A Place of Storms (16 page)

Andrea felt he was not really very interested in the boy, and she wondered why he was so determined to secure his guardianship if this was the case. Was it merely the same possessive instinct she had seen demonstrated towards herself? If so, it was a disturbing atmosphere for such a young child to have to cope with.

If it was just a sense of duty towards his dead brother which was prompting him, she felt even more uneasy. Duty was such a cold-sounding word in this context. She wondered if Philippe might not really be better-off with the aunt who was looking after him, Presumably she was capable of some warmer feeling towards him—the affection that a child robbed of both his parents so obviously needed.

She doubted, with a pang, whether Blaise was able to give Philippe the loving environment he deserved. He could feel passion, she knew, but she had seen little sign of" any gentler side to his emotional make-up. Did it even exist behind that wall of cool, mocking politeness that he generally showed her? She often thought she had imagined those brief moments in his arms when he had shown her what tenderness could be. Now he was at a distance again, the aloof, mocking stranger making it clear that his personality was as scarred as his face.

She gave a little sigh, absent-mindedly smoothing a fold in one of the curtains. A disturbing picture had forced itself upon her inner consciousness—Blaise, his face miraculously softened and gentle, looking down at the child he held in his arms—not an orphan needing his shelter and support, but his own child. She crossed her arms on her breasts, feeling once again the pain of rejection. Why did she torment herself like this? Blaise did not want her—he had made that more than clear. He had proved beyond all doubting her total vulnerability, and his indifference. He did not need her in his bed, or in his life, and as soon as she had ceased to be useful to him, he would let her go without regret. Somehow she hoped by reiterating the position to herself, she might make it hurt less, but she had to admit that so far she had been wholly unsuccessful.

Blaise had taught her a woman's desires, but denied her their fulfilment, and in some strange way she knew that no matter how many miles or years might part them in the future, she would never be free of him because of this.

She gave a little shiver and left the tower, closing the door behind her. She wandered restlessly into the main building, and stood in the great hall, looking round her with critical eyes. Now that Philippe's rooms were completed, she would have more time to spend on the rooms they used in the chateau. Refurbishing the great hall would be a major undertaking, but it occurred to her there was one thing she could do to give it a more welcoming appearance. Determinedly she went off to the kitchen quarters to seek out Gaston. She found him sitting at the table, drinking a large bowl of coffee, surrounded by all the preparations for the evening meal which Madame Bresson had left ready before going down to the village to give one of her lace-making lessons.

Andrea had to admit she found Gaston heavy going at times. His command of English was non-existent, and she had to persevere very hard in French to get him to understand anything she said. Sometimes she suspected he was being deliberately obtuse, taking a childish delight in seeing her searching for the right word or phrase to make her meaning clearer to him.

Today his eyes surveyed her guilessly over the top of the bowl and he grinned happily.

'It will snow soon, I think,
madame
,' he announced almost gleefully.

'Oh, no!' Andrea peered out of the window in dismay. The sky was massed with clouds, it was true, but she could not see the leaden look which usually presaged a snowfall. Yet at the same time, she had been aware all day that the temperature had dropped considerably.

Gaston nodded. '
Une forte chute de neige
,' he prophesied. '
La route au village sera bloqu
é
e
.'

That was all she needed, Andrea thought resignedly, to be snowed up. She enjoyed her walks to the village and round the surrounding countryside, and she had imagined taking Philippe with her. Apart from anything else, it was the excuse she needed to get away from the chateau and the disturbing presence of its master. Now it seemed likely she would be thrust into his company, maybe for days on end. She had heard that many of the small side roads in Auvergne were sometimes completely closed off in bad weather, but she had not imagined it happening quite so early in the year. Besides, if the roads were blocked by snow, this could also mean Philippe would be delayed in arriving at St Jean des Roches. As it was, she knew Blaise had not been officially informed of his probable date of arrival, but she had assumed it could not be long in coming and had been working more or less against the clock to ensure that everything was ready and welcoming for him when he did come.

