by Anne Mather
Ryan pressed her palms to her cheeks. ‘But I wanted you—to—to make love to me,’ she breathed.
He stiffened. ‘I refuse to listen to such sentimentality. There was no love in what happened, just a physical satiation of the senses.’
Ryan could not believe he was saying these words. And yet wasn’t this exactly what she had been afraid of? But she had to say one thing more. ‘And did I?’ she asked. ‘Satisfy you, I mean?’
Alain glared down at her. ‘What do you think?’
‘I—I think I did.’
He stared at her for a moment longer and a trace of what had kindled between them the night before showed in his eyes. It was only a fleeting glimpse, but it was a faint ray of hope in a suddenly dark world. Then he turned abruptly away, and said: ‘How much money do you think you will need to find yourself an apartment and furnish it to your liking?’
Ryan caught her breath, and for a moment the pain of what he was saying paralysed her. Then suddenly she was not afraid any longer. After all, this was her house as much as it was his.
‘I shan’t be leaving,’ she stated quietly.
He swung round on her. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Just what I say. I shan’t be leaving. I’m staying here. This is my home.’
‘Do you realize what you are saying? I want you to leave.’
‘And I don’t want to go.’
Alain’s eyes were hard. ‘I can make life pretty unpleasant if you stay.’
She shook her head. ‘I’ll have to chance that.’
‘Ryan!’ He clenched his fists impotently. ‘Ryan, for God’s sake—do as I ask, please!’
‘No.’
He drew an unsteady breath. ‘Then I must leave.’
‘You can’t!’ She was horrified. ‘Where would you go? You need to be here—for the vineyard!’
‘There are other houses in Bellaise. I can find somewhere else.’
‘You wouldn’t be so cruel!’ Her lips parted in dismay.
For a moment she thought he was going to defy her, and then he rested his hands on the mantel above the fire and pressed his forehead against its edge. ‘No,’ he agreed defeatedly. ‘No, I could not go elsewhere in Bellaise, you are right. If I go, it must be away from here altogether.’
‘But you can’t. My father—’
He turned sideways to look at her. ‘Your father—yes. He has a lot to answer for, does he not?’ He paused, and she found herself holding her breath for his answer. ‘Very well, I will stay—at least for the present. Things will go on as before. But I warn you, if this does not work out I will have to make other arrangements.’
‘What—other arrangements?’
He shrugged. ‘A manager could run this place for you.’
‘But it’s your ability which has made it successful, it’s your life!’
He turned to stare into the fire again. ‘Yes. My life,’ he muttered heavily ‘How many lives can a man have?’
Ryan didn’t understand him. All she did understand was that for the present she had won a small respite. It was up to her now to see that she did nothing to destroy the tenuous thread that was keeping them together.
CHAPTER TEN
TWO weeks later Ryan had another letter from Louise Ferrier.
A feeling of guilt possessed her when she read how disappointed Madame Ferrier had been not to receive a reply to her other letter, and how she hoped that Ryan was settling down to a happy marriage. She again renewed her invitation to both Ryan and Alain to visit her in Paris, but this time Ryan did not broach the subject with Alain.
Since that terrible evening when he had asked her to leave their relationship had deteriorated. To Ryan, who had dreamed of making their marriage a real one at last, the situation was very hard to bear, and only her love for him prevented her from making the break. She lived on her nerves when he was around and sometimes she wondered whether this self-inflicted torture was any worse than living apart from him would be. But to seriously consider a life without any part of him filled her with despair.
For Alain himself the situation was passably better, she thought. He was not plagued by emotion, and as he was out of the house most of the time, other matters filled his days. There was plenty to do about the vineyard—soil to be trenched and fertilized, new vines to be planted, established vines to be pruned and trained to the lowest wires of the cordons on which they would run.
Nevertheless, she was not unaware of the tensions in the household, no one could be, and Marie found it very difficult to curb her natural curiosity. She sensed that in some way the situation had changed, but she didn’t know how and Ryan had no intention of enlightening her.
