A Place of Storms (24 page)

They put Philippe back into bed and drew the covers over him. Andrea fetched a chair and placed it beside the bed. As she settled herself, Philippe's hand crept from under the bedding and took hers. Madame gave a sentimental sigh and departed.

'Now we are alone,' Philippe remarked with something like content.

Yes,' Andrea said gently. 'Philippe,
chéri
, what frightened you so?'

'La Cicatrice came.' The child's eyes were wide and earnest in the flickering light. 'He was going to kill me, and throw my body down into the courtyard.'

'But you call your uncle Blaise La Cicatrice,' Andrea pointed out. 'And he could not possibly have come into your room because he was with me. Besides, darling, he doesn't want to hurt you. Your papa before he died said that your Uncle Blaise was to look after you because he knew that he would love you and be kind to you.'

Oh God, let it be the truth, she added silently, recalling all her early misgivings about the situation when she had first come to St Jean des Roches and wondered what Kind of bleak outlook the chateau would hold for a child.

She felt Philippe wriggle slightly, but he seemed quite calm again, so she pressed on.

'Philippe, who told you that the other man—the man in history who killed Marie-Denise's boy—had a scar on his face?'

After a long silence. 'I don't remember,' Philippe said sullenly.

'I think you do. I think it was the same person who told you about the tower and everything that has happened here.'

Another silence. Then Philippe said almost beseechingly, 'It was a bedtime story. I—I like such stories. You must not be angry with Tante Simone.'

'I'm not angry.' Andrea fought to keep her voice calm. 'But sometimes even Tante Simone gets things wrong. You see, Marie-Denise's husband didn't have a scar on his face. He had never been brave and tried to save someone's life like Uncle Blaise. There's a portrait of him somewhere in the chateau, I expect. We'll have a look tomorrow. Then you'll see he has no scar.'

Philippe remained silent for a time, then he burst out.

'But Uncle Blaise does want to kill me—for the money, like he killed my papa.'

'Money?' Andrea was puzzled. This was the first mention of any money.

Philippe sat up. The money for Belle Riviere—after it was burned,' he said. 'My Uncle Blaise set fire to Belle Riviere to get the money.'

'You mean Belle Riviere was insured?'

Philippe nodded rather doubtfully. 'For many thousands of francs. My Uncle Blaise needed that money, so he set fire to the house and Papa died.'

Andrea felt cold and sick. Something was beating at the door of her memory. Something Blaise had said about Jean-Paul's death. She strained to remember it, to remember his actual words. Surely he had said—hadn't he— that he could have stopped it, that it need never have happened. Was it true, then? Had Blaise set fire to the plantation house for the insurance money and set in motion
the
chain of events which would lead to his brother's death? If so, then there was good reason for his guilt and bitterness.

'If I die too,' said Philippe, 'then the money will come to my Uncle Blaise. He is poor now, but with that money he would be rich.'

'Hush, darling.' Andrea's voice was steady. 'Try not to think about it any more. Lie down now, and go to sleep.'

She felt as if someone had struck her a violent blow in the face. She was quite numb, but very soon the pain would start.

Long after Philippe's breathing proclaimed the fact that he was asleep, she sat motionless beside his bed, her tired mind endlessly pursuing the treadmill of fact and interference. There was a dreadful, inevitable logic behind the whole thing. It explained so much, particularly his obsession with gaining custody over Philippe. It was obvious that he would not want Simone to have the boy. He had once been her fiancé, and her lover, and she would know, better than anyone, the forces that drove him. Had there been an oblique warning intended when she had told Andrea that Philippe would be better off with her? And was
it
just the damage to his face that had turned her against him, or was there a deeper, more sinister reason?

She gave a little sob and buried her face in her hands. And this was the man with whom she had fallen hopelessly and irrevocably in love. Only Philippe's nightmare had prevented him from gaining possession of her, body as well as soul. Now she too was part of that nightmare.

Feverish thoughts chased through her brain. By the following day the roads would be passable again. She could leave. But if she went, what would happen to Philippe? No matter what the cost to herself in emotional terms, she had to stay for his sake, or else take him with her.

For an agonising moment Blaise's face seemed to swim in front of her, his eyes caressing her, desiring her. She could almost fool herself into thinking—loving her.

She pressed her hand convulsively against her quivering lips. She would not go to him now. She could not. Once again in his arms, under the spell of his lovemaking, she knew right and wrong would lose all meaning for her.

Tomorrow she would face him. She would have more strength then to confront him with her knowledge. What would happen after that, she thought bleakly, she could, not even conjecture.

She leaned back in the chair, gazing sightlessly at the wall.

'Oh, Blaise,' she whispered agonisedly. 'Whatever you've done—whatever you are—God help me, but I love you.'

It was past dawn when Andrea let herself out of the tower and back into the main part of the building. She had slept only fitfully and her limbs were cramped and aching. She walked slowly along the corridor to the bedroom, dreading the inevitable confrontation. Apart from anything else, Blaise would be angry that she had not relinquished Philippe into Madame Bresson's care and come back to him. In some ways, cowardly though it was, she wished she had done just that. At this very moment she could have woken in his arms, sated and fulfilled, happy in her ignorance.

It took all the courage she possessed to push open the bedroom door and walk in. And he was not there.

