The French Prize

by Cathryn Hein

  Alison gave her a nudge. ‘Cheer up, darling. It’s not that bad.’

  Olivia groaned and plonked her head sideways to rest on her friend’s shoulder. ‘Yes it is.’

  ‘Drink more,’ advised Alison, giving her a soothing pat. ‘That’s always my solution.’

  Olivia did as instructed, wincing at the taste and wishing there were better ways to cope. She stared around the room at her Oxford colleagues, talking shop, scheming or gossiping, probably about her. She didn’t want to be there, but the dean had insisted. Apparently, the visiting American professor would be insulted if she refused to show at his welcome cocktail party, although she very much doubted that. From the excited gaggle of doting women surrounding Professor Lewis, he had an overdose of female company. She would not be missed.

  She glanced at the Breitling. There wasn’t a chance in hell she’d make the last flight to Marseille. This was her first weekend without seeing Christiane and Edouard and it hurt. But then, every long second she spent away from France, away from Raimund, hurt.

  It was as though she was abandoning hope by not returning. Perhaps this would be the weekend he walked through the door. What would he think if she wasn’t there?

  Aware of how much of a misery-guts she’d been lately, Olivia tried to act cheerful for Alison’s sake. ‘Feel like lunch on Saturday?’

  ‘Can’t, sorry. Rotten nephew’s birthday party. Loathe those things. All the mums trying to outdo themselves. No single men. Gropey married ones. Ghastly.’ She shuddered then blinked and broke into a grin, her voice lowering. ‘Unlike what’s approaching.’ With a neat step she disappeared from Olivia’s side.

  ‘Doctor Walker.’ Professor Lewis held out his hand. ‘My apologies. I would’ve introduced myself sooner but I’m afraid I’ve been somewhat waylaid.’

  He glanced back at the group he had left. Olivia saw at least two women simper, both honours students who should know better but whose minds had obviously been affected by the professor’s good looks. Another—a Bodleian librarian of all people—cast her a death stare. Alison stood behind Professor Lewis, covering her mouth to hide her laughter. Olivia resisted a childish urge to poke her tongue out at her.

  His attention returned to her face. He had, Olivia noticed, startlingly blue eyes. They reminded her of Dame Elizabeth. She would have to remember to tell her that when she returned to Aix. It’d be interesting to see her reaction. Dame Elizabeth loathed Americans nearly as much as the French.

  He smiled. ‘But I’m glad I’ve found this chance to introduce myself.’

  She took his hand. He had a strong grip, with slightly roughened skin. The sort of hand that wasn’t afraid of hard work. It reminded her of Raimund. She jerked out of his hold, then flushed as she realised her rudeness.

  ‘I’m pleased to meet you, Professor,’ she said brightly, trying to cover her embarrassment.

  His blue eyes sparkled. ‘Andrew, please.’

  His accent was a peculiar combination of pure south backed with English public school. She wondered if the drawl was normal or put on for her benefit. Her jaw clenched as he eyed her, his interest patent, and she wished she’d kept her coat on. The short floaty red frock was cut too low. But that evening, when it had come time to dress, she’d grabbed the first suitable dress in her robe, donning it without a moment’s thought for her cleavage, let alone prowling professors.

  ‘I understand you have quite an interest in the legend of La Tasse du Chevalier Gris.’

  His words had her clamping her teeth together so hard her jaw hurt. Afraid of how her voice would sound if she attempted to answer immediately, she breathed through her nose, taking a few seconds to calm herself.

  ‘Not any longer.’

  He regarded her with those clever blue eyes. ‘How strange. I thought it was something of a passion with you.’

  ‘La Tasse doesn’t exist. It’s just a fairytale.’

  ‘Oh dear. I was hoping I’d found a kindred spirit.’ He leaned forward, too close for Olivia’s liking. His eyes were full of invitation, bright and teasing. ‘You see, Doctor Walker, I think it does exist. I thought perhaps you and I could discuss our theories over a late dinner tonight.’

  Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Alison giving her the two thumbs-up sign. Olivia didn’t smile. There wasn’t any humour in this anymore. La Tasse was gone. Sacrificed to save Raimund. And now he was gone, too.

  The thought made her bones ache.

  She stepped back and put her glass on the nearest table. ‘I’m sorry. I have other plans.’ She glanced at the Breitling. ‘In fact, I’m going to be late.’

  He cupped his hand over the point of her shoulder. She wanted to shrug away from the touch, but it’d only attract attention.

  ‘A shame. Perhaps some other time.’

  She threw him a tight smile but didn’t reply. There would never be another time. Not with him, not with anyone. Not while Raimund remained in her heart.

  Without another word, she walked away.

  The weekend crawled. Olivia rang Christiane and Edouard but as usual there was no news. She marked student papers, read a couple of journals, watched mind-numbing television that only sent her to sleep. Alison’s snarky birthday-party texts at least gave her a smile, although she could have done without the continued reprimands for turning down Professor Lewis. A single, very attractive man offers dinner and possibly more, and Olivia knocks him back? So what if she thought the man a bit of a rake? A rake was better than nothing. And definitely far superior to the leery middle-aged husbands with wandering hands Alison was stuck with.

  On Sunday, bored with the confines of her flat and needing air, Olivia braved the winter cold and walked to the Cherwell Boathouse. She sat alone in the beer garden nursing a glass of wine and watching the river, thinking of Raimund.

  She had never realised how empty her life in Oxford was until she had to endure it without him. There were no archives to keep her distracted, with the exception of Alison, her friends tended to be all attached and busy doing their couples thing, and the two objects that had once driven her so insatiably, had insulated her from the reality of her life, now caused her nothing but pain.

  She took a sip of cabernet and looked up as the sun faded and the air turned even more frigid. A heavy cloud sat over the Boathouse. Not an unusual occurrence. Oxford was beautiful but its climate was not and this year the drizzle and cold seemed to hold a sharper, more miserable edge.

  Perhaps it was time she left. But where to go?

  She took another sip of wine, grimacing at her disingenuousness. As if she even needed to ask that question. There was only ever one option.

  France.

  And more months of waiting, searching and dying hope. She bit her lip. A single meeting wasn’t so much to ask, not after all they’d experienced together. Just a chance to apologise, a chance to ask forgiveness. He couldn’t stay away forever. He wouldn’t be so cruel to Christiane and Edouard. He was too noble for that. And when he came she had to be there, not in rain-soaked Oxford. Anything else was unthinkable.

  The relief of her decision left her smiling. For the first time since she’d returned she felt as though she had a purpose. That her purpose was to leave as soon as possible didn’t matter. It was a goal. The most important of her life.

  Come Monday she would call Dame Elizabeth and ask if she knew of any opportunities at the University of Aix-Marseille. If nothing came up straight away, she could always earn some cash by tutoring. She’d waitress if she had to. Anything was better than staying in Oxford where she couldn’t even feel him.

  Leaving her half-drunk glass on the table, she stood, full of resolve. She would begin organising and packing immediately. In the morning, she’d resign and negotiate how long before she could leave. Then there was the flat to sort out. Given the location and facilities, she didn’t think she’d have any problems finding someone to take over the lease.

  Her list of chores expanded on the walk back to her flat. She’d
need to find a reliable storage company for her furniture, books and all the excess other junk she’d accumulated. Alison and her other friends and colleagues would have to be told of her move, as would family. Phone, electricity and countless other bills had to be sorted. All would take time.

  But if everything went to plan, she would be a resident of France by Christmas.

  The rain started just as she reached the turn for her street, and it wasn’t a drizzle. She ran the last hundred metres with heavy drops pounding her back, cursing her stupidity at forgetting her umbrella.

  She fumbled with the keys while projecting evil thoughts towards the imbecilic architect who thought it acceptable to design an entrance without a porch in a place that suffered so much rain.

  ‘Hello, Olivia.’

  The keys fell from her hands.

  Raimund.

