by Liz Fielding
‘Yes.’ The traffic began to edge forward. ‘Tell me, you’ve seen them together, would you say she’s in love with Fairfax?’
‘I couldn’t say. She always seemed flirtatious around him, but as I said, she knew she was being watched. It could all have been a bit of a game to tease her father, if you know what I mean.’
‘Yes, I know exactly what you mean,’ he said, with considerable feeling. She liked to tease.
‘She’s done it before you see. Once she cottoned onto the fact that he checked up on her boyfriends. She moved into a flat with one of them once and the Hon Gerald was fit to be tied. It turned out that the bloke had gone away and she was just looking after his plants. At least that’s what she told him when he went charging around there. Butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.’
‘Is that right? Well, if her friends are being cagey why don’t you try the diary editors. They can’t resist showing off just how much they know about what’s going on. It’s getting urgent, Mark.’ Another couple of hours and she would have won.
The traffic began to move and gradually he edged free of the town centre traffic and headed for Aix. He caught up with the bus after half a dozen miles or so.
A bus, he reminded himself, it might not be the right bus. And the possibility that the chambermaid might have been lying to protect Emmy had not escaped him, although she had been in such a state of confusion that it seemed unlikely. But Emmy must have anticipated he would question the staff and she was quite capable of laying a false trail. He was beginning to think she was capable of anything.
She’d escaped from a second floor room at Honeybourne, stowed away in his car, then stolen it the moment the opportunity presented itself. She had never ceased trying to evade him, trying to get to Kit Fairfax before he could talk to him.
Why? What did she have to tell the man that would make such a difference to the outcome? Whatever it was, she clearly wasn’t convinced that love would be enough to hold him steadfast.
It was that belief that drove him on. There was, after all, no imminent danger of the marriage taking place. But he refused to be beaten by a leggy girl, even if he was crazy about her.
He tucked in a few cars behind the bus and mentally crossed his fingers, hoping that Miss Emerald Carlisle hadn’t had time for anything as complicated as laying false trails.
No. There was Kit’s postcard. He frowned and at the next traffic hold-up, he picked up the mobile lying on the seat beside him and pressed redial. ‘Mark? Tom Brodie, again. Did Fairfax say “his” farmhouse on that postcard?’
‘I think so. Hold on, I wrote it down.’ There was a pause while he consulted his notebook. ‘Yes, that’s what he said, “his farmhouse”. Ah, I think I see what you’ve getting at. I’ll ring you back.’
Emmy had chosen to sit in the centre of the bus on the aisle seat. The last thing she needed was Brodie cruising past in his car and spotting her carrot-coloured mop of hair. It stood out like a beacon amongst the dark-haired locals. She should have worn a hat, or a scarf. Except she hadn’t packed one. There was no way she could have anticipated that she would be hiding out on a bus.
She leaned forward to see past the plump matron who occupied the window seat. Cars sped by, but there was no sign of Brodie. She tried to recall exactly what she had said to him. North and then east. Would he be able to work it out? In time?
She turned the other way and glanced behind. There was a stream of traffic, any number of dark-coloured Renaults. But this was France, what did she expect? As she straightened a young man in the seat opposite smiled at her. She smiled back without thinking about it.
They were coming into a village and the bus pulled over. The woman beside her made a move to get out and Emmy stood up to let her by. It was at that moment, as the cars behind swooshed past, that she found herself looking straight down out of the back of the bus into Brodie’s face. For a moment she froze, unable to decide whether to stay put, run for it, or simply surrender.
The bus moving forward, throwing her sideways, made up her mind for her. She lowered herself into her seat and tried to think. Tried not to look behind her. He had been so quick! Whatever had he done to that poor chambermaid to get her to tell? Smiled at her, probably. That was all it would take. But even so. To get so quickly on her trail…
But then what had she expected? It was his quick wits that had so delighted her when he allowed her to escape from Honeybourne in the first place. But since then he had matched her every step of the way, countering every move she had made with a persistence that was driving her to the point of desperation.
The bus had seemed for the briefest space of time to be her salvation. Now she was trapped on it. The moment she stepped off it, he would be there and this time he wouldn’t be as kind as he had been when she had reversed into that car.
She would thank him for that, properly, when all this was over. The briefest of smiles crossed her lips as she paused momentarily to dwell on the pleasures to come. But for now the most important thing was to get away from him. An hour, that was all she needed…
In the front of the bus, the driver was using a radio, or telephone, to talk to his control centre and Emerald gave a little gasp as an idea came to her.
She immediately rejected it. No. No, she couldn’t do that. It would be too dreadful. Brodie would never forgive her. But there was Kit to think of…
She dithered for a few minutes, but she was running out of time and finally she got up, made her way to the front of bus. ‘Pardon,’ she began, hesitantly. The bus driver glanced at her. ‘Parlez-vous anglais?’ The driver shook his head. Aware that all the other passengers were straining to hear, she turned to appeal to them. ‘Please,’ she said. ‘I’m being followed by a strange man. He stole that car.’ She pointed to the rear of the bus. Two dozen pairs of eyes glanced behind and then turned to regard her expectantly. ‘Un stalker!’ she tried, a little desperately. They were getting close to Aix. ‘Un stalker anglais!’ She picked up the driver’s telephone. ‘Appelez le gendarmes!’ she declared, dramatically.
