Come the Vintage

by Anne Mather

Ryan nodded, colouring a little under this unexpected scrutiny, and the Abbé clapped his hands. ‘Charming, charming,’ he exclaimed. ‘Your wife can still be disconcerted by your attentions, Alain. And this after three months of marriage. It is enchanting, is it not, madame?’ He turned once more to Vivienne.

  But she chose to ignore his question, smiling instead at Alain, and saying: ‘Perhaps you and your wife could come to dinner one evening, chéri. Shall we say—three days from now?’

  Ryan’s nerves tightened, but Alain merely frowned. ‘Maybe. I will let you know, Vivienne. But thank you for the invitation.’

  They said their good-byes to the priest and received his blessing, and then left the house, walking swiftly down the path to where Alain had left the station wagon. Ryan got quickly inside. The doors were not locked. There were no thieves in Bellaise.

  Alain joined her, but before starting the engine he glanced sideways at her. ‘Was that satisfactory?’ he queried, and her eyes widened as she read the amusement in his.

  ‘Was—what—all right?’

  ‘My behaviour towards Madame Couvrier? You had no cause for complaint, did you?’

  Ryan stared at him in bewilderment, hardly daring to believe that he could be teasing her about it. Then, half accepting it, she nodded slowly. ‘You—you admit then that she is—well, attracted to you?’

  ‘Vivienne likes men,’ he agreed, turning the ignition. ‘And men usually like her.’

  Ryan sucked in her cheeks. ‘Do you?’

  ‘Of course.’ His eyes mocked her again. ‘I’m a man, aren’t I?’

  His reply was scarcely satisfactory, but it seemed it was the only one she was going to get. Nevertheless, his attempt at humour had succeeded in lightening her mood and she arrived back at the house feeling infinitely less downhearted.

  She decided to serve dinner in the late afternoon and Alain was agreeable. ‘It will give me time to check some figures that I need for the day after tomorrow,’ he said, and she concealed the frustration she felt that he should feel the need to work today of all days.

  However, she put the time to good use, preparing the vegetables and sauces she would need for the meal, and lighting the fire in the dining-room where she had decided they would eat for once. The dining-room table looked good covered with a white cloth and set with their cutlery and wine glasses, and the fire would soon diminish the chill that it presently possessed.

  Satisfied that there was nothing more she could do for the moment, she went upstairs to take a bath. Then she dressed in the brown caftan, and turned critically before the dressing-table mirror. It looked just as attractive as it had done in the shop, but was it too formal for such an occasion? She sighed. What other opportunity might she have for wearing it? She decided to go ahead.

  Downstairs again, the meal was nearing completion. There was no Christmas pudding, she had not thought of that; but she had made some mince pies and Marie’s mother had presented her with a fruit cake.

  On impulse, she lifted the small box from the dresser and put on the ring Alain had given her. It sparkled brilliantly in the light from the fire, and complemented the slenderness of her fingers. She was admiring it when Alain came into the room.

  Unlike her, he had not changed, but the cream silk shirt and close-fitting suede trousers he had worn to attend Mass were not his normal, everyday attire. His eyes narrowed when they encountered Ryan’s, and then travelled appraisingly down the length of her body.

  Ryan stood very still, waiting for his opinion to be voiced, but all he said was: ‘I’m hungry. Is the meal almost ready?’

  She was so disappointed that she lost her temper. ‘Yes. It’s almost ready!’ she snapped. ‘It’s just another meal, after all, isn’t it? I might just as well have worn my jeans and sweater and served it in here, mightn’t I?’

  Alain’s eyebrows lifted. ‘Are we not eating in here?’

  ‘No. No, we’re not. I’ve laid the table in the dining-room for once, although I don’t know why I bothered.’

  She turned away, snatching up her apron and fumbling with the tapes around her waist. Tears blinded her eyes. She should have known better than to try and salvage something from such an impossible situation. Nothing had changed. Today was no different from any other day, and had she worn sackcloth and ashes he would not have noticed.

