A Place of Storms (7 page)

It was useless to pretend that she had not been shocked into a certain sympathy for him by the morning's revelations. Looking back on the happiness of her own childhood, it seemed incredible that such bitter hostility could exist in a family. It did much to explain the cynical lines that marked his mouth, and the cold ruthlessness he displayed in his dealings with Clare. Yet she could not doubt his affection for his dead brother. There had been no tinge of censure in his references to the problems Jean-Paul had experienced in running the plantation, only regret. His father's favouritism had not had the power to sour that relationship at least. It was clear there was a connection between the loss of the plantation and Jean-Paul's death, and that there was also a link between this tragedy and the scarring of Blaise's face.

She got carefully out of the bath and began to towel herself dry. She must not get involved, she thought, with a sense of desperation. She would not be here for much longer, and when she left, she wanted to be able to turn her back on St Jean des Roches and its master without a second thought or trace of regret. And if a warning inner voice murmured that it might already be too late, she closed her ears deliberately.

Madame Bresson had taken her jeans and sweater to launder, so Andrea changed into a slim-fitting skirt in golden tweed, topped by a dark green woollen shirt, and pinned up her chestnut hair into a neat French pleat."

She lunched on thick home-made broth, savoury with herbs and vegetables, ending her meal with fresh fruit from the chateau's own orchards and local cheese. She was just finishing her coffee when Madame Bresson came to clear the table.

'No, you must let me help you. You have quite enough to do.' Andrea got up gingerly and began to load her dishes on to the tray Madame had brought in spite of the housekeeper's protests. Then she carried the tray to the kitchen. After all, she told herself in justification, if she was really going to be the mistress here, she would be taking over some of the household duties, and her independent spirit rebelled at being waited on.

The kitchen was a large cheerful room with an enormous glowing range, which also provided hot water as well as cooking facilities. In the middle of the room was a large wooden table with a well-scrubbed top, and an array of fearsome-looking knives to hand. Strings of onions and garlic hung from hooks round the walls, and a huge built-in dresser supported an assortment of copper and cast iron utensils. Andrea enjoyed cooking, although she had never embarked on a Cordon Bleu course as Clare had done for a brief period. She thought that once the vagaries of the range had been mastered, any woman could revel in preparing meals in these homely surroundings.

Madame Bresson seemed not to resent her presence in the slightest, but showed a positive eagerness to open the china cupboards and disclose the secrets of the larder and the wine cellar. She grieved openly over the fact that the chateau was not supplied with electricity and Andrea learned, without any real surprise, that this had been one of the decisions of 'Monsieur
le p
è
re de
Monseigneur'. She would have loved to know more, but Madame became so tight-lipped at the first of her tentative questions that she desisted.

When she inquired whether anyone would mind if she looked round the chateau, Madame looked a little blank, but she cheered visibly when Andrea assured her, feeling wretchedly guilty, that she did not require a guide, but would be quite happy to look about on her own. Her guilt increased when a large bunch of keys was thrust trustingly into her hands with a beaming smile from the housekeeper.

As she turned to leave, her foot struck something lying on the flagged floor. She bent to retrieve it, and saw to her surprise it was an intricately carved bobbin, the type used in lacemaking.

'Whose is this?' She turned to Madame Bresson, the bobbin extended on her palm.

Madame gave a little cry and slipped the bobbin into her capacious apron pocket, profuse in her thanks. Andrea was intrigued.

'Do you make lace,
madame
?' she asked.

Madame nodded proudly. The lace of Auvergne was justly famous—an ancient tradition passed down from mother to daughter for generations. But
h
é
las
, there were no daughters for her to pass on her skills to, so Monseigneur was to arrange that she should teach some of the young girls in the village. When Monseigneur was married, she added rather anxiously, he had promised she would have more time to spare for this.

Andrea smothered a smile, guessing this was why Madame had been so ready to introduce her to the inner workings of the establishment.

'Perhaps you'll show me some of your lace when you have time,' she said gently. If she could do so without offending the housekeeper, she thought she might buy something from her—a collar perhaps, or a shawl to take away with her, as a souvenir of what surely would be the strangest few days of her life. It would be a safer reminder than the haunted look in a man's eyes, and the painful memory of the response even his slightest touch could kindle.

