At this time of year there were always ditches to dig, buildings to be repaired—not to mention the tasks of disinfecting and fertilising soil, replacing stakes and lining up new plants—although the rain made a lot of these jobs impossible. At least with the bad weather Charlie Kendall was hardly likely to show up to work today, which was a relief. Jane didn’t feel as if she could face company yet. Perhaps in a few days when the weather improved they could work on the pruning together. In the meantime, at least she could go and tidy the equipment shed.
Once again she was foiled by Marc’s obsessive neatness. All the shelves were already tidy, with bags of Rovral and Bayleton lined up on the highest shelves and secateurs, picking buckets, gardening gloves, wire-netting and irrigation pipe down below. There was nothing left for Jane to do, so she would simply have to nerve herself to face the task she had been dreading most of all. Packing up Marc’s possessions so that she could post them to him.
It gave her an uncomfortable feeling to enter the large guest bedroom and see the huge bed where she and Marc had slept together after they became lovers. But as she moved about the room, opening wardrobes and drawers, her jangled nerves began to calm a little. Of course it was still upsetting to see the suede jacket and cashmere sweaters, the tailored suits and handmade Italian shoes that Marc had been in the habit of wearing. Even worse was the indefinable aroma of his aftershave lotion, spicy and subtly disturbing, which still seemed to hover in the air. Yet there was nothing really alarming in the room. None of the sort of clutter that Jane always dispersed around her the moment she stayed in a place. No discarded magazines on the floor, no restaurant menus or theatre tickets, cherished for reasons of sloppy sentimentality, no photos of friends…Wait a moment, though!
Jane had been sorting through the neat stacks of maps and tourist brochures in the roll-top desk and suddenly found a yellow folder of photos under her hand. Opening it up, she saw that they were snapshots from the tour which she and Marc had taken of the island’s vineyards. Most of them were dated and captioned on the back, although Marc must have been interrupted at the task for a few were still unidentified. Jane’s lips pursed wistfully as she saw that there were several excellent photos of herself—sensitive, revealing and very, very skilfully done. There she was grinning impishly down from the back of a horse in the Huon Valley, looking happy and exuberant against the backdrop of the revolving restaurant and thoughtful and professional in the Pipers Brook winery.
The photos of Marc weren’t nearly as good. Most of them had been taken by her and were either slightly out of focus or had half his head cut off. Yet there was one of the pair of them together which a Japanese tourist had kindly taken on the dance floor at the Launceston Country Club. Marc was in a dinner suit and Jane was dressed in her green georgette evening frock, but it was the expression on both their faces which stopped her in her tracks. Not so much the look of radiant joy in her eyes, although that made her cringe now, but the expression of brooding tenderness on Marc’s face as he gazed down at her.
He did love me! she told herself passionately. He did, at least for a while. Impulsively she snatched up a pen from the desk and turning the photo over scrawled the date and her own caption: ‘My darling Marc, even though you broke my heart, I’ll always love you. Always, always, always. Jane.’
Then, with a complete revulsion of feeling, she crushed the photo into a ball, flung it down on the floor and uttered an angry groan.
‘How can I be so stupid?’ she demanded aloud. ‘I’ve got to forget him, not keep wallowing in it! Perhaps if I get rid of all his things, that will make me feel better.’
She began darting around the room, grabbing clothes off hangers and out of drawers, flinging everything on to the bed. Once it was all there in an untidy pile, she went in search of boxes and a roll of masking tape. She had just found the kitchen scissors in the upstairs bathroom, where she had used them to lever the lid off a tin of paint, when the telephone rang. Without much interest, Jane answered it.
‘Hello, Jane West speaking.’
‘Jane.’
She froze. It was Marc’s voice, so close that he sounded as if he were in the room with her.
‘I need to talk to you. We have things to discuss.’
‘No! We have nothing to discuss!’ she cried wildly. ‘For heaven’s sake, leave me alone, can’t you? I never want to see you again in my life!’
Her voice cracked on the last words and she slammed down the phone and held it there as if it were the lid on a manhole that Marc might emerge from at any moment. A shudder went through her.