  Then she started violently as fingers closed over her shoulders and warm breath fanned the nape of her neck. She stiffened as he said: ‘I am sorry, Ryan. I am insensitive. I should have realized that Christmas would remind you of other Christmases spent with your family—’

  ‘Please let go of me!’ She tried to struggle free of him. He could not have been more wrong, and the last thing she wanted was his sympathy. ‘I have to see to the turkey…’

  ‘Ryan, listen to me!’ His fingers tightened. ‘I am trying to tell you—I understand—’

  ‘You don’t! You can never understand!’ she declared fiercely. ‘Oh, let go of me!’

  Impatience made him shake her and she lost her balance and fell back against him so that he released her shoulders to grasp her waist. And then, for a moment, he held her there against him, and she could feel the stirring pressure of his thighs. It was only for a moment, and after he had set her free and turned away to light a cheroot, she half wondered if she had imagined it. But one look at his taut face warned her she had not. However, his expression was not encouraging, and she hurriedly distracted herself by ladling out vegetables into serving dishes and setting the sauces to heat on the stove. As she did so, a curious weakness invaded her lower limbs at the recollection of his undoubted strength and virility, and she stole another glance at him. And as she met his frowning stare she had to acknowledge that she had not re-coiled from the touch of his hard hands on her body.

  The meal, surprisingly enough, was a success. Obviously determined to set aside all but the most immediate demands, Alain carved the turkey and complimented her on its taste and appearance. Everything was cooked to perfection, and had Ryan’s own enjoyment not been eclipsed by her awareness of her own inner uncertainties she would have felt almost content. After the meal, she carried the dishes through to soak in the sink and then served coffee in the parlour.

  She had intended to mention her plans for redecoration of this room to Alain today, but somehow she couldn’t bring herself to talk of such mundane things. Besides, Alain, stretched out lazily in one of the armchairs beside the fire, made even its stiff lines look comfortable. He was having cognac with his coffee, and on impulse Ryan poured herself one. It was growing dark outside, and the wind whistling round the chimneys had a mournful air. But it was cosy in here, in the lamplight, the fireglow casting shadows on the ceiling.

  Alain’s eyes were half closed, but they opened wider as she poured the cognac, and after a moment he said: ‘Don’t drink too much of that. It’s very potent.’

  Ryan sipped the liquid in her glass experimentally, sitting opposite him in the other armchair. Its fiery heat spread throughout her body setting her toes and fingertips tingling.

  Alain studied her for a moment, and then he said: ‘The dinner was delicious. I would never have believed that English cooking could be so good. It always seems so dull and tasteless somehow.’

  Ryan took another sip of her cognac. ‘That is a story put about by jealous Frenchmen,’ she replied, the spirit giving her confidence. ‘But it was nice, wasn’t it? There’s an awful lot of washing up, though.’

  ‘I’ll help you with it later,’ he offered, and she smiled at him through her lashes.

  ‘Thank you. But I can manage. I’ll do them later, as you say.’ Then she sighed. ‘Hmm, it is cosy in here, isn’t it?’ She examined her ring again which she had not taken off. ‘Don’t you think it looks rather attractive?’ she asked, moving her fingers at the end of her outstretched arm.

  ‘Very nice,’ he agreed, and she swallowed some more of the cognac.

  She sat for a while gazing into the fire, feeling the heat making her e
yelids heavier. Alain had closed his eyes and in a little while she realized he was sleeping. She sighed again. Their first Christmas together. It had not been half so bad as she had at first expected. Alain’s gift, and his teasing coming home from church, his attempt to placate her and that moment in his arms when she had felt the pulsing heat of his body…

  She trembled and swallowed the remainder of the cognac in her glass to steady herself. What had it meant, that momentary weakening? And what would she have done if he had chosen to keep her there, in his arms? If he had twisted her around and laid his mouth against hers?

  Her cheeks flamed, but the heat from the fire hid her blushes. Lifting the decanter, she poured herself some more cognac. Why not? she asked herself as her gaze flickered guiltily towards Alain. It was Christmas after all. Surely she was entitled to be reckless for once in the year.