As the driver, urged on by his excited passengers, summoned assistance on her behalf, Emmy collapsed back into her seat, vowing that she would enrol for French lessons the moment she got home.
Brodie wasn’t sure what Emmy thought she could accomplish by staying on the bus. She would have been more comfortable getting off and joining him in the car. Yet at each stop she seemed to make a point of showing him that she was not getting off, turning to look at him with those luminous eyes, as he waited patiently for the passengers to alight and the journey to continue. It made him uneasy. But what could she do on a bus?
On the outskirts of Aix, he discovered exactly what Emerald Carlisle was capable of, as two police cars, lights flashing, moved in on him, one swerving in front of him forcing him to a halt, the second closing up behind him.
Brodie switched off the engine of the Renault and climbed out of the car, holding his hands clearly in sight as the Gendarmes descended upon him, but he wasn’t looking at them. He was watching the bus pull away from him. And Emmy looking back at him. She mouthed something. Could it have been “Sorry”?
He rather thought it was.
But he was in no hurry to forgive her for this. In fact at that moment he sincerely regretted not having called the police when Emerald Carlisle stole his car. He could so easily have told her father that he hadn’t known he had Emmy on board. She wouldn’t have betrayed him.
A few hours in a police cell might have made her think again about the advisability of runaway weddings. And she would have been handed straight back to her father. He was beginning to sympathise the man.
No. Sympathising with Gerald Carlisle was going too far.
But as his hands were fastened none too gently in handcuffs and he was bundled into a police car, he wondered just what she had been finally driven to. What had she accused him of to bring the police down on his head at breakneck speed? Nothing trivial, he could be certain of that. And unlike a
n angry driver with a dent in his front wing, the French gendarmerie would not be soothed by a few hundred euros.
Emmy stared out of the bus window as the police cut Brodie out of the traffic and brought him dramatically to a halt. Everyone on the bus cheered and smiled at her approvingly.
She felt truly terrible. Terrible for what she had done to Tom. Terrible for deceiving these kind people. She shouldn’t have done it. She should stop it now, but as she rose to her feet the bus accelerated away from the scene. She stood, clutching the back of her seat, her heart doing ridiculous, impossible things, one moment in her throat, the next in her boots as she saw the Gendarmes advance on Brodie, saw him climb from the car, saw him staring after her. She mouthed a desperate “sorry”, but it was too late.
The moment she arrived in Aix she would go straight to the local police, explain to them what she had done. Then they would have to let him go. She subsided into her seat, oblivious to the excited chatter around her.
But suppose they let him go and kept her in custody for wasting police time? He would still be angry with her, maybe so angry that he would leave her there in the police station until he had found Kit and discovered exactly what she had been planning. Maybe he wouldn’t even do that. Maybe he would just go straight back to England and leave her locked up until Hollingworth was despatched to extricate her from yet another mess. She wouldn’t blame him. She wouldn’t blame him one bit. But she couldn’t take that risk.
No. What was done was done. She would wait until she got to the village near Kit’s farmhouse and then she would telephone the police, or it would all have been a waste and Brodie would have been arrested to no avail.
At least this way his suffering would have some point. She knew he would come after her, if only to tell her what he thought of her. She was counting on that; she had every confidence in her ability to make him see reason. She smiled a little in anticipation. Once it was all over he would have to admit that she had done everything from the best of motives. And he would understand. He would forgive her.
She would make him forgive her. She had to, because although it had been her intention to make him fall in love with her, just a little, she knew without doubt that she had fallen head over heels in love with him. It had been impossible not to. He was her match. Her equal. The man she had been waiting for ever since Oliver Hayward had taken her father’s money and run.
And they struck sparks of one another, sparks that had been all the more potent because although they had both felt the same urgent attraction, they had both been constrained by the situation. Emmy, because she had to keep up the pretence until everything was settled … Brodie, well, Brodie had a job to do.
Even so, she thought, they had had a couple of close calls. But it was impossible to do anything, say anything until the decks were cleared, until Kit—
Damn, damn, damn. She banged little clenched fists against her knees. Why on earth had it all been so complicated? If that wretched woman… what was her name? Betty. If Betty hadn’t loaned Brodie her car none of this would have been necessary. She would have been away, free.
But Brodie, it seemed, could charm an apple right off a tree. It was just as well he hadn’t realised how easily he could have charmed her. How easily he could have driven everything from her mind…
Or maybe he had. Maybe he was waiting for her to make the first move, admit that she wasn’t being entirely honest about Kit.
Or maybe she was just kidding herself.
She absently twisted the ring on left hand, then realising what she was doing she held out her hand to look at it. It was a pretty little thing. She’d seen it in the window of one of those shops that sold second hand wedding rings and silver forks and she’d bought it on an impulse. She’d never said it was an engagement ring, or that Kit had bought it for her, but had simply slipped it onto her ring finger and left her father to draw his own conclusions. It had served its purpose well enough, but now she eased it off her finger. The time for deception was passed.
