The Wild Land

by Isobel Chace

  Emma’s eyes lit with enthusiasm.

  “It sounds wonderful,” she said dreamily.

  “Wonderful,” Monsieur Rideau agreed. “As long as you have the capital to subsidize the dream.”

  Emma turned on him with indignation.

  “And you can think of nothing else!” she told him hotly. “No matter how much you hurt people, you have to have your profits! Isn’t that right? Oh, I’m glad that I knew all about you before I came—” She broke off, her hand going to her mouth. How could she have been so stupid? she wondered.

  “Bravo!” Madame exclaimed, well pleased by this unexpected show of temper. “You see, Charles, we are united against you.”

  “Yes, I can see,” he said, and there was grim foreboding in his voice that scared Emma a little. “I think it would be better if I were to take you home now. Are you ready?”

  They drove out of the town in silence. Several times Emma almost said something to break the awful silence, but there was something about the set of his shoulders that deterred her. She clutched her handbag to her and cautiously opened it, feeling inside for the letter. It was ridiculous, of course, to imagine that merely by touching it it would give her courage, but she had to admit that she wasn’t enjoying Monsieur Rideau’s anger very much.

  He pointed suddenly to a large building by the side of the road.

  “That is one of the rice co-operatives, Miss Howard,” he said coldly. “Does it look as terrible as you expected?”

  She didn’t answer him. What could she say?

  “Well, Miss Howard?”

  “I—I don’t really know very much about growing rice,” she admitted in subdued tones.

  “No, you don’t do you?” She was glad to see his shoulders relaxing and the more familiar amusement returned to his face. “Who wrote to you?” he asked easily. “Bringing you hot-foot to France.”

  “N-no one. Why should they have done?”

  It would not be fair to involve Monsieur Clement just because he had been kind enough to write to her and tell her what was going on. Besides, she didn’t want this man to think she had come because of what her grandmother would leave her. It might look that way to a stranger, but it wasn’t so. She had come simply because she had been concerned about her grandmother.

  Grand’mere had had enough unhappiness in her life. First that great trek from St. Petersburg to Paris, and then her daughter being killed, without someone ruining the farm she had built up all alone just to line his own pockets.

  His eyes rested on her face for a moment.

  “There’s no need to tell me, I can guess,” he said at last. “But I should keep an open mind, if you can. People who write letters like that are not always very reliable.”

  But why else should Monsieur Clement have written? He had no axe to grind! He was just a kindly neighbor who had been concerned about the way an elderly woman was being treated. There had been no more in his letter than that.

  She watched the passing rice fields with a passionate interest, as if by merely looking at them she could learn something about them. They were all of them newly ploughed, some of them with sacking fences around them to protect them from the wind. The water, to inundate them, must be pumped up later, she supposed, for now they were quite dry, even dusty.

  The change to the true Camargue was dramatic. Even her grandmother’s speech hadn’t prepared her for the reality. Flat, marshy in places and dry as dust in others, it lay embraced by the two arms of the River Rhone and pitted by a number of lagoons, some left by the sea and some by the river, some enormous and some only a few feet across. The largest of these lagoons, the Etang de Vaccares, looked as rough as the sea beyond as the wind whipped up its tea-colored waters, drawing the salt into the air. A large flock of flamingoes, too far away to make out their striking coloring of salmon pink and white, searched endlessly for food in the distance, stalking majestically up and down.

  Emma gazed about her, astonished by this magnificent wasteland so near to the rice fields and vineyards they had just left.

  “Where are all the animals?” she asked.

  Charles Rideau laughed.

  “The bulls don’t come near the road very often, but you’ll see the ponies often enough. Look! There are some. Over there.”

  She looked where he was pointing, but she couldn’t see anything, and she marvelled a little that his eyes were so good.

  “Don’t you see them?” he asked.

  She shook her head, and he laughed, leaning over her to show her exactly where to look.

  “Do you see them now?”

  He smelt, very faintly, of the Gaulloise cigarettes he smoked and of the cleaning material that had been used on his coat. With difficulty she looked away from him to where he was pointing.

  “They’re white!” she exclaimed.

  “But of course they’re white! All our horses are. That is what we are famous for. Black bulls and white ponies!”

  He leaned back in his seat and started the car again, smiling a little to himself. Well, she was glad that he found her ignorance so amusing! But when he caught her eye she couldn’t help smiling a little too. For the moment she didn’t care why she had come, she was simply happy to be there.

  Monsieur Rideau drove off the comparatively good road not long after that, into a track that was white with dust and salt, that was flung up behind them in a curtain, cutting off all vision to the rear. And soon a row of trees appeared in the distance, behind which there was a glimpse of a completely windowless house.

  “The mistral blows from this direction,” Monsieur Rideau explained, apparently sensing her bewilderment. “The other side is rather more welcoming.”

  And so it was. It was a foursquare house, weathered by the wind and the sun and shaded by a number of lovely trees that had somehow found a living in the dusty soil. A solid, respectable farmhouse with no nonsense about it. Emma sighed with content as they drove up with a flourish. She was glad it wasn’t a mansion or anything like that. This was so much more suitable. It was like a rock in the middle of a desert.

