Authors: Sara Craven
The sound of his step had died away completely when Andrea finally emerged. Totally perplexed, she stood for a moment staring down the corridor, trying to decide what had so amused him and brought about this incredible change in him. After all, there was nothing down that corridor except more vast bedrooms, all empty, except for the one that she had used and which Simone now occupied…
She stood very still while the words reverberated and re-echoed inside her skull. He had obviously not spent the night in his own room, therefore
it
followed that he must have slept elsewhere. The picture was imprinted on her memory. Blaise and Simone standing in intimate closeness in the dining room last night when she had blundered in. Simone's hand going up to caress his—and her own stupidly provocative remark suggesting that Simone's attitude towards him had changed and that he should seek her out.
Could she really complain if he had in fact done so?
Her hand stole up to her mouth like a frightened child's, and she wanted very badly to cry. To fling herself down on the worn carpet and scream and drum her heels in a rage of jealousy and fury.
Was it really possible, when he realised she was not going to return that night, that he had cynically gone to the bed of another woman? Andrea shook her head in desperate negation, trying to push away the images that followed in the train of such a thought. Was the happiness that had been so much in evidence just then the remembered joy of the lover? She caught her lip savagely in her teeth. If it was so, then whom could she blame but herself? Even before she had heard Philippe's story, she had allowed the thought of Blaise's past love for Simone to poison their relationship. She had found the thought of them together totally unbearable. Could this be because she knew he had never truly exorcised Simone from his mind and heart? That however generously she gave herself to him, her gift could only be second-best because he could not forget Simone and her rejection of him?
There were swift, scalding tears on her face, and she wiped them away with an unsteady hand. She must conserve all her emotional energy now. She was going to need it. All the resources she had left had to be devoted to one thing—finding the earliest opportunity for Philippe and herself to leave St Jean des Roches for ever.
She was calm but composed as she came downstairs two hours later. The bed in the big room upstairs had been stripped and was being aired, and the room itself had been swept and dusted and looked an altogether more cheerful sight. She carried the long curtains over her arm. The rain had stopped now, so she thought she would hang them over one of the washing lines and beat some of the dust out of them.
Gaston was coming through the hall as she reached the bottom of the stairs, and she called to him.
'Gaston. I have a job for you.'
'All in good time,
madame
. All in good time.' He sounded a little peevish. 'First, I must bring down the baggage of Mademoiselle Delatour and put it in her car.'
'Baggage?' Andrea's heart gave an uneven beat. 'Do you mean—is Mademoiselle Delatour leaving?'
Gaston shrugged. 'The road to the village is open again,
madame
. Why should she stay?'
He went past her up the stairs, grumbling under his breath. Andrea stood stock still, clutching the dusty curtains against her. Simone leaving, she thought wildly. It couldn't be true—not now, when she had every reason, it would seem, to stay. Or did Blaise jib at the fact of keeping his mistress under the same roof as his wife and was merely sending her to be a discreet distance away? She made her way slowly to the kitchen area, her mind whirling with conjecture.
Madame Bresson greeted her with a broad smile and an offer of hot coffee, which she accepted.
'So Mademoiselle Delatour leaves us today,
madame
? the housekeeper remarked, pouring the rich dark liquid into the beakers. 'It is a good thing for
le petit
, I think, that she does so.'
'Oh?' Andrea digested this. 'Why do you say that?'
Madame's lip curled. 'I am not blind,
madame
. Can I not see what she is about, that one? Each night I take
le petit
warm milk when he is in bed and each night it is the same. He is terrified of every shadow that moves because of Mademoiselle his aunt and her—bedtime stories!' She gave Andrea a shrewd glance which seemed to encompass her pale cheeks and the deep shadows beneath her eyes. 'She has not the gift of kindness, as you have,
madame
. All will go well when she departs, you will see.'
Andrea gave a strained smile. 'I wish I could believe that,' she said in a low voice. She had to resist the temptation to put her head on Madame's motherly bosom and sob out all her fears and apprehensions, purging herself of jealousy and anger at the same time. But it would not be fair, she knew. Madame had served the Levallier family all her life, and it would be wrong to burden her with this and divide her loyalties in such a way.
