Small drops of perspiration were beading on his forehead, although his breathing did not seem to be laboured. His gaze went back to the way ahead and as if reading her thoughts he said:
‘You’re not the lightweight you look, mademoiselle,’ and giving a sardonic twist to his mouth, he added dryly: ‘And I am no Hercules. Luckily, we have arrived.’
Indignation again stirred in Troy’s breast and she thought bitterly of the romantic image that depicted Frenchmen paying flowery compliments. A number of sarcastic replies hovered on her lips but remained un-uttered. Somehow, she knew that she would only come off the loser, and despite his claim to being no Hercules he had managed her well enough. She allowed herself to be placed along the back seat of an open jeep-type vehicle which was parked alongside the M.G. Giving her a shrewd look, Lucien tossed a sweater to her from the front seat and she struggled into it, pulling the ample folds down over her. She said stiffly: ‘What about my car, Monsieur Charon?’ The two dogs jumped into the front and Lucien climbed behind the steering wheel, throwing over his shoulder:
‘I’ll get someone to fetch it later.’ With swift sureness he backed the jeep on to the road and began to drive back the way Troy had come earlier. She sat, clinging to the back seat, trying to come to terms with fate. This morning she had put all thoughts of Lucien Charon behind her, to be slotted into memory, a whimsical romanticism over which to smile a little. Now here he was, very much in the present, with nothing whimsical or romantic about him… arrogant, bossy and rude!
She lifted her face to the warm breeze, the awful feeling of faintness passing. The sweater was a comfort and the regular throbbing in her leg was bearable if she did not move it. She stared at the man behind the wheel. He was concentrating on the road ahead, hurrying, but taking no unnecessary risks, judging the bends to a nice degree as they wound their way up the hill to Seve.
Lucien slowed as he negotiated the narrow, climbing main street, nodding a greeting or lifting a hand briefly to shopkeepers standing talking in their doorways, or pedestrians pausing to watch them go by. Troy was again conscious of curious scrutiny as she sat, for all to see, along the back seat and smiled grimly to herself. Let him get out of this, she thought unfairly.
They swung round by the church and pulled to a halt. Troy had time to notice that the house was one of a row of old stone cottages, a brass plate by the door proclaiming: ‘Marcel Dubois. Medecin.’ before she was being carried down a dark, narrow passage.
Lucien shouted: ‘Colette! Une cliente pour le docteur! Faites vite!’ and nudging the door open with his foot he turned into the surgery. He had just placed her on the couch when a booming voice declared in French:
‘What is all the noise? Ah, Lucien! An accident, eh?’
The newcomer gave Troy a shrewd glance, his eyes passing to her bound thigh. Moving to the wash-basin, he asked abruptly: ‘What has happened?’
‘She’s English, a tourist, and has fallen on a rock. It looks nasty and there’s been quite a blood loss,’ offered Lucien as the doctor dried his hands and crossed to the couch. He undid the makeshift bandage and examined the wound.
‘Hm … you did right to bring her.’ He worked in silence for a moment, cleaning the wound, and then foraged in a nearby cupboard, and finding what he was looking for, returned, giving her another quick look before quipping: ‘It would be a shame to mar such a fine pair of legs like these, eh, Lucien?’
Really, thought Troy resignedly, I shall have to let on soon that I can understand French!
Lucien drawled: ‘You’re an old reprobate, Marcel.’
‘You think I’m too old to appreciate a good pair of legs, my boy?’ and the doctor chuckled. Lucien grinned.
‘Obviously not. Do you need me?’
‘Of course I need you. Is it not Thursday, the day when Colette travels to Gien to see her sister? Hold this,’ and he thrust a bowl into Lucien’s hands and turned back to Troy, speaking to her in English.
‘Now, young lady, I am going to give you a local anaesthetic and do a little stitching. It will hurt a trifle, but you will not mind that, eh?’ ‘No, doctor,’ replied Troy, hoping it was true.
‘If you do silly things like falling on to rocks then you expect to be hurt, eh?’ The voice was gruff, but the eyes were kind.
