Shadows (33 page)

“Yes, but there is a likeness.  The similarities between you and her may not be exact, but they are strong and coupled with Christophe being here at the same time, I think it was the key.”

Melissa frowned.  “But I started seeing Pierre before ever Christophe came here.”

“I wonder how many young women have been here since 1735?  Think about it, the place was owned by the monastery and I’ll bet the Abbot kept it closed for a long time after Pierre’s death.  He couldn’t risk anyone finding a body under the mill.  Time would go by, the stream would pour through and the body would either wash away or be buried under the mud and silt.”

Melissa shuddered and clasped her elbows.  No one would want a death like Pierre's.  His screams must have haunted Justine's dreams for years.  Please God, don't let them haunt mine.

“Years later it might have been used again, but it wouldn’t be used by women.  The monastery only sold it recently, and I’ll have to ask Jonny if his uncle bought it direct from the monastery.  I suspect he did.  Jonny’s uncle never married, which is why he gave the mill to Jonny, and I don’t think Jonny has ever brought a woman here.  You might well be the first girl to have come here in all those years, and you look very like Justine.”

A car roared down the hill.  Melissa shrugged.  “Well, that makes sense, I suppose.  I thought she was pretty, so I’m flattered, too.”

Rory got up, intending to make more coffee.  At her comment, he bent and laid his lips briefly on hers.  “More than pretty.”  The sound of the car died away, started up again and Rory glanced toward the drive, and frowned.  “Merde, it’s coming here.  We’d better get dressed.”

Melissa leapt out of the chair and then grabbed for her slipping towel.  “Who is it?”

“I don’t know, but we’d better be wearing more than towels when whoever it is gets here.”  He disappeared inside. 