‘I’m going to be calm,’ she said very slowly and clearly. ‘I’m going to make myself a cup of tea and be very, very calm.’
The kettle in the kitchen had just come to the boil when she heard a knock at the back door. For one absurd moment her heart lurched wildly, as if she expected Marc to walk in at any moment. Then she reminded herself that Marc was in Europe. It was probably only Charlie.
‘Come in,’ she called listlessly.
There was a shuffling sound as if someone was rearranging belongings. She went to the door and flung it open. It wasn’t Charlie, it was Brett—with a newspaper held over his head to keep off the worst of the rain and a loaf of bread and a carton of milk tucked under one arm.
‘G’day, Jane,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Why didn’t you tell us you were coming back so soon? I would have brought some proper food in for you. As it was, I saw the smoke from your chimney and thought I’d nip over with some bread and milk.’
With an effort, Jane tried to maintain an air of normality.
‘Oh, Brett, how sweet of you. Come inside and get dried off. Tell me, how’s Karen?’
Brett stamped his feet on the doormat, tossed the wet newspaper down on the porch and passed the bread and milk to Jane with the dexterity of a keen rugby player.
‘Karen’s great,’ he said, and his face reddened. ‘Actually, we’re planning to get married.’
‘I’m so pleased,’ said Jane warmly, forgetting her own troubles for a moment and hugging him.
‘How’s Marc?’ rejoined Brett at last, with the air of someone expecting equal good news.
Jane’s face puckered. She clutched at the bread and milk as if she were holding an orphaned baby.
‘Oh, Bre-ett!’ she wailed.
Ten minutes later Jane’s earthquake sobs were subsiding, while Brett was sitting on the rumpus-room couch, dabbing her face with a tea-towel and looking harassed.
‘I’ll kill that Frenchie if he ever comes back here,’ he vowed.
‘He won’t,’ Jane assured him miserably. ‘He told me he never wants to see Tasmania again, or me either. Oh, Brett, I’m so unhappy.’
‘Now, look, don’t start again, love,’ urged Brett. ‘You’ll meet someone else sooner or later, you’re bound to.’
‘I don’t want someone else. I want him! At least…What am I saying? Of course I don’t want him. I hate him! I’m never going to marry anybody else, though.’
Brett looked troubled.
‘You’ve got to do something with your life,’ he argued. ‘You’ll be lonely if you stay on your own.’
‘I want to be lonely,’ cried Jane passionately. ‘I’m sick of men. Anyway, I’ve still got my vineyard and my winery—not that I care about that any more. Besides, my rotten father will probably sell the property to someone else.’
‘No!’ growled Brett, slapping one hand down on his meaty thigh. ‘My oath, he won’t! I can’t help you out with your troubles over that French bloke, Jane, but I can and will help you out over the vineyard. It’s not right for your dad to take control of the money that your gran left to you. I’ll tell you what you should do—if Marc Lee Russett…Lee Rossy——’ as usual Marc’s name defeated him ‘—if that Frenchie isn’t going to buy Saddler’s Corner then you’ll have to buy it yourself. At least then you’ll have a secure home and a job, even if you never do get married.’
Jane stared at him as if he had s
uddenly sprouted a second head.
‘Buy Saddler’s Corner from my father?’ she echoed. ‘How can I? I haven’t any money left, apart from what’s already tied up in his company.’
‘You haven’t, but I have,’ retorted Brett. ‘I’ve got a tidy bit put aside and I’ll stand as your guarantor so that you can get a bank loan.’
Jane stared at him with a stunned expression.
‘You’d really do that for me?’ she asked.
‘Yeah, of course I would. Reckon it will be a good investment too, one of these days. Mind, you’ll have to get a good accountant to do your bookkeeping for you.’
Jane was so touched that she could hardly speak for a moment. When she did, her tears threatened to spill over again.
‘Yes, of course,’ she said huskily. ‘Oh, Brett, you’re such a good friend!’
