‘How beautiful you are, chérie,’ he murmured.
‘You do credit to my wife’s memory,’ his father added, clearing his throat, ‘and you will do me the honour of keeping the gowns, Angel.’
‘I’m the one who is honoured,’ she said, more moved than she admitted. ‘I would not insult you by refusing such a very personal gift, Monsieur le Comte.’
Dinner was the gayest meal Angel had enjoyed for months. The talk was kept deliberately light and away from the war. Bordeaux was far away from the Front Line, and although Angel guessed that the Comte would follow its progress with the fervour of every patriotic Frenchman, tonight was not for sombre talk, but a time for reunion and laughter and for relating to Jacques’ father the circumstances in which Jacques and Angel had met.
Naturally, neither mentioned the enchanted night they had spent at the Hotel Portland, but glances that met and then looked away, tinges of colour in the cheeks and the constant awareness of one another, told their own story. Through the flickering candlelight across the wide table, their eyes spoke of love, their spirits ached for each other. The wine was the very best from the de Ville cellars, and was potent and heady.
At last, when they retired to the drawing room for strong coffee and delicious minted sweetmeats, it was as if Comte de Ville felt he must break the spell that made the atmosphere between the young couple too emotionally charged.
‘You understand that Jacques is to rejoin his squadron next week, Angel?’
It was like a dash of iced water in her face.
‘I wish he would not!’
The words were out before she could stop them. She bit her lip, seeing Jacques’ frown. She had no right to try and shape his life. Not yet, if ever … French wives were subservient to their husbands. Even English women … it was such bad form to disobey … she could hear her mother’s disapproving voice through her senses, and knew she had become emboldened by the wine.
‘A de Ville never turns his back on duty, my dear,’ the Comte said gently.
‘Nor would he wish to be tied to a woman’s apron strings,’ Jacques added.
‘I would never do such a thing. Nor would I want a man who permitted it!’ Angel said hotly. To her relief, the Comte laughed.
‘I think you and Jacques are well matched, Angel. But a word of advice, my dear. You may as well try to change Jacques’ mind as try to stop the sun from rising every morning.’
‘I’m not sure that it’s admirable to be so intractable. A man should bend but not break.’ She stopped in acute embarrassment. It was how Margot had once described Angel. It was hardly the thing to do to censure Jacques for being dogmatic in his own home. He leaned back, blowing smoke into the air from a fragrant cigar, and appeared not to be insulted.
‘When one has lost all identity as I had, chérie, and then gradually finds it again, it’s like a miracle. All the love I had for flying was back, perhaps intensified –’
‘Even after what happened to you?’
‘Even so. It was wiped out, in a way. I was reborn, and remembering that it was bad luck to have someone permanently filling my chair in the Officers’ Mess. Soon I shall fill it again. I’m pronounced fit enough for service, and my unit is delighted to have me back. Apparently they had a little ceremony to reverse the wake they held for me some months ago.’
She shivered at his teasing tone. But there was a mute appeal in his voice too, begging her not to argue with him. He had made his decision. He had survived, so he had to go back, as she might have known he would.
‘Then it’s lucky I can go back with you at least part of the way,’ she said with a great effort at lightness. ‘My sister Ellen is at Piersville now. Have I told you that?’
The warmth in Jacques’ eyes told her what her words meant to him. If her heart was breaking at the thought of the new danger he would encounter every single day once he rejoined his squadron, she would never reveal it. In time of war, it was not only men who had to be brave and strong.
They spent an idyllic week. She spent hours in his studio, absorbing the smells of turpentine and oils and marvelling at Jacques’ artistic talent, wanting to watch him work, and breathing down his neck until he had to tell her laughingly to stop.
He showed her the de Ville wine cellars, musty and cool beneath the hills, the great casks of fermenting juice, and the endless racks of wine already bottled and maturing. There was a fortune beneath the hills, and once he took her to the vast vineyards and explained some of the workings to her, Angel realised just what the Chateau de Ville really meant to Jacques and his family.