  A young girl came running out as they came to a halt, her bronzed face full of smiles, unashamedly curious to see the newcomer and to make her welcome.

  “Welcome, mademoiselle, welcome! Welcome to the Mas Camarica!”

  It was marvellous to stand under the shower and to feel the cold water beating on one’s back. How very long it seemed since she had left England! Emma shivered, partly from the water and partly because it hadn’t turned out quite in the way she had expected. She very much doubted that she would be a match for Charles Rideau after all, and her grandmother didn’t seem nearly as helpless as she had been led to believe.

  She dried herself rapidly and chose a cotton frock from her suitcase that was sufficiently dressy to do for the evening. Would this marvellous sun last? she wondered. Except for the wind, blowing up the dust, it was a perfect day, full of light and the bracing smell of salt and sea.

  From her window she could see the endless plains of the Camargue, flat and dark in places with water. In the distance were the sandy dunes that kept guard against the sea, and a little nearer she could at last see some bulls, looking disappointingly small as they grazed in that vast expanse.

  She was almost dressed when she heard another car draw up, and supposed it was her grandmother who had arrived. She sat down on the bed and looked thoughtfully out of the window, allowing odd sentences from Monsieur Clement’s letter to come into her mind:

  “The old lady had a heart attack, but he made her ride out to the herds even so—ill she looked, and I was afraid of her. He would take it all if she were to die. Perhaps you could persuade her to sell—take her back to England where she would be safe with you—a good price for the property. They quarrel more than ever now—perhaps I shouldn’t have taken it upon myself to write, but who is there to care for an old lady who is not even really French but a Russian émigrée? Come quickly, mademoiselle, I don’t trust him at all, and I don’t t
hink Madame does either!”

  Something of his anxiety had transmitted itself to her, and she had come as quickly as she could. Her grandmother had been a legend in her family for as long as she could remember. Her father had been a little scared of her. He had taken her mother’s medals to France after the war had been over, but he had told her nothing of what had passed between them. And now, of her own free will, she had come herself to take care of her—if Grand’mere would allow her to do so.

  She lay back on the bed and looked around her. The wallpaper was faded, showing large splodges of pink that had once been roses, and the shutters needed a coat of paint and would probably creak when they were opened or shut, but there was a pleasant atmosphere that she liked.

  Did Charles sleep in the house?

  The thought came unbidden to her and she sat up again hastily. It was far more probable that he lived in one of the little white huts, neatly thatched and all the same shape, that she could see outside. He was the sort of man that would want to be independent.

  A door slammed downstairs and she could hear her grandmother’s raised voice. She tried to hear what was being said, but the French was too quick for her. It was difficult also to discover when the French were quarrelling and when they were not. There was none of the quiet restraint of the English. They shouted at one another and then roared with laughter just as loudly.

  She went quickly down the stairs and paused in the hallway, lost for a moment. There was a sound of activity in the back and she went that way, finding herself in the kitchen. The maid looked up inquiringly.

  “Vous voulez quelque chose?” she asked pleasantly.

  A strong smell of coffee came from the stove in the corner.

  “Du Cafe?” Emma asked humbly.

  The girl looked pleased. She poured some out into a cup and added cream with a generous hand, while Emma looked about her.

  It was a large kitchen, the whole of one wall taken up by the fireplace, hung with copper pots and pans that looked as though they were still in use. Scarlet curtains, faded in parts by the sun, were bright against the dark shuttered windows and the cream distempered walls.

  “You have a very nice place to work,” she said in stammering French.

  The girl smiled.

  “But yes! You will enjoy it here. Madame will be happy to have someone of her own with her. I think sometimes she must be very lonely.”

  Emma could hear her grandmother’s voice again, raised and undoubtedly angry. There was no doubt about it. They were arguing about the rice again. Her fingers closed so tightly round the handle of the cup that she nearly broke it. How dared he? She turned quickly and went in the direction of the voices. No matter who was right, she could hardly think it was good for anyone with a bad heart to quarrel like that!

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE LIVING-ROOM was French and uncomfortable. A few scattered upright chairs surrounded a badly polished table in the centre. The ornate decorations had seen better days, but they were still impressive. Emma stopped short in the doorway and looked about her. Monsieur Rideau, she saw, was alone.

  “I—I thought my grandmother was here.”

  He looked up and smiled at her.

  “She was,” he said dryly. He pulled out a chair for her to sit on. Emma could feel his appreciative eyes on her dress and wondered briefly if that was why she had put it on. It suited her well, and she knew it.

  “Why do you have to quarrel with her?” she demanded.

  His eyebrows lifted.

  “Do I quarrel with her? I suppose I do—a little.” His eyes danced. “Shall you and I call a truce, Emma?”

  “We—we are not quarrelling,” she said earnestly. She met his eyes and thought uncomfortably of the letter she had left upstairs.

  “We could suspend judgment on each other, perhaps?” he suggested. It was difficult to tell whether he was serious or not, but she had the uncomfortable feeling that he didn’t really care what she thought about him.