  She sipped the spirit slowly. It was curious how relaxed it made her feel. Not even the future—those nebulous Christmases stretching away into infinity seemed quite so depressing as they had done a few moments ago.

  Alain had taken off his boots and his feet rested somewhere near hers. He had stretched out his long legs and looked completely at home and content. One hand rested over the arm of the chair, while the other was tucked into the low waistband of his pants. The silk shirt was unbuttoned at the neck to reveal the strong column of his throat and the angle of his head resting against the wing of the chair had tumbled the straight silvery fair hair across his forehead. In sleep he looked younger, more vulnerable, and she knew the desire to touch him, to awaken him, to make him aware of her.

  Moving to her knees, she knelt at his feet, looking up at him. Impulsively, she allowed the fingers of one hand to curve round his ankle over the woollen texture of the socks he was wearing. Her action aroused no response, and she spread her fingers and pushed aside the offending material so that she touched the skin covering his shin bone. Looking down she saw that his flesh was not pale as she might have expected, but tanned like the rest of him, which proved he spent long hours in the heat of the sun, working alongside his employees. He moved then, restlessly, but she thought he must have imagined that Tabithe was stroking herself against his leg, for he didn’t open his eyes.

  Smiling to herself, Ryan shifted until her back was resting against his thighs, and drew a deep sighing breath. What was the matter with her? she asked herself. Why was she so restless suddenly? So discontented with their relationship? What did she want of this man who was her husband?

  She pressed her lips unhappily together. She had never cared much for the company of the men she had known, and had certainly never felt any curiosity about the intimacies men and women could share. Indeed, at the time of her marriage, even the thought of entering into any kind of intimacy with a man had terrified her. But she was no longer terrified of Alain, and although at times she still felt she hated him, she had to admit to a certain curiosity about him. She shook her head impatiently. The cognac must be making her fanciful, she thought. How he would despise her if he knew what she was thinking.

  He shifted again, adopting a more comfortable position in the stiff-backed chair, and Ryan froze as one hand brushed her shoulder before coming to rest in the hollow of her throat. Every breath she took made her even more aware of his fingers against her skin where the folds of the caftan fell away to a deep vee. She could not move without dislodging them.

  But perhaps her trembling awareness, or maybe the unexpected softness of her skin against his disturbed his drowsing, for within seconds his eyes had opened and instantly assessed the situation. But he did not immediately withdraw his hand as she had expected. Instead, he held her startled gaze as she turned her head to look at him, and then deliberately allowed his fingers to probe the neckline of her gown and cup one small, rounded breast.

  Ryan’s breathing almost choked her. It all seemed to be happening in slow motion, almost like a dream. She knew it was up to her to draw back from the edge of the precipice she was stalking, but the pressure of his hand on her flesh was an aching delight. She wanted to press herself against him, she wanted to tear the clothes from her and let him caress every inch of burning flesh, but the wantonness of it all horrified her into action.

  He didn’t attempt to stop her when she scrambled to her feet, holding the neckline of the gown closely to her, but he turned on to his back and looked up at her with eyes that were frankly contemptuous. Ryan didn’t know what to say—what could she say?—and yet something had to be said.

  ‘I—I think we’ve both had too much cognac!’ she got out at last, and his lips twisted cruelly.

  ‘Do you?’ He shook his head. ‘Perhaps you have had too much cognac, madame. I have not.’

  Ryan tried to calm her jerking nerves. ‘Well—well, anyway—’

  ‘Oh, in the name of God!’ Alain dragged himself upright in the chair. ‘You were asking for me to touch you, Ryan! I am not completely without experience of women, you know. I was interested to see how far you were prepared to go!’

  Ryan gasped, ‘What do you mean?’

  He raised his eyes heavenward. ‘Surely it is obvious. I am not unaware that for some time now you have been finding your claws, little cat. It had to happen. I was prepared for it. You will soon grow tired of sharpening them on me!’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she persisted, and he rose to his feet, to tower over her, even in his socks.

  ‘Have a care, little one. Men are unpredictable when aroused, and you are doing your best to arouse me. I do not altogether understand why, but I am prepared to put it down to your inexperience.’