When his father died, it would all belong to him. And when Angel became his wife … it was a daunting prospect, and one that she had never envisaged. When they were seated inside one of the family cars once more, it was as if he read her mind, and Jacques tipped up her chin with his finger.
‘Are you having second thoughts about marrying me, chérie?’ he challenged. She shook her head slowly. ‘Of course not! It’s just that I had no idea of – all this.’
She spread her arms as expressively as any Frenchwoman. ‘You seduced me under false pretences, you know. I thought you were just any old officer.’
Her smile belied her teasing words. Never could she think of Jacques as just any old officer, when he stood head and shoulders above the rest, physically and mentally. Her heart beat faster as she saw the new look in his eyes.
‘And I have not come to your room since you came to the chateau,’ he stated. ‘Are you hurt because of it?’
‘No. We must respect your father’s house, Jacques –’
She was crushed in his arms before she could finish.
‘That’s not the reason.’ She could barely hear the ragged words against her hair. ‘My lost memory, my burns, they have all healed. But there are still nightmares, and there is still the fear of not being all that a man should be. Do you understand what I’m saying?’
‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘But it doesn’t matter, Jacques –’
‘It bloody well does matter!’ She could hear the outrage in his voice as he pushed her away from him. ‘I can’t expect you to understand. No woman could.’
Tears blurred her eyes. She couldn’t bear to quarrel with him. She smothered the pain at his scathing words.
‘All I meant was that it takes time for wounds to heal, dearest, mental and physical –’ she said carefully, at which he gave a harsh laugh.
‘I don’t mean to imply that there are any bits missing. Just that they may not be in perfect working order yet.’
She didn’t know how to answer so delicate a subject. If she said it didn’t matter, he would think she had lost interest in him. If she said that it did, he would think her a shameless woman, only interested in his body. Or worse, keen to ensure that she married into the French aristocracy, now that she was aware of his status.
She gave an involuntary sob. At which, Jacques was all contrition, and took her in his arms again.
‘Forgive me. I’ve become a self-centred bastard since the crash. One day I’ll tell you about it.’
It was the nearest he came to admitting its effect on him, and that alone was strangely reassuring. She hugged him close, without words.
‘Let’s go home,’ he said huskily. ‘We’re having a party this evening, and I’ve something very special to give you, my darling.’
A dozen guests were invited to the chateau for the very informal engagement party. Neither Jacques nor Angel had wanted anything more pretentious, although the Comte would have thrown a much more lavish affair for his only son.
But remembering Jacques’ recent illness, and the need to be conservative in entertaining during these wartime days, the Comte had given in, to Angel’s great relief. She loved parties, but these people would all be strangers, and it would be something of an ordeal.
At the Comte’s request, she wore another dress that had belonged to his wife, a deep green dinner gown in rich satin that rippled with every movement, complementing A
ngel’s English rose skin and fair hair, and bringing out the colour of her eyes. Jacques thought she had never looked so beautiful.
Before the guests arrived, he gave her the special gift. Angel gasped as she opened the long velvet box and took out the necklace of fabulous emeralds and the matching ring with a single huge emerald in an antique setting.
‘It’s too much,’ she said shakily. ‘It’s far too valuable a gift, Jacques.’
He took the jewels from her and fastened the necklace around her neck as she stood in front of the enormous gilt-edged drawing room mirror. The necklace looked perfect against her flawless complexion. Jacques turned her round in his arms and slid the ring on the third finger of her left hand. It was a little large, but not for worlds would she have taken it off again.
‘With this ring I ask you to be my wife,’ Jacques said gravely. ‘The jewels are family heirlooms, Angel, and are entrusted only to those we cherish.’
Her throat was thick at his simple words. He could have been far more flamboyant, but the de Villes had style enough without the need for such ploys.
