The Right Bride? (4 page)

The joys of midweek travel, she thought. Most of the holidaymakers arrived at the weekend, and are now relaxing at their hotels and
gîtes,
leaving the roads open for me, bless them.

‘Courage, mon brave,’
she told Tom, who was beginning to be restive again. ‘We’re nearly there.’

Mentally, however, she was already bracing herself, unsure of what she might find when she reached Les Sables.

Tante disliked the telephone, regarding it as something to be used only in the direst emergencies, and the letter expressing her delight at Allie’s visit, and confirming the suggested arrangements, had been in the same wavering hand as before.

Not for the first time, Allie wished there was someone she could confide in about her worries. Someone who also cared about Tante.

Once there was, she thought—and stopped right there, her lips tightening. She could not let herself remember that—even though every landmark—every direction sign in the last hour—had been battering at her memory with their own poignant reminders.

But what else could she have expected? she asked herself with a sigh. Those few brief weeks with Remy had given her the only real happiness she’d ever known. How could she even pretend she’d forgotten?

Tante had warned she would find Ignac much changed, but apart from the new villas, all white and terracotta in the sunlight, which had sprung up like mushrooms on the outskirts, the little town seemed much the same.

Its church was ordinary, and Ignac didn’t possess one of the elaborately carved calvaries which were among the great sights of the region, but its busy fishing harbour bestowed a quiet charm of its own.

The narrow streets were already crammed, with parked cars on both sides, and as she negotiated them with care she realised that the town square ahead was a mass of striped awnings.

‘Of course,’ she said aloud. ‘It’s market day. I certainly forgot about that.’

The market was drawing to its close, the stalls being swiftly dismantled, rails of clothing and boxes of household goods being put back in vans, although last-minute shoppers still lingered at the food stalls, hoping for bargains.

But we, she thought, always came early to buy…

She forced her attention back to the road ahead, braking gently as an old lady stumped out on to the pedestrian crossing just ahead, waving her stick to signify her right to priority. She was accompanied, apprehensively, by a younger couple, and as she reached the middle of the crossing she stopped suddenly, and turned to upbraid them about something, using her stick for emphasis. The other woman looked at Allie, shrugging in obvious embarrassment, as all efforts to get the senior member of the party moving again ended in stalemate.

She wants to have her say, and she wants it now, Allie thought, reluctantly amused. And, until it’s over, we’re going nowhere.

People were pausing to watch, and smile, as if this was a familiar occurrence.

He seemed to come from nowhere, but there he was,
joining the trio on the crossing, a tall, lean figure, dark and deeply tanned, casual in cream jeans and an open-necked blue shirt. He was carrying two long loaves of bread, and a plastic bag that Allie knew would contain oysters. He transferred it to his other hand, before he bent, speaking softly to the old lady, while his fingers cupped her elbow leading her, gently but firmly, to the opposite pavement.

For a moment it looked as if she might resist, then the wrinkled face broke into an unwilling grin and he laughed too, lifting her hand to his lips with swift grace. Then, with a quick word and a shrug to her grateful companions, he was gone again, vanishing between the remaining market stalls as quickly as he’d arrived.

Allie sat and watched him go, her hands gripping the wheel as if they’d been glued there. She thought numbly, But it
can’t
be him. It can’t be Remy because Tante said—she promised—that I’d have nothing to fear.

Nothing to fear…

An impatient hooting from the vehicles behind brought her back to the here and now, and she realised, embarrassment flooding her face with colour, that the total shock of seeing him had made her stall the engine. She restarted carefully, and set off, waving an apologetic hand to the other drivers.

She threaded her way out of town and on to the narrow road which led to Les Sables, before yanking the wheel over and bringing the car to an abrupt halt. She sat for a moment, her whole body shaking, then flung open the car door and stumbled out, kneeling on the short, scrubby grass while she threw up.

As she straightened, her head swimming, her throat and stomach aching, she heard Tom’s frightened wail from the car, and dragged herself to her feet in instant contrition.

