Chateau D'Armor

by Rebecca Stratton

  “So soon?” He eyed her slim shape in jeans and the thin cotton shirt, and his mouth twitched briefly as if in amusement. “Grandpere, it seems, misjudged your stamina, ma chere! Do you wish me to drive you back to the chateau before I continue?”

  Jesamine did answer immediately. She did not want to go back—to yield to his particular kind of blackmail, but he was right about her not having the stamina for it. Tramping over hot dusty fields at the pace he set was impossible for her, and it was certainly not enjoyable.

  She looked up at him, far more reproachful than she knew, and searched his face for the truth. “You’d prefer that, wouldn’t you?” she asked, and was troubled because it seemed to matter so much.

  Paul did not commit himself but watched her steadily without really looking at her, she felt. “I do not attempt to influence you, ma chere,” he told her coolly. “If you wish to continue we will get on.”

  Jesamine looked around her, angry and unhappy, not seeking anything except a solution to her immediate problem—whether or not it was worth getting hot and dusty to stay in the company of a man who made it pretty clear he would rather she was not there.

  Almost unconsciously her gaze happened on the young man he had addressed as Georges, working further along the row, and briefly she saw one eyelid close, a half smile gleam in the dark eyes. She almost laughed at the nerve of him, right under his employer’s nose, and without quite knowing why she did it, she looked up at Paul enquiringly.

  “Perhaps,” she said in a deceptively meek voice, “one of your field workers could show me around instead—then I shouldn’t be taking up all your time, Monsieur Paul.”

  For a second only Paul stared at her uncomprehendingly. Then he too looked along the row of vines to where Georges still gave only half his attention to what he was doing, and his eyes narrowed, a tightness showing at the corners of his mouth when he looked down at her again.

  “Oh, mais non, ma fille,” he said in a hard quiet voice. “I do not pay my workers to play guide to every pretty girl who comes along! If you wish to continue, I will conduct you, my people have other things to do!”

  “I merely thought—” Jesamine began, but he gave her no time to finish her explanation. His strong fingers curved around the top of her arm and he drew her along with him for several seconds before he let go. For the first few steps he went at his customary long stride, but when she murmured a protest, he slowed his pace to a speed she could more easily match, though the tension in his step did not lessen.

  He said little to her, but walked the length of the long field, stopping every so often to speak to the men and women working on the vines, and after a while, tired of being virtually ignored, she protested. “You don’t mean to enlighten me at all, do you?” she accused, and Paul looked at her with raised brows, as if her interest surprised him.

  “You wish me to explain?” he asked, and Jesamine frowned.

  “Yes, of course I do!” she said. “That’s why I’m here, isn’t it?”

  “Ah—oui?”

  She looked at him steadily and her heart fluttered uneasily in her breast. Once more his tone suggested far more than his words, and she was determined now to know what was behind those veiled implications. “It is why I’m here, Monsieur Paul,” she insisted quietly. “Whatever other ideas you might have!”

  “Ideas?” His tone dared her to name the ideas, but gave her little time to do so. He shrugged lightly. “If you wish to learn about wine, ma fille, you shall!” he told her.

  “Thank you!”

  He explained, at length, the cultivation of particular grapes to produce a particular wine; the importance of vine and soil combined to impart just the right flavour to the finished product, and she followed as best she could. He told her the process that turned grapes into sparkling wine, and how the labelling of wines in France was strictly controlled, in some cases remarkably detailed.

  “For instance,” he said, “some vintage wines have not only the chateau of origin, but the clos too.”

  “The—clos?” She hesitated to ask for a translation, but he merely looked resigned as he answered.

  “The particular plot of ground on which the grapes were grown,” he explained. “It is important when a wine is described not only to show the name of the chateau that grows the wine, but the clos too.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  She was impressed by the effort that went into ensuring that the connoisseur knew exactly what he was getting when he ordered a particular vintage. “Do you—does the Chateau d’Armor produce a vintage wine?” she asked, and Paul gave her such a long hard look that she thought he suspected sarcasm.

