Authors: Mary Nichols
But in the days that followed she was forced to the
conclusion that he did believe it. Watched in wry amusement by the rest of the
Caronne family, he proceeded to search every inch of the building, from attics
to cellars, and the latter were extensive and full of old wine-making
implements, barrels and hundreds of bottles, though all but a few dozen were
empty.
When that
produced nothing he ripped out whatever wood panelling still remained in the
reception rooms, pulled up floorboards, poked about up chimneys and covered
himself with cobwebs and soot. All in vain.
`Do you think
we have not done all that already?' Henri laughed. 'Twenty years we have been
searching...'
`Then you were
not thorough enough. Fetch me another bottle of wine, this is thirsty work.'
Juliette
watched him with growing dismay. He was not interested in her; all her efforts
to persuade him to give up and take her home as he had promised were met with
drunken anger. Occasionally he struck her, shouting at her that if she wanted
to go home so badly, the least she could do was to help him search.
`It is a
foolish waste of time,' she told him one day when they were alone in the salon.
'Why can't we go back to England? I realise you no longer wish to marry me, not
after I ran off with Pierre, but to tell the truth, I do not think we should
suit, but Hartlea would still be yours when the time came. `I would be happy to
live a simple life, working to earn my keep. But not here, not in France.
Juliette Caronne died with her parents, she should never have been
resurrected.'
`It is too late
for regrets, my dear. I am afraid you have burned your boats. Now, I have a
mind to search the library. There might be something hidden behind the
bookshelves.' And with that he turned and strode away.
If she had been
miserable before, she was doubly so now. She would retire to her room, or take
long walks between the rows of vines or in the pine woods to the back of the
château where the ground sloped up to the mountains. Again and again her
thoughts turned to England, to the happy childhood she had had, even to the
summer just gone when she had been fêted as the debutante of the Season. But
most of all she thought about one man in particular, tall and powerful, with
dark all-seeing eyes and a dimple in his chin. Thinking about him set her whole
mind and body longing for him, for his gentleness and understanding, his
warmth. She recalled his words to her at the ball, play for time, and she could
not stop the tears.
She was returning home towards dusk one evening when she
saw a lone rider approaching the chateau; for one heart-stopping minute she was
reminded of Philip Devonshire, simply because of the way he sat in the saddle,
head up and hands relaxed on the reins so that it appeared as if the horse were
guiding itself. Ever since leaving England, she had had a dream, a vision: he
would coming riding up on a white charger, like St George slaying the dragon,
and carry her off, heedless of the obstacles that stood in their way, taking
her to a land far way where no one knew of their past, where they could be
happy. Without realising it, she began to run, her heart singing with joy. She
reached the door as he dismounted and then came to a sudden stop, breathing
hard.
The man who
stood before her was not Philip Devonshire. This man was not, after all, so tall
and he had a decided stoop. His hair was reddish, he had thick eyebrows, wore
an untidy beard and there was a new scar across his cheek, as if he had been
caught by the tip of a sword. He wore the faded uniform of a French cavalry
officer, its epaulettes torn and its silver tarnished. His breeches were baggy,
as if he had once been heavier than he now was.
He turned and
stared at her, drawing his gaze up from her boot-clad feet, over the rough wool
dress that Anne-Marie had lent her, to her face, sun-tanned and freckled. And
there it rested. There was a flicker of humour in his eyes that made her catch
her breath in remembrance, because Philip had sometimes looked at her like
that, as if they shared a secret joke. But what could she and this stranger have
in common to laugh at?
`Bonjour,
mam'selle,' he greeted her.
She was still
breathless. 'Who are you?'
`Captain
Philippe Devereux. I am on my way south to rejoin my regiment in Spain and come
to pay my respects to the Caronne family.' His accent had the heavy patois of
the region; she recognised it as the same as that of Gerard, the only servant
they had. At first she had found it very difficult to follow, but she was
slowly becoming used to it and even her French had improved so that now she
rarely had to ask James to translate.
`There will be
a bed for the night,' he said. 'Henri Caronne will not turn the son of his old
friend from the door.'
`Come in and I
will see if I can find him.'
At that moment,
Henri himself appeared, wandering round the corner of the house carrying a
pitchfork. James's quest for treasure had infected everyone else and he had
been using it to clear out one of the lofts in an outhouse.
`Henri, this is
Captain Devereux,' Juliette said, indicating the man by the horse.
`Devereux?' the
old man queried, peering into the soldier's face. 'Devereux? Do I know you?'
`You knew my
father, sir. Antoine Devereux. The comte's young son was named for him.'
`Oh, that
Devereux! Come in. You can tell us about the progress of the war.' He turned to
Juliette. 'Fetch a bottle of the best, girl, and be quick about it. And tell
Gerard to see to the captain's horse.'
Juliette was
glad to turn away and do as she had been bid. The soldier had hardly taken his
eyes off her since he arrived, staring at her as if he could not believe what
he was seeing, making her feel uncomfortable. As she moved away, she heard him
ask, 'Who is that?'
Henri laughed.
'Her name is Juliette, or so she says. She claims to be the dead comte's
daughter...'
Juliette heard
no more as they went in the direction of the salon and she hurried through the
door into the kitchen, where she found Gerard toasting his stockinged toes by
the fender of the kitchen fire. Above it hung a blackened pot which steamed
gently, 'We have a guest,' she shouted in his ear. 'Henri says you are to see
to his horse.'
Grumbling he
pulled his boots back on and shambled out into the yard, while she went down to
the cellar and selected two bottle of red wine. Knowing nothing of wine and
assuming they ought to use up the old bottles first, she chose those with the
thickest layer of dust. If they turned out to be undrinkable and gave the men a
bellyache, then she would shed no tears. She returned to the salon where Henri
and his guest had been joined by Jean and Anne-Marie.
