Chateau D'Armor

by Rebecca Stratton

  “It is possible, mademoiselle!”

  His response angered her and she looked at him with bright glistening eyes. “You don’t like me being here, do you?” she asked, rashly uncaring whether she was being rude or not. “You don’t like the idea of me writing this article and you don’t like me being at the chateau! In fact, Monsieur d’Armor, you don’t like anything about me, do you?”

  He brought the car to halt just where the narrow little road led into the village, and cut the engine, then turned in his seat and looked at her steadily for several seconds before he spoke. His eyes had a dark, unfathomable look that was much more disturbing than their usual bright, steely grey, and he searched her face with a gaze that seemed to go right through her.

  “Do you wish me to be frank, mademoiselle?” he asked in a harsh flat voice, and Jesamine nodded silently. Once more that hard glittering gaze took stock of her flushed face and her hands curled involuntarily into tight fists on her lap. “I could find a great deal to—like—about you, mademoiselle,” he told her in the same steel-edged voice, “but I would enjoy you more simply as a woman, rather than have you invade my home as an inquisitive meddler in my family affairs!”

  The earthy frankness of his reply left her stunned for a moment and she shivered. She had asked for his candid opinion, she thought, but she had not expected him to be quite so frank and she felt a heady sense of excitement for a few seconds before anger flared up and smothered it.

  “You’re very honest!” she told him in a voice that was not quite steady. “But I’m not a—a meddler, Monsieur d’Armor, I’m simply a journalist doing a job, and I can’t think why that should worry you so much! Gathering historical data on something that happened two hundred years ago can hardly be called meddling!”

  “What reason do you have for coming to the village?” he asked, and for a moment she simply sat and stared at him.

  “What reason?” She frowned at him curiously, still unable to fathom why it should matter so much to him. “Why—because I want to look around the place again, for one thing,” she said.

  “You have been here before?”

  Jesamine nodded. “Once,” she told him. “It seemed a nice little place and I felt it might give me atmosphere.”

  It would be difficult trying to explain to him how she hoped to get the feel of the place. Charles Louis Vernais must have seen the village very much as it looked now, and she felt it was a side of him she should not neglect—his relationships with the village people, but she saw Paul’s eyes narrow suspiciously and it was obvious he still doubted her motives.

  “Atmosphere?” He gave the word its French pronunciation and she thought that alone betrayed a certain agitation. “I would have thought you had the atmosphere you required at the chateau, mademoiselle. What can you learn of Charles Louis Vernais in the village that you cannot learn in the house where he lived?”

  “Maybe nothing,” Jesamine admitted, “but I’m not confined to the chateau, surely, monsieur!”

  “It seems not!” The grey eyes glittered like ice, and again she shivered involuntarily.

  “I might be able to learn something from another angle,” she told him, trying to be reasonable and keep her temper. “I might learn something from the village people’s family histories, information can come from the most unexpected sources.”

  “You mean to question the villagers?” he demanded, and she shrugged, inexplicably uneasy suddenly.

  “You make it sound like an interrogation,” she objected. “All I want to do is talk to them, tell them what I’m doing!”

  “Non!” He spoke so sharply that Jesamine visibly started, looking at him with wide curious eyes. “You will not discuss my family with the village people!” Paul declared harshly. “I will not permit such a thing!”

  “Oh, surely—” she began, but he raised a large hand and silenced her, his eyes glittering like ice as he looked down at her.

  “If you persist in this—curiosite, mademoiselle,” he told her firmly, “I will see to it that you are no longer welcome at the Chateau d’Armor!”

  “Oh, but you can’t do that!” Jesamine protested without stopping to think that he quite probably could, and would, do just that if he made up his mind to it.

  His steady gaze challenged her and his mouth had a tight set look that suggested cruelty. “Indeed I can, mademoiselle!” he assured her quietly but firmly. “And I will do so without hesitation if you insist on prying into matters that do not concern you!”

