by Sara Craven
‘But what would I do without you?’ Helen had asked, startled and distressed. ‘I rely on you both totally. You’re my family.’
Daisy had patted her gently. ‘Everything changes, my dear. And you’ll be having a new family soon—a proper one, with Monsieur Marc.’
Which, thought Helen, was almost a sick joke—under the circumstances.
She’d tried to keep busy, to stop herself from thinking, but apart from arranging the flowers and deciding what food to eat, there was little to occupy her at Monteagle, she had to admit. The place seemed to run like clockwork. Instead, she spent two days a week helping in a charity shop in Aldenford, and another afternoon pushing round the library trolley at the local cottage hospital.
So she’d been out when the longed-for telephone call had come to say Marc would be arriving the next day.
But her initial relief and elation had been dealt an immediate blow when Alan had informed her with faint awkwardness that this was simply a flying visit, to check on the progress of the house, and that Marc would be leaving again after lunch.
She’d managed a word of quiet assent, then taken herself up to her room, where she’d collapsed across the bed, weeping uncontrollably.
The next day she had departed early for a ceramics auction in a town twenty miles away. It had been purely a face-saving move. She had no particular interest in porcelain and pottery, and no intention of bidding on any of the lots.
She’d arrived back at Monteagle just before lunch was served, and returned Marc’s cold greeting with equal reserve before eating her way through salmon mayonnaise and summer pudding as if she had an appetite, while Marc and Alan chatted together in French.
The meal over, she had been about to excuse herself when Marc detained her with an imperative gesture. Alan quietly left them alone together, standing on opposite sides of the dining table.
‘The new staff? You find them acceptable?’ he’d asked abruptly.
‘Perfectly, thank you.’ She hesitated. ‘Of course it helps that they’re local people.’
‘And the house? The work continues to your satisfaction?’
‘It all looks wonderful,’ she said quietly. ‘But naturally I shall be glad when it’s over.’
There was an odd silence before he said, ‘Then I hope for your sake, Hélène, that they continue to make the same progress and you are soon left in peace from all of this.’ His brief smile did not reach his eyes. ‘Au revoir,’ he added, and was gone.
And that, Helen thought unhappily, had set the pattern for his two subsequent visits—except that Alan’s wife had been invited to join them for lunch. But, as Susan treated her with the same polite aloofness as her husband, it couldn’t be described as the most successful social experiment of the year.
There had never been any hint that he wished to spend the night here. In fact he didn’t even want to touch her, she admitted, swallowing a desolate lump in her throat. It seemed that the beautiful Angeline was supplying all his needs, and that she herself was excluded from any intimate role in his life, however temporary.
Why did he do it? she asked herself. Why did he take me and make me want him so desperately that every day and night without him makes me feel as if I’m slowly bleeding to death?
But she already knew the answer. Because he could, she thought. And how cruel was that?
As unkind as the way he’d suddenly ended that brief interlude on the bed over there, she reminded herself. Her whole body had been singing to the touch of his mouth and hands when he’d stepped back, apparently unaffected by her response—except to be amused by it.
How silly and futile all her subsequent protests must have seemed to him—and how easily they’d been overcome, she thought bitterly. And she knew still that, in spite of everything, if he so much as beckoned to her she would go to him.
Her body was aching—starving for him. Demanding the surcease that only he could give, but which he chose to deny her.
Making it clear that there was no place for her even on the margins of his life.
Perhaps, she thought, wincing painfully, Angeline Vallon doesn’t like sharing either, and has enough power to issue an ultimatum.
Sighing, she walked over to the portrait and stood staring up at it.
‘How did you cope?’ she asked softly. ‘When your royal victor became tired of his spoils and moved on? How many days before you stopped hoping? How many long nights before he ceased to feature in your dreams? And what else must I endure before my sentence is served and I can get out of jail?’
On the other hand, if she did escape somehow, then where would she go?
Her mouth twisted wrily. Bolivia, she thought. Uzbekistan—or any of the places that Marc had been flying between over these long weeks. She’d always secretly yearned to travel, to get to the heart of cities and countries that were only names in an atlas, but she’d given up all hope of that for the sake of Monteagle.
If she could turn back time, she knew now she would have followed Marc downstairs that last morning, held out her hand and said, Take me with you. Because half a life at his side would have been better than no life at all.
A fly had appeared from nowhere, and was grumbling vainly against one of the windows. Helen walked across the room and opened the casement to allow it to escape, and stood suddenly transfixed, staring across the lawns below.
A woman was standing, a hand shading her eyes as she looked up at the house, her long red hair gleaming in the late summer sunlight.
No, Helen thought with disbelief. And, as the anger began to build in her, No.
Has Marc allowed this? she asked herself. Has he dared to let her invade my territory? And is she going to spend time here—with him—forcing me to move out for the duration? Why else would she be here, spying out the land?
Oh, God, she thought. How could he hurt me—insult me—like this?
She closed the casement with a bang and ran from the room, and down the stairs, almost flinging herself out into the open air.
As she reached the grass she saw the other woman walking rapidly towards the side gate.
