A Place of Storms (26 page)

'I know you love Simone,' she said helplessly. 'And I know you spent the night with her.'

'
Dieu
? he said softly. 'I am to be spared nothing, it seems. No slander is too great to be applied to my name. You think that because I was denied your body, I went to her.' He threw back his head and gave a short, savage laugh. 'Oh, no,
mon coeur
. When one has been granted a glimpse of heaven, one does not run straight to hell. When I realised that you were not coming back, I went out and walked—a long way over the hills. I left all my demons there—or thought I had. Today, I decided, we would start again, you and I, and when that letter came, it seemed like a sign. At last I could put all that business behind me. The truth was known, and one day when Philippe was old enough, I might be able to tell him about it.'

He put his hand quite gently under her chin, raising her face and studying it with an air of detached interest as if he had never seen her before.

'Did you never ask yourself,
ma mie
, why Simone should have departed in such haste this morning? I can tell you. Because I showed her this letter, and she knew she had nothing to gain any more. Why do you think she wanted Philippe? Because she loved him? Simone has never loved anyone or anything but herself. Apart from money, that is. She has a charming body, and she knows well how to barter it to get what she desires. For a time she desired me, but I was not rich, so she decided to make arrangements. Who do you suppose suggested to Jean-Paul that one way out of his difficulties would be to bum down Belle Riviere?' He smiled sardonically at Andrea's gasp. 'It is true, I assure you. You thought that she discarded me solely because of this.' He touched his scarred face. 'It was only partly true. Simone threw me aside when she realised I was not prepared to play her dirty game and try and cover up what Jean-Paul had done. She did her best to persuade me—as she had done with him. Then she took Philippe. She still hoped that through him the money would be forthcoming.' Grimly he held up the letter. 'Now she knows differently.'

He pushed the papers back into his pocket, and looked at her. His face looked tired and haggard and he made no attempt to touch her again.

'I thought,' he said quietly, 'that when you closed your eyes and turned away from me in revulsion on our wedding night nothing could ever hurt me again as much as that. I, too, know differently now. Go to London, Andrée. Take up your own life—I won't stop you. But Philippe stays here. It will not be easy, but at least I know now what I have to fight against.'

'Blaise.' Timidly she put out her hand, and, with a sense of shock, saw him recoil almost violently.

'I don't want your pity, Andrée. Your love I had hoped for—one day maybe—if I was patient and did not force you or frighten you.'

'I'm not frightened,' she whispered. 'Oh, Blaise, don't you know what I'm trying to say? I've done you a terrible wrong, I know, but…'

He lifted a hand, silencing her. 'Don't let us talk of wrongs,
ma belle
. I wronged you when I made you marry me. But it is not too late to make amends. I won't hold you to your promise of a year. It might be better if you went quite soon.'

She gave a little shuddering sigh, conscious that somewhere close at hand, someone was running with heavy blundering footsteps.

'Blaise…' she began, and then the door behind them burst open and Gaston came in.

'Monseigneur,' he gasped out. '
Le petit
Philippe. He is nowhere to be found. We have been searching, all of us— Monsieur Alan too. His clothes are there, but he is gone.'

Blaise swore violently under his breath as he started forward.

'Did he go with Mademoiselle Delatour?' he demanded.

Gaston shrugged helplessly. 'I put the baggage in her car, Monseigneur. But no one saw her depart.'

'I saw her,' Andrea said. 'I didn't see Philippe, but she could have hidden him in the car. She seemed—strange.'

Blaise turned to Gaston. 'Get the Landrover out,' he ordered. We'll go after her. She won't have got far—the roads are still bad in places.'

'May I go with you?' Andrea begged.

'No.' He did not look at her. 'Last night she mentioned that he was not well. You had best stay here and have a warm bed waiting for him. Ask your English friend to go to the village for the doctor.'

He went past her and out of the room followed by Gaston. Andrea followed more slowly, her mind dazed. Simone had taken Philippe—but for what reason? Pure malice was the only one that suggested itself. Her heart skipped a beat. Surely that was all it could be? Even Simone could not bring herself to actually harm the child. She had lied and schemed and done untold damage, but that was as far as she could go. Taking Philippe away with her could be no more than a defiant gesture.