She hugged him violently and he patted her rather nervously on the shoulder.
‘Well, don’t start crying again,’ he warned. ‘Let’s do something practical instead. We’ll get your dad on the blower and tell him you want to buy the property from him. Has the option to purchase expired yet?’
Jane struggled to concentrate.
‘I think so, but I’m not really sure. In any case, it can’t run for much longer, and I’m quite certain Marc doesn’t want the property now. Oh, go on, Brett, ring Dad up and let’s get it over with.’
Jane found the number and Brett dialled it, then handed her the phone. She took a deep breath and tried to nerve herself for the lengthy confrontation which seemed bound to follow. To her amazement the discussion proved unexpectedly short. When Jane dropped the receiver and turned back to Brett her eyes were wide and her cheeks ashen.
‘What is it?’ demanded Brett sharply.
‘It’s too late,’ she whispered. ‘Marc’s already bought the place.’
CHAPTER NINE
JANE felt a stab of pain as the full cruelty of Marc’s action struck home. Could he really be so spiteful as to punish her for leaving him by buying her home and expelling her on to the street? The vindictiveness of it took her breath away, even though she had already had ample opportunity to witness Marc’s callous ruthlessness in other ways. While she was still sitting stunned and speechless, Brett burst hotly into an impassioned outpouring of threats and protests and plans for revenge. A strange, unnatural calm seemed to descend on Jane and she put up her hand to halt his flow of words.
‘It’s all right, Brett,’ she said with a coolness that astonished her. ‘I’m very grateful for all that you’ve done, but I don’t want to fight this. I simply don’t care any more. I’ll just pack up my things and go quietly when the time comes for Marc to take over the property. Not that he’s likely to appear in person to claim it in any case.’
‘But where will you go? What will you do?’ demanded Brett indignantly. ‘It’s not right!’
Jane shrugged.
‘I don’t care about the money or the property any more,’ she said wearily. ‘And I’m sure I can find a job somewhere. Perhaps at one of the mainland vineyards.’
‘Look, mate——’ began Brett.
‘No, Brett,’ she insisted firmly. ‘Let it drop, please. I’m going to be all right.’
Her resolve carried her through till the weekend when she drove into Richmond and returned with the national newspaper that carried the job advertisements.
The series of cold fronts had vanished across the Tasman Sea and the weather was now deceptively mild and tranquil. Looking around at the bright gold sunshine and the cloudless blue sky, Jane could almost have believed that it was late spring if it had not been for the bare vines which stood in stark rows on every hillside around the farmhouse. They would need pruning soon, but that would not be her problem. With a sigh she pulled up the car on the gravel turning circle, switched off the ignition and went inside the house. She had just settled at the dining-room table and was busily scanning the job advertisements when she heard the sound of another car coming up the driveway. The engine revs died away, footsteps crunched on the gravel. Jane walked slowly to the back door and turned the handle.
‘Is that you, Bre——? Oh!’
Everything seemed to spin around her so that the universe broke up into extraordinarily vivid fragments. Sunlight gleaming on dewy leaves, the scent of wet daphne, the immaculate cut and soft texture of Marc’s suede jacket, the elegant crispness of his beige trousers, light green shirt and autumn-toned tie. It was Marc, there could be no question of that, although Jane couldn’t really believe she was seeing him. She took a step backward and caught her breath.
‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded resentfully. ‘Have you come to throw me out?’
He took his time about answering, letting his gaze travel over her with insulting completeness. His brown eyes were narrowed and glittering and there was a bitter twist to his mouth. To her annoyance he pushed past her as if he owned the place—well, he did, didn’t he? Or soon would!—and took up his stance behind one of the dining-chairs.
‘No, quite the reverse,’ he said in a clipped voice as he tossed an important-looking document down on the table. ‘I’ve come to give you the title deed of the property. Take it!’
Jane’s features creased in bewilderment.
‘I—I don’t understand,’ she stammered.
Marc sucked in breath impatiently.
‘It’s simple enough,’ he snapped. ‘I bought the property in your name, so I’m giving you the title deeds.’
