The Bannister Girls (36 page)

‘Promise me that one day we'll be married, Angel. Your promise is all the luck I need to bring me safely through this war. Haven't we survived this far?'

‘There's nothing I want more than to be your wife, my love,' she whispered back. And if it was the sweetest kind of blackmail that he used to extract her promise, that didn't matter either. They clung for long minutes, pledging themselves, until a discreet sound behind them made them pull apart.

Comte de Ville smiled benevolently on the English girl who could bring the life back to his son.

‘Please do us the honour of staying at the chateau while
you're in Bordeaux, Miss Bannister.' He spoke with continental courtesy.

Jacques stood up with Angel, his arm still around her shoulders. He spoke before she could reply.

‘Father, I want you to know that Angel has agreed to marry me, and that of course she will remain here until we leave together next week. Perhaps we could have a small party with a few close friends to celebrate.'

Angel was apprehensive at this bald statement, wondering if Comte de Ville might have other ideas for his son, than marrying an English girl who had arrived unannounced. But she was forgetting Jacques' own mother had been English, and that the family's links with England were strong.

She saw nothing but pleasure in the Comte's face as he raised her hand to his lips in a way both charming and touching.

‘My dear, I couldn't be more pleased. I've guessed for some time that my son had met someone very special, and now that I see his choice, I welcome you to our family.'

It was said with such simple dignity that Angel almost threw her arms around his neck and hugged him. But not quite. She didn't know him well enough for that yet.

‘Please don't be insulted, Monsieur le Comte, when I say that this must all be unofficial until my parents have been told. My father will want to meet Jacques – although I am quite certain there could be no objection!'

She spoke in some embarrassment at the remotest suggestion that there could be any objection to an untitled English girl becoming betrothed to the son of a French count. But Jacques' father understood.

‘Your consideration for your parents does you nothing but credit, dear Miss Bannister, and naturally any formalities must wait until after the war.'

Jacques and Angel did not look at one another. Instead she said warmly, ‘Oh please – my name is Angel. I would be so happy if you would use it.'

‘Of course. A charming name for a charming young lady. But you must be tired and hungry after your journey. One of the maids will show you to your room, and we will dine in an hour. Press your bell when you are ready, and you will be shown the way to the dining room.'

It all sounded terribly grand, but until that moment, Angel hadn't realised just how exhausted she was. And hungry too. The maid, Marie, showed her to a beautiful guestroom with adjoining bathroom of the utmost luxury, and within minutes, Angel was soaking in blissfully fragrant water, and sending up a little prayer of thankfulness that out of all the world, she and Jacques had found one another again.

She had brought the minimum of luggage, and was suddenly aghast at presenting herself at dinner in this splendid house with two gentlemen of quality, looking less than her best. It seemed such ages since she had thought of silk dinner gowns and the latest fashions, and attending to her manicure and buying jewellery and combs for her hair … a sudden sadness for the loss of all those things swept over her. In three short years, so much of youth had been snatched away from young men and women. Those who died were beyond remembering. Those who were left had been forced to grow up too soon…

She heard a knock on her door while she was still pondering on the better of the few dresses she had brought with her. Marie entered, several dinner gowns over her arm.

‘Monsieur le Comte instructed me to offer you the choice, Mademoiselle. They belonged to Madame, and he thinks you are about the same size, and begs that you will not be offended.'

‘
Merci
, Marie,' Angel said quickly, touched by his thought-fulness. The gowns were slightly outdated, but exquisitely made, and the slight bustle on each of them did something quite remarkable for Angel's shape. How elegant those Edwardian ladies must have been, she thought wistfully, and
how elegant this shimmering pale rose gown that had belonged to Jacques' mother made her feel.

She was not in the least offended, and when she followed Marie's directions and walked down the long curving staircase, feeling like a queen, it was to find the two handsome de Ville men awaiting her. Jacques took her hand.

‘How beautiful you are,
chérie
,' he murmured.

