The Rich Are with You Always (49 page)

She returned just before dinner with a new silk cravat for Sam. "Just to show that, though we're vexed with you, we've not lost our fondness," she said. He took it as the closing of the incident. "I'll not involve you and the Rodets with him again," he promised. And so an uneasy, smiling peace was patched up—enough to last to the weekend and with all the year to mend in.

  "Well?" John asked. "Taken?"

  "No such luck," she answered. "He'd gone already."

  "And the house?"

  She grinned. "An ordinary
maison de tolérance,
class C, mainly for sailors. A lot of them leave and collect messages there, so there was nothing to blame the owner for. The prefect was more concerned that we and everyone should keep quiet about Daniel having been here; the last thing he wants is word to get out that a wanted renegade came and went on his demesne without hindrance. I gave solemn word I'd turn Daniel over if ever it was in my power again. So I think we're saved, and all damage repaired. My God, I hope so!"

Next morning it was a quiet, somewhat chastened party that set out for Coutances. John, his "holiday" over, returned to England. Sam was so quiet that Sarah stopped the coach in Caen and went out to buy him some fine cotton shirts. "It'll cheer you up, I know," she said. "I remember when I was at the Tabard, with a mountain of work ahead, nothing helped me face it like the wearing of nice new linen!" And Sam, indeed, was almost his old self after that act of kindness.

  Nora's letter changing their arrangements had arrived at the Auberge Clément only the previous afternoon, so Gaston had not had enough notice to rearrange bookings and guests to accommodate all three of them. In fact, only one room was vacant.

  "But you, Madame, and Madame Cornelius, may sleep at my sister's. I have arranged it," Gaston said.

  It was still midafternoon, on a fine June day. The sky was almost cloudless and a slight breeze blew off the sea, enough to make a pleasant coolness under the blazing sun.

  Nothing seemed to have changed. Sea gulls still wheeled above the rooftops of the little town, rapacious for scraps. Under the eaves of the room where Cornelius had died, the bees still built their prototype swarms, never quite managing to emigrate. The dog with the bark of a despairing man still yapped at the passing minutes. Even the same children seemed to laugh and quarrel in the same tones at the same causes. The scrape of the stable door, the slosh of water over the cobbles, the singing and laughter of the maids, the smell—all were just as they had been exactly twelve months ago.

  "I think I will go up to the cemetery now," Sarah said. "It would he hard to sleep tonight knowing I could have gone and didn't."

  The remark surprised Nora. How quickly, she thought, love had turned to duty
!
But she was glad to be left alone; she had a whole year's accounts to inspect.

  Gaston had made great profit of his time at the Adelaide in London last winter. There were no scraps of food kicked into odd corners. Flowers stood in bowls on the tables and sills of the public rooms. Everything was polished. The exterior had been repainted and whitewashed—which made it unique in the whole of Coutances, which observed the French habit of painting exteriors only when the property was new or when it changed hands in a dull market. And there were even cushions on some of the chairs. On the door was a proud notice:
English
spoken within.

  The changes, unfortunately, did not reflect in the receipts, which were barely up on previous years. She was disappointed. Having been so enthusiastic last year, she had expected to see the effect of the changes almost immediately. But Gaston, though his relative loss was much greater, was more philosophical. "It must take time," he said. "People cannot know of all these grand changes at once. We have much better quality people this year, even at the same quantity. They will spread the word. Next year you will see."

  And Nora had to be content with that. At least the accounts were immaculate and the inn had made a modest profit.

  That evening, when they had finished several rounds of three-handed whist, Nora hid a yawn and said it was time for bed.

  At once Sarah said: "Sam and I have talked it over, Nora dear, and we are adamant you shall not be turned out of your own inn. If Sam and I go to the sister's, there will be no need for Gaston to accompany us. And I know Gaston's sister because Tom and I stayed there last year, before we bought this place."

  Nora offered token resistance to this kindness and then gave in, thanking them both and confessing it had been a tiring day.
It's their life,
she thought;
no affair of
mine.
She felt a century older than both of them.

The sister's was only three streets away, in the shadow of the cathedral; but it was not quite as Sarah remembered it, for during the previous year the woman had bought the adjoining cottage in the terrace. With Gaston's help she had refurbished its rooms as guest rooms and they were used, as now, to accommodate the excess from the inn, and as guest rooms for the sister's own business.

  Darkness was just falling as she let them in at the neighbouring front door, which butted right against hers. "Next year," she said, pointing to the party wall, "we have an arch here." It was almost an apology for leaving them alone. "I light your candles," she said. Sam told her they would manage.

  As soon as they were alone they fell into each other's embrace—as they had done for the first time in the cemetery that afternoon—and kissed and breathed each other's names and kissed again, until all the light had gone. The cathedral clock struck half past eleven. Outside, Gaston's sister, who had watched in vain for the gleam of candlelight at the windows, went quietly back indoors, shaking her head.
These English—they come to France for one thing only,
she thought.

  But for Sarah, scandal had ceased to exist. The kiss of a man's lips on hers again, the voice of a man breathing her name reverently in her ear, the press of his strong arms about her, the pressure of him—these stirred her ardent spirit beyond the reach of any voice that did not cry out
Enjoy! Live!
She did not think of the night that lay ahead, but the whole of her mind and body rose up to welcome it. She was on the point of saying "Take me to bed," when Sam whispered: "I suppose we had better say good night, Sarah."

