Authors: Sara Craven
His lips twisted sneeringly. 'A convenient dressing room, no doubt. I'm afraid I don't possess such a refinement. But you need have no fears. You may have overlooked the fact that the room does have a couch. I shall sleep on that.'
She swallowed. 'This is ludicrous! Our marriage has fulfilled the legal qualification you needed. The precise nature of our relationship has nothing to do with anyone else.'
She nearly added, 'Least of all Simone,' but something —she didn't know what—stopped her.
'I have told you, I have my reasons.' In spite of the intimacy of their confrontation, his face and voice were as remote as if they had been a thousand miles apart.
'And I think I have a right to know what they are.' The water was almost cold now, and she had to repress a shiver.
'Don't let us talk of rights,
ma mie
.' His tone took on a dangerous softness. 'But if you insist, I'll admit that one of my reasons is pride.' He looked down into her widening eyes and gave a short, savage laugh. 'Amusing, is it not, that I am not sufficiently inured to my—affliction to be able to accept calmly that you find the sight of me repulsive. I had thought I was cured of all such foolishness, but you taught me differently, did you not,
mon ange
? However, I would prefer that it remained our secret, so you will share my room while Simone remains with us, and thank whatever God you believe in that I will demand no more of you.'
'You knew this was going to happen, didn't you?' she challenged him, her teeth beginning to chatter in spite of herself. 'You knew that Simone was coming with Philippe and that this situation would arise, and you deliberately didn't tell me, so that you could present me with this—
fait accompli
.'
'Don't torture your little mind.' Anger flamed in his eyes. 'This is no Machiavellian plot to get you into my bed. Yes, Simone did say that she would accompany Philippe here, but I thought it was an idle threat. However, she prides herself on her—unpredictability, shall we say?' He looked at her, his eyes narrowing. 'You're shivering. Name of God, you little fool!'
He stepped forward and before she could say or do anything to prevent him, scooped her out of the bath, regardless of damp hair or the dripping towel.
For a brief moment she was held against him, every clamouring nerve in her body registering the warmth of his skin through his shirt. It took all the self-control of which she was capable to stop her pressing herself against him, sliding her hands inside the open neck of his shirt to draw that warmth even closer.
Then he set her roughly on her feet. 'Dry yourself,
madame
,' he advised curtly. 'You have guests waiting for you downstairs, and Philippe has not yet seen his rooms.'
In spite of the turmoil ensuing from the changeover of rooms, Andrea managed to rescue a pair of corded velvet trousers in dark green and a white polo-necked sweater. She could not compete with Simone's sophisticated chic, so it was foolish to try, she told herself. But she felt taut and nervous as she descended the stairs. Most of the soot had gone by now, she noticed. Presumably Gaston had cleared it away, she decided rather morosely.
She pushed open the dining room door and went in. It was a cosy enough scene. Simone was seated by the fire, cigarette in hand, with a cup of coffee, while Philippe was up at the table, both hands clasped firmly round a mug of milk. Andrea smiled, trying to smother an instinctive feeling of nervousness. She seemed to have got off on the wrong foot with Philippe, but there was plenty of time for matters to improve, and after all, he was little more than a baby.
She glanced at Simone and saw with a flicker of resentment the look of disparagement to which the other girl was subjecting her surroundings. Almost in spite of herself, she felt an upsurge of pride of ownership. The furniture might be old and shabby, and the hangings drab and threadbare, but was Simone blind to the mellowness of the panelled walls, and the romance of the small leaded panes in the windows? The worn flags of the floor and the ancient stonework of the hearth had a charm all their own too. Andrea lifted her chin a little.
'Is this your first visit to St Jean des Roches,
made
moiselle
?' she asked politely.
There was a trace of amusement in the slanting cats-eyes that turned unblinkingly towards her.
'I am happy to say it is.' Simone made a slight, delicate gesture with her cigarette. It is not exactly the
milieu
I would choose. But we must not be so formal, you and I. You must call me Simone, and I will call you—what is it Blaise says?—Andrée.'
