Feeling she had had a brush with a tiger and was now holding him by the tail, Chantal could afford to be generous. 'Think no more of it,' she replied, full of sweet forgiveness. Before her triumph became too obvious, she jumped to her feet and reminded him, 'Come along, we've wasted enough time, how about that help you promised me?'
Chortling inwardly, she strode away, very aware of the subdued, deflated Marquis following in her wake.
It was a long time before she felt able to relax, to feel completely at ease working side by side with the man whose superb fitness showed in the manner in which he stooped and stretched, then stooped again for prolonged periods, working easily and swiftly along the rows of vines, displaying not the least hint of strain.
As he gathered so efficiently Chantal was left with time to stand and stare, but though the view from their mountain perch was magnificent her eyes were drawn more and more towards the supple, lean frame as the Marquis worked his way through the vineyard with a pantherish, half-crouched tread reminiscent of a jungle beast.
As the thought struck her she shivered. Was she being foolish in allowing this predator access to their territory? A monkey could be cunning, yet invariably he fell foul of the jungle hierarchy. Would that be her fate? Had she, in her unthinking eagerness, paved the way towards her own destruction?
'Are you cold?'
She jerked with surprise. He had seemed so absorbed in his work, yet her shiver had not escaped his alert, ever-searching eyes. He glanced at a watch strapped on to his brown wrist. 'What arrangements have you made for lunch? It's past midday, time we restoked our boilers,' he grinned.
As if the thought had been communicated by telepathy, Peter and Louis appeared in the distance. 'I'm famished, Sis!' Peter yelled when he was within hearing distance. 'I'll fetch the hamper! What about you, Brut, will you stay and share our lunch?'
The Marquis accepted with alacrity and did justice to the home-made soup, crusty bread and thick, tasty sausages Hortense had cooked the evening before. For dessert she had supplied crisp green apples. As the men sat back, replete, and had their cups replenished with wine they began, inevitably, to talk shop. The Marquis's first question took them by surprise, containing as it did an acceptance of their permanent residence in the district.
With his back propped against a tree, his long legs stretched out in front of him, he eyed the neat rows of vines, then lazily enquired of Peter, 'Have you considered any form of modernisation?—I am thinking along the lines of a more up-to-date method of spraying, a vital chore that has to be carried out a minimum of seven times between the months of May and August if pests and diseases are to be controlled. This vineyard is almost a quarter of a mile away from the nearest water supply, which means that Louis has to lug a wheelbarrow holding a barrel containing gallons of water along bumpy paths and up steep inclines, then retrace his steps to refill the barrel umpteen times in the course of one day. It says much for his powers of endurance that he has carried out the back-breaking job during the full heat of summer without so much as a murmur. Your grandmother and I had many arguments about this, but she could be extremely stubborn,' for some reason Chantal blushed when his glance fell upon her, 'and though very wealthy, was parsimonious in many small ways.'
'What improvements do you suggest we carry out?' Peter leant forward, his face alive with interest.
'The ideal solution for a small vineyard such as this,' the Marquis considered thoughtfully, 'would be to erect a water tank from which water could be pumped through pipes to a tap, or taps, positioned strategically within the vineyard.'
When Louis nodded enthusiastically Chantal felt it was time to introduce a note of reality into the conversation before false hopes were further raised.
'There is the matter of finance to be considered, monsieur,' she rebuked with a frown. 'We would gladly do as you suggest if we had sufficient capital available—however, such a scheme is out of the question at the present moment.'
'The House would willingly advance the comparatively small sum needed to carry out such work.'
'No, thank you, monsieur,' she refused stiffly, very alive to the threat of allowing the Etablissement a financial hold over them. We will continue as we are for now, then as soon as we are able, once there is sufficient money to spare, we will certainly reconsider.'
'You may bitterly regret turning down my offer, Chantal.' Though the Marquis's tone was lazy her sensitive ears detected tiny splinters of steel. 'Ask Louis, here, how he feels when, after spending all day in roasting heat spraying the vines, returning home with eyes watering and burning, covered from head to foot in solution, he has to watch his day's labour being obliterated in minutes by an unexpected thunderstorm. The frustration is enough to make a strong man weep—he would weep less easily, feel less weary when beginning the job all over again, if there were tapped water near to hand.'
