by Anne Mather
Then, two days before Christmas, Marie had some interesting news for her.
‘An Englishman is coming,’ she announced, as she took off her coat and hung it on the peg in the kitchen that morning. ‘An Englishman is coming to the school, madame. To teach the children, you understand. Is not that exciting? Someone from your own country?’
Ryan was intrigued, but she said rather briskly: ‘You forget, Marie, I am just as French as I am English.’
Marie smiled. ‘Ah, yes, madame. But you still speak our language as the English speak it, and you know you will enjoy speaking in English again.’
Ryan uttered an exclamation. ‘What do you mean? I will enjoy speaking in English again? I may never meet the man.’
‘Oh, madame, you must. It is the natural thing for you to invite him to dine. That you, as someone who has recently left his country, should welcome him to Bellaise.’
Ryan felt a shiver of anticipation. ‘I don’t know,’ she murmured doubtfully. ‘We’ll have to see.’
‘Yes, madame,’ Marie seemed well pleased. ‘Yes, madame, we will see.’
When Ryan mentioned the advent of the Englishman to Alain over their evening meal, however, he seemed less than enthusiastic.
‘We have had English tutors at the school before,’ he commented off-puttingly. ‘They don’t stay long. The village is too quiet for them. They soon accept a position in Lyon or Paris. I am sorry if I disappoint you, little one, but I doubt you will find that this man is any different.’
‘You don’t disappoint me at all,’ retorted Ryan, stung by the derisiveness of his tone. ‘I told Marie that there was every likelihood I wouldn’t even get to meet the man.’
Alain toyed with the spongy dessert she had placed before him. ‘What did Marie say? Did she suggest you should do so.’
Ryan couldn’t control the colour that filled her cheeks. ‘I—she said something like that. I—er—I suppose she thinks I’m lonely.’
‘And are you?’ His eyes were suddenly intent.
She looked down at her own plate. ‘Sometimes,’ she answered honestly.
‘I see.’ He sounded irritated.
‘Well! You never talk to me!’ she flared, looking up at him. ‘Except about the weather—or the state of my health. Oh, and just occasionally about the vines.’
‘And what would you have me talk about?’
She shrugged uncomfortably. ‘I don’t know. Lots of things. You never talk about yourself. About what you did—where you lived—before you came here.’
‘Ah, I see.’ He swallowed a mouthful of his dessert. ‘It is my past which arouses your curiosity.’
‘Why not? You know practically everything there is to know about me, while I know next to nothing about you!’
He pushed his plate aside and lifted his wine glass. ‘It was all a long time ago. It would not interest you.’
‘It would!’ She sighed frustratedly as the familiar mask of withdrawal covered his face. ‘After all, I should at least know your first wife’s name.’
He raised dark eyebrows. ‘Very well. Her name was Julia. Julia Marron, before she married me. Does that satisfy you?’
Of course it did not, but Ryan could hardly say so. ‘You—you must have been very young when you married her,’ she ventured.
He reached for his cheroots. ‘I was old enough.’ He made as if to get up to light a spill from the fire, but she forestalled him, lighting a spill herself and holding the flaming end to his cheroot. She was familiar enough with his ways now to know that had he risen he would have excused himself and she would have had to serve his coffee in the study, leaving her alone again.
He thanked her, sitting looking at her with mocking eyes, and she realized he had seen through her ruse, but for the moment he was prepared to play along. She busied herself collecting the dirty plates from the table, and in their clatter, she asked: ‘Did you not have—any children from this marriage?’
‘No.’ His reply was brief and uncompromising.
Ryan licked her lips. ‘How—how long did it last?’
‘Do you mean—how long were we married before she died?’
‘What else could I mean?’ Ryan was confused.
‘Julia and I separated within two years. The marriage was seven years old when she died.’
‘I see.’ But of course, she didn’t.
Alain pushed back his chair then and got to his feet. ‘Is that all?’
Ryan looked up at him impatiently. ‘You’ve made it seem like an intrusion!’ she exclaimed.