She is not getting away with this, Helen told herself grimly. She’ll stand her ground and hear what I have to say.
‘Wait!’ she called, cupping her hands round her mouth. ‘Attendez, madame!’
The other woman paused, turning as if surprised, then waited awkwardly, hands thrust into the pockets of her cream linen trousers, as Helen came running towards her.
She only stopped, breathless and shocked, when she realised that, apart from hair colour, her quarry bore no resemblance at all to the woman whose magazine picture still haunted her mercilessly.
She was considerably older, and thinner, and her face was pleasant rather than beautiful—although at the moment she looked embarrassed and wary.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘The house isn’t open to the public any more, is it? And I’m trespassing.’
‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’ Helen struggled to control her breathing. ‘Did you want anything in particular?’
‘Not really.’ The other woman shrugged. ‘Just a final glimpse, really. I went round with the guided tour a few times before the restoration work started, and I was curious to see if much had changed.’
Helen stared at her. ‘You’re quite a devotee.’
‘I feel I’ve known the place all my life. You see, my great-grandmother was in service here years ago, and my grandmother too, and they loved it. I grew up with all these stories about Monteagle—felt as if I was part of them. Daft, I know, but we all have our dreams.’
She paused. ‘You’re Helen Frayne, aren’t you? But you confused me when you called out in French. I thought that was your husband’s nationality.’
‘It is. I—I thought you were someone completely different. I’m sorry.’ Helen hesitated. ‘May I know who you really are?’
‘Why not?’ Another almost fatalistic shrug. ‘My name’s Shirley—Shirley Newson. You know my husband, I think?’
Helen said slowly, ‘Yes—yes, I do.’
‘And wish you didn’t, I dare say.’ Shirley Newson’s smile was affectionate, but wan. ‘Trevor’s a good man, but when his heart’s set on something he turns into a bull in a china shop. I know full well he ruined any chance we had of buying the place. All those stupid ideas about theme parks and the like.’ Her eyes flashed. ‘As if I’d have allowed that.’
She sighed. ‘But I suppose he thought he could make my dream come true, bless him, and turn a profit at the same time. It’s what he’s always done, so I can hardly blame him. But all I wanted was to live here quietly, doing the repairs bit by bit. Making it just like it was years ago, when my family worked here. Loving it, I suppose.’
She looked at Helen, biting her lip. ‘Now I guess you’ll call your security and have me thrown out.’
‘Actually,’ Helen said gently, ‘I was going to offer you a cup of tea, Mrs Newson. And another guided tour—if you’d like that.’
It had been an oddly agreeable couple of hours, Helen decided when her unexpected guest had left. Shirley Newson had spoken no more than the truth when she’d said she knew the house. She was as accurate about its history as Marion Lowell, but she was also a fund of stories—amusing, scandalous and poignant—about the Fraynes and their guests, which her relations had handed down to her, and which Helen, thoroughly intrigued, had never heard before.
Perhaps, she thought wryly, if the wife had come to conduct negotiations a year ago instead of the husband there might have been a different outcome. Perhaps…
Anyway, she thought, it was all too late now. And she sighed.
‘You did give Marc my message—about Lottie’s wedding?’ Helen tried to hide her bitter disappointment as she spoke. ‘Because it starts in just over an hour, and he’s cutting it incredibly fine if he intends to be here.’
‘Mrs Delaroche.’ Alan Graham’s voice had an edge to it. ‘Does it occur to you that there could be—circumstances which might make it difficult for Marc to leave Paris right now?’
Helen bit her lip. ‘Meaning Madame Angeline Vallon, I suppose?’ she challenged, too hurt and angry to be discreet.
Alan stared at her in open bewilderment. ‘You know about that?’ he asked incredulously.
‘Yes,’ she acknowledged curtly. ‘After all, it’s hardly a secret.’
‘You know?’ he repeated slowly. ‘And yet you carry on with your life as if it didn’t matter?’ He’d never been friendly, but now he sounded positively hostile.
Riled, Helen lifted her chin. ‘Marc makes his own choices,’ she said. ‘They have nothing to do with me. My world is here.’
His laugh was derisive. ‘And so as long as it’s looked after you don’t give a damn about anything else. I’d hoped that, all appearances to the contrary, you might actually care.’
Care? she thought. Care? Can’t you see I’m in agony here—falling apart?
She said freezingly, ‘You may be my husband’s friend, but that gives you no right to criticise me like this.’
‘Mrs Delaroche,’ he said, ‘you are perfectly correct about that, and you can have me removed from this project any time you like. I have other more worthwhile proposals in the pipeline.’
He paused. ‘I’m sure Marc will be at this wedding if it’s humanly possible. No matter what it may cost him. Because you’ve asked him to do it. Is that what you want to hear?’
And with a final scornful glance at her, he walked away.
Helen wasn’t sure if she had the power to fire him, but she knew she shouldn’t let the matter rest. That she should go after him—demand an explanation for his extraordinary behaviour.
Except she had a wedding to dress for, she thought, pushing her hair back from her face with an angry, restless hand. And if she had to attend it alone, she would do so looking like a million dollars.
