Cast a tender shadow

by Dix, Isabel

  `We shall spend the night here.' He hunched over the table to stir his coffee, no longer looking across the table at her but down into the dark depths of the whirling steaming liquid.

  `Oh?' Suddenly her heart was thudding against her chest. She was looking at him with the great violet eyes, urging him to look at her, to explain what he meant. But he did not, and Kate was all at once aware of the pain in her head, remembered too late that she had no head for alcohol and that in the morning she would regret . . . everything. She emptied her cup in one gulp and watched him do the same before he pushed back his chair. It screeched loudly over the bare floor, but as everyone else seemed to have disappeared it didn't matter.

  `Which case do you want me to bring up?' In the foyer he turned to her, his expression distant now, impenetrable.

  `The small one has my things in it.' Was that thin childish voice really her own?

  `I'll ask Henri to show you up.' He strode away from her and caught the proprietor just as he came through

  from the back. She heard them exchange words about the room and a moment later she was following the man up a narrow stair, answering his incomprehensible conversation with meaningless agreement.

  In spite of her heightened emotions she was surprised and pleased by the room into which she was shown, for it was large and airy and in the open windows white net curtains moved in the warm night air. The walls were covered with a pretty paper with a pink and green pattern of roses and the wide bed had a pink candlewick cover thrown over it. Quickly Kate averted her eyes from that and followed the direction of Henri, who threw open what she had imagined was a cupboard door to reveal a small bathroom.

  Merci, Monsieur Henri.' She had no idea how she was able to speak so naturally, but when the door closed quietly behind him she had the urge to run downstairs after him and throw herself sobbing on to his shoulder. But before she had the chance to do so there was a brief tap at the door and Charles came in carrying her case, and a small one which presumably belonged to him.

  `Hmm.' Appraisingly he glanced round. Then he put the cases down and went over and stuck his head inside the bathroom door. Kate lowered herself on to the edge of the bed and only just stopped her hands going to the neck of her blouse in a protective gesture that would undoubtedly have made him laugh. 'Is this adequate for you?' He was standing looking down at her now, his keen eyes doubtless seeing the way the colour was coming and going in her cheeks.

  `Of course.' She tried to speak casually, as if she was in the habit of finding herself alone in bedrooms with strange men, and by chance married to one of them.

  `Bon.' He bent down with unflattering relief and picked up his case from where he had placed it on the floor. 'Then sleep well, ma petite.'

  `You . . . you're not staying here?' The words slipped out before she could stop them, regretting them immediately he swung round with that cold suspicious look on his face.

  `You want me to?'

  `Of course not.' If she had been less angry the tears would have come into her eyes and she would have hated him to see them.

  Slowly he put down his case and sauntered back to her. 'No?' The eyes searched clinically, then quite suddenly he laughed. 'No, of course you do not. And that is just as well, my Kate, for I am determined that when Antoine comes to take possession of his bride he will find her . . . intact.' As she stared up at the mesmeric eyes Kate wondered if he could hear her heart pounding. Perhaps he might even be able to see it through the thin material of her blouse.

  `At least,' as he turned back to the door it seemed that he spoke the final words with reluctance, 'as far as I'm concerned.' The closing of the door almost drowned his words, but she knew she had heard correctly.

  CHAPTER THREE

  KATE had no idea when she began to have those awful feelings about Charles. Surely it couldn't have been that first day, that very first day when she went downstairs and found him sitting in the bar of La Chaumiere apparently involved in the news he was reading from the paper which he held up in front of him. She stood for a moment in the shadows watching, seeing the dark brows drawn together in concentration as his eyes skimmed over the printed pages, noting how the sunlight slanting through the windows illuminated one side of his face and leaving the other in shadow, the hairs on the backs of the long dark fingers gleaming almost golden in the light.

