by Anne Mather
It was solved at lunchtime by the arrival of the Abbé. Ryan had not seen him since Christmas morning, but she guessed he had encountered Alain about the village. He explained on arrival that he had just learned that Alain was ill, and Ryan welcomed him eagerly. Lunch was almost ready, she said as she showed him up the stairs, and she would be delighted if he would join them.
Alain was dozing when they entered his room, but the sound of their voices must have disturbed him because he opened his eyes at once and frowned at them.
‘Now, my friend,’ exclaimed the old priest warmly. ‘What is this? You confined to your bed? I never would have believed it!’
Ryan raised her eyes heavenward. What a thing to say, she thought angrily. Surely he must know how Alain would react to that!
But, to her surprise, Alain took it all very amiably. He levered himself up on the pillows, and said: ‘Why not? I have a built-in nurse to look after me, you know.’
The priest chuckled as he looked at Ryan. ‘I see what you mean.’ He seated himself on the side of the bed. ‘But tell me seriously, how are you feeling?’
Ryan hesitated in the doorway. ‘Er—would you like me to serve your lunch up here, Father?’ she asked awkwardly, and the priest looked questioningly at Alain.
‘Yes, by all means. Join me,’ said Alain, coughing into his handkerchief. ‘That is, if you’re prepared to risk my germs. I should appreciate a little conversation.’
His mocking stare accompanied Ryan as she went out the door and down the stairs. He was determined to irritate her, one way or the other, she thought indignantly. What did he mean—he would appreciate some conversation? He had never shown any desire to talk to her. And all that about risking his germs—it was intended to upset her. And what was most annoying of all was that he had succeeded.
Nevertheless, the priest’s presence enabled Ryan to leave the house after lunch and walk down the winding track to the village. It was good to be out in the air again, and she thrust her hands into the pockets of her camel coat, and flexed her toes in the knee-length suede boots. She had left her hair loose and by the time she reached the store it was a tangled skein of chestnut silk about her flushed cheeks. She was completely unaware of it, but she had never looked lovelier than she did as she entered the shop, and the young man turning away from the counter at her entrance caught his breath in surprise.
‘Excusez-moi, mademoiselle,’ he said, as he brushed past her in the narrow confines between the counters, and he spoke with such an obviously English accent that Ryan was brought up short. Almost on impulse, she burst out: ‘You’re English!’ in that language.
The young man halted and looked back at her. He was rather an attractive young man with dark hair and boyish features. He was about medium height, and slenderly built. Not a lot taller than she was, in fact.
‘Yes, mademoiselle,’ he agreed slowly. Then: ‘Are you?’
She smiled. ‘Partly. I was brought up in England, but—but I live here now.’ She glanced behind her and realized that Madame Caron, the marchande, was listening to their exchange with undisguised interest, and coloured slightly. ‘I—er—it’s so nice to hear an English voice again.’
The young man clearly thought so, too. ‘I’ve just arrived in Bellaise,’ he told her, ignoring Madame Caron, who probably couldn’t understand what they were saying anyway. ‘I’m to teach at the school here. English, I should explain,’ he added humorously.
Ryan nodded. ‘I’d heard someone was coming.’
‘My name is Howard, David Howard. What’s yours?’
Ryan glanced round again. ‘Fe—I mean—de Beaunes, Ryan de Beaunes.’
‘Hello, Ryan.’
‘Hello, David.’
He shifted the bag of groceries he was carrying from one arm to the other. ‘So where do you live? We must meet up again—two aliens in a foreign country, all that jazz.’
‘Hardly that as far as I’m concerned,’ she murmured uncomfortably. ‘But—well, yes. I would like to talk to you again.’
‘So where do you live? Do your parents live in Bellaise?’
Ryan licked her lips. ‘My—my parents are dead. I—I’m married, David. I live with my husband.’
His mouth dropped open. ‘Oh, God, I’m sorry!’ He stared at her apologetically. ‘Here I’ve been rabbiting on, and you aren’t at all interested.’