Two hours later she was ready to weep with frustration and annoyance. She had explored all the habitable portions of the chateau, tiptoeing through quiet rooms shrouded in dust covers, along winding corridors where pictures of long-dead Levalliers gazed down haughtily on her intrusion, and up and down staircases until her mistreated muscles screamed for mercy. The only room she had hesitated to enter was the bedroom she knew to be Blaise Levallier's. After all, her exploration of the chateau could be attributed to simple feminine curiosity, and an interest in historical houses. But she could think of no convincing reason for being discovered in his bedroom—except one which could invite consequences she did not care to contemplate.

She had developed a slight headache and her throat and nasal passages felt full of dust. Fresh air was what she needed, she thought, dispiritedly shrugging herself into her brown leather driving coat. Something to blow the cobwebs away, literally as well as figuratively, and give her a clear perspective on things. She was beginning to wonder if it wouldn't be best to cut her losses and get out. After all, Clare's own wedding was not too long away, and surely it might be possible to fend Blaise Levallier off until then, and she was lost to him for ever. At the moment she was simply searching for a needle in a haystack. Clare had been a fool, but was she herself any less harebrained for setting out on this wild goose chase? Why couldn't Blaise have been the pompous overbearing oaf she had visualised? There would have been a kind of malicious pleasure in leading someone like that up any number of garden paths. She might even have been tempted to flirt with him. But with Blaise, she felt that all the initiative had been taken out of her hands, and that in some odd way it was he who was dictating the course of events.

She shivered a little as she stepped out of the big main door into the fading afternoon sunlight, thrusting her hands into the pockets of her coat. She supposed that the chateau possessed a garden of sorts, but if it was as neglected as the building, it would probably be like hacking one's way through the jungle. She paused in the middle of the courtyard, looking moodily around her. A sudden feeling of intense irritation came over her and she bent, dragging out a handful of weed and flinging it with more strength than accuracy in the direction of the gatehouse. The muddy bundle thudded against one of the lower windows and slid sadly downwards to rest on the sill, and a matter of seconds later Andrea heard one of the upper windows being opened. Too late she remembered the face she thought she had glimpsed on her arrival, and a hand flew to her mouth in dismay.

There was indeed a face, rather a nice .one with a beard and a pair of rimless glasses, gazing down at her with pained astonishment.

'
Pardonnez-moi
,
mademoiselle. Puis-je vous aider?'
The words might be French, she realised hysterically, but the accent was unmistakably English.

'I—I'm awfully sorry,' she said. 'I—I didn't realise anyone lived there. No one mentioned you, you see.'

'You're English too!' The look of pained astonishment gave way to a beaming smile. 'I say, what a coincidence. Are you a tourist? You're rather off the beaten track here, you know. This isn't one of the show places.'

'No.' Andrea turned and looked at the chateau, narrowing her eyes against the sun. 'But it could be lovely,' she added, feeling like a mother rushing to defend an ugly child.

'I've got some tea.' His voice became almost conspiratorial. 'Would you like a cup?'

Tea wasn't her most favourite drink, but Andrea could recognise a friendly gesture when she saw one. Besides, the very fact that Blaise Levallier had concealed the fact that one of her compatriots was occupying his gatehouse, presumably with his knowledge and permission, was intriguing. Wild horses wouldn't have dragged her away from the gatehouse now.

The small studded door swung open as she approached. Her host was younger than she had imagined from her first glance, probably only a year or so older than herself. He was of medium height and looked as if his wardrobe of faded jeans, sweater and scuffed suede boots had been purchased at Oxfam.

'Alan Woodhouse,' he introduced himself. She appreciated the firmness of his handshake.

'Andrea Weston.'

'The same initials.' He looked at her solemnly through his glasses. 'We were obviously fated to meet. Do come in. I should watch the stairs—I think they're supporting a family of death watch beetle and damned little else. This way. This is my living room. It's a bit of a mess, I'm afraid, because I do—rather—live in it.'