He shrugged. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘No, you’re not. You must know that two people don’t marry for no good reason—that a separation can be caused by any number of things.’
‘I do. But if you expect me to unburden myself to you, then I am afraid I have to disappoint you yet again. I am prepared to accept that you should know the facts of my previous marriage. The intimate details need not—do not concern you.’ And with these words he turned and left her.
* * *
Christmas morning dawned bright and clear. Down the valley the church bells were ringing their greeting and Ryan realized with a sense of conscience that it was the first Christmas she had not attended the midnight service at the church.
But since their conversation on the day before Christmas Eve, Alain had seemed totally unapproachable, and she had not presumed to ask him whether he was going to attend the midnight Mass at St. Augustine’s. She expected he had. Since their marriage, she had been aware of his leaving the house very early on Sunday mornings and returning long before she had prepared breakfast. Her own attendances had been few and far between, coming as she did from a primarily Protestant background, and in her aunt’s house church attendances had not seemed so important. Daily she had expected the Abbé to reproach her tardy behaviour, but perhaps Alain had asked him to give her time to get used to their ways. What she did find hard to accept was that a man who so obviously believed in God and the power of the church should be prepared to enter into so empty a relationship as their marriage seemed to be.
A glance at her watch told her it was after eight o’clock and with a little sigh she slid out of bed. The night before, she had stuffed the turkey which Alain had provided at her instigation and she intended to prepare a truly English Christmas dinner. He had killed the bird a week ago, but she had gone up to her room and covered her ears to avoid the dreadful squawking that had gone on beforehand.
Now she left her room and entered the bathroom, rinsed her face and hands, scrubbed her teeth, and returned to get dressed. The door of Alain’s room was closed, but that did not mean he was still in bed.
She put on the cream skirt and red shirt she had worn to go to Anciens that day. It was Christmas after all, and just because there was to be no especial celebration it did not mean that she had to behave exactly as on every other day. Besides, she felt like making herself look attractive, and a checked apron would guard against any splashes of grease.
Alain was invariably up before she was, with the fire already burning in the grate. But this morning there was no sign of him and the ashes of the previous nights fire were cold and uninviting. The kitchen was cold, too, colder than Ryan had ever felt it, and she shivered as she knelt to riddle out the coals. An unwelcome feeling of depression swept over her. Why was Alain absent today of all days?
And then she chided herself. Why not, after all? Most mornings he was up and it was only natural that occasionally he deserved a rest. But another thought struck her. What if he wasn’t here? What if he had spent the night elsewhere and not yet returned?
She tipped the ashes on to an old newspaper, trying not to think about Alain’s activities. She rolled more newspaper up and pushed it on to the coals that remained in the grate, added sticks and set a match to it. In no time the flames licked hungrily round the sticks and she added more fuel as the fire gathered strength. The warmth licked about her, too, and her fingers tingled with returning feeling.
&nbs
p; Then she got to her feet and carried the ashes out to the bin. A damp rain moistened her cheeks, and the wind whistled eerily through the eaves. It was a relief to get back inside again, to the cheery warmth of the now blazing fire.
By the time she had boiled the kettle and made tea, she was feeling a little less distrait. It didn’t matter to her where Alain was or what he was doing, she told herself fiercely. A scratching at the door admitted the cat and Tabithe, who had gradually come to appreciate Ryan’s contribution to her welfare, rubbed against her legs comfortingly. The appearance of the cat mewing for her breakfast reminded Ryan that she still had the turkey to attend to, and she lit the oven and carried the bird from the larder before sitting down to a cup of tea.
When the bird was satisfactorily installed in the oven out of reach of the hungry Tabithe, Ryan poured herself some tea and swallowed the reviving beverage with real enjoyment. Then, as she was pouring herself a second cup, the kitchen door opened and Alain appeared.
He had obviously just got up, for he had not troubled to shave and there was a stubbly growth of beard on his chin. In dark corded pants and a navy blue shirt which he was fastening as he came in, he looked sensual and disturbingly masculine, and her stomach muscles contracted alarmingly.