'I think we should accept—' Peter began eagerly.
'The Marquis probably has a point,' Chantal interrupted, determined not to be swayed, 'and it's very good of him to take such interest in our affairs. Nevertheless, for the reason I've already outlined, we must refuse his offer.'
'For heaven's sake, why ...?' Peter stormed, incensed by her stubbornness.
'Because I prefer hard work to debt,' she rebuked acidly. 'Labour can be painful, but so far as I'm concerned it's infinitely preferable to the agony of being under obligations.'
'We are nearer loving those who hate us than those who owe us more than we wish, eh?' Softly the Marquis quoted the maxim of La Rochefoucauld.
Amazed by his insight, Chantal's head swung towards him so that green eyes clashed with brilliant blue. 'Thank you for your understanding, monsieur, and please believe that my refusal isn't meant to be a snub.'
'Prove it!' Once again the lazy drawl became evident. 'Prove it by dropping that ridiculously formal mode of address and begin calling me Brut.'
It was such a short, abrupt little word, yet it stuck like a boulder in her throat. Twice she made an attempt while three pairs of amused eyes regarded her, enjoying her embarrassment, then finally it popped like a cork from a bottle, a sharp, loud release of pressure.
'Very well... Brut!'
With cheeks afire she endured their laughter, but then, as if he had not inflicted embarrassment enough, her torturer continued to turn the screw. 'Well done, ma belle châtaigne, an heroic effort! Now, what about the function you and Peter have been invited to attend—won't you change your mind, help nurture the embryo of our friendship by promising me that you will come?'
Chantal had not intended to mention the affair to Peter because she had guessed what his reaction would be. After their small disagreement about Nicole he had been moodily subdued for a few days before his natural good humour was restored. But a fine hairline crack had developed in their affection, a crack she had no wish to see disturbed lest it should develop into a chasm. But that the Marquis's request had prised open the crack was made evident when Peter jumped to his feet to glare down at her, enraged.
'Since when have you taken it upon yourself to decide which invitations I ought to accept?' he challenged, his manly pride aroused. 'I'm no longer a child, to be patted on the head and told what's best for me, Sis, I'm a working man and as such can claim the right to a modicum of independence !' Swinging from her to the narrow-eyed Marquis, he informed him in a voice trembling with fury, 'Thank you for your invitation, Brut, on my own behalf, I accept with pleasure. In fact, you can tell Nicole that nothing will keep me away !'
CHAPTER SEVEN
LATER that evening, once dinner was over, Chantal broke Peter's moody silence by demanding a reply to her question.
'Would you mind telling me what you intend wearing at the do at the Château? Your school blazer, perhaps,' she could not resist a stab of sarcasm, 'or have you decided to impress the élite of Champenois society by turning up in a windcheater and jeans?'
His horrified stare caused her a twinge of compunction. 'Glory ... ! The question of wha
t clothes to wear never crossed my mind ! What the devil am I to do...?'
Hortense chuckled. She seemed more and more to be enjoying these get-togethers around the dinner table, the laughter, the banter, the wrangling, the close circle of family intimacy inside which her beloved Louis was always included. It was questionable whether, as he sat toying with his cutlery, Louis had followed the conversation closely, so his short laugh could have been the result of genuine amusement or might simply have been an echo of his mother's. Whichever was the case, Peter took exception to it, venting his resentment with typical Champenois venom upon his victim's defenceless head.
'Laugh away, simpleton, fortunate twit that you are, immune within your simple world from the smarts and hurts of normal people !'
Silence fell across the table—the silence of hurt from Louis, the silence of pain from Hortense, and from Chantal the silence of disgust and dismay. When eventually she found her voice its shocked, quivering timbre emphasised her anger. 'How dare you speak like that to a man who's gone to endless trouble to please you! Louis, with his generous heart, may find himself able to forgive your ill-mannered ignorance, but,' her voice cracked, 'I doubt if I ever shall !'
