At the French Baron's Bidding

by Fiona Hood-Stewart

  Now, with dusk gathering, she rose and went into the hall. Henri and his wife were out for the day and the house was empty. Natasha switched on the hall lights. She really must do something about the lighting in this place. The electricity was dicey at best. As though divining her thoughts, two bulbs on the immense chandelier looming over her suddenly popped. She sighed and headed for the stairs, lit by the glow of the picture lamps. As she placed her foot on the first step Natasha stared towards the top of the stairs and drew in her breath.

  Surely she must be dreaming.

  There, descending the stairs and coming towards her, was the same delicate outlined image she'd seen once before. But this time it was clear. She could distinguish the pale blue hue of the satin dress, the sparkle of something at the woman's throat. It was as if her ancestor was trying to speak to her, to convey some important message. But what?

  Natasha stood in a trance for what felt like minutes, and when her thoughts cleared she stared intently up at her namesake's image, straining to hear her thoughts across the centuries. She looked closer at the portrait and it was as if the woman smiled down at her, encouraging her to listen to a message Natasha couldn't hear.

  It made no sense, Raoul reasoned. Hadn't they made love incredibly that night in London? Hadn't they slept together for the rest of the night? Breakfasted together next morning? Then what was the matter with the woman? It was a pity he had been so damn busy, having to make a quick trip to New York and then spend some time in Paris, or he would have already gone over to the Manoir to demand an explanation from Natasha as to why she was behaving so oddly.

  Surely they now had an affair going on? One, he admitted, that had both its conveniences and inconveniences. On the one hand it was good to know that she was cloistered at the Manoir, unlikely to be going out with anyone else.

  On the other, she was still his neighbour and the whole thing must be dealt with in a manner which would allow them to extract themselves from the relationship when the time came without too much long-term collateral damage.

  Now, as he drove thoughtfully up the motorway, Raoul reflected hard on these matters. She still hadn't said if she was coming with him to the Prix de l'Arc de Triomphe or not. Which gave him a perfect excuse to pop over in a friendly manner to enquire. Yes, he decided as he headed down a country road, that was what he would do. He wouldn't phone, but would go over personally instead tomorrow and test the terrain.

  Satisfied that he'd come up with the optimal solution, Raoul drove into the courtyard of his Château, realizing that he was hungry and looking forward to dinner. For an instant as he slipped out of the car he felt a sense of loneliness. There was never anyone special to receive him when he got home at night. Not that this fact had ever bothered him in the past. He shook his head, frowned, and waved to Jean, hurrying towards him:

  'Bonsoir, Jean.'

  'Bonsoir, Monsieur le Baron. Did you have a good drive from Paris?'

  'Oui, merci, Jean. Everything is fine. Any news around here?'

  'Well, nothing much.' Jean rubbed his forehead thoughtfully. 'Oh, there was the inauguration of the new organ in the church, of course.'

  'New organ? In the church? But how is that possible?' He stopped in his tracks.

  'Mademoiselle de Saugure gave the church a new organ in memory of her grandmother, sir. There was a ceremony and a f in the village. Everybody went.'

  Raoul stood still, completely taken aback, then experienced a moment's anger. He had received no invitation to any inauguration, either from the Curé or Natasha. Plus, the Argentans always dealt with church matters.

  'Right,' he said, heading towards the door and entering his domain. What the hell was she playing at?

  He entered his office, switched on the desk lamp and flipped through his mail absently. The third envelope was an invitation. He opened it. There it was. An invitation to the inauguration. Sent as though he was some inconnu, some unknown. She should have personally telephoned him, told him of her plan, found out if it was suitable for her to take such action and gone to the trouble of seeking him out, making sure he was part of the activity. Instead she was treating him in this high-handed manner, as though she owned the damn church.

  Well, he wasn't having it.

  Turning abruptly on his heel Raoul grabbed an old jacket lying on the chair and marched purposefully back towards the car. Minutes later he was entering the gates of the Manoir and heading up the drive.

