by Anne Mather
Dionne waited for him to move, and when he flicked Consuelo’s reins and she walked elegantly across the square, Dionne dug in her heels and motioned Melodie to follow. Although it was a long time since she had ridden, the quiet mare was easy to handle and all her previous experience came flooding back to her. Manoel had taught her to ride and the thoroughness of his tuition remained in her mind.
The two horses passed unnoticed down a shady avenue although Manoel nodded to several people and spoke on occasion. Dionne rode half a length behind him, and not until the houses gave way to open country did he half turn in his saddle and say ironically:
‘Bien? You are finding it difficult?’
Dionne shook her head. ‘Not difficult at all.’
‘Good.’ His eyes slanted mockingly. ‘Then perhaps you will ride with me. I am not an Arabian prince who demands subservience from his womenfolk!’
Dionne made what she hoped was a gesture of resignation and urged Melodie forward to join him. Manoel regarded her impatiently.
‘Could we increase the pace, do you suppose? Or is that asking too much?’
Without answering, Dionne dug in her heels again, urging her mare into a canter, and Melodie surged ahead. There was marshland to their left now while in the distance glimmered the waters of an étang. There was the unmistakable tang of salt in the air and Dionne was exhilarated by the sense of freedom she was experiencing. The sun was warm on her back, the brilliant blue marshes were alive with birds of every kind, swimming and swooping and making their own particular sounds; Melodie’s solid little body moved rhythmically beneath her thighs, and her spirits rose excitedly. There was a closeness to nature about this area, an earthiness that disturbed her terribly, and waves of remembrance began to wash over her. This was not the first time she had ridden here with Manoel, but when she had ridden with him before their relationship had been part of the closeness to nature, part of the primitive force that drove all living creatures to find fulfilment with another of their own kind.
She turned to look back at him. He had been allowing Consuelo to trot calmly behind her, but now, as his eyes met hers he deliberately urged the black mare on and she galloped past Dionne and across the marsh to the lagoon beyond.
Dionne hesitated only a moment, and then she gave Melodie her head and the little mare galloped excitedly after her more muscular cousin. It was a wonderful experience, galloping across endlessly open spaces without a sign of habitation in sight. Their only companions were a herd of black cattle, and they were some distance away and ignored their progress. Salt water splashed up on to Dionne’s legs and arms and she was glad she had had the presence of mind to wear boots instead of shoes.
The horses slowed as they entered a deeper lagoon, wading across its depths with complete disregard for their riders. Dionne was tempted to draw up her legs, but Manoel didn’t, and she followed his example. She had no desire to lose her balance and fall into the lagoon.
Even so, the blueness of the water and the sand beds beneath were enormously inviting and she thought how wonderful it would be to swim. They had left the road which she had followed in the Citröen, taking a more direct course across the marshes to the Mas St. Salvador, and Dionne found this route infinitely more appealing. Here there was no sign of land reclamation, of rice fields or tourists. It was completely unspoiled and beautiful, and to Dionne it was the most beautiful place on earth in that moment.
Manoel slowed his mount and turned to look at her enraptured face, waiting for her to come abreast of him before speaking.
‘Are you still disappointed?’ he asked, leaning across to adjust her stirrup.
Dionne shook her head, unable to suppress her pleasure in the morning, and Manoel looked at her searchingly for a moment before straightening and reaching into his pocket for his cheroots. Lighting one, he said: ‘You’re not finding it too tiring?’ He narrowed his eyes against the glare of sun on water and looked at her again, his gaze flickering over her slim legs astride the white mare’s broad back. ‘You’re not uncomfortable?’
Dionne shook her head again. ‘I expect I shall be stiff tomorrow, but …’ She took a deep breath and expelled it on a sigh. ‘This is all so beautiful, I haven’t even thought about myself.’
Manoel drew deeply on his cheroot, exhaling the pale blue smoke into the air above their heads. Then with harsh incisiveness, he asked: ‘Why did you do it, Dionne?’
Dionne caught her breath. ‘Why – why did I do what?’