It had been Madame Bresson who had discovered Philippe's disappearance, she learned. Madame had gone to waken him at the usual time, but he was sleeping so sweetly that she decided to leave him where he was. When she had returned, he had gone—apparently in his pyjamas, because all his day clothes were still neatly folded on the chair and nothing was missing from his wardrobe.

'
Le pauvre petit
.' Madame almost wrung her hands. 'How cold he will be! What could Mademoiselle have been thinking of?'

At first, Madame said, she had thought he might be hiding, or have run over to the gatehouse to see Alan. She and Gaston had combed the outbuildings and grounds calling to him when their search of the house had proved fruitless.

Andrea comforted the woman as best she could, point-ting out that Simone was sure to have a car rug, and that Philippe was probably as warm at that moment as he had been in his own bed.

The following half hour seemed endless. She kept imagining that she heard the Landrover pulling back into the courtyard and dashing to the window, but everything was quiet—as quiet as the grave, she thought, and shivered.

There was little point in sitting about worrying, she decided, getting up restlessly. It would be more useful to start transferring Philippe's clothes and toys out of the tower to his new room. Positive thinking, she told herself ruefully.

In a way she was almost grateful to the crisis over Philippe. It stopped her from thinking about other things —about the look on Blaise's face when she had accused him of setting fire to Belle Riviere—the note in his voice when he had told her she was free to go. The way he had stepped back, as if he could no longer bear her to touch him. She swallowed convulsively. She must not think of these things now. When Philippe was safely back with them, then, perhaps, she would look at the ruin she had made of her marriage and see what could be salvaged. Simone had said she would leave her to pick up the pieces.

As she went up the stone stairs into Philippe's bedroom, her heart contracted at the sight of the still tumbled bed, and the litter of toys and books on the rug. He had not been allowed or given time to take anything with him, she thought.

Oh God, let them find him soon, she found herself praying. Let him be with Simone as long as he is safe. Don't let him just have run away. How long would a child with proper food or warm clothing last alone in that dank grey and white landscape? she wondered.

She walked over to the bed and began to smooth the quilt rather aimlessly. For the first time, the tower felt oppressive and sinister, its curved walls seeming to crowd around her. It had been the perfect atmosphere for Simone to spread her web, she thought. She had played right into her hands by choosing those particular rooms for Philippe. And of course Simone would have known the story of Marie-Denise. No one would be connected with the Levallier family for very long without getting to know the legend, she thought.

She sighed and turned back towards the door, and paused abruptly, the hair lifting itself on the nape of her neck. She could hear a child crying.

Mentally she shook herself, telling herself that her imagination was playing tricks again. But the desolate wailing went on, quietly and hopelessly and very close at hand.

She swung round, staring round the small room, her heart beating fast and unevenly. 'Philippe?' she said sharply. She fell on her knees and looked under the bed. Nothing. She ran to the wardrobe, dragging open the doors and pulling the rack of clothes aside, but there was no small figure to be seen. And there was nowhere—nowhere else for a child to hide.

The wailing seemed to rise to a crescendo and then died away with a little whimper. It sounded as if it had come
horn
over her head. But there was nothing up there—only pigeons and rafters and crumbling masonry, and besides, Gaston had secured the trapdoor, fastening it shut with big screws. She had seen him do it. She climbed up the steps and looked at the trapdoor overhead. It was still firmly shut, and the screws were still very much in place.

She, shook her head bewilderedly and was preparing to descend again when she heard quite unmistakably a swift shuffling sound from the upper room. Pigeons, she thought, or—a rat. She put up a hand and pushed at the trap door, but it did not budge. She ran her fingers across one of the screws and winced as a splinter of wood became embedded in her flesh. She sucked it out and stared reflectively at Gaston's handiwork. It was odd, she thought, how rough the timber seemed round the screws. Yet he was usually so neat. I could have done as good a job as that, she thought critically, given the proper tools—a screwdriver and… Her thoughts stopped. She was back in the stables again watching Gaston finishing off Philippe's sledge, and Simone was there too, perched on the edge of the table, playing with a screwdriver. She remembered at the time thinking how incongruous it had looked. And Gaston had missed some tools, she told herself. Tools which Philippe had been accused of borrowing and losing, but which he had denied.