Andrea glanced round, puzzled. The bed, though slightly rumpled, had clearly not been slept in, and the couch bore no signs of occupation either. Yet he had been there, because all the lamps were not extinguished, and the only illumination was provided by the pale early morning light filtering through the curtains.

She sank down on the edge of the bed and buried her face in her hands, overcome by her own weariness. She supposed she should dress and seek Blaise out to tell him what she had learned, but surely there would be no harm if she lay down, just for a few minutes, and rested her head on the pillow. Her eyelids felt as if lead weights had been attached to them. She would close them for a minute. Only for a minute, she promised herself drowsily. Nothing could happen while she just closed her eyes for a minute.

But as soon as she closed them, someone was shaking her arm gently but persistently, forcing her to wake up again. She struggled up through thick layers of sleep to find Madame Bresson standing at her bedside with a tray of coffee.

'This is very early,' she struggled on to one elbow.

Madame looked at her in mild astonishment. '
Qu-avez-vous, madame
? It is past ten hours.'

'It can't be!' Andrea stared at her wristwatch in consternation, but the evidence simply confirmed what Madame Bresson had just said. She had slept for over five hours.

Madame reached into her apron pocket. 'And this has come for you,
madame
.' She produced a letter with an English stamp. 'The first mail for a week has got through, praise to
le bon dieu
.'

She smiled maternally at Andrea and left her to the enjoyment of her coffee and her letter. It was Aunt Marion's handwriting, and Andrea knew a qualm as she tore open the envelope. She had written a brief and somewhat laconic account of her sudden marriage to her family, and hoped that Clare would have learned enough sense to keep her mouth shut and not make a bad situation worse by belated and unwanted confessions of her part in the whole mess.

The fact that the letter began 'My dearest girl' was somehow reassuring, and as Andrea scanned through the lines, she breathed a sigh of relief. Clare seemed to be learning an element of discretion at long last.

Aunt Marion and Uncle Max were naturally shocked to hear of her marriage and disappointed she should have chosen to marry in such an apparently hurried and secretive manner, her aunt wrote. But if she was happy, that was all that mattered, and they were looking forward with great interest to meeting Andrea's husband when she brought him to London—and the little boy, of course.

'We think it is very brave of you, darling, to take on a ready-made family,' wrote Aunt Marion. 'Marriage always needs a great deal of adjustment in the early stages, and this is easier if only the two of you are involved. Why not let Philippe come to us for a few weeks so that you and Blaise can make the most of your honeymoon? Your uncle says you've chosen to live in a most exciting part of France, although I understand it can be rather wild and stormy.'

The letter concluded with all sorts of affectionate messages for them both, and the urgent hope that they would be able to get to England for Clare's wedding, now less than a month away.

Andrea looked down at the letter with tear-blurred eyes. They were such darlings, and they had accepted without question her rather evasive story about having met Blaise in London through her P.R. work.

And they had given her the loophole she needed. All she had to do now was persuade Blaise to allow her to take Philippe to London to Clare's wedding with her. What she would do once they were safely there, she had no idea, but Uncle Max would know whom to consult over the legalities of the situation.

She put down the letter and began to sip her coffee. The brief sleep had cleared her head to some extent, and somehow she would have to find the courage to get through the day.

She washed quickly, splashing her face with cold water to banish any lingering drowsiness, and dressed in the jeans and dark sweater that she normally wore during the daytime.

As she emerged into the corridor, one thought had crystallised above all others. For her own peace of mind as well as Philippe's, she would move him out of the tower. She would clear out one of the big gloomy rooms along this corridor, and have his small bed moved into it—and she would sleep there with him.

Her steps faltered slightly as pain lashed at her again. Twenty-four hours ago, she thought, remembering those sensuous moments in Blaise's arms. Not so very long a time in which to have been shown the possibility of paradise, and then had it snatched away.

Acting on blind impulse, she seized the ornate handle of the door she was passing, twisted it and went into the darkened room. She dragged back the dusty curtains and stood back to take a critical appraisal. Yes, there were possibilities, she supposed, massive and overpowering though the room was, with its dark tapestry panels on the walls and solid furniture. She would start turning it out at once, and with any luck she and Philippe would be able to move in that night.

With a nod of determination she moved to the door, and paused. Someone was coming along the passage with a swift stride she knew only too well. The last thing she wanted on earth at that moment was to meet Blaise face to face, and she slipped back behind the heavy door, praying that he would not notice it was slightly ajar and decide to investigate. At the same time, she knew it was more than she could bear not to catch so much as a glimpse of him, and with a slight harsh intake of breath she peeped out through the crack in the door.

Perhaps, because she was expecting him to be angry and bitter when she saw him next, the shock was all the greater. Swinging along the corridor, his hands thrust deep into his pants pockets, Blaise was smiling to himself. And not the sardonic quirk of the lips that could hurt her so much either. He was transformed again into the man she had glimpsed yesterday morning when he had made passionate love to her. The man who has suddenly found that the world is a good place to live in and whose cares and anxieties have sunk to infinitesimal proportions. As Andrea watched almost incredulously, he threw back his head suddenly and laughed, a relaxed, full-throated laugh that spoke predominantly of pure satisfaction. Almost directly opposite where Andrea was concealed, he turned for an instant and stared back along the way he had come. Then he laughed again, and walked on.