Place Of Storms

‘And what part do you play in this—co-operative?’

‘I am its overall manager.’ He noted the rather satirical look Andrea sent him, and raised his hand. ‘Not because the feudal system still flourishes, I promise you. If I did not have the necessary skill, I would be labouring in the fields. I’ve served my apprenticeship in management on the plantations of Martinique and—other places.’ His smile jeered at her suddenly. ‘So if you thought you had come here merely to play the gracious chatelaine, ma mie, I’m afraid you must think again.’

‘I thought nothing of the sort,’ she said truthfully, and relaxed as a knock at the door signalled the arrival of Madame Bresson with their dinner.

Andrea had not realised how hungry she was until Madame lifted the lid off the earthenware pot in the middle of the table and disclosed the simmering cassoulet, chunks of pork, slices of country sausage and black-eyed beans swimming in a rich gravy, redolent of garlic and herbs. She made a token protest at the huge plateful that was put in front of her, and then ate every mouthful, assisting it on its way with wedges of fresh, warm bread. The wine they drank was one of the local vintages, Blaise told her, and she found it surprisingly mellow and full-bodied. She refused the cheese that followed, but accepted a cup of strong, black coffee.

‘So Clothilde’s cooking is to your liking?’ Blaise Levallier leaned back in his chair, watching her.

‘Very much,’ she agreed. ‘If I stayed here very long, I’d be as fat as …’ Her voice tailed away, as she realised with horror what she had just said.

‘It will be a metamorphosis that I shall observe with interest,’ he said smoothly, as if unaware of her slip.

Well, it was said, and it could not be unsaid, and now was the time, if ever, for her challenge to him.

She set her coffee cup back in its saucer very carefully.

‘Monsieur Levallier, I think you must realise as well as I do that this—this marriage cannot take place.’

‘You are incorrect, mademoiselle. I realise nothing of the sort.’

She heard the grimness in his voice, but persevered. ‘I—I agreed because I was—emotionally disturbed at the time. You can’t really intend to hold me to a promise made under such circumstances.’

‘Oh, but I can,’ he said almost idly, ‘and I will. Make no mistake about that, ma mie.’

‘But it would be too cruel,’ she said, her voice quivering, and shrank back from the sudden fury that glared at her from his eyes.

‘And do you imagine life has been so kind to me, that I am prepared to take that into consideration?’ he demanded harshly, his fingers straying as if in spite of himself towards his damaged face. ‘Spoiled from your cradle, what can you know of cruelty?’

‘Do I have to learn my first lesson from you?’ she flung at him, forgetful in that moment that it was not for herself that she spoke.

He shrugged. ‘The nature of the lesson will be your own choice, mademoiselle. But I warn you now, the marriage will go ahead as planned. It has already been delayed too long.’

‘Am I ever to be told why it’s so essential for you to be married?’

He poured himself another cup of coffee. ‘You have never displayed any particular curiosity before,’ he reminded her drily. ‘You seemed more preoccupied with your own—affairs. But there is no reason for you not to know. I am shortly to assume the guardianship of my nephew, and the terms of my brother’s will stipulate that I have to be a married man in order to do so. That is all.’

‘That’s quite enough!’ The breath left Andrea’s body in a gasp. So Clare was not merely to have been pitchforked into matrimony but into motherhood by proxy as well, she thought furiously. The nerve of this creature! ‘Why on earth did your brother include this—stipulation, if he knew you were a bachelor?’

‘At the time the will was made, I was expecting to be married—quite soon,’ he said, and there was a note in his voice that made her stomach constrict nervously. Her eyes went involuntarily to his scarred cheek, and he nodded sardonically. ‘You are very perceptive, mademoiselle. And more skilful at concealing your revulsion than my fiancée.’ He laughed shortly, without mirth. ‘It was a memorable few hours of my life. In the space of a day, I lost everyone in the world I most cared for. My nephew alone remains, and him I do not intend to lose.’

‘But surely, if you’re his only relative …’

‘But I am not,’ he cut in. ‘He has an aunt on his mother’s side. Unless I fulfil the conditions of the will, she intends to contest the guardianship in the courts. All my money has been sunk into this co-operative. I cannot afford to fight her.’