‘Oh, no,’ she interrupted him. ‘Really, I am.’ She broke off awkwardly. ‘No, what I mean to say is—you must come to dinner some time. With—with my husband and me.’
‘Well, thanks, I’d appreciate that. I’ve got a couple of rooms in the village, a sort of bed-sit, I suppose you’d call it. It’s not big enough to be called a flat, but I’ll make it home.’ He sighed. ‘I must be going. I only arrived two days ago, and the place is still like a tip. I have to get everything straight before I start work.’
Ryan nodded. ‘Good luck—with the new job, I mean.’
David smiled, nodding. ‘I’ll need it. Be seeing you.’
‘Yes.’ Ryan made no positive invitation. ‘’Bye.’
In the silence that followed the jangling of the small bell that preceded and succeeded every movement of the door, she looked across at Madame Caron.
‘The young man—he’s a friend of yours?’ inquired the shopkeeper curiously.
Ryan gasped. ‘Heavens, no,’ she exclaimed in English, and then shaking her head reverted to her father’s tongue. ‘No, madame, just a fellow countryman, that’s all.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
MARIE returned to work the following morning and almost before she could get her coat off Ryan could tell that she was excited about something.
‘Oh, madame,’ she exclaimed, beaming at Ryan. ‘Is it not exciting that Monsieur ‘oward should be a friend of yours?’
Ryan stared at her in astonishment. ‘Monsieur Howard—a friend of mine? Whatever are you talking about?’
Marie looked at her coyly out of the corners of her eyes. ‘You do not have to pretend with me, madame. I will say nothing if you do not want me to. But you cannot deny that it looks quite a coincidence, does it not?’
‘It isn’t a coincidence at all!’ retorted Ryan, getting angry. ‘Monsieur Howard is not a friend of mine. I hardly know the man. I met him for the first time yesterday. If anyone has told you differently then they’re lying!’
‘Oh, surely not, madame.’ Marie looked a little troubled now. ‘Madame Caron—she told my mother—’
‘—that I was talking to Monsieur Howard in her shop, is that it?’ Ryan demanded.
‘Yes, madame.’
‘I see.’ Ryan heaved a sigh. ‘I might have known. Can nothing happen in this village without everyone knowing about it? Good lord, we were just exchanging greetings as people do who are foreigners together in another country.’
‘But you are not a foreigner, madame! You are the wife of Monsieur de Beaunes—’
‘I know that!’ Ryan made an exasperated gesture. ‘But I did live in England all my life until I came here, and David Howard is English, and—oh, what are you looking at me like that for?’ She took an impatient step forward, and then something—some instinct—made her glance round. Alain was standing in the doorway to the hall, supporting himself against the doorpost. He was dressed in close-fitting corded pants and a thick black sweater, and although his face was pale, his eyes were glittering and alert. ‘I—how—how long have you been standing there?’ she faltered. ‘You shouldn’t be out of bed!’
‘Obviously not.’ His voice was cold. His gaze flicked to Marie. ‘Have you nothing better to do than to stand here gossiping?’
Marie gasped and dropped a nervous curtsey. ‘I—of course, monsieur. I am sorry, monsieur. Excuse me, monsier.’ And she brushed past him as he stood aside to allow her to hurry out of the kitchen and up the stairs.
Then Alain entered the room and closed the door uncompromisingly behind him. ‘Who is David Howard?’ he demanded harshly.
Ryan gathered her scat
tered wits. ‘Did you have to speak so curtly to Marie?’ she asked, not answering his question.
‘Yes.’ Alain was abrupt. ‘I repeat—who is David Howard?’
Ryan sighed. ‘He’s the new English teacher at the school.’
‘The new English teacher?’ Alain’s brows drew together in a scowl. ‘I see. And he is a friend of yours?’
‘No. That is—I hardly know the man.’
‘You know his name.’
‘Of course I know his name. He—he introduced himself.’
‘Where did you meet this man?’ He made it sound like an assignation.
‘I didn’t actually meet him. I bumped into him—in the village stores, yesterday afternoon.’
