Wildfire Quest

by Jane Arbor

  WILDFIRE QUEST

  Jane Arbor

  “We seek the unattainable” was Raoul Leduc’s family motto— but it might more aptly have been Maryan’s.

  For she was the one who was seeking in vain for the land which her father had always felt belonged to him, but in fact was Raoul’s; and she who was seeking, even more hopelessly, for Raoul’s love...

  CHAPTER ONE

  Detachedly Maryan noticed how far the long shaft of sunshine had moved since she had been received into the lawyer’s office. Maitre Druot had been generous with his time and attention. For now the dusty motes which had danced between the tall windows and the wall behind his head were touching his fingers steepled together as he watched her replace the well-worn envelope in her satchel and fasten the clasp.

  ‘I am sorry, mademoiselle,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you.’ Maryan managed a smile for him. ‘I’m sorry too. But as I told you, my English solicitor—that is, my father’s solicitor—had warned me that you almost certainly couldn’t help me.’

  Maitre Druot nodded confirmation of this. ‘A sad circumstance, but only too true, I’m afraid. To repeat myself—these letters, handed down through your family and preserved by Monsieur Vaile in the hope they might constitute a claim—helas, they tell us nothing of value. Simply the acceptable truth that a close friendship did exist between these two men over a hundred years ago, and that there was, more than probably, a verbal promise to your father’s grandfather from the then owner of the Feu-Follet land—’

  Maryan cut in there. ‘But of course my father understood that the letters in themselves didn’t add up to a valid claim to Feu-Follet. It was simply that he had always believed that over here, in the region, there could be some proof of the transfer of ownership from Monsieur Grise to my great-grandfather. Or—well, something,’ she finished lamely.

  The lawyer’s brows drew together. ‘Even though, as you’ve told me, your father did return to France some years back to research his claim and, as far as you know, found nothing to support it? I haven’t misunderstood you on this?’

  ‘Oh no. He did come back, five years ago. I was seventeen then. I had just left school and I came with him—’ At the memory Maryan’s lids dropped over her eyes in a swift, involuntary flinch. She went on evenly, ‘But he failed. He learned nothing, except that, while the land all round it was richly forested, that strip had been still as derelict as he remembered it as a boy, until it had been bought a few years before by the Leduc estates, and with no right to do so, he was not able to examine the deeds.’

  A nod. ‘Exactly. Yet even then, after that and until he died, he still cherished the—illusion?’ Maitre Druot broke off, then prompted compassionately, ‘It had become an obsession with him, you say? An empty dream which he would not, and at the end perhaps, could not let go?’

  Not meeting the kindly eyes, Maryan said stonily, ‘An obsession, yes. It amounted to that by then. Previously it hadn’t been much more than a family joke. “Come the time when I own that strip of good French soil, you could end up a rich, land-owning woman in your own right, cherie,” he used to tease me. But after we came over that last time, he hardly spoke of it again, even in fun. My mother died two years ago, and I spent almost all my college vacations at home with him. And it wasn’t until his last illness—he died from the after-effects of a bullet wound in the head from the last war and at the end he wasn’t very rational—that he showed what a secret compulsion he was still making of his claim. Feu-Follet was rightly his, and therefore mine. I must do something about it; claim it, prove my claim, justify his conviction—Over and over—’ Maryan paused, her lip quivering. ‘So what could I do? I had to promise. I loved him, and I owed it to him.’

  ‘Of course. You saw it as your duty to pursue the affair to its limits after his death, and I, for one, honour you for it. But—’ the Gallic spread of Maitre Druot’s hands was expressive of his inability to help her further.

  Maryan thanked him again. ‘It was a trust I took on. I saw his solicitors about it and took their advice to come to you as a last-ditch chance that there still might be some sources of information that could be probed. But of course I accept that there are none. While we have been corresponding, I’ve expected little else than that my father had no valid claim.’ She rose. ‘But please believe I’m very grateful for your interest, Maitre Druot. You will let me have your account?’

  The old man came round the desk. ‘All in good time—to your man of business in England. You are returning there yourself at once? Or remaining for a while here in Bayonne?’

