Solitaire. Sara Craven
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stood very straight, her large grey eyes fixed on her aunt’s furious face, the fingermarks standing out angrily on the pallor of her cheek.
‘It isn’t your money I want, Aunt Mary,’ she said quite gently. ‘It was always something that you couldn’t give me—or weren’t prepared to. Your love and your time. But there’ll be plenty of that where Uncle Jim is. I shall always be grateful for what you’ve done for me,’ she added, ‘but I really don’t want any more. You must do as you wish with your possessions. They’re really none of my business.’
There was a long and fulminating silence and then Aunt Mary turned precipitately and left the room.
The following week, up to the time that Marty left to board the Hovercraft at Ramsgate for the Channel crossing, was not an easy time, full of strained silences and edged and embittered remarks. Miss Barton made no attempt to come and see Marty off, and Marty herself did not suggest it. She had been hurt by her aunt’s assumption that she could be bought, and felt that any move towards a conventional leavetaking would be nothing short of hypocrisy. Her one tentative suggestion that she should write when she got to France and let her aunt know that she had arrived safely and that all was well was met with an icy ‘It won’t be necessary.’ And when the front door of The Poplars finally closed behind her, Marty knew that an era in her life had come irrevocably to its end.
She could not drive, but even if she had possessed a licence she felt she would have thought twice about driving in France. Even before she got out of Calais, she saw some near-accidents involving tourists who had not got the hang of the French priority from the right. Her own journey was to be rather more sedate, on public transport, so that she could see something of the countryside on her way to the Vendée region of France where Les Sables des Pins was situated.
It wasn’t a part of France that Marty really knew very much about, and her researches at the local library prior to her departure had not been very revealing, although she had discovered that La Rochelle was the nearest big town to Les Sables, and she knew that La Rochelle had played a major part in the tragic religious wars in France during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries.
Her journey down to Les Sables might not have been a totally straightforward one, but she felt she could have had no better introduction to France. The trip through Anjou had been particularly enjoyable, and she had stayed overnight in Angers, taking time off to visit the chateau with its odd decapitated turrets—another relic of the religious wars. She was fascinated by the acres of vineyards stretching away on both sides of the road, and the little stalls set up at intervals urging passers-by to stop and taste some of the famous wines of Anjou. Marty would have loved to have done so, but the bus she was travelling on never seemed to stop at a convenient place, and she had to promise herself that she would get Uncle Jim to bring her one day.
She paid the bill for her meal, and asked Madame rather haltingly if she knew the whereabouts of a house called Solitaire. Madame’s eyebrows rose a little, but her reply was immediate. But of course she knew of it. Who did not? Gladly she would direct Mademoiselle, but what did Mademoiselle seek there?
Marty hesitated, but only for a moment. After all, she told herself, there was no harm in telling this woman what the situation was.
‘I’m going there to see the owner. He’s my uncle,’ she said, and smiled.
Madame’s eyebrows ascended almost into her hairline, and Marty found herself hoping devoutly that all Aunt Mary’s predictions about Uncle Jim’s probable life-style were totally unfounded.
‘Est-ce possible?’ Madame asked the world in general, and went back into the café shaking her head. A moment later Marty saw her talking excitedly to a man behind the bar, and saw necks being craned in her direction. She felt hot with embarrassment and stood up decisively to take her leave. Obviously in spite of its placid appearance, Les Sables des Pins was a hotbed of gossip, she thought, and she had just supplied the main item for the day.
She was just about to leave when the man from behind the bar emerged and stood looking at her, frowning a little. He said, ‘Mademoiselle desires to be directed to the Villa Solitaire, it is so?’
‘Yes, please.’ Marty set her case down rather resignedly.
He hesitated. ‘Is Mademoiselle sure that she has the correct destination?’
‘Quite sure.’ Marty did not want to be rude, but some of her weariness crept into her tone. ‘Please tell me where it is. I’ve been travelling for most of the week, and I’m very tired. The journey took longer than I originally expected and my uncle will be worried if I don’t arrive.’
His shrug seemed to be almost fatalistic. ‘Then there is nothing more to be said.’
He might have seemed reluctant to vouchsafe them, but his directions were clear and concise and he even drew her a little map. Watching her tuck it away safely in the pocket of her shoulder bag, he asked ‘Mademoiselle has a car? It is a fair distance.’
‘No, but I’m sure I can manage.’ Marty repressed a sigh as she looked up at the unclouded blue of the sky and felt the heat of the sun blazing down.
‘That will not be necessary. Jean-Paul!’ He gestured to someone sitting inside the café. He turned to Marty. ‘He will take you,’ he said rather abruptly.
‘Oh, no, really!’ Marty was appalled. ‘I don’t want to cause anyone any trouble.’
He shrugged again. ‘What trouble?’ he demanded. ‘Each day he passes the Villa on his way to the beach.’
When Jean-Paul finally emerged, he turned out to be not a great deal older than Marty herself, but, she suspected as he looked her over with lingering appreciation, a great deal more versed in the ways of the world. He seized her case and carried it over to a small and battered Citroën parked in the shade of the church which dominated the square.
‘You are English,’ he said with an air of amazed discovery as he climbed into the front seat beside her and started the engine. ‘Not many English come here to Les Sables. They prefer to visit Brittany, which is my own region where I was born.’
‘Then why are you here?’ Marty was glad to be asking the questions, determined to switch the focus of attention.
He was not in the least unwilling to reply. He was a student, she learned, working in the local boulangerie for the vacation, and he was fortunate that his shift worked at night so that he had the day for swimming and sunning himself. Judging by the deep tan he had already acquired, this must be how he spent the major part of each day, she surmised. She was just about to ask him about his studies, when he got in ahead of her with a question of his own.
‘And yourself? You have come here to lie in the sun?’
‘Perhaps,’ she allowed. ‘Actually I’m joining my uncle.’ She paused. ‘He owns the Villa Solitaire.’
Obviously startled, Jean Paul missed his gear change and swore under his breath.
‘Your uncle?’ he demanded. ‘But no one has heard of any niece from England.’
‘All the same he has written to me and asked me to join him,’ she said coolly.
‘Mon dieu,’ he murmured, a smile playing about his lips. ‘And how will Bernard respond to this, I ask myself?’
‘Bernard?’ Marty raised her brows interrogatively.
He slanted her an odd look. ‘Your cousin, ma petite. The only son of your uncle. Is it possible you did not know of his existence, hein?’
‘No, I didn’t,’ Marty managed after a pause. ‘I—I didn’t even know my uncle had married.’
‘Well,’ he gave a slightly cynical shrug as he accelerated past an elderly cyclist, ‘I imagine he would not have been too eager to pass on the news. The marriage, from what I can gather, was not a success and they lived apart after the child was born. Bernard came to live with his father on the death of his