by Dix, Isabel
`So,' at last she was able to speak and tried to adopt a matter-of-fact, almost chatty tone. 'I would think you must be terribly happy here, Charles. Now that you've settled, I mean. It's so much nicer than . . .' She hesitated, wondering if what she were saying would be painful for him to hear.
`You mean . . .' The cigar moved to his mouth again, his eyes crinkled against the faintly acrid smoke. `. . . You mean that you prefer it to the Auvergne, Kate.'
`Of course. I love it here.' She stretched back in her
chair, clasping her hands behind her head. 'And your home is so much more comfortable than the château. The thought of living in such a place . . .' She sat up, shivering a little in spite of the warm sunshine, and stealing a careful glance to see if her words had had any reaction. Then as there was no answer to her original question, rather more tentatively, 'You do like it, don't you, Charles?'
`Of course I like it. As I told you, I've seen it take shape, I've been in on every step of its development, from a group of tumbledown buildings into what most people would think was a comfortable and rather desirable house.' He was speaking so lightly that she wondered if he was determined to avoid answering. 'But as to home, Kate—it takes more than a pleasant situation and elegant furniture. Besides,' his movement towards the packages which had been placed on a spare chair indicated that he was no longer willing to be interrogated on the matter, 'I'm away from here such a lot. I seem to spend more time on planes than I do in La Pigeonnière.' And with the raising of one finger he summoned a waiter and the bill.
Nevertheless there was something intimate about the situation that Kate cherished. It was, as she reminded herself, a memory that would have to last a long time but one to be savoured at the moment. So as they wandered through the market, piled high with the rich produce of the surrounding countryside, she made no attempt to hide the pleasure that she was experiencing. And Charles seemed willing enough to respond. It was, she thought rather sadly, almost the first time they had been completely natural with each other. And if only...
`Shall we take these things back to the car?' Charles, now piled high with parcels which threatened to tumble from his arms, appealed to her as if she were totally mistress of his fate. 'I'm beginning to feel like one of those American husbands whose dominating wives have bought up the store.'
Kate laughed, throwing back her head in amusement at the picture he had portrayed. 'I just can't see you in that role, Charles.'
`No?' One black eyebrow crooked wickedly. 'Not even now?'
Not even now,' she assured him. 'In fact I have a sneaking feeling that you're enjoying yourself.'
`Do you?' he grinned, refusing to confirm or deny. `Anyway, let's find the car, then when you've checked the list I'll take you for lunch.'
`Won't Madeau expect us?'
`No. I told her we wouldn't be back till late. We can drive back along the river. I want you to see something of the country while you're here.'
Even the reminder that she was merely a bird of passage could do little to spoil Kate's enjoyment of the day. They found their way to a small restaurant just off the main square, tucked away in one of the charming courtyards she had remarked upon and where the tables spilled out from the building to a small raised garden at the side.
`Where would you like to sit?' They stood in the dim interior, while the patron, who gave every appearance of being pleased to see Charles, hovered beside them. Kate looked quickly round the room, noticing that the only free table was squeezed up against the wall by the kitchen door, then her eyes moved longingly to the
pink-covered tables in the garden.
`Oh, Charles,' without thinking what she was doing she slipped her hand into his, 'would you mind sitting outside?' The dark look he turned on her made her remember what she was about and hurriedly she withdrew her hand and he made no attempt to stop her. `It looks . . . it looks so cool under the trees,' she stammered.
And it was. They sat listening to the faint sound that the wind made as it stirred the listless leaves, hearing insects drone round the flowers that cascaded down the high mossy wall at the back of the garden. Only three of the tables were occupied, and it was pleasant to think that they were in a secluded, private place, even if they had little that was private to say to each other.
`Thank you for bringing me here.' It was Kate who broke the silence which had had nothing awkward about it.
`It was my pleasure.' His tone was lazy, faintly teasing, giving her courage to continue the game.