  “Mais naturellement!” he told her. “Chateau d’Armor is one of the best wines produced in the Val du Loire! Connoisseurs all over the world know the 1967 vintage as one of the best ever produced!”

  She had to be impressed, for he spoke with such fervour, and she had no reason to suppose he was not telling her the truth. Looking for a moment at the rugged face with its crown of thick fair hair, she felt a curious curling sensation in her stomach. It would be so easy to fall in love with him, and yet so unwise.

  “It’s fascinating,” she said, bringing herself hastily back to earth. “I never realised quite how much effort goes into producing a bottle of wine. Is there more I can see?”

  He hesitated for a moment, then shrugged, as if he saw no alternative, and once more she experienced that inexplicable sense of hurt. “Do you also wish to see the caves?” he asked, and translated at once when he saw her look puzzled. “The cellars, petite idiote!”

  Much as she was tempted, she refused to be drawn into quarrelling with him. “I’d very much like to see the cellars, please,” she told him in a voice that could have left him in no doubt how she felt about being called a little fool, and once more he merely shrugged, as if he had no option.

  “Tres bien,” he said. Following him back along the rows of vines, she almost stumbled and he turned his head and looked down at her with an expression she did not quite understand. “You do not mind if I do not take your arm?” he asked, apparently quite serious, and Jesamine blinked at him uncertainly.

  Once again she felt he was referring to something he expected her to understand, but which puzzled her absolutely, and she shook her head as she tried to imagine what he was alluding to. “No, I don’t mind,” she told him, her voice betraying her uncertainty.

  She was all too well aware of the interested and speculative eyes that followed them as they made their way back to the road, and her quick look around showed plainly how she felt. She was wary of him, more wary than she had ever been, without knowing why and she caught up with him as they reached the end of the row.

  “Ah, but of course you would prefer that I attend you like a lover, hmm?” he suggested. “It is why you are here, n’est-ce pas? To—create an impression!”

  Jesamine was too stunned to say anything for several seconds, she simply stared at him. They had come to a halt opposite where an opening gave access to the road and she turned to face him, shaking her head slowly and trying to understand him. “I haven’t the remotest idea what—impression you think I’m trying to create,” she told him in a voice that was low and husky with uncertainty, “but you seem to have something on your mind about why I came out here with you.”

  She wished they could have had this incredible conversation somewhere a little less public, and it crossed her mind to wonder whether he had ever brought women visitors here before and whether she was automatically being classed in the same category. Then she dismissed it as unlikely, for the kind of women she imagined would attract Paul d’Armor were not the kind to stumble around in the dusty fields with him.

  “You came to see the vineyards?” he asked, and laughed shortly. “Do you think I do not know why you came, ma belle? Or why Grandpere arranged this visite? Do you think I am such a fool that I do not know what he had in mind for me? And you, who so willingly—co-operate?”

  Jesamine
’s legs felt oddly weak suddenly, and there was a curling sensation in her stomach that disturbed her strangely. She had given little thought to old Francois’s suggestion that she came to see the vineyards in the company of his grandson, other than the obvious one—not until now, and now she could not even think about what Paul’s idea might be without wanting to curl with embarrassment.

  “Monsieur d’Armor knew I’d be interested in seeing all this,” she told him, encompassing the endless panorama of vines with the sweep of one hand. “That’s all!”

  “And you are prepared to walk around in the hot sun, becoming dusty and debraillee, only to look at this?” he asked, making it obvious he did not believe her. “Are you then writing an histoire on the growing of the grape, Mademoiselle Journaliste?”

  Jesamine flushed. She had had enough and her blue eyes sparkled with anger, her hands tightly curled so as not to hit out at that strong scornful face that doubted every word she said. “I don’t know what your grandfather had in mind when he arranged this,” she told him in a small tight voice, “but whatever it was, as far as I’m concerned my only interest is in the vineyards, monsieur, not in my guide!” She looked at him as steadily as her shaking anger allowed her to, and he met her gaze, narrow-eyed and arrogant.

