A Place of Storms (21 page)

'I didn't—I mean I wasn't…' She was blushing fierily, and it didn't help at all that he was laughing at her.

'
Ma
pauvre
Andrée.' He glanced at his watch and rose to his feet. 'It is unkind to tease you, but quite irresistible, believe me. Now I must go. I have meetings this morning and later this afternoon, so I shall not be here for lunch. However,'— and his voice took on a drawl—'I shall return in time for dinner—tonight.'

In the short silence that followed, Andrea heard herself swallow quite deafeningly.

He came slowly round the table to her, and she rose too, pushing her chair back and leaning slightly on the edge of the table, conscious suddenly that she could not trust her legs to support her unaided.

He lifted her palm to his lips, pressing his mouth against the softness of her palm as he had done on the night he had given her the betrothal ring. His smile gleamed again as he looked at her.

'Don't be frightened,
ma belle
. I don't always behave like a brute, you know.'

'I don't think of you as a brute,' she answered him unevenly.

He lifted one brow mockingly. 'No? Then you must be very forgiving.'

He slid a hand under the smooth fall of her hair and began to stroke the nape of her neck very gently with his fingertips.

'Tonight, Andrée,' his voice sank to a whisper. 'Tonight I will show you just how gentle I can be.
Soit
?'

'
Soit
,' she managed.

The hand clasping her neck suddenly compelled her towards him. He bent, pulling aside the high collar of her sweater, and kissing the soft curve of her throat. His mouth had left a mark on her flesh when he eventually raised his head.

'Think of me today,' he said quietly, and left her.

Alone, Andrea sank down on to her chair, and tried to collect her thoughts. Think of him! She would be fortunate if she managed to think of anything else. Yet, no matter how high the springs of feeling he had released within her might be bubbling, the fact remained that a number of problems still confronted her, and the main one of these was undoubtedly Philippe. What lasting happiness could she hope for with Blaise while he still carried this burden of guilt for his brother's death? Somehow, if they were to have any chance at all, she would have to reconcile Philippe with his uncle, include the child in their own love and joy. It surely wasn't such an impossible task? Whatever influences might have been brought to bear on Philippe could surely be counteracted? She felt herself shiver slightly. He was such a suggestible child, and stories of black magic and death had been told to him since babyhood. Was she capable of convincing him that love and life and hope still existed? It wouldn't be easy—she knew that.

For a moment, she wondered idly why Simone had fought so hard to obtain possession of the child. In spite of the fact that she still insisted on putting him to bed each night, she took very little interest in him otherwise, although it was obvious that Philippe adored her.

She was glad, in a way, to know that when he had run away today, he had gone to Alan, and not to Simone. Per-haps it was a hopeful sign that he had accepted the fact that the chains which bound him to her had to be broken.

Andrea sighed. It was such a hard lesson for a small boy to learn. But perhaps Philippe was fortunate in learning so early in his life how bleak it could be to worship at an empty shrine. If Simone had been a different personality— warm and affectionate, then Philippe's parting from her might have been heartrending indeed.

She got up. One thing was certain. He couldn't spend all day with Alan, who would be wanting to work. She would go and collect him, saying nothing of the scene before breakfast, and they would help feed the horses before they went on their walk. It was daily rituals like these that childhood was made of, she thought. Philippe might never give her the devotion he apparently accorded Simone, but at least she could come to represent security in his uncertain little world.

She went out of the dining room, hugging her arms across herself in the chill air of the great hall. The massive door swung open to admit Gaston carrying a great basket of logs. His round eyes twinkled at her and his grin threatened to split his face in half.

'
Regardez, Madame
.' He gestured hugely back towards where he had come from. '
Le vent est au degel
. The wind is bringing us a thaw. Soon the snow will melt and disappear.'

'Will it?' Andrea tried to return his smile, but an uncontrollable feeling of apprehension gripped her.

The thaw had come at last, perhaps, but might it not already be too late?

Andrea had to knock quite loudly on the gatehouse door before Alan's feet could be heard descending the stairs. He pulled the door open.

'He's asleep,' he said without preamble. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. 'I thought you'd be coming.'

'Is he all right?' she stared at him, suddenly anxious.

'That depends on your interpretation of all right.' He stool back to allow her to precede him up the stairs. 'That —in case you hadn't noticed—is one mixed-up kid.'

'I had noticed.' she said in a low voice.

Philippe was lying on the camp bed in the corner, his face streaked with tears. His breathing was slow and rhythmical, and his face blank and smoothed out by slumber.

'He's been dreaming.' Alan shook his little kettle to assess the amount of water it held, then placed it on the stove and applied a light to the gas jet. 'Bad dreams. I thought I'd have to wake him up again. Whatever prompted you to tell him the story of the tower and Marie-Denise?'

'I didn't,' she denied indignantly. 'I wouldn't be so stupid.'