`Do you come here often?' She leaned her elbows on the table, cupping her chin in her hands.
`Not often.' He imitated her attitude, bringing his face very close to hers. 'Only when I have the chance of bringing a beautiful model out to lunch.'
`I'm sure,' she smiled into his eyes, 'that you have the opportunity very often. Now what about the gorgeous Auriol?'
`What about her?' he teased. 'Are you asking if I think your description is accurate? It is, cherie. She is gorgeous.'
`Oh . . . !' she pouted.
`You know, I'm beginning to think . . .' his hand
came out, hovering about her face, then resting gently on her bare arm, `. . . that perhaps you are just a little bit jealous.'
`Are you?' Her eyes narrowed as her enjoyment of the game increased. 'And what of Francoise, is she too jealous?'
`I don't know. But she needn't be.' Kate withdrew from his touch and was annoyed to see him put back his head and laugh. 'And you needn't be either, my sweet.'
Before Kate had the chance to protest that of course she wasn't jealous, the waiter came forward with long menus and the next few minutes were taken up discussing what they would eat. There was a fairly long discussion between the two men which ended when Charles raised an eyebrow in her direction.
`Shall I choose for you, Kate?'
`Yes.' Happily she relinquished the menu, reflecting that he was the kind of man who would always want to decide things for you. Whereas Antoine . . . A tiny cloud darkened her spirits. She had the feeling that he would always give in. To his mother—and his wife.
`You really must begin to learn French, Kate.' The waiter had gone and Charles was leaning back in his seat now, seeming to take a long view of her. 'Antoine will expect it.' It was as if their minds had been in communication.
`Then Antoine must find out that he doesn't always get what he wants !' Kate turned away, regretting whatever interruption had brought an end to their mood of childish escapism.
`Poor Antoine.' Charles seemed to express genuine regret, but before Kate had time to ask angrily what he
meant the waiter had returned with a bottle which he showed, received a brief nod of approval and then by the time he had filled their glasses, another waiter was wheeling a trolley up to their table.
`Madame?' The boy was very young and inexperienced and the eyes he turned on Kate were blatantly admiring. 'Fruits de mer?'
`Yes—oui. Merci.' The smile with which she responded caused him to drop his spoon on to the path and he blushed as he picked it up and put it out of the way on the lower shelf.
`Monsieur?' Charles, who had been watching the scene with a faintly cynical smile, nodded, then smiled at Kate as he raised his knife and fork to begin on the seafood crepe.
`Perhaps I was wrong the other night. Obviously there are dangers in taking your sunglasses off! You like it?' He indicated her plate, diverting the conversation from the personal.
`It's absolutely delicious.' Kate ate with relish. 'But then I seem to say that whenever I eat in France. You obviously have the reputation you deserve.'
`Well, of course things aren't as good as they were. Too many tourists these days. But . .
`But I imagine . . . they say the very same thing in New York when all the planes disgorge their loads of Europeans.'
`Maybe they do,' he smiled. 'Anyway, this seafood isn't exactly a regional dish, but the next one definitely is. Ah, here it comes.' He looked up as the waiter returned carrying a huge silver
dish and began serving what looked like portions of duck, with tiny potatoes and green peas.
When they were alone Charles watched as Kate cut through the crisp brown skin, into the succulent moist flesh, smiled as he saw her munch with obvious enjoyment.
`It's confit de canard, I'm glad you like it. You can find it in lots of other parts of the country, but I think it tastes best on its home ground. Now tell me,' with the typical change of topic which she found disconcerting, he put down his fork and looked intently at her, 'you spoke of writing letters. I hope you have been in contact with your mother.'
Kate tried to subdue the wave of guilt that threatened to overwhelm her and felt pleased that she was able to look at him with a cool level gaze. 'No. I did tell you that I wasn't sure when she and Andrew would be back in New York, so there seemed little point in writing just so that the letter would be lying for weeks on the mat in their flat.'