‘Yes, doctor,’ concurred Troy obediently. She was beginning to like the little tubby doctor with his twinkling blue eyes and greying, tufty hair and moustache. ‘I’m sorry to be such a nuisance to you,’ she added, her voice a little wobbly.
The bushy brows twitched. ‘Hm … it is what I am here for.’ He bent over to give her the injection and her hand was taken suddenly in a firm grasp. She looked up, but Lucien was watching the doctor.
After a moment her hand was released and she felt the absurd inclination to weep.
Dr Dubois set to work and during the next quarter of an hour chatted non-stop in French to Lucien. It was soothing to hear of Madame Tufre’s twins and Rene Rousard’s new wife, the state of the government and the proposed wealth tax, the lovely May weather and the growth of the vine and last, and most interesting of all, Lucien Charon’s love life.
‘How is it with the so beautiful Madeleine de Vesci, Lucien?’
‘I went to Paris on business, Marcel.’
‘But you allowed business to mix with pleasure, for a surety,’ stated the doctor with a chuckle. Out of the corner of her eye Troy saw Lucien give her a brief look and his voice was amused as he gave a laconic:
‘Naturally.’
‘And when are you going to take Madame de Vesci to wife, Lucien? A lonely widow, sophisticated, intelligent, with a good dowry— what more do you want, man?’
‘You’re a meddling old fool, Marcel,’ observed Lucien mildly.
‘So you frequently tell me.’ The doctor paused, frowned over his handiwork and then, face clearing, added: ‘You are not the kind to live alone, Lucien.’
Lucien gave a derisive laugh. ‘I hardly live alone, Marcel!’
‘You should have a son,’ the older man went on stubbornly.
‘You are as bad as Grand’mere, and you both know that there is Philippe.’
‘Accidents happen, as your father knew to his cost. Besides, every man wants a son.’
Lucien smiled, his face softening. ‘You seem to have managed without one, Marcel.’
‘Oh, I have been too busy … and you are all the son I have ever wanted,’ the doctor said gruffly. ‘We speak only for your good, your grand’mere and I, boy. But you will go your own way, like your father before you. The bandage, please.’ He looked across at Troy and said in English: ‘We have nearly finished, young lady.’ He hummed for a while, saying presently: ‘You have been out shooting in the woods today, Lucien? Did you get anything?’
‘Only the girl,’ Lucien offered, and the doctor wheezed delightedly.
‘She is a brave one. Where did this happen?’ and he nodded to the wound he was now bandaging.
‘She was paddling in the Seve, near the waterfall, and tumbled in. Hence our wet state.’ Lucien looked at his watch.
‘Patience, patience, we have nearly done. Surely you are not anxious to be rid of such a girl? Not like you, Lucien … consider that marvellous hair!’
‘She’s a termagant,’ Lucien said calmly, and the doctor gave a bark of laughter.
‘She has character as well as beauty, eh?’
Troy took a deep breath and turned her head, addressing the doctor politely in English. ‘You have finished, Doctor?’
‘Nearly, nearly … only the tetanus jab as a precaution.’ He went about this in a businesslike manner, Troy hardly feeling a thing as he rubbed the skin on her upper arm briskly for a few seconds with a ball of cotton wool. No hand grip this time and Troy would have refused one. Termagant, indeed!
‘There. All finished.’ The doctor moved to the basin, shooing Lucien out of the way. With an air of almost boredom, Lucien crossed to the window.
Ignoring him, Troy half sat up, restin
g her weight on one elbow.
‘Thank you, Dr Dubois. You must let me know your fee.’ She saw Lucien make an impatient movement, saying curtly as he turned:
‘I shall settle with Dr Dubois.’
‘How kind of you to offer,’ said Troy, wonderfully humble.
Lucien eyed her narrowly for a moment and said dismissively:
‘I was just considering whether to advise you not to go wandering off on your own again. It is foolish, especially in a strange country, but I have decided against it. It is doubtful whether you would accept the advice.’
‘You mean that ferocious dogs wander about loose all over France?’ she asked innocently, enjoying the sudden tightening of his mouth, ‘or perhaps I was trespassing? I saw no sign forbidding me entry …’
Dr Dubois was standing between them, drying his hands, looking from one to the other with obvious delight. Lucien broke in, with great control:
‘There is no sign. The woods of Charon are free for any to walk.’
