The Right Bride? (10 page)

He took a deep breath. ‘God knows, I am no saint, but I would never knowingly allow myself to become entangled with another man’s wife, any more than I would knock him down in the street and rob him.

‘But that is not everything,’ he added grimly. ‘That day at the standing stones I told you plainly that I needed you to trust me, but in spite of that you still kept your secret hidden—because you could not bring yourself to confide in me. And that, perhaps, is the greatest hurt—the worst betrayal of all.’

‘I so wanted to.’ Her voice shook. ‘But I was—afraid I’d lose you.’

‘No trust,’ he said, flatly. ‘And no faith either.
Ah, Dieu
.’

‘I was going to tell you this evening,’ she said huskily. ‘Darling, I swear it. I had it all planned.’

‘But of course,’ he returned with cold mockery. ‘Was it to have been before or after I committed the ultimate folly of asking you to marry me?’

‘Remy, don’t say that.’ She spoke jerkily. ‘I know I’ve done everything the wrong way, and I blame myself completely. But, please, can’t we sit down and talk properly? I need to make you understand—’

‘But I understand quite well,
madame.
’ He interrupted her
stumbling words with swift impatience. ‘You have made fools of us both—your husband and your lover. But he at least will never know that you have cheated him so monstrously. So he is the fortunate one.’ He gave her one last scornful look. ‘Although I do not envy him,’ he added, and turned to go.

‘Remy.’ His name burst pleadingly from her throat. ‘Don’t do this to me—to both of us. Don’t leave like this.’

He halted. Swung back, and walked up the stairs to her, his hand closing on her wrist, not gently.

‘Then how, Alys?’ There was a note in his voice that jarred her senses. ‘Or do you hope, perhaps, for a more intimate
adieu
? For me to pay a final visit to your charmingly eager body?’

He shrugged, his mouth set in a sneer. ‘
Eh bien, pourquoi pas?
All else may be gone, but sex still remains. What a practical girl you are,
ma belle.
’ He swung her off her feet almost negligently, carrying her up the stairs.

For a moment Allie was stunned, then she began to struggle against his bruising grip, pushing against his chest with clenched fists.

‘No—Remy—no.’ It was a cry of fear as well as anger. ‘I didn’t mean that. Put me down—now.’

But he ignored her protests, shouldering his way into her bedroom, and when he set her on her feet it was only so that he could access her zip more easily. Halfway down, it stuck, and he took the edges of her dress in strong relentless hands and dragged them apart. She heard the stitching rip irrevocably, then the silky fabric slithered down her body and pooled around her feet, leaving her, she knew, as good as naked under the inimical intensity of his gaze. Then he picked her up again, with almost insulting ease, and tossed her down on to the bed.

Dear God, she thought frantically as she twisted away, trying to cover herself with her hands. She had dressed—scented herself—for this moment. But not like this. Never like this…

She felt a sudden onrush of tears scald her face, and her voice cracked on a sob of sheer desolation as she echoed her own words aloud. ‘Not like this—oh, please—not like this.’

And waited in agony to feel herself touched—taken.

But there was nothing. And when, at last, she dared look at him, he was standing over her, his arms folded across his chest, his mouth a hard, angry line in the bleak mask of his face.

‘Stop crying,’ he directed brusquely. ‘You need not be concerned. I already despise myself for having wanted you at all.’ He added with contempt, ‘I shall not add to my own shame by taking you.’

She watched him walk in silence to the door. Saw it close behind him. Heard the heaviness of his footsteps descending the stairs and, a moment or two later, the Jeep’s engine coming to life. Listened as the sound of it faded. Leaving—nothing.

Then Allie turned on to her stomach and began to weep in real earnest, her whole body shaking with her sobs.

As she began to mourn the love that had begun to fill her life, but which was now lost to her for ever.

It was several hours later that she heard the sound of another approaching vehicle. She’d come downstairs, principally to throw away her torn dress, and had remained. She was now occupying the corner of a sofa, in her dressing gown, hugging one of the cushions for comfort as she stared sightlessly into space. But at the noise she tensed, looking apprehensively towards the door.

It wasn’t the Jeep coming back, she told herself, torn between relief and disappointment. But, even worse, it might be Solange, coming to gloat.

Then the door opened and Madelon Colville came in, walking slowly, leaning on a cane.

She saw Allie and checked instantly, her brows lifting in alarm as she registered the girl’s pale, stricken face.
‘Qu’as tu, mon enfant?’
she demanded urgently. ‘What in heaven is the matter?’

‘Remy.’ Allie could only manage a choked whisper. She picked up the magazine and held it out, open at the appropriate page. ‘Solange found—this. And showed him.’

‘Ah, ma petite.’
Tante took it from her, giving the offending photograph a cursory glance, then tossed it aside and sat beside her, taking the cold hands in hers. ‘I always feared something like this.’ She paused. ‘Is he very angry?’

Allie looked at her with drowned eyes. ‘Furious—and so bitter, because I didn’t trust him enough to tell him the truth myself. I think he cared more about that than he did about Hugo,’ she added wretchedly.

Tante nodded. ‘And did you tell him how you had been trapped into this marriage, and how miserable it has made you?’

‘I tried, but he didn’t want to know.’

