Splendour Falls by Susanna Kearsley

Author:Susanna Kearsley [Kearsley, Susanna]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Romance, General, Historical, Fiction
ISBN: 9780770427184
Google: R3bzJ5ExkFYC
Publisher: McClelland-Bantam
Published: 1995-01-02T05:00:00+00:00

The house of Victor Belliveau stood on the fringe of the community - a sprawling yellow farmhouse with an aged tile roof, set off by itself with a scattering of crooked trees to guard the boundary fence.

Thierry had confirmed the man's artistic status. 'He was a famous man, this Belliveau,' Thierry had said in response to Paul's casual question. 'Not just in Chinon, but in all of France. I read his poetry at school, in Paris. But now he drinks, you know, and he is not so well respected.'

His property reflected that, I thought. The yard was pitted and unkempt, and the stone barn, built long and low to match the house, was tightly shuttered up. And the rubbish! Peelings rotted everywhere among the weeds, and paper wrappers cartwheeled in the wind to fall exhausted in the rutted muddy lane before us.

'Oh, boy,' said Paul.

'My thoughts exactly.'

'I guess poets don't make much money, do they?' Paul strolled across the road and tried the fastening of Victor Belliveau's gate. It was a long gate, stretched across what might have been a drive, and it was unlocked. One push sent it creaking back on its hinges. The sound spoke of loneliness and isolation, and I'd not have been surprised to see a snarling dog come slinking round a corner, but the only animal that came to greet us was a small black chicken. Keeping its distance, it turned a round and curious eye to watch us cross the lawn towards the house.

It was a farmer's house, square and sturdy. Great blocks of smooth pale stone framed both front windows and the door that stood between them, but the rest of the walls were made of rubble. Much more economical, I supposed. It might have been made quite a pretty house, if someone had cared enough to take the trouble. It only wanted some new roof tiles and a lick of paint on the sagging shutters, perhaps some curtains and a flowerpot or two to brighten things.

But I could clearly hear the rattling of the cracked and greying tiles, and on the wall see places where the years had worn away the mortar so the dampness could creep in between the dirty yellow stones. The windows, staring out across the littered yard at the still and shuttered barn, had a blank and empty look.

No-one, I decided, had cared about this house for a very long time.

I had already conjured up a vivid mental picture of Monsieur Victor Belliveau, and so I was completely unprepared for the sight of the man who actually opened the door to Paul's polite knock. This was no unkempt, wild-eyed poet, half mad with drink and raving in his solitude. Instead a tidy, dapper little man with crisp grey hair and a shaven face that smelled of soap, looked back at us in pleasant expectation.

Paul did the talking for us both, in flawless French. He didn't tell the whole truth, mind. He was careful not to contradict the tale

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