After Peter had flung out of the room, shamefaced yet defiant, she, Louis and Hortense consoled each other in silence, compagnons misérables, each wrapped in thought, each nursing an individual hurt. Finally, when the heavy ticking of a wall clock began to irritate, Chantal stirred herself sufficiently to ask,
'What's to be done with him, Hortense? Each year I expect more and more signs of maturity, but all that happens is that his tantrums grow worse, the arguments become less and less bearable.'
'Don't be too hard on him, chérie,' Hortense soothed, displaying surprising generosity. 'Youth possesses few faults that cannot be corrected with age. He is strong yet weak; mad yet sane; certain yet so lost. And to make matters even more complicated he thinks he is in love.'
'Infatuated, you mean.' Chantal frowned. 'Nicole is more than half to blame for turning his head, though why she should bother I simply can't understand. I'm convinced she has as little interest in the boy as her cousin has in me, yet both of them seemed-determined to assault us with their charm.'
'Could it be a case of tit for tat, do you suppose?' Hortense suggested dryly.
'I don't understand ...' Chantal faltered.
'Well, I am merely trying to remind you that the man whom your mother jilted was both the Marquis's father and Nicole's uncle. Madame Mortemart, the mother of Nicole, still smarts from her brother's humiliation.'
Suddenly the burden on Chantal's shoulders seemed to grow even heavier. 'I'm beginning to realise how wrong we were to come here,' she admitted sadly.
Hortense became brisk. 'May I offer a suggestion, mademoiselle?'
'Please do,' she pleaded wearily.
'We are not too many miles away from a large town that is sure to contain one shop that supplies suits on hire for special occasions. If you could make your way there, taking with you your brother's measurements, I am sure you will manage to obtain an evening suit good enough to restore his humour.'
'You consider he deserves to be humoured?' Chantal's tone was dry.
'As a worker deserves his wages,' Hortense nodded. 'The boy has done well these past weeks, but the worst is yet to come. A small reward now might have the effect of rendering future chores a pleasure.'
After dwelling carefully on Hortense's words, Chantal decided that her advice was worth taking, so for the next few days she made various excuses to absent herself from the vineyard for an hour at a time in order to familiarise herself with the workings of the car, driving it round and round the courtyard until changing gear became less of an effort and she could reach without fumbling for every switch on the dashboard.
With the aid of a map supplied by Hortense she planned her route, opting to travel on as many secondary roads as possible in order to avoid heavy traffic and the hazards of roundabouts that she would have needed to negotiate by driving in a direction opposite to that to which she was familiar. The thought of having to drive along even quiet country lanes on the 'wrong' side of the road was daunting enough, so that when the day she decided to make her trip to town finally did arrive she set off with a dry mouth and a body tense to the fingertips.
The car showed its antiquity by creaking and groaning down the narrow road that sloped down the mountainside. Praying that no other vehicle would approach from the opposite direction, Chantal struggled against the effects of an awkward camber, keeping her eyes peeled for oncoming traffic, alive to the danger of some complacent speed-mad local hurtling around one of the many blind corners and bends. Mercifully, she gained the lower slopes without incident and turned on to the first level stretch of road marked on her map feeling a little more relaxed, gaining confidence enough to begin depressing the accelerator so that the car whizzed along the road stretching straight and empty for mile after mile.
She was humming softly beneath her breath, scoffing at her own earlier fears, when the car coughed, spluttered, then after a series of undignified jerks hiccoughed to a standstill. The smile melted from her lips as she clambered from the car and stood anxiously surveying the solitude she had cherished but that had now assumed a threatening aspect. No sign of life was evident, not even the roof of a cottage disturbed the green symmetry of trees and fields lining a road ribboning towards the horizon.