She turned to Gaston. 'I'd like you to light a fire in the hall,' she said.

He stared at her, twisting his face up as if he had sud-denly been afflicted by deafness, and patiently she repeated her request. To her amazement she saw that he was shaking his head.

'
Non
,
Madame. Ce n'est pas possible
. No fire there, never.'

'It's perfectly possible,' Andrea retorted. 'I've never seen a bigger fireplace. A fire would make the whole place less gloomy.
Pas si sombre
,' she added for emphasis, as Gaston was still shaking his head in a woebegone manner.

With a mixture of irritation and amusement, Andrea guessed he was envisaging the stack of extra kindling wood and logs that would be required. The additional work wouldn't really do him any harm, she thought, viewing his tubby frame disparagingly.

'You can start chopping the sticks as soon as you've finished your coffee,' she decreed.

While she was waiting, she washed down the carved stone work, and scrubbed the hearth itself. The glow of a fire was just what this great barn of a place needed, she told herself optimistically, as Gaston trudged in with a basket of kindling wood on his arm and an air of almost tangible disapproval.

'
Il faut ramoner, madame
?' he informed her, scowling.

Whatever that means, Andrea thought tartly. She gave him a sweet smile.

'I know what I'm doing, Gaston. And it will make the whole house warmer, I promise you.'

Gaston shrugged, apparently fatalistically, and set the basket of sticks down beside her. Andrea laid the fire neatly and set a match to it. The sticks were dry and flared up at once, and she laid larger pieces of wood on top of them, placing a small log on top of the pile for good measure.

'There,' she stood up smiling, brushing off her trousers with her hands. 'That looks more cheerful already.'

The words were hardly uttered when a great gust of smoke blew back into the hall, enveloping her. Choking, and her eyes streaming, Andrea backed away, but not far enough to escape the fall of soot which slid out of the big chimney with a subdued roar, extinguishing the fire in a reeking cloud which spread, covering all the neighbouring surfaces, including Andrea herself.

'Oh,
hell
!' Almost crying with vexation, she retreated back out of range of any further falls and looked down at her soot-encrusted clothes with horror. She could imagine what her face and hair looked like. She swung on Gaston, and disturbed something suspiciously like a smirk on his face.

'Well, don't just stand there!' she began almost hysterically, then checked, transfixed by a new and unexpected sound—a car horn in the courtyard outside. Visitors, she thought with something like despair. And what was Blaise going to say when he came to greet them and found his hall like a charcoal-burner's hut, and his wife looking like a refugee from the Black and White Minstrels?

Gaston looked at her, shaking his head again sadly. '
Il faut ramoner la chemin
é
e, madame
,' he muttered regretfully.

'I get it,' Andrea said grimly. 'The chimney needs sweeping ! And so do I.'

She turned and headed frantically for the stairs, in an attempt to make her escape before the unknown callers gained admittance. But she was too late. As she reached the foot of the staircase the great door swung open to reveal Blaise himself ushering in a young woman and a small boy. In spite of herself, Andrea paused, realising that this must be Philippe come at last and unannounced.

The child saw her too, and his finger pointed.

'
Qu'est-ce que c'est que
ç
a
?' he demanded unanswerably in a shrill treble.

Groaning inwardly, Andrea saw a look of furious anger replace the astonishment on Blaise's face. At the same time she registered almost dazedly the exotic beauty of his companion. She was not tall, but perfectly made and exquisitely dressed. Her hair was raven black, cut in a sleek pageboy which curved with the line of her jaw and slanting dark eyes were set in a face which would have rivalled a magnolia. Those eyes now were filled with amazement and a sly contempt which set Andrea's overtried nerves jangling. The full lips pouted derisively as she turned to Blaise.

'Aren't you going to present me to your wife,
mon ch
é
ri
?' Her voice, husky and intimately pitched, matched her appearance, but Andrea unerringly detected the note of malice it contained.

'
Certainement
.' Blaise strode forward, his face like a stone mask. He took Andrea's arm, his fingers biting into her flesh. 'Andrée, permit me to introduce Simone Delatour, Philippe's aunt.'

