Devil In Velvet

A sudden crackling from within made him turn his head swiftly, and excusing himself he went back to attend to the sticks which were burning brightly in the grate. Harriet exchanged a helpless look with Susan, and then followed him.

The room seemed smaller with his presence by the fireplace. But she noticed that the debris had been swept away, and some attempt at cleaning the table and wooden seats had been made.

‘You did this?’ she asked disbelievingly, and he nodded.

‘I swept upstairs yesterday evening,’ he explained, feeding more wood on to the flames, ‘but I did not have time to attend to everything. As you can see, it is very primitive.’ He paused, but when she made no comment, he straightened to stand facing them again. ‘You may look around, of course, but if you feel the house is not what you were led to believe, I shall quite understand. Naturally, I cannot blame Frond, but I can instruct him to refund your payment immediately.’

Susan looked anxiously up at her aunt. Laroche’s English was much better than Harriet’s French, and there was no mistaking his meaning. Susan’s feelings were unmistakable, too.

‘As—as a matter of fact we were here earlier,’ Harriet admitted reluctantly. ‘We looked around then.’

‘Ah.’ He did not look surprised. ‘I thought I had not locked the door.’

Harriet gasped. ‘You have a key!’

His expression grew wry. ‘But of course. I have just told you. I did not know Frond had sold the place.’

‘Well, if we’re staying here, naturally I shall expect you to surrender it,’ stated Harriet stiffly, and his mouth revealed a decidedly cynical twist.

‘Naturally,’ he assured her mockingly, and she felt the betraying heat enveloping her neck. It made her aware of the low cleavage of her blouse, and of how dishevelled she must appear. Until then, she had been so absorbed with his appearance, she had paid little heed to her own.

Now her fingers went automatically to secure that revealing button, and as if aware of her discomfort, he turned away once more to check the fire. With the shadows of dusk darkening the lane outside, the fire was a cheerful sight, and like the setting sun earlier, its bright reflection gave the room an unexpected charm. With the beams swept clean of dust, and a fresh coat of emulsion on the walls, it might not look half bad, thought Harriet in a moment of weakness, but the house was no longer the deterrent; the man facing the hearth had taken its place.

Susan tugged at her sleeve. ‘We are going to stay, aren’t we?’ she mouthed desperately, and Harriet made an impatient gesture. ‘Please!’

Susan was determined, but Harriet refused to be blackmailed. All right, so it had been her idea to bring her niece away for a couple of months until all the trauma of her parents’ death had died down, but if he—she refused to think of him by his Christian name—if he was prepared to give her her money back, there was absolutely no reason why she shouldn’t buy another house, or a cottage, in another part of the country entirely. Yet she had always loved this area, and she had wanted to stay.

But that was before she had known who her neighbours might be. How could she stay here, only a stone’s throw from him and his family? How could she bear to know that she might run into him at any time—into him, or his wife! Besides, he might view her presence here as an open invitation to take up where he had left off, and that he would never do. Never! Even so, his presence here puzzled her, and she wondered how long he had undertaken menial tasks himself.

‘There! That seems to be burning satisfactorily,’ he observed at last, and moved to the sink to rinse his filthy hands. ‘Are you planning to spend the night here?’

Harriet wrapped the strap of her handbag round her wrist. ‘We were,’ she conceded shortly. ‘We—we did go into the village, looking for an inn, but a Monsieur—Macon—?’

‘Macon, oui?’

‘—he told us there were no inns hereabout.’

‘No, that is true,’ he nodded. ‘Although recently an American company have been trying to buy the chateau to turn it into a luxury hotel.’

‘The Chateau de Rochefort?’ inquired Harriet involuntarily, and he frowned.

‘You have been there?’

‘Oh, no.’ She shook her head. ‘We just thought… It doesn’t matter.’ She gave Susan a thoughtful look, and then added: ‘Perhaps we could let you know tomorrow whether—well, whether we intend to stay.’ She consulted her watch. ‘It’s getting rather late, and we’re hungry.’