‘But how old is this child? Wouldn’t he perhaps be better with his aunt?’ Andrea began, and quailed under the look he sent her.

‘No, he would not,’ he said briefly. ‘The child is my heir and his place is here, with his heritage.’

‘But what if you have a child of your own …’ Andrea said unthinkingly, and crimsoned as she realised the implication in her words.

‘Aren’t you afraid I might take you at your word?’ His eyes appraised her with sudden insolence. ‘What would you do, I wonder? What is that saying you have—close your eyes and think of England, or in this case, France?’

She pressed her hands to her burning face. ‘I didn’t mean …’ she stumbled, and his smile widened unpleasantly.

‘I believe you, mademoiselle. Don’t look so frightened. I would not demand a sacrifice of that magnitude. I am well aware that my—face would give nightmares to any woman forced to share my bed.’

She shrank from the bitterness implicit in his words. Someone—his fiancée?—must have said that, or something very like it, to him. It betrayed a lack of sensitivity and compassion that was almost inconceivable. Whoever this girl had been, he was well rid of her, she found herself thinking stormily, and checked herself sharply. No matter where her sympathies might instinctively lie, he was still her adversary.

She tried reason again. ‘Monsieur, you’ve been hurt, I know, but is that any reason to hurt in your turn? This—marriage would be a total disaster. We—we don’t know each other. What kind of a relationship could we have?’

Again she was conscious of that uncanny feeling that she was pleading not for Clare but for herself, and she shivered slightly.

‘You are cold? Come and sit by the fire.’ He got up and strode to the fireplace, flinging on a couple of logs from the basket that stood in the hearth.

‘I’m all right here, thank you,’ her voice faltered a little and he looked at her impatiently.

‘What are you frightened of? This relationship that is only a figment of your own imagination? All I require, mademoiselle, is a marriage on paper that will satisfy the lawyers and release Philippe into my custody. Once that has been achieved, you are free to go or stay as you please.’

‘But you can’t use me like this …’ she began hotly.

His eyes flashed. ‘You did not display the same aversion to using me to heal your pride over your broken love affair, ma mie. You were almost brutally frank on the subject. What was it you called me—a lifeline? You cannot now complain if that lifeline becomes a chain to bind you.’

She rose to her feet, pushing her hair back with a weary gesture.

‘I—I think I’d like to go to my room,’ she said. ‘I’m rather tired.’

‘Certainly. I will ring for Clothilde.’ He reached for the bell rope. Then he turned and walked back to her and stood looking down at her. ‘Sleep well,’ he said abruptly. ‘Perhaps everything will seem a little better in the morning, hein?’

She shook her head, suddenly unable to think of a single thing to say in reply.

For a moment he too was silent, looking down at her, and then almost casually he raised his hand and brushed one finger across her parted lips in a gesture that was almost more intimate than the kiss he had greeted her with on her arrival. She made herself stand her ground, refusing to allow herself to recoil in case he misinterpreted it as an act of repulsion. Whereas, if she was honest with herself, the opposite was true. Why else this almost terrifying tingle of awareness along her nerve-endings? It was a response, the implications of which she did not care to study too closely, and she was thankful when a tap on the door heralded the arrival of Madame Bresson.

The interior planning of the chateau was an architect’s nightmare, Andrea thought resignedly as she was led by the housekeeper up a winding stone staircase to the first floor. She found herself in a long, draughty passage at one end of which were a pair of imposing double doors. Andrea gathered from Madame Bresson that that was the chateau’s main bedroom, and was presumably occupied by the master of the house.

Her own room, she discovered with amusement and an odd sense of relief, lay in the opposite direction, and at a considerable distance. It was an altogether cosier apartment than she had anticipated, with a small fire burning on the hearth, and enormous old-fashioned furniture which gave a sense of reassurance. The bedstead too was massively constructed in oak, and Andrea wondered with a sinking heart whether the mattress would match it, but a surreptitious poke at it while Madame Bresson was making up the fire soon reassured her.

It was as Madame was wishing her a smiling ‘Bonne nuit’ that a thought occurred to her. ‘Oh—my keys!’

