The Right Bride?: Bride of Desire / The English Aristocrat's Bride / Vacancy: Wife of Convenience. Sara Craven
Allie drew a sharp breath. ‘And when Madame Drouac came to look after you—I suppose that was just a bad day too?’
Madame Colville looked faintly mournful. ‘All these details—so difficult to remember.’
‘Then perhaps I should simply ask your doctor.’
‘Ask Remy?’ Tante mused. ‘I wonder if he would tell you. Or if it would indeed be ethical for him to do so without my permission.’
In the silence that followed, Allie heard herself swallow. She said, ‘I—I didn’t realise. I thought you were his father’s patient.’
‘When Dr Varaud left, there was some reassignment.’ Tante waved a hand. ‘I was happy to consult Remy instead.’ She gave a slight cough. ‘To reassure you, ma chère, I have always found him most kind—most understanding.’
‘I’m delighted to hear it.’ Allie’s tone was wooden. Oh, God, she thought, her stomach churning. If she’s under some medical regime, then he may come here. What am I going to do? What can I do?
She leaned forward almost beseechingly. ‘Darling, why won’t you tell me what the problem is—and how serious? We could always get a second opinion.’
‘Because it would change nothing.’ There was a finality in Madelon Colville’s voice. ‘And, believe me, mon enfant, I am content for it to be so. In life, at my age, one can only expect the unexpected.’ She smiled. ‘So, chérie, let us simply enjoy this time we have together, hein?’
Allie stared at her. Her great-aunt seemed almost tranquil, she thought in unhappy bewilderment. More than that, she’d swear that Madelon even had an air of faint satisfaction. Was that how someone really prepared to relinquish their hold on a good life well lived? She could hardly believe it.
At the same time, it was clear that any expression of sorrow and regret on her own part would not be welcomed. So, in spite of everything, she would have to do her best to remain cheerful and positive.
But at least her concern over Tante might help distance the renewed anguish that hearing about Remy had inevitably evoked.
And the local grapevine worked like a charm, she reminded herself. News of Tante’s visitor from England would soon spread. She could only hope that Remy, too, would want no reminder of the betrayal and bitterness of two years before, and take his own avoiding action.
‘It’s over,’ she whispered feverishly to herself. ‘And I have to accept that, just as he’s done, and deal with it.’
And, at the same time, pray that it’s true…
She drew a trembling breath as she reached for Tom as he scurried past and lifted him on to her lap, holding him tightly.
It’s your future that matters now, my darling, she told him silently. Your future, and nothing else. And I’ll fight tooth and nail to protect it.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE rest of the day passed slowly. Allie felt constantly on edge, acutely aware of how many topics were necessarily taboo. She was thankful that Tom was there to provide a welcome focus for everyone’s attention. His earlier shyness all forgotten, he basked in the unbounded sunshine of approval from Tante and Madame Drouac.
Even so, there were odd pitfalls to be negotiated.
‘Amelie says that Thomas has very beautiful eyes,’ Tante reported smilingly as Allie came downstairs, slightly damp from an uproarious bath and bedtime session with her son. ‘She thinks such an unusual shade of blue.’
‘The Marchingtons are all blue-eyed,’ Allie returned, rather lamely.
‘She feels too that he is most advanced for so young a child,’ Madelon Colville added blandly. ‘She understood you to say that he has only just passed his first birthday.’
Allie’s face warmed. ‘I think that may have lost a little in translation,’ she said lightly. ‘I shall have to work on my French.’
And also watch my step from now on, she added silently. Madame Drouac is clearly nobody’s fool.
They spent a quiet evening, preferring to listen to music rather than watch television. But it was not long before Tante announced that she was tired and going to bed.
‘And I think you would benefit also from an early night, Alys.’
Allie nodded. ‘I’ll be up soon.’
But when the Chopin nocturne ended, she slid Debussy’s ‘Prelude à l’après midi d’un faune’ into the CD player, and settled back against the cushions to listen, allowing the music to recapture for her all the drowsy, languid warmth of a magical afternoon. A time when anything could happen.
Like that first afternoon with Remy, she thought, a fist clenching in her stomach. Never to be forgotten.
She’d sat tautly beside him in his Jeep, she remembered, her hands gripped together in her lap, staring through the windscreen without absorbing much. Conscious only of the man beside her.
‘Relax, Alys,’ he had commanded softly. ‘Or you will make me nervous too.’
‘Not much chance of that,’ she muttered.
‘No?’ There was amusement in his voice. ‘You would be surprised. But you will feel better, perhaps, when you have had something to eat.’
‘It’s not always a question of blood sugar levels, monsieur le docteur,’ she countered. She shook her head. ‘I still don’t know why I’m doing this.’
‘I hi-jacked you, chérie,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I like to look at something beautiful during my mealtimes.’
Her brows lifted. ‘Really? I thought most Frenchmen preferred to look at what was on their plates.’
‘Then you know very little about Frenchmen.’
‘And,’ she said, ‘believe it or not, I was perfectly happy in my ignorance.’
He burst out laughing. ‘One day, ma mie,’ he said, ‘I shall remind you of that.’ He turned the Jeep off the narrow coast road they’d been following, and drove inland along a rough track towards a circle of standing stones silhouetted against the horizon.
‘Don’t tell me,’ Allie commented brightly as he brought the vehicle to a halt. ‘This used to be a place for human sacrifice, and I’m the main course.’
Remy grinned at her. ‘Legend says that they were all bad girls from nearby villages, lured here by a local saint in the guise of a handsome young man, who turned them to stone when they refused to repent their wicked ways.’ He took a rug from the back of the Jeep and tossed it to her. ‘Maybe a sacrifice would have been kinder.’
‘And the men who weren’t saints?’ she enquired tartly, as he lifted out a hamper. ‘Who’d contributed to the girls’ downfall? I suppose they got off scot-free?’
‘That might depend, ma belle, on whether or not they were found out by their wives.’
Allie gave him a cold look and followed him, holding the rug against her as if it provided some kind of defence.
They walked through the stones and down into a small sheltered hollow, where Remy spread the rug on the short grass and began to unpack the basket. Allie stationed herself at a distance and watched. It was, she reflected, quite a sophisticated performance, with covered pottery dishes, gleaming silverware, a white linen cloth, and crystal glasses wrapped in matching napkins. Not a plastic spoon or limp sandwich in sight. And a means to an end if ever she’d seen one.
Seduction-by-Sea, she told herself wryly. And I wonder how many other girls he’s brought to this same secluded spot?
On the other hand, what could it possibly matter? He was here