The door opened and Gaston marched in, mopping his brow.
'Monseigneur is seeking you,
madame
,' he told Andrea in a surly tone.
Andrea swallowed. The moment she had dreaded had come at last. The only wonder was that she had been spared for so long.
She stood up. 'Gaston, will you go to Monsieur Philippe's room in the tower and dismantle his bed again. I—we're moving him into the house for a night or two. I'll show you which room we—he will be using.'
Gaston cast his eyes to heaven. '
Sacre bleu
, madame! Have you forgotten? To take that bed into the tower—
quelle affaire
! And now it must descend again—and after the baggage of Mademoiselle!'
Andrea gave him a sweet smile. 'I think you'll survive,' she said callously.
As she went into the hall, she saw that the great door was standing open and that Simone's car was drawn up outside in the courtyard. Even as she registered this, Simone herself appeared. She looked slightly less immaculate than usual. Her hair was dishevelled and she seemed rather out of breath.
'Have you come to see me safely off the premises, Andrée?' she inquired silkily.
'I hardly think that's necessary.' Andrea walked forward, forcing herself to speak calmly. She owed it to her pride, she thought, not to give Simone the slightest hint that she either knew or cared about last night.
'No.' Simone gave a slow nod. 'It has been—interesting, but I shall be glad to go now. I have achieved what I wished to do, though not in the way that I expected.' She smiled widely at Andrea, her eyes very bright. 'I leave you the pieces,
ma chère
. Put them together, if you can.'
For a moment Andrea seemed to her Philippe screaming again, to see his small face contorted with terrified sobs.
She took another step forward.
'I may not have the physical strength to throw you through that door, Simone,' she said levelly, 'but I'm more than willing to try.'
It gave her an incredible satisfaction to see how Simone backed hastily away. She half ran out to her car, fumbling her keys into the lock. The last look she sent over her shoulder to Andrea was full of open malice.
'Save your energies,
chérie
,' she called. 'You will need them all. Losers always do.'
The car door banged and the engine sprang into vibrating life. A minute later and there was only the faint haze from the exhaust to prove that she had ever been there. Andrea closed the massive door and leaned against it, conscious of a flood of relief.
Then very slowly she went to look for Blaise. He did not appear to be anywhere downstairs and it took all the courage she possessed to mount the stairs again and go to the room she had shared with him for those few brief nights.
He was standing at the window staring out. Watching Simone depart? Wondering when he would be—with her again? Andrea let her thoughts run mad, tormenting her as she closed the door and waited for him to turn round and register the fact that she was there.
Without moving he said quietly, 'I waited for you for a long time last night, Andrée.'
She moistened her lips. 'Philippe needed me,' she said flatly.
'And my need for you? That counted for nothing, I suppose.'
'I—I couldn't leave Philippe,' she said defensively after a pause. 'Anyway, you had—consolation.' She could have bitten her tongue out as soon as the words were uttered.
He turned then and looked at her, and the amazing thing was he still didn't seem to be angry. He was even smiling faintly.
'The whisky bottle? Yes—once I would have turned to that, but no longer. Now when I am wounded, Andrée, I shall come to you to be healed.'
She stared at the floor. 'I can't even heal myself.'
'Then we must heal each other.' He walked across the room to her and stood, studying her averted face. His hand went out to lift her chin. 'Look at me,
ma belle
.'
She twisted wildly away out of the reach of his hands. 'Don't touch me!'
He gave a soft laugh. 'Oh, but I shall,
mon amour
. Whenever and however I wish, until you stop fighting me in that stubborn little head of yours and learn to be a woman.'
'I've already learned all I need to know.' She stared up at him. 'You—you're an expert teacher, Blaise, but school's out now.' She swallowed. 'You remember my cousin Clare. Well, she's getting married soon and I would like to go to her wedding.'
