The Wild Land

by Isobel Chace

  They laughed again, and Emma sat back contentedly. She had forgotten what a legend her grandmother had been among all her friends and how she had boasted about her, and how Sam had always pretended that he had no interest in anything he was serious about.

  “If I remember rightly your grandmother is a kind of European cowboy. “Right? On the Camargue? What’s the matter, honey? You got tired of the place already?”

  “Oh no!” She was surprised by her own enthusiasm. “Sam, you must see it! It’s the wind and the salt. And you can see for miles. And there’s so much sky!”

  Sam grinned.

  “I’m sold, honey, just name the time and the day.”

  Emma hesitated.

  “You know you’re welcome any time, but—”

  Sam looked unexpectedly serious.

  “What’s the trouble, sweetheart? Anything you want to tell me about?” He shrugged his shoulders. “I guess I’m not much of a confidant at that, but am I right in supposing that all is not well down among the cattle?”

  Emma gave a weak laugh.

  “I suppose you might say that,” she considered. “The thing is that I’m not sure.” She laughed again. “Does that sound very ridiculous?”

  Sam smiled.

  “A little,” he admitted. “Suppose you begin at the beginning.”

  “We-ell, it really began when I got this letter. Grand’mere had often asked me over to stay with her, but I only get a fortnight’s holiday in the year and that didn’t seem very adequate, so somehow I’d never come. But when I got a letter saying that she was in trouble and that someone was trying to force her out of the ownership of her farm—”

  “Isn’t it called a manade?” Sam asked.

  “Yes, I suppose it is,” Emma admitted. “But it was hers. It was her whole life!”

  “An anonymous letter, I suppose,” Sam said teasingly, “full of dark and curious happenings.”

  “Certainly not!” Emma retorted, very much on her dignity. She retired into a thoughtful silence until Sam prompted her with a slight nudge.

  “Well, go on, silly,” he said. “I suppose you threw up your job and came tearing across to France to look after the old lady.”

  “Something like that,” Emma agreed uncomfortably. She hadn’t realized before how thin her story sounded. It did seem rather ridiculous when it was put like that. But her grandmother had nobody else to look after her—and supposing she really had been in trouble and she, Emma, had done nothing about it. “Anyway, I came,” she went on, “and this man is now co-owner of the whole place.”

  Sam whistled.

  “You mean there was something in it after all, and you were too late?”

  “That’s just it,” Emma said, determined to be just. “I don’t know.”

  “Have you talked to your grandmother about it?” Emma shook her head.

  “I thought I’d wait until I’d seen Monsieur Clement—the man who wrote to me.”

  Sam nodded his head.

  “Very wise, I should say.” His irrepressible smile broke out again. “Who’d have thought it! All these nefarious goings on all around, and I only hear about them by accident!”

  “But, Sam, I’m not sure—”

  “Oh, you don’t have to worry about me,” he assured her. “I shan’t breathe a word to anyone. Girl Scout’s honor!”

  And Emma, who was already regretting having said anything at all to him, had to be content with that. She couldn’t understand why she should feel slightly guilty at having presented Charles Rideau in a rather unattractive light, even if she hadn’t actually mentioned him by name. Perhaps, she thought, it was just that it had come so soon after his overtures of friendship. It didn’t on the whole, seem to be a very kind way of repaying him.

  Rather impatiently she dismissed the whole matter from her mind, more than a little relieved that Charles would never know anything about it.

  “I think I ought to be getting back to the cafe where Monsieur Rideau is picking me up,” she said hastily.

  Sam looked amused.

  “Is he the old codger who’s horned in on your grandmother’s preserves?”

  Emma gave him a startled look.

  “Y-yes, I suppose so. Only—”

  Sam looked even more amused.

  “Only what?”

  “Only nothing!” she said tartly.

  But whatever Charles was, she thought, one certainly couldn’t describe him as an old codger!

  It was apparent that Sam didn’t think so either.