Andrea murmured courteously in the affirmative in response, but instinctively she knew she had little desire for an informal relationship with Simone. She felt in her bones that they could never be friends.
'I thought Philippe might care to see his rooms now.' She turned towards him with an encouraging smile.
Philippe stared back at her, his expression mutinous. 'I have not yet finished my milk,' he stated clearly.
'So I see,' Andrea returned equably. 'There is no hurry. Take as long as you like.'
He set the mug down pettishly, spilling a few drops on to the polished surface of the table.
'I do not wish to drink any more.' He slid off his chair, his eyes fixed on Simone. 'Will you come too,
ma tante
?'
Simone shrugged gracefully. 'If you wish,
mon petit
.' She rose to her feet in one sleek fluid motion, tossing the remains of her cigarette into the fire. She smiled faintly at Andrea. 'You do not object, I hope? I do not intrude.'
'Of course not,' Andrea assured her rather woodenly. It was stupid to feel put out over such a little thing. Nothing was going as she planned. She had imagined as she prepared the rooms showing them to Philippe, watching his face— but not, somehow, in front of an audience—and certainly not an inimical one as Simone undoubtedly was in spite of her appearance of friendliness. She must not forget that Simone had fought to retain control of Philippe, and it was thanks to herself that she had lost that fight. There was no reason for Simone to cherish any sort of amiable feelings towards her, unless, of course, she was determined to put a good face on her defeat. But somehow she did not strike Andrea as being a good loser…
Gaston had carefully oiled the hinges so the tower door no longer squealed like a lost soul when it was pushed open.
Andrea extended a coaxing hand to Philippe. 'Welcome to your domain,
monsieur
.'
Philippe ignored the overture. He thrust his own hands into the pockets of his shorts and stepped alone over the threshold. Andrea followed, feeling snubbed. She did not have to look at Simone to know that somewhere, not far from the surface, a gleam of triumph lurked.
Philippe surveyed his new surroundings, his head thrown back. His face was curiously devoid of emotion, a little blank mask totally at variance with his child's body. He turned to Andrea.
'There is more,
madame
?' he inquired.
Rather helplessly, Andrea led the way across to the stairs, and they ascended them in silence, Simone bringing up the rear.
Again the child stood quite quietly, looking around him. His round dark eyes took in the new bed, with its vividly patterned "quilt and the toning linen pillowcase, and the gleaming modern furnishings. He walked across to the windows and knelt up on the embrasure, looking out. He touched the curtains and registered that they were the same pattern as the quilt. Something stirred in his face, shattering that too-adult air of restraint he wore.
He took a breath. 'You—did all this—for me,
madame
?'
There was a sudden, inexplicable lump in Andrea's throat.
She replied gravely, 'All for you, Philippe.'
He looked at her as if he was seeing her for the first time. Somewhere Andrea thought she glimpsed just the beginnings of a fugitive smile, then Simone said from the doorway, almost idly;
'It's a long way from the rest of the house,
mon chou
. Are you sure you won't be frightened to be all alone?'
In a flash, the old shuttered look came back into the little face, Philippe lifted his shoulders awkwardly, then ran past Andrea to Simone, burying his face in her dress as he had done earlier.
Over his head, Simone regarded her calmly. 'He is a very nervous child,' she said.
When he's reminded to be. The thought came to Andrea unbidden as she looked at the back of the small dark head. She knew with utter conviction that Philippe had been childishly relishing the sheer unconventionality of his strange, circular bedroom, until Simone had spoken. And she knew with a sinking heart as she looked at the other girl's quietly smiling face that though Simone might concede a battle lost, the war over Philippe was far from concluded.
Andrea felt distinctly odd as she changed for dinner that evening. It was a strange and in some ways disturbing thing to see her clothes hanging next to Blaise's in the big old-fashioned wardrobe, and to know that he had the right to enter the room at any time. It was a realisation that made her fingers suddenly clumsy as she coped with zips and hooks, and she told herself she was being a fool as she hurried into her long amber gown. Blaise had seen her, after all, much less than even half dressed.
