The Right Bride?

by Sara Craven

  Her throat tightened. ‘I won’t go until I’ve seen Remy.’

  ‘Then you will wait a very long time,’ he said. ‘He has gone.’ And turned away.

  ‘Gone?’ Allie repeated the word almost numbly, then ran across the courtyard to him, catching at his sleeve, her voice pleading. ‘Gone where? Please, Monsieur Georges, you must tell me…’

  ‘Must?’ the old man repeated, outrage in his voice. ‘You dare to use that word to me, or any member of my family? And what obligation do I have to you, madame—the young woman who has ruined my grandson’s life and, as a consequence, broken the heart of my son, too?’

  She bent her head, hiding from the accusation in his eyes. ‘I—I love Remy.’

  ‘You mean that you desired him,’ he corrected harshly. ‘A very different thing.’

  ‘No.’ She forced her voice to remain level. ‘I love him, and I want to spend my life with him.’

  He was silent for a moment. ‘But his wishes are entirely different, madame,’ he said at last, his voice gruff. ‘Yesterday he contacted the Paris headquarters of the medical charity he used to work for, and volunteered his services yet again. His father drove him to the train last night, having failed to persuade him to stay. By now he may be on his way to the other side of the world.

  ‘And why?’ His voice rose. ‘Because he does not ever want to see you again, or hear your name mentioned. And for that he is prepared to sacrifice his home, his career, and all the dearest hopes of his family. He has gone, Alys, from all of us. From his whole life here. And even if I knew where I would not tell you. You have done enough damage.

  ‘Now, leave, and do not come back. Because the answer here will always be the same.’

  He moved to the back door, then halted, giving her one last, sombre look. ‘It was a bad hour for my grandson when he saw you on the beach at Les Sables.’

  ‘A very bad hour,’ Allie said quietly. ‘He would have done better to have left me to drown. Just as I’m dying now.’

  And, stumbling a little, she went back to her car and drove away without a backward glance.

  CHAPTER NINE

  SHE’D returned to England two days later, even though Madelon Colville, with sorrow in her eyes, had tried everything to dissuade her.

  ‘You cannot go back, my child. To that house—that family,’ she’d insisted. ‘They will destroy you.’

  ‘But I can’t stay here either,’ Allie had responded wearily. ‘Not when I’m constantly surrounded by reminders of him. You must see that. And, anyway, nothing matters now. Not Hugo—or Grace. Any of them.’ She tried to smile and failed. ‘From now on they’re the least of my troubles.’

  It had been a different person who’d arrived back at Marchington—someone cool and remote, who had announced quietly but inflexibly that in future she would be occupying a bedroom of her own and did not expect to be disturbed there. Someone who had refused to be deflected from her purpose, no matter how many icy silences, shouting matches, or more subtle forms of persuasion she was subjected to.

  She had faltered only once, when she’d been back just over a month and had begun to realise that the unexpected interruption to her body’s normal rhythms was not caused by stress. That, in fact, she was going to have a baby.

  A child, she’d thought, caught between shock and sudden exhilaration, a hand straying to her abdomen. Remy’s child.

  She had closed her eyes in a kind of thanksgiving. I have to tell him, she’d thought. He has to know straight away. Because when he does it will change everything. It has to…

  She had shut herself away to telephone Trehel, and this time had spoken to Remy’s father, Philippe de Brizat, only to encounter the same icy wall of hostility.

  ‘How dare you force yourself on our attention again, madame? Have you not caused us all sufficient anguish?’

  ‘Please, Dr de Brizat, I have to know where Remy is.’ Her words tumbled over themselves. ‘There’s something I have to tell him urgently—something important. You must have a contact number or an address by now. Somewhere I can reach him.’

  ‘For more messages of love?’ His tone bit. ‘He doesn’t want to hear them. How many times must you be told? Anyway, he is in a remote part of South America, and communications are difficult. So let that be an end to it. Do not ask for him again.’

