as a child? Sabine hummed the tune, then sang the words under her breath. ‘Auprès de ma blonde, il fait bon, fait bon, fait bon Auprès de ma blonde, il fait bon dormir.’
A most unsuitable thing to teach a child, Miss Russell had always said disapprovingly. But it had just been part of Isabelle’s patient determination to make Sabine as bilingual as possible.
‘You have French blood. You must take pride in speaking our beautiful language,’ she had told the little girl more than once. And songs, even faintly risqué ones about blondes, had been part of the learning process.
Isabelle had been blonde herself, of course, her eyes as dark as brown pansies, in startling contrast to her pale hair and creamy skin.
Sabine had inherited her mother’s fair hair, and wore it sleekly cut in a similar straight bob, swinging almost to her shoulders. She was the same medium height too, with the lithe slenderness which had also characterised Isabelle. But her eyes were greyish-green, and her oval face had charm, rather than the outright beauty which her mother had possessed.
She had always tried to emulate Isabelle, too, in buying the best clothes she could afford, and keeping them in pristine condition, making sure she was well-groomed at all times.
Ruth Russell had claimed her sister-in-law had no class, yet Isabelle could achieve the kind of casual chic which made every other woman around her look dowdy. Probably that had been one of the things which Aunt Ruth, who had little dress sense, so disliked about her.
She stood absently fingering the jars and brushes on the dressing-table. Even when Hugh Russell’s attitude towards her had begun to change it had never occurred to her to doubt her parentage for a moment. She’d always believed in the strength of her parents’ marriage, the power of its mutual affection. Now she had to face the fact that it could all have been a sham.
Isabelle had loved another man—had given herself to him with disastrous consequences—and here was Sabine, the living proof, the cuckoo in the conventional Russell family nest.
She wondered if Hugh Russell had ever hinted that his wife should have her baby adopted. According to Miss Russell, Isabelle had forced him to treat her child as his own—had even made it a condition of their marriage.
He had loved her, Sabine thought, but how had she felt about him? Was it love or simply gratitude because he had offered her a safe haven? She would never know.
Biting her lip, Sabine walked over to the wardrobe, and flung open its door. They were still hanging there on their plastic covers—the classic suits, the dateless dresses, with the shoes, always plain courts, racked neatly beneath them.
She lifted down the big suitcase from the top of the wardrobe, and, placing it on the bed, began to fill it, folding the garments as carefully as Isabelle would have done.
At times, a faint remembrance of the scent her mother used to wear drifted up from the folds of the clothing. That was the most personally evocative thing of all, Sabine thought, wincing, and she could understand why Hugh had always shied away from clearing out his wife’s things. It was interesting too, she realised, that he’d never allowed his sister to dispose of them either.
But then, he wouldn’t have wanted to see Isabelle’s treasured possessions grimly thrust into bin-bags and left outside for collection.
It took nearly an hour for her to empty the wardrobe and dressing-table. She didn’t hurry, using the time to do some serious thinking. It occurred to her for the first time that there were a couple of curious anomalies in her childhood.
Firstly, although Isabelle had kindled her love for foreign languages by teaching her their own native tongue, at the same time she’d been strangely reticent about her own life. When Sabine asked about France and French life, Isabelle had talked exclusively about Paris where she’d trained as a commercial artist. For that reason, Sabine had always assumed that her mother was a Parisienne by birth.
But assumptions, as she’d discovered that day, could be dangerous, and Isabelle had never actually stated where she was born. She’d never spoken about family either. Sabine had asked if she had any grandparents in France, or any other uncles and aunts. It seemed unjust if she was saddled with Aunt Ruth alone, but Isabelle had said there was no one, adding, ‘Hélas.’
The other odd thing, she realised, was that they’d never been on holiday to France. Nor could she recollect that it had ever been suggested they should do so. It was as if the subject had been taboo.
Yet they’d been to Spain, Italy and Greece time after time, and surely it would have been natural for Isabelle to want to show off the country of her birth.
Why did I never think of this before? she wondered blankly. Presumably because I was too young, and because life was so full in other ways that I never had time or any real reason to question it.
She’d left the top dressing-table drawer until last. It still contained a handful of cosmetics, and, at the very back, her mother’s suede jewellery case. Sabine extracted it gently. Her mother had been quite specific about it. ‘My jewellery case and all its contents to my daughter Sabine’, her will had read, with the added proviso that the bequest should only take place after Hugh Russell’s own death. Maman’s perception had probably told how impossible it would be for him to part with any of her things in his lifetime.
In fact, there was very little inside the case, just her watch, a few pairs of earrings, and her cultured pearl necklace. The tray didn’t fit very well, she noticed, and when she lifted it out she discovered why. Under it was a small flat package wrapped in yellowing tissue paper.
Sabine removed the paper carefully, trying not to tear it, feeling in many ways like an intruder. An oval silver medallion and chain slid into her hand, and she studied it, frowning. She knew all Isabelle’s small store of jewellery, and she’d certainly never seen this before, although she had to admit it was a beautiful thing. Moreover, it looked old, and by its weight in her hand could also be valuable. And equally clearly, concealed in the base of the box, it had not been for public view.
There was some kind of engraving on the medallion, and she took it over to the window for a closer look. The design wasn’t very clear, but she could just make out a building shaped like a tower, she thought, tracing the outline with her fingertip, and beneath it a flower which might or might not be a rose.
Sabine looked at it for a long moment, aware of a faint stirring in her consciousness, some elusive memory, fleetingly brought to life. But as she reached for it, tried to bring it into sharper focus, it was gone. Just another unanswered question, she acknowledged with a small sigh, as she re-wrapped it.
She was about to replace it when she noticed that the satin lining in the bottom of the case had been torn away from one edge, and stitched back into place with large clumsy stitches.
Not Maman’s style at all, she thought, frowning. I wonder when that happened?
She ran her fingers over the base, finding an unexpected bulkiness. There was something there—under the lining. She found a pair of nail scissors and cut the stitches.
The something was an elderly manila envelope, secured with a rubber band.
Slowly Sabine opened it, and emptied the contents on to the dressing-table. A latch-key attached to a ring in the shape of a small enamelled owl fell out first to be followed by a thin folder of photographs, a picture postcard, a label from a wine bottle, and, lastly, some kind of official document in French.
It