  When the doorbell clanged Natasha was upstairs, still pondering her strange sensations in front of her ancestor's portrait. Suddenly she became conscious of the ringing bell. Who on earth could it be at this time? She glanced at her watch. It was actually only seven-thirty, but because it got dark much quicker now she was less conscious of the hour.

  Making her way down the main stairway, Natasha cast a quick glance up at the portrait. But that was all it was now. A static picture of a late-eighteenth-century woman.

  In the hall she reached for the big lock and pulled it back, realizing too late that perhaps she should have found out first who was out there. After all, she was alone in the house. But it was too late for that now.

  'Raoul,' she exclaimed in surprise, her pulse leaping.

  'Yes. As you see.'

  His thunderous expression made her wonder what had upset him. 'Well, I suppose you'd better come in,' she said.

  'If it wouldn't be too much trouble,' he replied sardonically.

  'I didn't know you were back,' she murmured, letting him past.

  'I got back a few minutes ago.'

  'I see. Then you must be in need of a drink.'

  Raoul ground his teeth and watched her. She seemed calm, cool and collected, and very sure of herself. Not like the woman he'd held quivering in his arms a few weeks ago.

  'Yes, a drink would be most acceptable,' he muttered, removing his jacket and flinging it on one of the hall chairs.

  'Good, then we'll go to the petit salon. I find it's the warmest place in the house. The weather has become quite chilly lately, don't you find?' she commented politely, leading the way into the sitting room.

  'Natasha, I did not come here to talk about the damn weather,' Raoul exploded from the doorway.

  'No? Then what exactly did you come to talk about, Raoul?' Natasha'a brow flew up in a manner that he was unused to.

  ‘I came here to talk about this—this inauguration in the church that you had the nerve to go ahead with without my authority.'

  'Excuse me?' Natasha stood her ground and crossed her arms. 'Did you say authority?'

  'Yes. You had the impertinence to arrange the inauguration of a new organ to the church, something that has been an Argentan tradition for centuries, without so much as a by-your-leave.'

  'Well, if it's an Argentan tradition to help with the church organ, you haven't been attending to it,' she said simply. 'The organ was in an appalling state of disrepair. The poor organist could barely squeeze out a decent hymn.'

  'Then it was up to the Curé to tell me.'

  'Apparently he's tried several times. But you were always too busy or away. And, as you rarely attend any services in the church, you haven't had the opportunity to hear for yourself,' she responded sweetly. 'Whisky?'

  'Yes,' he snapped. 'But that has nothing to do with—'

  ‘Ice?' she interrupted in the same tone.

  'No, damn it, water.'

  'Good. Because I would have had to fetch the ice from the kitchen, since Henri has the day off,' she said conversationally.

  'Natasha, will you stop these witless remarks and listen to what I have to say?' Raoul demanded, his high cheekbones flushed with anger.

  'Sorry, I thought I was. Now, you were telling me—or rather were about to tell me—why you had not been upholding your family's tradition properly, weren't you?'

  He took two quick steps across the room and before she could stop him pulled her roughly into his arms. 'Stop it,' he ordered.

  'Why?' She glared up at him, eyes blazing. 'Be
cause Monsieur le Baron says so?'

  'Yes, damn it. You have no right to come here and flaunt our customs. To—to—agh! I don't know how you say it in English.' He turned, threw his hands up and muttered something under his breath in French.

  'Why don't you have your whisky and calm down?' Natasha said softly. 'There's no need for all this to-do, Raoul. If I've done something to offend you, I'm sorry. It wasn't my intention. But the organ was in desperate need of renewal and past repair. It seemed to make sense to give the church a new one that would be in place in time for the choir to practise its Christmas repertoire,' she said simply.

  The logic of her words sank in. And all at once Raoul realized that he was acting in an inappropriate manner.