‘It’s all right, darling, Mummy’s here.’ She found a packet of wipes in the glove compartment and hastily cleaned her face and hands, before releasing Tom from his harness and lifting him into her arms. She sat down on a flat boulder a few feet away from the car, and held him close against her, patting him and murmuring soothingly while she waited for her heart
beat to settle. And she tried desperately to make sense of what had just happened. But failed.

There is nothing that should keep you away…

The words were indelibly printed on her brain. Unforgettable.

The wording of Tante’s letter had suggested—had seemed to promise—that Remy was still far off in South America. So how could he possibly be there in Ignac, charming tough old ladies into compliance, buying food from the market, clearly as much at home as if he’d never been away?

She should have told me the truth, she thought passionately. Should have warned me that he was here. Except that if she had nothing would have dragged me here, and she knew it.

Perhaps, she thought, Tante doesn’t know he’s come back. Maybe it’s a temporary thing—some kind of furlough—and she hasn’t heard.

But she discounted that almost at once. Her aunt’s house might be secluded, but it wasn’t in limbo. Every piece of gossip, every item of local news, found its way to her sooner or later.

Besides, Remy’s father, Philippe de Brizat, was Tante’s doctor—and his father before him, for all she knew.

Of course the news of Remy’s return would have been shared with her.

Anguish stabbed at her. It seemed unbelievable that her beloved and trusted great-aunt should have deliberately set out to deceive her like this. Unless she knew that the first time she did so would also be the last.

She must, Allie thought sombrely, be really desperate to see me again—to see Tom—even to contemplate such a thing.

Her immediate instinct was to turn the car and drive back to Roscoff. Get the first possible return sailing. But, apart from all the other considerations, that would mean returning to the Hall with her tail between her legs, losing any advantage she’d gained in her belated bid for independence.

I could still visit Tante, she thought, but make it a brief visit—not stay for the ten days as planned. That should be safe enough.

After all, France is a big country, and Brittany’s not its only region. Plus, it’s still early enough in the year for there to be hotel vacancies. I could take Tom exploring the Auvergne, or the Dordogne. Even go as far as the Côte d’Azur.

Anywhere, she resolved, as long as it was far—far away from Remy de Brizat. Because Tante was so terribly wrong, and she had
everything
to fear from encountering him again.

Her arms closed more tightly around Tom, who wriggled in protest, demanding to be set down.

She held his hands, steering him back to the car as he paced unsteadily along, face set in fierce determination.

‘I know the feeling,’ she told him as she lifted him back into his seat for the short drive to Les Sables. ‘And from now on, my love, it’s you and me against the world.’

The house stood alone, grey and solid against the slender clustering pine trees behind it. Allie eased the car along the track, remembering her father’s concern that Tante should have chosen such an isolated spot.

‘It wouldn’t do for me,’ he’d said, shaking his head. ‘The silence would drive me crazy.’

Tante had laughed gently. ‘But there is no silence,
mon cher.
I live between the wind singing in the trees and the sound of the sea. It is more than enough.’

The front door was open, Allie saw, and a woman’s small, upright figure had emerged, and was standing, shading her eyes against the sun, watching the car approach.

It’s Tante Madelon, Allie realised with astonishment. But if she’s been ill, surely she should be in bed, or at least resting on the sofa.

She brought the car to a halt on the gravelled area in front of the house and paused for a moment, taking a deep breath. She’d already decided on her strategy. No reproaches or recriminations. Instead, she too would practise a deception—she would pretend that she’d simply driven through Ignac and seen no one. As far as she was concerned, Remy de Brizat was still on the other side of the world.

And if Tante mentioned his being back in Ignac, she would produce a look of faint surprise, maybe even risk a polite question about his life in Brazil. Or had he, in fact, moved on from there?

She’d tried so hard not to think about that. Not to wonder where he was and what he was doing.

And now it seemed as if all her desperate efforts to blank him out of her mind had been in vain.

Ah, well, she thought bleakly, as she marshalled her defences. Just as long as it doesn’t show.

And she opened the car door and got out, smiling resolutely.

Madelon Colville had never been a large woman, but now she seemed to have shrunk even more. In Allie’s embrace, she felt as insubstantial as a captured bird. But her eyes were still bright, shining with love and pleasure, and her voice was husky with emotion as she murmured words of welcome.