  “You must know that my grandfather would like nothing better than to see me safely married,” he said. “Do not tell me that it has never occurred to you that his reason for employing you was to put temptation in my way, Mademoiselle Arden!”

  “Oh no!” She stared at him unbelievingly, her lips parted and a dazed look in her eyes that should surely have convinced him. More than once she had suspected that Francois d’Armor was encouraging his grandson to flirt with her, but she had never in her wildest dreams thought of him expecting anything more serious—she still could not believe it. “You can’t seriously believe that Monsieur d’Armor would—you can’t be serious!” she said breathlessly, and Paul laughed shortly.

  “Are you so naive, ma belle,” he said, “that you have not realised you are being thrown into my company?”

  She could not deny that with any conviction, and she did not try, but she would admit to nothing any more serious than a mild flirtation being in the old man’s mind. “I had—I thought he might have—” She shook her head urgently. “I don’t believe he meant it to be any more than a—a flirtation,” she said, her voice shaky. “And certainly I hadn’t even that in mind!”

  Paul was looking at her steadily and there was a tight, humourless smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You misjudge my grandfather’s knowledge of me, enfant,” he told her. “He knows well enough that I do not simply—flirt, and he knows you well enough by now, I think, to know that anything else would be out of the question with you—is that not right?”

  The grey eyes were cool and calculating and they moved slowly over her flushed face searchingly. “Monsieur Paul, I—”

  She was silenced by the touch of his hand sliding beneath her chin, lifting her face to him. “You would not contemplate an affaire de coeur, would you, ma belle?” he asked in a low voice that shivered along her spine like ice, and Jesamine turned her head swiftly to avoid him.

  “No, I wouldn’t!” she said huskily. “And neither do I believe would you with me, monsieur!”

  He did not deny it, but pressed home his point about his grandfather’s intentions. “Then taking all things into account, enfant,” he said, “Grandpere had only marriage in mind. For a whole month he has not considered you might be interested in the vineyards, nor have you expressed an interest in them. Non, ma belle, you do not convince me! My grandfather knew what he was about and you were willing enough to do as he wished and come with me! I cannot believe you did not know what was in his mind!”

  “You can believe what you like!” Jesamine declared, angrily breathless. “I’ve no intention of inflicting myself on you any longer if that’s the opinion you have of me! I won’t embarrass you any longer in front of your employees!” The depth of her anger seemed to surprise him and for a brief moment she thought he regretted his outspokenness. It even looked as if he might apologise, but then instead he indicated the parked car on the road behind her. “Shall I then drive you back to the chateau, mademoiselle,” he asked, and she shook her head, angry but strangely tearful too, and resenting that above all.

  “No, thank you!” she said. “Don’t make a pretence of being polite, Monsieur Paul, it isn’t in character!”

  “Pre-tence?” His eyes were steely and his accent much more pronounced, and she realised suddenly how much she hated quarrelling with him. “You would have me more impolite by letting you go back alone?”

  She was anxious only to get away now, and she shook her head urgently, her voice unsteady. “I’d rather go alone,” she said. “I can find my own way!”

  She thought for a moment that he might insist on driving her, she almost hoped he would, but instead he simply inclined his head in one of those slight, formal little bows. “Tres bien, mademoiselle,” he said in a flat hard voice, then turned on his heel and strode off back along the row of vines with his arrogant head high and the stiffness of anger in his tall figure.

  Jesamine watched him go for several seconds, her eyes wide and anxious. There was a fluttering uneasiness in her heart that regretted the angry parting far more than she cared to admit, and she almost called after him. The remnants of her pride prevailed, however, and she shrugged, turning from the curious eyes that still watched her, prepared to face the long, hot walk back to the chateau.