‘Why did you go away without even telling me you were leaving? Don’t you think I deserved to be told?’
His eyes raked her mercilessly, and Dionne moved hotly under that penetrating regard. She had been at peace for the first time since her arrival in the Camargue, and yet with one sentence Manoel was capable of destroying that peace with savage competence.
Now she sought for words to answer him. ‘Surely your mother made everything plain to you,’ she said tautly.
Manoel uttered an expletive. ‘I am not talking about my mother! I am talking about you! I want to know why you chose to make a fool of me! I want to know where I went wrong – why after what happened between us that last night you should—’
‘Oh, stop it, stop it!’ Dionne put her hands over her ears, trying to silence the violent tone of his voice. ‘What’s the point of raking up the past? You chose your way, and I chose mine. That’s all there is to it!’
‘No, damn you, it is not!’ Manoel caught the bridle of her horse as she would have urged Melodie forward. ‘I agree, nothing can change what is past, but I demand to know why you agreed to take part in the ceremony when you must have known—’
Dionne tried to wrest the bridle from his grasp, endeavouring to peel off his fingers and finding instead her own fingers imprisoned within them. The coolness of his flesh against the heat of hers was a tangible force, an exquisite flame that bound them together in this world of sun and water and sky.
‘Dionne!’
The urgency of his voice stirred her terribly, his eyes pinioning her in a look that penetrated the depths of her soul. Dionne couldn’t get her breath. It wasn’t fair that he should treat her like this, using his undoubted sensuality to seduce her into a state of mind where she would blurt out the truth and in so doing destroy herself.
With a superhuman effort, she tore her fingers out of his grasp, and digging her knees into Melodie’s sides she startled the small mare into instant action. She surged out of the still waters of the deep lagoon and as soon as her hooves encountered the firmer surface of the marshes she raced away, Dionne clinging desperately to her shaggy mane.
She heard Manoel call her name angrily, and then she was too absorbed with trying to remain on Melodie’s back to hear anything else. For all her size, Melodie could move incredibly quickly and this was her terrain, her land, the land she was used to, and she refused to respond to any restraint Dionne tried to make.
But before Dionne had time to feel really frightened the black mare appeared alongside her and Manoel reached out to grasp her reins powerfully. Gradually Melodie responded to the enforced pressure and her pace slowed until Manoel was able to draw both horses to a standstill. Only then did Dionne begin to tremble, as much from the look in Manoel’s glittering eyes as from reaction to her wild flight.
He swung down from his saddle, and for a moment Dionne thought he was going to tear her down, too. Then he turned to the sweating mare, soothing her with gentle words, stroking her nose until she calmed and nuzzled at his hand.
Dionne watched him nervously, feeling chilled herself as realization of how near she had come to being thrown swept over her. She had behaved carelessly and foolishly and she wished Manoel would say something instead of just looking at her with contempt in the depths of his grey eyes. Somehow his attitude was worse than his anger and resentment bubbled irresponsibly up inside her. After all, he had been to blame. He had goaded her into behaving so arbitrarily.
Manoel turned from the white mare at that momen
t, smoothed Consuelo’s flank and swung himself back into the saddle. Then he looked across at Dionne. ‘If you had lamed the mare …’ he said, leaving the sentence unfinished, hanging in the air between them.
Dionne’s fingers tightened on the reins. ‘Yes? What would you have done?’
Manoel’s lips twisted. ‘I think you know.’
Dionne quivered with indignation. ‘You think you’re so all-powerful, don’t you?’ she burst out, sounding absurdly childish.
Manoel shrugged, running a hand through the thick vitality of his hair, smoothing his fingers down to the nape of his neck. ‘Don’t try my patience too far, Dionne,’ he advised her tolerantly, infuriating her still more by his assumption that she was in the wrong.
He swung Consuelo’s reins and the black mare turned obediently, but Dionne made no attempt to rally Melodie. Instead, she sat perfectly still, staring mutinously into space.
‘Would you like me to attach a leading rein?’ he asked, his black brows raised with sardonic derision.