That, Andrea thought, was an understatement. Her eyes roamed dazedly round the small room, taking in the camp bed with its sleeping bag, the portable stove with its blue gas bottle standing next to it, the wooden crate loaded with tins, and the round table cluttered with crockery in various stages of cleanliness, books, scattered papers and a portable typewriter.

Alan Woodhouse plunged at the table and began to hunt around. 'I did do some washing up yesterday, actually—or was it the day before? There's no water laid on here, so I fetch it all from the stable yard in a bucket. But I can't complain. He isn't charging me a penny, and if I can't work" here, then I don't deserve to get on.'

'Are you a writer?' Andrea lowered herself gingerly on to a rickety stool.

'One day, perhaps. I'm doing research at the moment, for a thesis—the life of Vercingetorix. He came from these parts, you know.'

Memories of schoolday struggles with the classics came back to Andrea. 'Oh, I know. "All Gaul is divided into three parts."'

'Yes.' He looked at her soberly. 'I suppose everyone knows that beginning. But it's the end of the story that's always fascinated me. I must have a soft spot for losers, anyway, and Julius Caesar has always seemed such a cold fish to me. Always so objective and—laconic. I mean, when you think—here's his great enemy, the Gallic chieftain who has defeated his army and withstood a terrible siege, coming out to surrender to him, riding down the hill from Alesia in his golden armour—or that's how the legends describe him. And what does Caesar say?' He dived at a tattered paper-bound book and opened it towards the end. 'Just listen. "He"—that's Caesar talking about himself— "seated himself at the fortification in front of his camp, and there the chiefs were brought; Vercingetorix was delivered up and the arms laid down."' He shook his head. 'Not exactly passionate stuff, is it?'

Andrea laughed. 'Nor was "I came, I saw, I conquered", ' she pointed out. 'But there's an endearing matter-of-factness, about it, just the same, a suggestion of the inevitable being bowed to once again. However, I can see why you prefer Vercingetorix. There's a lot to be said for a folk-hero who goes on behaving heroically even when he's lost.'

He smiled delightedly at her. 'That's just what I feel. You've seen his statue, of course, in Clermont-Ferrand. It's an enormous thing. God, this tea! You must be dying of thirst. It's only condensed milk, I'm afraid.'

Andrea suppressed a shudder. 'Lovely,' she said weakly.

But when she took an experimental sip from the steaming mug he handed her, she found it altogether better than she had expected.

Alan dumped himself down on the edge of the camp bed and grinned at her. 'It's marvellous to meet someone else who can speak English. French isn't my strong point, I'm afraid. Of course, Monsieur Levallier speaks English too, but he isn't really the sociable type.'

'No,' Andrea said constrainedly, and he looked up in sudden alarm.

'Oh hell, I haven't put my foot in it, have I? Was it you that drove in last night! Are you staying at the chateau? I suppose you're a friend of his.'

Andrea stared at the floor. In a way,' she acknowledged.

There was a prolonged silence and when she looked up, she saw that Alan's ears and as much of his face as remained visible above the beard had turned bright red.

'I didn't mean to pry,' he mumbled, avoiding her glance.

To her annoyance, she found she was blushing in turn.

'You're quite wrong,' she protested. 'I am staying at the chateau, as a matter of fact, but…' She hesitated, completely at a loss as to how to explain. She couldn't tell him the truth, obviously, but it seemed wrong to involve him in her deception. She decided to compromise. 'I'm here on business, actually. Monsieur Levallier and I have some— negotiations to discuss.'

'Oh.' His face cleared. 'Actually I didn't think… I mean, you don't look the type. Oh, lord, here I go again! What I'm trying to say is that he's obviously knocked around a hell of a lot. I imagine he'd want someone who could match his own experience. Not that you aren't very attractive,' he added punctiliously.

She had to smile. 'Thank you, kind sir, she said.'

He grinned too. 'Well, you know what I mean,' he said plaintively.

She was nevertheless glad when they deserted personalities and returned to the thesis he was writing, and the local history he had acquired during his stay in the area. She learned that he had been living in the gatehouse for over six weeks, and planned to stay for another month at least.