by Anne Mather
But the Abbé obviously enjoyed toasting them both, and he was warmly expansive as he left.
‘May God smile on you, my children,’ he declared, taking first Ryan’s hand and then Alain’s. ‘Be thankful for your youth and good health, and may God bless you with many fine sons and daughters to share your good fortune.’
‘Thank you, Father.’ While Ryan hid her embarrassment, Alain swung open the outer door, allowing a blast of cold air to penetrate the warm kitchen. It was already dusk, and as he reached for his coat he said: ‘I’ll drive you back, Father. It’s too dark for you to see your way clearly, and besides, the track may be slippery.’
The priest protested, but not too strongly, and Alain overruled his polite refusal. ‘Very well. Thank you, my boy.’ It was strange to hear Alain addressed as a boy. Abbé Maurice raised his arm to Ryan. ‘I will not keep him long, little one,’ he chuckled, and went out into the night.
Alain didn’t look at Ryan as he closed the door, and after the station wagon had driven away down the track she was still standing motionless by the glowing fire.
Then she gathered her wits. If life was to go on as usual, it was up to her not to alter things. It was almost six o’clock. At seven, Alain would expect his evening meal. On the stove was the vegetable stew she had made the previous day. She had planned to serve that with some of the crusty rolls which Marie had brought her from the bakery in the village, following it with fruit and cheese. It was a simple enough meal—most of the meals she prepared were simple meals—but would he expect something more extravagant tonight? After the Dom Perignon she could not be sure.
But nothing had changed, she told herself severely. Just because, for appearances and nothing more, he had produced a bottle of champagne, it did not mean that tonight was some sort of a celebration. A reluctant sob caught in her throat. Her wedding day! Her wedding night! Had any girl had a stranger one?
The table was set, and the stew was simmering on the stove when she heard the station wagon coming back. Immediately her nerves became taut, and a lump closed up her throat. He came in whistling, taking off the leather coat and hanging it behind the door. He went to the sink and washed his hands, drying them on the towel she kept for the purpose, and then sniffed the air appreciatively.
‘Mmm, something smells good,’ he commented, taking out his cheroots and lighting one from the fire. ‘And rolls? Did Marie bring them?’
‘Yes.’
Ryan was short, but she couldn’t help it. He flicked a glance towards her, and then sighed. ‘What is it? What’s wrong? Why are you looking so upset? Have I done something wrong?’
Ryan shook her head quickly. ‘Of course not.’
‘I’ve told you I had nothing to do with putting your clothes in my bedroom. Don’t you believe me?’
Ryan nodded, stirring the stew unnecessarily. ‘Sit down. This won’t be long.’
There was silence for a long minute, but when she ventured to look round he had not moved. She pressed her lips tightly together and returned her attention to the pan, feeling tension building up inside her. She had started this. It was up to her to finish it. And quickly.
‘N—nothing’s changed, has it?’ she began at last.
His expression hardened. ‘Not to my knowledge. Words on a page arouse no motivation in me to behave in any particular manner, no more than their absence would prevent me.’
Ryan looked round at him. ‘But until those words were written—’ She paused. ‘I might have changed my mind.’
He raised his eyes heavenward for a moment, and then inhaled deeply. ‘You insist on draining the last ounce of drama out of this situation, do you not? Can you not accept my word, is that it?’
Ryan’s hands shook as she twisted them together. ‘I—I’m not like you, monsieur. I—I find this—all—very strange.’
He put the cheroot between this teeth and regarded her, his hands resting lightly on his hips. ‘I am not exactly accustomed to it myself,’ he commented dryly. ‘And I think perhaps you had better get used to calling me Alain. However, have no fear. I have no intention of invading your bedroom and having my evil way. I realize you find this hard to believe, but I am not attracted by juveniles, little one.’
Ryan flushed scarlet. ‘Must you be so offensive!’ she exclaimed.
He made an exasperated gesture. ‘What is offensive about the truth? I should have thought my words would reassure you.’
Ryan turned back to the stew. ‘You’re very explicit, monsieur. I’ll try and remember that.’