`Don't you think, Kate, that you should forget how upset you were when your mother married and . . .'
`I didn't say I was upset. I don't know why you should jump to such conclusions, I I. . .'
`Of course you were upset. I'm not blaming you. All I'm saying is that because you've been hurt you ought not to . . .'
`You, Charles, are the last person to give such advice.' Carefully Kate wiped her mouth with the pink linen napkin, wondering why her appetite should have gone so quickly. 'You've waited a long time to get back at your aunt, so you if anyone should understand. Besides,' she picked up her fork and knife and began to push the joint round her plate, 'you're wrong in your assumption. I had no intention of exacting some kind of
petty revenge on my mother and Andrew.' Even as she spoke she knew this was not entirely true and a faint increase in colour stained her cheeks. 'I suppose,' she smiled across the table, shrugging with a trace of self-mockery, 'my problem is that when I was young I fell madly in love with Young Lochinvar. You know the
poem...'
`You mean,' the dark eyes were so intense in their speculation that Kate felt the blood throb dangerously in her veins, 'the one who came out of the west?'
`What?' Her face was suddenly pale, she looked at him with a wide bewildered stare.
`Young Lochinvar, cherie: His voice was low and tender, his hand reached across the table to caress hers. `The one you fell in love with.'
`Oh yes.' Kate blinked and looked down at the dark fingers curving round hers, the thumb moving slowly back and forth across her wrist. Her heart felt as if it would burst with the emotion she felt, a mixture of all the bitter-sweet feelings she had ever known. She longed to weep and even as she thought of it, she saw a tear drop on to the back of his hand, shimmer like crystal for an instant on the dark hair and then disappear. 'As I said, I fell in love with Young Lochinvar when I was about eight, and since then I suppose I've always had this romantic notion about an elopement.' She looked up at him, her eyes wide and brilliant with unshed tears. 'Please don't dash all my childhood dreams, Charles.'
`That I would hate to do.' To her dismay he withdrew his hand, leaving her deprived and alone. 'You have had enough to eat?'
`Yes. I truly enjoyed it.' She looked at the only half-
eaten meal and then at his plate. 'It's a pity that neither of us was hungry.'
She refused anything else and after they had had coffee they walked back to the parking place in the main square where they had left the car under the shade of some trees. Neither of them spoke as Charles negotiated the car through the narrow streets of the town, still busy with tourists and shoppers despite the heat of the afternoon, then out along the route to Les Eyzies.
They swished gently along the quiet roads, relieved to be out of the town and traffic, each busy with thoughts engendered by their exchange in the restaurant. The windows of the car were open as they drove and Kate pulled the scarf from her head, allowing the soft warmth of the breeze to blow through her hair while reflecting that when she got home she would wash out the oil for the last time. It was too late now to be bothered about curbing . . . Hastily she forced her mind away from a topic that was becoming all too obsessive, instead lying back in her seat, her eyes firmly closed, trying to concentrate on the sweet music from the radio that washed about her.
But she opened them when a few moments later she felt the car veer off the main road and drive along a rutted track at a much reduced pace. Questioningly she turned to Charles, who cast a quick tight smile in her direction.
`I thought you were going to sleep.' Then reapplying his attention to the narrow tree-lined path as it meandered over some undulating fields, he stabbed a finger towards where she could see their route opening out on to a grassy meadow. 'We're almost at the river. I
wondered if you would like to sit there for a bit. It's cool and shady. We can watch the boats passing.'
`Sounds nice.' She yawned with just a shade of ostentation. 'I can't think of anything better on such a hot afternoon than a sleep on a river bank.'
`I didn't say you were to sleep.' He pulled in at the side of the track and turned to her with a grin. 'I expect you to entertain me.'
Kate tried to smile back, but quickly looked away from him and reached into the rear seat for the rug which was always kept folded there.
`Do you want me to bring the rug?'