She pressed her fingers against her forehead, forcing herself to think clearly.

Philippe's manner had been odd, she remembered. Could it have been that he knew that Simone had the tools, but did not wish to incriminate her? And the destruction of his sledge. It had been the obvious thing to assume it was Philippe's work, but could a small boy of his slight build really have wielded that kind of hammer with such devastating effect?

She reached up and rapped her knuckles on the trapdoor.

'Philippe!' she called again. She thought she heard a faint cry in answer, and that was enough. She turned, flinging herself down the narrow steps, out of the bedroom, and then down again. She flew to the door, cannoning into Alan who was just entering.

'Take it easy!' He took her by the shoulders and steadied her gently. 'The doctor's on his way and…'

'He's up there,' she gulped. 'In the top room. She's put him up there and fastened the trapdoor. I've got to get some tools. I've got to get Him out!'

Alan said sharply, 'You're joking. No one could do a thing like that to a sensitive kid.'

'She could.' Andrea tried to wrench free. 'She's capable of anything—I know that now. Alan, let me go. I've got to get him out.'

'You wait here. I'll go and see if there's a crowbar or something.'

'A screwdriver,' she said. 'That's what you need. There's a big one. She had it—I saw her, but I didn't realise.'

'Of course you didn't,' he said soothingly. 'Go back up there. Talk to him. Tell him help is coming. He trusts you.'

She went back up the stone stairs, wedging herself under the trapdoor, her mouth almost against the timbers. She called to Philippe, she sang, she told him funny stories, and all that came back to her was the echo of her own voice.

'Any luck?' Alan was there. 'No screwdriver anywhere. If she had it, she must have taken it with her. But there's this.' He held up a small but serviceable axe.

'He doesn't answer.' She stared at the axe. 'Alan, suppose he's there, over the trapdoor, when you break through.'

'Talk to him,' he said decisively. 'Tell him to get away as far as possible, and that we'll soon have him out of there.'

Numbly, she obeyed, then scrambled down out of the way as Alan prepared to take a swing at the trapdoor. The wood was old, and began to splinter after only a few blows.

'I'll cut a hole,' Alan gasped between strokes. 'Think you can—climb through?'

'I'll manage,' she said.

'It won't be very comfortable,' he warned. 'I ought to go…'

'No,' she said, 'I'll do it. The hole doesn't need to be so big for me.'

The splintered wood dragged at her, catching in her sweater and tearing her jeans. Both her hands were bleeding as she scrambled through the trapdoor and knelt on the floor beyond it. Philippe was lying at one side of the room, huddled into a ball. He was unconscious and icily cold to the touch, but he was still breathing. Without a second's thought, Andrea tore off her sweater and wrapped him in it.

'Alan!' she screamed. 'He's here. Go and tell Clothilde. Blankets—lots of them and a drink—with brandy in it. A warm bath, even. And see if the doctor's here. I'll stay with him. Hurry!'

She heard Alan call an acknowledgment and the sound of his receding footsteps. She picked Philippe up in her arms and settled him across her lap, chafing his hands and bare feet. They were as cold as stones. She hugged him tightly, trying to imbue him with some of her own warmth. He gave a little shudder and opened his eyes. For a moment, she thought he did not know who she was.

'Philippe.' She bent and pressed her lips to his tangled hair. 'It's Tante Andrée.'

'Yes.' His eyelids flickered a little and a small, puzzled frown appeared. Is the game over?'

'Game?'

'I had to hide,' he said simply. 'Tante Simone was Marie-Denise and she said she would hide me from La Cicatrice so that he would never find me. But then she went, and it was cold and I was frightened.'

'Yes,' she said, her throat tight. 'The game is over. And soon you can have a nice sleep and a big bowl of soup.'

'
Bon
.' He gave her a long look. 'Tante Andrée, why are you not dressed?'

'Because you are wearing my sweater. You look very silly in it. The sleeves are too long and if I pull up the collar it looks as if there is no Philippe at all.'