  Maryan shook her head. ‘Neither. I only came into Bayonne for the morning, to keep my appointment with you. For the next day or two I am at the inn in Peyrolle, but—’

  ‘You are staying in Peyrolle village? Then you know Feu-Follet; its extent, its position in relation to the Leduc lands? You have seen it for yourself?’

  ‘Not this time, yet. But when we came over before, we stayed in Peyrolle then, and my father showed me what he believed to be its boundaries. Or, I suppose, what would have been its extent before the Leduc family bought it in.’

  ‘So—five years ago, you say? Yes, the Leduc estates did acquire it—at last—some three years before that. Just after old Emilion Leduc died, and his son Raoul inherited.’

  ‘What do you mean by “at last”?’ Maryan queried. ‘Had they failed to buy it earlier?’

  ‘For a very long time, I believe. I don’t act for the family, but it may well have been that its ownership couldn’t be traced. Meanwhile it must have been a thorn in the Leduc flesh, dividing this side of their land from the other. And give Raoul Leduc his due, he has done well by it since— reclaimed it, revivified its soil, replanted it—as you will appreciate when you see it again. A fine standing of young pine saplings springing there now, and small consolation as it may be to your own lack of claim, your father might have been glad to know that Feu Follet, at maturity, will be serving France with good timber for a very long time—h’m? Does that help you at all?’ Maitre Druot enquired anxiously.

  Maryan smiled. ‘It’s something. I’ll remember that.’ She offered her hand and he took it in a warm double-fisted grasp.

  ‘But don’t remember Feu-Follet itself for too long,’ he advised. ‘When you go back to England, forget it as soon as you can—its unhappy associations for you, its unfortunate name—’ He broke off. ‘You understand the meaning of Feu-Follet in English, I take it?’

  ‘Yes. My father translated it as “Wildfire” or “wanton fire”; in England people call it “will-o’-the’-wisp”. But they all mean the out-of-reach, the foolish illusion, don’t they?’ Maryan’s lips quivered slightly. ‘As you say, monsieur, it was well named where we were concerned!’

  ‘Which is why you must forget it now, mademoiselle.’ Her hand was released and Maitre Druot went with her to the door. ‘Promise me you will try?’

  ‘I’ll try,’ she lied, knowing she couldn’t, for other reasons than he knew. But he seemed satisfied with her reply and with an encouraging, ‘Bonne chance!’ instead of anything more formal, he summoned his clerk to show her out.

  Though she didn’t need his guidance, the young man went with her to and through the outer doors and remained at her side as she paused in the strong sunlight of the street.

  ‘May I call a taxi for you, mademoiselle?’

  ‘No, thank you. I mean to walk into the city centre and find a place to lunch.’

  ‘Ah, there are plenty of good restaurants and bars in centre-ville. May I recommend somewhere to you?’ he offered.

  Maryan looked at him, noting his lank hair, his pinched features and, resenting the bold stare of his slate-coloured eyes, ‘Thank you, but I think I’d prefer to choose one for myself,�
�� she told him.

  He ignored the slight snub, looked at his watch and persisted, ‘It’s noon, and I am free myself in a few minutes. I could show you—’

  ‘You are very kind. But not now. Another time, perhaps—’ As she moved away she did not catch his muttered reply, and dismissed him from her mind. There wouldn’t be ‘another time’, of course. She would not be visiting Maitre Druot’s chambers again....

  She did not in fact seek the city centre, but decided to lunch at an open-air restaurant among the trees of the old ramparts. Before doing so she bought a street-plan of Bayonne, a large-scale district map and a country bus timetable. She would be needing all three during the indefinite but necessary weeks of her stay in the region, and she studied them over a gourmet meal—the house speciality of turkey gelatine with a green salad, a dry wine, folio lowed by iced coffee and a tempting choice of the tiny gateaux made from the local honey and almonds of the Landes.

