by Anne Mather
‘I don’t want to come into town,’ he told her coldly. ‘Besides, I am sure you will have no difficulty in finding your way back to the hotel. If you do, you can always ask someone. Any man would be willing to oblige, I’m sure!’
And without waiting for her retaliation, he rode away, leaving Dionne feeling worse than she had ever done in her whole life.
CHAPTER SIX
IT was the following morning before Dionne tried to make sense of her troubled situation. For the whole of the previous evening and well into the night she had been too numb with grief to feel anything but frozen immobility, and although she had eventually slept, her sleep had been punctuated with tortuous dreams of Manoel snatching Jonathan away from her, of his mother hiding the child away where Dionne could never reach him.
In the morning she sat, haggard-eyed, at her dressing-table, staring at her reflection in the mirror as though trying to find inspiration in the unhappy lines of her face.
But all she kept remembering was Manoel’s face when he had turned to her at the cabane, the scorn and bitterness which had been so much worse than actual accusation. Why did he blame her for acting as she had? Did he think her the kind of woman who taunted a man into action and then withdrew with callous disregard for the man’s feelings? Didn’t he realize it had been just as agonizing for her as for him? She had not wanted to draw back; all her senses had cried out for a satisfaction they had not received.
She cupped her chin on her hands, resting her elbows on the edge of the polished wood. Fleeting glimpses of the past came back to torment her and she saw again the inexperienced girl she had been when first she came to the Camargue three years ago …
She had been on the point of finishing her teacher training course and had jumped at the chance of three months in France. As it had turned out almost all the three months had been spent in Provence.
She had spent an initial period in Paris and then after hiring an old car had driven south. She spent ten days exploring the chateaux of the Loire Valley and had then continued through the wine-growing areas to Provence. It was May, and the weather was idyllic – not hot enough to bring out the swarms of irritating mosquitoes that frequented the area nor cool enough to require anything more than the lightest of garments.
The area around Arles and Les Saintes Maries de la Mer was crowded with gypsies and tourists, all there for the celebrations that took place every year to commemorate the landing in Provence of the three Marys who later gave Les Saintes Maries their name. But it was the servant of the saints, the dark-skinned Sara, to whom the gypsies paid homage, and although she was never canonized in Rome, she was regarded as a saint among the Romany peoples. There were many legends about her, as Dionne was soon to learn, but at that time she had merely found the whole gathering quite exciting.
Armed with a camera and notebooks to write down her impressions, she had driven to Les Saintes Maries one sunny morning at the beginning of her stay and literally run into fate.
The old car she had hired had been unreliable at best, and when the steering locked and she had ended up in the ditch, thankful to be still alive, she had found herself on the fringes of a gypsy encampment. A rather handsome young man had helped her out of the ditch, and had taken her to meet his grandmother, insisting that she could not possibly refuse such an invitation. Of course, the young man had been Manoel, and Gemma had been his grandmother. It was only later that she had discovered, quite by accident, that Manoel was only a quarter gypsy, and three-quarters Provençal aristocracy.
But to begin with their relationship had been such that she had not dared to question the happiness she was experiencing. Every day had been a new delight, and encouraged by that rather formidable old lady, his grandmother, they had spent most days together. She had not learned until later that Manoel’s parents had been away and that was why his time at the gypsy encampment had never been questioned.
But even after Monsieur and Madame St. Salvador had returned and Dionne had begun to realize exactly what was expected of him and how impossible her position was Manoel had continued to see her, refusing to allow anyone or anything to part them. Dionne had met his parents, she had met Louise, his fourteen-year-old sister, and she had been chilled by his parents’ cold attitude towards their only son.
Later, she had met Yvonne Demaris, and between them, Madame St. Salvador and Yvonne, they had made it plain that Manoel was expected to marry Yvonne, it had been arranged since they were children, and nothing and no one, particularly not some little chit from England, was going to prevent it.
But Manoel’s parents had planned without considering Gemma, and she was not a force to be lightly dismissed. As the long hot days sped by, she remained in her caravan, on the edges of the St. Salvador estate, engineering meetings between Dionne and Manoel, knowing that sooner or later she would have her way.
But although Dionne loved Manoel desperately, she could not become his mistress. And curiously, although he must have known he had the power to break down her defences, Manoel did not force his demands upon her. And she loved him all the more because of his restraint even though it must have placed a terrible burden upon him. Their lovemaking had reached a point where they had only to touch to be instantly aware of their need of one another, and Dionne had dreamed that some day Manoel might defy his parents and run away with her.
Gemma, of course, with her innate cunning understood their situation better than anyone. She had watched their relationship develop and she knew exactly what was to happen.
In July, when the festival of the corrida was being held in Arles, she invited the gypsies of her tribe to a gathering at Mas St. Salvador. Dozens came, much to the disgust of Manoel’s parents, but there was nothing they could do to stop it. Manoel’s grandfather had left his son in charge of the mas, but it belonged to his wife, Gemma, until she died.