‘Dearest child, you cannot know what this means to me.’ She looked towards the car with unconcealed eagerness. ‘Now, where is your little son?’

Finding himself on show, Tom decided to be shy, and buried his face in his mother’s neck. But Tante was unfazed by the reaction.

‘It is all too new and strange for him,’ she declared. ‘But soon we will be friends—won’t we,
chéri
?’ She took Allie’s hand. ‘Now, come in, and meet Madame Drouac, who looks after me. She is a widow, like myself, and so good to me. However, she speaks no English, and you will not understand her
patois,
so I shall translate for you both.’

Madame Drouac, who was standing at the range, stirring a pan of something that smelt deliciously savoury, was a tall, angular woman with a calm face and kind, shrewd eyes. As she shook hands, Allie was aware of being subjected to a searching look, followed by a low-voiced exchange with her great-aunt.

But Allie did not need a translation. She remembers me from the last time I was here, she told herself without pleasure. Recalls who I was with, too.

‘Amelie thinks you have become thin,
ma mie.’
Madelon spoke lightly. ‘She says we must fill you with good food. Also
le petit.’

She indicated an old-fashioned wooden highchair, polished to within an inch of its life, which was standing at the table. ‘She has loaned us this for Thomas. Also the cot, where her own son slept. He has married a girl from Rennes,’ she added with a shrug. ‘And she does not need them for her baby. She wants everything that is new. So Amelie is pleased that her things will be used once more.’

She paused. ‘I have told her that you are a widow, Alys, but also that your marriage only occurred after you left here and returned to England.’ Her gaze was steady. ‘You understand?’

‘Yes,’ Allie said woodenly. ‘Yes, of course.’

Lunch was a thick vegetable soup, served with chunks of bread, and there was cheese to follow.

Tom made a spirited attack on his soup, using his spoon like a stabbing spear. He was assisted in his efforts by Madame Drouac, who talked softly to him in Breton, and occasionally clucked at him like a hen, which provoked a joyous toothy grin. Shyness, it seemed, was a thing of the past, Allie saw with relief.

‘He usually has a nap in the afternoon,’ she mentioned as they drank their coffee.

‘Very wise,’ said Tante. ‘I do the same.’ She gave Allie a long look. ‘And perhaps you should rest also,
ma mie.
You are pale, and your eyes are tired.’

‘Well, I have had more peaceful nights,’ Allie admitted ruefully. She hesitated. ‘Would it be all right if I took a shower first? I feel as if I’ve been wearing these clothes for ever.’

Tante covered her hand with her own. ‘You must do exactly as you wish,
chérie.
This is your other home. You know that.’

It’s probably my only real home, Allie thought, as she carried Tom upstairs. The room had been rearranged, with its wide bed pushed under the window in order to accommodate the cot—a palatial, beautifully carved affair. For a moment,
Allie felt almost sorry for the daughter-in-law from Rennes who couldn’t recognise a family heirloom when she saw it. But her loss was Tom’s gain, and he was asleep even before Allie had finished unpacking.

She undressed slowly, and put on her thin, white silk dressing gown before making her way to the bathroom, which boasted a separate shower cabinet as well as a large tub. ‘It may be a cottage, but I insist on my comforts,’ Madelon Colville had declared, when the old-fashioned fittings had been torn out and replaced.

And maybe I like mine too, Allie thought wryly, as she set out the array of exquisitely scented toiletries she’d brought with her.

She stepped into the shower and turned on the spray, letting the water cascade luxuriously over her hair and body.

The soup had been just what she needed, and, although she was still on edge, she was no longer shaking inside. Madame Drouac was clearly a good cook, and Allie found she was looking forward to the casserole of lamb that had been promised for the evening meal.

‘Amelie is a jewel,’ Tante had said quietly downstairs. ‘I only wish she was not considered a necessity. But the doctor insisted I should have help.’

The doctor…
But which one did Madelon Colville mean? After all, there were three generations of de Brizats living at the big stone house at Trehel. It could hardly be the grandfather, Georges, who had retired under protest a few years before and must now be nearing his eighties, so it had to be Philippe still—or his only son, Allie thought, biting her lip savagely. And that was something she couldn’t ask.