`Will this do?'
she queried, holding out the bottles. Henri took them from her. 'Where did you
find these?'
`At the back of
the cellar. Why?'
`The best year
we ever had. I thought they'd been drunk years ago.' He turned to the captain.
'She calls herself a Caronne and yet she knows nothing of wine. What the
Caronnes don't know about wine-growing is not worth troubling about.'
`True,' the
captain said, as Henri looked about for a corkscrew. 'It is common knowledge
they have wine running through their veins instead of blood.' He laughed
harshly, looking under his thick brows at Juliette. 'They do say that when
their heads came off, it was wine that spurted into the basket and the
executioner got so drunk on it he missed one of them.'
Juliette
shuddered. How could they be so crude? But was it generally held to be true
that one of the family escaped?
`It is a pity
you don't put your knowledge to better use,' she said sharply to Henri, who was
busy uncorking the first bottle. 'Even I can see the whole place has been
allowed to fall into ruin.'
`We can't get
the workers. They've all been conscripted. The captain will bear me out on
that, won't you, sir?'
`Yes, war has a
voracious appetite for young men, there are only women, boys and old men left.
And even the boys are being taken now.'
`Then you
should put the old men and women to work,' she told Henri. 'And work yourself.
I have never seen you do anything except eat and drink and...' She stopped
suddenly. She had been about to add, 'and search for non-existent treasure',
but if she admitted she did not think it existed, then they would throw her
out, might even harm her. She looked up, wondering how to finish her sentence
and found herself looking into the captain's eyes, where there was a gleam of
amusement as if f he knew what she had been about to say. Again she was
reminded of Philip, who seemed to be able to divine her thoughts almost as soon
as they came into her head. This constant comparison was foolish, she told
herself. It was all wishful thinking, her own longing making her see things
that were not there.
`And sleep,'
she added, at which the soldier threw up his head and laughed. It was so
different from the coarse laughter of a moment before and so full of merriment
that it transported her back to a meadow beside the river at Richmond. She
heard again the sound of bat and ball, the polite clapping of the ladies and
the noisy applause of the men. Mr Devonshire had laughed like that when he had
been run out, she remembered; it was the laugh of a man who did not have a care
in the world.
And at that
time neither had she, except that of deciding whether she preferred James
Martindale or Philip Devonshire. Now she knew the answer, it was too late. Far,
far too late. And thinking about it did nothing to help her to accept the life
she was now forced to live.
`My, she is a
spirited filly, this young cousin of yours, Henri,' the captain said, accepting
a glass of wine from him. 'If I had the time, I might enjoy taming her.'
`How long do
you have, Captain?' Anne-Marie asked.
He shrugged. 'I
was sent to Paris with despatches for the Emperor, but I had to follow him all
the way to Dresden. He was in a foul mood over the treachery of the Austrians
and his defeats at Grossbeeren and Katzbach. Fortunately those setbacks were
followed by victory at Dresden. I left with instructions to make sure the
country knew of it. I assumed from that I was to take my time spreading the
good news on my way back to Spain. I am in no hurry to return to that hellhole,
I assure you. I decided to visit my old home and pay a call on the chateau on
my way. It is many weeks since I slept in a comfortable bed.'
`He can have
the Englishman's bed,' Henri said.
`Englishman!'
The new arrival, who had been idly studying the colour of the wine in his
glass, sat up suddenly. 'What's an Englishman doing here?'
`She brought
him,' Jean said, indicating Juliette.
`Her husband?'
`No, my
escort,' Juliette said and was surprised by the change in the captain's
expression. The tension in his features vanished and he looked at Juliette and
smiled. There seemed to be a message in his eyes, though she could not read it.
`A strange sort
of escort for a French comtesse, n'est-ce pas?'
`He says he is
a friend of France and on the Emperor's business,' Jean said.
`So he is,'
said a voice from the open door.
Everyone turned
to see James leaning drunkenly against the doorpost. Juliette thought she heard
the captain's quick intake of breath, but decided she must have been mistaken,
for when she looked at him, he was sipping his wine.
`James, where
have you been?' she asked. 'We have a guest.'
`So I see. Are
you going to introduce him?'
`Captain
Philippe Devereux.' And to the captain, 'This is Mr James Stewart.'
She thought she
imagined a twitch of a smile to the corners of his mouth as if he understood
the joke in the name, but then decided it was unlikely. He did not bother to
rise, but smiled over the rim of his glass. It stretched the scar on his cheek
and turned the smile into a grimace. She wondered idly if it gave him any pain.
'I am pleased to make your acquaintance Monsieur Stewart.'
`I might return
the compliment if it did not mean giving up my bed,' James said.
`Oh, do not
concern yourself, I will find another. Perhaps the lady will not be averse to
sharing hers.' He spoke in a lazy drawl with an accent so thick, Juliette did
not, at first, take in what he had said. It was only when Jean laughed and
slapped his knee that she realised what he meant.
`The lady is
very averse,' she snapped, going to pass him in order to leave the room.
'Please excuse me. I have work to do in the kitchen.'
He caught her
wrist and pulled her down onto his knee. `Oh, no, ma petite, you do not escape
so easily. I have been starved of female company for a very long time and you
have a fire about you that attracts me...'
She struggled
in his arms, but he held her fast. In spite of his unprepossessing appearance,
she could feel his strength, his animal power. He seemed strange and yet
familiar, as if she had woken from a dream to find her fantasies had come to
distorted life. He repelled and attracted her at the same time. It was such a
strange feeling that, for a moment, she ceased to fight him. She could feel his
warm breath against her ear, and it sent a shiver running through her body.