  She heard him disconnect, and replaced her own receiver, pressing a clenched fist to her quivering lips. She sat like that for a long time, thinking. At last she got to her feet and went to Hugo. Expressionlessly, she told him she was pregnant, and waited for him to explode in rage.

  But he didn’t. For a moment his hands gripped the arms of his wheelchair so convulsively that the knuckles turned white, and then she saw him deliberately relax again. Lean back against his cushions. Even—dear God—smile at her.

  ‘Darling,’ he said warmly. ‘That’s wonderful news. The best ever. It’s got to be a boy, of course—for Marchington. How soon can we find out definitely?’

  She stared at him, astonished. Chilled. ‘Hugo—don’t you realize exactly what I’ve told you?’

  ‘Naturally I do. I’m going to have a son and heir.’ His tone was suddenly exultant. ‘All my dreams have come true at last.’ He shook his head. ‘My mother’s going to be so thrilled when I tell her.’

  Your mother? Allie thought in total bewilderment. She’s more likely to have me tarred, feathered and thrown out of the house to live in a cardboard box.

  But once again she was proved completely wrong. Because Grace, when she broke the news to her, reacted with delight.

  ‘It’s what I’ve been praying for,’ she said. ‘Darling Hugo,’ she added. ‘How marvellous for him to be a father. This calls for champagne—although you won’t be able to have any, Alice dear. The doctors these days say no alcohol during pregnancy, and we mustn’t take any risks with your precious cargo.’

  Allie stared at her, rigid with disbelief. ‘Lady Marchington,’ she said. ‘What are you talking about? You know quite well that Hugo—that he can’t—’

  ‘Don’t be absurd, dear.’ Grace Marchington’s mouth was still smiling, but her eyes were slate-hard as they met Allie’s, in a warning as explicit as it was uncompromising. ‘Of course he can. He’s your husband, and you’ve finally done your duty as his wife. It only took time and patience, as I always told him.’ She became brisk. ‘Now, let’s have no more foolishness, and start to make plans. I know an excellent gynaecologist.’

  Allie began to feel like that other Alice, who’d fallen down a rabbit hole and found herself in a parallel universe where nothing made any sense.

  But, she told herself, that was only because, in spite of everything, she’d totally and frighteningly underestimated the Marchington obsession with having an heir.

  What will they do if it’s a girl? she wondered wryly. Have her exposed on a hillside?

  But there seemed little point in fighting them—especially when her own mother also joined in the ludicrous pretence.

  Besides, Allie soon realised she’d been wrong when she’d told Tante that nothing mattered any more. Because the baby—this little child, growing so rapidly inside her—suddenly became all that mattered, as did the need to provide him with food, warmth and shelter before and after his birth.

  And if that meant becoming part of this weird conspiracy of silence, then she would do it. Because his own family didn’t want to know.

  ‘Whatever it takes, little one,’ she whispered, her mouth twisting. ‘Whatever it takes.’

  As soon as the baby’s sex was definitely established, the atmosphere at Marchington Hall grew almost feverish.

  Deliberately, Allie created her own inner world, concentrating her energies on her baby’s well-being, and acquiescing quietly with all the arrangements being made on his behalf.

  She produced an all-purpose phrase—‘Whatever you think best.’—which seemed to cover everything from the colour of the nursery walls to the re-emergence of Nanny who, up to then, had been pe
nsioned off in a cottage in the grounds.

  Allie wrote to Tante, giving her a guarded version of the truth—that she’d achieved a kind of reconciliation with Hugo.

  Later, she wrote again, with the news of her pregnancy, and received a formal letter of congratulation, asking none of the questions she’d secretly dreaded. Allie could only guess whether or not her great-aunt had accepted her story.

  At the same time it occurred to her that Hugo, at some point, would be bound to take his head unwillingly out of the sand and start to wonder about the baby’s provenance.

  We’re behaving like people at a masquerade, she thought, but eventually the masks will have to come off—and what then? We have to introduce some reality here, and sooner rather than later.