‘Saddler’s Corner?’ she echoed. ‘You bought Saddler’s Corner in my name?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’ gasped Jane.
‘Because I didn’t like the thought that your father might turn you out if I left him in possession of the place. However much you and I hate each other, I owe you something, Jane.’
Jane flinched at the venom in his tone and turned away from him with a blind, despairing movement.
‘You don’t have to pay me for having sex with you,’ she said in an unsteady voice.
Marc strode around to rejoin her and seized her by the chin, forcing her to look up at him. She saw that his nostrils had a pinched look and his mouth was set in a hard line.
‘Oddly enough, it’s not the sex I’m “paying” for, if that’s how you choose to put it!’ he said harshly. ‘You gave me something much greater than sex and I want to offer you something in return.’
Jane’s throat hurt so badly that she could scarcely utter the words.
‘What did I give you?’ she demanded.
A shadow crossed Marc’s face, but he continued to gaze down at her.
‘Your virginity, with all that that implies,’ he muttered. ‘Innocence. Trust. Love? I feel I owe you something for that.’
Jane caught her breath at the burning mixture of hatred and tenderness in his eyes. When she spoke her voice was sharp with sarcasm, and the words came out like a hail of bullets.
‘And my innocence, my trust, my love really meant a lot to you, didn’t they?’ she flared.
‘Oddly enough, they did,’ replied Marc coldly. ‘Until you betrayed and deserted me.’
‘I betrayed and deserted you? You’ve got a nerve saying that after the way you treated me!’
Marc’s eyes narrowed.
‘I don’t know what the hell you mean,’ he said through his teeth. ‘My conscience is perfectly clear. Still, there’s no point staying here, trading insults with you. Just take the title deed, sign the document from my lawyer and I’ll be on my way.’
Jane pushed past him to the table, picked up the title deed and tried to thrust it back into his hands.
‘I don’t want it!’ she shouted. ‘I don’t care about the vineyard any more.’
‘That’s not what you told me in France,’ snarled Marc.
‘I don’t care what I told you in France. You think you can come here and clear your conscience about what you did with Simone by paying me off, don’t you? Well, you’re wrong! No amount of property or mone
y could ever compensate me for the way you hurt me and I won’t take anything from you. Now, get out, will you? Get out and leave me alone! You’ve already ruined my life, isn’t that enough for you?’
Marc stared at her with a baffled expression.
‘What I did with Simone,’ he repeated softly. ‘Just what exactly did I do with Simone, according to you?’
‘Do I have to spell it out for you?’ cried Jane. ‘You know damn well what you did! You slept with her the night before I left France.’
Marc shook his head in a dazed fashion.
‘Are you crazy, Jane? I did nothing of the kind!’ he protested.
It was Jane’s turn to look shocked and disbelieving. Then the evidence of her own eyes came flashing vividly back to her.
‘Don’t lie to me!’ she shouted. ‘I went up to your room the night before I left and Simone came to the door in her nightdress. She said you were already in bed.’
Marc swung round and slammed both fists down on the dining-table with a thunderous crash.
‘I wasn’t in my room at all that night. I was out fishing with Jacques!’ he roared.
Jane’s heart began to beat frantically and her breath came in shallow, uneven gulps as she stared at Marc with a tormented expression. She wanted to believe him, wanted it more than she had ever wanted anything in her life. Yet she could not quite banish the tormenting suspicion that he was just making a fool of her once again.
‘Well, why would Simone say that you were?’ she demanded.
Their eyes met and there was a long silence as they both drew the same conclusions. At last Marc gave a deep, shuddering sigh.
‘Because she wanted me herself,’ he muttered. ‘Mon Dieu, what a fool I’ve been! To think I believed Simone’s assurances that she liked you and wished us both well…Jane, why did you come to my room that night?’
Jane wanted to lie, to protect her pride, to hold on to some shred of concealment, but Marc’s brooding dark eyes seemed to strip her totally naked and there was a husky, caressing warmth in his voice which hadn’t been there before.
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