‘While I was being entertained by the good father?’ Alain’s lips twisted.
‘Well—yes, I suppose so.’
‘And you did not know you were going to meet this man?’
‘No!’ She stared at him defensively. ‘How could I? I’d never even met him before yesterday.’
‘And yet you call him by his Christian name, no?’
Ryan was trembling by now, she couldn’t help it, he was so cold and derisive. ‘In England, one doesn’t stand on ceremony,’ she replied carefully. ‘He—he asked my name, and I told him. I—I also told him I was married. Does that satisfy you?’
Alain walked to the hearth to stand staring down into the fire for a few moments. Then he looked at her again. ‘It seems to me that you are singularly indiscreet.’
‘What do you mean?’
He shrugged scornfully. ‘First you cannot wait to relate the details of our relationship to the serving girl, and now you display such interest in this Englishman that you have the whole village speculating upon a possible romance.’
‘Oh, that’s ridiculous!’ Ryan felt stupidly near to tears. ‘You’re exaggerating.’
‘No, I am not. You heard what Marie said.’
‘I gather you did, too,’ she exclaimed bitterly. ‘You were not supposed to hear. You should still be in bed.’
‘So it would seem.’ His eyes raked her contemptuously. ‘I had forgotten how women like to gossip about their affairs.’
Ryan gasped, and then, drumming up anger to hide her humiliation, she said: ‘I don’t see how you could—in the circumstances!’ her lips curling.
Now it was Alain’s turn to look momentarily disconcerted. ‘I presume you mean something by that remark?’
‘Of course.’ Ryan refused to draw back even though his manner was meancing. ‘I imagine Vivienne talks about your affair all the time!’
Alain stared at her with dislike. ‘I have warned you before, Ryan, do not tread into deeper waters than you can safely navigate. You speak carelessly. It is fortunate for you that I am a patient man, but even my patience is not inexhaustible.’
‘Then stop saying such things,’ Ryan burst out tremulously, and then completely shamed herself by breaking into violent weeping, covering her face with her hands so that she could not see the contempt in his.
But what happened next was as usual unpredictable. With a muffled expletive Alain covered the space between them, his hands sliding over her shoulders, drawing her unresistingly towards him. She felt her cheek pressed against the rough texture of his sweater, and her legs hard against the length of his. He spoke words of comfort in her ear, consoling her and apologizing for making her cry, but all Ryan was conscious of was the nearness of his lean hips, the strength in the arms encircling her, and the purely animal sensations of warmth and closeness and body scents. Involuntarily she moved against him, her arms sliding round his waist to draw him nearer, and at once he had released himself, propelling her away from him, holding her at arm’s length. She thought there was a look of strain on his face which had not been there before, and his mockery had been replaced by grim concern.
‘So,’ he said at last, ‘we will say no more about it. But I would suggest in future you give more thought to the interpretations which might be put on your actions.’
Ryan dried her eyes with the back of her hand. She was still very much in the grip of emotions she didn’t altogether understand and she just wanted him to go away and leave her alone to compose herself. Then she saw the beads of sweat standing on his forehead, and anxiety overcame all other considerations.
‘You’re still running a temperature!’ she exclaimed, looking at him worriedly. ‘Why did you come downstairs? Why did you get dressed?’
Alain expelled his breath on a sigh. ‘Ryan, there are things I have to do…’
‘But not yet, surely! Can’t this—this Gilbert Chauvin handle your affairs until you’re well again?’
‘Gilbert Chauvin is in the village. How do you propose I speak with him?’
‘I could get him to come here. I’ll go down—or Marie will go down and ask him to come up,’ she corrected herself hastily.
Alain’s expression was wry, although the strain of being so long on his feet after two days in bed was beginning to tell on him. ‘I will drive down to the village myself and see him,’ he essayed firmly, shaking his head as if to clear his vision. ‘It will not take long—’
‘You can’t!’ Ryan clenched her fists and stared at him impotently. ‘Alain—please!’ She glanced towards the windows. ‘Look, it’s starting to rain. You can’t go out in the wet!’
