Count Toussaint’s Pregnant Mistress (11 page)

Back downstairs Luc was already sorting through post at the kitchen table, scanning the letters with an air of deliberate concentration. He barely glanced up when Abby reappeared in the stairwell. ‘You should rest this afternoon. Tomorrow we’ll go to Pont-Saint-Esprit for supplies.’

‘All right,’ Abby agreed, and, a bit disconsolately, she wandered back upstairs. She was tired, but she didn’t feel like sleeping. She wanted to explore, to talk, to discover more about the man she was half-falling in love with.
Half—
because she didn’t
know
the other half. And she had no good way of finding out.

The rest of the day passed slowly enough. Abby rested, and then Luc prepared a meal of pasta and tinned sauce which they ate in the kitchen as the sun slowly set over the mountains, casting long, golden rays across the slate floor.

‘I really shall have to learn to cook,’ Abby teased, and Luc shrugged.

‘Only if you want to.’

There could be no denying, Abby thought as she helped with the washing up after their meal, that since coming to France Luc had shut himself up like a box. Gone was the laughter lurking in his eyes, the hint of a smile. The darkness Abby had always sensed underneath had come to the fore, taking over his countenance like a malevolent shadow. He barely spoke, and as soon as possible he retreated to what she suspected was both a sanctuary and a defence: his work.

The next day was bright and sunny, the air dry and warm and scented with lavender as they headed into town to buy the promised supplies.

‘It’s market day,’ Luc said, ‘so there should be plenty of fresh fruit and vegetables.’

Abby nodded. She was looking forward to getting out and seeing a bit more of the countryside, and escaping the increasingly grim mood of the farmhouse. If she’d known how Luc would act here, she never would have come to France, she thought sourly, even as she recognized her other options were severely limited.

They drove in silence along the main road into town. The meadows ran parallel to the gently flowing Rhône, and they drove over the ancient stone bridge with its many arches that led into the town.

Luc parked near the centre, and soon they were wandering down cobbled streets, peeking into dusty little shops and market stalls with their colourful awnings.

Abby was enchanted, enthralled by the glass bottles of locally produced olive oil, the dishes of tapenade, the barrels of oranges and ropes of garlic and onions. She soon filled a basket that Luc carried; he glanced at the various wrapped packages with an arched eyebrow.

‘You are planning to cook with this, I presume?’

‘Of course,’ Abby replied, then added a bit sheepishly, ‘but I suppose I’ll need a cookbook.’

‘There are several at the farmhouse,’ Luc told her. ‘In French, of course, but that shouldn’t be a problem, should it?’

‘Bien sûr, non,’
Abby replied a bit flippantly, and was rewarded with the faintest flicker of a smile. She paused by a selection of wines, scanning the labels then coming up short. ‘Chateau Mirabeau,’ she read on one bottle of red. ‘But that’s the place right near us.’

‘Indeed.’ Luc looked almost bored, and Abby glanced around, suddenly noticing the way the wine merchant hovered near them, practically bowing to Luc, his hands clasped before him. Of course, he reocognized Luc. If Luc was the local nobility, everyone must recognize him. Everyone must wonder what he was doing with her. Perhaps they’d known his wife.

Suddenly Abby became conscious of the covert, sideways glances, the ripple of murmurs in the market. She’d been so enchanted by everything she hadn’t noticed at first, yet now she felt exposed, obvious. She put the bottle back with a clatter and turned to Luc.

‘I suppose we should go.’

‘You have everything you need?’

‘Yes, and I…I’m getting tired.’ She knew that would make Luc hurry, and sure enough he was soon hustling them back to the car. Abby sank into the passenger seat with relief. She didn’t know why the stares and whispers of the crowd had bothered her so much—she was certainly used to some amount of public attention.

Just not like this, she thought. Because of things she didn’t know, a past she didn’t understand. She turned to Luc. He was driving, staring straight ahead, his hands tight on the steering wheel. ‘People knew you.’ He shrugged. ‘They all recognized you,’ she pressed. ‘But you said you don’t really live
here.’ Luc still said nothing, and Abby forced herself to continue. ‘Did you live here once? With—with Suzanne?’

‘Yes.’

‘How did she die?’

‘A car accident.’ He gestured to the road, to the river flowing sluggishly by. ‘Right near here, a completely straight stretch.’ His voice was strained, almost cold, and it kept Abby from saying anything more; surely it hid a grief too deep and raw to acknowledge? He glanced at her, his eyes narrowed, although Abby saw a certain weariness etched into his features. ‘Why are you asking these questions, Abby?’

