Place Of Storms. Sara Craven

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      ‘I’m quite glad to be sitting still,’ she said frankly. ‘Besides, my cases are still in the car.’

      ‘Ah, yes. You will wish Gaston to fetch them.’ He tugged at a frayed tapestry bell pull hanging at the side of the fireplace and a bell jangled faintly in the distance. He walked over to the massive, heavily carved sideboard against one wall and picked up a bottle, turning to her with raised eyebrows. ‘Dubonnet? Or do you prefer sherry?’

      ‘Dubonnet will be fine,’ Andrea said rather helplessly. The situation was fast slipping out of her control. Here she was having a pre-dinner drink with this man as if he was merely her courteous host and nothing more. It was unthinkable that they were going to spend the evening mouthing a lot of polite nothings at each other. There was so much she needed to know. First and foremost it was essential to discover if there was any likelihood of him voluntarily relinquishing his plan to marry Clare even at this late stage. She glanced up with a shy word of thanks as he handed her the drink, and registered the bitter, almost brooding look he wore, and the hard lines of his chin and mouth. He did not look the sort of man who could be easily persuaded about anything, she thought uneasily.

      ‘We’ll drink a toast.’ Once again she was aware of that quiet element of mockery. ‘To our—better acquaintance, mademoiselle.’

      She murmured something indistinguishable as he touched his glass to hers, and hoped he would blame the heat of the fire for the sudden colour which tinged her face. It was a relief when the door opened and a short stocky man with a brown weatherbeaten face and round, rather staring eyes ambled in.

       ‘M’sieur?’

      ‘Ah, Gaston.’ Blaise Levallier turned to him, and spoke a few quiet words in his own tongue. Then he turned to Andrea.

      ‘He will need your keys, mademoiselle.’

      She hesitated a moment, oddly reluctant to part with them. The car was her passport to safety, after all, and it gave her a sense of security to know that its keys were in her keeping.

      ‘You need not worry. Gaston is simple, it is true, but he is also completely trustworthy and devoted to my family.’ Blaise Levallier sounded ironic. ‘He is perfectly capable of rescuing your baggage and taking it to your room, I promise you.’

      She flushed more hotly, annoyed that she was unable to justify her hesitation. She delved into her handbag and produced the key-ring, dropping it into Gaston’s waiting palm, murmuring her thanks.

      When the door had closed behind him, Blaise Levallier said, ‘He speaks no English, I should warn you, but I don’t think you will have any difficulty in making him understand you. Madame Bresson—Clothilde—is his aunt and has cared for him since he was a child. He helps with some of the heavy work around the chateau, and assists the herdsmen with the cattle. He is magnificent with the beasts and with the horses. He has a skill born of instinct.’

      She nodded constrainedly and sipped her drink. It was essential, of course, for the future mistress of the chateau to be acquainted with these details, but it was a far cry from all she really needed to know. For a moment she found herself wondering how Clare would have reacted to Gaston. Her cousin had an undue sensitivity about all forms of abnormality, and would have had difficulty in adapting herself even to Blaise Levallier’s scarred face, she realised.

      ‘What—other help do you have?’

      ‘Very little, as you must have noticed, in the house. The land, of course, is different. But there we all work for each other.’

      She looked up at him in surprise, and he explained.

      ‘In my forefathers’ day, the chateau took the best of everything—the best of the grazing, the most sheltered portions of the orchards, the finest sites for the vineyards. It has been a policy that has bred poverty and resentment—both forces for destruction. Well, I prefer to construct, rather than destroy, so we have pooled our land and our resources and formed a co-operative. The time is past when the village could simply produce enough food and wine for its own needs and ignore the rest of the world. We make excellent wine—it needs a wider market. In time, too, we will have one of the finest breeding herds in Auvergne. St Jean des Roches will not become a dead village peopled by the elderly.’

      ‘And what part do you play in this—co-operative?’

      ‘I am its overall manager.’ He noted the rather satirical look Andrea sent him, and raised his hand. ‘Not because the feudal system still flourishes, I promise you. If I did not have the necessary skill, I would be labouring in the fields. I’ve served my apprenticeship in management on the plantations of Martinique and—other places.’ His smile jeered at her suddenly. ‘So if you thought you had come here merely to play the gracious chatelaine, ma mie, I’m afraid you must think again.’

      ‘I thought nothing of the sort,’ she said truthfully, and relaxed as a knock at the door signalled the arrival of Madame Bresson with their dinner.

      Andrea had not realised how hungry she was until Madame lifted the lid off the earthenware pot in the middle of the table and disclosed the simmering cassoulet, chunks of pork, slices of country sausage and black-eyed beans swimming in a rich gravy, redolent of garlic and herbs. She made a token protest at the huge plateful that was put in front of her, and then ate every mouthful, assisting it on its way with wedges of fresh, warm bread. The wine they drank was one of the local vintages, Blaise told her, and she found it surprisingly mellow and full-bodied. She refused the cheese that followed, but accepted a cup of strong, black coffee.

      ‘So Clothilde’s cooking is to your liking?’ Blaise Levallier leaned back in his chair, watching her.

      ‘Very much,’ she agreed. ‘If I stayed here very long, I’d be as fat as …’ Her voice tailed away, as she realised with horror what she had just said.

      ‘It will be a metamorphosis that I shall observe with interest,’ he said smoothly, as if unaware of her slip.

      Well, it was said, and it could not be unsaid, and now was the time, if ever, for her challenge to him.

      She set her coffee cup back in its saucer very carefully.

      ‘Monsieur Levallier, I think you must realise as well as I do that this—this marriage cannot take place.’

      ‘You are incorrect, mademoiselle. I realise nothing of the sort.’

      She heard the grimness in his voice, but persevered. ‘I—I agreed because I was—emotionally disturbed at the time. You can’t really intend to hold me to a promise made under such circumstances.’

      ‘Oh, but I can,’ he said almost idly, ‘and I will. Make no mistake about that, ma mie.’

      ‘But it would be too cruel,’ she said, her voice quivering, and shrank back from the sudden fury that glared at her from his eyes.

      ‘And do you imagine life has been so kind to me, that I am prepared to take that into consideration?’ he demanded harshly, his fingers straying as if in spite of himself towards his damaged face. ‘Spoiled from your cradle, what can you know of cruelty?’

      ‘Do I have to learn my first lesson from you?’ she flung at him, forgetful in that moment that it was not for herself that she spoke.

      He shrugged. ‘The nature of the lesson will СКАЧАТЬ