Raking a hand through his hair, he said: ‘My God, Ryan, I am sorry! I overslept.’ A reluctant smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. ‘On Christmas morning, too. I expect my name is mud!’
Ryan found herself smiling in return, but whether that was in relief that he had actually been in bed and not out with someone else, she could not be sure. ‘I—I—it’s all right,’ she stammered.
‘No, it is not.’ He closed the door behind him and scraped his fingers over his chin. ‘I did not even stop to shave. I thought—I hoped that perhaps you had overslept, too.’
Ryan shook her head half apologetically, ‘Er—would you like some tea?’
She made to get another cup from the dresser, but he forestalled her. ‘In a moment,’ he said, standing between her and the tall wooden kitchen sideboard. ‘First of all, I may be allowed to wish you a very happy Christmas, Ryan, and present you with this small token of my appreciation.’ And to her complete and utter astonishment, he produced a small, gift-wrapped parcel from his pocket and put it into her hand.
Ryan stared at the package incredulously. Only in her wildest dreams had she imagined he might indeed buy her something. Not even when she had bought the bottle of after-shaving lotion had she really expected him to have a present for her.
‘I—I don’t know what to say,’ she murmured.
‘Open it. See if you like it,’ he directed gently.
Ryan stripped off the gaily coloured wrapping paper with trembling fingers. It was a very small parcel; she imagined it must be a brooch or some earrings. But it was neither. When she eventually lifted the lid of the jewellers box it was to reveal a ring, a delicate cluster of diamonds on a fragile platinum band. She lifted her eyes to his in amazement, and he took the ring out of its velvet bed and slid it on to the finger that already bore the broad gold band of his possession. It fitted almost perfectly. Perhaps her fingers were a little slimmer than they had been when they got married, but it suited their slenderness and complemented its companion.
‘As we had no time to buy an engagement ring, I thought perhaps you might like one,’ he commented simply, twisting her hand so that the light from outside caught all the facets of the diamonds. ‘It looks quite well, doesn’t it?’
Ryan was speechless, and nodded wordlessly, realizing how puny the shaving lotion would seem after this.
‘Well?’ Alain expected her to say something, and she forced her lips to move.
‘It—it’s beautiful,’ she breathed huskily.
‘But do you like it?’ he persisted.
‘Of—of course I do.’ She took a deep breath and looked up at him again. ‘Thank you. Thank you, very much.’ And on impulse she reached up and pressed a kiss to his cheek. His beard was rough against her lips, but she didn’t mind, and for a disturbing moment her breasts were pressed against the muscular hardness of his chest. An unfamiliar weakness gripped her, and she swayed so that her hands reached automatically for his arm to steady herself. But before she could touch him, his hands closed on her upper arms, propelling her gently, but firmly, away from him.
As she controlled the ridiculous feeling of humiliation that filled her, he turned abruptly away, reaching for a cup and helping himself to some tea. By the time he had it poured and was drinking its creamy sweetness, Ryan was composed, her weakness hidden behind a mask of politeness.
Sliding the ring off her finger, she returned it to its box and then said: ‘You—you shouldn’t have done it, you know.’
His expression, too, was enigmatic. ‘Why not?’
‘It—it’s too much—too expensive.’
‘Allow me to decide what I can or cannot afford,’ he returned rather curtly.
She shook her head. ‘I have nothing so grand for you.’
Alain looked impatient. ‘Do you suppose I expect you to give me a gift? The ring is in appreciation of the way you have settled down here. I realize it cannot have been easy for you, cut off as you are from all the things that were previously familiar. I am not good with words. The ring expresses my gratitude.’
Ryan wondered why his words diminished still further the pleasure she had initially felt when receiving the ring. In the beginning she had foolishly imagined it was a sign that he was beginning to notice that he had a wife, but as events progressed it was becoming obvious that his motives had been entirely impersonal. She put the box containing the ring on the dresser and began to prepare breakfast. Christmas had made her fanciful. Had she forgotten that less than three months ago she had thought she despised Alain de Beaunes?