‘You do credit to my wife's memory,' his father added, clearing his throat, ‘and you will do me the honour of keeping the gowns, Angel.'

‘I'm the one who is honoured,' she said, more moved than she admitted. ‘I would not insult you by refusing such a very personal gift, Monsieur le Comte.'

Dinner was the gayest meal Angel had enjoyed for months. The talk was kept deliberately light and away from the war. Bordeaux was far away from the Front Line, and although Angel guessed that the Comte would follow its progress with the fervour of every patriotic Frenchman, tonight was not for sombre talk, but a time for reunion and laughter and for relating to Jacques' father the circumstances in which Jacques and Angel had met.

Naturally, neither mentioned the enchanted night they had spent at the Hotel Portland, but glances that met and then looked away, tinges of colour in the cheeks and the constant awareness of one another, told their own story. Through the flickering candlelight across the wide table, their eyes spoke of love, their spirits ached for each other. The wine was the very best from the de Ville cellars, and was potent and heady.

At last, when they retired to the drawing room for strong coffee and delicious minted sweetmeats, it was as if Comte de Ville felt he must break the spell that made the atmosphere between the young couple too emotionally charged.

‘You understand that Jacques is to rejoin his squadron next week, Angel?'

It was like a dash of iced water in her face.

‘I wish he would not!'

The words were out before she could stop them. She bit her lip, seeing Jacques' frown. She had no right to try and shape his life. Not yet, if ever … French wives were subservient to their husbands. Even English women … it was such bad form to disobey … she could hear her mother's disapproving voice through her senses, and knew she had become emboldened by the wine.

‘A de Ville never turns his back on duty, my dear,' the Comte said gently.

‘Nor would he wish to be tied to a woman's apron strings,' Jacques added.

‘I would never do such a thing. Nor would I want a man who permitted it!' Angel said hotly. To her relief, the Comte laughed.

‘I think you and Jacques are well matched, Angel. But a word of advice, my dear. You may as well try to change Jacques' mind as try to stop the sun from rising every morning.'

‘I'm not sure that it's admirable to be so intractable. A man should bend but not break.' She stopped in acute embarrassment. It was how Margot had once described Angel. It was hardly the thing to do to censure Jacques for being dogmatic in his own home. He leaned back, blowing smoke into the air from a fragrant cigar, and appeared not to be insulted.

‘When one has lost all identity as I had,
chérie
, and then gradually finds it again, it's like a miracle. All the love I had for flying was back, perhaps intensified –'

‘Even after what happened to you?'

‘Even so. It was wiped out, in a way. I was reborn, and remembering that it was bad luck to have someone permanently filling my chair in the Officers' Mess. Soon I shall fill it again. I'm pronounced fit enough for service, and my unit is delighted to have me back. Apparently they had a
little ceremony to reverse the wake they held for me some months ago.'

She shivered at his teasing tone. But there was a mute appeal in his voice too, begging her not to argue with him. He had made his decision. He had survived, so he had to go back, as she might have known he would.

‘Then it's lucky I can go back with you at least part of the way,' she said with a great effort at lightness. ‘My sister Ellen is at Piersville now. Have I told you that?'

The warmth in Jacques' eyes told her what her words meant to him. If her heart was breaking at the thought of the new danger he would encounter every single day once he rejoined his squadron, she would never reveal it. In time of war, it was not only men who had to be brave and strong.

They spent an idyllic week. She spent hours in his studio, absorbing the smells of turpentine and oils and marvelling at Jacques' artistic talent, wanting to watch him work, and breathing down his neck until he had to tell her laughingly to stop.

He showed her the de Ville wine cellars, musty and cool beneath the hills, the great casks of fermenting juice, and the endless racks of wine already bottled and maturing. There was a fortune beneath the hills, and once he took her to the vast vineyards and explained some of the workings to her, Angel realised just what the Chateau de Ville really meant to Jacques and his family.

