Solitaire. Sara Craven
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that still does not explain the letter.’ He walked back to his chair and picked it up, studying it yet again, then turning his attention to the envelope.
‘The letter is undated, but there is a postmark,’ he remarked at last. ‘Curious. It was posted in Les Sables just over a month ago.’
Marty moved her shoulders wearily. ‘Someone’s idea of a cruel joke, I suppose,’ she said. ‘I hope whoever it is will be delighted with their success.’
‘I think not,’ he said abruptly. ‘As I said before, no one here knew of your existence. Jacques never mentioned you, and as far as we all knew he died without kin.’
‘He was always a loner,’ Marty said tiredly. ‘He—he travelled a great deal all his life and seemed to find it difficult to put down roots. But he always promised that when he finally made a settled home for himself, he would send for me.’
‘And you believed him?’
She looked at him in bewilderment. ‘Of course. Uncle Jim wouldn’t lie to me.’
‘I didn’t mean that. I meant that you believed he would be capable of creating this stable environment that you desired so greatly. You never paused to ask yourself whether this was the right thing to ask of such a man—a loner, as you yourself have said—a nomad even. You never asked yourself whether such a leopard would be able to change his spots?’
‘No, I never did.’ It was shaming to have to confess her lack of perception, her stubborn refusal to accept that the doubts Aunt Mary had raised had been valid ones. She had been too ready to blame them on prejudice, and had failed to see that they were not without foundation. She cleared her throat. ‘Why did Uncle Jim sell the villa to you?’
‘He needed the money,’ he returned with brutal frankness. ‘The flower farm had been a failure, although he tried hard enough to make a success of it, and he was deeply in debt. We had met some months before when I was staying in the locality and he knew I was looking for a house, so we came to an arrangement.’ His hand came out and lifted her chin gently. ‘If it is any consolation to you,’ he said quietly, ‘he clearly intended that you should have the best. I have not altered the house at all since I moved in except to install my own furniture. It took all the money he had been able to save in a lifetime and all he could borrow as well to buy this villa.’
‘But why?’ Marty fought her tears. ‘I didn’t want—all this. I would have been content with something far smaller—humbler.’
‘But maybe he could not,’ he said. ‘Perhaps a promise made to a child assumed paramount importance in his life, in his thinking. Perhaps when you make a dream come true for someone, there should be no half measures. And perhaps too he knew he did not have a great deal of time left. According to the letter, this was meant to be your inheritance.’
‘You’re talking now as if you believe Uncle Jim really did write that letter!’
He shrugged. ‘What other rational conclusion is there? All that remains to be explained is the lapse of time between the writing, and its posting.’ He paused and she saw an intentness in his expression as if he was listening to something. He released her and with a fierce gesture to her to keep silence, he strode swiftly and quietly towards the door of the salon, jerking it open.
Marty heard him speaking to someone in French, his voice like a whiplash, and she quailed. Surely the austere Madame Guisard didn’t descend to listening at keyholes, she thought, a hysterical desire to laugh welling up inside her.
But when Luc Dumarais reappeared he was holding the arm of a young boy, thin and dark-haired, the slenderness of his wrists and ankles betraying how brief the journey he had taken so far towards adolescence. His mouth set and mutinous, he glared up at the man who was thrusting him mercilessly towards where Marty was standing, open mouthed.
‘I have the honour to present my son Bernard, mademoiselle,’ Luc Dumarais said tightly. ‘His interest in the matter we have been discussing leads me to think he could shed some light on the problem that has been perplexing us.’ He picked up the letter and the envelope and held them out to the boy, who stared at them sullenly.
‘Alors, Bernard,’ his father said almost silkily. ‘Did you send this letter to Mademoiselle Langton?’
There was a long silence. Bernard’s slightly sallow complexion took on a deep guilty flush. His lips parted slightly, but no sound came out.
Marty felt suddenly sorry for him. ‘It’s all right, Bernard,’ she said, trying to sound encouraging. ‘I’m sure you meant well and …’
‘I did not mean anything,’ he interrupted flatly in heavily accented English. ‘I found the letter in a book that Jacques gave me. I thought that I would send it, that was all.’
‘How long ago did you find it?’ Luc Dumarais demanded.
Bernard shrugged, his face peevish. ‘I don’t remember. A long time ago—just after he died.’
‘And it did not occur to you that a more proper course of action would have been to give me the letter, so that I could pass it on to the lawyer who was dealing with Jacques’ affairs?’ Luc said coldly.
‘Why should I?’ Bernard flung his head back defiantly and faced his father. ‘The letter was not written to you. It was not your business.’
‘Or yours,’ Luc Dumarais returned harshly. ‘Yet you chose to make it so.’
Bernard shrugged again. ‘I did not know what was in it,’ he muttered defensively. ‘I did not know that Mademoiselle would be fool enough to come here. Who is she?’ he added. ‘Jacques’ mistress?’
Almost before he had finished speaking, Luc’s hand shot out and slapped him across the face. The boy staggered back wincing with a gasp that was echoed by Marty’s.
She whirled on Luc. ‘There was no need for that, surely!’
‘There was every need.’ His voice sounded weary. ‘Or are you accustomed to be insulted in such a manner?’
‘No, of course not.’ Marty was taken aback. ‘But he didn’t mean it.’
Luc’s smile held no amusement whatsoever. ‘He meant it.’ He turned and gave his son who was standing, his fingers pressed to his cheek, a long hard look. ‘As he always means every word of the mischief he makes. Pauvre Bernard! Were you so lost for ways to anger me that you had to send all the way to England? Involve a complete stranger?’
‘Well, it has been a success, tout de měme,’ the boy burst out suddenly, and Marty was horrified at the malice in his voice. ‘For now this girl has come, and you will have to deal with her, mon père.’ He turned and ran out of the room, banging the salon door behind him.
Marty heard Luc Dumarais swear softly under his breath before he swung back to face her.
‘As you see, mademoiselle,’ he said coldly, ‘your intervention on my son’s behalf was quite unnecessary. He has his own weapons.’
Marty spread her hands out helplessly in front of her. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said inadequately.
‘There is no need,’ he said impatiently. ‘It is I who must apologise to you as it was my son who has brought you on this wild goose chase.’
‘But why should he do such a thing?’
‘You heard,’ he said. ‘To annoy me. To disrupt the peace I have tried to establish here. To cause me yet more problems, and eventually to prove such a thorn in my flesh that I will willingly send him back to Paris to his mother’s family.’
‘And you aren’t prepared to do that?’ Marty ventured.
‘No, I am not.’ Luc Dumarais stretched tiredly. He did not volunteer any further explanation and his dark face was so harsh and strained suddenly that Marty did not dare probe further.