  Perhaps she moved and attracted his attention, perhaps some sixth sense warned him, for when she looked at his face again she saw that his eyes were on her. At once he folded his paper and rose, coming forward to meet her. In contrast to the dark suit he had worn for the whole day yesterday, he had changed into pale linen slacks and a checked shirt with a dark tie. His hair glistened damply as if he had just left the shower,

  `Kate.' He put his hand on her arm, pulling her towards the plain wood table, waiting until she was seated before taking his place opposite her, leaning one elbow on the table and supporting his chin in his

  hand. 'You slept well?'

  `Yes.' She coloured faintly and blinked back the unexpected tears. 'Does that seem awful?'

  `Of course it does not. I'm glad.' For the first time he smiled at her. 'And now you are dying for breakfast?'

  `Not for breakfast. Just for coffee. Gallons and gallons of coffee.'

  `Good.' He signed to the waiter who was sitting behind the bar reading a magazine. 'Sure you wouldn't prefer tea?'

  `No, I drink coffee in the mornings. Although I don't expect to get instant when I'm in France.'

  `That I can promise.' He spoke rapidly to the young man who returned to the bar and the gleaming chromium apparatus which began to steam and hiss as the coffee-making operation began its cycle. A few moments later he returned with paper napkins and bowls, setting them on the table with a basket of freshly baked rolls, a large pot of coffee and one of milk.

  `Black, please.' The preference was stated before Kate had time to ask. 'Yes, in the bowls,' he added as she hesitated. Then when she had finished pouring, `You haven't drunk from a bowl before?' He proceeded to show her how easy it was.

  `No, never.' Following his example, she found that she had tilted the bowl too enthusiastically and that the hot liquid dribbled down her chin, on to her blouse. `Well . . .' She dabbed not very effectively with the serviette.

  `You'll learn.' The eyes that seemed to notice so much skimmed over her, making her aware that she was wearing the same drab jeans and blouse he had seen

  yesterday. She sensed and resented his disapproval. He pushed the basket of rolls towards her and returned to his newspaper.

  Half an hour later they were driving along quiet roads, and to Kate's entranced eyes it seemed that France had been holding herself back, had been saving all her beauty for this special day. All the gloom and darkness of the last two days had disappeared and in their place were soft blue skies with here and there a patch of white woolly cloud, but even they were quickly chased by the sun's strengthening rays.

  But even that didn't offer sufficient explanation for the entirely different feeling she had about the country they were driving through. For while she had positively disliked the scenery round Le Puy; this was nothing short of enchantment, a narrow curving road dotted with tiny charming villages which clung to the hillsides and everywhere was green, light, delicate, feathery and as fresh as if the leaves were newly burst from their buds. She said as much to Charles, looking up from the notes she was making on the piece of paper she had taken from her handbag.

  `It's like fairyland, isn't it? So beautiful.'

  `I think so.' Although he didn't take his eyes from the twisting road she sensed that her words had pleased. So she was pleased and was lingering thoughtfully upon the unexpected discovery of that pleasure when his next words began to paint another picture for her. 'You should see it in winter, when the snow lies thick on the mountains and roofs, when the trees droop under the weight of it on their branches. Then you would really know what fairyland looks like. This region is famous for its beauty, this Cantal.'r />
  `The Cantal? Even the name is beautiful.'

  `Oui. Les Monts du Cantal.' Then in a brisker tone, `Do you ski, Kate?'

  `Yes, a bit. I used to go up to Scotland to ski and we had a holiday once in Austria. For winter sports.'

  `We?' There was a sharp querying note in the monosyllable.

  `Hilary and I. She's the girl I shared a flat with at home.' The words had made her remember the warnings which she had chosen to ignore, and despite the sunshine and the dappled brightness she felt cold and shivered a little.

  `Soon,' she had no idea if he had noticed her involuntary reaction, 'we shall stop and buy some food for a picnic. We have no need to hurry today.'