  The sudden stiffness of her body astonished him; it revealed a dimension to his holiday flirtation which he had not even considered. "Don't you think?" he added.

  "Let's not
think,
Sam," she said. The pressure of her hand was toward the stairs; she withdrew from him a bare inch in that direction.

  "Mrs. Cornelius…" he began, confused.

  "Sarah," she said. And when he still did not move or speak she added, "You must have thought of this."

  "No," he whispered. "Not once. Not in the most-secret moment."

  "Oh." She was deflated. "What does that make of me?" Then, before he could respond, she said: "Suppose you think of it now, then?"

  She wished she could see his expression. She pressed herself back into his arms and buried her face on his shoulder. He swallowed audibly. "You would think so ill of yourself in the morning," he said at last. "And worse of me."

  "I promise not to," she said.

  Again he was silent.

  "Have you thought of it now?" she asked.

  "I do not think I could. I respect you too much."

  There was a pause before she pulled away and leaned her head up to his for one final chaste kiss. "Good night, Sam.
I
don't think less of you for it." Her tone implied that hundreds would.

  She walked quickly into the downstairs bedroom and pushed the door almost shut. She busied herself at once with undressing, struggling with the buttons at her back, struggling too not to give way to tears. They bathed her cheeks as unfeelingly as sweat.
I am hard,
she tried to think.

  And then the door opened again and Sam was close behind her. "What do you mean?" he asked. "'Think less of you'?"

  As soon as he touched her she spun around and hugged him. "Don't think!" she said. "Don't think."

  His hands discovered that her dress had gone; only a corset, a chemise, and six petticoats separated them. She felt the shiver of his discovery, and she pulled his head down to kiss her. His hands held her neck…her shoulders…her arms.

  "I don't really know," he said. "I've never…"

  "Never mind," she soothed. "Just get undressed. We'll manage."

  Impatient minutes later they stood naked, two feet apart. In the dark they could each feel the heat of the other's body, each hear the other's shattered breathing through the pounding of their hearts.

  And there they stood in thrall to a monstrous power that neither understood; for a moment, each was afraid to move, afraid to shatter the little gain they had dared.

  She reached out. Her unclothed arm moved silently. Her hand touched his, reaching through the dark for her. His paused, but she swept it on and up to her breast. She spread his hand and fingers on her breast; with her other hand she reached for him—for the heat she felt and the stiffness her nights with Tom had added to her imagination. And there it was.

  But it was not still. It throbbed. And it leaped like something demented. And there were sudden stabs of heat on her fingers and arms and stomach and thighs, which turned wet and cool. And sticky.

  Then she heard the little puppy noises and gasps he was making. And they turned to sobs as he fell to his knees against her and threw his arms about her hips, saying, "Sorry…sorry…sorry…" like a litany. He kissed her stomach and her thighs as he wept and repeated that one word.

  She stood and held his head while the realization stole over her—bringing no understanding in its train—that it was over. "Why did you do it like that?" she said at last. "That wasn't the right thing at all."

  He laughed—or was it a sob?—into her flesh.

  She withdrew from him then and, taking up a petticoat, wiped the wet patches dry—or at least damp—before she got into bed. He fell in beside her and was at once asleep.

  When he woke again, half an hour later, Sarah was almost asleep, having cried herself cold.

  His arm, encircling her, stirred nothing within. His hand, curling around her breast again, did not rouse her. But for memory's sake, and for the hope the magic would return, she sighed his name and amazed herself at the realism of the tremble in her voice and breath.

  Encouraged, he raised a thigh upon her and began to widen his caressing exploration, while she, unblinded now by any passion, experienced him with a clinical candour. Even her naïvety could not ignore his apish clumsiness.

  But the stiffness would not come to him again and after five increasingly hectic minutes he fell limp upon her and laughed silently and in despair. Suddenly it seemed funny to her as well. She gave a little giggle. For a moment he held his breath and then he giggled too.

  It was no more than that. She stroked his naked back and felt his male bulk as if she herself had never known the burdens of sex; and in that same instant, she was overcome by a neutered friendship for this stranger. It was so intense as to be a kind of love. "Oh, Sam!" she said. "What was it all about?"

  He took it as a real question and thought long before he answered timidly, "The triumph of fondness over passion?"

  "You're heavy," she whispered.

  Later, when she was deep asleep, he managed to complete, alone, what they had so unavailingly begun together. It was a guilty, cold, aching pleasure, with her lying there so soft and warm behind him.

  But—as he was to say so many times over the years that followed—it helped him off to sleep.

John paid Flynn the compliment of not being present when the Carlow branch was inspected and—of course—given its clearance. It was the first time he had ever been absent from the inspection of so large a contract. Instead, he took Nora by coach down the route of the main line, as close to it as the roads permitted. It was very much the route he and MacMinimum had followed that April. Nora had agreed to come only to lay to rest the ghost of their flare-up last May. But she set out from Dublin with great foreboding. This country seemed to bring out the differences between herself and John at their starkest and most disruptive.

  Though the distress was still great, the mood of the country was far happier, for a fine, luxuriant potato crop filled the fields. Everyone said it was going to be the heaviest crop in memory; and though the blight had shown in odd patches here and there, it was much less severe than last year.