Because no one was going to accuse her of wearing a broken heart on her sleeve.
She’d decided, after a lot of consideration, to wear her own wedding outfit again. After all, Marc had once suggested that she should do so at a party of their own, she remembered unhappily, and under the circumstances Lottie’s wedding reception was probably as good as it was going to get.
But once today was over, she told herself grimly, she would develop some attitude of her own—and deal with Alan Graham.
The service had already begun when she was aware of whispering behind her, and at the same moment Marc slipped into the pew beside her. She turned to look at him, lips parted, delight churning inside her—along with an almost savage yearning.
‘I—I didn’t think you’d be here,’ she breathed.
‘I had an invitation.’ His whispered reply was cool and unsmiling.
Helen sank back into her seat, her heart thumping painfully. What had she been hoping? That he’d kiss her, murmuring that he could not keep away when all the evidence was to the contrary?
She hadn’t been to many traditional weddings, and she’d almost forgotten the timeless resonances of the Prayer Book ceremony. Now they came flooding back with a kind of desperate poignancy, making her hands clench together in her lap and her throat tighten.
She watched Simon and Lottie with painful intensity—his unhidden tenderness, her glorious serenity—knowing that was how it should be when you were safe and loved.
If only Marc had looked at her like that, adoring her with his eyes, when they’d stood together to receive the same blessing the Vicar was pronouncing now, she thought passionately. And if only she’d been free to whisper the oldest vow of all—I love you as he bent to kiss her.
Because she knew now with terrible certainty that this was the truth she’d been fighting since she met him. That it wasn’t simply the beguilement of sexual union that she’d feared, but the deeper spiritual and emotional commitment that she’d tried to reject. The recognition that in this man—this stranger—she’d somehow met the other half of herself.
Everything else had been a blind—the bargain they’d made, even Monteagle itself.
But only for me, she thought, pain lancing her. Not for Marc. To him it was never more than a deal, and now he has what he wants he’s moved on.
She sent him a swift sideways glance from under her lashes, silently begging him to turn towards her—take her hand. But Marc sat unmoving, his profile like granite, his expression as remote as some frozen wasteland.
And she knew that if there’d been a moment when she might have captured his heart it was long gone. All she was left with was loneliness, stretching out into eternity.
CHAPTER TWELVE
NOT long now, Helen promised herself wearily. The bride and groom had departed for their honeymoon in an aura of radiance, and the usual sense of anticlimax had immediately set in, so the party would soon be breaking up. And just as well, because she was almost at the end of her tether.
She could admit it now. She hadn’t felt well all day—tired and vaguely sick. And it had been the same for the past week or more, if she was honest. Stress, she supposed. And sheer uncertainty about the future.
Not that the reception hadn’t been a great success. The Long Gallery had looked wonderful, its mellow panelling gleaming in the late sunlight while Lottie’s delicious food had been eaten and the toasts drunk, then later assuming an atmosphere of total romance once the candles were lit and the music began.
And Helen couldn’t fault Marc. Wherever else he might wish himself to be, he’d behaved like a perfect host. He had danced with practically every woman in the room—bar one. He’d even stood beside her, his hand barely touching her uncovered shoulder, as Simon and Lottie thanked them lavishly for their hospitality and called for their health to be drunk.
‘Marc and Helen—who saved our lives.’
And Helen had stood mutely, smiling until her face ached, determined to overcome the churning inside her and trying also to ignore the fact that Marc had not danced with her. Other people had, of course. She’d hardly been a wallflower. But sh
e and her husband had been on parallel lines all evening—never meeting, never touching until that moment. Hardly speaking. And that was clearly the way he wanted it.
Wearing her wedding outifit had been a mistake too. As she’d removed the jacket, her nervous hands struggling once again with those tiny slippery buttons, she’d sensed him near her, and glanced up, wondering if he remembered—if he would come to her rescue this time too. But Marc’s dark gaze had swept over her in total indifference, and then he’d turned away, his mouth hardening. And deliberately kept his distance ever after, she realised forlornly.
But when the guests had finally departed and they were left alone—what then?
She’d learned from Daisy that he’d brought a travel bag, which had been put in the State Bedroom. So it seemed he was planning to stay the night at least. But Helen had no idea whether or not he intended to sleep alone, or if, in spite of everything, he would expect her to join him in that vast bed.
The warmth of Lottie’s farewell hug and her fierce whisper, ‘Be happy’, still lingered, taunting her with its sheer impossibility.
Because even if she went to Marc tonight, and he took her, it would mean nothing. Just a transient usage of his marital rights, which she knew she would not have the power to resist. Because she wanted him too badly.
His arms around me, she thought sadly, on any terms. Any terms at all. No pretence. No defence.
And above all she needed to talk to him—to ask him to give their ill-conceived disaster of a marriage another chance. Even if she had to resort to the self-exposure of confessing how much his infidelity was hurting her.
But when she returned from saying goodbye to the bride and groom’s parents, and the other departing guests, awash with gratitude and good wishes, the Long Gallery was empty and dark. Daisy and the staff were not scheduled to begin the big clear-up until the morning. But there was no sign of Marc either.