Place Of Storms

Now why didn’t I think of that? Andrea asked herself in exasperation. Aloud she said, ‘Probably,’ in a wooden voice.

She took a firm grip on herself and the reins after that, determined to cope better. Certainly, in spite of everything, there was a great deal to enjoy. The air seemed to sparkle after the night’s rain, and the views as they continued to climb were breathtaking. Away in the distance she could glimpse the flattened cones of the puys, the dead volcanic mountains of Auvergne, while around them the trees still wore the last remnants of their autumn glory before the stark onset of winter.

Andrea felt so exhilarated that when they eventually reached a level, grassy stretch of ground she forgot to be nervous when the horses broke into a canter, and then a gallop. Delphine was no longer a monster, fixed on her undoing, but a lovely creature, fluid of bone and muscle, who merely wanted to share her pleasure in her own swift eagerness.

When they reined in, Andrea saw that from this vantage point it was possible to look down on the village and the chateau. Seen from above, it had an even more forlorn look, and Andrea stole a sideways look at her companion to see his reaction. The scarred side of his face was hidden from her, but his expression was bleak and brooding and she did not dare venture a remark.

At last, when she had begun to think he had forgotten her presence, he said ‘Allons!’ in an impatient tone, and they turned the horses and rode on.

The black mood that possessed him persisted as they toured the vineyards, and looked at the new bottling plant which had been installed. Andrea, somewhat to her own surprise, found she was genuinely interested in what was being achieved, and it was frustrating to have her questions answered in monosyllables.

At last she could hold her tongue no longer.

‘This ride was your idea, monsieur,’ she reminded him acidly. ‘If you want me to learn about the estate, you need to improve your teaching technique.’

The look he sent her was chilling, but he made no response. She was not altogether surprised, however, when she found they were on their way back to the chateau.

‘Here endeth the first lesson,’ she observed flippantly.

This time he did reply, and his voice was icy with rage. ‘It may all seem a joke to you, mademoiselle, from your secure English background, but to me and many others in this village, it is life and death. Do you know how many villages there are in France where old people sit in their houses alone, because their children have left—gone to the cities to find work? Do you even care? I doubt it. But I care. And I care too that my home—the house which my family has occupied for hundreds of years—is falling into a ruin about me. Do you imagine that I would have permitted this neglect? Regard it well, mademoiselle. That is what hate can do, and spite and revenge. It is not pretty, hein?’

‘Whose hate, monsieur?’

‘My father’s, mademoiselle. My younger brother was his favourite. He could not forgive me for being the elder and his heir. I could do nothing right—nothing that would please him, except absent myself. He could have stopped the rot then, if he had wished, but he did not wish. I do not think he cared if there was one stone standing upon another when I came into my inheritance. Every last franc was devoted to Jean-Paul, and to our plantation Belle Rivière.’

‘Your brother ran the plantation?’

‘Oui. It was his part of the inheritance. God knows I never grudged it to him. But there were problems. Several bad seasons—hurricanes, pests which destroyed the crop. At last my father ordered me to go there and put things right. It would have taken a miracle. By the time I arrived, Jean-Paul had speculated trying to recoup some his losses, and was facing ruin.’

He stopped abruptly, as if sensing her tension. The anger and bitterness died from his face as if a slate had been wiped clean.

‘But I am boring you, mademoiselle, with our sordid family squabbles. My father has been dead for two years, God rest his soul, and Jean-Paul and his wife are also at peace now. I am left to salvage what I can and make some kind of life for myself and Philippe.’

She moistened her dry lips, appalled at what he had let her see.

‘And Belle Rivière? What has happened to that?’

‘The house has gone,’ he said briefly. ‘It was—burned to the ground a year ago. The land is now leased to the government.’

Something warned her that now was not the time to probe any further. She stole a glance at him and saw that the scar was standing out livid against his tan.

Gaston was waiting to take the horses when they rode into the yard. The ground suddenly looked a long way down, Andrea thought wearily as she eased her aching rear. She felt agonisingly stiff, and was afraid her legs might give way under her through sheer reaction when she dismounted.

‘Permit me.’ Blaise Levallier appeared at her side. Gratefully, she freed her feet from the stirrups and allowed herself to slide from Delphine’s back into his waiting arms. Just for a moment she felt the brush of his warm body against hers, and knew an insane urge to press herself against him, savouring the intimate smell of his sweat.

As her feet touched the ground, she pulled herself away, her face flaming as if he could guess her wanton thoughts, and stumbled slightly.

‘Take care.’ His voice was courteous but impersonal. ‘If you ask Clothilde, she will prepare a hot bath for you. I will see you at dinner.’

He gave her a brief formal nod, before turning and striding away.

Andrea had to force herself not to turn and watch him go. She felt confused and disturbed by this sudden turbulence in her emotions. I hate him, she told herself almost desperately. I’ve got to hate him. And I must never let him touch me again.