  Charles was sitting at a table in the cafe talking earnestly to Marie-Françoise. Emma could watch them almost the whole length of the street. They made a handsome couple, she thought, and couldn’t understand why the idea should depress her. Marie-Françoise sat back in her chair, her gorgeous fair hair falling down her back and her well-tanned limbs displayed to every advantage in front of her. She was, Emma supposed, quite stunningly beautiful, and she, who had ever been one to appreciate beauty wherever she should find it, was quite, bewildered to find that she resented it.

  “Is that the fellow?” Sam asked at her elbow.

  Emma nodded, unhappily aware that although he was asking about Charles his eyes were very definitely on Marie-Françoise.

  “And who is she?” he asked.

  She realized that she didn’t really know her name. She had only been introduced as Marie-Françoise. With an effort she smiled at her and received a lazy smile in return.

  Charles Rideau stood up and without any fuss arranged the chairs so that Emma was sitting next to him.

  “This is Sam McGuire—Ch-Charles Rideau.”

  “And I am Marie-Françoise,” the French girl’s husky voice broke in. “Tell me all about what you are doing in la belle France.”

  Sam, it seemed, was only too happy to oblige. Emma listened uncomfortably, marvelling that he, who had never been able to express himself well about the things that were near to his heart, should suddenly be so ready to talk. He was twice as witty and more voluble than she had ever known him. She cast a quick look at Charles to see what he was thinking, for, after all, Marie-Françoise was his friend. But he wasn’t looking at the French girl. He was looking at her, and his eyes were kind.

  “It must have been quite a surprise to run into him,” he said quietly.

  She could feel herself coloring.

  “Yes, it was,” she replied, a shade pugnaciously.

  He looked amused.

  “We’ll have to ask him down to the ferrade on Sunday,” he suggested.

  Emma blinked and he leaned forward in a conspiratorial manner, smiling right into her eyes, knowing that she didn’t know what a ferrade was.

  “If you don’t know what I’m talking about, it will make a nice surprise for you too,” he added smugly.

  She watched him as he leaned back again, swinging his chair perilously on to two legs, and found herself smiling back at him.

  “Will I like it?” she asked.

  He made a play of considering the matter.

  “I think so,” he said.

  She had to admit that she was intrigued, and somehow the sting of Sam’s only too obvious interest in Marie-Françoise had been drawn. It had only been because she had been feeling a little lonely in a strange land, she assured herself, and Sam had been a friend from home.

  Marie-Françoise barely looked up as they got up to go. Charles patted her lightly on the shoulders and Sam got to his feet, giving Emma a light kiss of farewell that brought the color flying into her cheeks. She had always liked Sam’s brashness—she still liked his brashness, but she did wish that he wouldn’t take quite so much for granted.

  The road out to the Camargue seemed almost familiar to her, the abrupt transition from the tame to the wild less unexpected.

  “Do you know Marie-Françoise well?” Emma found herself asking.

  “Very well,” Charles replied gravely. There was a moment’s silence. “Her father has the place next door,” he went on. “He’s
quite impossible and he leaves most of the work to her.” He turned impulsively towards her. “I’d be grateful if you could make friends with her,” he said. “She needs a bit of life and laughter.”

  Emma conjured up a picture of Marie-Françoise in her mind’s eye. She thought, herself, that the French girl would be only too capable of looking after herself. Certainly she would scorn ordinary feminine chatter! She felt Charles’s eyes upon her. Perhaps she was wrong. Perhaps it was only a mask to hide the other girl’s feelings.

  “I’d like to be friends with her,” she said simply.

  Charles took a deep breath of relief.

  “Tante Marrsha won’t altogether approve,” he warned her.

  “No,” Emma agreed thoughtfully. Didn’t he know, she wondered, that that was because her grandmother thought that she wanted to marry Charles? “Do you think Grand’mere will like Sam?”

  Charles laughed.

  “I should think so,” he said easily. “He’s harmless enough. And if he knows anything about cattle, she’ll love him!”

  Somehow that hadn’t been the answer she had been expecting. Sam was nice—very nice!—but he hadn’t any of that touch of spice that her grandmother would look for in a man. And knowing all about cattle had nothing whatever to do with it!