She had seen nothing more of David Howard, and one day Marie confided that she had heard that Monsieur Alain had asked him not to visit the house again when he was not at home. This news had briefly lifted Ryan’s spirits until she realized that Alain was not concerned about her, only about what other people might think. He didn’t seem to care what they thought of his behaviour, but he seemed determined to prevent any speculation regarding Ryan’s association with the young Englishman. For several days this knowledge irritated her, and she went out of her way to be awkward over the design and timing of his meals in an effort to arouse some comment, protesting or otherwise. But Alain merely disregarded her childishness and spent the waiting periods working in his study.
Ryan was beginning to wonder how long this could go on—how long before her nerves gave out completely—when she discovered something which brought everything into shocking focus.
To begin with, she hardly noticed it, that faint queasiness in the mornings and a sudden aversion to tea and coffee. She was so wrapped up in other considerations that the simple mechanics of her own body meant little to her until one morning when she was violently sick and a hasty calculation on her fingers revealed that certain functions were long overdue. Trembling, she sought the medical dictionary that she had once seen in the study, and by the means of elementary arithmetic worked out that she could be almost two months pregnant.
This revelation was so shattering that she spent the rest of the day staring unbelievingly into space, wondering desperately what she was going to do about it. Various methods of aborting the child crossed her troubled mind, but deep inside her she knew she would never deliberately do such a thing, whatever the circumstances. It wasn’t so much the actual thought of abortion and what it might mean, as the awareness that she wanted Alain’s child more than anything else in the world—except perhaps Alain himself. It would be something of him that she could hold and care for and love, something that no one could take away from her.
But it was that very knowledge which troubled her most. This marriage could not support a child. Alain remained with her because of the vineyard. He would like for her to go. How could she confront him with the news that he was about to become a father? How could she have a child here and bring it up when its own father would despise what it stood for?
By the time Alain came home she was no more decided, and for once there was no sign of dinner cooking on the stove, the fire needed wood, and the house felt cold and uncared-for.
He came in and assessed the situation at once. Ryan was sitting at the table, the half empty cup of coffee she had made herself earlier cooling between her fingers. He regarded her pale face steadily for a moment, and then without a word bent to fling some logs on to the fire. When the flames were beginning to lick around the bark, he filled the kettle and set it to boil on the stove. Then he looked again at Ryan.
‘What is the matter?’ he asked. ‘Are you ill?’
Ryan had decided in those few moments that illness was the safest answer. ‘I—I haven’t felt well all day,’ she replied. That at least was the truth.
Alain frowned, and she flinched as he touched her forehead. ‘You’re not hot. How do you feel now?’
Ryan shrugged, finishing her coffee. ‘I—I’m all right. Er—what do you want for dinner? Would omelettes and s
alad do?’
Alain pressed her back into the chair as she would have risen. ‘Stay where you are,’ he directed. ‘I can manage. Are you hungry? Or don’t you feel like eating?’
Ryan licked her lips. Truth to tell, she felt ravenous, and the idea of food was appealing. ‘I—I am rather hungry,’ she admitted. ‘Perhaps I would feel better if I wasn’t so—empty.’
Alain inclined his head. ‘Very well. What would you like for dinner? Soup? Omelettes?’ He opened the door of the refrigerator. ‘Some fruit pie and cream?’
Ryan found a smile touching her lips, but it was such a relief to be talking to him again, even if it was to be short lived. ‘A-all of those,’ she conceded wryly, and he raised his eyebrows.
‘All of them? Do you mean together?’
She smiled then. ‘No, of course not. You know what I mean. Shall I help?’
He shook his head, rolling back the sleeves of his sweater. ‘I am capable of making quite a passable omelette,’ he replied, ‘and I can open a tin of soup as well as you can.’
