and spend her time at Dalradnor and in London, having an extended holiday. Then at
Easter, she was to go to a finishing school, close to Marthe and André, in a château in West Flanders. It had been to her nursemaid that she poured out her heart when she found out the
truth. Marthe wrote back with kind words:
Knowing is better than guessing, and you must understand why Miss Faye would want to hide this unfortunate situation from Society. Don’t forget now you will know
your grandfather better, and Miss Verity sounds a sensible type. Remember she lost her only brother in the war. Sir Lionel is no longer a mysterious stranger, and he will guide you to prepare
you for a useful life. Learning languages is never wasted. If my parents had not fled to England in 1914, I would never have experienced life in another country or spoken English or had the
privilege of being your dear friend. Don’t be afraid to take risks in life.
Marthe always made things sound better, just like Primmy.
Aunt Phee did her best to smooth over the tensions between them, but at first she tried too hard, always checking on her. When she had a film part, it was much more relaxed as she had no time to
fuss, Then there was Aunt Maisie’s dancing school, where she spent the rest of her time.
Château Grooten lay north-west of Brussels, not far from Bruges, set in gracious parkland with a lake behind it. It was a spectacular fairy-tale French castle in pink stone. It had towers
and turrets, and wonderful dormer windows jutting out of the rooftops in what Callie knew now was Gothic style. There were graduated steps leading up to the entrance and a carved portico in white
stone, which glinted in the sunlight. It was a palace in miniature. Marthe, however, was not impressed. She had met her at the station and taken over from her escort. Callie stayed just for two
nights in their terraced house in Brussels and delighted in playing peep-o with little Mathilde, singing her the lullabies she could still recall from her own childhood days.
‘Isn’t this enormous? Callie exclaimed as they walked up the path from the bus stop.
‘It could all do with a fresh coat of paint, and the windows need vinegar,’ Marthe observed critically. ‘There are weeds on the gravel path. Are you sure this is the right
place?’
‘It belongs to the Countess van Grooten – yes, this is the house.’
‘If there’s a problem you must write to me and come back to us. I shall come in with you, just in case.’
Dear Marthe, she always made her feel so safe and so at ease. If only she felt like that with Phee, Callie thought.
They rang the bell and a petite woman of about fifty with an elegant chignon at the nape of her neck and a long string of heavy pearls opened the door.
‘Ah, I'Anglaise . . . entrez . . . et vous?’
She stared up at Marthe. ‘Your maid?’ she asked in English.
‘Mais non, je suis Madame Kortrik.
A friend of the family,’ Marthe added in English.
‘Belgique . . .?
’
‘Exactement .
. .’
The countess dismissed poor Marthe with a sniff and she made to leave, but not before she whispered in Callie’s ear in Flemish, ‘Beware of this dragon.’
Callie stood with her suitcase in the elaborately tiled hall, eyeing the silver armour and swords on the walls.
‘The other girls have all arrived. You are late. It is not polite to keep your hostess waiting. Go and unpack and we will meet in the dining room at five. I shall read the
rules.’
Callie had no time to do anything but struggle upstairs and find where the chattering she could hear was coming from. She found a huge bedroom with six iron bedsteads on bare floorboards, and
windows draped with silk curtains topped by an elaborate pelmet with frayed fringing dangling down. The room was faded and bare. The five girls, sitting on their beds, stared at her. They’d
left the bed nearest the draughts of the huge window for her.
‘I hope you’ve brought some warm clothes. It’s
Easter, she was to go to a finishing school, close to Marthe and André, in a château in West Flanders. It had been to her nursemaid that she poured out her heart when she found out the
truth. Marthe wrote back with kind words:
Knowing is better than guessing, and you must understand why Miss Faye would want to hide this unfortunate situation from Society. Don’t forget now you will know
your grandfather better, and Miss Verity sounds a sensible type. Remember she lost her only brother in the war. Sir Lionel is no longer a mysterious stranger, and he will guide you to prepare
you for a useful life. Learning languages is never wasted. If my parents had not fled to England in 1914, I would never have experienced life in another country or spoken English or had the
privilege of being your dear friend. Don’t be afraid to take risks in life.
Marthe always made things sound better, just like Primmy.
Aunt Phee did her best to smooth over the tensions between them, but at first she tried too hard, always checking on her. When she had a film part, it was much more relaxed as she had no time to
fuss, Then there was Aunt Maisie’s dancing school, where she spent the rest of her time.
Château Grooten lay north-west of Brussels, not far from Bruges, set in gracious parkland with a lake behind it. It was a spectacular fairy-tale French castle in pink stone. It had towers
and turrets, and wonderful dormer windows jutting out of the rooftops in what Callie knew now was Gothic style. There were graduated steps leading up to the entrance and a carved portico in white
stone, which glinted in the sunlight. It was a palace in miniature. Marthe, however, was not impressed. She had met her at the station and taken over from her escort. Callie stayed just for two
nights in their terraced house in Brussels and delighted in playing peep-o with little Mathilde, singing her the lullabies she could still recall from her own childhood days.
‘Isn’t this enormous? Callie exclaimed as they walked up the path from the bus stop.
‘It could all do with a fresh coat of paint, and the windows need vinegar,’ Marthe observed critically. ‘There are weeds on the gravel path. Are you sure this is the right
place?’
‘It belongs to the Countess van Grooten – yes, this is the house.’
‘If there’s a problem you must write to me and come back to us. I shall come in with you, just in case.’
Dear Marthe, she always made her feel so safe and so at ease. If only she felt like that with Phee, Callie thought.
They rang the bell and a petite woman of about fifty with an elegant chignon at the nape of her neck and a long string of heavy pearls opened the door.
‘Ah, I'Anglaise . . . entrez . . . et vous?’
She stared up at Marthe. ‘Your maid?’ she asked in English.
‘Mais non, je suis Madame Kortrik.
A friend of the family,’ Marthe added in English.
‘Belgique . . .?
’
‘Exactement .
. .’
The countess dismissed poor Marthe with a sniff and she made to leave, but not before she whispered in Callie’s ear in Flemish, ‘Beware of this dragon.’
Callie stood with her suitcase in the elaborately tiled hall, eyeing the silver armour and swords on the walls.
‘The other girls have all arrived. You are late. It is not polite to keep your hostess waiting. Go and unpack and we will meet in the dining room at five. I shall read the
rules.’
Callie had no time to do anything but struggle upstairs and find where the chattering she could hear was coming from. She found a huge bedroom with six iron bedsteads on bare floorboards, and
windows draped with silk curtains topped by an elaborate pelmet with frayed fringing dangling down. The room was faded and bare. The five girls, sitting on their beds, stared at her. They’d
left the bed nearest the draughts of the huge window for her.
‘I hope you’ve brought some warm clothes. It’s
Similar Books
The Creation of Inequality: How Our Prehistoric Ancestors Set the Stage for Monarchy, Slavery, and Empire
Kent Flannery, Joyce Marcus