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THE DAYS slipped by in a golden haze. The everlasting sunshine lulled Emma into a sense of security and her friendship with Charles blossomed into a delightful game of who could spot the greatest number of wild birds nesting in the steep sandbanks, or mating near the sanctuary that included the famous Etang de Vaccares. Her stiffness wore off and she was able to ride for long periods without a thought of future discomfort. She abandoned her jeans and wore a pair of converted gardien trousers instead, as her grandmother did. She even submitted to the hat that Charles insisted on buying her, though she only wore it when the wind wasn’t blowing, for otherwise the brim was permanently in her eyes or pinned to the back of her neck. On these occasions she found it much more comfortably to swathe her head in a large scarf.

  She even began to ride by herself, keeping a respectful distance from the cattle and well away from the tourists who came down to the Camargue from Arles to watch the birds, but who more often than not ended up by photographing her on her horse in the mistaken idea that she was some kind of female gardien.

  Gradually she became more daring, though she always kept to the worn tracks when she was alone, for she knew that nothing would be easier than to get lost among the etangs and the dunes. After a day or two it became the accepted thing that she would do the day to day shopping at Les Saintes Maries de la Mer while she was out, and she would ride like the wind towards the town and the sea, returning more slowly to meander down a dozen different paths or to marvel at the blue of the Mediterranean whose waters hardly rose or fell at all but were always much the same no matter what time of the day she went.

  Les Saintes Maries was not a town she liked very much. The curiously fortified church, steeped in history and legend, stood lonely and defiant in a sea of tourists’ cabins and shops that sold the inevitable cheap tourist junk that had probably been manufactured in the north anyway.

  On the day before the ferrade the wind was still, and Emma was anxious to get out before the heat from the sun became unbearable. It was not yet summer, it was true, but at midday she found it unpleasantly hot.

  “Is there anything you require, Jeanne?” she asked the maid as she went through the kitchen.

  Jeanne shook her head.

  “Today is Saturday and Madame will be going to the market at Arles. You should go with her. All the world will be there.”

  Emma smiled, shaking her head.

  “Not today. I want to be out in this lovely sunshine!”

  “It will be there tomorrow,” Jeanne said indifferently.

  “But everyone else will be here tomorrow too,” Emma reminded her.

  Jeanne abandoned the struggle gracefully.

  “There will be other Saturdays. Can you saddle the mare by yourself? All the men are out already.”

  Emma said she could. But she found the saddle heavier than she had expected, and she was hot and flustered by the time she had succeeded in throwing it up on to the mare’s back. The pony was cross too. Unused to being handled so clumsily, she did her best to nip Emma as she tried to mount.

  “In England,” Emma told her crossly, “you would be considered very bad-mannered! Your English mother would be ashamed of you!”

  The mare gave her a baleful look and, taking advantage of the slight pause, Emma leapt into the saddle.

  She set the mare at a good spanking pace down the driveway, thinking to tire her a little so they could both relax. She was too frisky, shying at everything in sight, and it took all Emma’s patience and strength of wrist to keep her under control.

  The men were bringing in the young bulls for the next day. She could see them in the distance, cutting out the ones that had not yet been branded and bringing them into a fenced-off paddock. Charles was there, she noticed immediately, and she could not but admire the way he used his horse. What a splendid mount it would make for a game of polo, she thought, and wondered if he had ever played. Her mare moved restlessly beneath her and she jammed her hat more firmly down on to her head and let her out.

  They tore across the countryside, heading full tilt for the sea. It was an exhilarating run, churning up the mud and the dust. But then, just at the moment that Emma had been expecting it least, the mare came to an abrupt stop, her legs collapsed underneath her and she went down heavily on to one side, rolling right over on to her back. Emma just managed to leap clear, but the saddle caught the side of her ankle, dragging her foot under the rolling horse.