  She closed her eyes, her chest flooding with emotion, as though all her memories of him had called to her at once, ripping at the already torn pieces of her heart. It couldn’t be him. Not here. It was just her rampant imagination.

  A hand pressed against her rain-soaked back. ‘I’m sorry. I startled you.’

  He was real. It was his voice, his hand. His touch.

  Slowly, afraid he would vanish, she opened her eyes and turned.

  And there he was. Alive and talking and standing in Oxford in the pouring rain with a white envelope in one hand and an expression that revealed nothing.

  ‘Raimund.’ She couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  ‘Come,’ he said, bending down to retrieve her keys and fitting them in the lock. ‘Or we’ll both catch colds.’ He held open the door for her.

  She waited on the tiled entrance, dripping water and staring as he closed the door and turned to face her. Her skin puckered and she trembled, but it wasn’t from cold. Shock, joy and a horrible anxiety writhed in her stomach, but she couldn’t stop staring.

  The change in him was subtle. His olive complexion was faded and he had lost weight. His hair was longer, too. Still short, but without the military harshness of his normal cut. And like her, the lines around his eyes and mouth were etched deeper into his skin.

  Her heart contracted with pure yearning. She wanted to touch him so badly it sent her throat aching, but she couldn’t. Not with him standing there with that guarded look, the one he’d worn for so long after they’d first met. The expression he used to hide from her.

  ‘You’re better.’

  ‘Yes.’

  She crossed her arms, hugging herself. ‘No one would tell me what happened to you. I nearly died of worry.’

  He took two paces towards her and raised his hand to brush his knuckles down her cheek. ‘I know.’

  She closed her eyes, her lips trembling, on the verge of collapsing into the tears she hadn’t allowed herself to shed for months. She couldn’t let herself. Not yet. There were two things she needed. She had to have her explanation and she had to say sorry. Only then would she permit them to fall.

  ‘Why did you put me through this? I loved you. I wanted to be with you.’

  His hand dropped and he stiffened. ‘I take it from your use of past tense you no longer feel the same.’

  She stared at him in bewilderment and hurt. How could he possibly think that? She could no more stop loving him than stop breathing.

  He looked away, espresso eyes almost black against his lighter skin. Then he blinked. Several times.

  ‘I don’t blame you. It was the letter. I should never have written it.’ He swung back to her, then grabbed her hand and pressed the envelope into it, closing her fingers around the edge. For several leaden heartbeats he looked at their joined hands before refocusing on her. ‘These are for you. I will leave now.’

  With his lips pressed tightly together, as though afraid of the words that might spill out if he opened his mouth, he released her and walked towards the door but didn’t open it. Olivia stared at him numbly, not understanding.

  ‘Everything still stands,’ he said, his back steeled, his hand tight on the door knob. ‘The archives are still yours. I will instruct Edouard to advise me when you’re there so I don’t disturb you during your studies.’

  Her voice was barely a whisper. Here he was after so long and now he wanted to leave. It was inconceivable. If he walked out now she’d dissolve.

  ‘You can’t leave.’

  Slowly, he turned around.

  ‘You can’t. I haven’t said I’m sorry.’

  ‘Olivia —’

  She ran over the top of him, desperate to say what had burned her insides for months. ‘It was my fault you were shot. My fault you nearly died. If I hadn’t defied Gaston, if I hadn’t solved the riddle and led you to Durendal none of this would’ve happened.’

  She was sobbing now, unloading the unshed tears and guilt that had paralysed her since she saw him fall to his knees with his arm over his stomach. Every cry scraped her throat, every tear scalded. Her breath wheezed through her lungs like an asthmatic’s, and with every word, her voice rose until she was almost hysterical with the need for his forgiveness.

  ‘I’m so sorry. So, so sorry. Just don’t go. Please don’t go. You’re my knight. I love you. Everything’s empty without you. Please, Raimund. Please.’

  In two strides he was in front of her. His arms wrapped around her shoulders and pressed her to his chest. ‘Shh, shh, Olivia. It’s okay. Shh.’ His lips grazed her hair. ‘Please don’t blame yourself. It was not your fault. Gaston would have shot me anyway.’