Alain turned his attention to the windows where drops of water were starting to create a continual running pattern. Frustration gleamed in his eyes, and Ryan pressed home her advantage.
‘Let Marie go and see Gilbert Chauvin when she goes home at lunch time,’ she suggested.
Alain looked at her then, and his expression was grim. ‘What are you trying to do to me?’ he demanded. ‘Make me a weakling? Rain has never stopped me from doing anything.’
Ryan hesitated. Then she said: ‘But you didn’t have a wife to care about you before!’
His eyes narrowed. ‘And do I now? Have a wife who cares about me, I mean?’
Ryan coloured, and unable to sustain the initiative, said unsteadily: ‘I—I’d care about anyone who seemed determined to do something to undermine his recovery.’
‘I see.’
Alain flexed his shoulder muscles wearily, and then crossed the room to pull on his leather coat. Ryan stared at him aghast. ‘Where are you going?’
‘You know where I am going,’ he replied evenly. ‘Make me some coffee. I will be back in fifteen minutes.’
‘But—but—you can’t—’
But he could. He was gone.
* * *
It was almost an hour before Alain returned and Ryan was almost frantic, sure he had crashed the car or collapsed at Gilbert Chauvin’s house. She was on the point of putting on her outdoor clothes and going to look for him when the station wagon swung into the yard, and seconds later Alain himself entered the kitchen, shaking drops of water from his thick hair, Ryan turned on him, shaking with anger, not giving herself time to notice the look of exhaustion that had taken all the colour from his face and left him looking gaunt and weary.
‘Where have you been all this time?’ she demanded.
Alain took off his coat and assessed her thoroughly for a moment. Then he replied: ‘You do ask a lot of unnecessary questions, do you not? I have been to the house of Gilbert Chauvin, as you suggested.’
‘I didn’t suggest you went there!’ she denied hotly. ‘You decided that!’
‘All right, then. I have been to the house of Gilbert Chauvin, as I decided,’ he agreed, sinking down wearily on to the settle beside the fire, resting his elbows on his knees and cupping his head in his hands.
Ryan’s anger disappeared as swiftly as it had come. His attitude of defeat moved her as nothing else could have done. She went across to him and laid a hand on his shoulders, feeling the muscles grow taut beneath her fingers. ‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured uncomfortably. ‘I’m sorry if I was bitchy, but I was so worried about you.’
Alain raised haggard eyes to her face. ‘Wo
uld it please you to know that I feel like death?’
‘No! No, of course, it wouldn’t please me,’ she protested vigorously. ‘How—how do you feel?’
‘Terrible!’
Ryan withdrew her hand and twisted her fingers together. ‘So what do you intend to do now?’
His faint smile was half resigned, half derisive. ‘I shall go back to bed,’ he answered on a sigh. ‘How are the mighty fallen—is not that what they say?’
After that incident Ryan found she had a much easier patient on her hands. He was still impatient at his confinement, of course, but he no longer seemed to blame her for his condition. On the contrary, he always made her feel he was glad to see her when she entered his bedroom, and several times she carried her meal upstairs and had it with him. Marie watched this growing relationship with unconcealed satisfaction, and Ryan eventually felt bound to tell her that her sly innuendoes were totally uncalled-for.
‘Oh, but, madame,’ protested Marie, her eyes twinkling, ‘you cannot deceive me. I have seen the way you look at Monsieur Alain. It is not the way you used to look at him when you were first married. Now there is much softness—much tenderness—a desire that he should notice you—’
‘I’ve never heard such rubbish!’ exclaimed Ryan heatedly. ‘If you’ve seen anything in my eyes then it’s simply concern that he shouldn’t do anything to hinder his recovery, that’s all.’
Marie looked unconvinced. ‘Why deny it, madame?’ she asked, spreading her hands inconsequentially. ‘There are many women in the village who would like to change places with you. Just because you are beginnimg to notice the satisfaction your husband’s body could give to a woman there is nothing to be ashamed of.’