  For seconds she sat there, waiting for the pain to get less. It couldn’t stay at this tearing agony! She couldn’t stand it! The mare got clumsily to her feet and stood quietly, quivering as the mud dried on her back. As soon as she could, Emma grasped the saddle and tried to haul herself on to the mare’s back so that she could at least get home.

  So intent was she on the painful business of getting her foot into the stirrup that she didn’t notice the chestnut come flying towards her until it was within a few yards. The French girl sat up very straight on its back and watched her struggle.

  “Having trouble?” she asked after a while.

  Emma swallowed down her pain and irritation.

  “The mare rolled on my ankle,” she explained.

  Immediately Marie-Françoise was off her own horse. “I am so sorry. I did not realize you were hurt. Is it bad? Can I help you mount?”

  Somehow, with her help, Emma managed to get back into the saddle.

  “You have fear?” Marie-Françoise asked anxiously. “I will come with you to the manade and then we can do something about your ankle.”

  They rode slowly, the French girl holding the chestnut with an ease that made Emma slightly envious. She could certainly ride. She sat her horse with a confidence and rhythm that told of years in the saddle. Probably as a child she had ridden bareback before she could even walk, staying on by balance alone. That was the best way to learn, Emma thought. She, with her few hours at a riding school, could hardly expect to compete.

  “Charles told me she was apt to roll,” she said dismally. “Only I didn’t really believe him. Today is the first time she’s ever really played up.”

  Marie-Françoise smiled. It was an unexpectedly pleasant smile, quite unlike her more usual pout.

  “Then we shan’t tell him, huh?” she suggested. “We shall say you just came off, and who has not done that?”

  Emma was touched by the unexpected thoughtfulness of the other girl, but Marie-Françoise dismissed her thanks by sweeping her hair out of her eyes.

  “He is a man like other men,” she said scornfully. “You would never hear the end of it!” Then with real bitterness she added, “As I never hear the end of allowing my father to sell his land piece by piece!”

/>   Emma said nothing, she was in too much pain. The movement of the horse jolted her ankle at every step and she was beginning to wonder whether they would ever get home. The mare stumbled slightly as she scrambled up the slight bank on to the driveway, and Emma cried out.

  “Do you think I could have broken it?” she asked anxiously.

  Marie-Françoise looked at it doubtfully.

  “It is possible,” she said. She led the way into the stabling yard and slid lightly off her horse before turning to help Emma down.

  “I ought to get help,” she warned.

  But Emma was determined to be as independent as possible, and somehow she managed to almost fall off the mare on to her good foot without too much difficulty.

  “I shall go and get Jeanne,” Marie-Françoise said firmly when she saw Emma’s face, and she went off into the kitchen. She came back, however, not with Jeanne but with Charles. He took one look at Emma, swept her up into his arms and carried her into the house.

  Emma hadn’t realized he was so strong, and was surprised to find that she was considerably shaken by the discovery. His skin was so clean and beautifully tanned and she liked the way the hair grew on the back of his neck, with just the faintest suggestion of a curl. He was as handsome as the devil himself. And that made her blush a little, because he was still her enemy, and more and more she had to keep reminding herself of the fact.

  “Now, let’s take a look,” he said, seating her on the nearest chair. “What happened? Did the mare roll?”

  “No, no, she fell,” Marie-Françoise put in hastily. “Shall I help you take off the boot?”

  But Charles had already done so. His hands were surprisingly gentle as he felt her ankle.

  “It will be all right with a bit of strapping,” he said at last. He looked up at Emma and smiled. “Do you want me to do it for you, or do you want me to take you into the hospital at Arles for X-rays and so on?”

  Emma looked at his strong, capable hands as he held them out to her. They looked oddly comforting.

  “I’d prefer you to do it,” she said simply.

  Marie-Françoise and Jeanne stood by with lint and bandages, watching with concern as he put a cold compress on to the swollen foot and bandaged it firmly into place. Emma shut her eyes and thought hard about something else. The touch of his hands undermined her defences. She hadn’t realized that going through the motions of friendship would mean anything like this! She opened her eyes in time to see Marie-Françoise put a proprietorial hand on his shoulder.