  She would not be eating as fastidiously as this every day, she told herself. Once she had a plan of campaign and got down to the work she had come to do, she would be lunching wherever she found an eating-place and was hungry enough to accept its soup and its plat du jour and its rough wine. Or she would be carrying her own hunk of bread, cheese and a bottle. Meanwhile she relaxed in the shade, dozed a little and decided against a visit to the museum on the Rue Marengo, owing to her need to solve today, if possible, the domestic problem which awaited her in Peyrolle.

  Ahead of her arrival she had booked a room at the Lion d’Or, the only inn in the village, only to find that the landlady grudged her the tenancy of it for more than three nights, of which she had already had two.

  To her dismayed protest—A misunderstanding, yes, Madame Bresque had allowed. But believing Mademoiselle Vaile to be the usual tourist passing through, as tourists do, she had not reckoned with a longer stay, and Mademoiselle would no doubt appreciate that, as the Lion d’Or had no single rooms to rent, Mademoiselle’s occupancy of a double one for even three nights was a sacrifice of profit which was not to be endured?

  ‘Even though I’d be willing to meet you in the price of the double room?’ Maryan had suggested mildly.

  But Madame had still rejected the offer, and as soon as Maryan realised why, she gave in. The Lion d’Or, needing to make its hay of profit while the tourist sun shone, must keep its bedrooms, its dining room and its bar as full of people spending money as possible. Loners like Maryan weren’t welcome. They occupied a room which could otherwise be shared; they ordered one meal, one drink, from a management panting to serve two. For Madame Bresque and her business, it was a simple matter of harsh economics. Not so simple, though, for Maryan.

  She wanted to stay in Peyrolle and nowhere else. True, its image had changed a little. Now, more traffic clattered over its pave on the way South to Spain; more cars loitered and parked under the plane-trees of its main Place; more of its shop-fronts and window-shutters had been repainted, and five years ago Madame Bresque’s predecessor hadn’t been quite so alert to the Lion d’Or’s profits. But for the most part, the same time which had coloured and kept bright Maryan’s nostalgic love-affair with the place hadn’t changed it beyond rediscovery.

  Already she had recognised houses, retraced roads, glimpsed again remembered views; heard sounds, smelled scents which at least had marked time for her since she had enjoyed them last. Little enough chance that any of the people would remember the strangers she and her father had been, that other time; less chance still that one figure, sharply etched by memory, would turn this corner or the next and come to meet her. Things like that didn’t happen ... But now circumstances had brought her again to Peyrolle, she was glad she hadn’t listened to the wiseacres who had warned—It’s almost always a mistake to go back. As soon as she had arrived, shabby, provincial, sun-baked Peyrolle had worked its spell again, and somewhere it was going to have to find a niche for her. After all, a roof, a chair, a table, a bed was all she asked!

  The afternoon bus filled up with its complement of farmers’ wives, crates of live poultry, a gaggle of schoolchildren, some pack-laden hitch-hikers and Maryan.

  The youngsters yelled and romped; the talk between the women was—as everywhere—of shopping and high prices; with half her attention Maryan listened to as much as she understood of the local patois; the rest of her thoughts were with the ways and means of finding herself a lodging and ranging back over her interview with Maitre Druot.

  Her mind formed the words of a regret which did not reach her lips. ‘I’m sorry, Papa. I’ve done what you asked, but it isn’t any good’—hoping that somehow he could know that, though she had failed, she had done her best for his trust. She thought about the Plantage Feu-Follet itself, named, her father had told her, for its extent from the swamp lands behind the dunes of the coast, deep into the hinterland of man-sown timber, but now no longer part of the marshes, studded with salty lagoons, where the elusive wildfire ran; winking, beckoning, luring the unwary into danger, mysteriously doused when followed or watched too closely ... feu-follet. Just a gaseous phenomenon of nature in prosaic fact, but still with a shiver of age-old superstition about it to chill the blood.

  From there Maryan was recalling the details of her exchange with Maitre Druot, catching at a phrase of the lawyer’s on which he hadn’t enlarged at the time.

  ‘Give Raoul Leduc his due,’ Maitre Druot had said. A grudging little aside, had that been? Yes. When people gave other people the lip-service of their ‘due’, it meant they had doubts as to whether they were giving more than was deserved.