CHAPTER THREE

ANDREA leaned her head against a folded towel, placed strategically over the high back of the huge old-fashioned bath, and closed her eyes with a sigh of relief.

The bathroom to which Madame Bresson had led her was next door to the room containing the massive throne-like lavatory which had reduced her to irreverent giggles the previous evening. It was a chilly apartment, its walls hung with large antique embossed tiles in an attractive scroll pattern. The bath, supported solidly on four large claw feet, stood against one wall, its brass taps gleaming. The wall above was festooned with a motley collection of elderly pipework, which emitted strange groaning noises when the taps were turned on.

Observing the care with which Madame had performed this operation, Andrea surmised that the chateau’s plumbing probably possessed a temperament all its own. But she had nothing to complain of in the actual temperature of the water, and the surroundings could be made less Spartan, she thought, mentally boxing in the pipes, and adding a rug to the chill of the tiled floor.

She moved her bruised legs in the cooling water, wincing slightly as she did so. She might be lucky enough to avoid total paralysis, she thought ruefully, but she was going to be very, very stiff. It was to be hoped that she wouldn’t find it necessary to run away during the next twenty-four hours, because even quite gentle exercise was probably going to be beyond her.

But she had to admit that her morning in the fresh air had done her good. She was really looking forward to the lunch that Madame Bresson had promised would be served as soon as she was ready.

And after lunch she was presumably free to do as she pleased. Some time she would have to write to Clare, but as yet she had little to report in the way of good news or even progress. Perhaps the letter could be delayed until things became more positive, and she would use the time instead to explore the chateau a little.

It had occurred to her that if Blaise Levallier was managing the co-operative he must have an office of some description, probably in the chateau itself, and that this would be the most obvious place for him to keep his personal correspondence including, presumably, Clare’s letter. That was the place she would begin her search. The thought filled her with distaste and she had to remind herself forcibly of the equally distasteful methods Blaise had himself employed to try and force her cousin into marriage.

It was useless to pretend that she had not been shocked into a certain sympathy for him by the morning’s revelations. Looking back on the happiness of her own childhood, it seemed incredible that such bitter hostility could exist in a family. It did much to explain the cynical lines that marked his mouth, and the cold ruthlessness he displayed in his dealings with Clare. Yet she could not doubt his affection for his dead brother. There had been no tinge of censure in his references to the problems Jean-Paul had experienced in running the plantation, only regret. His father’s favouritism had not had the power to sour that relationship at least. It was clear there was a connection between the loss of the plantation and Jean-Paul’s death, and that there was also a link between this tragedy and the scarring of Blaise’s face.

She got carefully out of the bath and began to towel herself dry. She must not get involved, she thought, with a sense of desperation. She would not be here for much longer, and when she left, she wanted to be able to turn her back on St Jean des Roches and its master without a second thought or trace of regret. And if a warning inner voice murmured that it might already be too late, she closed her ears deliberately.

Madame Bresson had taken her jeans and sweater to launder, so Andrea changed into a slim-fitting skirt in golden tweed, topped by a dark green woollen shirt, and pinned up her chestnut hair into a neat French pleat.

She lunched on thick home-made broth, savoury with herbs and vegetables, ending her meal with fresh fruit from the chateau’s own orchards and local cheese. She was just finishing her coffee when Madame Bresson came to clear the table.

‘No, you must let me help you. You have quite enough to do.’ Andrea got up gingerly and began to load her dishes on to the tray Madame had brought in spite of the housekeeper’s protests. Then she carried the tray to the kitchen. After all, she told herself in justification, if she was really going to be the mistress here, she would be taking over some of the household duties, and her independent spirit rebelled at being waited on.

The kitchen was a large cheerful room with an enormous glowing range, which also provided hot water as well as cooking facilities. In the middle of the room was a large wooden table with a well-scrubbed top, and an array of fearsome-looking knives to hand. Strings of onions and garlic hung from hooks round the walls, and a huge built-in dresser supported an assortment of copper and cast iron utensils. Andrea enjoyed cooking, although she had never embarked on a Cordon Bleu course as Clare had done for a brief period. She thought that once the vagaries of the range had been mastered, any woman could revel in preparing meals in these homely surroundings.

Madame Bresson seemed not to resent her presence in the slightest, but showed a positive eagerness to open the china cupboards and disclose the secrets of the larder and the wine cellar. She grieved openly over the fact that the chateau was not supplied with electricity and Andrea learned, without any real surprise, that this had been one of the decisions of ‘Monsieur le père de Monseigneur’. She would have loved to know more, but Madame became so tight-lipped at the first of her tentative questions that she desisted.

When she inquired whether anyone would mind if she looked round the chateau, Madame looked a little blank, but she cheered visibly when Andrea assured her, feeling wretchedly guilty, that she did not require a guide, but would be quite happy to look about on her own. Her guilt increased when a large bunch of keys was thrust trustingly into her hands with a beaming smile from the housekeeper.

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