He dried his hands on a handkerchief he pulled out of his jeans pocket. It was not new but it was spotlessly clean, and she found herself speculating exactly what his position was. His circumstances were intriguing, even if he deserved whatever kind of retribution this might be, she thought maliciously.

‘How will you sleep?’ he asked, thrusting his handkerchief away again. ‘The bed upstairs is not fit to use.’

‘I don’t think that need concern you, Monsieur Laroche,’ Harriet retorted coldly, and had the satisfaction of seeing a faint trace of colour darken the brown skin covering his cheekbones.

‘I did not mean to pry,’ he said quietly, and she felt reproved. But before she could make any further comment, he added: ‘If you do decide to stay, I will supply you with two single beds to take the place of the one upstairs, which must be destroyed.’

Harriet did not thank him. After all, she justified herself angrily, the house had been sold furnished, and no one could argue that a bed was an absolute necessity.

‘Where’s the cooker?’ Susan asked suddenly, and Harriet glanced round impatiently.

‘There is no cooker—at present,’ Laroche told them. ‘Some years ago, the oven beside the fire was the only facility, but the last tenants of the house were provided with a Calor gas stove. Unfortunately it was removed some months ago. I will see that it is restored also if you choose to stay.’

Harriet sighed. ‘But how can we make a hot drink?’ she protested, momentarily shaken out of her incommunicative state, and he indicated an iron kettle on the hearth.

‘I regret you will have to boil water in that for this evening,’ he said. ‘Unless…’ He paused, his eyes probing Harriet’s. ‘Unless you care to join my family and myself for supper?’

How dared he?

Harriet dragged her gaze away from his feeling a sick awareness in the pit of her stomach. How could he invite her to share his supper, to sit at the same table as his wife and family, in the full knowledge of their previous relationship?

Almost choking on the words, she refused his invitation, and he moved his shoulders in a way that betrayed his Gallic ancestry. ‘As you wish,’ he acceded equably, and moved towards the door. ‘I will return in the morning for your decision.’ He indicated the lamp hanging from the ceiling. ‘There is oil inside. Can you light it?’

Harriet straightened her spine. ‘I should think so, monsieur. Goodnight.’

‘Bonsoir,’ he responded politely, and with a brief smile at Susan, he left them, striding away down the path to the lane.

Harriet waited until he reached the lane, and then hastened to the window, hushing Susan when she tried to speak to her, and watching which direction he took. He turned away from the road which ran between Bel-sur-Baux and Rochelac, and instead, entered the copse of trees that ran down to the stream, confirming Harriet’s speculation that one could walk to the village that way. She waited until he had disappeared from sight, and then sank back against the wall, one hand pressed quellingly to the nervous pulse throbbing in her throat.

Susan stared at her for several seconds, and then she asked impatiently: ‘Who is he? What’s going on?’

Harriet straightened, shaking her head. ‘I’ve told you. He—I—we met several years ago in Paris.’

‘Is he in the antique business, too?’ exclaimed Susan in surprise.

‘I don’t know.’

‘But you said you met him at an auction!’

‘We did.’ Harriet flapped her hand about dismissingly. ‘Look, we haven’t time to talk about it now. It will be dark soon, and we still have the car to unload.’

Susan regarded her sulkily. ‘You can’t brush it off, just like that. You didn’t just meet him once, did you? I’m not a baby. I could tell there was more to it than that.’

‘Oh, Susan…’ Harriet walked out of the house.

‘Well! What went wrong?’ demanded Susan, following her. ‘I mean, he’s rather dishy, isn’t he? He reminded me of Sacha Distel.’

‘Oh, good lord, he’s nothing like Sacha Distel!’ said Harriet crossly. ‘Are you going to help me carry these things in, or not?’

Susan shrugged, and lifted a box of groceries. ‘Did you have an affair with him?’ she asked casually, and for a moment her aunt was too stunned to speak. ‘Well,’ she went on, carrying the groceries into the house. ‘People do, you know. I even know girls of my age who—’

‘I’d prefer not to discuss the matter any further,’ Harriet essayed, depositing their sleeping bags on the kitchen table. ‘Now, do you want tea or coffee? It’s all the same to me.’