Dionne put down a hand to pat Melodie’s neck. The mare was calm now, but she flinched beneath that light touch and Dionne felt a sense of recrimination. Looking up, her green eyes challenging his, she said: ‘That won’t be necessary.’
Manoel shrugged, and digging in his heels he set Consuelo cantering away from her. Dionne followed more slowly, walking the mare through the reed-choked pools, noticing the clumps of wild rosemary, whose sweet perfume mingled with the more pungent scent of juniper. It was all so remote and beautiful and yet she could no longer think only of her surroundings. In the space of a few minutes the calm had been broken and she was intensely aware of the man who rode a few yards ahead of her, strong and arrogant on his black mount, no longer young and ardent with a love of life, but hard and experienced, lord of all he surveyed.
They rode on in silence for a while, Dionne purposely keeping behind Manoel’s horse to avoid conversation. From time to time he glanced round at her, but she averted her eyes and could not tell what he was thinking. The sun was climbing up the sky and it was becoming very hot and just as she was beginning to wish they would soon be there she saw the sloping roof of a small cabane in the distance.
Cabane was the name given to the homes of the gardiens who worked on the mas, but nowadays these dwellings were far superior to the one-roomed huts, made from reeds and rushwood, that used to serve. This particular cabane, however, was of the older variety with a thatched roof sloping to wide eaves. It was obviously deserted, Dionne saw as they drew nearer, and she wondered why Manoel was riding towards it with such directness.
Reaching the space of flat, fertile ground in front of the cabane, Manoel dismounted, patting Consuelo’s neck before stretching with indolent grace. Then he turned as Dionne approached, and said:
‘Get down! I am thirsty and I think we both need a rest.’
Dionne remained where she was and Manoel put his hands arrogantly on his hips. ‘Do you want me to drag you down?’ he inquired grimly. ‘Or will you do as you are told?’
Dionne compressed her lips. ‘This is not the mas. You told me you were taking me to the mas!’
Manoel made an impatient gesture. ‘We are going to the mas, but later. Right now I am hungry. Aren’t you?’
Dionne looked at the deserted cabane with some trepidation. ‘We – we can’t get anything to eat here,’ she persisted, aware of the erratic pounding of her heart.
Manoel grasped Melodie’s harness, staring at Dionne fiercely. ‘For God’s sake,’ he swore, in a strangled tone. ‘I’m not going to seduce you! I haven’t brought you here to make love to you!’ His eyes darkened. ‘Get down, and we’ll eat!’
He released the mare abruptly and turned away and on trembling legs Dionne slid to the ground. The two mares grazed side by side on the rich turf, and Dionne turned towards Manoel.
He was walking towards the cabane and as she watched he opened the door and disappeared inside. With a helpless shrug of her slim shoulders, Dionne crossed the grass and came to the door of the building, peeping in nervously. It was dark inside the cabane after the brilliance outside, but as her eyes accustomed themselves to the light she saw Manoel was at a scrubbed wooden table, cutting into a thick curl of French bread. Although the cabane was not in use it was spotlessly clean and she could only assume that it was used for occasions like this by casual visitors.
Manoel looked up and saw her, and she leaned against the doorpost defensively. The derision in his eyes was almost more than she could bear. His hands handling the knife were tanned a deep brown, narrow-fingered and masculine, and she wondered with an inescapable feeling of inevitability what it would be like to feel those brown hands on her body again. Once she had been able to touch him whenever she felt the need to do so, and that had been often. Then, his arms had closed around her with possessive strength, making her wholly aware of his need of her.
Beside the bread there was some cheese, a slab of butter, and a bottle of wine, and Manoel indicated that she should come in and help herself. There were two plastic beakers and Dionne poured some wine into one of them, drinking thirstily, aware of the incongruity of doing so. Her eyes over the rim of the beaker surveyed the cabane appraisingly, noticing the blackened pan which stood beside an empty fire grate and the cramped sleeping quarters at the far end. No spring mattresses here, just a hard board on which a straw pallet could be laid. There only was the one room, and she was amazed to think that people actually lived and brought up their children in cabanes such as this.
