Devil In Velvet. Anne Mather
at the open doorway. ‘Isn’t it divine?’
Harriet tied the sleeping bag into its roll and set it on the table. ‘That stream,’ she ventured thoughtfully, ‘do you think it’s very shallow?’
‘Our stream?’ Susan was eager. ‘I shouldn’t think it’s very deep, if that’s what you mean.’
Harriet grimaced. ‘Could I wash there, do you think? I feel awfully grimy, and I want a thorough wash before I change my clothes.’
Susan shrugged. ‘I’ll go and see, if you like.’
‘No.’ Harriet shook her head. ‘No, don’t bother. I’ll go myself. Did we unpack any towels last night?’
Armed with soap and towel, toothbrush and paste, Harriet opened the door which led into the tangled garden at the back of the house. Like the front, it was overgrown with shrubs and weeds, but as she trampled her way towards the sound of the water as it tumbled over its rocky course, she saw the remains of what had once been a herb garden, and smelled the delicious fragrance of mint and rosemary.
The stream was clear and fast-running, and Harriet felt almost inclined to taste it, but she decided not to take any chances. Instead, she took off her sandals and dipped her feet into its chilly shallows, smiling as the coldness tickled her toes. Downstream a short way, a cleft in the rock formed a small pool, and Harriet thought longingly of submerging her sticky body. Washing was all very well, but there was nothing to compare with taking a bath, and after assuring herself that she was completely alone, she stripped off her shirt and pants, and plunged bodily into the water. Sitting on the sandy bottom, the water lapped coolly about her breasts, and she soaped herself luxuriously, enjoying herself as she had not done since she was a child. In her apartment in London, she had a large modern bathroom, with a step-in bath and shining chrome-plated shower, and she had forgotten what it was like to enjoy the simple things of life. Her parents’ home in Surrey was the same, with every kind of labour-saving device, from washing machines to central heating. But sitting here she couldn’t help wondering whether they were not losing more than they gained.
A brisk rub down with the towel restored the glow of warmth to her skin, and she pulled on her pants and shirt again to run back to the house. She didn’t bother fastening them, she intended changing as soon as she got back, and she came into the house eagerly, intending to tell Susan what she had done.
The sight of André Laroche lounging by the sink, talking to Susan as she buttered the toasted remains of the loaf they had bought the previous afternoon, brought her up short, and she was glad of the wet towel to hide her embarrassment. She wondered uneasily which way he had come, and whether he had seen her in the stream. Would she have heard a footfall over the musical sounds of the water? The idea of his eyes observing her impromptu ablutions did not bear thinking about.
‘Good morning.’ He straightened, his greeting instinctively polite, but she sensed his probing regard and pressed the towel closer.
Harriet wondered if she was imagining the irony in his tones. ‘You’re early, monsieur,’ she countered, ignoring his remark, ‘it’s barely eight o’clock!’
‘Some of us have work to do,’ he replied smoothly. ‘Had you not been up, I should have had to come back later.’
‘Would you like some coffee, Monsieur Laroche?’
Susan’s words successfully forestalled any response her aunt was about to make, and Harriet took the opportunity to disappear into the small salon where they had left their suitcases. It took only a few moments to find a clean shirt and striped cotton pants, and she pushed her feet into her wedged sandals, glad of the extra height they provided. Although she was a tall girl, André could still top her by a few inches, but if she could decrease the disparity so much the better.
When she came back into the kitchen, her straight hair brushed and shining, she felt more able to deal with him, although she still felt slightly disarmed without any make-up. Susan had made the coffee and was presently pouring their visitor a cup, and Harriet waited impatiently for him to ask the question which must be foremost in his mind. But he didn’t. He acknowledged Harriet’s return with a casual quirk of his eyebrow, and then complimented Susan on her housewifely talents. The girl beamed beneath his deliberate flattery, and Harriet felt her teeth clenching so tightly together she was amazed they didn’t snap.
Susan handed her aunt some coffee, but Harriet declined the hastily proffered toast, refusing to answer the appeal in her niece’s eyes. In spite of all her practical reasoning of the night before, she was desperately tempted to tell him they were leaving.
‘Your niece has been telling me you are an expert on ceramics,’ he remarked suddenly, and Harriet flashed Susan an irate glance.
‘You know how children exaggerate,’ she retorted shortly, and ignoring Susan’s indignation, added: ‘I imagine you’d like to know what I’ve decided to do about the house.’
André put down his cup on the table. This morning he was wearing black denim jeans that hung on his hips and an olive green shirt that gave his dark-skinned features a sallow cast. As he turned slowly to face her, she conceived the absurd notion that he had been putting off asking for her decision, and the thought caused a momentary sapping of her will. Dear God, she thought weakly, he couldn’t want her to stay, could he?
‘You are leaving?’
It was more of a statement than a question, and Harriet was briefly diverted by Susan’s involuntary gasp of protest. Then she raised her eyes to his, and distractedly found herself refuting the charge.
‘I don’t have enough time to find another house and negotiate another sale,’ she defended herself tersely. ‘But naturally I expect you to provide the two beds you promised, and a cooking stove of some kind.’
‘Naturellement!’ It was perhaps a sign of his distraction that he spoke in his own language, and Harriet was forced to look away from the frank inquiry of his gaze. She was half angry with herself for agreeing to stay, and the inclination to blame him for this impossible situation was almost overwhelming. It was useless telling herself that he had been an innocent party to the affair. Childishly, she wanted a scapegoat, and who better than André Laroche?
Footsteps on the path outside provided an unexpected diversion, and Harriet looked up in surprise as a boy of perhaps fifteen or sixteen appeared in the open doorway. He was an attractive boy, tall for his age with shoulder-length dark hair and lean intelligent features. He paused in the aperture, his hands raised to support himself against the frame at either side, and his eyes flickered interestedly over the occupants of the room. Then he saw the man, and a grin spread over his face.
‘Te voilà!’ he exclaimed, with satisfaction. ‘Je t’ai cherché partout!’
Harriet knew at once who he was. The similarity was unmistakable, and besides, he had inherited his father’s eyes. He was completely unselfconscious standing there, curiosity deepening his regard.
André flexed his shoulder muscles rather impatiently, she felt, before looking at the boy without apparent affection. ‘This house no longer belongs to us, Paul,’ he declared curtly, in English. ‘And Louise could have told you where I was.’
Louise! Unwillingly Harriet was aware that she was holding her breath. Was Louise his wife’s name? Would he use his mother’s name to the boy?
‘Comment donc!’
Paul met the man’s eyes defiantly, and for a few seconds a silent battle of wills ensued. Then he looked away again, his attention passing over Susan’s flushed features to rest of Harriet’s withdrawn countenance.
‘Pardonnez-moi, mesdemoiselles!’ he apologised, without conviction, and she heard the sound of André’s angrily expelled breath.
‘This is my son—Paul,’ he stated, rather unnecessarily Harriet felt, but she chose to acknowledge the introduction, if only to thwart him.
‘Bonjour, Paul,’