by Isobel Chace
She went with Jean-Claude to the stables feeling more than a little rebellious. Under any other circumstances she would have loved this place. Why did she have to have this Monsieur Charles Rideau to spoil it all for her?
She forgot all about him though when she saw the ponies in their stalls. She had never seen such sensitive faces with their twitching mobile lips, and she liked the way they nuzzled one another and allowed Jean-Claude to move amongst them.
“Which one shall I have?” she asked him.
He pointed out a pony further down the line, greyer than the others.
“Perhaps her,” he said with a grin. “She has an English mother.”
She went over to her and stroked her neck, a little disappointed when the mare flinched away from her.
“We’ve got to be friends!” she whispered to her. “You don’t know how important it is! Don’t you think you could like me?”
The mare tossed her head and pawed the ground.
“She doesn’t understand your English,” Jean-Claude told her. “Speak French and she’ll soon be eating out of your hand.”
But Emma couldn’t find the right words in French. She cast a last, beseeching look at the mare.
“I hate him,” she explained. “I have to hate him! Do you understand that?”
The mare pricked up her ears and nuzzled her nose into her hand.
“There now,” Jean-Claude smiled, “she’ll be friends with you now.”
It was almost dark when she went back into the house. The oil lamps had been lit, giving out great pools of light in the gathering gloom, and the windows were all closely shuttered. Her grandmother sat at her desk in the study writing busily. It was so quiet now that the wind had dropped that Emma could almost hear the silence. She sat down on one of the hard wooden chairs and noticed that the other furniture in this room was both old and beautiful. It was carved and polished so that it shone in the lamplight. This was evidently the room that her grandmother used more often.
“Charles is very handsome, is he not?” Madame’s voice cut across her thoughts.
Emma jumped.
“He—he looks nice,” she agreed in a startled voice.
“Nice! Nice! What is this word ‘nice’?” her grandmother taunted her. “He is the most eligible parti in the neighborhood. He is good-looking! He has money! And perhaps he will have more when I am gone! You would do well to have a good, long look at him.”
Emma laughed.
“He isn’t for me,” she declared positively. “Besides, he’s French. I want to marry a nice, safe Englishman whom I can understand.”
Madame looked put out.
“And what is wrong with French?” she demanded. “Believe me, there is no finer language for the subtleties of love. My husband always spoke it!”
Emma was genuinely surprised.
“In Russia, Grand’mere?”
Madame shrugged impatiently.
“But of course in Russia. We all spoke French! And anyway,” she added cunningly, “Charles speaks English.”
Emma giggled. She got up and kissed her grandmother on the forehead.
“So he does!” she agreed lightly. “But I’m not as desperate as that yet. I have other plans.”
Her grandmother reached up and hugged her, and Emma was sure that she saw relief in the bright old eyes that were so like her own.
“Sometimes you are like your mother,” Madame said softly. “Sometimes I can hear her in your voice. You won’t leave me yet, will you? And as for Charles, we shall see, hein?”
Emma’s arms went round her.
“Of course I shan’t leave you! I’ve come to stay. You mustn’t worry so, Grand’mere!”
Madame made a wry face.
“My heart is tired, little one. One must face facts at my age, whether they are pleasant or not. I am getting old.”
“But I am here now—” Emma began.
Her grandmother opened her mouth to say something, and then changed her mind.
“Yes, you are here now. I have that to be glad of, as Charles told me earlier. And I am glad, ma petite, very glad. I have been lonely too long for one of my own.” They kissed each other again. “Go to bed, my dear. We must make an early start in the morning and you will be tired after all your travelling. Jeanne will give you a lamp.”
Emma was reluctant to leave her, but it was true that she was tired. Perhaps in the morning everything would seem different and she would laugh at herself for her thoughts and fears tonight. With a sigh, she went into the kitchen to collect her lamp, and found Jeanne busy filling it with paraffin.
“I shall not be long, mademoiselle, but the wick must be trimmed. Will you wait?”
“Yes, I’ll wait.”
Emma went over to the open back door and stood leaning against the jamb, staring out into the night.
“Does Madame only have bulls on her manade?” she asked.
“Oh no. Over by St. Gilles she has many vineyards.”
“But no rice?”
Jeanne shrugged her shoulders.
“Always Monsieur Rideau tries to persuade her, but she will not. She says all the profits go to the north and the local people get nothing.”
“And is that true?” Emma asked.
Jeanne shrugged again.
“I know nothing of such things. Jean-Claude”—she blushed slightly—“tells me that Monsieur Rideau is very clever, but Madame is clever too.”
The soft, cool night was a temptation. Almost before she knew it, Emma had walked away from the house and across to the stables. She was amused to see that their shutters had also been closed for the night. Was it to keep out the mosquitoes that were such a nuisance later in the year? She went closer to see if the doors had been shut too, and found that they had.
Had she been very silly to come to France? She had always wanted to see her grandmother, ever since she could remember, but not like this, old and tired and a little frightened. He must have made her so! Her mouth tightened. Monsieur Clement had been right to write to her. There was something very odd going on, and she would have to get to the bottom of it. But somehow the thought of Charles Rideau, exposed and defeated, gave her no comfort at all.
