‘Sort of ugly-attractive,’ went on Fiona. ‘Occupation?’
‘He spoke of banking.’
‘When are you seeing him again?’
Troy gave a laconic: ‘I’m not,’ and Fiona stared at her.
‘Honestly, Troy, I don’t understand you,’ she complained. ‘You’re damned attractive, intelligent, and yet … what did you talk about?’
‘We discussed growing old,’ Troy told her calmly, and Fiona looked aghast. Troy grinned. ‘It was his birthday, his thirty-fourth, to be precise.’
‘Mmm … and not married … and you talked about growing old!’
Troy laughed at the disgust in her friend’s voice. ‘He has depressing views on the subject of marriage, hence his bachelorhood. He likes women, only I got the impression we’re a necessary evil.’ She sipped her coffee thoughtfully. ‘I’d have liked to have worked on his portrait, though.’
‘Is that all he was to you?’ demanded Fiona. ‘A possible model? Troy, love, you’re beginning to worry me. Didn’t he stir any feelings other than professional ones, for God’s sake?’
Troy raised her brows, eyes brimming with laughter. ‘If you have to be so nosey, yes, he did … but it was probably because of his gorgeous French accent. His name, too, was rather attractive— Lucien Charon.’
Fiona said despairingly: ‘Single, moneyed and attractive—why didn’t you bring him to the point of exchanging telephone numbers, at least?’
‘Because it looked to me as though he had enough woman trouble this side of the Channel without going across the water for more … and besides, I don’t want to get involved. I’ve too much to do.’ She ignored Fiona’s grimace and added: ‘Here comes Hal.’
Hal Lindsey sank into the empty chair at their table and groaned, lifting dark glasses for an instant, eyes painfully squinting, before dropping them back into place.
‘Good morning, Hal,’ soothed Troy. ‘I’ll order more coffee, you’ll feel better when you’ve had at least two cups.’
‘I doubt it.’ Hal put a hand to his forehead. ‘I should never drink wine, it always gives me a head the next day. How come you two look as fresh as daisies?’ He watched gloomily while coffee was replaced and then asked Troy: ‘Are you still determined to go off searching for this house?’ and Fiona interjected with a positive: ‘Of course she is.’
‘I’m due a holiday and this seems a good time to take it, Hal. I’ve had the M.G. overhauled, I can speak the language and I’m curious,’ Troy told him reasonably. Hal glared at the last croissant.
‘Is that for ornament?’
Troy pushed the plate over to him. .‘Be our guest,’ she urged, hiding a smile. After a moment, she went on quietly: ‘Don’t think I’m attaching too much importance to this house, Bellevigne, but I am intrigued. It’s caught my imagination …’
‘What does it mean, Belveena?’ asked Fiona curiously, and Troy smiled at her pronunciation, explaining:
‘Beautiful vine. I expect all that area is vineyards and wine country.’ She bit her lip thoughtfully. ‘Of course, Grandmother was eightyfive and although remarkable for her age she did wander a bit towards the end. As she only ever spoke of France once, when I was in my teens and going on a school trip, I’m a little cautious about this inheritance of mine.’
‘What did she tell you?’ asked Hal, interested despite himself.
‘I gather that when she was a young girl of about eighteen she came to France to do voluntary nursing during the first world war, it was called V.A.D., short for Voluntary Aid Detachment, if you remember. I can only think that her time over here then had something to do with the house, Bellevigne. I might be on a wild goose chase.’
‘How can you be?’ objected Fiona. ‘Your solicitor says that the quarterly payments came from France.’
‘Yes, they came from Bellevigne,’ agreed Troy, ‘but he knows as little about it as I do. He’s merely the agent. I have the address of the legal firm in Paris and my solicitor has written to them about Grandmother and told them I’m her sole beneficiary.’ She ran her fingers through her hair in frustration. ‘You know what lawyers are like, slow as snails, so when this job came up, I thought …’
‘.. . that you’d kill two birds with one stone,’ finished Hal heavily. ‘Where is this place?’
‘Seve, a village on the banks of the River Loire, about a hundred kilometres south of Orleans,’ replied Troy. She looked at her watch. ‘You two had better move if you want to catch the ferry.’ She pushed back her chair and stood up, looking fondly at her friends. ‘I’ll keep in touch,’ she promised.