`Of course.' Charles got out of the car, but his eyes followed her with sardonic understanding as she stepped out and began to smooth, then retie her hair in the scarf and reach for her handbag. 'Give me that.' He took the rug from her arm, brushing against her with his fingers.
Kate followed him, seeing hardly anything of the luxuriant green of the vegetation, conscious only of his tall figure, the wide shoulders under the immaculately fitting linen jacket, then as he spread out the tartan blanket, he turned round to face her. He said nothing, but there was a half-smile on his face as he looked at her, as if, thought Kate with terrifying certainty, he understood something of the fears and doubts that were threatening to overwhelm her reason.
She saw him remove his jacket and toss it down on the grass, then, searching her face, he pulled at the dark silk tie. 'You don't mind, I hope, Kate?' There was laughter in his voice as if he knew the effect that dark throat, that wide expanse of chest had on her pulses and emotions. With an effort she wrenched her
eyes from the fingers that slowly undid the buttons of his shirt, threw her handbag on to the ground and sank down beside it.
`Mind?' She pretended not to understand the question and kept her eyes fixed on the swift silent flow of the dark green water a few yards from them. 'Mind what?'
But he seemed to have forgotten their conversation, for he dropped down on the rug beside her, supporting himself on one elbow so that his head was on a level with hers. Resolutely Kate kept her face averted, although she knew that he was studying her profile with mocking intensity. Wondering if she would ever be able to hide the devastating intensity of her feelings, she pointed out to the other side of the bank. 'What's that building?'
Lazily he moved his head, following the direction she was pointing, and it was a moment before he answered.
`I suspect, Kate, I don't know for certain, but I very much suspect that it's a cowshed.'
Kate turned to glare at him, but quite suddenly he had lain back on the rug with his eyes closed, a piece of grass between his lips. Rejecting a sudden gush of tears, she looked again at the field on the opposite bank, seeing clearly for the first time what she had pointed to. In the middle of the lush meadow, surrounded by those burnt cream cows with the gentle eyes, bells round their necks chiming softly as they munched, was a small stone building that could be nothing other than a cowshed. What a fool she was ! She dashed her hand across her eyes and looked down at the recumbent figure by her side. The broad chest was rising and falling regularly as if even now he was dropping into sleep. She longed to
slip her hand inside the shirt, to move her fingers over the warmth of his skin, but she knew that to do so would be fatal. Some sense told her
that no matter how close Charles was to sleep she would find her hand imprisoned, she would be forced back on to the rug and he would be looking down at her, dominating her. And he would imagine that she was encouraging him to .. . To what? she wondered, and blushed when the answer she would rather have avoided slipped into her mind.
She sighed and lay down, looking up at the tiny patches of blue that forced themselves through the thick canopy of leaves above them. And she moved to the edge of the blanket in an effort to escape the influence that even his sleeping form seemed capable of exerting so powerfully.
Eventually she got up, first walking with care silently over the thick grass so that she would not disturb him, then going with swift sure steps towards the river, gazing down at it with moody apprehension. She sighed, reached for a blade of grass, stuck it, as Charles had done, between her teeth, and began to stroll along the bank.
Fields stretched down from the road towards the river, some divided by fences, some by ditches and rough clumps of hedging but all of them rich with ripe wheat and ready to be cut. Kate hardly noticed them. She was too obsessed with her own thoughts, too conscious of the truth of all that Charles had said to her at lunch.
What mad folly could have persuaded her to embark on such a course? She shuddered, thinking of what awful plight she might have fallen into. Madame Savoney-Morlet struck her as the kind of slightly
deranged woman who would go to almost any lengths to get her own way. And if Charles hadn't made such an opportune offer who knew what kind of plan she might have concocted to ensure that Kate and Antoine did not marry ! Oh God! Kate put her hand to her head, then realising that the river bank had narrowed to almost nothing she turned to retrace her step.