Melissa, hissing under her breath, hurried after him.  Don't let it be Christophe, please don't let it be him.

~~~

Melissa fought her way into a loose dress that required no fixing or fastening, ran her fingers through her still wet hair and scuffled her feet into sandals.  She checked her image in the mirror, walked out onto the bolly.  There, she stopped as if she’d walked into a door.

A priest in a long dark robe stood before her.  Something clutched her innards, and she suppressed a squawk of alarm with one hand to her mouth.  Rory, wearing a tee shirt and shorts stood talking in friendly fashion to Christophe, and the monk listened to their conversation.

Collecting herself, Melissa walked forward with a smile of greeting.  This must be the local priest.  He was a small, dark man with a swarthy face and silver hair smoothed back from his seamed brow.  His dark eyes assessed her calmly, and he offered his hand as Christophe made the introduction.  “Enchanté, Madame.”

Interesting.  Was the Madame because she looked old, or because he thought she and Rory were married?  “Please, come and sit down,” she said.  “Will you have coffee?”

She didn’t really want to hear the details of the bones, or what should be done with them, and making coffee gave her a convenient excuse to retreat to the kitchen.

“Melissa, ‘ow are you?”

She groaned inwardly.  Christophe had followed her.  “I’m very well, Christophe.  And you?  How are you sleeping now?”

He shrugged.  After the bright sunlit morning, the kitchen seemed quite dark, and his eyes were shadowed.  She looked more closely at his eyes, saw they were blue and relaxed.

“I am fine.”  He glanced over his shoulder.  “I brought Father Alphonse.  We bury Pierre.  He has agreed.”

Had Pierre agreed?  She glanced at Christophe’s sober expression and thought he wouldn't take it as a joke, so she kept the funny remark to herself.  Not in good taste, anyway.  Filling the coffee machine and laying out clean mugs, she sought something to say.  “It will be good to have an end to it all.”

“Melissa.”  Christophe sprang forward and seized her hand.  Alarmed, she tried to withdraw it, but he clung on.  “I ‘ave not long.  I must speak.”  He glanced over his shoulder as if expecting Rory and the priest to walk through the door.

“Christophe, really—”

“Melissa, je t'aime.  I love you.  We marry.  Please say yes.”

He dropped to one knee before her.  Shocked and speechless, Melissa stared at him, then backed away as far as she could.  Her spine came up hard against the gas cooker, and Christophe blocked her only escape from the U-shaped kitchen.  “Let go of my hand.”

He'd gone mad.  Why else was he saying this?  He knew she was in love with Rory.  Snatching her hand back, she shook her head.  “What makes you think I would, er…marry you?”

He stared up at her.  Without his glasses, he was really quite handsome, and as usual, he was dressed in white.  But his trousers wouldn’t be white when he got up off the floor.

“You love me.  You love me as Pierre, and you love me as Christophe, you know it is true, n’est ce pas?”

Melissa’s heart sank like a stone.  She glanced toward the sunlit rectangle of the door.  If Rory walked in, she feared what might happen.  “Get up, Pierre.”  She heard her mistake and groaned.  She was confusing the two men into one.  “Christophe.”

“We can be together now.  It is meant to be.”

Melissa flung both hands up in front of her.  She hated the idea, which was almost incestuous somehow and she shuddered at the thought.  “No.  Absolutely not.  I love Rory, and I shall marry him.  He asked me last night.”  Which wasn’t strictly true, of course, but that was a minor detail.  “Please don’t confuse me with Justine.  I am not her.  I am Melissa Holden from Hexham and I am in love with Rory.”

Crestfallen, Christophe remained where he was.  “But you love me.  You must.”

A twinge of pity crossed her mind and disappeared in an instant.  The coffee percolator burbled behind her, adding a sense of normality to the morning.  She fiddled with the mugs on the tray.  “Actually, no.  Sorry.”  When he did not move, Melissa bent toward him.  “Christophe, please get up, or I shall have to call Rory.”

When tears formed in Christophe’s eyes, she groaned.  What else could she say, what could she do?  This was akin to chastising a puppy, and she hated herself.  But the alternative would worse.  If Rory walked in to help with the tray, he'd go ballistic to find Christophe on his knees proposing marriage.  So she stiffened her spine, inhaled a deep breath and fixed Christophe with a steady glance.  “Get up at once, Christophe.  You look silly kneeling there on the kitchen floor.  It's dirty, and you'll spoil your jeans.”

The percolator burbled again, and went on perking.  She couldn't back any further from him.

“Melissa, I kill myself if you do not love me, I swear it.”  Desperation made his voice hoarse and rough.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake.  Don’t be so melodramatic.  You hardly know me.  You’ve let the ghosts influence you far too much, Christophe.  Now get up, there’s a good man, and let’s go and talk to Rory and the priest.”

Long seconds passed and he didn’t move.  Desperate, Melissa inflated her lungs and lifted her chin with every intention of calling Rory.  Christophe’s hand whipped up, palm out, to stop her.  “I get up.  My ‘eart…it is broke.”