‘Because I want to know. I need to know, Luc. There is so much I don’t know about you.’

Luc turned back to gaze at the road, and the sorrowful silence stretched between them. ‘Maybe it’s better that way,’ he said finally.

Abby added silently,
only if we don’t have a future.

That afternoon, while Luc worked in his study, Abby set up in the kitchen. She had an old, worn cookbook propped in front of her and all her market-place purchases scattered on the oak worktop. She was going to make dinner.

‘Hot radishes with salted liver,’ she read. ‘Snails with nettles.’ She made a face. This was French cooking? She turned a page and settled on a simple cassoulet, as she had most of the ingredients and the recipe looked relatively simple—plonk in a pot and stir.

The room was soon filled with a variety of tempting aromas: oregano, thyme, the rich scent of red wine heavy on the air. The late-afternoon sunlight poured through the windows, and as Abby stirred the large cast-iron pot Sophie came in, purring plaintively as she wound around her ankles.

‘Don’t beg,’ Abby told the cat. ‘It’s not polite.’

The cat rubbed against her calf, and laughingly Abby gave
her a titbit of food. Everything was so perfect, she thought with a sigh. The food, the sunshine, the drowsy, warm air, even the cat. It was all part of her fantasy of a home, a life, and yet she couldn’t be satisfied because she knew it wouldn’t last. It was false, because the man at the centre of the fantasy didn’t love her. Didn’t, apparently, even want to be with her.

‘Stop it, Abby,’ she told herself. ‘It’s not going to happen, so just forget it.’

‘What’s not going to happen?’ Abby looked up, flushing, to see Luc in the kitchen doorway, one shoulder propped against the frame. ‘Who were you talking to? The cat?’

‘Myself, actually,’ she replied as she put the lid on the pot. ‘It’s a habit of mine.’

‘Is it?’

‘There hasn’t always been someone else to talk to,’ Abby said pointedly, and Luc gave an apologetic shrug—at least that was what Abby hoped it was.

‘I’m sorry, I haven’t been here in some months, and I needed to deal with some work.’

‘If I had a place like this, I’d stay here for ever,’ Abby said, meaning to be flippant, but it came out far too sincerely. Luc stilled.

‘Would you?’ he asked quietly and Abby hurried to explain.

‘I only meant it’s so relaxing here,’ she said, her head bent as she wrung out a dish cloth and began to swipe at the worktop with a little too much vigour.

‘I’m glad you think so. That was my hope in bringing you here.’

‘So.’ Abby wrung the cloth out again and hung it by the sink to dry. ‘If you haven’t been here, where have you been?’

‘Paris, mostly.’

‘Paris?’ How could a single word conjure so many memories? They poured through her as sweet as honey, yet
with a fiery power that made her almost sway. ‘Do you stay at the hotel?’ She bit her lip, wishing she hadn’t asked that question. It had slipped out, part of the memory. She could almost feel the crisp bite of champagne on her tongue, the languorous desire running through her veins.

‘No,’ Luc said after a moment. ‘I stay somewhere else.’

‘Do you have a flat?’

‘I did.’ He paused again. ‘I sold it.’

‘Why?’

He shrugged, a restless movement, and glanced at the pot she was stirring. ‘That smells delicious. What is it?’

Abby sighed, relegating her unanswered question to being just another thing about Luc she neither knew nor understood. ‘Cassoulet. I decided not to try the snails with nettles.’

Luc’s mouth curved into a smile that had Abby’s insides flip-flopping in response. ‘Too bad we didn’t pick up any snails at the market. They’re very good when they’re fresh, even if they are, as you once said,
snails.
’

‘I’ll trust you on that one.’ His low chuckle seemed to wind its way around her soul, seducing her heart. She turned to stir the cassoulet, to distract her body from its treacherous yearnings. Then she felt another flip-flop, only this one was even stronger. ‘Oh!’

‘Abby, what? Are you all right?’

‘Yes.’ Abby pressed her hand against her bump. ‘The baby…she kicked me! I felt it!’ She laughed, a sound of incredulous joy. ‘There! She did it again.’

‘Can I…?’