She shivered and scrambled back into the car when a gust of wind tugged the hem of her finely pleated skirt. The unexpected excitement of a trip to town had seemed to call for the wearing of her best outfit, a brown skirt and jacket of fine wool purchased months earlier in a fit of extravagance and worn only once at the wedding of a friend. With hindsight, she realised that a jumper would have been far more appropriate for a cold April day, but the yellow silk, blouse, the colour of creamy butter, complemented the suit so well that in the comfort of a bedroom warmed by spring sunshine streaming through the windowpanes she had allowed vanity to overrule common sense.
'Well, you're suffering for it now, my girl !' she muttered through chattering teeth as she sat rubbing her arms to instil warmth, trying to decide whether it would be wiser to set off down the road in search of help or to remain where she was in the hope of a passing motorist offering a lift. Pessimistically, she glanced in the rear view mirror and felt a surge of thankfulness at the sight of a swiftly approaching car. Terrified that it might go speeding past, she jumped out of the car and stood in the middle of the road waving frantically. The car was within a few yards of her when realisation struck. Immediately, her arms slumped to her sides, the iced blood in her veins melted by a hot, embarrassed blush.
The car that drew to a smooth, silent standstill was as disdainfully aristocratic, as immediately recognisable as its owner, who greeted her with obvious annoyance.
'Never have I encountered a more foolhardy person than yourself! The chances you take,' the Marquis exploded, 'your reckless disregard of risk!' He seemed prepared to continue his scolding indefinitely, but when wind gusted, seemingly intent upon tearing the clothes from her body, he grabbed her by the elbow and pushed her towards his car.
'Get in,' he ordered tersely.
'But what about my car?' she began to protest.
'I will arrange for it to be towed into a garage and thoroughly serviced—as it ought to have been before you took it out on to the road,' he snapped. 'Have you no more sense than to attempt to drive a car that has stood for months without so much as an occasional warm-up to keep the engine ticking over? I had imagined that even Louis, simple-minded though he is, would have prevented such idiocy.'
'Please don't blame Louis,' she quickly protested, 'he had no inkling of my intention. Even now, he and Peter are unaware of the real reason behind my absence from the vineyard. The reason for my visit to town is to be a surprise for Peter, so it had to be kept secret.'
'I am aware of your plans,' he iced, no whit mollified. 'When I called in at the house to be told
that you had gone off for the day it did not take me long to discover the whys and wherefores from Hortense. I'm sorry my invitation has caused you problems, nevertheless there was no need for such a display of foolhardy independence—you must surely have known,' he grated, 'that I would have been willing at any time to give you a lift into town. Le bon dieu was merciful. Just a few miles from here you would have been forced to join a main road that is part of a direct route from Paris to the Rhine basin—if the car had not broken down when it did, I have no doubt that I would have discovered you, and it, flattened beneath the wheels of some juggernaut!'
Downcast lashes flew up over eyes startled by the strangled savagery of his accusation, then widened further when for the first time she noted the tight line of his mouth, the pallor of cheeks showing white beneath his tan. Was he play-acting? she puzzled If so, it was being superbly done. Then shamed by the suspicion, she decided that it would cost her nothing to give him the benefit of the doubt.
'I'm sorry to have put you to so much trouble,' she whispered.
'Sorry enough to make amends by allowing me to escort you into town?' he pounced with such lightning change of mood her suspicions immediately returned. Yet without his help she could find herself wandering the streets of a strange town, searching in vain for the shop she wanted. Her mission had to be accomplished in one day, no further time could be spared. Reluctantly, she had to accept his offer.
'You're very kind, monsieur, I shall be glad of your company.'
'Brut ...' He leant forward to switch on the ignition.
'Very well... Brut,' she blurted, then sank into a painfully awkward silence.
Circumstances forced him to allow her this respite when not long afterwards they joined a road teeming with traffic of appalling density, lorries, coaches, cars and the inevitable juggernauts being driven at such speed and in some cases so erratically she knew that had she become embroiled within the tangle the conclusion Brut had drawn would have been inevitable. The thought was sobering, so much so that when eventually he branched off on to a road from which she could see buildings denoting the outskirts of a town, his glance across her pale features detected the sobering effect of narrowly-averted disaster.
Champagne Spring by Margaret Rome Page 7