Bride of Desire (21 page)

 
‘Gone?’ Allie repeated the word almost numbly, then ran across the courtyard to him, catching at his sleeve, her voice pleading. ‘Gone where? Please, Monsieur Georges, you must tell me…’

 
‘Must?’ the old man repeated, outrage in his voice. ‘You dare to use that word to me, or any member of my family? And what obligation do I have to you, madame—the young woman who has ruined my grandson’s life and, as a consequence, broken the heart of my son, too?’

 
She bent her head, hiding from the accusation in his eyes. ‘I—I love Remy.’

 
‘You mean that you desired him,’ he corrected harshly. ‘A very different thing.’

 
‘No.’ She forced her voice to remain level. ‘I love him, and I want to spend my life with him.’

 
He was silent for a moment. ‘But his wishes are entirely different, madame,’ he said at last, his voice gruff. ‘Yesterday he contacted the Paris headquarters of the medical charity he used to work for, and volunteered his services yet again. His father drove him to the train last night, having failed to persuade him to stay. By now he may be on his way to the other side of the world.

 
‘And why?’ His voice rose. ‘Because he does not ever want to see you again, or hear your name mentioned. And for that he is prepared to sacrifice his home, his career, and all the dearest hopes of his family. He has gone, Alys, from all of us. From his whole life here. And even if I knew where I would not tell you. You have done enough damage.

 
‘Now, leave, and do not come back. Because the answer here will always be the same.’

 
He moved to the back door, then halted, giving her one last, sombre look. ‘It was a bad hour for my grandson when he saw you on the beach at Les Sables.’

 
‘A very bad hour,’ Allie said quietly. ‘He would have done better to have left me to drown. Just as I’m dying now.’

 
And, stumbling a little, she went back to her car and drove away without a backward glance.

 
CHAPTER NINE

 
SHE’Dreturned toEngland two days later, even though Madelon Colville, with sorrow in her eyes, had tried everything to dissuade her.

 
‘You cannot go back, my child. To that house—that family,’ she’d insisted. ‘They will destroy you.’

 
‘But I can’t stay here either,’ Allie had responded wearily. ‘Not when I’m constantly surrounded by reminders of him. You must see that. And, anyway, nothing matters now. Not Hugo—or Grace. Any of them.’ She tried to smile and failed. ‘From now on they’re the least of my troubles.’

 
It had been a different person who’d arrived back at Marchington—someone cool and remote, who had announced quietly but inflexibly that in future she would be occupying a bedroom of her own and did not expect to be disturbed there. Someone who had refused to be deflected from her purpose, no matter how many icy silences, shouting matches, or more subtle forms of persuasion she was subjected to.

 
She had faltered only once, when she’d been back just over a month and had begun to realise that the unexpected interruption to her body’s normal rhythms was not caused by stress. That, in fact, she was going to have a baby.

 
A child, she’d thought, caught between shock and sudden exhilaration, a hand straying to her abdomen. Remy’s child.

 
She had closed her eyes in a kind of thanksgiving. I have to tell him, she’d thought. He has to know straight away. Because when he does it will change everything. It has to…

 
She had shut herself away to telephone Trehel, and this time had spoken to Remy’s father, Philippe de Brizat, only to encounter the same icy wall of hostility.

 
‘How dare you force yourself on our attention again, madame? Have you not caused us all sufficient anguish?’

 
‘Please, Dr de Brizat, I have to know where Remy is.’ Her words tumbled over themselves. ‘There’s something I have to tell him urgently—something important. You must have a contact number or an address by now. Somewhere I can reach him.’

 
‘For more messages of love?’ His tone bit. ‘He doesn’t want to hear them. How many times must you be told? Anyway, he is in a remote part ofSouth America , and communications are difficult. So let that be an end to it. Do not ask for him again.’

 
She heard him disconnect, and replaced her own receiver, pressing a clenched fist to her quivering lips. She sat like that for a long time, thinking. At last she got to her feet and went to Hugo. Expressionlessly, she told him she was pregnant, and waited for him to explode in rage.

 
But he didn’t. For a moment his hands gripped the arms of his wheelchair so convulsively that the knuckles turned white, and then she saw him deliberately relax again. Lean back against his cushions. Even—dear God—smile at her.

 
‘Darling,’ he said warmly. ‘That’s wonderful news. The best ever. It’s got to be a boy, of course—for Marchington. How soon can we find out definitely?’

 
She stared at him, astonished. Chilled. ‘Hugo—don’t you realize exactly what I’ve told you?’

 
‘Naturally I do. I’m going to have a son and heir.’ His tone was suddenly exultant. ‘All my dreams have come true at last.’ He shook his head. ‘My mother’s going to be so thrilled when I tell her.’

 
Your mother? Allie thought in total bewilderment. She’s more likely to have me tarred, feathered and thrown out of the house to live in a cardboard box.

