by Sara Craven
‘He is asleep?’
‘Yes, but he went down fighting all the way.’ Allie sat beside her, nerving herself for another battle. She took a deep breath. ‘Darling, this afternoon gave me a real chance to think. Quite soon now, I’ll have to return to England, and I’d—really like you to go with me.’
The busy hands instantly stilled. ‘Go to England?’
Tante couldn’t have sounded more shocked, Allie thought, if she’d suggested setting up a naturist camp in the Arctic Circle. ‘Please listen,’ she urged. ‘It’s not that outlandish a scheme. You won’t tell me what’s the matter with your health, but your letter clearly implied that it’s something serious, and I think we should get a second opinion—before it’s too late.’
Madelon Colville was staring at her almost raptly. ‘Go on, ma mie.’
Allie swallowed. ‘And while this house is gorgeous, and I can see why you love it here, and might want to stay until…’ She floundered over the unthinkable, then recovered. ‘What I’m trying to say is that it’s still pretty isolated, even with Madame Drouac to look after you.’
‘Yes,’ her great-aunt surprisingly agreed. ‘That has become—a consideration.’
‘Well, there’s a really good cottage near the Hall. Hugo had it completely renovated for his groom, just before the accident. Everything’s on the ground floor, so there are no stairs to cope with. It could be—perfect.’
‘There is, however, your belle-mère.’ Tante’s tone was dry. ‘Who might not welcome a Breton invasion of her property.’
‘The estate belongs to Tom,’ Allie said. ‘Grace is only one of his trustees. I can deal with her.’
‘You sound very brave, ma chère.’
Allie forced a smile. ‘I had to wake up some time.’ She paused. ‘Well, what do you think of my idea?’
‘It is a kind, good thought,’ Tante said gently. ‘But I have no wish to live in England again.’
‘But you need to be looked after,’ Allie pleaded. ‘There must be treatment of some kind…’
Madelon Colville sighed. ‘Mon enfant, I am not ill. Just no longer young.’
‘But your letter…’
Her great-aunt took her hand, patted it. ‘I told you that this would be my last summer at Les Sables. And so it will. In the autumn, I plan to sell and move—elsewhere.’
‘But I thought…’
‘That I was dying?’ The older woman shook her head. ‘Au contraire, chérie. I have every reason to live, even at my advanced age.’
‘You—deceived me?’ Allie felt dazed.
‘Une petite ambiguité, peut-être,’ Tante agreed calmly. ‘Because, selfishly, I wished very much to see you, and also le petit, before more time passed. And for that I needed a very good reason. One that you would believe, and which would defeat the undoubted objections of madame ta belle-mère.’ She paused. ‘Was it not so?’
‘Oh, yes.’ Allie was still gasping. ‘It certainly worked.’
‘Then what harm has been caused?’
Oh, God, thought Allie. If you knew—if you only knew…
‘And am I forgiven?’ There was an anxious note in Tante’s voice.
‘Of course you are, darling.’ Allie tried to speak lightly. ‘So what shall I say when I go back? That the moment you saw me you made a lightning recovery?’
Tante’s eyes were gravely questioning. ‘Must you—go back, ma petite?’
‘I have to.’ Allie stared at the floor. Where else is there for me to go? Because God knows I can’t stay here. ‘After all, Marchington is Tom’s home,’ she went on, trying to sound positive. ‘I—I can’t keep him away for too long.’
‘But he also has Breton blood,’ Tante said. ‘Another important heritage.’
And one that I dare not tell him about, thought Allie, her throat tightening.
She pinned on a smile. ‘But you haven’t told me yet where you’re planning to live after this?’
Tante was vague. ‘Oh, I have not yet made a final decision.’ She yawned. ‘There is no great urgency.’
And no pressing reason for me to stay either, Allie told herself as she lay in bed that night. But Tante would be terribly disappointed if I left before the end of the week, especially as I know I’ll never be able to come back again. Or not with Tom, anyway. The risk is far too great.