  After that they sat for a long time without speaking. Kate felt afraid. Afraid of the time which must be fast approaching, the time when explanations could no longer be deferred, when she would have to ask him what they were doing together. When she might be obliged to hear those things which would be unbearable.

  They were driving through Le Lioran when Charles pulled the car into the side of the road, switched off the engine and turning to her released her safety harness.

  `Now,' he smiled, disturbingly near, 'I want you to go and buy first of all some bread. Then go to that charcuterie across the road and buy some saucisson for our picnic. Next door there's an alimentation, there you'll be able to get butter and some fresh cheese. Oh, and I see they have what look like some gorgeous peaches. Two of those. I shall follow you and pretend that I can't understand the language either. Afterwards I'll be able to tell you how you did.'

  `But I can't !' Kate protested. 'And especially I can't if you're hovering in the background being critical. It would be like being back at school for an examination. One you know you're bound to fail.'

  `All right. I shan't follow you. I'll go and get the alimentation. Here,' he pulled out a notecase and thrust a handful of money into her hand, 'you fetch the bread and sausage, I'll get the other things. Rendezvous here in ten minutes.'

  Rather diffidently Kate went into the baker's shop, finding when she got inside and was presented with such a bewildering array of bread that even the few simple words needed for her purchase had deserted her. But within a few minutes she had made both the purchases, returning to the car a split second ahead of Charles, who came across laden with several paper bags and with a bottle of red wine under one arm.

  `How did it go?' He turned to her when they had stowed their purchases away on the rear window and just before he switched on the engine.

  `Oh, no problem.' She heard the engine fire and turned to him with a laugh that caused him to raise an eyebrow in her direction.

  `No problem?'

  `None at all. For the rolls I simply pointed to what I wanted and held up four fingers. The girl appeared to understand perfectly.'

  `And the charcuterie?'

  `Oh, in there, it was a young man. I asked for saucissons and he said "How many, mademoiselle?" so there seemed no point in robbing him of the opportunity to speak English.'

  They drove away from the small town until a few

  miles farther on Charles swung the car off the road into what Kate at first thought was merely a parking area, but when she looked properly she saw that it was a huge picnic spot, beautifully clean with heavy wooden benches and tables sheltering under tall lime trees.

  Charles produced the basket they had used the previous day and quickly rinsed the glasses under a tap which ran constantly into a huge stone trough and began to arrange the food at one of the tables.

  `Sit down.' Before getting out of the car he had picked up sun glasses from the dashboard so that now the expression in his eyes was even more difficult to discern. Kate decided to follow his example and pulled her own from her bag and perched them on her nose, sliding them into position with a long finger.

  `That's better. Who would have thought there would be such a change in the weather after yester . . . day?' Her voice faded as she remembered that at this very time yesterday they had been standing close together in church, their hands touching, she thinking she was marrying Antoine. And he, what had he been thinking? Quickly she glanced at him, wondering if her words had meant anything to him, but he was polishing the glasses with a paper towel, taking a corkscrew from the basket. Suddenly she knew that she didn't want explanations. Not now. Not here. Nothing to spoil this perfect idyllic situation. Quickly her hands reached out for the small wax cartons of the meats and pâté she had bought in the charcuterie.

  `I'm surprised . . .' her voice shook a little as she spoke, 'that there aren't more people here. I should have thought, at this time of year . . .' She looked about her at the few picnickers who were scattered

  about the vast area.

  `mmm.' Charles gave the impression of being slightly distracted as he filled the two glasses with deep red wine. 'Well,' he raised his glass towards her in a slightly morose gesture before drinking, `if it had been a Sunday then we should have been unable to find a place. At weekends the whole population of the cities heads for the countryside and we should have found the area alive with dogs and children, grandmothers and cyclists. You see, they bring the children's bicycles in the back of the car and then they can have a Tour de France here in the picnic area.' He pushed the package of butter towards her with a knife. 'Would you begin, please, cherie. And butter some for me, if you will.'