The moonlight filtered through the trees, casting strange shadows on the ground, and the nightingales were singing, their lovely song re-echoing round the courtyard.
“What are you doing outside by yourself at this hour?” Monsieur Rideau’s voice called out to her. “One of the fences is down and the bulls are loose. Go inside!’
Damn the man! she thought viciously. Did he have to spoil everything?
“You don’t seem to be afraid of them,” she answered. She hoped she hadn’t sounded sulky, but she didn’t want to go in yet out of this gorgeous night.
She could hear him chuckle.
“I’m on a horse. Of course, if you would care to join me, I’d be only too happy to take you up behind me.”
She felt winded. Ride up behind that man? Never!
“Are you coming?” he asked. “I could show you the sea, as black as ink, and the sand dunes where the birds hide their nests.”
She could hear his horse blowing down its nostrils.
“No, thank you, monsieur. I’m going to bed. I’m only waiting for my lamp.” But even to her own ears her voice sounded slightly wistful. She would have liked to have seen the Mediterranean in the moonlight. “Goodnight, monsieur,” she said coldly.
He came out of the shadow of the trees, and for an instant she saw him etched out against the sky, slouched slightly in the saddle, his hat pulled well down over his eyes. There was a gleam of white and she saw that he was smiling.
“Another time, perhaps?”
She put out a timid hand and stroked the neck of his horse, now so near to her.
“We should be too heavy for your horse,” she objected.
“We could saddle one for you.”
“Oh no! Goodnight, monsieur.”
He lifted his hat.
“Goodnight, mademoiselle.”
She was almost running when she reached the kitchen, furious with herself that she had let him see, even for one instant, that she had been tempted. She must stay away from him. Oh, but he had looked splendid in the moonlight, a part of the horse beneath him, strong and valiant.
The kitchen was just as she had left it, and Jeanne showed no signs of having noticed her hot, flushing cheeks. She looked up as Emma entered and smiled.
“Voila! Your lamp, mademoiselle. Sleep well!”
Emma had thrown open the shutters last thing the night before, and now the sun streamed in across her bed, carrying the promise of a lovely day. It was half past six. Emma turned over and listened intently to the sounds of the house around her. Down below she could hear Jeanne re-lighting the kitchen stove, a universal sound that no one could miss once they had heard it. It was obviously time to get up. She found a pair of serviceable jeans and a scarf for her hair and dressed rapidly, leaving her boots until last.
Only the few possessions she had unpacked the night before made the room seem familiar to her. The smudged roses on the wallpaper seemed twice as bright in the early morning sun and the elaborately carved furniture was quite different from anything that she had been accustomed to. She pulled her bed together and tidied up the dressing-table, admiring the fine glass as she did so.
The corridor seemed dark after the brightness of her room and she stumbled slightly on its highly polished surface as she walked down it in her bare socks.
“Is that you, child?”
She stopped outside her grandmother’s room, putting her head round the door. A few ribs of light came through the shutters, but otherwise the room was in darkness.
“Come in and eat your petit dejeuner with me. Jeanne will bring up more than enough for two.”
Emma accepted eagerly. She was most curious to see Madame’s room, to see whether it had any of the same austerity of the rooms downstairs, or whether she had made concessions to femininity despite herself in her own domain.
“May I open the shutters?” she asked.
Her grandmother pushed a pillow into the small of her back.
“Yes, do, then we can see one another. It is a long time since I had breakfast with anyone.”
The naive satisfaction in her voice made Emma smile. She too liked company with her meals. The shutters were stiff and hard to handle and she had to rattle them back and forth before she could get them open.
“I don’t usually bother,” her grandmother told her. “In the winter they keep out the cold and in the summer they keep out the mosquitoes. You wait until they arrive! The pests!”
Emma laughed and looked about her, her eyes widening as she did so. Whatever she had been expecting it had certainly not been this! The bed was hung in the most gorgeously embroidered material she had ever seen, with the same motif picked up on the drapes of the dressing-table. And all of it hand-done, for no machine could have done it.
“You like it?” Madame asked almost indifferently.
“It’s beautiful!” Emma exclaimed, knowing the adjective to be quite inadequate.
Her grandmother looked smug.
“When I was a child every young girl was taught to embroider. And very useful I found it too,” she added on a different note. “It brought your mother and myself the whole way across Europe.”
“But you don’t do it professionally now, do you?”
Madame shook her head.
“I’ll tell you a secret, my dear. I don’t like needlework very much. I much prefer riding horses—I always did!” She gave a wicked smile, and Emma could quite see that she must have been very pretty indeed when she was younger. “I’ll make you a dance frock, though, if you like. Something that will make Charles look twice,” she added on an odd note. “He much prefers his women to be soft and feminine.”
“And to keep out of business affairs?” Emma asked lightly.
“Of course,” Madame agreed grandly. “He is a man, after all.”