So I’ll return to England as planned, but until I go I’ll just have to stay firmly around Les Sables. That way, there’s no possibility of meeting Remy again. Or anyone else I’d prefer to avoid.
Because, looking back, she was almost certain that it had been Solange driving the blue pick-up that afternoon.
And if I saw her, she may well have seen me, she thought grimly.
She sighed to herself. She should never have come here, she thought with quiet desolation.
Nothing had turned out as she’d expected. And, while she was eternally grateful that Tante wasn’t suffering from some life-threatening condition, she couldn’t understand why the older woman hadn’t immediately put her mind at rest.
She knew what I was thinking, so why didn’t she tell me? she wondered. And what is she still not saying now? Or am I just being paranoid?
She sighed again, and turned her mind to the immediate future. She had to admit that returning to Marchington Hall held no attraction for her, and nor did the inevitable battles with her mother-in-law that lay ahead. But they’d be worth it, she told herself determinedly, if they secured for Tom the happy childhood he deserved, rather than Grace’s rigid regime. She had to believe that, because she had nothing else to cling to. Nothing to hope for either.
So she would go back and take her rightful place as the new, improved Lady Marchington. She would concentrate her energies on fighting Grace and winning, and forget there’d ever been a girl who’d found Paradise in a man’s arms and dared to dream of a different life.
And when these final days that she would ever spend in Brittany were over, she would ensure that, whatever her own feelings, she left only happy memories behind her.
‘I am going to the hairdresser in Ignac,’ Tante announced over lunch the next day. ‘Do you wish to accompany me, chérie? You have shopping, perhaps?’
Allie pretended to consider the proposal. ‘Not really—and I think, if you don’t mind, that Tom would be much happier playing in the garden,’ she returned, then suddenly smiled. ‘Do you know, he insisted on having all his new animals in bed with him last night?’
Tante smiled too. ‘He is an enchanting child, Alys. But he needs a masculine influence in his life—a father figure.’ She gave her great-niece a penetrating look. ‘I hope the disaster of your first husband has not turned you against the idea of a suitable remarriage.’
Allie shrugged. ‘Perhaps—one day. But I don’t meet that many people, and besides it would take a very brave man to get past Grace and the hedge of thorns she’s built round Marchington to enshrine Hugo’s memory.’ She pulled a self-deprecating face. ‘I think most guys would prefer a more accessible woman.’
‘A problem.’ Madelon Colville finished her last morsel of cheese and rose. ‘But perhaps you should attend first to the thorn hedge around your own heart, ma chère,’ she said gently. ‘Then all else might follow.’
And left Allie gasping.
It was a gloriously hot afternoon. Allie, bikini-clad, lay on the rug, propped on an elbow as she watched her son playing, pushing his animals around on the grass with ferocious concentration, quacking and mooing at what he felt were appropriate moments.
Sometimes, she thought tenderly, he even got it right.
Wearing only his nappy, and an over-large cotton hat, he looked like an adorable if grubby mushroom. And he was happy. Also a little too pink, Allie thought, sitting up and reaching for the high-factor cream.
But Tom was enjoying himself too much to stand still while she applied it, and set up a wail of protest, his wriggles dislodging the sunhat.
‘You’ll have good reason to cry if you get burned,’ she wa
rned him with mock severity as he tried to pull away from her. Then suddenly he was still, his attention apparently riveted by something over Allie’s shoulder, his thumb going to his mouth as it did when there were strangers about and he felt shy.
Strangers. There was a sudden tingle between her shoulderblades, and she felt the fine hairs lift on the nape of her neck.
Even before she looked round, Allie knew who was there. Who it had to be.
She hadn’t heard his approach. He’d simply arrived as he always had in the past, skirting the side of the house unannounced. And now he was standing there, just a few feet away, his hands clenched into fists at his sides as he stared at them both.
Allie was in shock. Instinctively she drew Tom closer, her grip tightening, startling a small indignant yowl from him.
She said ‘What—what are you doing here? What do you want?’