Melissa grabbed the percolator, put it on the tray and picked up the solid wooden tray in both hands.  Held firmly in front of her, it made a very solid barrier.  She waited, smiling, for Christophe to allow her free passage, and then swept out into the sunlight before he could change his mind.

Rory rose, took the tray from her and set it on the table.  His glance met hers, and then moved to a point behind her.  She turned, not knowing what to expect.  Christophe stood in the doorway and looked ready to burst into tears.  Rory’s gaze came back to Melissa, and she read a question in his eyes.  Oh God.  He suspected something.  Speak to him, say something, anything, as long as it is honest.

“Christophe’s heart has just broken.  He swears he loves me and must marry me, but I had to tell him I love you, Rory.  I think we’ll have to ask Monsieur le prêtre to look after Christophe.”  She turned gaily to the priest.  “Will you do that, Father?”

The priest cast an amused glance at Christophe, so he certainly understood what she was saying.  Melissa looked anxiously at Rory.  He leant forward, brushed his lips across her cheek and, for the space of a heartbeat, he let his feelings show before he glanced at Christophe.

Relieved, she knew the danger had passed.  Now she had to take care of Christophe.

The Frenchman scowled.  “You make joke of me.”

“Come and sit down, Christophe.  Have some coffee.”  Rory pulled out a chair, and held it invitingly.  “We’ve all been pretty confused these last few days.  I think in a week you’ll have forgotten these feelings for Melissa ever existed, I hope so, anyway.  I don’t want to lose your friendship.”

Delight and pride at the warmth of Rory's comment flooded her.  Melissa sat next to the priest and began to pour coffee.  “What do you think about Pierre, Father?”  She gave him the mug of coffee, gestured toward the milk and sugar and deliberately did not look around as Christophe slouched across the bolly and slumped into the chair Rory still held for him.  She bit her lip at the dirt stains across one knee of the white jeans.

Melissa exchanged glances with Father Alphonse.  His eyes crinkled in laughter before he turned smoothly to Christophe.

“Father Alphonse understand, but does not speak the English,” Christophe muttered.  He repeated Melissa’s question, in French, without glancing in her direction.

“Ah.”  Father Alphonse smiled at Melissa, who waited curiously until he rattled off a sentence in response.

Christophe accepted his mug and sipped.  “Father Alphonse thinks it is very sad.”  He took a big gulp of coffee.

“That’s wonderful.  I’m so pleased.”  Melissa looked at Rory.  “But I’d much rather be somewhere else when you hand him over.”  Or the bits of bone that represented Pierre.  The thought made her shudder.

“I thought you might.  Don’t worry, we’ll take care of it.”  Rory smiled at her, a very private kind of smile that made a warm glow inside her.

The priest saw it, interpreted it correctly and glanced at Christophe.  “Courage, mon fils, courage.”  He reached across and patted Christophe’s hand.

Melissa suddenly sat bolt upright in her chair.  “Christophe, I’ve just remembered we have so much to tell you.  We saw them again last night, and we know what happened.  I think you might be related to Pierre—”

Rory’s hand on her arm stopped her.  He was laughing.  “If you gabble it out like that even I won’t understand you, let alone Christophe.  Slow down a little.”

He was right.  She turned apologetically to her guests.  “I’m sorry, I didn’t think.  If I tell you slowly, perhaps you’ll translate for Father Alphonse?”

So, in small, neat sentences with many pauses, Melissa recounted the tale of the terrible storm, Monsieur l'Abbe, and the terrible death Pierre had suffered.

“Everyone should know that Pierre did not kill that girl.”  She looked at the priest.  “Perhaps, Father, you could amend the record?”

Father Alphonse thought about it, and nodded slowly.  He spoke rapidly to Christophe, who dutifully turned to Rory and Melissa.  “The poor young man should be buried in le cimetière at the monastery.  The record, yes.  Also, the local newspaper.  We tell them.”

“Perhaps his gravestone could record the truth, too.”  Rory looked at Christophe.  “I’d be happy to pay for it.”  He glanced at Melissa, who smiled her acceptance of such a good idea.  “I’d like to come here again, and I’d rather know that Pierre rested quietly in the churchyard.  We don’t want a repeat of what’s been going on here, do we?”

Melissa shuddered.  She wanted no more visitations from Pierre or Justine, no matter how much she pitied them.  “No.  No, absolutely not.”

Rory laughed.  “I think now you should tell Christophe about the purple growth on Pierre’s foot.”

“Oh, yes.”  She began at once, tortured by the slowness of having everything translated into French for the priest.

Christophe’s blue eyes narrowed as realization began to dawn.  He lifted his foot and waggled it in the air.  The priest peered at the growth.

Melissa smiled at Father Alphonse's interest.  “It is perhaps a birthmark in your family?”

Christophe nodded.  “The men of my family, we ‘ave it.”

“All of you?”

He nodded.  “Sometimes small, sometime big, but always, it is there.”