Madame raised her eyebrows in puzzled enquiry and Andrea elaborated. ‘The car keys. I gave them to Gaston so that he could fetch my cases, and I can’t see them anywhere.’

The housekeeper’s smile broadened. In a daze Andrea heard herself being advised to remain tranquil as Gaston would no doubt have given the keys to Monseigneur, who would arrange its return to the company it had been hired from. Mademoiselle, Madame added triumphantly, was not to concern herself. Monseigneur would arrange everything.

I bet he will, Andrea thought inwardly as the door closed behind Madame. She sank down on the edge of the bed with a feeling of desperation. She had relied so totally on having the car at her disposal for even a few days. Now she would have to depend on what the local bus service had to offer to get her away from this place.

She walked over to the fireplace and sank down on to the rug, holding out her hands to the comforting flames. Not for the first time, she bitterly regretted that she had ever become involved in this charade. Just for a moment she seriously contemplated finding her way back downstairs and telling Blaise Levallier the truth, throwing herself on his mercy, then she dismissed the thought, remembering how he had rejected her accusation that he was cruel.

She squared her shoulders slightly. No, there was little of the milk of human kindness left there, she told herself, and he deserved everything that was coming to him. If Clare’s foolish letter was in the chateau she would find it somehow and—Monseigneur could find another dupe to play his marriage game with him.

She gave a little shiver, and wondered why she did so. And at the same time, the thought occurred to her that the sooner she could get away from the chateau—and its master—the better it would be for her.

It rained again in the night. Andrea’s first intimation of the fact came when she was rudely awoken by water dripping on her face. Still half asleep, she dragged herself upright and lit the lamp beside her bed, spilling some of the matches as she did so. She stared upwards with mounting indignation as she registered the spreading patch of damp on the ceiling above the bed. She scrambled out of bed and tugged and manoeuvred the heavy bedstead a few inches to the right. Then she fetched the basin from the washstand and placed it to catch the water. There was no point in allowing the water to ruin yet another ceiling below, she thought crossly.

The fire was out, a pile of grey ash, and outside the wind had got up. Somewhere one of the broken shutters was banging monotonously each time a gust took it, and Andrea got back into bed feeling chilled and thoroughly out of temper. Between the sound of drips falling into the china basin and the banging shutter she would be lucky if she closed her eyes again for the rest of the night, she thought.

But it was her inner anxieties, more than exterior conditions, that kept her from sleep, she found. No matter how resolutely she tried to exclude him, the scarred face of Blaise Levallier kept intruding on her interior vision. She told herself she was being ridiculous. After all, he had no real power over her. She was free, white and just over twenty-one. The most she had to fear was his anger when he found out he had been deceived and with any luck she would be well away by then. But all the time, a nagging voice somewhere deep inside her kept telling her that it was not going to be that simple.

She sighed, huddling the fleecy softness of the duvet around her. It would be so easy to get involved, she thought, recalling the pang she had felt when Blaise had spoken of losing everyone he cared for in the space of a few hours. She wondered what had happened. Presumably he was referring to his brother’s death, so had the scarring on his face occurred at the same time? It seemed clear there was some connection, and that the subsequent loss of his fiancée was involved in the same web of bitterness.

She closed her eyes, willing her thoughts to be silent, but they would not obey. She found herself speculating about the girl Blaise had been engaged to. Somehow she imagined her small and blonde with a piquant face, like Clare. Was this because in her heart she knew her thoughtless cousin might well have reacted to his damaged face with the same selfish cruelty?

Intuitively, she knew that the visible scars were not the worst that Blaise Levallier carried. Shuttered behind that bleak hostility was a man who had once laughed and loved and expected to be married and raise a family. Now, as a substitute, he had decided on an emotionless relationship with a stranger, and any hopes for the future were pinned on his orphaned nephew. It was not a healthy situation, she told herself.

There was another puzzling aspect to it, too. Clare had told her and he had confirmed that he had spent much of his life abroad. But if he was the heir to this crumbling property, shouldn’t his duty have been to remain here? He had spoken of ‘heritage’, so obviously he was not indifferent to the fact that he was now lord of this particular manor.