It was agreed that the jewels should be returned to the family vault for safe keeping before they left the chateau the following day. Angel would never have dared to take them away with her. They would remain at the chateau until she returned here with Jacques as his wife. They were one more talisman to bind them together.
But for tonight … they glowed against Angel’s fair skin and were the object of much admiration among the evening’s guests. Not the least admired was Jacques’ betrothed, and Angel wondered how she could ever have been nervous of meeting these charming people.
If only her own parents and sisters could have been here too, she thought wistfully. She had written to Clemence and Fred, unable to leave him out this time, and told them all that had happened. She had also sent an ecstatic letter to Ellen, an equally ecstatic one to Margot Lacey, and a slightly less hysterical one to her sister Louise.
Jacques had written formally to her father, asking for his daughter’s hand in marriage in due course, and separately to Clemence, a letter which would surely charm the birds from the trees, Angel thought privately and inelegantly.
The Comte de Ville had sent a letter to Angel’s parents too, assuring them of the propriety of their daughter staying at the chateau, acquainting them of his son’s position and prospects. And undoubtedly dazzling them with the secure future envisaged for their daughter, Angel chuckled to Jacques, when the Comte had told them of his intention.
There had been no time for replies, but the engagement party went ahead, assuming it was all a fait accompli. And tomorrow, the idyll was to end, Angel thought, as the guests drank a toast to the young couple in the oldest and costliest de Ville wine. Tomorrow, they were to return to the war.
But there was still tonight…
Angel and Jacques said good night lovingly at her bedroom door. Once inside, she slipped out of the green satin gown, holding its rich fabric against her cheek for a moment before hanging it in the wardrobe, and wondering when she would wear such a garment again. She unfastened the lovely gems from her neck and slid the ring from her finger, placing them reverently in the long case.
She was very tired, but too excited for sleep. A quick bath might help, and afterwards she dried herself with a big fluffy towel in her bedroom. She had turned out the lights and flung open the curtains to let the moonlight flood the room with light, wanting to savour this last night at the chateau with the ghostly shapes of the town below and the hills all around.
She was aware of a small sound. She turned sharply, to see her door handle turn. Her heart beat erratically, knowing it would be Jacques. Wrapped in the towel, she stood very still as he came inside the room, wearing only a dressing robe. He came nearer, and without saying a word, gently removed the towel from her shoulders. She shivered slightly, and he unfastened the belt of his robe and enveloped them both inside it. His voice was a warm, desperate caress against her cheek.
‘How can I see you without constantly wanting to touch you? Your very presence is sweet torment to me, Angel. The sound of your voice, the scent of your hair, the longings I’ve suppressed all these months –’
‘Hush, my love,’ she whispered back. ‘I’m here now, and we’re together.’
He lifted her bodily and lay her on the opened bed. The robe slid away from his body, and she could see the silvery patterns of the scars all down one side of him. His hands too, had that strange sheen of new skin, but none of it changed the Jacques she loved. Nor had the sensitivity of those fingers been diminished as they stroked her breasts, swiftly followed by his lips, reviving the exquisite memories of the love they shared.
She felt the growing proof of Jacques’ love, and her spirit soared to meet it. Now, the last barrier between them would be removed, and in his own eyes, he would be restored as a man. Angel relaxed as the sweet sensations overwhelmed her, then suddenly she was rudely brought back to reality, hearing Jacques’ bitter laugh as he flung himself away from her.
‘So much for wishing,’ he said harshly. ‘If your presence can’t make a man of me, then God knows there’s little hope left.’
‘Jacques, please – it’s all right. Let’s take a little more time – please –’
He moved off the bed, throwing on the dressing robe and tying it tightly, as if to deny the existence of his manhood.
‘We have no time for dalliance, chérie.’ The word was no longer an endearment but a form of sarcasm. ‘We have a war waiting for us, so go to sleep and be ready to leave after breakfast in the morning. I’m sorry I troubled you.’