To her surprise, Alain offered to drive her down to Mass later in the morning. He had, he told her, attended the late night service on Christmas Eve, and that was why he had slept in that morning. But he was not averse to making a second communion, and Ryan was warmed by his concern for her spiritual welfare. Apparently in some things he did consider her feelings.
The Abbé was pleased to see her in the church and after the service was over he came to have a few words with them.
‘I told Alain that you must attend on this most joyful of days, chérie,’ he confided, thus again destroying Ryan’s new-found warming towards her husband. ‘Your first Christmas in the valley! May you have many many more.’
‘Thank you, Father.’ Ryan forced a smile, and then started when another voice said: ‘Happy Christmas, Alain! Happy Christmas, Ryan!’
It was Vivienne Couvrier, vividly elegant in an emerald green trouser suit and a carelessly slung fox fur.
The old Abbé was included in the greeting and he smiled at her welcomingly. ‘Good morning, madame. You look very well this dull morning. Obviously this cold weather does not trouble you. Myself, I find my old bones protesting.’
Vivienne accepted the priest’s compliments charmingly, flattering him that he did not look a day older than fifty. The Abbé smiled and chuckled and other villagers stopped to share the joke. Vivienne regarded Alain and Ryan more thoughtfully.
‘And what did St. Nicholas put into your stocking, Ryan?’ she asked mockingly. ‘Something nice, I hope.’
Ryan was sure she hoped nothing of the kind, and she wished she had worn her ring so that she could have thrust that under the other girl’s nose. But she hadn’t, so she merely said: ‘I wasn’t disappointed, madame. Were you?’
Vivienne hid any irritation she might have felt at this uninformative reply, and turned instead to Alain. ‘And how about you, mon cher? Were you not disappointed also?’
Alain glanced fleetingly at his wife and then he answered: ‘One should not expect, and then one is never disappointed.’
Vivienne laughed. His reply appeared to have pleased her. The Abbé spoke again, drawing his robes more closely about him. ‘And now you must all come and j
oin me in a glass of wine,’ he said. ‘It is a bottle from your vineyards, Alain. I do not think it will disappoint you.’
Ryan wished Alain would refuse, but of course he did not. Vivienne was obviously included in the invitation, and she had no desire to spend any longer in the older girl’s company than was absolutely necessary. However, they could not disappoint the old priest, and she was obliged to follow his white-clad figure along the flagged path to his house, knowing that Alain and Vivienne were bringing up the rear.
Madame Villiers, the Abbé’s housekeeper, greeted them warmly, smiling her introduction to Ryan. A fire warmed the tiny parlour, so much less formal than the parlour at the house, Ryan thought, and there was rich ruby wine, glowing in fine glasses. The atmosphere was almost festive, and Ryan relaxed, refusing to acknowledge that her husband was showing more interest in Vivienne than in herself.
‘What are you going to do for the rest of the day, madame?’ the Abbé asked Vivienne, distracting her attention from Alain.
Vivienne gave an impatient gesture. ‘I am having lunch with the Columbes, Father,’ she replied, ‘and of course this afternoon I have to visit with my stepsons and their wives.’ She twisted her lips. ‘It is the custom, you understand.’
‘Of course.’ The priest nodded. ‘But such customs are delightful, are they not? Having no children of your own, you must enjoy playing with the little ones. How many are there now? Six—or is it seven?’
‘Eight, actually,’ returned Vivienne, showing Ryan at least by her tone that she did not find the custom particularly enjoyable. She was all too eager to return her attention to Alain, but to Ryan’s relief he announced that they must be going.
‘Must you?’ Vivienne was dismayed. ‘But it’s early yet, Alain.’
‘Nevertheless, my wife has much still to prepare,’ he answered evenly. ‘We are to have a traditional English dinner, is that not right, Ryan?’
