Shadows (27 page)

Melissa lurched to her feet, abandoned the lunch table, swept up her wine in a gesture more extravagant than she intended and headed out to the pool.  She flopped down on the lounger and stared out across the fields.  Another glass of wine and she’d probably fall asleep.

~~~

Her skin was slick with moisture and she didn't want this dream, wouldn't enjoy it.  Someone leant over her, smiling.  It was not Rory.  She knew instantly it was not Rory, for he was still angry with her.  She mumbled something and tried to move away, but the man stretched out his hand.

The sleeve of the black robe fell back, revealing an arm roped with muscle beneath the long dark hairs.  Not Rory’s arm, but the robed monk who haunted her waking days.  His touch was immeasurably slow and light, but she couldn't break free, couldn't move, wasn't even sure she should try.

Somehow she wanted to be with him, even though she was terrified.  He smiled again, and slowly drew her to face him.  Melissa lay rigid, unable to move.

Do not be afraid, my friend.  I will not harm you.  I do you no harm.  The duty of a monk is to love with all his heart.  Do you not remember?  How could I hurt you?  My only crime comes from loving too well.

The words fell into her mind and soothed her, and her terror receded.  She opened her eyes and looked into golden brown pools with small specks of grit and gold in their depths.  She caught her breath, and her heart thundered.

He blinked and broke the spell that held her.

“Who are you?”

My name is Pierre St Lavall.  I have four and twenty years, as you see me now.

“You are not in my world.  Go away.  You are a ghost.”

He smiled, and revealed even teeth that looked so very white against his dark, sunburned skin.

That is true, Melissa.  But I still need your help.

“How do you know my name?”

He laughed, and looked up at the ceiling.  She admired the long, muscled column of his throat.  How do I know so many things?  It is a strange world, this world that I inhabit.  All things are known to me.

“That’s not fair.  You have an advantage over me.  Over everyone.  Whom did you love too well?”

She waited.  His voice was clear and warm toned, and yet she didn't hear it with her ears.  The words appeared in her brain, in her mind.  She could change his voice if she wanted.

No.  He smiled.  You can’t change the sound of my voice.  My voice is my own.

“This is my dream.  I shall have your voice as I wish.”

It is not even your dream, my friend.  I am making you dream.

“I don’t want to.”  She thrashed to one side in an effort to get away from him.

A thread of impatience entered his voice.  Why do you behave like a child?  I must speak with you.  I must tell you of Justine, of me, and our love.  And then you must tell the world of that hated creature, le Homme de Feu.

Her eyes opened wide.  “I know that name.  Christophe found it in one of the old books.”

He nodded.  Remember it well.

Melissa sat up.  “Why?  Why must I remember?”

His smile was mirthless.  He chased Justine away from me.

“Who was Justine?”

The dark features softened, relaxed, and the voice deepened.  Justine was the daughter of a local woodsman.  He kept the lord’s forests for him, and she was my one true love.  She is here.  Do you not see her?

Melissa stared beyond Pierre’s head, where a dim figure formed in the shadows.  “Perhaps.  She looks sort of grey and thin.”

He glanced over his shoulder and smiled before he turned back to Melissa.

She has not the art as well as I.  She cannot do this alone.  I must help her.

Melissa’s fingers plucked and fretted at each other.  “I don’t want her to come.  What does she want?”

Pierre opened his eyes wide.  She wants to speak to you, nothing more.  Because of that hated creature, her life became one of misery.  Justine, mon amie.  You are here.

Melissa focused on the girl who now stood next to Pierre.  Small and daintily built, her long dark hair straggled over her shoulder and her violet eyes glowed in the strange silvery light that surrounded her.  I may not stay long.  She looked directly at Melissa, then looked at Pierre with love and regret.  My time is short.  She glanced back at Melissa.  You have a man who loves you.  She smiled at Pierre.  I must go, my love.

He caught her hand, but already it was fading in his grip.  Pierre leapt to his feet and tried to hold Justine in his arms.  Even as he held her, she disintegrated and vanished.  His face crumpled.  Melissa swallowed hard to get rid of the lump in her throat.

“Pierre?”

He looked at her.  His eyes sparkled with unshed tears.  I love her.  He tipped his head back to the ceiling.  I love her.  A full-throated bellow, but it didn't bring Justine back.

“She’s very pretty.  And Christophe is very handsome.  Very like you, actually.”

Pierre shook his head.  You should know that my son was born to her, and that his line stretches down to Christophe.  You are a distant cousin many times removed.  That is why we are able to speak to you in this way.  I cannot stay.  I must go to her.

Pierre went gray and thin and disappeared.  He wasn’t even looking at her.  He was looking for Justine in some other world.

She hoped they were happy.

~~~

She woke at the sound of the Honda.  The car prowled to a halt beside the bolly.  Melissa struggled to a sitting position on her lounger, and the world shifted oddly around her.  Her head ached, and when she tried to turn, everything inside her head slid over.  She grasped the lounger, and slowly sank back.  Maybe she'd had too much wine.

Rory and Christophe brought long cold drinks with them when they padded over to the pool and joined her.  She took the chilled glass Rory held out and pressed it against her forehead.  “M’mmm, that’s lovely.”  She needed to form her sibilants carefully.  “How did you get on?”

Struggling to a more upright position, she smiled at Rory, who eyed the empty bottle of wine tucked beside the lounger and gave her a long look in return.

“Monsieur le Maire was not at home.”  Rory settled on the vacant lounger.  “Either that or he was locked upstairs with his mistress.”