‘And the name?’ He put his head on one side. ‘You’ll remember that, too? Or do you wish Marie to imagine you call me monsieur in bed?’
‘Marie?’ Ryan faltered.
‘Of course. You understand that when you remove your belongings back to your own room she will realize that all is not right between us. Would you have her tell the village that as well as refusing to share my bed you persist in calling me monsieur?’
Ryan stared down at her toes. ‘Will she? Tell—the village, I mean?’
‘It will be a nine days’ wonder, nothing more.’
Ryan was not so sure. During the past week she had walked down to the village a couple of times to shop at the bakery and general dealers, and she did not like to think of the speculation which would follow such an announcement, the eyes which would follow her down the street, feeling sympathy for her, perhaps even pitying her. And as for Marie herself… Ryan did not like to contemplate her reactions. She would be sure to think that Ryan was a failure.
‘Perhaps—perhaps I should leave—leave some of my clothes in—in your room,’ she faltered, looking up.
‘I think not.’ Now Alain was abrupt. He strode across the room to the hall door. ‘If you will excuse me… I shall be in the study when the meal is ready.’
Later that night, lying sleepless in her own bed, Ryan tried to rationalize her thoughts. What did it matter what Marie thought? What anyone thought? This was no temporary settlement, it was a long term arrangement, and only she and Alain played any part in it. If Marie did notice that all was perhaps not as it should be, she would handle that situation when it arose. After all, she was the mistress of the house, not Marie. Perhaps she had allowed her too much familiarity in the past. She might have to change that in future. The prospect was depressing. Marie was good company, and she had been a good friend in a place where such things were not readily available.
She twisted restlessly between the sheets. She must try to get some sleep and stop tormenting herself with anxieties about the future. Alain would expect her to be up and about as usual in the morning, and it wouldn’t do for her to appear with haggard eyes. Or maybe it would. With a slightly hysterical gulp she realized that Marie would expect exactly that.
The sound of a door opening and closing brought her upright in the bed, and she held her breath, listening. But there was no further sound and with a sigh she sank back against the pillows again. But the noise had aroused her, and on impulse she slid out of bed and pulled on her candlewick dressing-gown. Silently she opened her bedroom door and stood in the aperture for a few moments, her ears alert for any sound.
Along the landing, in the pale light of the moon, she could see that Alain’s door stood ajar. She guessed he had left his room and gone downstairs, and she walked to the head of the twisting staircase and looked down the well. The hall below was bathed in moonlight, and even as she watched a shadow stalked across the rug-strewn floor. A gasp died in her throat as she realized it was just Tabithe, probably disturbed by the same sound which had disturbed Ryan.
A thread of light could just be discerned beneath the study door, and Ryan drew a trembling breath. So Alain couldn’t sleep either. It was reassuring somehow. He was not as insensitive as he would have her believe. She was tempted to go downstairs and offer him a hot drink, but common sense prevented her. Probably the last thing he needed was a hot drink. No doubt something more potent was more in his line.
With a sigh she
turned back into her room, closing the door behind her reluctantly. As she shed her dressing-gown and climbed into bed, she reflected with sudden clarity on the years stretching ahead, and wondered why they had never seemed so bleak as they did at this moment.
CHAPTER FOUR
IT was a week before Marie made any comment on the fact that Ryan was obviously still sleeping in her old room. They were clearing out the linen cupboard at the time. Ryan had decided she ought to know exactly what linen she possessed just in case they ever had any visitors, although that seemed highly unlikely at the moment.
Marie was counting pillow cases, when she suddenly looked up and said: ‘I am sorry things did not work out for you, madame.’
Ryan stopped in the middle of folding tablecloths, and stared in embarrassment at the other girl. ‘I—I beg your pardon?’
Marie sighed, and put down the pillow cases she was holding. ‘I am sorry, madame. But I cannot help but notice that—well, that you and Monsieur de Beaunes do not share the same bed.’
Ryan looked down at what she was doing. ‘I don’t think that’s any business of yours, Marie,’ she said, in a tight little voice.