‘Eh bien.’
Tante patted her hand. ‘In a day or two he will be calmer, and perhaps more ready to listen.’ She paused thoughtfully. ‘It is difficult for him in a community like this. He is a young, good-looking doctor. He falls in love with a single girl, and the whole town will come to the wedding and wish them well. But if he is known to be having an
affaire
with a married woman, that is a different matter.’ She pursed her lips. ‘Foolish as it seems, some husbands might not wish their wives to be treated by such a man.

‘Besides,’ she added candidly. ‘His own sense of honour would balk at a liaison like that, I think.’

‘Yes,’ Allie agreed wanly. ‘I—did get that impression.’ She shook her head despairingly. ‘Oh, God, I’ve been such a stupid,
criminal
fool. Why didn’t I listen to you when you warned me?’ She bit her lip. ‘More importantly, why didn’t I listen to Remy—and trust him?’ Her voice broke. ‘What am I going to do?’

‘Tomorrow—nothing,’ Tante said briskly. ‘Except rest, and recover your looks and your spirits. Then go to see him, and tell him everything about your life in England. Make him aware of the whole truth about this ill-judged marriage, and explain why, for a little while, you wished to forget your unhappiness, however unwise it may have been. If he loves you, he will listen.’

Will he? Allie wondered. She found herself remembering his eyes, burning with angry contempt, mixed with pain. His
words, ‘I despise myself for having wanted you,’ and had to control a shiver.

There had been moments when he’d reminded her of a wounded animal, she thought with anguish, and he might be equally dangerous to approach. Nevertheless, somehow, she had to try.

She leaned forward and kissed the older woman’s scented cheek. ‘It’s wonderful to have you back,’ she said gently. ‘But you’re still limping. Do you think you should have driven back from Vannes?’

Tante gave her a tranquil smile. ‘They are the dearest friends,’ she said. ‘But sometimes—enough is enough.’ She paused. ‘Besides,
ma chère,
I woke this morning with a premonition that you would need me before the day was over.’ She sighed. ‘But I hoped very much I would be wrong.’

Allie slept badly that night, and spent the following day on tenterhooks, hoping against hope that Remy might relent in some way and contact her.

If he was just prepared to hear me out it would be something, she told herself silently, as she paced restlessly round the garden.

All the same, she knew that her failure to confide in him would still be a major stumbling block to any real
rapprochement
between them.

It was all he’d ever really asked of her, and she’d failed him totally. Which was something he might find impossible to forgive. And somehow she had to prepare herself for that. Even learn to accept it.

He may not want me any more, she thought desolately. Not after what I’ve done. But maybe—if I talk to him—explain how it was—we could at least part as friends.

Perhaps that’s the most I can ask for. And the most I can offer.

When breakfast was over the next day, she came downstairs and said, ‘I’m going to Trehel.’

Tante looked her over, assessing the elegant cut of the tailored cream linen trousers and the indigo silk of the short sleeved shirt Allie was wearing with them.

‘With all flags flying,
petite
?’ There was a touch of wryness in her voice.

Allie held up her left hand, with the gold band on its third finger. ‘And total honesty at last.’

Tante nodded. ‘The de Brizats are an old and a proud family, my child. Remember that, and do not expect this to be easy for you.’ She paused. ‘
Bonne chance,
Alys.’

I’ll need it, Allie thought as she started the car. Every scrap of luck that’s going, and every prayer answered too.

Today, the house looked quiet and brooding in the sunlight, its shuttered windows like barriers, warning her not to come too close. Or was that her guilty conscience, working on her imagination?

Stomach churning, she drove round to the back and stopped in the courtyard. Remy’s Jeep, she saw, was parked in its usual place, and she breathed a faint sigh of relief. At least she didn’t have to go into Ignac and confront him at the medical centre.

As she got out, she heard the dogs begin to bark in the main house, but she ignored them. Squaring her shoulders, she marched up to the barn door and turned the handle, as she’d done so many times before. But the door didn’t swing open to admit her, and she realised it must be locked.

He’s never done that before, she thought with a silent sigh. Yet he must know that I’d be coming come to see him. He’s obviously planning to make me beg.

She lifted the brass knocker shaped like a horse’s head. They’d bought it together at the market only a few days ago, because she’d said the horse looked like Roland. She beat a vigorous tattoo.

But there was no response, nor sound of movement within. Allie stepped back, shading her eyes as she looked at the upper windows, and then with a rush and a whimper the dogs were there, circling round her, tails wagging, as they pushed delighted muzzles at her, waiting for her to stroke and pet them.

She turned and saw Georges de Brizat, standing looking at her across the courtyard, his face like a stone. He whistled abruptly, and the dogs, reluctant but obedient, moved back to
his side. He hooked his hands into their collars and kept them there.

As if, she thought with real shock, she might contaminate them.

He said, ‘Why are you here,
madame
? You must know you are not welcome.’

Allie lifted her chin. ‘I need to see Remy. I have to talk to him—to explain.’

‘It seems that your husband is the one who requires an explanation,’ he said with grim emphasis. ‘Go back to him,
madame,
if he will have you. There is nothing for you here.’

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.

S
HE’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 pensioned 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 pee
vishly 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.