His voice was hoarse, almost unrecognisable. ‘I—I came—because…’
His gaze was fixed on Tom. He looked like someone who had suddenly turned to find himself face to face with his own reflection in a mirror. She saw a muscle move convulsively in his throat.
Dry-mouthed, she said, ‘Remy, I’d like you to leave.’
Instead, it was Tom who moved, his small, slippery body evading her slackened clasp as he set off across the grass towards the tall, silent newcomer, grabbing a handful of denim trouser leg to steady himself, and laughing up into the rigid face above him.
And Remy bent, lifting him into his arms and holding him there, his eyes closed and a tanned cheek pressed against the small dark head.
She was trembling violently as she stretched out her arms. ‘Remy,’ she said huskily. ‘Remy—give him to me—please.’
She realised that she was kneeling, what it must look like, and scrambled to her feet, wishing desperately that she had slightly more covering than a few square inches of black fabric.
She said again, ‘Remy…’ And her voice broke on his name.
There was an endless, breathless pause. She could hear the thunder of her own heart. Then he raised his head slowly and looked at her, and she took a pace backwards, recoiling from what she saw in his eyes, putting up her hands as if to ward him off, although he hadn’t taken a step.
His voice was quiet. ‘So I have a son.’ He paused. ‘And when, precisely, madame, did you plan to tell me this?’
She felt sick with fear, and a mixture of other emotions, but she managed to lift her chin defiantly. ‘I didn’t.’
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘A little honesty at last. I congratulate you.’
‘Because,’ she said, ‘I thought I’d never see you again—if you remember?’
‘I have forgotten nothing. I recall in particular that you did see me, only yesterday.’
‘Yes.’ Allie set her jaw.
‘And still you did not tell me.’ The statement simmered with pent-up anger.
‘No.’
‘But why? Why did you not speak?’ His voice rose, and Tom lifted his head from the curve of his father’s shoulder.
‘Maman…’ he whimpered.
‘We’re frightening him.’ Allie put out a hand. ‘Give him back to me, please.’
‘He is also tired,’ Remy said curtly. ‘But you are right. He should not be here—for this. Show me where he sleeps.’
Allie hesitated, then reluctantly led the way into the house.
We were lovers, and you used to carry me up these stairs to this very room. Now you’re carrying our child, and we’re enemies.
For a moment Remy paused on the threshold as he recognised where they were, and she saw his face harden as he glanced fleetingly towards the bed.
Then he recovered himself and walked forward. He put Tom gently down in the cot, in spite of his drowsily bad-tempered objections, murmuring to him softly in his own language until the little boy seemed to accept the situation, his thumb returning to his mouth.
Allie turned away, feeling her throat tighten as she grabbed almost blindly for her robe and put it on. She couldn’t afford to be half-naked in front of him. It made her vulnerable, and for this confrontation she needed all the barriers she could get, she thought, hastily knotting the sash round her waist.
Remy looked round as he straightened—and she moved hurriedly towards the door, stumbling a little as her foot caught in the trailing hem of her robe.
His mouth curled contemptuously. ‘You are trembling, madame. You think you are in some kind of danger? That I want, perhaps, to kill you for what you have done?’
‘No.’ There were, she thought, far worse things than death. Abruptly she left the room, leading the way downstairs and out once more into the small furnace of the garden. Where she faced him, eyes wary, hands clenched beside her.
‘What is his name?’ The question was almost conversational in tone, but she wasn’t deceived.
‘Thomas,’ she said clearly. ‘Thomas Marchington. Sir Thomas, if you want to be strictly accurate.’
His brows snapped together. ‘He has your husband’s title?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘And the house, and the land, and the money. He—he’s a very wealthy little boy.’
‘Mon Dieu.’ He whispered the words. For a moment he was silent, then he said slowly, as if the words were being torn from him in some terrible way, ‘So you deliberately deceived this man—your husband—you let him think the baby was his—for gain—?’