She turned over resolutely, burying her face in the pillow. The linen was old, but had been of the finest quality, and it was charmingly scented with lavender. This was a bed for sweet dreams, not disturbing thoughts, she told herself determinedly, in spite of the leaking roof.

But the dreams which came when she at last fell into an uneasy sleep were as troubling as the thoughts had been. She stood in a ruined church, where stars peeped through the broken roof, and grass grew along the aisles. A man stood at the altar alone, endlessly awaiting a bride who did not come, and it was only when she tried to speak to him to comfort him, to run to him and touch his arm, that she realised that she was invisible, calling to him in a voice he could not hear.

When she awoke to find a ray of watery sunlight finding its way through a crack in the faded brocade curtains at the windows, she found her cheeks wet with tears.

She was angrily brushing the betraying drops away when Madame Bresson knocked at the door, and came in bringing a fresh jug of hot water for the washstand. She clucked distressfully at the sight of the bowl on the floor, and burst into a flood of largely incomprehensible explanations from which Andrea gathered that the majority of the bedrooms suffered in the same way during heavy rain, but that Gaston would be despatched to the roof that very morning to carry out some essential patchwork. After assuring herself that Andrea had everything she needed and could find her way downstairs to the dining room, she withdrew.

Andrea washed and dressed hastily in a pair of denim jeans, topped with a ribbed black polo-necked sweater. She looked about her with critical eyes as she went downstairs. The place was clean, certainly, but it was uncared for. There were some magnificent pieces of furniture, but they were not displayed to their best effect, and there were no flowers to be seen anywhere. She gave a little sigh. There might be no money for structural repairs, if Blaise Levallier was heavily committed to this farming co-operative of his, but it would take a very small outlay to make the interior of the chateau far more pleasant. Covers could be mended, she thought, and it might even be possible with care to dye some of the faded curtains. Then she checked herself abruptly. She had to remember why she was here, she told herself vehemently. The state of the chateau, or any of its occupants for that matter, was none of her concern. She would be better occupied in thinking about how she was going to get hold of Clare’s letter.

She was somewhat disconcerted to find Blaise Levallier already seated at the dining table, going through some mail. He did not look any more approachable in the cold light of day, she thought uneasily, as she slid into her place with a murmured greeting.

‘I hope you slept well, mademoiselle.’ The words were civil enough, but the tone of utter indifference in which they were spoken stung Andrea.

‘Not particularly.’ She shook out her table napkin, and helped herself from the basket of warm croissants.

His eyebrows rose. ‘You distress me.’ His voice was sardonic now. ‘May I ask why not?’

‘You may.’ She spread the croissant with jam and bit into it appreciatively. ‘The roof above my room leaks.’

He frowned swiftly. ‘Then you should naturally not have been given such a room. I will speak to Clothilde.’

‘Oh, it isn’t her fault.’ Andrea reached for the coffee pot and filled her cup. ‘She says all the rooms are the same.’

‘Mine is not.’

She gave him a dulcet smile. ‘Naturally,’ she agreed.

He lifted his cup and drank with a meditative air. ‘Then what do you suggest, mademoiselle? I hesitate to put forward the obvious solution …’

She hated herself for her faint, involuntary blush. ‘Naturally,’ she repeated, hanging on like grim death to the dulcet smile. ‘But you could also get the roof mended.’

He shrugged. ‘Gaston does what he can.’

‘So I’ve gathered, but perhaps it’s time you got a professional opinion—unless it’s your intention to have the house crumble about your ears eventually.’ She smiled at him again. ‘You’ll forgive my frankness, but I do have a vested interest in it now.’

That was good, she thought with satisfaction, and it should help allay any suspicions he might have about her motives. If she could convince him that she had given way to force majeure over their marriage, it would make her task very much easier.

‘Yes.’ He studied her for a moment, and she could sense he was puzzled. ‘You are—reconciled to our contract, then?’

‘I don’t seem to have much choice,’ she said, with a slight lift of her shoulders. ‘You’ve made it clear what will happen if I back out, and I couldn’t stand that.’ She gave an exaggerated shudder.

‘So I imagined.’ There was a wry satisfaction in his voice. ‘It would lead to the sort of publicity that neither of us desires, I am sure, apart from the probable injury to your father’s health.’