Andrea forced a smile, furiously aware of the disadvantage she was placed in. She could not even offer her hand to Simone.

'I'm sorry you should have had such a welcome,
made
moiselle.' She spoke with more warmth than she actually felt. 'You—you've taken us rather by surprise, I'm afraid.' 'Blaise must have forgotten to mention it.' The other girl's smile widened, but Andrea felt instinctively it was directed at her rather than with her. She turned to him. 'You did get my letter—didn't you,
chéri
?'

Andrea tensed. Blaise had received a letter from Simone telling him that she was bringing Philippe in person and had failed to mention it to her? She stifled a furious gasp. Surely he realised the extra preparations such a visit would entail, and he knew how busy she had been getting Philippe's rooms ready. Now, it appeared, she would have I to start again. She could have burst into tears.

His hand was still heavy on her arm, but she released herself with an effort.

'Perhaps you'll excuse me now,' she said, thankful there was no betraying quiver in her voice. 'I—I have rather a lot to do.'

'I think you're forgetting something.' Blaise's voice was like a whiplash. 'You have not yet greeted your new nephew.'

Andrea groaned inwardly in dismay. She turned to the little boy who had stood silently all this time, and looked at him. He was not the most attractive child she had ever seen, thin and rather sallow, his dark hair standing out in wisps from his head. The round dark eyes, she saw unhappily, were regarding her with unmistakable hostility.

'Philippe.' She held out her arms encouragingly. 'If you wouldn't mind a rather sooty hug…'

She got no further. With a loud wail Philippe Levallier ran to Simone and buried his head in her skirt. '
Ma tante
!' he sobbed.

Andrea bit her lip. She had never fooled herself into thinking that there could be instant affection between Philippe and herself, but she had not bargained for this outright rejection either. She did not dare look at Blaise to see what effect Philippe's action had had on him. She murmured something hasty about washing and ran for the stairs.

She went into the bathroom, trying to touch as little as possible, and turned on the bath-taps, shedding her clothes with an almost desperate urgency.

When she was clean again, she began to feel calmer. Her hair had also shared the general rinsing process, and she took the towel that hung over the side of the bath and began to rub it dry. Dinner was no problem, she thought. There was always plenty of food, and Madame Bresson would have returned by now. She could leave all that side of things safely to her. But she felt utterly defeated at the thought of turning out one of those large gloomy bedrooms to accommodate Simone, whose entire appearance and attitude suggested that she expected and was accustomed to receive nothing but the best.

She sighed. Skulking here in the bathroom in rapidly cooling water was going to solve nothing, she told herself, reaching for her large towel in preparation for getting out. Her hand froze into stillness as the bathroom door swung open and Blaise strode in.

For a second she regarded him in sheer open-mouthed outrage, then, galvanised into frantic activity, she dragged the towel across herself, regardless of the fact that most of it joined her in the grimy water.

'How dare you!' she choked.

His brows snapped together menacingly. 'Don't be a child,' he said coldly. The sight of a naked woman is not a total novelty to me, and a few centimetres of soot-encrusted bathwater scarcely constitutes an allurement, I promise you. I have come to tell you that Madame Bresson is at this moment transferring your clothes from your room in order to prepare it for Simone.'

'Oh.' Andrea digested this for a moment. It was a solution she supposed—as long as it did not rain too hard. 'And which room am I to occupy?'

He paused. Then 'Mine,' he said curtly.

She stared at him, the towel almost slipping momentarily from her suddenly nerveless fingers.

'You're joking,' she said at last very quietly.

'I was never more serious in my life.' He flung up a hand sardonically. 'Oh, spare me the hysteria. It's not an arrangement I would have chosen, believe me, but I have reasons for wishing Simone to suppose our marriage is— a normal one in every way. She would be unlikely to think that if she discovered we occupied separate bedrooms almost at opposite ends of the house.'

'But there must be some other answer,' she said unevenly, feeling her pulses throbbing uncertainly. 'An adjoining room—something, surely.'