It was disturbing too to see that there were now two pillows on the big bed. In spite of Blaise's reassurances that he intended to sleep on the hard-looking
chaise-longue
which stood in the window recess, Andrea felt flutterings of apprehension in the pit of her stomach. Life, she had discovered, was much less painful while she managed to keep out of his way. Now, it seemed, she was to be thrust into intimate proximity with him, and the realisation that his reluctance probably exceeded her own did not help the situation in any way, she thought.
She looked in the mirror at herself and grimaced slightly. What was she doing dressed up like this? Trying to compete, for heaven's sake? With whom and for what? She tried to laugh at her own absurdity, but the laugh sounded more like a sob in her own ears.
Simone was already in occupation in the dining room when Andrea went down. The heavy scent she wore seemed to dominate the small room, and the dress she wore, demurely high at the front and plunging wellnigh to disaster at the back, was just too sophisticated for her surroundings. All the stops had been pulled out, and no mistake! Beside her on the settle, Philippe looked small and somehow extinguished, but he looked up at her as she talked and gestured and laughed like a devotee at a shrine.
Blaise turned slightly as Andrea came in, and their eyes met and held for what seemed an endless moment. Then he smiled faintly and lifted the glass he held in a half-toast. Obeying an instinct she barely understood, Andrea walked across the room to his side and lifted her face to his with an assurance she was far from feeling. There was an almost imperceptible hesitation, then he bent and brushed his mouth briefly across hers in the most conventional of salutes. As she stepped back from him, Andrea caught Simone's eyes watching them, narrowed like a snake's, she thought, appalled. Then Simone was smiling and reaching for another cigarette and asking for a light, charmingly plaintive, and Andrea thought she must have been imagining things.
Then the other girl made a
moue
and picked up her bag again.
'I found this on the floor in my room, Andrée. I assume it's yours. I cannot imagine that Clothilde has taken to cosmetics at this stage in her life.'
It was a lipstick in a plain gold case, Clare's last birthday present to her, Andrea realised. She was wearing lip gloss instead that evening, or she would have missed it herself. She made herself smile.
'Thank you. I—I used that room myself before Blaise and I were married. I must have lost it then.'
Simone's arched brows rose in exaggerated surprise. 'But such a charming shade. How could you bear to be without it? I would have torn the chateau down stone by stone to find it again.'
Andrea could feel her cheeks burning. She gave a little shrug.
'I have to confess I don't bother a great deal with makeup since I've been here.'
'No, you prefer soot, do you not?' Only another woman would have scented the underlying malice in the joking remark. 'A bizarre beauty treatment,
ma chère
, but it seems to work. You have the English complexion that is the envy of the world.' She sent a slanting glance at Blaise. 'Your tastes have changed,
mon chéri
. At one time you did not admire that clean, scrubbed look.'
Making her sound, Andrea thought, seething, about as alluring as a cake of carbolic soap.
She was thankful for Madame Bresson who arrived at that moment to serve the soup.
Conversation over dinner turned, to Andrea's relief, from the personal to the general. One of the main topics was the farming co-operative, on which Simone seemed surprisingly well informed. It was unexpected to say the least to hear those exquisitely curved and painted lips uttering intelligent comments on crop yields and breeding strains.
Andrea felt almost ashamed that she herself knew so little about the co-operative. It wasn't that she was uninterested, she told herself defensively. She had been so busy in the house that there was very little time for anything else. Besides, the person to tell her all she needed to know about the estate was obviously Blaise—and him she had to avoid.
She set herself to draw Philippe out, but the little boy was obviously tired and disinclined to answer questions, and her efforts were abortive. The delicious meal seemed curiously tasteless suddenly and she picked up her wine glass and drank, trying to banish the feeling of
malaise
which was plaguing her.
She had been so intent on Philippe that she had not been listening to Simone's conversation with Blaise, but her attention was seized suddenly by an exchange that set off questions in her own mind.
'But how can you say that?' Simone was expostulating. 'Why, at Belle Riviere it was…'
'Belle Riviere has gone for ever,' Blaise interrupted, his voice harsh and strained as if her words had revived unbearable memories. 'We will not draw comparisons from that, if you please.'