Manoel finished cutting the bread and threw the knife aside, reaching for the wine. Like Dionne he drank thirstily and then wiping his mouth on the back of his hand he nodded through the window to a well at the back of the building.
‘The water’s fresh,’ he said carelessly, ‘if a little brackish, but it’s cool for washing if you feel the need.’ He poured more wine. ‘I shouldn’t advise you to drink it unless you want a gastric stomach, but then perhaps you would rather make your own decision about that.’ His tone was ironic, and Dionne’s fists clenched into balls. He was deliberately trying to antagonize her.
Ignoring him, she spread butter on some of the delicious French bread and cut herself some cheese. In truth, she wasn’t particularly hungry, but she had no intention of letting him know that. Manoel regarded her steadily for a moment and then with a shrug of his broad shoulders he disappeared outside and she was alone.
She managed to swallow the bread interspersed with gulps of wine perched on the edge of the table, her legs swinging idly. She wondered where Manoel had gone. The wine had gone to her head and she was beginning to feel distinctly muzzy and she decided she would feel better outside. As she reached the door of the cabane she encountered Manoel about to come in, and he stood aside politely to allow her to pass.
Outside, she walked carefully round to the rear of the building and finding a bucket drew some water and sluiced her face thoroughly. It was well she had worn the minimum amount of make-up, she thought, as she dabbed her face dry with her handkerchief. In these conditions no one could pay much attention to cosmetics.
She felt better after the wash. It was very hot, though, and she unfastened another button of her blouse, lifting the thick coil of hair off her neck in an unconsciously provocative movement. And then she became aware that Manoel had come out of the cabane again and was standing watching her. Immediately her hands fell to her sides and she stood looking at him unguardedly, her breath coming in jerky gulps.
Manoel continued to look at her for several minutes and then he walked indolently across the rough turf between them to halt only inches from her. Dionne held her head up high, refusing to allow him to see how disturbed he was making her, and his eyes narrowed coldly.
‘Why do you wear your hair in that unbecoming knot?’ he demanded harshly. ‘As I recall, you always used to wear it loose.’
Dionne quivered. ‘I don’t see what my hairstyle has to do with you!’
Manoel stood at his ease be
fore her, his thumbs hooked into the low belt on his narrow hips. ‘Do you not? And if I choose to make it so, what do you intend to do about it?’
Dionne buttoned her blouse again. ‘Please, Manoel, don’t let’s start another argument!’
His expression hardened. ‘Is that what you would call our earlier confrontation? An argument?’ He shook his head.
Dionne sighed. ‘I wear my hair this way because as a teacher of some thirty-five children I need to appear perhaps a little older and a little more experienced,’ she said, deciding it would be better to make some explanation than risk his anger.
‘You’re not in the classroom now, Dionne.’ His eyes probed hers, dropping to the low V of her blouse.
Dionne turned away, unable to stand up to these emotional hostilities. ‘Please,’ she said again, ‘we should be going, shouldn’t we?’ She was intensely aware of him behind her and she had the awful conviction that if he should touch her she would make an absolute fool of herself.
But Manoel seemed to tire of baiting her, and she heard him move away, whistling to his horse. Immediately she sagged. Always after reaching some emotional deadlock with Manoel she felt this intense feeling of anti-climax, and she smoothed her damp palms down the sides of her trousers weakly, wondering what it was she wanted him to do. It was useless pretending that the nearness of him did not disturb her intensely; so far as she was concerned the feelings she had had for him three years ago were as strong and destructive as ever, but she had known that long before she left England. That was why she had been so reluctant to come, so reluctant to test the strength of her suppression of those emotions in the face of such an onslaught as Manoel’s presence caused to her nervous system. But she had consoled herself with the thought that Manoel would now be married, happily married, with perhaps a child of his own, and therefore totally immune from physical desire. But Manoel was not married, even though it seemed little more than a formality, and he was certainly not the uncomplicated man she had known. He was harder, more experienced, less willing to accept anything on its face value, but for all that infinitely more attractive, and she wanted him now just as she had wanted him then …