The meal was excellent, although the greater part of Ryan’s enjoyment hinged on Alain’s relaxed attitude. It was as though her supposed illness had made him aware of how much he relied upon her, and he talked quite companionably throughout the meal about the vineyard and the problems they would have to face when the grapes began to appear. There seemed to be so many disease preventive treatments needed throughout the summer months and Ryan marvelled that anyone could find the amount of work involved worthwhile. But Alain obviously did, and a little of his enthusiasm rubbed off on to her. And then she realized that come August and September, come the vintage, she would not be here, not in her condition. By her estimation the baby would be born in September, and by then she would have to have established a home for herself elsewhere.
Alain noticed the way her face suddenly changed, and with acute perception said: ‘What is it? What is wrong? You’ve turned quite pale. You’re not feeling ill again, are you?’
Ryan shook her head, getting to her feet. ‘No. No, I just feel—tired, that’s all.’
Alain rose too, and came round the table to her side, looking down at her rather doubtfully. ‘Are you sure you feel all right?’ he insisted, and she nodded vigorously.
‘I’m just—tired. I’ve told you.’
‘Why? What have you been doing? Marie is supposed to do all the heavy work.’
‘She does.’ Ryan moved her shoulders helplessly. ‘I expect I didn’t sleep too well last night.’
Alain pressed his lips together. ‘Why not? You’ve not been troubled by that mouse again, have you?’
‘No. Marie caught one in the kitchen a couple of weeks ago. I expect that was it.’
Alain nodded. Then almost against his will, he slid a hand under the weight of her hair and cupped her neck. ‘You are very tense, are you not?’ he asked, in a low voice, feeling the taut muscles at her nape. ‘Has it been so terrible?’
‘W-what?’ she stammered.
‘The situation.’ He sighed ‘I expect you think I have treated you abominably. I am sorry.’
She caught her breath. Was he apologizing? ‘What do you mean?’ she managed jerkily.
‘I have been very selfish, thinking only of my own discomfort in this matter. I have never once considered how you must be feeling. It was a rude awakening, was it not?’
Ryan stirred beneath his fingers. ‘I—I don’t—’
‘Be still!’ His fingers tightened for a moment. ‘Ryan, I have thought about this long and seriously, and I realize I was—hasty to ask you to leave. What am I, I ask myself, a man—or an animal? Must I always behave as the barbarian you once thought me?’ He shook his head, and his mouth was thinner than a few moments ago. ‘We are married. The good Abbé would be horrified if anything desecrated that contract, and I, as a good Catholic, must accept the bonds placed upon me. Therefore I suggest we attempt to salvage something from the wreck—attempt to resume that somewhat tenuous relationship that at least satisfied the proprieties—’
Ryan jerked herself away from him then, her eyes glittering with unshed tears. For a few heart-stopping moments she had imagined he was about to ask her to share his bed, and the disappointment, combined with her own shuddering misery, was sufficient to drive her over the brink of good sense.
‘What’s the matter, Alain?’ she taunted him unsteadily. ‘Have you made your confession to the Abbé this morning, and has he told you that the way you are behaving is cold and inhuman? What did you say, I wonder? Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned? I seduced my wife, and when she tried to forgive me I told her to get out? Yes, that sounds reasonable. And what else? Let me see—I don’t speak to my wife at all unless she asks a question to do with my laundry or my food or the housekeeping. Is that what you said? And did he absolve you? Am I to receive your compassion as a kind of penance for your misdemeanours—’
‘Be silent!’ Alain’s voice was harsh and forbidding. ‘How dare you speak to me like that?’
‘Oh, I dare—I dare all sorts of things.’ Ryan forced back the hot tears. ‘My God, the arrogance of the man! To suggest that we resume a relationship that satisfies the proprieties! Whose proprieties? Yours—or mine? And since when have you cared about such things?’
‘Ryan, you tempt me to demonstrate that I am your husband and therefore demand your respect!’ he said explosively.