  `Of course.' Kate felt her fingers had grown clumsy and with him watching she found the rolls hard to split, the butter difficult to spread. Charles must have thought so too, for she found that he had taken the knife from her and was completing the small task with much more deftness than she had shown. Kate drank some of her wine, wondering mournfully if he was remembering yesterday and how he had fed her with tiny pieces of bread and pâté. She looked away from him into the valley, at all the changing colours of the treetops as the gentle breeze rippled through them. Hardly aware of what she was doing, she put out her hand for a piece of bread, then was astonished to realise how hungry she was.

  They ate everything Kate had bought in the shop, then Charles produced two perfect large peaches from the bag and laughed as she bit into hers so that the juice ran down her skin and on to her blouse.

  `I think,' she dabbed at her blouse again with the

  handkerchief he obligingly handed to her, 'I think I shall have to rummage in a case and try to find a clean blouse.'

  He didn't answer but continued to look at her with a faint smile before turning away and getting up to cross towards the car. She watched him, curiously dispassionate about that easy graceful stride, seeing the hair riffle and fall forward over his forehead as he bent to reach inside the car.

  A moment later he was straightening up, his head turned to her but his eyes hidden by the smoked glass. Between his teeth he held a thin cheroot, a match flared as he lit it and stood breathing in the scented blue smoke with an air of satisfaction. Then he came across to the bench, and now she could see that his eyes were seeking hers, there was an air of determination about him that made her shiver slightly in spite of the sun's warmth.

  But when he sat down he did not speak immediately, but his stare was so cool and persistent that Kate grew confused, her hands reached out for the debris of their lunch which she began to collect into one of the empty paper bags.

  `Leave that for the moment.' His tone brooked no refusal and with uncharacteristic obedience she stopped, her troubled gaze fastened on the distant skyline. Her heart was thumping uncomfortably, but she could think of nothing to say. And his next words seemed to touch directly what she was feeling.

  `You have no questions for me, Kate?' His voice was gentler than it had been before, yet almost more difficult to cope with. Miserably and still without looking at him she shook her head, then was perversely annoyed

  when she heard his low deep laugh. At once a deep flush coloured her skin, the eyes she turned on him were stormy with dislike.

  `How dare you laugh!' Even as she flew at him she noticed that there
was no amusement on his face. In fact it looked as cold and bleak as she felt. 'When you've put me in this horrible position!' Only the anger she felt stopped the tears that ached behind her eyes.

  `I have put you in it?' Now there was a threat of danger in the very silkiness of his tone. 'Only I? Was there no one else who was at least partially to blame?'

  `Oh, you mean Antoine, don't you?' At once she was on the defensive. 'But there must be some proper explanation. He wouldn't have chosen to make me endure all this.'

  `Whereas I would.' She could see that his eyes had narrowed slightly. 'Is that what you mean, ma chêre?'

  `And don't call me that!' she snapped. 'It's so insincere. When you think that yesterday at this time we'd scarcely even met!'

  `But you are my wife, Kate.' His lips were a thin hard line now, the dark eyebrows drawn together in a frown. 'And whatever you may think, this situation has meant a considerable sacrifice for me. You will have to be introduced to my friends and then later I shall have to explain that you prefer my young cousin Antoine. I shan't enjoy that, Kate.' He spoke the last words mildly, studied the glowing end of the cigar, then extinguished it on the sandy ground with a savage movement of his feet.

  Kate sat staring at him, the enormity of the position dawning on her for the first time. She had been so immersed in her own misery and shock that she had not

  for a moment considered his. 'I . . . I ...I. . . But . . .' she stammered. Then on a sob, 'Why?'

  There was a long silence before he repeated her query with almost as much bewilderment as she had shown. 'Why, Kate? Why indeed? I have been asking the same question too since yesterday. All I can say is that for Antoine I have always been prepared to do most things, to set things right when he got them wrong. And he was so upset, so very persuasive on the telephone.'