‘No.’ She cut across him, her voice shaking. ‘I didn’t—I swear it. You have to believe me.’
‘Why should I believe anything you say?’
She swallowed. ‘There isn’t a reason in the world, and I know that. But Hugo—couldn’t have a child of his own. Not after his accident. He knew it, but because he wanted an heir—a son for Marchington—he wouldn’t admit it. Ever.’
She looked away. ‘Instead, he said it was my fault. Because I didn’t know what to do in bed—how to perform the miracle that would finally arouse him and make me pregnant. Only it was—impossible. And he hated me for it.’
She ran her tongue round her dry lips. ‘Eventually, I was at desperation point—worn out with being ignored all day—and then, at night, having to deal with his anger and frustration—the names he called me. I—I had to get away.’
‘And so you came here, and found me.’ His short laugh was like the lash of a whip across her senses. ‘A willing stud to solve the little problem with your bloodline, enfin.’
‘No-o-o!’ It was a tortured sound, wrung from the depths of her. ‘It wasn’t like that. It was never like that.’
‘We had unprotected sex, Alys, because you told me that there was no problem.’ His voice was inimical. ‘That was another lie.’
She looked at him incredulously. ‘You mean you were just enquiring if I was on the Pill?’ She pressed her hands against burning cheeks. ‘I—I didn’t understand. I thought stupidly that you were asking if you’d hurt me—if I wanted you to go on.’
‘A convenient mistake for someone who needed so badly to have a baby.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Perhaps so—if I’d been thinking that clearly. But I wasn’t. You see—it was the dream.’
‘What is this?’ he asked harshly. ‘Another excuse?’
‘I don’t think I even know any longer.’ Ally turned away, leaning against the trunk of the tree, feeling the bark scraping her skin through the thin robe. One pain, she thought, to cancel out another. ‘But, that’s how it seemed then—being with you—being happy and loved. Loving you so much I thought I’d die with the joy of it. And feeling safe—from that other dreadful existence. From Hugo and his mother, and everything waiting for me back in England.’
She stared down at the grass. ‘I knew I should tell you that I was married, but that would have forced me to face reality again. And I—I didn’t want my dream to end. It was too precious. The one marvellous, shining thing in the mess I’d made of my life, and I was terrified I’d lose it—that I’d lose you.’
Her laugh cracked in
the middle. ‘And then I did anyway. But at least I had my memories—everything you’d said—everything you’d done. Or that’s what I told myself—until I realised I was going to have a baby.’
‘And still you said nothing.’ His voice was grim. ‘Sent me no word.’
‘I wanted to.’ She didn’t tell him about the phone call to Trehel, his father’s dismissal of her. What good could it do now? she thought wearily. Just make more trouble. ‘But you were thousands of miles away, gone from my life for ever, or so I thought. I had to assume sole responsibility for our child. And part of that was being honest with Hugo. I went to him—told him I was pregnant, fully expecting that he’d throw me out—divorce me. But instead he—he just—pretended that the baby was his. That I’d finally done my duty by the family. And by him. That everything was perfect.’
‘And you allowed this?’ He was incredulous. ‘You—went along with this delusion?’
‘I had a choice,’ she said stonily. ‘To struggle as a single parent or know that my child would be brought up with every material advantage—his security guaranteed for his entire life.’
She bent her head. ‘He was all I had, Remy, and I—I wanted the best for him. At the time it seemed—the right thing to do.’
‘The right thing?’ His voice bit. ‘To let him live a lie? Or did you plan to tell him one day that he had a real father—a true family?’
‘You want the truth?’ She turned to face him, eyes glittering in her white face. ‘I don’t know, Remy. I just don’t know. That’s something I’ll have to decide when the time comes.’
‘The time is already here, Alys.’
‘What do you mean? He’s far too young. He couldn’t possibly understand.’
‘You are the one who must understand,’ he said, and his voice chilled her to the bone. ‘Thomas is my son, madame, and I want him. And this English estate and its money, and the title, can all go to hell. Because the lying stops now.’