  Jesamine never really knew what decided her on a change of direction after she left the vineyard, but instead of taking the road back to the chateau, she turned right towards the village. It was no more than a few metres to Grosvallee and at the moment it offered a more comforting prospect than having to explain to Francois d’Armor why she had left his grandson after an angry exchange, and walked back rather than let him drive her.

  The village’s one narrow street was almost deserted. The smell of fresh baked bread from the little boulangerie tickled her nose pleasantly, and the old men sat, as they always did, outside the small cafe, taking their ease in the sun and comforted by endless pipes of pungent tobacco and glasses of vin ordinaire.

  In fact it was the presence of the old men that deterred her from quenching her own thirst, for there was something in those curious old eyes watching her without seeming to, that made her unusually nervous. Instead she walked along on the other side of the street, strolling rather aimlessly, as if she was not quite sure what to do.

  “Bonjour, mademoiselle.” She turned swiftly, startled for the moment, then instinctively smiled at the teenage boy who stood looking at her enquiringly. “Puis-je vous aider?” he asked, and she shook her head.

  “Hello,” she said. “I’m sorry, but I don’t speak any French.”

  “Ah!” Dark eyes gleamed at her eagerly. “Mademoiselle is English?”

  Jesamine nodded. She was a little dubious about responding to such an approach, but saw no real harm in it since the boy was young enough to be easily deterred if he became persistent. She was aware, however, that they were under observation from a middle-aged woman on the opposite side of the street, and a few seconds later the woman called across in sharp rapid French.

  The boy did not go over and join her but instead called over, using his hands and a pair of very expressive eyes to convey his meaning. When he finished the woman shrugged, rather doubtfully, Jesamine guessed. She added what sounded very much like a word of warning, then walked off carrying a big old-fashioned wickerwork basket over one arm.

  “Mama thinks me still a little boy,” the youth explained with a wry smile, and rolled his expressive eyes. “I have explained to her, mademoiselle, that I am not only almost a man but also a very good guide. If Mademoiselle wishes, I can show her around Grosvallee.” The reason for his interest was apparent now, she thought. He hoped to become her guide and perhaps make himself some pocket money. “Perhaps you wish
to visit the eglise?” he suggested hopefully, and added hastily. “The church, mademoiselle!”

  Jesamine remembered Pere Dominic’s mistrust of her the last time she visited the church, and she shook her head. If Paul had since talked to the old priest he would very likely regard her with even more suspicion should she go again. “Oh no, thank you,” she said.

  The boy looked so disappointed that her soft heart reproached her. “You do not need a guide, mademoiselle?” he asked.

  She took a minute to consider. “Do you belong here?” she asked, and he nodded.

  “Mais oui, mademoiselle, my father is instituteur here! Schoolteacher,” he added hastily when he saw her frown.

  She glanced both ways along the little street and turned back to him with a smile. “Is there enough to see to warrant having a guide?” she asked, and he nodded.

  “Ah, mais oui,” he assured her earnestly. “There are the places where the Marquis fought, mademoiselle, if such things interest you. I know from my father where these places are and what happened there!”

  It was inevitable that Jesamine should be reminded again of her conversation with Pere Dominic. It was her suggestion that the d’Armors must have been involved in some underground activity that had aroused his suspicion, she recalled. She was tempted, she had to admit, despite the heat of the day, to accept the boy’s offer to take her on a tour of the places where the Marquis had fought.

  She had sworn to Paul that she would not probe and pry into his family’s affairs, but she could not pretend complete disinterest, and somehow she suspected that Louise d’Armor’s death during the war had had more significance than simply dying in childbirth. Perhaps, by accident, she would find out.

  “Very well,” she consented with a half-smile, and the boy beamed his delight.

  “My name is Rene Marais, mademoiselle,” he informed her. “I am very pleased to meet you!”

  “Jesamine Arden,” she told him, and he bobbed his head in a small polite bow, his dark eyes smiling.