  For instance, she thought, almost clinically suppressing her own pang of anguish, Hugo needs to know that my child’s real father was good and honourable, and came from a distinguished family.

  And that, whatever may have happened afterwards, this child was made in love.

  Although maybe that was too much information, she decided, wincing.

  But, with the baby due to be born in a matter of weeks, it was certainly high time that she and her husband stopped pretending and had a serious talk about what had happened—preferably with no one else involved.

  But when she finally nerved herself to approach Hugo she found him disinclined for conversation, complaining peevishly of a splitting headache. And she backed off, admitting to herself that he didn’t look well.

  The following day he was dead, and the subsequent post mortem revealed a massive brain haemorrhage.

  The days that followed were largely a blur in her mind, until she stood in the churchyard, in a black tent-like coat that Grace had produced for her to wear, and thought that if one more person pressed her hand and told her in quavering tones how tragic it was that poor Hugo had not lived to see his child born she would probably go mad. Or else scream the truth at the top of her voice.

  And then she looked across his grave, and met her mother-in-law’s icy, threatening gaze, and knew that, for the baby’s sake, she would continue to remain silent.

  And I’ve learned to live with my secret, Allie thought, her mouth twisting in self-loathing. To keep it well hidden and—pretend. To live a lie—just as I did so fatally with Remy. And—for Tom’s sake—to compromise.

  But no one can say I’m not being punished for my silence—past, present, and to come.

  She got slowly up from the floor and went with lagging footsteps over to the bed, lying down on top of the covers, still fully dressed.

  ‘And one day, if I live long enough,’ she whispered, closing her eyes, ‘I may be able to forgive myself. Even if no one else can.’

  The room was brilliant with sunlight when she woke. She sat up, pushing her hair out of her eyes as she studied her watch, then yelped as she registered the time and realised that the morning was gone.

  Tom’s cot was empty, and neatly remade, she saw, as she grabbed a handful of fresh clothing and dashed to the bathroom. And she’d slept through it all.

  She arrived downstairs in a flurry of embarrassed apology, but neither Tante nor Madame Drouac, busy at the sink, seemed to share her concern.

  ‘You needed your sleep, ma chère,’ Tante told her. ‘And le petit has had his breakfast, also lunch, and is now perfectly contented.’ She indicated the sofa, where Tom was slumbering among a nest of cushions.

  ‘But you’re the one who needs rest,’ Allie protested anxiously. ‘I’m supposed to be looking after you. That’s why I came. Yet I’m just making more work.’

  She was aware that Madame Drouac had turned, directing an openly curious look at Allie. She broke into a torrent of words, none of which Allie understood, apparently asking Tante a question, but Madelon Colville’s brief reply accompanied by a shrug indicated that it wasn’t too important.

  ‘And now I have a plan,’ her great-aunt announced, when Allie had obediently demolished a large bowl of chicken soup, thick with vegetables. ‘For the remainder of the day, chérie, you must continue to relax. Take some time alone. Drive to Pont Aven, or perhaps Concarneau. Walk and breathe fresh air, to put colour back in your face and banish the shadows from your eyes. Look at shops and visit galleries, if you will. Do whatever seems good to you. And, above all, do not worry about anything. The little one will be quite safe here with us until you return.’

  Allie saw that Madame Drouac was nodding vigorously and smiling, seemingly entranced at the idea of being in charge of an energetic toddler. All the same, she tried to protest, but was firmly overruled and almost bundled out to her car.

  She began to see where Tom had acquired some of his self-will.

  She thought of finding some quiet place and spreading the car rug in the sunshine, but realised suddenly she’d had enough of solitude. And that she didn’t need more thinking time either.

  Forcing herself to remember what had happened between Remy and herself had been a series of harsh, scarcely bearable agonies, but now that her unwilling journey into the past was over and done with she was conscious of an almost imperceptible lightening of the spirit.

  It was, she thought, as if she’d performed some ritual of exorcism, so that her healing process could start. And maybe she had.