Marie continued to regard her sympathetically. ‘I know it is not, madame. But I have grown fond of you, madame, and I do not like to think of you being—unhappy.’
Ryan’s facial muscles relaxed somewhat. ‘I’m not unhappy, Marie.’
‘Not unhappy?’ Marie’s eyes were wide. ‘Oh, madame! You do not have to pretend with me.’
‘I’m not pretending,’ Ryan finished folding the tablecloth in her hands and laid it neatly on the pile with hands which she saw with relief were quite steady. ‘Monsieur—Monsieur de Beaunes and I—our marriage is perfectly satisfactory. We—that is—I’m sure you understand the situation. I always thought marriages of convenience were commonplace here.’
‘Marriages—of convenience?’ Marie frowned. ‘Ah, yes, I understand what you mean. But I do not think you do. Although I admit that in some cases a girl may marry a man who is more suited to her parents than to herself—a marriage of convenience, as you say—it is a normal marriage, madame. No woman would give herself into a man’s care without expecting—oh, you know what I mean.’ She paused unhappily. ‘In such cases a man may take a mistress, and a woman a lover. But—such physical liberties are in addition to, not instead of a husband, or a wife.’
Ryan’s face burned. ‘I don’t think I want to know about such things, thank you, Marie!’ she replied tersely.
Marie looked at her worriedly. ‘I am sorry, madame,’ she said again. ‘I—I did not know…’
Now it was Ryan’s turn to look perplexed. ‘What do you mean? What didn’t you know?’
Marie shook her head, and began tackling the pillow cases again, muttering to herself, and Ryan felt frustration rising inside her.
‘What didn’t you know, Marie?’ she demanded again.
Marie looked up reluctantly. ‘I’d rather not say, madame.’
Ryan clenched her fists. ‘I’m not—peculiar, if that’s what you’re thinking!’
‘Oh, no, madame.’ Marie’s protest was sincere. ‘I did not think you were. Not for one moment. And—well, I have heard that your—that—Monsieur de Beaunes—well, that he is not inexperienced, madame.’ She was obviously finding this difficult to say. ‘I am just sorry you cannot feel the things I feel.’
Ryan’s lips moved wordlessly for a moment. ‘What things?’
Marie lifted her shoulders in a dismissing way. ‘I had heard that the English were cold, madame. But I had not believed it.’
Now Ryan understood. ‘I see. You think I’m frigid, is that it?’
Marie bent her head. ‘I am sorry, madame.’
Ryan turned away, unable to stand the look of pitying sympathy on the other girl’s face. ‘Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, Marie,’ she got out tautly, ‘but frigidity doesn’t enter into it. My—that is—Monsieur de Beaunes has not—touched me. Nor would I wish him to do so. Our marriage is one of convenience in the truest sense of the word. It was advantageous to both of us to enter into a bond of matrimony, but that is all.’
‘Yes, madame.’
Patently Marie did not believe her, but there was nothing more Ryan could say to convince her. Already she had said more than she had intended, and she had no doubt that Alain would consider her behaviour less than discreet. But she thrust such thoughts aside. It was hardly likely that he would come to hear what she had been imprudent enough to admit.
* * *
The following week there was a letter for Ryan.
Since she had come to France, her only communication had been from her aunt’s solicitors in England. The girls she had worked with at the library did not know her address. She had promised to write and give them all the details once she had settled down in France, but her father’s death and the subsequent upheaval of her marriage had driven such thoughts from her head. Besides, she would have found it very hard to explain the reasons for her precipitate marriage to them.
So it was surprising that she should receive any mail at all, particularly a letter with a French postmark. Marie brought it when she arrived for work that morning, and as Alain had already left for the plant, Ryan took the letter into the study to read in private.
The address in Paris was unfamiliar, and so too was the signature at the end—Louise Ferrier. But the surname had been her father’s and she assumed the woman must be some relation of his.
She was right. Louise Ferrier had been the wife of Emile Ferrier, her grandfather’s brother. She had just heard of her nephew’s death, and his daughter’s marriage to Alain de Beaunes. She had always wanted to meet her nephew’s child, she said, and she invited her to come to Paris, with her husband, and spend a few days with a lonely old woman. Now that her husband was dead she had no one, and she would love to see them both.
