Place Of Storms

‘And what part do you play in this—co-operative?’

‘I am its overall manager.’ He noted the rather satirical look Andrea sent him, and raised his hand. ‘Not because the feudal system still flourishes, I promise you. If I did not have the necessary skill, I would be labouring in the fields. I’ve served my apprenticeship in management on the plantations of Martinique and—other places.’ His smile jeered at her suddenly. ‘So if you thought you had come here merely to play the gracious chatelaine, ma mie, I’m afraid you must think again.’

‘I thought nothing of the sort,’ she said truthfully, and relaxed as a knock at the door signalled the arrival of Madame Bresson with their dinner.

Andrea had not realised how hungry she was until Madame lifted the lid off the earthenware pot in the middle of the table and disclosed the simmering cassoulet, chunks of pork, slices of country sausage and black-eyed beans swimming in a rich gravy, redolent of garlic and herbs. She made a token protest at the huge plateful that was put in front of her, and then ate every mouthful, assisting it on its way with wedges of fresh, warm bread. The wine they drank was one of the local vintages, Blaise told her, and she found it surprisingly mellow and full-bodied. She refused the cheese that followed, but accepted a cup of strong, black coffee.

‘So Clothilde’s cooking is to your liking?’ Blaise Levallier leaned back in his chair, watching her.

‘Very much,’ she agreed. ‘If I stayed here very long, I’d be as fat as …’ Her voice tailed away, as she realised with horror what she had just said.

‘It will be a metamorphosis that I shall observe with interest,’ he said smoothly, as if unaware of her slip.

Well, it was said, and it could not be unsaid, and now was the time, if ever, for her challenge to him.

She set her coffee cup back in its saucer very carefully.

‘Monsieur Levallier, I think you must realise as well as I do that this—this marriage cannot take place.’

‘You are incorrect, mademoiselle. I realise nothing of the sort.’

She heard the grimness in his voice, but persevered. ‘I—I agreed because I was—emotionally disturbed at the time. You can’t really intend to hold me to a promise made under such circumstances.’

‘Oh, but I can,’ he said almost idly, ‘and I will. Make no mistake about that, ma mie.’

‘But it would be too cruel,’ she said, her voice quivering, and shrank back from the sudden fury that glared at her from his eyes.

‘And do you imagine life has been so kind to me, that I am prepared to take that into consideration?’ he demanded harshly, his fingers straying as if in spite of himself towards his damaged face. ‘Spoiled from your cradle, what can you know of cruelty?’

‘Do I have to learn my first lesson from you?’ she flung at him, forgetful in that moment that it was not for herself that she spoke.

He shrugged. ‘The nature of the lesson will be your own choice, mademoiselle. But I warn you now, the marriage will go ahead as planned. It has already been delayed too long.’

‘Am I ever to be told why it’s so essential for you to be married?’

He poured himself another cup of coffee. ‘You have never displayed any particular curiosity before,’ he reminded her drily. ‘You seemed more preoccupied with your own—affairs. But there is no reason for you not to know. I am shortly to assume the guardianship of my nephew, and the terms of my brother’s will stipulate that I have to be a married man in order to do so. That is all.’

‘That’s quite enough!’ The breath left Andrea’s body in a gasp. So Clare was not merely to have been pitchforked into matrimony but into motherhood by proxy as well, she thought furiously. The nerve of this creature! ‘Why on earth did your brother include this—stipulation, if he knew you were a bachelor?’

‘At the time the will was made, I was expecting to be married—quite soon,’ he said, and there was a note in his voice that made her stomach constrict nervously. Her eyes went involuntarily to his scarred cheek, and he nodded sardonically. ‘You are very perceptive, mademoiselle. And more skilful at concealing your revulsion than my fiancée.’ He laughed shortly, without mirth. ‘It was a memorable few hours of my life. In the space of a day, I lost everyone in the world I most cared for. My nephew alone remains, and him I do not intend to lose.’

‘But surely, if you’re his only relative …’

‘But I am not,’ he cut in. ‘He has an aunt on his mother’s side. Unless I fulfil the conditions of the will, she intends to contest the guardianship in the courts. All my money has been sunk into this co-operative. I cannot afford to fight her.’

‘But how old is this child? Wouldn’t he perhaps be better with his aunt?’ Andrea began, and quailed under the look he sent her.

‘No, he would not,’ he said briefly. ‘The child is my heir and his place is here, with his heritage.’

‘But what if you have a child of your own …’ Andrea said unthinkingly, and crimsoned as she realised the implication in her words.

‘Aren’t you afraid I might take you at your word?’ His eyes appraised her with sudden insolence. ‘What would you do, I wonder? What is that saying you have—close your eyes and think of England, or in this case, France?’

She pressed her hands to her burning face. ‘I didn’t mean …’ she stumbled, and his smile widened unpleasantly.