Troy stayed the first night in Orleans. She was in that curious state of wanting to reach Seve and yet feeling a reluctance to actually arrive there, in case disappointment awaited her. In any event, she told herself sensibly, she was on holiday, and Orleans was proving to be an interesting city, even apart from Joan of Arc. She visited the Musee des Beaux-Arts, the Cathedrale of Ste-Croix and the Hotel Cabu to satisfy her artistic hunger, and the following morning spent some time wandering through street markets shopping for her bodily hunger. She purchased goat’s cheese and pate, a crusty baguette and fresh fruit, before setting off for Seve.
To leave Orleans it was necessary to cross the Loire, wide at this point, via the Pont George V, and with a spirit of adventure Troy headed the M.G. southwards. As the distinctively British open sports car sped along, its red paintwork gleaming in the sun, complementing Troy’s red hair as it streamed out behind her, it attracted much attention. She found herself subjected to innumerable pap-paps from passing Renaults and Citroens driven by grinning, appreciative Frenchmen. Amusing and flattering as this was, she was relieved when it was time to branch off from the International Highway on to one of the quieter side roads as she cut across country. In this calmer environment her thoughts drifted to Lucien Charon. It was possible now to smile about what had happened between them the previous evening and put it in its rightful perspective. She grimaced ruefully … too much wine on too empty a stomach, pre-holiday excitement and a madly attractive, intelligent Frenchman! She stood no chance!
Seve was reached without difficulty in time for mid-morning coffee. She loved it at first sight. Quaint and picturesque, it was little spoilt by tourism and still retained its old-world charm. Perched high on a hill above vine-covered slopes and surrounded by staggering views, Seve consisted of narrow, winding, climbing streets, tightly lined with old stone houses and shops.
- Troy parked the car and wandered the streets, unconsciously seeking a house-name of Bellevigne. She was aware of curious glances from the inhabitants and was amused. Perhaps the people of Seve had never seen a jumpsuit before? In pale yellow cotton, it was perfectly respectable, the front zip reaching from the mandarin collar, only her arms were bare, but it was a figure-conscious garment and did show off her lovely long-legged shape to advantage.
But Troy was used to stares and did not allow the interest to disturb her. She came out on to a small square in the centre of which stood a monument naming the Seve men and women who had fought and died in two world wars, and she paused for a moment, saddened by the list of names. A notice, further on, attached to a small church, told her that Seve was a former Protestant stronghold and that the ruins of a round, fifteenth-century keep was all that remained of the old fortress of the Comtes de Seve. Troy now realised that Seve must have been a walled town and liked the idea of it perched high on its hill, warding off invaders … it appealed to her vivid imagination.
A pavement bar bordering the square beckoned invitingly, and here she was served an excellent cup of coffee, glad of the shade provided by the awning above, for the sun was now extremely hot. As she contentedly sipped the coffee, her eyes wandered round the square, taking in the typically French scene—the white stuccoed buildings, the tiny dormer windows, coloured shutters and windowboxes, the narrow cobbled streets leading off and the gay umbrellas of a rival bar.
The bar-keeper, when asked, directed her to a farmhouse, where it wa
s possible to find inexpensive accommodation, and as she made her way back to the car Troy wondered how long it would be before the whole of Seve knew that an English girl had come to stay. The place had a feudal air about it and more than likely everyone knew everyone else’s business!
She slowed the car to a stop before starting the descent down the hillside. It was a fantastic view—rows and rows of vines in regimented lines and in the distance, the glistening blue of the River Loire as it wound its way peacefully through the greenery, hidden now and then by a thickness of trees, appearing a little farther on, wide and sand-banked, separating round a willow island to disappear altogether behind the curve of a hill.
A pang of hunger reminded Troy that she wanted to get settled in somewhere before having her picnic lunch, so she started the M.G. and drove carefully down the hillside.
The bar-keeper had termed the farm as being ‘ferme attachee au domaine’ which Troy took to mean being part of an estate, in England called the Home Farm. She followed the directions and swung the car through an open field gateway, checking the name ‘Marin’ on the top bar, before driving along a smooth, well-surfaced track. She pulled up before the final gate which led into a stonepaved farmyard.