'That's what I felt, but I couldn't be sure.' He was silent for a moment. 'Then what about that housekeeper woman—Clothilde, is it?'

'She wouldn't either.' Andrea shook her head firmly. 'I think she believes it's bad luck even to mention the story.'

Alan busied himself with tea-making. As he passed a steaming mug to her, he said almost idly, 'You do know he thinks his uncle is trying to kill him?'

Andrea almost dropped the tea. Her eyes widened endlessly as she looked up at him. 'What are you saying?'

'It's true.' He tasted his brew and added more sugar, stirring it reflectively. 'For some reason Philippe has got it fixed in his head that Marie-Denise's husband had a scar on his cheek and that his uncle—your husband—is his ancestor come back to life again. And he is also convinced that history is going to repeat itself, and that's why he's been put in that tower room.' He took a gulp of tea and sat down. 'He falls asleep every time he comes, poor kid. I don't think he gets much sleep at nights, somehow—probably too afraid. A couple of times when he's been here he's been restless—muttering things. It took me a while to figure out what he was saying and then I realised he was muttering "
La Cicatrice"
over and over again.'

'That's what he called Blaise earlier,' Andrea said mechanically, her mind whirring. She clasped her hands around the mug, comforted by the warmth of the tea against the sudden chill which had invaded her being.

'Yes, I'd gathered there'd been a row.' Alan looked at her curiously. 'He arrived in quite a state—crying, almost hysterical. It took me a while to calm him down, and I guessed there must have been some kind of crisis.'

'It was all rather silly,' Andrea said wearily. 'Philippe had borrowed some of Gaston's tools and apparently lost them. Blaise took him to task, quite justifiably, and got angry when he refused to admit he'd done wrong.'

Alan looked at her narrowly. 'But all this fuss over a small incident like that?'

After a pause, she shook her head. 'No,' she admitted. 'There's been—tension between them ever since Philippe arrived. He's terrified of Blaise, and he shows it. But I had no idea that this was the reason.' She looked up at Alan anxiously. 1—I feel responsible to some extent. It was my idea to put Philippe in the tower rooms, after all. I didn't realise the story of Marie-Denise would be known to him. It's not the sort of thing you tell a young child, after all.'

'Especially not one as impressionable as Philippe,' Alan agreed. 'And where has he got the idea from that Marie-Denise's husband had a scarred face?'

Andrea lifted her shoulders resignedly. 'I've no idea,' she confessed. '1 didn't even know that myself.'

'Of course you didn't.' Alan's tone was dry. 'There's not a word of truth in it.'

For a moment she was too taken aback to speak, then she said slowly. 'But that's—cruel. Cruel on them both.'

'Indeed it is.' Alan drained his mug of tea and set it down. 'Someone's out to make mischief. Who that is, and why, you're probably in a better position to know than I am.' He looked down at the floor. 'From things Philippe has let drop, I gather there's been some hassle over his guardianship.'

'Yes,' she said in a low voice. 'You've met Mademoiselle Delatour—Simone. She is Philippe's aunt on his mother's side. She was very disappointed not to be awarded custody, and was prepared, I think, to do legal battle over Jean-Paul Levallier's will.'

'Hm.' Alan pushed his hands through his hair. 'She's a gorgeous bird, but not altogether my idea of a succourer of orphans. What's in it for her?'

Andrea stared at him. 'Why, nothing. There was a plantation called Belle Riviere, and a house, but they've both gone now, and the land has been leased to the government. Philippe has nothing to come from that, although he is Blaise's heir.'

'Until Monsieur Levallier has a son of his own.'

For a moment she did not comprehend his meaning, then when realisation dawned, the colour swept into her face.

'Yes—of course,' she said lamely, trying to master her composure. She moistened her lips. 'It's because of Belle Riviere that Philippe is so antagonistic towards Blaise. There was a fire there, you see, and Jean-Paul, Philippe's father, was killed in it. Blaise blames himself for this same reason, and the terrible thing is Philippe blames him too, quite openly. Somehow he's got hold of a distorted version of the facts…'

'And not for the first time either,' Alan pointed out. He was silent for a moment, 'It's the old
Hamlet
theme all over again—destroying someone by pouring poison into their ear. Oh, not literally, of course. But the destruction of a child's whole personality and trust comes as near murder as need be.'

Even as he spoke, Philippe turned on his side and opened his eyes, muttering something. Alan moved over to him.

'
Hol
à
,
mon gars
,' he said cheerfully. 'Here is your aunt come to collect you.'

Philippe sat up, hugging his knees. His glance travelled past Alan to Andrea and became intent.

'Is my uncle still angry?' he asked in a small voice.

'I think that he's more hurt than anything else.' Andrea forced her voice to remain calm and even, in spite of the nightmare of doubts and apprehensions that Alan's words had aroused in her. 'How could you have said such a thing to him, Philippe?'

The child shrugged sullenly and looked at the floor. 'It is the truth,' he said.