Andrea, who had just taken a mouthful of coffee, choked and had to replace her cup hastily on its saucer.

‘I—I don’t know what you mean,’ she managed at last.

‘No?’ His look was bleak. ‘I think I make myself perfectly clear, mademoiselle. Your father is an eminent man, and the deterioration in his health has caused a great deal of concern in circles with which I am well acquainted. You could not imagine I would make no enquiries about your background.’

She could not very well reply that they had been counting on it, she thought, her heart hammering unevenly.

‘I suppose not,’ she said at length. ‘That was why you knew you could threaten me, of course. Because of—Daddy.’

‘Hardly threaten, ma mie. I simply pointed out to you what the consequences would be if you failed to fulfil the terms of our agreement, and left the decision to your good sense.’

He was mocking her, she knew, and her resentment hardened.

‘I hope you think your victory is worth the means you had to stoop to to win,’ she said sharply.

‘That remains to be seen.’ He finished the coffee in his cup and stood up. ‘When you have finished breakfast, I thought you might like to ride with me. As you reminded me, you have a vested interest in the estate now, and you may be interested in the changes we are making.’

She was just about to inform him frankly that the only thing she could imagine worse than a morning in his undiluted company was a morning on horseback, when she remembered with dismay that Clare was a keen rider and had probably mentioned this in her letters. She nearly groaned aloud. She could always invent a headache or some other minor ailment, but this might arouse his suspicions, and this was the last thing she wanted. She could ride, but she had none of Clare’s equestrian flair, and she was nervous of horses.

She forced a smile. ‘That would be lovely,’ she agreed. ‘I—I’ll just get a jacket.’

‘Soit.’ He sent her a long look, and for the first time she noticed, inconsequentially, how long his eyelashes were. ‘Shall we say then that we will meet at the main door in—ten minutes’ time?’

As she came downstairs again, Andrea wondered if it would be possible to slip on the stairs and feign a sprained ankle. But as she came round the final curve of the stairs, she saw Blaise Levallier just below her glancing idly through an agricultural catalogue.

He glanced up at the sound of her step. ‘Docile—and punctual,’ he remarked. ‘You will make an admirable wife, ma mie.’

She glared at him in impotent silence. Crossing verbal swords with him would get her nowhere, she reasoned, and all past scores would be paid off anyway when she took her departure and he realised he no longer had the proof he needed of his hold over Clare.

She noted ironically that the stables were in much better condition than the house itself, and commented sweetly on the fact.

‘Perhaps because I find animals of considerably more value than human beings, mademoiselle,’ came the immediate retort, and she subsided angrily.

Her heart sank when Gaston led out the mare that Blaise had designated for her to ride. She was a far cry from faithful old Penelope on whose broad back a much younger Andrea had taken her first quaking lessons. She was a sprightly roan, who sidled and jumped and tossed her head, and her bright eyes spoke of mischief.

‘She needs exercise,’ said her tormentor, already astride his own horse, and looking, Andrea thought bitterly, as if he were part of it.

She looked round for Gaston to help her mount, but he had disappeared back into the stables, so she had to lead the reluctant Delphine over to an ancient mounting block and get herself somehow into the saddle. It was not a polished performance, but at least she found herself on the mare’s back, instead of spreadeagled on the ground when it was completed. So far, so good, she thought, her sense of humour aroused by the sheer absurdity of the situation.

If I break my neck, at least it will be one way out of this mess, she told herself philosophically.

But before they had been out for very long, Andrea knew that it was a very different part of her anatomy that was going to suffer. Apart from that, Delphine was proving the handful she had feared and more. Clare had always said that horses could sense who had the mastery, and it was clear that the mare had written her off as an easy touch. She began to take liberties almost as soon as they were out of the stable yard, refusing to respond to Andrea’s rather tentative pressure on the reins with a toss of her head, and even swinging aside to eat the grass from the verges at the side of the track. The moment of truth came when a large bird flew out of the hedge immediately in front of her, and she squealed with indignation and reared up, nearly unseating Andrea in the process. Humiliatingly but inevitably, Blaise Levallier was there, grabbing the reins and soothing the mare, at the same time forcing her to compliance.