‘I suppose I should be thankful that I didn’t get shot at,’ she. observed, and received the suave reply:
‘That would have been unlikely, Mademoiselle Maitland, unless you are capable of flying through the air.’
There was silence. Dr Dubois patted her shoulder. ‘Do not let him put you down, young lady. Have you nothing further to say? He has always been used to his own way, that is the trouble.’
Lucien gave a bark of laughter. Troy said:
‘If I antagonise Monsieur Charon too much, Doctor, I might find I have to walk back. I must be grateful that he hasn’t accused me of being a witch on a broomstick,’ and she swung her legs to the ground.
‘No, no, we will keep off the leg, if you please, today,’ scolded the doctor, pausing while writing instructions on a bottle of tablets. He handed it to her. ‘Two tonight and then as necessary,’ he told her, adding slyly: ‘And now Lucien will carry you. He is a strong fellow and will enjoy the prospect.’
Lucien came forward. ‘You must learn to ignore the good doctor’s teasing, mademoiselle,’ and lifting her once more into his arms he strode back along the passageway and out into the sunlight. ‘I shall need to know where you are staying.’
Troy settled herself on the back seat. ‘ Yes, I’m sorry… I am with a Madame Marin at the farm just down the hill…’
‘I know it.’ Lucien stared at her oddly and then climbed into the driver’s seat. He did not need to be directed to the Marin farm. The dog appeared again, barking furiously, until he saw who it was and then wagged his tail. Cesar and Satan, extremely well-behaved, sat immobile in canine condescension. As Madame Marin came to the door, Troy said quickly:
‘Will you ask Madame if she is still prepared to accept me as her guest now? I realise that for at least tomorrow I shall not be mobile and perhaps it will not be convenient. I don’t wish to be a burden to her.’
‘Modestine will be delighted to attend to you,’ Lucien told her with annoying certainty and Troy replied with asperity:
‘I don’t know that, Monsieur Charon, and neither do you. Will you please be good enough to ask her?’
He swung himself down from the jeep and stood for a moment considering her, before saying soothingly: ‘But naturally I shall ask her, if you wish it.’ He went to meet Madame Marin who, after an exchange of words, disappeared into the farmhouse. Lucien strode back, his eyes on Troy’s enquiring face.
‘As I supposed, Modestine is only too happy to be of help. You need not worry.’ He smiled, a warm, generous smile, and his grey eyes were kindly. ‘I can leave you with complete assurance. As a young boy I was always getting into scrapes with her son and know, to my good fortune, what an excellent nurse she makes.’ His face changed to dismay as he saw Troy’s brown eyes fill with sudden tears. ‘Mon Dieu! What have I said to upset you?’ He leaned forward and gently smoothed away a tear that had spilled over and was trickling down her cheek. ‘What a formidable opponent you are … and how underhand to use such a weapon.’ He shook his head, a faint smile on his face. ‘Tck, tck, what chance do you leave a poor fellow now?’
Troy gave a choking laugh and wiped her cheeks, childlike, with the sleeve of his sweater. She took a deep breath and said contritely: ‘Monsieur Charon—I haven’t behaved very well this afternoon, I’m
sorry…’
The tips of his fingers touched her lips to stop the flow of words and .he mocked gently:
‘Come, come, Victoire … tears and an apology? You deal most unfairly!’ He swung her down from the jeep. ‘But I do not despair. It is only that now you are feeling a little fatigued after your ordeal with the Seve rocks. Tomorrow you will be happily crossing swords with me without compunction.’ No more was said until he put her down on the pretty patchwork counterpane. Then Troy tentatively observed:
‘Monsieur, don’t you think that it’s a coincidence, our meeting like this? I assure you that when we met in Paris I had no idea I should see you again.’
‘Life is full of coincidences,’ he agreed, looking down at her enigmatically. ‘For me, however, it is not at all extraordinary. I live here.’
She stared at him, eyes widening in surprise. ‘Here?’ She gazed round uncertainly. ‘In this farmhouse?’