There was much feasting and excitement, of course. Nights of wine and dancing and music that aroused Dionne and Manoel as it was intended to do. Manoel had gypsy blood in his veins, after all, and the long summer days had tanned Dionne’s slender limbs, making her as golden and tantalizing as a witch. He could not leave her alone; he was madly in love with her, and their relationship was reaching crisis point.
Gemma could not have been more pleased. Manoel was the focal point of her world, her beloved grandson, blood of her blood, heir to Mas St. Salvador, and she refused to consider him marrying a cold, calculating virago, which was her description of Yvonne Demaris.
On the afternoon of the procession in Arles, Manoel took Dionne to the bullfight in the arena. It was a scorchingly hot afternoon and the smell of death was in the air, mingled with the sweat from many heated bodies. It was an afternoon when nature made one aware of the primitive needs of the blood and Dionne was intensely conscious that her time in Provence was running out.
Manoel seemed aware of this, too, and exhibited a recklessness that she had never seen before. When the roars of the crowd at the corrida turned to jeers of scorn at the ineptitude of one of the matadors, Manoel left his seat and leapt down into the arena to take his place. He took the matador’s cape and Dionne had to watch in terrified immobility as he made passes that excited the crowd to wild hysteria, shouting and urging him on, eager for the kill.
But Manoel did not kill the bull; he diced with death for many long minutes, but when he left the arena was unblemished by the brilliance of blood on sand, and the bull stood tired and panting, confused by what had occurred.
Dionne was confused, too, and before Manoel could return to his seat she rushed away and he found her outside, sick and trembling. When he comforted her, she turned away from him, unable to forgive him for frightening her so.
They returned to the gypsy encampment despite Dionne’s protestations, and Manoel confronted Gemma with what he had done. But Gemma just laughed and chided Dionne for being so faint-hearted as to imagine that Manoel had not known exactly what he was doing. Even so, Dionne was shaken by what had occurred, proving t
o herself conclusively that without Manoel life had no meaning.
That evening was the culmination of the festivities at the encampment, and the music was wilder and yet more poignant than Dionne had ever heard it. In her receptive frame of mind the violins seemed to reach out and tear her emotions to shreds, and she was scarcely aware that people were regarding her strangely, touching her clothes, the black silken sheen of her hair, murmuring to themselves in a language which was both compelling and musical.
But gradually, as the evening wore on, she began to realize that this evening was different from others she had spent at the camp. The music and dancing, the general air of excitement, seemed to be building up to a climax, and somehow she was part of that climax, but in what way?
She was soon to find out. As the flames of the camp fire cast shadows across the baked earth, Gemma appeared dressed in the ceremonial robes of the phuri dai, or matriarchal leader of the tribe, and as an uncanny hush descended on the gathering Dionne realized that this was what they had been waiting for. Manoel was by her side and she looked up at him nervously, pleading with her eyes for some explanation.
Manoel’s eyes were soft and caressing, and yet the light of passion burned in their depths. ‘I love you,’ he said huskily. ‘Trust me!’
The exact details of what happened next were to remain blurred in Dionne’s mind. So many things seemed to happen at once, and not until she and Manoel exchanged portions of salted bread did she begin to realize that this was a ritual marriage ceremony they were taking part in. At first she was afraid, confused by the excitement, by the music which had begun again and which was wilder now and more stirring to the senses, by the pressing throng of gypsies all eager to see for themselves what was going on. But as she and Manoel drank rich red wine from the same cup and he placed the slender gold chain holding the medallion about her neck his eyes sought her forgiveness and she felt her anxieties fade away. This was Manoel; the man she loved; her husband now, by gypsy law …
The feasting and dancing were to go on long into the night, but Dionne and Manoel left much earlier. Gemma had had her caravan prepared for them, and looking back now Dionne realized that they had both been carried along on the tide of enthusiasm and excitement that the gypsies generated. But it had been a natural progression and the remembrance of their night together caused the blood to rush to her cheeks. Even now, she could feel the smooth length of Manoel’s hard young body against hers, and the urgent passion of his mouth pressing her down among the soft silken covers of the bed …
She buried her face in her hands. If only she had known what was to happen next, she thought agonizingly. If only she had realized that it had all been a charade, played for her benefit, to give Manoel that which he wanted most in a way that seemed both right and beautiful. And when Manoel left her next morning, before she woke, to return to the mas, that was the last she saw of him. She expected him to return to her throughout that long day and possibly take her to the mas and confront his parents with what had happened, but Manoel did not come back and by evening Dionne was frantic. She had no one to turn to. Gemma, her only possible ally, had departed with the rest of her tribe early that morning, apparently leaving the caravan for their use, but now Dionne was beginning to have doubts. What if Gemma had known it was all a hoax? What if she had disappeared to avoid the inevitable unpleasantness which was to follow?
By nine o’clock Dionne was convinced she had been merely used; a pawn played in a game by Gemma for Manoel’s satisfaction. Hadn’t Gemma always said she would do anything for Manoel? Hadn’t she known that Manoel wanted Dionne desperately? It was nauseating and humiliating, and Dionne tore off the slender gold chain which Manoel had placed round her neck the night before, staring tearfully at the small emblem of Sara. She wanted nothing of his to remind her of her foolishness.