  He turned, straightening his shoulders. 'It is the duty of the Baroness d'Argentan to attend to such matters,' he said haughtily, accepting the whisky from her. 'My mother was very attentive to such things.'

  'I'm sure she was. Unfortunately she is not among us any more, or I'm sure there would have been no need for me to take this measure.'

  'Well, I suppose à la longue it is for the best,' he muttered grudgingly. 'But I still want to pay for half the organ.'

  'I'm sorry, but I've already dealt with it.'

  'You cannot deny me that right. It would be a dishonour to the Argentan family if I was not known to have participated in the cost of the instrument. I—'

  'Raoul, will you stop thinking that you live in the Middle Ages? Frankly, nobody could care less who paid for the organ. The parish is merely pleased to have the problem solved. The choirmaster is thrilled and Mademoiselle Boisier, who plays the organ, is delighted. I really don't see what you're making such a fuss about. And as for the cost—I can well afford it, thanks to my grandmother's generosity.'

  'That is not the point. You don't understand,' he said, taking a long gulp of whisky and shaking his head. T told you earlier that you were usurping the place of the Baroness d'Argentan.'

  'Really?' She crossed her arms and looked at him, her eyes steady.

  'Yes. My mother, and my grandmother before her, were always in charge of attending to these church matters. It was their role. Now you come, a Saugure, and want to take over.'

  'I have no such ambition,' she replied coldly, 'and as you are not attending properly to your duties then it is for me to do so.'

  'No. It's not,' he snapped back. 'That is the duty of my wife.'

  'I wasn't aware that you were married,' she retorted, turning to pour herself a glass of wine, her hand quivering.

  Suddenly Raoul stopped dead in his tracks and realized what he'd just said.

  My wife.

  He'd never thought of having a wife. The idea of Camille de Longueville was nothing but a joke. He raised his eyes, watched Natasha carefully pouring the wine, and blinked.

  Impossible.

  He must be dreaming.

  Of course he was.

  Pulling himself together, Raoul stepped over to where she stood. 'Let me do that,' he said in a friendlier tone.

  'Don't worry, it's done, thank you.' Natasha turned around and, avoiding him, went to sit down in the armchair, where there was no chance he could join her.

  'I'm sorry if I lost my temper,' he said stiffly.

  'Oh, that's fine.' She smiled briefly. 'I can see that it must be difficult to come to terms with several centuries worth of high-handedness, even though we do live in the twenty-first century.'

  'I am not high-handed,' he replied deliberately. 'I merely carry out what is expected of me.'

  'Quite so,' Natasha replied, hiding her smile behind her glass.

  'And there is no need to snicker,' he reprimanded, seating himself opposite.

  'I wasn't snickering. I merely find your attitudes amusing.'

  'I am glad that I provide you with amusement, mademoiselle,' he said sardonically.

  'Oh, Raoul, stop taking yourself so seriously,' she exclaimed, laughing despite an attempt to stay solemn. 'If you could see yourself, all pokered up and stiff! Why, I'll bet you look just like your ancestor Regis.'

  Raoul looked across at her curiously. 'What prompted you to say that?' he asked, eyeing her closely.

  'Nothing.' She shrugged her shoulders. She did not intend to share her recent strange, almost ghostly experience with him. 'Just the way you looked, I suppose, so proud and autocratic. It reminded me of what your ancestors must have been like.'

  'I suppose they must have. After all, we have the same blood.'

  'Precisely,' she murmured with a sigh. 'So, how long are you here for?'

  'I don't know. I haven't made up my mind yet.'

  Then, to her surprise, he rose, snapped the glass down on the small Louis Quinze table to his right and faced her. 'I have to go. I'll be in touch.'

  With that he marched from the room before Natasha could react, and was out of the door with his jacket before she could do more than step into the hall.

  'Well!' she exclaimed, standing with her glass as the front door reverberated behind him. 'If that doesn't beat all.'