When his father died, it would all belong to him. And when Angel became his wife … it was a daunting prospect, and one that she had never envisaged. When they were seated inside one of the family cars once more, it was as if he read her mind, and Jacques tipped up her chin with his finger.

‘Are you having second thoughts about marrying me,
chérie
?' he challenged. She shook her head slowly. ‘Of course not! It's just that I
had no idea of – all this.'

She spread her arms as expressively as any Frenchwoman. ‘You seduced me under false pretences, you know. I thought you were just any old officer.'

Her smile belied her teasing words. Never could she think of Jacques as just any old officer, when he stood head and shoulders above the rest, physically and mentally. Her heart beat faster as she saw the new look in his eyes.

‘And I have not come to your room since you came to the chateau,' he stated. ‘Are you hurt because of it?'

‘No. We must respect your father's house, Jacques –'

She was crushed in his arms before she could finish.

‘That's not the reason.' She could barely hear the ragged words against her hair. ‘My lost memory, my burns, they have all healed. But there are still nightmares, and there is still the fear of not being all that a man should be. Do you understand what I'm saying?'

‘Yes,' she whispered. ‘But it doesn't matter, Jacques –'

‘It bloody well does matter!' She could hear the outrage in his voice as he pushed her away from him. ‘I can't expect you to understand. No woman could.'

Tears blurred her eyes. She couldn't bear to quarrel with him. She smothered the pain at his scathing words.

‘All I meant was that it takes time for wounds to heal, dearest, mental and physical –' she said carefully, at which he gave a harsh laugh.

‘I don't mean to imply that there are any bits missing. Just that they may not be in perfect working order yet.'

She didn't know how to answer so delicate a subject. If she said it didn't matter, he would think she had lost interest in him. If she said that it did, he would think her a shameless woman, only interested in his body. Or worse, keen to ensure that she married into the French aristocracy, now that she was aware of his status.

She gave an involuntary sob. At which, Jacques was all contrition, and took her in his arms again.

‘Forgive me. I've become a self-centred bastard since the
crash. One day I'll tell you about it.'

It was the nearest he came to admitting its effect on him, and that alone was strangely reassuring. She hugged him close, without words.

‘Let's go home,' he said huskily. ‘We're having a party this evening, and I've something very special to give you, my darling.'

A dozen guests were invited to the chateau for the very informal engagement party. Neither Jacques nor Angel had wanted anything more pretentious, although the Comte would have thrown a much more lavish affair for his only son.

But remembering Jacques' recent illness, and the need to be conservative in entertaining during these wartime days, the Comte had given in, to Angel's great relief. She loved parties, but these people would all be strangers, and it would be something of an ordeal.

At the Comte's request, she wore another dress that had belonged to his wife, a deep green dinner gown in rich satin that rippled with every movement, complementing Angel's English rose skin and fair hair, and bringing out the colour of her eyes. Jacques thought she had never looked so beautiful.

Before the guests arrived, he gave her the special gift. Angel gasped as she opened the long velvet box and took out the necklace of fabulous emeralds and the matching ring with a single huge emerald in an antique setting.

‘It's too much,' she said shakily. ‘It's far too valuable a gift, Jacques.'

He took the jewels from her and fastened the necklace around her neck as she stood in front of the enormous gilt-edged drawing room mirror. The necklace looked perfect against her flawless complexion. Jacques turned her round in his arms and slid the ring on the third finger of her left hand. It was a little large, but not for worlds would she have taken it off again.

‘With this ring I ask you to be my wife,' Jacques said gravely. ‘The jewels are family heirlooms, Angel, and are entrusted only to those we cherish.'

Her throat was thick at his simple words. He could have been far more flamboyant, but the de Villes had style enough without the need for such ploys.

It was agreed that the jewels should be returned to the family vault for safe keeping before they left the chateau the following day. Angel would never have dared to take them away with her. They would remain at the chateau until she returned here with Jacques as his wife. They were one more talisman to bind them together.