'How could I ever forget your cousin Clare?' the old sardonic note was back in his voice, but there was amusement as well. 'No doubt we can arrange something, although it will not be easy for me to get away.'
Andrea shook her head. 'There's no need for you to get away,' she said breathlessly. 'I would like to go on my own, please, or perhaps take Philippe with me. My aunt has invited us to have a short holiday with them.'
There was a long silence. When she ventured another glance at him, she saw he was looking down at her with narrowed eyes.
'Why am I not to come with you?'
'Well,' she improvised desperately, 'for one thing, it would be very awkward for Clare and…'
'The truth, Andrée.' His voice was still quiet, but it held a trace of steel.
'I think it would be a good idea if I went away for a while and took Philippe with me,' she said, avoiding his gaze. 'I think Philippe needs to get away. He—he isn't happy here.'
'Nevertheless this is his home—the only one he possesses now.'
'Yes,' she said. 'As you have cause to remember.'
Blaise took her by the shoulders, his fingers bruising her skin.
'And what, my sweet wife, do you mean by that?' he asked softly.
She shook her head, tears welling up uncontrollably in her eyes.
'Answer me, damn you!' His fingers gripped tighter, forcing a cry from her lips.
'Blaise, let us go. Take the money, and Philippe and I will never bother you again. I—I can support him. I might even be able to get my old job back in London…' The expression on his face brought her to a stumbling silence.
'What money?' he said too evenly.
'The insurance money—for Belle Riviere.' She was beginning to feel faint under the stress of the moment, and the harsh, gruelling pressure of his hands. 'Philippe knows all about it, Blaise. That's why he has been so frightened. He—he can't be sure that his father's death was an accident. He thinks he might be next. If I can get him away, then he may forget all about it in time and learn to be a child again.'
His face was white under his tan, the scar standing out in angry prominence along his cheek. There was anger in his eyes, too, and contempt, and a kind of hopelessness that cut her to the heart.
'If anyone else had said that to me,' he said at last, his voice hoarse, almost unrecognisable, 'I think I would have killed them.' He wrenched his hands away from her as if the touch of her skin was suddenly repugnant to him. She swayed and nearly fell.
'You were not the only one who received a letter today,
madame
.' He thrust his hand into the pocket of the coat he was wearing and produced a bulging envelope. 'If your command of my language does not enable you to translate, I will be happy to give you the gist of what it says. Take it.'
Shakily, she obeyed. There was a mass of documentation inside—official-looking forms and photostats, and at the front, a long letter with an indecipherable signature at the bottom.
She forced herself to read it, picking up key phrases which she could distinguish.
'Shall I assist you?' Blaise's finger stabbed at the papers. 'It comes, as you see, from an insurance company—the company which insured Belle Riviere. It tells me that they have now completed their investigations, and are satisfied that the fire at the house was deliberate arson. Therefore no payment will be made of any kind. As I think I once told you,
madame
, there is nothing left from Belle Riviere except the rent from the land. That is all Philippe possesses in the world—except my roof over his head and your unbounded sympathy,' he added savagely.
She stared at him, unable to take in what he was saying in its entirety.
'It was—arson?' she got out. 'And they know.'
His lip curled. 'Of course they know. They are not fools, these insurance companies. If Jean-Paul had been in his right mind, he would have known that. As it was, he staked everything he had on this one last desperate gamble, and he lost—everything. Including his own life.'
'Jean-Paul? Philippe's father set fire to Belle Riviere?' Horrific and tragic though the truth was, Andrea felt her heart lift within her in one wild leap of hope.
Blaise turned away abruptly, dragging his fingers wearily through his hair.
'Yes,' he said. 'And my one concern in this has been to make sure that Philippe never knew what really happened. I thought—I hoped that he would believe the fire had been an accident. I told myself his fear and loathing of me had been deliberately instigated by Simone—out of revenge.'
'I think it was,' Andrea said in a low voice, and shrank as she saw his face twist. 'Oh, Blaise, I'm sorry. I know you still love her, but…'
'What did you say?' he turned on her.