He said impatiently: ‘No, no … at Seve.’ He paused. ‘Whereas, you, on holiday, could have chosen anywhere to spend it, and yet you chose Seve.’ It was casually said, but there was slight challenge in the grey eyes.
‘Perhaps my choice of Seve was not so haphazard,’ suggested Troy. She frowned, considering the situation. She had to ask someone about Bellevigne, why not Lucien Charon, who lived in the district? ‘I’m not purely on holiday, Monsieur Charon. I’m looking for something, and perhaps you could help me find it.’
The sound of a motor was heard outside and Lucien turned his head and looked out of one of the windows, saying as he did:
‘In what way can I be of assistance?’
‘Could you help me to find a house called Bellevigne?’ asked Troy hopefully, and a little shyly, and found that she was waiting almost apprehensively for his answer.
Lucien turned from the window. ‘You say you are looking for a house?’
Troy nodded. ‘Yes. I know nothing about it other than its name— Bellevigne, and that it’s in or near Seve. Do you know it?’
He gazed at her thoughtfully. ‘I can tell you about Bellevigne and take you there without difficulty. But may I ask the reason for your interest in the Chateau? There are much grander, larger chateaux of the Loire than Bellevigne. Why do we tempt you, Mademoiselle Maitland?’
Chateau? Troy wondered if she had heard him right. Footsteps could be heard clattering the stair and Madame Marin swept into the room, speaking in rapid French.
‘Come, Monsieur le Comte, Mademoiselle should rest… here is some freshly made lemon tea for her to drink to soothe her. Also, JeanJacques has arrived and wishes to have a word with you.’
‘Very well, Modestine, I shall leave the patient in your so-capable hands. Dubois has prescribed some tablets… you will see that she takes them?’
‘Assuredly, Monsieur le Comte.’
‘Then I will go and see JeanJacques.’ Lucien glanced at Troy who was staring blankly up at him, feeling as though she had received a body blow. He spoke in his excellent English: ‘We shall talk of Bellevigne tomorrow when you will be feeling, hopefully, the benefit of a good night’s rest. A demain, Mademoiselle Maitland.’ He smiled and left the room. As soon as His footsteps faded, Troy asked urgently:
‘Madame Marin… you … what did you call him?’ She floundered and thrust fingers through her hair. ‘I mean … I thought he said his name was Charon?’
Madame nodded. ‘That is so. Charon is the family name.’
‘But … you called him Monsieur le Comte!’
‘That also is so. Lucien Valery Charon, Comte de Seve,’ acknowledged Madame Marin. She gestured to the window. ‘Unfortunately you cannot see Bellevigne from here, the woods hide the Chateau.
And now, would Mademoiselle allow me to find her night things? It would be preferable for you to take your evening meal in bed and perhaps you may manage a rest before then. It was an unfortunate accident to happen, but Dr Dubois is a good doctor.’
Troy hardly heard her. Comte de Seve! Chateau Bellevigne! No wonder all the villagers acknowledged him as they went through. No wonder he was walking the woods as though he owned them! Madame handed Troy her nightgown, saying:
‘My husband rims the Home Farm for Monsieur le Comte, and my son, JeanJacques, is his right-hand man at the vineyards.’
‘H—how interesting,’ answered Troy feebly, thinking—vineyards! Charon wines!
‘As far as the eye can see, and beyond, is de Seve property. Of course, the Chateau was only built on its present site during the eighteenth century.’ Madame broke off as a call summoned her to the top of the stairs and on her return she said with satisfaction: ‘Mademoiselle, you have no need to worry about your car. JeanJacques is going to fetch it for you. But first he must have the keys.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Troy opened her bag and found the keys. A small white card tucked into the side pocket triggered off a memory. She said slowly: ‘I thought that Monsieur Charon was something to do with a banking house?’
Madame Marin nodded and replied with simple pride: ‘Assuredly. There have been Charons connected with banking for five generations, mademoiselle, and the union of Descartes and Charon for three of them. Monsieur Lucien has studied and worked in the family bank—it is expected, you understand, and he is naturally a director. However, another branch of the family deals with the major running of the bank.’
A House Called Bellevigne Page 4