‘I believe you, mademoiselle. Don’t look so frightened. I would not demand a sacrifice of that magnitude. I am well aware that my—face would give nightmares to any woman forced to share my bed.’

She shrank from the bitterness implicit in his words. Someone—his fiancée?—must have said that, or something very like it, to him. It betrayed a lack of sensitivity and compassion that was almost inconceivable. Whoever this girl had been, he was well rid of her, she found herself thinking stormily, and checked herself sharply. No matter where her sympathies might instinctively lie, he was still her adversary.

She tried reason again. ‘Monsieur, you’ve been hurt, I know, but is that any reason to hurt in your turn? This—marriage would be a total disaster. We—we don’t know each other. What kind of a relationship could we have?’

Again she was conscious of that uncanny feeling that she was pleading not for Clare but for herself, and she shivered slightly.

‘You are cold? Come and sit by the fire.’ He got up and strode to the fireplace, flinging on a couple of logs from the basket that stood in the hearth.

‘I’m all right here, thank you,’ her voice faltered a little and he looked at her impatiently.

‘What are you frightened of? This relationship that is only a figment of your own imagination? All I require, mademoiselle, is a marriage on paper that will satisfy the lawyers and release Philippe into my custody. Once that has been achieved, you are free to go or stay as you please.’

‘But you can’t use me like this …’ she began hotly.

His eyes flashed. ‘You did not display the same aversion to using me to heal your pride over your broken love affair, ma mie. You were almost brutally frank on the subject. What was it you called me—a lifeline? You cannot now complain if that lifeline becomes a chain to bind you.’

She rose to her feet, pushing her hair back with a weary gesture.

‘I—I think I’d like to go to my room,’ she said. ‘I’m rather tired.’

‘Certainly. I will ring for Clothilde.’ He reached for the bell rope. Then he turned and walked back to her and stood looking down at her. ‘Sleep well,’ he said abruptly. ‘Perhaps everything will seem a little better in the morning, hein?’

She shook her head, suddenly unable to think of a single thing to say in reply.

For a moment he too was silent, looking down at her, and then almost casually he raised his hand and brushed one finger across her parted lips in a gesture that was almost more intimate than the kiss he had greeted her with on her arrival. She made herself stand her ground, refusing to allow herself to recoil in case he misinterpreted it as an act of repulsion. Whereas, if she was honest with herself, the opposite was true. Why else this almost terrifying tingle of awareness along her nerve-endings? It was a response, the implications of which she did not care to study too closely, and she was thankful when a tap on the door heralded the arrival of Madame Bresson.

The interior planning of the chateau was an architect’s nightmare, Andrea thought resignedly as she was led by the housekeeper up a winding stone staircase to the first floor. She found herself in a long, draughty passage at one end of which were a pair of imposing double doors. Andrea gathered from Madame Bresson that that was the chateau’s main bedroom, and was presumably occupied by the master of the house.

Her own room, she discovered with amusement and an odd sense of relief, lay in the opposite direction, and at a considerable distance. It was an altogether cosier apartment than she had anticipated, with a small fire burning on the hearth, and enormous old-fashioned furniture which gave a sense of reassurance. The bedstead too was massively constructed in oak, and Andrea wondered with a sinking heart whether the mattress would match it, but a surreptitious poke at it while Madame Bresson was making up the fire soon reassured her.

It was as Madame was wishing her a smiling ‘Bonne nuit’ that a thought occurred to her. ‘Oh—my keys!’

Madame raised her eyebrows in puzzled enquiry and Andrea elaborated. ‘The car keys. I gave them to Gaston so that he could fetch my cases, and I can’t see them anywhere.’

The housekeeper’s smile broadened. In a daze Andrea heard herself being advised to remain tranquil as Gaston would no doubt have given the keys to Monseigneur, who would arrange its return to the company it had been hired from. Mademoiselle, Madame added triumphantly, was not to concern herself. Monseigneur would arrange everything.

I bet he will, Andrea thought inwardly as the door closed behind Madame. She sank down on the edge of the bed with a feeling of desperation. She had relied so totally on having the car at her disposal for even a few days. Now she would have to depend on what the local bus service had to offer to get her away from this place.

She walked over to the fireplace and sank down on to the rug, holding out her hands to the comforting flames. Not for the first time, she bitterly regretted that she had ever become involved in this charade. Just for a moment she seriously contemplated finding her way back downstairs and telling Blaise Levallier the truth, throwing herself on his mercy, then she dismissed the thought, remembering how he had rejected her accusation that he was cruel.

She squared her shoulders slightly. No, there was little of the milk of human kindness left there, she told herself, and he deserved everything that was coming to him. If Clare’s foolish letter was in the chateau she would find it somehow and—Monseigneur could find another dupe to play his marriage game with him.