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  RAOUL drove back to the Chateau at a furious pace. He was too stunned by the thought which had crossed his mind only minutes earlier. In fact, he'd nearly choked on his whisky it was so outrageous.

  Marriage.

  To think that he could even imagine such a thing as Natasha becoming his wife—when the whole world knew that Argentans and Saugures would never be joined by marriage after what had occurred two centuries earlier. It was so unimaginable as to leave him in shock. Something he had never before experienced.

  On arrival at the Ch he waved away Jean's offer of dinner, having lost his appetite, and headed back into his office. There he threw himself down on an ancient leather couch before the freshly built fire and stared doggedly into the flames. Then, almost surreptitiously, his eyes rose above the great stone mantel and he stared at the handsome portrait of Regis d'Argentan, standing stiff and proud in a wig and pearl satin, which had been there for as long as he could remember.

  'This is all your fault,' he muttered, standing up and facing the painting.

  'Yes, it is.'

  Raoul stared ahead, but the portrait was exactly the same. Yet he could have sworn that a voice had answered him.

  Spinning around, Raoul saw the deep burgundy velvet curtains flutter. The curtains never fluttered; they were too heavy.

  'Who is there?' he said, wishing he was armed and realizing that he didn't have a revolver in the desk drawer, even if he could make it over there in time.

  Raoul stood rooted to the spot, stunned. Surely he must be dreaming and this must be a figment of his imagination. Ever since he was a child he'd heard stories of the occasional apparition of his ancestors in the Chateau, but had never given them credence, always believed they were part of the folklore of the place. All good castles needed a ghost, after all.

  Sitting down abruptly in an old tapestry chair by the fire, Raoul stared up at the portrait. Then he got up slowly from the chair and went and stood by the window. As his eyes adjusted to the dark he could distinguish the turret where the pennant flew. His family's colours and coat of arms. Was the spirit of Regis trying to tell him something? That it was time to bury the hatchet with the Saugures and finally unite the two families?

  He turned back into the room and shook his head, thinking about Natasha, about the nights spent in her arms, about the extraordinary closeness and fulfilment he'd experienced with her, such as he had never known before.

  At the thought of her his senses became aroused. Never had he shared such moments with any other woman. Perhaps Regis was right and he mustn't let her go. But still. He was his own master and would make his own decisions.

  He was damned if he would be dictated to by a ghost.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  THE racecourse at Longchamps was packed with everything from exotic hats in the private boxes to people in jeans and T-shirts come to bet on one of the biggest races of the year.

 
Natasha hadn't seen Raoul since the evening when he'd come over and departed so abruptly, and in the meantime she had taken the time to think.

  However much it hurt, she must not accept less than everything. For that, she realized, was what she truly wanted from this man. Halfway measures just weren't enough. She wanted to be his wife and bear his children, never mind how odious he could be.

  And that, she knew—had understood again from Gaston one evening over a drink—was impossible. The dice had been thrown all those years ago, and the same pride still haunted their lives today. So why had she accepted his invitation to come to the races? Because, as she'd told herself before, there was no danger here of them being on their own?

  Probably that was the reason. After all, they were here in his box, with Gaston and his pretty new girlfriend, Victoire, and Raoul's charming cousin Madeleine and her husband Gerard.

  'Do look at that amazing hat,' Madeleine said, nudging Natasha. The two women had immediately hit it off and were exchanging an amusing conversation together.

  Natasha glanced at Raoul, who had raised his racing glasses the better to see the horses that were coming out for the next race, and thought how sad it was that the past prevented them sharing a future. Not that he'd ever indicated he wanted one, she was hasty to remind herself with a little sigh. He looked so divinely handsome in a dark grey double-breasted suit, his hair swept back in that nonchalant manner she had learned to love, his skin still bronzed from the summer sun, and those hands… Her eyes stopped there for a moment, her heart lurched, and again that warm tingling sensation gripped her. God, when she thought about the magic those hands were capable of arousing she shivered.