A Place of Storms (18 page)

Simone gave him an oblique glance and laid down her fork.

'As you please.' Her tone was meek, but Andrea was left with the strongest impression that she was not entirely displeased with the reaction her words had provoked.

At her side, Philippe gave vent to a cavernous yawn which he imperfectly tried to conceal behind his hand.

Andrea pushed back her chair. 'This poor child is almost asleep on his feet,' she mentioned. 'If you'll excuse me, I'll put him to bed.'

'Oh, let me.' Simone rose, crumpling her table napkin. Her eyes by some alchemy looked enormous and her mouth drooped wistfully. 'It may be the last time I shall be able to tuck him into bed and tell him a story. You will have the rest of his childhood to enjoy. Don't deny me this, Andrée,
je vous en prie
.'

Andrea immediately felt at a disadvantage, as if she was deliberately grudging Philippe's aunt a few last moments of his company. And it was true, she was being deprived of the child. Weakly, she heard herself assenting and saw Philippe led off by Simone, who gave them both one of her slant-eyed smiles from the doorway.

She sank back into her chair, feeling a little crushed, and was startled to hear a muffled imprecation from Blaise.

'Why did you let her do that?' he demanded violently. 'It was your place to put Philippe to bed.'

Andrea had an overwhelming urge to put her head down on the table and weep.

'What harm can it do?' she defended herself. 'You have the custody of him now, so you can afford to be generous. Anyway, children enjoy these night-time rituals, and if it helps Philippe settle in more happily…' She shrugged and left the sentence incomplete. Uncomfortably, she was remembering Simone's comments on the comparative isolation of the tower room and how Philippe had reacted to this, but Blaise was angry enough as it was, and she did not want to add further fuel to the flames by telling him this.

He did not reply, but, stealing a glance at him, she saw his face was set in lines of anger, and she gave a quick, inward sigh. Her heart ached for little Philippe. He obviously worshipped Simone, and now he was going to be parted from her—a shattering blow to his security that might have been redeemed by a stable environment in his new home, with his new aunt and uncle. Yet what was going to happen? In a year, maybe less, she would be gone and his life would be disrupted again. And what kind of life would he have once he and Blaise were alone? Would he end up as bleak and cynical as his uncle, seemingly incapable of normal emotions?

She drank what little wine remained in her glass and determinedly rose.

'If you'll excuse me,' she said formally, 'I would like to go to bed.'

He rose too and she tensed, but he swung away from her over to the other side of the room to the sideboard, where he extracted a bottle of whisky and a glass from a carved cupboard.

He gave her an ironic bow as he poured some of the liquid into the glass.

'On your way,
madame
, and sleep sweetly. You won't be interrupted, I give you my word. As you see, I have company for the evening.' He lifted the glass to his lips and drank, then poured some more.

She bit her lip. 'And there is Simone,' some inner demon prompted her to say. 'No doubt you have a great deal to talk about together—old times to discuss.'

He set the glass down with almost frightening deliberation.

'What, in the name of all the devils in hell, do you mean by that?' he said very softly.

'Not a great deal,' she said wearily. 'But it's obvious you have known her for a long time. You must have memories in common—Belle Riviere for one.'

'They are not memories I cherish.' He paused. 'No,
ma mie
, I have nothing to discuss with Simone, and if I had other plans for her—entertainment, I wouldn't need alcohol to stimulate my performance, I promise you. Now take yourself out of my sight,' he added savagely, and she fled.

Alone in the great bed, she tossed restlessly on the unfamiliar mattress while sleep eluded her. Her head throbbed and was answered by a very different ache deep inside her that she tried in vain to stifle. Images kept forcing themselves into her tired mind—images of Philippe waking alone and frightened in the dark—of Blaise and Simone alone together in the firelight downstairs. No matter how indifferent he claimed to be, Simone was a beautiful woman with an air of overt sensuality. But was it merely indifference? His attitude in the past when he had referred to Simone had implied dislike, or even something stronger. Yet hate was supposed to be akin to love or at least desire, and he had made love to herself, quite cold-bloodedly, in order to teach her a lesson.

She shivered in spite of the warmth of the quilt which covered her, and tensed suddenly as she heard the bedroom door open quietly. She closed her eyes and lay motionless, her heart beating quickly and painfully as she heard Blaise moving about. She heard the faint squeak of a cupboard door and guessed he was looking for blankets and covers. Then his footsteps quietly approached the bed and she almost stopped breathing.

'Don't be alarmed,
madame
,' he drawled. 'I only want a pillow. Surely you don't grudge me that much comfort at least?'

Furious with herself for her inept pretence at sleep, she opened her eyes and looked up at him, but he was only a shadowy figure in the darkness of the room.