Ryan read the letter twice before putting it back into the envelope. It was strangely warming to feel that somewhere there was someone who cared about her. She got up and walked across to the window. Last night the wind had blown traces of snow down from the mountains, and rain had lashed the windows. It would be Christmas soon, a time for reuniting families.
When Alain arrived home at lunchtime, she presented him with the letter, and he turned it over inquiringly.
‘What is this?’
‘Read it.’ Ryan seated herself across the table from him, excitement heightening the colour in her cheeks. ‘It’s from my father’s aunt.’
Alain considered the writing on the envelope without opening it. ‘Louise Ferrier?’ he asked, his mouth twisting slightly.
‘Yes, that’s right. Why? Have you met her? Do you know her?’
‘I know of her,’ he amended, putting the letter down on the table. ‘Mmm, this smells good. What is it?’
Ryan gave an exasperated exclamation. ‘It’s bouillabaisse. Don’t you recognize it?’ She tasted the fish soup experimentally. ‘Oh!’ It had a slightly burned taste. She picked up a roll and tore it in half. ‘Aren’t you going to read the letter?’
‘It’s addressed to you.’
Ryan sighed. ‘That doesn’t matter. You’re—you’re my husband!’ She flushed.
‘Yes, I am.’ He spooned soup into his mouth, applying himself to the meal.
Ryan shifted uncomfortably. ‘Please read it. She says she’s just heard about—about my father’s death. She—she’s invited us to visit her—in Paris.’
Alain said nothing. He continued to drink his soup, occasionally pausing to swallow some of the wine he had poured into his glass. Ryan watched him, toying with her own food, unable to understand his lack of interest. At last, she said: ‘Well? Haven’t you anything to say?’
Alain looked up, and she noticed inconsequently how long were the dark lashes which fringed his tawny eyes. The heavy lids half shaded their surveillance, as he said: ‘What do you expect me to say?’
Ryan made a helpless gesture. ‘I don’t know. Whethe
r we can go to Paris, I suppose.’
‘Do you want to go to Paris?’
Ryan couldn’t sustain the penetration of those dark pupils. She looked down at her plate. ‘Well, it will be Christmas in three weeks. I thought it might be nice…’
Alain shook his head, pouring more wine into his glass. ‘All right. Go, if you want to.’
Ryan’s head jerked up then. ‘You mean—on my own?’
‘Well, I shan’t be going,’ he returned flatly.
Ryan felt the little bubble of excitement inside her burst and evaporate. ‘But I can’t go on my own,’ she protested.
‘Why not?’ He raised his glass to his lips and surveyed her over the rim.
Ryan plucked at her roll, shedding crumbs all over the table. ‘I—I just can’t, that’s all. Besides, Paris is a long way away. It would mean staying overnight at least.’
Alain’s eyes hardened. ‘Stay as long as you like. I’m perfectly capable of staying here on my own.’
‘No!’ The word was torn from her, and he looked at her strangely.
‘Why so vehement?’
Ryan hunched her shoulders, resting her elbows on the table. ‘It—it will be our—our first Christmas together,’ she mumbled, into her hand.
Alain thrust back his chair and got to his feet then, looking down at her bleakly. ‘I hope you are not becoming sentimental, Ryan,’ he said harshly. ‘There will be many more Christmases to spend together, each one no different from the last!’ And with these grim words he left her.
After the door had closed behind him, Ryan drank no more of her soup but gathered the dirty dishes together and put them into the sink. She hesitated over the wine in her glass, but then swallowed it carelessly. Why was it, she thought resentfully, that every time she tried to behave normally, he felt the need to set her down? She thought she had done quite well in the circumstances, coping with the housework and the shopping, asking little of him but civility. The terrifying realities of a sexual relationship being thrust upon her had receded, and in fact he seldom referred to their association. Occasionally when he told her he was going out in the evening, after dinner, she wondered about that side of his nature, but her own fears had been replaced by a grudging respect.