The sound of a horse’s hooves brought her dashing to the window, peering out into the moonlit darkness. But the lone rider was not male; it was Madame St. Salvador, and she demanded to be let in.
Dionne could do nothing but stand aside and allow her to enter, even though the woman’s very presence spelled disaster. She viewed Dionne’s tear-stained cheeks contemptuously and then pronounced that she had come on Manoel’s behalf. She explained that her son was ashamed of himself and was finding it difficult to find words to tell Dionne how he now felt. Apparently he had told his parents everything that had happened, and while they could not condone what he had done, they felt that as he had come to them and asked their forgiveness it showed that he clearly knew where his duty lay. He was betrothed to Yvonne, they had been betrothed since they were children, and his involvement with Dionne could be forgiven and forgotten. Surely Dionne herself had realized that these ritual weddings were merely pretty exhibitions, and not to be taken seriously by the participants.
At first Dionne had been too stunned to think coherently, or maybe she would have probed more deeply into Madame St. Salvador’s motives for saying such a thing. But the truth was, Manoel’s mother was merely voicing the doubts she herself had had all day since it became obvious that Manoel was not to return. And although she protested, it was a half-hearted protest, easily disposed of by the older woman.
The final humiliation however, the final rejection so far as Dionne was concerned, was Madame St. Salvador’s production of a cheque in Manoel’s own handwriting, made out to her for two thousand pounds, payable at his English bank. It had given Dionne immense satisfaction to tear that cheque to shreds in front of Manoel’s mother, even though she had the feeling that by so doing she was actually doing what Madame St. Salvador wanted.
After that she just wanted to get away, and she left the following afternoon on a flight from Marseilles. She was numb with grief, for not even knowledge of Manoel’s defection could rid her of the memories of their time together. He had been such a wonderful lover, and to know that she would never see him again was agonizing.
Of course, when she was back in England and the first agonies of humiliation had been stilled she began to imagine that he might come after her, that he might get her address from her hotel and look for her in England. She imagined he might regret his summary dismissal of their affair, but it was not to be. It was as though that period in France had never happened, and Aunt Clarry couldn’t understand why her niece, who had written such enthusiastic letters home from Provence, should suddenly have taken such an aversion for the place.
When Dionne discovered she was pregnant she was distraught. Her frame of mind was such that she could see no future for herself or the child and without Clarry’s intervention something terrible might have happened. As it was, her aunt eventually got the truth out of her and through her Dionne began to think coherently again. After all, she was young and resilient, with all her life in front of her, and this was something that had happened to many other women. Of course, she would not tell Manoel, on that she was adamant. Why should she? He had no claim on the child. He had abandoned her as effectively as if she had never existed, and she wanted nothing from him.
Her aunt was wonderful. She agreed that Dionne should keep the baby, and when Jonathan was born he was as loved and spoiled as any child could be. Dionne got a teaching post and her aunt took care of the baby while she was at work. It was not so bad. They hadn’t a lot of money, but they were by no means destitute. It was only when Jonathan became ill that Dionne began to realize what Manoel could have done for him had he been aware of the child’s existence.
Then, a few weeks ago, the doctor had told her that the child needed a break away from the dampness of the British climate and Clarry had told her gently but insistently that she owed him this much.
Tears pushed themselves from Dionne’s eyes and for the first time she allowed them to fall unheeded down her cheeks. What a fiasco this trip had been; an unnecessary waste of funds that were badly needed! She should have known that it was madness to come here and ask Manoel for anything after what had happened. Even so, she had been unaware until her arriv
al that Manoel had his own problems, but not even they could wholly account for the bitterness she had suffered at his hands, and she could only assume that although he had dismissed her from his mind unseen he found her physical presence disturbing. After all, three years was a long time …
Now Dionne rose from the dressing-table, drying her eyes with a weary hand. What was she to do? She couldn’t stay here now, not after she had thrown Manoel’s offer of money back in his face. Whatever provocation she had had nothing could change that, and after the incident at the cabane she would be foolish to stay anyhow. He had proved, most effectively, she thought, that he was just as capable of destroying her self-will now as he had ever been and what a ghastly mockery it would be if she allowed history to repeat itself.
An urgent tapping at her door set her heart pounding heavily. ‘Yes?’ she called. ‘What is it?’
‘Le téléphone, mademoiselle!’ called the maid’s voice. ‘Will you come down?’
Dionne’s heart leapt and then subsided again. Of course! It would be Henri. He had said he would telephone today. It was gratifying to know that he was so eager. It was barely nine o’clock in the morning and already he was calling. Or were his motives as calculated as Manoel’s had been? Either way, it didn’t really matter. She had no intention of getting involved with him. Even so, she could hardly refuse to speak to him when she remembered the pleasant afternoon she had spent in his company a couple of days ago. It would be most ungrateful not to answer his call, so she said: ‘I’ll be down in a minute,’ and thrusting aside her negligée she reached for her trousers.
Henri’s voice was light and excitable. ‘Dionne? Oh, it is so good to hear your voice again. How are you?’