The youth on the other side of the aisle was watching her, apparently fascinated by the flash that even the tiniest diamonds could produce when combined with sunlight. And there was plenty of sunlight. She pushed the ring into her jeans pocket and lifted her hair from her neck, letting the air to her skin.
The bus slowed as it reached the station and she rose quickly, eager to be away, to get everything organised before Brodie showed up, and he would certainly do that, one way or another, before the day was out. She might have set the police on him, but her story had been so outrageous that it would soon be seen for what it was and he would be released.
Then he would be able to conclude his business with all the speed at his command and get on with his holiday. Or maybe not. He could hardly leave her with Kit once he’d bought him off. Could he?
As she swung down from the bus, uncertain which way to go, the young man who had been sitting opposite stumbled against her as she hesitated. She put out an apologetic hand to help him and he muttered embarrassed thanks and hurried away.
Several other passengers stopped to wish her “bon chance”.
It was her turn to suffer embarrassment and she too moved quickly away from the bus stop, looking around for a taxi rank, anxious to get to the village as quickly as possible.
Once inside the police station Brodie was deprived of all means of harming himself and left to cool his heels in a cell, presumably while they checked his identity against his passport and his business card. He made no protest at his treatment, remaining polite, calm and co-operative as he answered the officer’s questions, aware that bluster and bad temper would only delay things.
Once the police realised that they had been made fools of, they would be only too happy to help him find Miss Emerald Carlisle.
Her story had better be a good one, or he might be tempted to leave her locked up until her father came to bail her out. It was no more than she deserved, he thought grimly.
Emmy was hungry. She didn’t dare waste time going into a café but spotting a patisserie she decided to buy something to eat in the taxi. She chose a couple of savoury pastries and asked for a can of soda.
It came to a little over two euros. She didn’t have enough change from the bus fare and put her hand into her other pocket, where the rest of her money was stashed. The woman waited patiently while she searched. Two jeans pockets, no matter how deep, do not take a lot of searching. Her money had gone. And so had the little engagement ring. She remembered the youth stumbling against her at the bus stop and realised, with a sinking heart, that her pocket had been picked as cleanly as a ripe plum.
He had seen her put the ring in her pocket. The money had been a bonus.
‘Pardon, madame,’ she said, backing away from the counter. ‘J’ai perdu mon monnaie…’
Her French, at least was coming on in leaps and bounds. She hadn’t even had to think about that.
There was some sympathetic clucking, but Emmy knew she did not deserve sympathy. She had behaved badly and this setback was no more than her just deserts.
As she turned and walked from the shop someone called after her, advising her to go to the police station and report her loss. She raised a hand in acknowledgement, but it was hardly an option under the circumstances. Brodie might be locked safely away. On the other hand, he might just be telling the local police all about Emerald Carlisle and what she had done. They would not be amused. Neither would he.
She counted the change in her pocket again. Not much. Less than a euro and that wouldn’t take her very far. All that was left was to telephone the bar in the village and hope Kit was there. Or that someone would go and find him if she could summon up sufficient French to explain how urgent it was, that she was stranded… She glanced around looking for a telephone kiosk and spotted the post office. There was bound to be one there.
The phone did not take money, only jetons. She parted with a few of her precious coins to buy the tokens and went back to the box. It was only then
that she realised the pick-pocket had taken her diary too, undoubtedly assuming that it was a wallet. How on earth could he have got away with so much in that quick stumble against her?
She sighed. She’d been told once that a skilled pick-pocket could empty a buttoned-down shirt pocket while he looked you right in the eye and smiled. Besides, it didn’t really matter how it had been done, what mattered was that she now had no idea of the telephone number of the café. The dial at the centre of the telephone tantalisingly offered Renseignements.
Unfortunately Enquiries would not be able to help since she didn’t know the name of the café or the proprietor.
Kit had given her the number as a contact point and she’d only managed to extricate that from him on the pretext that someone she knew had seen one of his landscapes and wanted to commission him to paint the view from her house.
Worse, the directions to the farmhouse were written in her diary. Without it, she would never be able to find the wretched place. Emmy wandered back out into the late morning sunshine. It was blisteringly hot, but the air was heavy, threatening, full of electricity. She bought a cold soda from a kiosk, sat on a bench and drank it, slowly, trying to decide what to do next. Phone her father? Tell him where she was, that she was stranded without enough money to buy herself a sandwich? Or should she walk across to the police station and throw herself on Brodie’s mercy?
She took a coin from her pocket and twisted it round and round in her fingers. Heads or tails? But she didn’t need to toss a coin. Her choice had been made the moment Tom Brodie had kissed her. No, before that. The moment he had nearly kissed her. The moment she had known that being kissed by him would be the definitive experience and that ever afterwards anyone else would be an anticlimax. But she didn’t intend there should be anyone else.
Across the square a musician was playing a violin exquisitely. He was playing a piece she loved, Romance from The Gadfly. On an impulse she got up and crossed the square, dropping every last cent that she had into the hat. Then the jetons. Everything that she had. A libation to the gods.