  Jesamine stared at him for a moment, her brows drawn. Her heart was fluttering anxiously and she thought for a moment that in her anxiety she must have misheard him. It dawned on her only after several seconds that he was not referring to, or concerned with, matters that happened two hundred years ago, but with something much more recent.

  “Matters that don’t concern me?” she asked in a small husky voice. “Charles Louis Vernais? I don’t understand you, Monsieur d’Armor—isn’t he why I’m here?”

  It was obvious that in his anxiety he had said much more than he intended and she watched his expression curiously, feeling quite inexplicably sorry that he had made the slip. For several seconds, as he looked at her, she saw a kind of stunned realisation in his eyes, then he turned quickly in his seat and gazed fixedly out through the windscreen. His profile was hard and unrelenting and she guessed he was angry with his own fallibility.

  “The people here can tell you nothing about him,” he insisted, “and therefore it would be useless for you to make enquiries in the village, Mademoiselle Arden. I suggest that you continue as you have until now—everything relevant to Charles Louis Vernais is available to you at the chateau, and no one has yet refused to assist you in your enquiries, have they?”

  “Oh no, of course they haven’t,” Jesamine agreed. “In fact you’ve all been very helpful and kind, and I’m grateful to you.”

  It was true, she had to admit. There was no real reason why she could not write an excellent article with the material she had already acquired, but this reluctance to allow her to talk with the village people puzzled her and she wished she knew his reasons. He had turned in his seat again and was looking at her with that same steady, piercing gaze so that she hastily avoided his eyes.

  He laid one arm along the back of her seat suddenly and leaned slightly towards her, bringing the uncompromising vigour of his body into contact with her so that she became inescapably and alarmingly aware of him. His eyes swept over her features with a slow, bold scrutiny that set her heart racing, no matter how hard she tried to control it.

  “Then you have no need to seek outside help,” he suggested, and Jesamine shook her head, an automatic gesture rather than a conscious one.

  “Not really, I suppose,” she allowed reluctantly, and he nodded, as if it was the answer he both sought and expected.

  “So, Mademoiselle Jesamine,” he said, “you will instead drive with me to see Monsieur Chavet, our neighbour, and then continue with your work at the Chateau d’Armor, hmm?”

  The timbre of his voice, the deep challenging look in his eyes and that forceful body pressed just close enough to play havoc with her senses were all meant to persuade her to change her mind, she realised dazedly, and it would be so easy to succumb. Then some small warning voice reminded her that Paul d’Armor was in all probability a practised seducer, and the thought stiffened her resistance as she sought to counteract the effect he was having on her willpower.

  She met that unnerving gaze with a determined steadiness and tried to control her voice. “I don’t think so, monsieur," she said, “I’d like to take a look around the village again. I’m not here for very long, Monsieur d’Armor, and—”

  “Paul,” he interrupted with a hint of impatience, and the intimacy of the suggestion was so unexpected that Jesamine blinked uncomprehendingly for a second. “You will find I am referred to and addressed as Monsieur Paul,” he informed her, and thus quashed her brief hope of a better understanding.

 
“I understand—Monsieur Paul!” Disappointment, however minor, put an edge on her voice and she suspected she was being firmly put in her place for the third time that day. “As I was saying, Monsieur Paul, I’m not here for very long, a few days at most, and I’d like to look around the village, as an interested visitor. That is, if you don’t mind,” she added with a touch of sarcasm that was meant as much to reinforce her own resistance as to anger him.

  “And if I do?” he asked, watching her steadily. Jesamine hastily avoided his eyes, realising how easily he could still persuade her if he put his mind to it and she did not keep a firm hold on her emotions. “Then I’ll have to move out of the chateau and put up at the village inn!” she retorted. “Unless, of course, you hold the jurisdiction of overlord there as well!”

  “If we were still overlords, mademoiselle,” he told her harshly, “be sure I would put your more obvious attractions to good use—with or without your consent!”