The sprawling farmhouse was washed a pale pink, sporting spotless white shutters and a bright red door. Troy liked the look of the place and leaving the M.G., pushed open the gate. A dog came bounding round the corner of an outbuilding, barking, but it stopped when a dark-haired, middle-aged woman appeared at the porch and called to it sharply.
‘Madame Marin?’ asked Troy, and explained in her excellent French what she wanted and who had sent her.
Madame Marin nodded and replied: ‘Ah, my husband’s cousin, mademoiselle. Yes, we have a room to spare which might suit you. Perhaps you would care to look at it?’ She turned and led the way into the farmhouse, which was spotlessly clean and shaded cool by the shutters. As they climbed the curving stair, Madame Marin asked over her shoulder: ‘For how long would you need the room?’
Troy hesitated. ‘I’m not sure, madame, but for one week at least. Would that be acceptable?’
‘Surely. If you would come this way?’ and Madame stepped aside and ushered Troy into an attractive bedroom with a sloping roof and dormer windows. The floor was polished wood with scatter rugs, the bed covered with a patchwork counterpane and the furniture, sturdy and old, smelt of polish. From the window, Troy could glimpse the river, part of a wood bordering a strip of pasture and to the right, the lower slopes of the vineyard. She turned, smiling.
‘This will do beautifully, madame, thank you.’
Terms were agreed, cases were unpacked and then Troy set off to find the river. Apple blossom in the orchards and hawthorn blossom in the hedges attracted her eye as she drove down the country lane. She gave a sigh of pleasure as she parked the M.G. on the grass verge near the entrance to a rough path through the trees. She lifted out the carrier bag which held her market shopping and set off down the path.
She took her time, for she was in no hurry. The wood was cool and speckled with sunlight, but it was soon apparent that she was not getting any nearer to the Loire. Coming to a clearing, she decided to be satisfied with that. It was a delightful spot and had the added attraction of a stream, which tumbled and fell over rocks, hurrying on its way to the big river.
Troy sat herself down on a mossy bank and ate her lunch. She finished off with a juicy nectarine and viewing her sticky hands went to wash them in the stream. It was very hot and the water looked inviting. She took off her sandals and rolled up the trousers of her jumpsuit to her knees and stepped into the stream. The water was ice-cold and clear and also very rocky underfoot. Troy made her way gingerly up stream a few yards to a small waterfall.
It was an idyllic spot, and she held her hands beneath the cascading torrent, splashing her face and arms with the water, and only when her feet began to feel numb did she turn to make her way back. A movement on the bank caught her eye, making her stand still in the middle of the stream, her balance on the rocks precarious.
A dog was watching her from the bank. It was a breed she did not recognise, short-coated, grey-haired, with long legs and cropped ears, a short tail and a long bearded nose. Know the breed or not, the way its eyes were fixed upon her decided Troy to treat the animal with the deepest of suspicion.
She was not, in the normal way, afraid of dogs, but it now flashed through her mind, rather late, that she could be trespassing, in which case her predicament was very real. Before she could decide what to do, the undergrowth parted and out bounced another dog, twin to the first, who gave a short, deep bark before planting himself next to his brother.
Two pairs of eyes now stared across the water and suddenly the stream, the waterfall and the woods were no longer idyllic. Troy moved cautiously and heard a warning growl.
Damn and blast! she thought despairingly, and wondered what the trespassing laws in France were. A thin piercing whistle sounded through the trees and with one accord the dogs swung round and shot back through the undergrowth.
Seizing her chance, Troy began her hurried return, picking her way gingerly but with haste over the stones and rocks, arms outstretched for balance, wincing when the sharp edges cut into the soles of her feet.
The dogs’ return pulled her up short and left her perched precariously on a particularly unsafe rock. When a man, carrying a sporting gun, followed in their tracks, amazement swept away the frustration and fear, leaving her wide-eyed in astonishment.
‘Good heavens! You!’ she exclaimed, registering the ominous look of displeasure on Lucien Charon’s face before she toppled, arms flailing wildly, into the stream. For a second the shock of the cold water took her breath away and then, as pain shot through her right thigh, a cry escaped her lips before being silenced by a clenched jaw.