“That doesn’t make him always right!”
Madame’s head jerked upwards.
“Beware of Charles, ma petite. I fancy you are not accustomed to men of his calibre. If you fight against him, he could hurt you very badly. Go and see where Jeanne has got to with the breakfast.”
Emma enjoyed her breakfast. The coffee was rich and good and the rolls so new that they fell apart at a touch. Her grandmother was very good company too, and Emma found herself telling her all about her life in England; the death of her parents; and even a little how worried she had been about her grandmother when she had heard that she was ill. But her grandmother dismissed her own illness as nothing at all, merely an annoying inconvenience that prevented her from doing all the things she wanted.
Emma carried the tray down to the kitchen when they had finished and washed up the cups and plates, despite Jeanne’s protests. She thought the girl managed to get through a prodigious amount of work and had no intention of adding to it.
Charles Rideau was already at the stables when she and her grandmother joined him. It was impossible not to feel excited as the white ponies pawed the ground impatiently, looking smaller than ever under the distinctive Camargue saddles. Emma looked closely at the one she had been given. The leather was beautifully decorated, embossed with a number of traditional designs, all carefully done by hand. Both a martingale and crupper were used to hold the saddle in place and the stirrups were much longer than those to which she was accustomed. She soon saw the point of this, however, when Monsieur Rideau handed her up into the saddle that was small and tailored to fit her. The balance would be much better for a long day’s ride.
“Keep an eye on your mare,” he warned her. “She likes to roll in the mud if you give her half a chance.” The mare flicked one grey ear and stood drooping her head slightly. Emma tried to hide her dismay as best she could.
“You mean with me on her?”
His eyes crinkled at the corners.
“Give her plenty to do,” he advised. “She won’t have time to think about it then.” He reached forward and patted the mare’s neck. She didn’t flinch away from him, Emma noticed bitterly. He had nice hands too, tanned with the sun but immaculate, almost as though he worked at a desk instead of rounding up cattle.
Madame Yourievska cast a critical eye over the group.
“All ready? Then let’s walk them out,” she commanded. “Give us a chance to stretch our legs.”
Emma slid back on to the ground. Why walk? she wondered. She would feel much safer on her horse’s back with all those bulls about. Anxiously she looked about her, but there was nothing to be seen.
“Nervous?” Monsieur Rideau asked her. “Stick close to me, I’ll look after you.”
She held the reins tightly in her right hand and straightened her back.
“I can look after myself, thank you,” she said coolly.
Madame led them out, first down the dusty white drive and then cutting across the wasteland, picking her way through the clumps of tall grass and saltwort. Emma followed doggedly, the curiously caged stirrups knocking against her uncomfortably.
Hers was the only mare in the group. Usually they were left free, to run wild with a couple of stallions among them so that they could breed in their natural state. Hers had been brought in because she was not pure-bred, having an English mother. Emma smiled at the thought. Perhaps he thought that her English blood would mean that she had less spirit? Well, she would show him that that wasn’t so!
But it was an uncomfortable walk all the same. The wind blew the dust into her eyes and she could hardly see where she was treading. Muddy patches caught her unawares and several times she would have fallen had she not been clinging on to her saddle with one hand.
Then at last she saw her grandmother swing herself into the saddle and tried to follow suit, but the mud caught at her boots, making her heavy-footed.
“Need help?” Monsieur Rideau asked her. He came up beside her and threw
her up into the saddle before she could prevent him.
“Sure you don’t want to go back?” he asked her.
She stared at him resentfully.
“I shouldn’t have come if I hadn’t wanted to!” she said proudly.
He pushed his hat further down over his eyes so that she couldn’t see what he was thinking. But it was her own thoughts that troubled her, for she was honest enough to admit that she had liked the easy way he had lifted her—liked it a little too much for her comfort.
“Don’t go getting ahead of the herd, then,” he said softly. “And relax a little, if you can, or you’ll be as stiff as a poker in the morning!”
He rode off without even glancing back at her, swaying easily to the movement of the horse, and in that moment Emma knew that she would sooner have died that let him think that she couldn’t take it. She was going on every inch of the way. If her grandmother could do it, so could she! Charles Rideau could put that in his pipe and smoke it!
Most of the herd was young. The males looked at them with restless eyes, but their powerful muscles were not yet fully developed and they had the calming influence of the cows with them. The men waved their long, spectacular tridents, looking like so many sons of Neptune, and the herd moved reluctantly forwards. The tridents were all of six feet long with a three-pronged metal piece at one end, and with them the gardiens could control the cattle as easily as the Australian stockman with his whip.
Emma fell easily into the routine of moving the herd slowly forward, going back and forth from side to side to make sure that none strayed away. She even began to enjoy herself, splashing through the etangs, some salty and some fresh, depending on whether they had been created by the sea or the river, and over the hard, sun-cracked earth.
“You look pretty good on that mare,” Charles Rideau called out to her, wheeling his horse to come up alongside her. “Did you know?” She saw the flash of his eyes beneath his hat.