  So what reservations on Monsieur Raoul Leduc had kindly Maitre Druot? Maryan wondered. Was the man reputed to beat his wife, or fail to pay his bills? Or was it the fact of his having chosen fairly recently to leave the Leduc family home and to live somewhere else? For this was something Maryan had ascertained on her first reconnoitre of the village. The square white mansion, visible from the big double gates into the wrought iron of which a craftsman had scrolled its name, La Domaine Leduc, was obviously empty. Surprised to find it so—she had always thought of it as Peyrolle’s manor house—on her return that evening to the Lion d’Or, she had asked Madame Bresque how long it had been empty and whether Madame knew why its current owner had left it.

  Madame had been vague as to dates. Perhaps a year, give or take a month. As to why Monsieur had chosen to move away—Madame’s shrug had said so plainly that that was Monsieur’s own business that Maryan had been daunted. At Maitre Druot’s mention of Raoul Leduc, she could have questioned him, she supposed. But, warned by Madame’s shrug and reticence, she hadn’t cared to invite a possible snub from him too.

  At each huddle of farm buildings, at each bus-stop people got on or off—mostly off, until only Maryan and a couple of schoolboys remained. Gourdon, Marensin, Vieux-Albert—the little villages strung out along the road from Bayonne were reached and left behind, and the next would be Peyrolle. On impulse Maryan decided to alight before the bus trundled to its station just off the Place. She had a fancy to take another look at the Leduc house before she set about finding a room to rent from tomorrow onwards.

  At the edge of the village where she left the bus, the pines crowded in, stretching deep on either side of the short avenue which led to La Domaine Leduc. Reaching the gates, glimpsing the house, she noticed the gates were not padlocked. The left one, the La Domai ... half, even gave to her gentle push and almost without volition she was inside it and moving on for a better view of the house.

  It was empty, wasn’t it? Who was to know, or to tell on her intrusion? She had carried a memory of its facade around with her for five years; had had to imagine its other elevations, its gardens, its views, and she wasn’t going to be cheated of them now.

  A closer look confirmed that the floor-to-ceiling sash windows of the ground floor were curtainless, a blank stare towards the gates. Making a pair of blinkers of her cupped hands, she peered in at one of them at the room it served. Long, panelled, elegant of line, th
e salon evidently. Another, a dining room. Round the side, a smaller, more intimate room. Study? Breakfast-room? The kitchen quarters to themselves in a long L-arm at the back of the main building, more reception rooms, a wide balustraded terrace; ornamental water glinting below it and, from the far edge of the basin, a long slope of shaven lawn, down to the line where, Maryan knew, the marshes began.

  No formal gardens here. Just that great stretch of grass, its ‘banding’ showing it had been recently mown. Which meant gardeners, she realised with a little shock. Perhaps after all she had better not go in search of the gardens proper, but go back by the way she had come.

  She did so and had almost reached the gates when a sports car halted beyond them, the driver leapt the low door of the car, opened the gates, returned to his seat, drove in and halted again at sight of her, the stranger who had no right to be where she was.

  Looking at him, Maryan felt her heart give a thud-thud of shock. The chance which didn’t happen ...! The nameless face she had thought never to see again, watching her now without a shadow of recognition in the eyes ...

  Yet, whoever he was, why should he have remembered her, the girl he had danced with briefly in the streets of Peyrolle on the gay night of a French fete-day five years ago? They hadn’t exchanged names; there had been no time. They had partnered, laughing with the crowd. They had danced, clowned a little; from the few words she had spoken he had realised she wasn’t French and had teasingly mimicked her accent. He had asked her to remove her silly carnival mask, and when she had coquettishly refused, he had lifted it himself.

  He had murmured ‘Mignonne’ extravagantly as, probably, to his last partner and his next. He had kissed the tip of her nose, and then, lightly, meaning nothing by it, her lips, and had danced on, forgetting her, as she, foolishly, had never forgotten him.

  So many boys, so many men she had met as briefly and had forgotten since. Why should memory have kept his height, his springing dark hair, the quirk of his eyebrow, the gesture of his hands, when she could see from his expression now that nothing about her had registered for long with him?