  “I’m not really in a position to do any judging,” she said crossly.

  A hint of sternness came into his voice.

  “I should remember that,” he said.

  He changed the subject smoothly and she followed his lead, but she wouldn’t easily forget the strength that she had caught a glimpse of—a strength that frightened her a little when she thought that she might well find herself on the other side, fighting against him.

  “Do you live here also, monsieur?” she asked.

  The amusement came back into his eyes.

  “I live in one of the cabanes outside,” he told her. “Perhaps you have noticed them? They are white with thatched roofs.”

  She nodded, trying to hide her relief. At least she needn’t expect to find him permanently in the house.

  “But I run the manade, mademoiselle,” he added a shade maliciously, “and what goes on in the house is very much my affair.”

  She didn’t answer immediately. She suspected that his tongue was quicker and more devastating than hers could ever be. But the audacity of the man! The house was her grandmother’s and she would make it very clear that she held herself answerable to no one but her.

  “That must make you very happy, monsieur,” she said demurely.

  “Very happy,” he agreed.

  She clenched her fists. He was quite impossible! Hadn’t he even noticed her sarcasm? She squared her shoulders with determination. She would have to find some weapons with which to fight him, but fight him she would, to the bitter end! The light of battle shone from her eyes.

  “I hope it always makes you so!” she retorted.

  It was a relief when a gong sounded, breaking the silence that followed her hot words. She took a deep breath. No one had ever had such a devastating effect on her before. She had not been in the least bit clever. She had merely been rude.

  They ate supper at half-past six, sitting at the long table in the kitchen and talking about bulls. Monsieur Rideau was not there, but Madame’s other three gardiens joined them for the meal, hanging their Spanish hats on the pegs in the wall, all of them dressed in clean checked shirts, open at the neck, and trousers of moleskin type with a neat black line down either leg.

  “Jean-Claude, Guy, and Georges,” Madame Yourievska introduced them. She surveyed them calmly. “I see you have changed in my granddaughter’s honor,” she teased them. “When it is only myself here, they kick off their boots at the doorway and come in in all their dirt!”

  The young men blushed.

  “We wash our hands,” they protested.

  “And sometimes our faces too!”

  “Besides, what would Jeanne say if we gave her more shirts to wash? She complains now!”

  The maid carefully poured a little oil into the omelette pan and frowned at them.

  “The sooner you have wives to look after you the better I shall be pleased,” she berated them, blushing as they hooted with disbelieving laughter.

  “Do you like being gardiens?’ Emma asked them, when they had all seated themselves. It seemed to her a hard and lonely life, and surely working with bulls must always be rather dangerous.

  Madame Yourievska’s eyes snapped with amusement.

  “Well?” she prompted them.

  “We have solitude, mademoiselle,” Guy answered slowly. “The Camargue is a land of chaos. Elsewhere the world was separated into sea and dry land, but God overlooked this corner, and now, I think, He loves it twice as much to make up.”

  Emma could feel his enthusiasm like something tangible in the room.

  “But what do you do?” she insisted.

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  “We do as we are told,” he said. “Monsieur Charles is the best manadier on the Camargue, you must ask him to answer your questions.”

  “But my grandmother is the manadier,” Emma objected. “She owns the manade.”

  Jean-Claude looked from one to the other of them. “She also,” he agreed calmly, and chuckled. “Do you ride with us
tomorrow, madame?” he asked. “But of course. We shall all ride tomorrow.”

  The food was so good that Emma found herself being frankly greedy. Omelettes and home-made bread, sweet from the waters of the Rhone, country wine and fruit, followed by hot, strong coffee, black and bitter, that went well with the local cheeses. It was only when they had almost finished that she began to wonder whether she too would be expected to ride out in the morning. One of those small white ponies she thought she could manage—but the bulls? Once she had stayed on a farm in England and she had watched two men bring in a bull from the fields. A monstrous animal, heavy and powerful, it had only been held in check by the two long poles the men had led it by, and that had only been one bull! This might mean a hundred!

  “Will there be a horse for me?” she asked, her nervousness just catching her voice.

  Madame retired into her autocratic aloofness. Emma’s grey eyes met hers and she felt chilled.

  “I suppose one cannot expect an English miss to ride a horse,” Madame said tartly. “You must do as you please.”

  Emma swallowed.

  “Then of course I shall ride. I wouldn’t miss it for anything!” she heard herself declaring.

  Her grandmother looked positively smug.

  “Good. You can go out with Jean-Claude now and he can introduce you to your mount.”

  Only Jeanne showed any concern.

  “Mais, mademoiselle, are you sure you want to?” Madame held up her hand in an imperious gesture.

  “My granddaughter would not say she could ride if she could not. Would you, my dear?”

  Emma threw all discretion to the winds.

  “Of course not!” she said heartily. Perhaps, after all, Charles Rideau would not be there, and then it wouldn’t matter so much if she made a fool of herself. She could almost feel his eyes on her and she shook herself impatiently. It was silly to allow her imagination to play such tricks with her. If he was trying to dispossess her grandmother—or something worse—it would be very much better to keep him under her eye.