 
But once again she was proved completely wrong. Because Grace, when she broke the news to her, reacted with delight.

 
‘It’s what I’ve been praying for,’ she said. ‘Darling Hugo,’ she added. ‘How marvellous for him to be a father. This calls for champagne—although you won’t be able to have any, Alice dear. The doctors these days say no alcohol during pregnancy, and we mustn’t take any risks with your precious cargo.’

 
Allie stared at her, rigid with disbelief. ‘Lady Marchington,’ she said. ‘What are you talking about? You know quite well that Hugo—that he can’t—’

 
‘Don’t be absurd, dear.’ Grace Marchington’s mouth was still smiling, but her eyes were slate-hard as they met Allie’s, in a warning as explicit as it was uncompromising. ‘Of course he can. He’s your husband, and you’ve finally done your duty as his wife. It only took time and patience, as I always told him.’ She became brisk. ‘Now, let’s have no more foolishness, and start to make plans. I know an excellent gynaecologist.’

 
Allie began to feel like that other Alice, who’d fallen down a rabbit hole and found herself in a parallel universe where nothing made any sense.

 
But, she told herself, that was only because, in spite of everything, she’d totally and frighteningly underestimated the Marchington obsession with having an heir.

 
What will they do if it’s a girl? she wondered wryly. Have her exposed on a hillside?

 
But there seemed little point in fighting them—especially when her own mother also joined in the ludicrous pretence.

 
Besides, Allie soon realised she’d been wrong when she’d told Tante that nothing mattered any more. Because the baby—this little child, growing so rapidly inside her—suddenly became all that mattered, as did the need to provide him with food, warmth and shelter before and after his birth.

 
And if that meant becoming part of this weird conspiracy of silence, then she would do it. Because his own family didn’t want to know.

 
‘Whatever it takes, little one,’ she whispered, her mouth twisting. ‘Whatever it takes.’

 
As soon as the baby’s sex was definitely established, the atmosphere at Marchington Hall grew almost feverish.

 
Deliberately, Allie created her own inner world, concentrating her energies on her baby’s well-being, and acquiescing quietly with all the arrangements being made on his behalf.

 
She produced an all-purpose phrase—‘Whatever you think best.’—which seemed to cover everything from the colour of the nursery walls to the re-emergence of Nanny who, up to then, had been pensioned off in a cottage in the grounds.

 
Allie wrote to Tante, giving her a guarded version of the truth—that she’d achieved a kind of reconciliation with Hugo.

 
Later, she wrote again, with the news of her pregnancy, and received a formal letter of congratulation, asking none of the questions she’d secretly dreaded. Allie could only guess whether or not her great-aunt had accepted her story.

 
At the same time it occurred to her that Hugo, at some point, would be bound to take his head unwillingly out of the sand and start to wonder about the baby’s provenance.

 
We’re behaving like people at a masquerade, she thought, but eventually the masks will have to come off—and what then? We have to introduce some reality here, and sooner rather than later.

 
For instance, she thought, almost clinically suppressing her own pang of anguish, Hugo needs to know that my child’s real father was good and honourable, and came from a distinguished family.

 
And that, whatever may have happened afterwards, this child was made in love.

 
Although maybe that was too much information, she decided, wincing.

 
But, with the baby due to be born in a matter of weeks, it was certainly high time that she and her husband stopped pretending and had a serious talk about what had happened—preferably with no one else involved.

 
But when she finally nerved herself to approach Hugo she found him disinclined for conversation, complaining peevishly of a splitting headache. And she backed off, admitting to herself that he didn’t look well.

 
The following day he was dead, and the subsequent post mortem revealed a massive brain haemorrhage.

 
The days that followed were largely a blur in her mind, until she stood in the churchyard, in a black tent-like coat that Grace had produced for her to wear, and thought that if one more person pressed her hand and told her in quavering tones how tragic it was that poor Hugo had not lived to see his child born she would probably go mad. Or else scream the truth at the top of her voice.

 
And then she looked across his grave, and met her mother-in-law’s icy, threatening gaze, and knew that, for the baby’s sake, she would continue to remain silent.

 
And I’ve learned to live with my secret, Allie thought, her mouth twisting in self-loathing. To keep it well hidden and—pretend. To live a lie—just as I did so fatally with Remy. And—for Tom’s sake—to compromise.

 
But no one can say I’m not being punished for my silence—past, present, and to come.

 
She got slowly up from the floor and went with lagging footsteps over to the bed, lying down on top of the covers, still fully dressed.

 
‘And one day, if I live long enough,’ she whispered, closing her eyes, ‘I may be able to forgive myself. Even if no one else can.’

 
The room was brilliant with sunlight when she woke. She sat up, pushing her hair out of her eyes as she studied her watch, then yelped as she registered the time and realised that the morning was gone.

 
Tom’s cot was empty, and neatly remade, she saw, as she grabbed a handful of fresh clothing and dashed to the bathroom. And she’d slept through it all.