  Jesamine caught her breath. It was the second time he had made such an allusion to her physical attractions and she was breathtakingly aware of the bright gleam in his eyes and the hard fierceness of his body as he leaned towards her. He was hardly likely to put that forceful threat into action in a place as public as the village street, but she did not stop to consider that.

  She turned quickly in her seat and pushed open the car door, then swung her legs out with more haste than elegance and stood on the narrow footpath. Slamming the car door, she stood looking at him, her breathing short and erratic, a dark sheen of emotion in her blue eyes.

  Paul did not drive off, as she half expected him to, but sat watching her with a curious intensity that she found infinitely disturbing, and she tried once more to discover just what it was about Paul d’Armor that could affect her so deeply. It was obvious that he had expected her to let herself be persuaded, just as it was obvious he did not want her talking to the village people. She had little doubt that his reluctance in some way concerned his mother, Louise d’Armor, but surely his anxiety concealed more than the fact that she already suspected—that Louise d’Armor had never married.

  Whatever his reasons, she could do nothing about her sudden urge to reassure him that her only interest was in Charles Louis Vernais, and she shook her head slowly as she tried to tell him so. “Monsieur—Paul.” The grey eyes did little to encourage her, but she pressed on. “I— I really have no intention of prying into anything that concerns you or your family. My only interest is in Charles Louis Vernais and I promise you he’s the only one I shall ask about. I thought perhaps if I visited the church—parish registers can be—”

  “No doubt, mademoiselle,” he interrupted shortly, “but you will not find the famille d’Armor buried in the village church ground.”

  “Oh, I see!”

  He did not enlighten her as to where they might be found, and she had not the nerve to ask him in the circumstances. Her silence might have told him that she was curious, but he would do nothing voluntarily to satisfy her curiosity, she knew, and while she still stood there, hesitating, he half turned in his seat and inclined his head briefly, his hands already on the wheel again.

  “It seems I cannot influence you,” he told her, and she suspected that the fact not only angered him but surprised him too. “That being so, I will leave you to your prying, mademoiselle!”

  “Oh, but—” He turned his head and she met the steel grey eyes head on, her fingers curling tightly into her palms. “I’ve told you, I don’t intend doing anything worse than take a walk,” she said, and he eyed her narrowly for a moment, then he eased his broad shoulders into the merest suggestion of a shrug.

  “Tres bien, mademoiselle,” he said, but with very little conviction, and let in the clutch.

  The big car moved off smoothly down the village street and Jesamine watched it go, wondering how on earth she had allowed herself to be influenced. It was a journalist’s job to find out things, hurtful or not, but somehow she simply could not bring herself to do anything that was likely to prove hurtful to Paul d’Armor, and admitting that, even to herself, was oddly disturbing.

  Grosvallee was not an outstandingly pretty village in a province that abounded with pretty villages, but it had a quiet charm that mellowed in the warm sun and its huddle of narrow houses pushed their steep sloping roofs up through the surrounding plane trees lining both sides of the street and the square.

  There were a couple of small shops, including a tiny boulangerie whose delicious smells drifted towards her on the light wind, and the inevitable cafe, although this was not the kind so beloved of tourists. There were no colourful umbrellas here, set out over small tables, but a couple of rough benches and wooden trestles where the old men of the village passed their days, taking their ease and imbibing the local wines in their less vintage forms.

  A little church, built from the local granite, stood back from the street amid a veritable forest of plane trees whose leaves sprinkled broken sunlight over its sombre walls like a scattering of golden coins. It was a short ungainly building that reflected the same homely, lopsided look that many Breton churches had, but its surroundings softened its inelegant design and the whole picture was peaceful and infinitely pleasing.

  A stone Calvary, such a feature of Breton life, shared the church’s shrouded privacy, crudely carved as so many of them were, but with a touching simplicity that suggested a child might have made the short squat crucifix and the stiff little figures surrounding it. One of the frequent pardons, Jesamine promised herself, was something she must try and see before she left Brittany.