Melissa choked on the ice-cold water.  “He wasn’t.”

“No, I suppose not.”  Rory wasn’t looking at her.  “But he wasn’t at home, so we’re no further forward.  There was a funeral in the church and so we didn’t stay there, either.”

Christophe rolled up his slacks, sat on the side of the pool and dangled his feet in the water.  Melissa moved her head very gently so she could look at Rory.  He didn't seem to be angry now.  “Well, we’ll call on him tomorrow, now you know where he is.”

Rory was quite close, and she stretched out a languid arm and sleepily stroked his forearm.  He sat back so she couldn't reach him.

Her stomach dropped, and her breath stopped for a moment.

In the sudden silence, Christophe got to his feet.

“I remember.  I ’ave appointment.  I say au revoir.”  He skipped over to the bolly, picked up his car keys from the table where Melissa had dropped them earlier, got in his car and drove off.

Rory drank coffee and ate toast like a man needing sustenance, but didn't care what he consumed.  Melissa didn’t appear to have woken with a headache though he was aware that she’d drunk more than a bottle of wine yesterday afternoon.  She’d slept the best part of twelve hours without a break and emerged this morning muttering something vague about a dream.

From time to time, angry resentment burned in his chest, and each time he fought it, sent it away.  If only Christophe would get out of his life, all his suspicions of Melissa would disappear.  As long as Christophe hovered nearby, he couldn't trust her.  For a moment he contemplated returning to London, where he and Melissa would go their separate ways, and it wouldn’t be long before he found some other girl to squire about town.

He didn't want that to happen.  He wanted a return to the brief time a few days ago, when they'd been happy and in love, and Christophe was an unknown Frenchman.

The pile of toast soon vanished.  She went and made more, came back and, with a shy smile, put the plate on the table.  The silence built.  How could she look so innocent when she'd obviously been up to something with Christophe yesterday?  He nodded his thanks for the toast but didn't speak.  Her smile faded.  She didn't eat, but grasped her mug of coffee in both hands.

The birds chirruped, the sun rose in the sky and the silence continued.  He studied her neat, clear profile.  What was she thinking, with that slight frown between her brows?  Wondering when Christophe would appear in that Dinky toy of a car?  Rory’s stomach contracted.  That he could not face.  One wrong word and he would turn on the Frenchman.

“We’ll visit Domme today.”  That way he would avoid all possibility of having to be polite to the Frenchman.  Domme was a fair distance to drive, and in an open topped car he wouldn’t have to talk to Melissa.

“It would be good to get away from this place.”  Her smile wobbled.

Rory hardened his heart.  She wasn’t going to get around him by feigning sadness.  Well aware that he was condemning her without an atom of evidence, he could not help himself.  Jealousy ate at him, destroyed his confidence in her.

In no time he had the car speeding off south in the strengthening sunshine.  He made one wrong turn in Lalinde but the correction was easy, given the French habit of directing all traffic onto toutes directions.  There was no need to slow down again until the road crossed the river and approached Domme perched on the pinnacle of a hill shaped like an ice cream cone.

Melissa gazed about her with pleasure.

Rory doubted that she could be so guilty and yet behave so innocently.  Maybe he'd been wrong?  Maybe she was innocent.

The Honda wound round and round the inverted cone between beautiful stone built old cottages and villas and they were early enough to park in the square beside le petit train.  Rory liked the endearing miniature trains that chugged around French cities.  Usually painted blue and white, often with a story-book face on the front of the engine, this one boasted only two instead of the usual ten or twelve open wagons.

Domme, medieval and picturesque, took his mind away from the unpleasantness at the mill.  The sun beat down on the narrow cobbles of the uneven market square, and sightseers ambled in and out of the tiny cubby holes masquerading as shops.  Stands bearing postcards stood like sentries flanking almost every doorway.  Window boxes of bright waxy begonias, urns of finger petal geraniums and sweet peas tumbled over trellised walls and clouded the air with perfume.

Rory led her in and out of craft shops, waited while she bought post cards.  Ice cream cones melted in the sun, and Rory chucked his in a nearby waste bin.  Melissa insisted on eating hers with ever increasing speed as the ice cream melted all over her hands.  On the highest point of the hill, Rory’s stomach made him think of lunch and he guided Melissa into a pretty little terrace restaurant tucked up against the parapet.

“What a marvelous view.”  Melissa hung over the massive warm stone walls surrounding the café and gazed out over the intricate pattern of fields within the curve of the river.  Fanning herself with the menu, she stiffened and pointed toward the river.  Canoes floated on the brown water far below.  “Look at that one—they’re going to hit—Oh.  The bank.”

Rory leaned out.  The canoe rammed the bank, bounced off and careered gaily off on a tangent toward another canoe.  Shrieks and squeals, faint on the warm air, drifted up to him.

“Poor steersmanship.”  Rory snorted with reluctant laughter.  “Throw him overboard.”

“I daren’t look.”  She sounded too bright, too anxious to please.  “Has he hit the other boat?”

“No.  They fended him off, and clouted him over the head with the paddle.  They must know each other.”

Rory turned his back on the river and scanned the wrinkled red-and-white checked cloths and red paper napkins.  She was definitely nervous.  A waiter hurried to the table.

He ordered the menu de jour, poured a glass of wine each from the pottery carafe and pounced on the agneau a la broche when it arrived.  Rory ate the extremely garlicky lamb squares straight off the skewer and finished long before Melissa, who ate with her knife and fork.  She drank her wine in small, frequent sips and then heaved a sigh and placed her cutlery across her plate.