She was stunned when he had gone. In so short a time, his confidence had been shattered. But he hadn’t given it a chance! She wept into her pillow. He had been convinced of his impotence before he even came to her room, and she realised anew what a tenuous hold a man had on his masculine ability. She raged at the only thing she could, relieving her of the anguish she felt. It was all the fault of the bloody, bloody war…
At breastfast, Angel could hardly believe Jacques was the same person who had blundered out of her room in the darkness. He was very much in control now. Since informing his unit of his survival, a new uniform had been sent to him, and he looked as dashing and exciting as on the night they had first met, and her heart turned over with love for him.
But she was wiser now, knowing that Jacques must make the next move, and that she dare not taunt him with her sexuality in a way that had become delightfully uninhibited on that last wonderful leave at the small hotel in England.
Today was a sad day for the Comte, as well as a proud one. He had sent his son to war once, and been thankful to see him come home alive, and now he was sending him off again. And this time with a future daughter-in-law in the passenger seat of the car. They were to drive back to Brighton Belle, so that Jacques would have his own transport, and providing he could obtain some petrol, they might manage to meet a few times.
The Comte hugged them both, telling them to take the luck of the house with them, and looking forward to the day when they would return. Neither tried to guess when that might be. In many newspaper reports, the fortunes of war had moved to the sea, but for those involved in continual land and air battles, such speculation gave grim comfort.
‘Will you come inside the Abbey, Jacques? The nuns will be so relieved to see you well again,’ Angel said, when at last they neared the hospital.
They had been travelling for two days, staying overnight at an inn, where the proprietor gave them separate rooms, to both their secret relief. Angel wept inside that she should feel so, but there was too much tension between them now to risk another humiliation for Jacques.
‘Just for a short while,’ he agreed. ‘I owe them my life, and there are no words adequate enough to thank them for that.’
He didn’t tell her that he had more than words to give the nuns. His father had made a generous gift of money to the Abbey of St Helene, and Jacques intended handing it over to
the Mother Superior discreetly and without fuss.
So instead, Angel merely heard the nuns scold him for his desertion but with teasing in their eyes and thankfulness that this handsome young man should have recovered so well. And in all too short a time, they were saying good-bye once more, and it was hard to hold back the tears as they clung together, promising to write, and to meet whenever they could…
And then he was gone, and within minutes she was already lonely without him.
Chapter 21
Sir Fred Bannister kept telling himself that this was just an ordinary day. If he said it often enough, perhaps he could believe it. He refused to look at the clock in his office every five minutes, or to leave the factory early. They had a rush of orders to get out, he was a conscientious employer, and for the moment his private life must wait.
Despite the fact that America had now entered the war amid sighs of relief, and were now true allies, there was still an unceasing demand for replacement uniforms and blankets to be sent to the Front, and that told its own story…
But Fred was as thankful as any of his millworkers when at last the whistle sounded, and he could feel satisfied that there was no one at Bannister Textiles who could say the boss left early whenever it suited him. He drove quickly away from the red brick buildings, and headed south into the country.
The garden of Beckside Cottage was a riot of hot summer colours. Harriet had always loved her garden, Fred thought, as he finally drove the car neatly around the back of the sturdy little Yorkshire cottage, away from prying eyes. It was a long while since the shock of seeing Angel on the doorstep, but he still felt like some guilty schoolboy every time he parked the car, and it was a feeling he didn’t enjoy.
He opened the kitchen door, sniffing appreciatively as he went inside, expecting the usual smells of good cooking to greet him. There were none, and Fred stopped abruptly, sudden fear in his gut. The kitchen was sparklingly tidy. Harriet’s cottage was always clean, but never with the irritating fussiness of a spinster’s domain. He always thought of it as welcoming and homely. Today, everything seemed different. There was no sign of preparation for the evening meal, no vegetables peeled, nothing simmering on the hob to get his taste buds working.
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