‘Really! And how do you propose to accomplish that?’
‘There—are—ways!’ he retorted, unbuckling his belt, and fear like a bullet shot through her.
‘You—you wouldn’t—you wouldn’t dare—’ she began, but his face warned her that he might.
With a gasp of horror, she spun on her heel and fled across the room and up the stairs as fast as her legs would carry her, not stopping until her bedroom door was behind her. She looked round desperately for something to secure the door, and suddenly realized that the thumping she had thought was the sound of him following her was only her heart, pounding violently in her chest. Nevertheless, she found a chair and secured it beneath the handle, accepting that it was merely a salutory defence. Nothing would keep Alain out if he chose to come in.
It was more than half an hour later that she heard him coming upstairs and presently there was a tap at her door. ‘Are you asleep, Ryan?’ he asked.
He paused, obviously waiting for her to answer, and when she did not, he went on heavily: ‘I would not have beaten you, you know. God, you force me to do things I would have believed myself incapable of!’
Still she said nothing, and she heard, with a tremor of anticipation, his impatient ejaculation. Then he said: ‘Very well, Ryan, pretend to be asleep. But remember, there is always tomorrow!’ And with that parting threat, he went away.
Ryan felt no fear after he had gone. She knew he would not force his way into her bedroom, but a deep depression was settling over her now that the thrill of the chase had subsided. She was in an impossible situation, more impossible than even he could imagine. In other circumstances, she might have taken his offer of friendship on its face value. Now, she could not. Friendship was something she and Alain could never share, and she shrank from the pity which might be hers if he discovered she was expecting a baby. She did not want him on those terms. If all he could offer was friendship for appearances’ sake, there was no future for either of them.
By the time she had crept along to the bathroom and had a wash, returned and undressed and crawled into bed she had come to a decision. She would go away—but not back to England. At least, not immediately. First, she would leave this district, find herself rooms in some anonymous city, and then write to Alain for some money. From a distance her demands would seem cold and reasonable, and no doubt Alain would be relieved to be rid of his unwanted responsibilities. It was what he had wanted, after all, and there was no reason why he should ever learn the truth behind her departure.
But where should she go? Unwillingly, thoughts of Louise Ferrier drifted into her mind
. She was tempted to write to her and ask whether she might accept her invitation. But letters took time, and apart from the fact that too many people passed her letters through their hands, she had no reason to suppose that Louise would answer her when she had not replied to either of her missives. No, if she was to go and see Louise Ferrier, it would have to be an unheralded visit.
She tossed and turned restlessly beneath the covers of the bed. Could she throw herself on her father’s aunt like that? Could she go to Paris without warning the old lady of her intentions? And why should she want to? She had told Alain that she wasn’t a child, and yet here she was thinking like one.
But it was useless berating herself. Right now, she needed someone who cared about her, someone to talk to, someone to share the anxieties she was suffering. Louise was at least a member of the family. She would know what to do for the best. Ryan had no idea what arrangements there were in France for mothers with babies, but Louise might. And if she didn’t, she would know how to find out.
She rolled on to her stomach and buried her face in the pillow. She could write to Alain from Paris, and once he had sent her some money she could see about getting an apartment of her own. She very much doubted whether Alain would even recognize Louise’s address on her letter, and if he didn’t, so much the better. Even if he did, she did not think he would follow her there. As he had said, he only knew of the woman, and she was not a relative of his, after all.
The decision was made. Tomorrow Ryan would have to see about getting into Anciens, and from there she could catch a train for the capital. She need only take the minimum necessities with her. She could send for her other things once she was settled. She knew that she should tell Alain of her decision, but somehow she couldn’t. She was very much afraid that if she told him she was going she would break down and confess her reasons, and that would defeat everything. Her best plan was to leave while he was out at the vineyard. She would leave him a note, so he would not worry, and then write to him once she had reached her destination…
