The Right Bride?. Jessica Steele
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I could take Tom exploring the Auvergne, or the Dordogne. Even go as far as the Côte d’Azur.
Anywhere, she resolved, as long as it was far—far away from Remy de Brizat. Because Tante was so terribly wrong, and she had everything to fear from encountering him again.
Her arms closed more tightly around Tom, who wriggled in protest, demanding to be set down.
She held his hands, steering him back to the car as he paced unsteadily along, face set in fierce determination.
‘I know the feeling,’ she told him as she lifted him back into his seat for the short drive to Les Sables. ‘And from now on, my love, it’s you and me against the world.’
The house stood alone, grey and solid against the slender clustering pine trees behind it. Allie eased the car along the track, remembering her father’s concern that Tante should have chosen such an isolated spot.
‘It wouldn’t do for me,’ he’d said, shaking his head. ‘The silence would drive me crazy.’
Tante had laughed gently. ‘But there is no silence, mon cher. I live between the wind singing in the trees and the sound of the sea. It is more than enough.’
The front door was open, Allie saw, and a woman’s small, upright figure had emerged, and was standing, shading her eyes against the sun, watching the car approach.
It’s Tante Madelon, Allie realised with astonishment. But if she’s been ill, surely she should be in bed, or at least resting on the sofa.
She brought the car to a halt on the gravelled area in front of the house and paused for a moment, taking a deep breath. She’d already decided on her strategy. No reproaches or recriminations. Instead, she too would practise a deception—she would pretend that she’d simply driven through Ignac and seen no one. As far as she was concerned, Remy de Brizat was still on the other side of the world.
And if Tante mentioned his being back in Ignac, she would produce a look of faint surprise, maybe even risk a polite question about his life in Brazil. Or had he, in fact, moved on from there?
She’d tried so hard not to think about that. Not to wonder where he was and what he was doing.
And now it seemed as if all her desperate efforts to blank him out of her mind had been in vain.
Ah, well, she thought bleakly, as she marshalled her defences. Just as long as it doesn’t show.
And she opened the car door and got out, smiling resolutely.
Madelon Colville had never been a large woman, but now she seemed to have shrunk even more. In Allie’s embrace, she felt as insubstantial as a captured bird. But her eyes were still bright, shining with love and pleasure, and her voice was husky with emotion as she murmured words of welcome.
‘Dearest child, you cannot know what this means to me.’ She looked towards the car with unconcealed eagerness. ‘Now, where is your little son?’
Finding himself on show, Tom decided to be shy, and buried his face in his mother’s neck. But Tante was unfazed by the reaction.
‘It is all too new and strange for him,’ she declared. ‘But soon we will be friends—won’t we, chéri?’ She took Allie’s hand. ‘Now, come in, and meet Madame Drouac, who looks after me. She is a widow, like myself, and so good to me. However, she speaks no English, and you will not understand her patois, so I shall translate for you both.’
Madame Drouac, who was standing at the range, stirring a pan of something that smelt deliciously savoury, was a tall, angular woman with a calm face and kind, shrewd eyes. As she shook hands, Allie was aware of being subjected to a searching look, followed by a low-voiced exchange with her great-aunt.
But Allie did not need a translation. She remembers me from the last time I was here, she told herself without pleasure. Recalls who I was with, too.
‘Amelie thinks you have become thin, ma mie.’ Madelon spoke lightly. ‘She says we must fill you with good food. Also le petit.’
She indicated an old-fashioned wooden highchair, polished to within an inch of its life, which was standing at the table. ‘She has loaned us this for Thomas. Also the cot, where her own son slept. He has married a girl from Rennes,’ she added with a shrug. ‘And she does not need them for her baby. She wants everything that is new. So Amelie is pleased that her things will be used once more.’
She paused. ‘I have told her that you are a widow, Alys, but also that your marriage only occurred after you left here and returned to England.’ Her gaze was steady. ‘You understand?’
‘Yes,’ Allie said woodenly. ‘Yes, of course.’
Lunch was a thick vegetable soup, served with chunks of bread, and there was cheese to follow.
Tom made a spirited attack on his soup, using his spoon like a stabbing spear. He was assisted in his efforts by Madame Drouac, who talked softly to him in Breton, and occasionally clucked at him like a hen, which provoked a joyous toothy grin. Shyness, it seemed, was a thing of the past, Allie saw with relief.
‘He usually has a nap in the afternoon,’ she mentioned as they drank their coffee.
‘Very wise,’ said Tante. ‘I do the same.’ She gave Allie a long look. ‘And perhaps you should rest also, ma mie. You are pale, and your eyes are tired.’
‘Well, I have had more peaceful nights,’ Allie admitted ruefully. She hesitated. ‘Would it be all right if I took a shower first? I feel as if I’ve been wearing these clothes for ever.’
Tante covered her hand with her own. ‘You must do exactly as you wish, chérie. This is your other home. You know that.’
It’s probably my only real home, Allie thought, as she carried Tom upstairs. The room had been rearranged, with its wide bed pushed under the window in order to accommodate the cot—a palatial, beautifully carved affair. For a moment, Allie felt almost sorry for the daughter-in-law from Rennes who couldn’t recognise a family heirloom when she saw it. But her loss was Tom’s gain, and he was asleep even before Allie had finished unpacking.
She undressed slowly, and put on her thin, white silk dressing gown before making her way to the bathroom, which boasted a separate shower cabinet as well as a large tub. ‘It may be a cottage, but I insist on my comforts,’ Madelon Colville had declared, when the old-fashioned fittings had been torn out and replaced.
And maybe I like mine too, Allie thought wryly, as she set out the array of exquisitely scented toiletries she’d brought with her.
She stepped into the shower and turned on the spray, letting the water cascade luxuriously over her hair and body.
The soup had been just what she needed, and, although she was still on edge, she was no longer shaking inside. Madame Drouac was clearly a good cook, and Allie found she was looking forward to the casserole of lamb that had been promised for the evening meal.
‘Amelie is a jewel,’ Tante had said quietly downstairs. ‘I only wish she was not considered a necessity. But the doctor insisted I should have help.’
The doctor… But which one did Madelon Colville mean? After all, there were three generations of de Brizats living at the big stone house at Trehel. It could hardly be the grandfather, Georges, who had retired under protest a few years before and must now be nearing his eighties, so it had to be Philippe still—or his only son, Allie thought, biting her lip savagely. And that was something she couldn’t ask.
She wished that Madame Drouac spoke even a little English, so that, among other things, she could establish exactly what was wrong with her great-aunt. Because, when she’d tried a little tactful probing, Tante had merely waved a languid hand and said that she had good days and bad ones.
‘But today is nothing but good, because you are here,’ she’d added.
On the other hand, Allie thought wryly, the language