew the trick of that.
Deliberately I turned my back on what the mirror showed me, found my suitcase, and began to change.
* * *
Claudine Pelletier was studying my skirt.
It was one of my favorites, a rich voided velvet on silk chiffon, cut on the bias and wonderfully weighted to swirl round my ankles whenever I walked. I was sitting just now, facing Jacqui and Claudine across the round tea table in the salon on the ground floor—an elegant room lit by sconces and table lamps, with a piano between two tall French windows that faced out towards the front terrace and drive.
My cousin, as ever, was flawlessly dressed with each hair in its place, but it heartened me to see that Claudine appeared to have hair that, like mine, had a mind of its own. Hers was graying attractively, silver strands glittering under the lamplight amid the black, looking like nothing so much as the tinsel that sparkled on the little Christmas tree out in the entry hall.
I could see that tree from where I sat—the twin set of doors to the entry hall had been propped open—and if I turned and looked past Claudine’s shoulder I had a straight view through an open arch into the dining room, clear to the back of the house where another door set at an angle led into the kitchen. Denise had been back and forth twice through that door, setting out our aperitifs: sherry and slices of thin bread spread with pink pâté.
Claudine told me now, “It’s a very unusual color.”
It took me a moment to realize she meant my skirt, not the pâté.
She asked, “Is it violet or blue?”
I glanced down at the fabric. “It’s indigo. Blue.” I could name nearly all shades of blue. It was my favorite color; the color that made me feel centered and calm.
“Yes, I see.” Claudine nodded. “It’s lovely.” Her English was polished, and she used contractions and idioms with so much ease that I wondered if she’d lived or studied in England, but I didn’t ask her. I tried not to ask people too many questions, in case I asked ones they considered too personal.
I simply returned her smile, noticing for the first time that her brown eyes were youthful. That didn’t surprise me. Although she’d told Jacqui she’d just celebrated her sixty-third birthday, she looked ten years younger, her face full and all but
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