  Ryan felt humiliated. ‘And I suppose I should feel grateful for that!’

  ‘Perhaps,’ he agreed evenly.

  ‘And you had no part in my behaviour, of course!’

  ‘Not willingly, no.’

  ‘And what about before dinner?’ Ryan spoke rashly, and then wished she could retract the words. But he would not let her. He caught her by the forearms as she would have turned away, and demanded: ‘What about before dinner?’

  Ryan’s lips trembled. ‘No—nothing.’

  ‘That won’t do.’ His voice was ominously cold.

  ‘Oh—oh, well—when you—when you tried to apologize.’

  ‘And?’

  If only she didn’t have to go on! She licked her lips. ‘When—when you held me in your arms, you—you—’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ His tone was derisive now. ‘You thought—’ He paused, and then continued: ‘I am sorry to disappoint you, little one, but a man can be aroused by so many things.’

  She tore herself away from him then and turning brought her hand hard against his lean, sardonic cheek. He tensed and for one awful moment she thought he was about to retaliate, but then without a word he turned and left the room. Some little time later, when Ryan was still standing in frozen misery by the fire, she heard the outer door slam, and realized he had left the house.

  CHAPTER SIX

  FOR three days Ryan scarcely saw Alain. He was out of the house most of the time, and when he was in it he kept out of her way. He breakfasted before she was up in the mornings, did not return for lunch, and their only contact was over the evening meal. Marie, who had returned to work two days after Christmas, knew that something was wrong, but Ryan refused even to discuss it with her.

  On the third evening, however, when Alain came home to dinner, it was obvious that something was wrong with him. He had great difficulty in swallowing any of the delicious meat stew Ryan had prepared for him, and when she accidentally touched his flesh as she reached for his barely-touched plate she found his skin to be hot like fire. She realized he was running a temperature, that without doubt he had ‘flu, or at least a severe attack of cold, but his grim countenance brooked no interference in what he would consider was his affair.

  Still, she had to try, and rather awkwardly she said: ‘Are you not feeling well, Alain?’

  He raised haggard eyes to her face. ‘And if I am not
?’

  ‘You should be in bed.’ She hesitated nervously. ‘You should see a doctor.’

  ‘I will be all right, thank you.’ His tone was sardonic. ‘I am sorry I cannot appreciate your culinary expertise this evening, but to be quite honest—oh, God!’

  He broke off suddenly, beads of sweat suddenly standing on his brow as a wave of nausea swept over him. He staggered to the sink, his lips twisted with self-derision, and lay there retching helplessly.

  Ryan waited until the spasms had stopped and then, ignoring his weak attempts to thwart her, she dried his face with a towel and said quietly: ‘You are going to bed. At once.’

  He made no objection to this, and she tried to help him up the twisting staircase. But apart from the fact that he refused any help from her, his weight was such that she would have been of little use. However, once he was in his room and resting on the bed, she began to unbutton his shirt and unbuckle the belt of his pants.

  ‘I can do it,’ he muttered savagely, pushing her hands away, and she stood looking down at him worriedly. ‘For God’s sake, leave me alone!’ he added. ‘I tell you, I shall be all right.’

  Ryan left him to get into bed, as much from her own embarrassment as from his annoyance, but she returned a few minutes later to find him lying shivering beneath the covers. There were no electric blankets here, she knew, but there were hot bottles, and now she sped down the stairs to fill as many as she could find.

  There were four, but when she returned with them, Alain only scowled. ‘Can you not leave me alone?’ he demanded, refusing to let her draw back the covers to put them beside him.

  ‘Do you want to get pneumonia?’ she asked impatiently. ‘Alain, be sensible! I only want to help you.’

  She wrenched the covers back to his stomach and then caught her breath as the reason why she had never found any pyjamas of Alain’s either in his room or in the washing became obvious to her. He didn’t wear any.

  Forcing a composure she was far from feeling, she pushed a bottle at either side of him, and then bent to put the others under the covers near his feet. She folded the covers round his shoulders again, and then ignoring his angry expression said: ‘Do you have any pyjamas at all?’