  She shook her head. She knew the truth. It was her refusal to show Gaston Durendal that made him pull the trigger.

  Raimund eased her away and cupped her face in his hands. His thumbs wiped gently at her cheeks, clearing her wet skin. ‘You have nothing to be sorry for. Nothing.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you at least call me?’

  ‘I was recovering.’

  The tears continued. She couldn’t make them stop. She wanted to believe him, wanted to believe that his silence wasn’t because he couldn’t face her.

  ‘But it’s been months.’

  His gaze held hers. ‘I had to think.’

  She closed her eyes and let the tears leak from beneath the lids. ‘About what?’

  Softly, with soothing care, he pressed his lips against her cheeks and kissed away the moisture. The gesture was tender and loving, and calmed her in a way no words could. Except those special ones.

  ‘There were so many things, Olivia.’

  ‘Will you tell me?’

  The kisses stopped. She opened her eyes. His expression seemed haunted and she realised at last what he was afraid of, what had kept him from her.

  His second, secret promise to Patrice.

  ‘I thought about leaving the army. About the sort of life we could have together.’ He paused and took a breath. ‘Whether you would still love me knowing that I was capable of murdering another man for nothing but revenge.’

  ‘I’d love you no matter what.’

  ‘Even after knowing what I am?’

  She smiled, filled at last with hope. ‘Even after that.’

  She touched her fingers to that beautiful mouth, and then delicately traced their outline before drawing her hand to the place on his forehead where he had pressed his fingers so often.

  ‘Don’t you understand, Raimund? I love you so much I was going to let you destroy my dream, because I believed your peace of mind was worth more to me than any relic. No matter how famous.’

  He stared at her, then the lines around his eyes softened and the tense set of his mouth eased as he grasped at the hope she’d never let go of.

  ‘You are sure?’

  She nodded, and this time her tears were joyous.

  He grinned and clutched at her, burying his face in her neck, whispering the words she had waited so long to hear.

  ‘Olivia, je t’aime.’

  Then, with infinite care, as though she were made of the finest glass, he kissed his way up her neck a
nd across her cheek and slowly, as if savouring every exquisite moment, brought his mouth to hers.

  No emotion, no feeling, no anything had ever had more power than the pure passion she felt at that moment. It spilt from her heart and scattered through her body like millions of tiny, luminous pearls, each made lustrous by their reflection of her love.

  The envelope dropped to the floor. She reached for him with both hands, sweeping caresses over his damp arms, chest, hair, back, cheeks. His mouth tasted faintly of coffee. His skin smelled like citrus-scented soap, but most of all, he filled her senses with the essence of himself.

  Magnificently alive, finally hers.

  Olivia wandered out in her dressing gown for a glass of water. In the darkness, the envelope glowed white where she had dropped it. She halted, her stomach curling over itself. White envelopes could hurt, as she had learned only too well.

  She had forgotten about it. Too busy reacquainting herself with Raimund. With his newly scarred body and the freely expressed love she couldn’t hear or feel enough of.

  Her feet turning frigid on the tiles, she bent to pick it up, then flipped it over, squinting at it in the dark. It was firm but not rigid, as though containing a thick card or several layers of quality paper. Just like the last time, her name was printed on the front in Raimund’s careful handwriting.

  Foregoing the water, she padded back to her bedroom, to where Raimund lay on his back with the blanket around his hips, smiling lazily. The bedside lamp cast a golden sheen over his skin, as though he’d been gilded like the statue of some ancient god. Despite the weight he’d lost, he appeared more masculine than ever.

  He had been explaining his scar, the infection he’d suffered, the weeks of intensive care. Operations he couldn’t remember. Doctors and nurses whose names he didn’t know. The agonising rehabilitation as he’d tried to regain his fitness. The weeks of trying to decide what to do. Of wanting, of being scared of what lay ahead. Of his decision to leave the army and come to her.

  They had talked for hours, made love, showered, returned to bed and made love again. But he had not mentioned the envelope.

  And neither of them had mentioned Durendal.