‘Yes, yes.’ Buoyed by excitement, Abby reached for his hand and pressed it against her middle. They waited in silent, tense expectation for a moment before the baby obliged and kicked again, right into Luc’s palm. He laughed aloud. ‘Amazing, isn’t it?’ Abby shook her head, unable to keep the ridiculously wide grin off her face. ‘She’s really in there.’

‘She is.’ Luc did not take his hand from her bump, and as Abby looked up at him, their gazes locking, the moment stretched between them in an intimate silence. She felt the breath dry in her throat and her heart begin to beat with heavy, deliberate thuds. She wanted that moment to last for ever, to be cocooned in the shared miracle of their child, the warmth of Luc’s hand against her stomach. This feeling that anything was possible, that the world—life and love—was theirs for the taking, the enjoying. The sharing.

‘Luc,’ she breathed, and didn’t dare to say any more. He said nothing, and for a moment Abby rested and even reveled in the moment, fragile as it was. She closed her eyes, and raised her hand to cover Luc’s, but before their fingers touched he moved his hand and stepped away.

‘I need to make some calls before dinner,’ he said, his tone abrupt, and before Abby could even make a reply he’d left the room.

Luc walked blindly to his study where he stood still, his hands braced flat on his desk as he drew in deep lungfuls of air, almost as if he’d just finished a sprint.

He was dizzy with emotion from that brief moment with Abby, the memory of her hand on his; the baby’s feather-light kicks dancing on his palm still created little aftershocks of awareness, electrifying his soul. He’d felt happy, hopeful, alive, and it amazed him.
He’d felt—even
stronger than ever before. His heart and body had come to life, reawakening his senses. His soul.

It was wonderful. It was terrifying. He closed his eyes and willed his heart to slow. He didn’t like the fear that followed the joy; it crept into him and settled coldly in his bones. When you felt so much, you could lose so much.

For a moment he was back on that stretch of road—the wrecked car wrapped around a tree, the smell of fire and death thick in the air, futility and powerlessness swamping him.

He couldn’t lose Abby. He couldn’t—yet what was there to lose? They weren’t married; they weren’t even lovers any more. She’d come here simply for the sake of her child; he needed to remember that. He needed to keep his distance, keep from caring or letting her care.

It was too frightening, too dangerous for them both.

Luc didn’t reappear in the kitchen until Abby was ladling the cassoulet into heavy ceramic bowls. The sky was dark with gathering shadows. She looked up as he approached, summoning a smile.

‘I hope you’re hungry. I seem to have made enough for an army.’

Luc didn’t answer. He sat down and slid a slim, black phone across the table. Abby’s fingers curled around it automatically. ‘I’ll be busy with work the next little while,’ he said. ‘But you can contact me in an emergency. I programmed my number into the phone.’

‘I see.’ Abby glanced down at the phone, a sure sign if there ever was one of Luc’s emotional withdrawal. Yet what she expected? Back in Cornwall, she’d wanted him to leave her alone. Now that he was, Abby wondered if she’d fooled herself. Did she still want more from Luc? Had she come to France secretly hoping for a second or third chance? Was she really that self-deceiving and naïve? ‘Thank you,’ she said finally, and slid the phone into her pocket.

They ate in near silence, and soon after the meal Luc excused himself to return to his study. Abby made herself a cup of coffee and wandered out to the terrace behind the kitchen. The air was cool, the wind rattling in the olive trees, the sky inky-black and spangled with stars. Abby sighed deeply, breathing in the dry, dusty air. The gently rolling hills and meadows seemed to stretch out endlessly in front of her, dotted with the occasional olive or plane tree. In the distance
she could see the towers of what must be Chateau Mirabeau, dark and silent under the moon. Perhaps she would explore the countryside tomorrow, Abby thought a bit disconsolately. Wander over to the chateau and see who lived there, if anyone. There wasn’t much else to do.

She took a sip of her now-lukewarm coffee and let the night’s cooling air settle over her. With a sudden, sharp pang of longing she wished things could be different. She wished she could return inside and pop her head around Luc’s study door, tease him away from his work so they could sit here together, counting the stars. Or perhaps they would go right upstairs, to the wide, pine bed with its fluffy mattress and duvet and put it to good use…

The fantasy she spun for herself seemed so real, so possible, that Abby almost had to restrain herself from acting upon it. Luc was sending clear signals that he did not want to get emotionally involved. He’d been sending those signals for a year now, so why couldn’t she accept them? Why did she still want more?