  So there would be no more introspection, she warned herself. No more peeling away the layers to reveal her own guilt and unhappiness. That had to stop.

  Now, she needed other people around—and plenty of them. So, in the end, she went to Concarneau, walking over the bridge to the old town and mingling with the hordes of tourists. Enjoying the holiday atmosphere.

  There was a group of artists painting harbour scenes, and she stood for a while, watching them at work. She was seriously tempted by one of the paintings displayed for sale—as vivid and engaging as a cartoon. She was thinking of it for Tom’s nursery wall, but common sense told her it would probably never survive Grace’s inevitable disapproval.

  Instead, she stopped at a stall selling beautifully made wooden toys—farm animals and birds mounted on little wheels and painted in radiantly cheerful colours. She chose a duck like a rainbow, a pink pig with black spots and, after a brief hesitation, a horse with piebald markings in brilliant red and white. She paid with a smile, imagining Tom trotting about dragging them behind him.

  She sat outside a bar and drank lemon pressé in the sunshine, politely refusing an offer from a tall, blond Dane at the next table to share his bottle of wine.

  Some children were watching a puppet show nearby, whooping with glee at what was clearly a familiar story, and Allie watched them, thinking of the time when Tom would be old enough to enjoy similar entertainments.

  Not long now, she thought with a swift pang. How quickly time passes.

  Which reminded her…

  She’d enjoyed her afternoon, but now she needed to get back to Les Sables, because she’d left Tante to cope with Tom for quite long enough, even with Madame Drouac to assist her.

  She found herself frowning a little as she walked back to the car. That was something else she had to deal with—the question of Tante’s health. For a woman whose letter had implied she was sinking fast, Madelon Colville seemed remarkably robust, and certainly not someone just living out her last days.

  I think a little plain talking on both sides is called for here, she decided, with a touch of grimness.

  And even more of it would be needed when she eventually returned to Marchington Hall. Because her next task was to remove the upper hand over Tom’s upbringing from its present custodians, and establish herself as the real authority.

  She was her baby’s mother, and there was nothing that Lady Marchington could say or do to prevent her. Not without risking the kind of challenge that Allie knew she would fight tooth and nail to avoid.

  My first act, she told herself, will be to replace Nanny with someone young, sensible, and also fun, who’ll work with me and not against me. And I really wish now that I’d
bought that damned picture.

  She was so busy planning her future campaign that she took the wrong road entirely and, cursing her own stupidity, had to draw in at the side of the road and consult her map. She’d need to retrace her route to get back to the coast, she realised crossly, unless she used what seemed a winding minor road to take her across country.

  Well, it would be quicker, she reasoned, restarting the car. And she’d have to concentrate on her driving, rather than scoring imaginary points from Grace, which would be no bad thing.

  It was only when she’d gone more than halfway that she realised her road wandered past the other side of the stone circle where Remy had taken her on that first afternoon, and they were there, only a few hundred yards to her right, their dark shapes crowning the faint rise of the ground.

  Shocked, Allie found herself braking for no fathomable reason, then fumbled her gears, stalled the engine and swore.

  She sat for a moment, gripping the wheel and steadying her breathing. It went without saying that the rational course was to drive on and not look back.

  But was that because, in spite of her brave resolution, she still dared not face all of her memories? Would she always wonder, in fact, if she’d simply taken the coward’s way out?

  Well, there’s only one way to discover the truth, she thought, undoing her seat belt. And if I can bear this, I’ll know that I can stand anything.

  She walked across the short scrubby grass without hurrying, telling herself with every step that she could always turn back, but knowing that she wouldn’t.

  She entered the ring of tall stones and stood in the middle of them, lifting her face to the sun. Wine, she thought, and strawberries. Kisses that drew the soul out of her body. The warm, calculated arousal of his hands. The day when her self-created myth of cool reserve had crumbled, awakening her body to the bewildering force of its own desires—the sweet vulnerability of passion.