  There seemed fewer people about than when she had come the previous Sunday, for no doubt most of the men were at work, but she was still the target for several pairs of eyes as she stood for a moment in front of the little church, just beyond the barrier of trees that surrounded it.

  Several old men sitting on a bench against the wall of the cafe kept their narrow-eyed gaze on her while they smoked and sipped their wine, so also did the two elderly women who chatted together in the doorway of the little boulangerie with warm new bread hugged to their breasts. Of course, they had seen Paul d’Armor let her out of his car. They had probably witnessed that seductive attempt of his to change her mind about visiting the village, and speculation was rife. It was only to be expected in a place as small as Grosvallee.

  She was unaware that there was anyone nearer at hand until a quiet voice murmured words of apology in French from immediately behind her, and she turned swiftly, startled out of her reverie. An elderly priest stood at her elbow,his gaze every bit as curious as the old men and the women in the boulangerie, and she wondered if he too had seen her arrival.

  He indicated with an explanatory wave of his hand that she was standing right in front of the gate to the church and blocking his way. Hastily she stepped aside, smiling apologetically. “Oh, I’m sorry, Father,” she said. “I didn’t realise I was in your way.”

  “Mais non, mademoiselle,” the old priest assured her, “you have no need to apologise. You wished to speak with me, perhaps? I am Pere Dominic, mademoiselle, if I may assist you?”

  “I’m not sure if you can,” Jesamine confessed, and laughed a little uncertainly. She had told Paul d’Armor that she was concerned only with information to do with Charles Louis Vernais, but perhaps the priest might know something of him, of where he was buried for instance. “To be perfectly honest,” she told him, “I was miles away when you surprised me, Father!”

  The old priest looked puzzled. “Comment, mademoiselle?”

  Jesamine hastened to explain. “I was thinking about something quite different,” she told him. “My mind was wandering, Father, that’s what I meant. I’ve quite a lot on my mind at the moment.”

  “Ah!” He nodded understanding. “You are troubled, mon enfant?” His bright curious eyes were frankly speculating and she knew without doubt that he had seen her with Paul d’Armor. “If it is a spiritual problem, then be assured, mademoiselle, I can help you!”

&
nbsp; Jesamine shook her head, though she smiled her appreciation of his intentions. “Oh no, Father, thank you,” she told him, “it’s nothing like that.”

  “Non?” He seemed in no hurry to go, and she wondered if he altogether believed her. “Mademoiselle is English?” he guessed, and smiled when she confirmed it. “We do not have the tourist in Grosvallee so often, mademoiselle, you are most welcome!”

  “Thank you, but I’m not a tourist, Father,” she explained. “In fact I’m here to work—I’m staying at the Chateau d’Armor.”

  Sparse grey brows fluttered swiftly into a grizzled forelock and the old priest eyed her with even more curiosity. “Mademoiselle is employed at the chateau?” he asked, and made no secret of the fact that he found it hard to believe.

  “Oh no,” Jesamine told him with a smile, “I don’t actually work for the d’Armor family. I’m a journalist and they’re very kindly putting me up as well as helping me with my story.”

  Pere Dominic looked stunned for several seconds, then he shook his head. “You write of the famille d’Armor?” he asked. “I find that very hard to believe, mademoiselle!” He shook his head hastily as if to recall his last impulsive words and shrugged his shoulders with an eloquence characteristic of so many of his race. “Things change, naturellement,” he said with an air of resignation, and shook his head.

  Jesamine looked at him curiously, her interest plain in her eyes. “You seem surprised, monsieur,” she said, and again the old man shrugged.

  “One sees many changes, mademoiselle,” he said noncommittally.

  She looked past him at the squat little church, gold flecked in the summer sunshine and sought a more agreeable subject, as she thought. “Like your old church,” she said with a smile. “I’d like to see it, if I may, Father, it must have seen some dramatic changes in its time. Even during the past forty years or so, I suppose. This village was occupied during the last war, wasn’t it?”