She heard footsteps come splashing through the stream and she made an effort to struggle to her feet. Brown riding boots came into view and then she was hauled upright and swung up into his arms. Lucien Charon ploughed back through the stream and dumped her down, giving a stern: ‘Couche‘ to the dogs, friendly now and inquisitive.
Troy gritted her teeth, scowling with the pain, and clutched her thigh. She could still hardly believe that it was Lucien Charon who had amazingly appeared out of nowhere, and lifting her eyes, she said ungraciously:
‘What are you doing here?’ and Lucien replied grimly:
‘I might, mademoiselle, ask the same of you.’
The colour flared to her cheeks beneath his sardonic look. ‘You needn’t think I followed you from Paris,’ she told him shortly, and as she spoke she raised her palm and found it covered with blood. In some dismay she watched an ominous patch spreading brightly over the yellow cotton where the material had been pierced by the jagged rock.
Lucien muttered something under his breath and quickly knelt by her side, brows lowered. He took a swift glance at her face and said sharply:
‘This is no time to faint!’
Troy bit her lip and ground out: ‘I have no intention of fainting.’ ‘Good.’ He placed his hand firmly in her groin, ignoring her wince of pain, and went on: ‘I don’t think it’s too serious, but you must see a doctor. First we must try to stop the flow of blood.’ He gave her jumpsuit a sweeping look. ‘Can you get that thing off?’
‘Of course I can,’ snapped Troy, ‘but I’m not going to.’
‘So you bleed to death through modesty? Mon Dieu! How can I deal with the wound if I cannot get at it? Surely bra and briefs can serve efficiently?’
‘I am not wearing a bra, and I am not taking it off,’ she said grimly.
‘Bah! I see more bare flesh on our beaches each summer!’ Lucien snarled and Troy muttered: ‘Not mine, you don’t,’ and then he snapped: ‘Press your hand here, exactly where my fingers are.’
Troy did as she was bidden and watched him seize the leg of the jumpsuit between his hands and rip it open at the seam from ankle to thigh. He then proceeded to tear o
ff a strip and while tightening this round the top of her leg, brusquely nodding to indicate she was to take away her hand, he asked shortly:
‘What were you doing, anyway?’
Troy clenched her jaw, repulsed and yet fascinated by the jagged wound, wondering how such a silly accident could produce such drastic results. She looked at Lucien and blanched at the mess he was in and felt like weeping. His: ‘Well?’ made her start, and embarrassment and weakness made her lash out.
‘Me? I was doing nothing, merely washing my hands. It was your wretched dogs who frightened the life out of me!’
‘Une absurdite . . . they would not have hurt you.’ Another strip was rendered, a handkerchief produced as a pad, and the strip used this time as a bandage. He shot her a quick look as a gasp of pain escaped her lips and frowned down as he worked.
‘I’m very pleased to hear it,’ observed Troy sarcastically, a silly wobble in her voice stirring her on indignantly: ‘They look ferocious brutes and when I moved they growled. Was that an indication that they wouldn’t hurt me?’
Lucien glanced again at her face and his reply was quite mild:
‘They have been trained to guard only.’
‘Perhaps you should hang a placard round their necks, monsieur, informing innocent bystanders of this fact,’ muttered Troy, but her heart was no longer in it. She felt cold, uncomfortable and in pain. She leaned back against the tree and closed her eyes. She heard him move through the undergrowth, hiding the gun and the remains of her picnic, felt him slip on her sandals and then call: ‘Cesar … Satan!’ to the dogs and his shadow fell across her.
‘Put your arms round my neck.’
Her eyes opened. ‘I can walk, thank you.’
‘You will do as you are told, Mademoiselle Maitland,’ came the voice of calm authority, and she was lifted into his arms and found it necessary to obey.
There was nothing dignified about the whole affair, she thought miserably, trying to ignore his face only a few inches away from her own. He obviously considered her to be a designing female and an idiot to boot. She wanted to lay her head on his shoulder and have a good bawl, but pride forbade that. How overbearing he had been, and not one word of sympathy! So his sporting activities had been curtailed by a stupid English girl and he had taken a wetting—was that any reason to snap and snarl? Horrid man! How dared he think she had come chasing down here after him! Who did he think he was, for God’s sake! These indignant observations did much to banish the momentary feeling of tears and her lashes lifted to find his eyes resting upon her.
A House Called Bellevigne Page 3