'Poor Andrée.' The mockery was even more pronounced. 'What an ordeal—to have to share a room with your husband even for one night! And you will be relieved to hear it only will be for one night. Simone tells me she intends to leave first thing in the morning.'

He waited, but she did not answer, and after a moment he laughed softly and moved away.

She lay in the darkness listening to the rustle of his clothes as he undressed, and the protesting creak of the couch as he stretched out on it. It was only when the deep, regular sound of his breathing promised her that he was asleep that she allowed herself the luxury of turning her face into her pillow and crying like an exhausted child.

The moment Andrea awoke next morning, she knew something was wrong. Everything seemed oddly hushed, and there was hard brilliant light penetrating the curtains.

She pushed back the covers and shivered as the chill air hit her body like a blow. Her eyes went immediately to the couch, but it was unoccupied, the blankets restored to whatever storage place they came from, and the pillow resting once more beside her own on the bed.

She swung her legs to the floor and padded across the room, hugging her arms round her body, but too impatient to see if Gaston's prophecy had come true to stop to put on her dressing gown.

She tugged the curtain aside and gasped at the white world laid out for her inspection. It had snowed in the night and heavily too, and was still snowing now, big silent flakes from a leaden sky which unequivocally promised more to come.

The courtyard, the ruined wing, every building within view was transformed into a fairytale scene of breathtaking loveliness. But even as she gasped with enchantment, Andrea remembered with a sinking sensation in her stomach that Gaston had also predicted that the road to the village would be blocked.

She glanced at her watch, pulling a face when she saw it was nearly time for breakfast. She knew while she was pulling on her clothes that Simone would still be with them. It was impossible that she should have left, considering the present state of the roads and the promise of more snow to come. Andrea could have screamed with vexation. Apart from anything else, she did not think she could stand another night like the one she had just spent.

When she entered the dining room, for a moment she thought it was deserted, and then she saw Philippe kneeling on the window seat, his nose pressed against the panes, his whole body tensed with suppressed excitement. He turned and looked at her, his eyes wide and shining.

'Snow!' he almost gasped, and Andrea realised what a novelty it must seem to a child probably born and reared in the tropics.

She smiled, trying to fall in with his mood, in spite of her own forebodings.

'Isn't it lovely?' she agreed, joining him at the window. 'After breakfast, we'll have such fun. We'll have a fight with snowballs, and I'll see if Gaston can find some timber somewhere to make you a sledge.'

Philippe seemed a little unsure of the exact nature of the delights that were to come his way, but he returned her smile hesitantly and allowed himself to be led to the table, just as Madame Bresson came bustling in with a tray.

Her own view of the weather was more of a lamentation. Gaston, it seemed, had been forced to walk to the village that morning to get the bread. The steep road down was impassable except on foot, and great care was needed even then.

'Great care,' Madame repeated, nodding her head at Andrea as if she suspected her of secret ambitions to become a downhill racer.

In spite of the trek to the village, the
croissants
were still warm and utterly delicious, and Philippe tucked in heartily, aided by a liberal helping of jam supplied by Andrea.

The door swung open again to admit Blaise on a cold draught of air. Snowflakes clung to his hair and the shoulders of his coat, and he pulled the coat off and slung it across the settle so that it could dry in the warmth from the fire before joining them at the table.

He accorded Andrea a brief, unsmiling nod as he passed her hair, and ruffled Philippe's hair until it stood up like a cock's comb. '
Bonjour, mon neveu
.'

It was a carelessly affectionate gesture that should have prompted a laughing, wriggling protest from most children. Incredulously, Andrea saw Philippe, his eyes enormous with terror, flinch away from his uncle's touch as if it burned him. She saw too that his reaction had not been lost on Blaise, who had gone almost rigid, the scar standing out lividly against the tan of his face.

'
Qu'est-ce que j'ai fait
? he asked quite gently: 'Is it this that frightens you?' His hand went up and touched his scarred cheek.

Philippe stared down at the cloth, his face crimson. He gave an almost convulsive movement and muttered something unintelligible. For a moment, Blaise stood watching the downbent head, then his face hardened and he strode to his chair, reaching for the coffee pot and splashing some of the scalding brew into his cup.

Andrea felt completely bewildered by the whole incident. Philippe had been shy yesterday, it was true, and more than a little hostile, but it had been directed more at herself, she felt. He had displayed none of today's revulsion towards Blaise at any time that she had seen. Could a child be so affected by a minor disfigurement such as a scarred face? She herself hardly noticed it any more, but she knew that Blaise was still deeply self-conscious and sensitive about it, and that Philippe's reaction had been the last thing he needed. Or could it be simply a child's angry response to the change in guardianship over which he, presumably, had not been consulted? Was he simply showing Blaise that he did not want to be parted from Simone? If so, and Andrea was not even convinced it was the case, he could not have chosen a more unfortunate manner of making his feelings known.