by Isobel Chace
Sam was the first arrival. He had cleaned himself up under a tap and his hair was only just beginning to dry out, curling up round his ears in a way that made him look very young.
“My, but that was some animal!” he exclaimed, throwing himself into the nearest chair. “Did you see it?” His blue eyes sparkled as he leaned a little closer to her. “Were you anxious about me?” he asked hopefully.
Emma felt quite unjustifiably irritated with Charles for being right. It seemed that Sam had been showing off to her.
“I suppose I was, a little,” she admitted.
He swung his chair on to its two back legs and smiled knowingly.
“I thought you would be!” he chuckled.
Emma handed him the bottles of wine.
“Would you mind opening them?” she asked him.
He stood up immediately and took them from her.
“How worried were you?” he pressed her. “Enough to give me a kiss for being successful?”
She sighed. She didn’t want to kiss him. She didn’t want to kiss anybody.. But she supposed it would make it seem even more important if she refused. He wasn’t content, though, with a mild kiss on her cheek. He put the wine on the table and drew her close to him, kissing her firmly on the mouth. It was unfortunate that this was just the moment that Charles and Marie-Françoise chose to enter the cabin.
Emma pulled herself free, but it was plain to see that Charles thought that Sam’s ruse had succeeded only too well. His eyebrows raised slightly and his lips twitched. He could think exactly what he liked! Emma told herself crossly. She didn’t care one bit! And as for Sam, it was as much as she could do not to pick up one of the bottles of wine and bring it down hard on the top of his head!
Marie-Françoise seated herself in a flurry of petticoats.
“You were marvellous!” she breathed to Sam. “My heart was in my mouth the whole time! Was it not fortunate that he didn’t charge you when he got up? I was so afraid that he would!”
A slight flush crept up Sam’s skin. His eyes met Emma’s.
“It was nothing,” he said brusquely. “After all, I’m pretty used to dealing with cattle at home.”
Marie-Françoise giggled.
“I thought it was worthy of a song by one of your troubadours,” she said prettily. “And so did Emma, I’m sure!”
Emma could feel Charles’s eyes following her every movement, and was annoyed to see that her hands were trembling.
“I still think it was a silly thing to do!” she insisted fiercely.
Charles’s face showed his complete disbelief.
“Do you?” he asked indifferently. “Are you quite, quite sure?”
And she wasn’t sure any longer, for if it had been Charles throwing that bull she would have been impressed, very impressed indeed.
It was inevitable that after the branding was finished the young men from Arles should want to show off their skill and their training. They erected some barriers in a rough ring, failing any other kind of arena, and prepared themselves for an energetic afternoon. The adult bulls were considered too dangerous, so they used a few cows instead. They sheathed their horns with leather to ensure that no one would get hurt, and then, choosing the friskiest, they tied the red cockade to her horns and let her loose in the ring.
The young men were clever and daring, leaping over the barrier to avoid the cow’s horns with the greatest of ease. But the animal had played the game before and none of them was able to wrest the red button away from her. Informal betting among the spectators raised the stakes and the excitement grew, rising to a peak when Charles himself entered the ring.
Emma’s heart stood still as he approached the cow. Of course he would know her. He had that advantage. He knew every animal on the manade. But supposing he missed his footing as he made his leap over the barrier!
“Oh, oh! Il est brave! Il est formidable!”
Emma shut her eyes, and then at a sudden shout from the crowd she opened them again just in time to see Charles reach for the cockade. A second later he had jumped the barrier, and he was still holding the little red button in his hand. For Marie-Françoise, she supposed, and tried to tell herself that the French girl was welcome to it.
The music blared forth from the microphones, becoming steadily more Spanish as the afternoon progressed. The cattle seemed to like it. In fact they seemed to be enjoying themselves altogether, for what animal is more curious than a cow? And with all these strange sights and sounds they flatly refused to leave them and go back to the herd.
But as the shadows lengthened the music changed and they were driven off willy-nilly by the gardiens, the barriers came down and the crowd began to dance. There were all the local country dances, the round dances, and a few people gave an excellent display of some gipsy dancing that had the rest of them clapping enthusiastically.
“My word, don’t they ever get tired?” Sam asked with admiration. “You’re having the next with me, Emma.”
He swept her into his arms despite her protests, and together they danced a rather formal waltz. Sam’s eyes looked very blue and the set of his chin was determined.
“I want the next one too,” he said. “Any objections?”
“It’s my ankle that objects,” she told him wryly. “Would you very much mind sitting it out?”
Charles was dancing with her grandmother with a gentle courtesy that was pleasant to look at. Madame was flirting with him too, with a coquetry that had survived from her youth. Her back was as straight as a ramrod and she looked as fresh as a daisy. It was difficult to believe that she had a long day behind her and probably another one tomorrow. Charles was right, she did work too hard.
The dust swirled beneath the feet of the thinning crowd. There was Jean-Claude with Jeanne, and he was holding her pretty tight too. The other two gardiens seemed content to watch, leaning on the tridents and looking unexpectedly glamorous in the fading light.
“I suppose I must go too,” Sam said at last.
“You haven’t danced with Marie-Françoise,” Emma reminded him. “Don’t you think she might notice?”
Sam made a face.
“I’ll do it,” he said. “But it’ll be a duty dance. That girl frightens me!”
Emma wondered why. She thought the French girl had been rather sweet in her admiration. She stood up a little stiffly and looked ruefully down at her ankle. She would have liked to have danced every dance like the other girls, raising the dust with a will. She was a good dancer and she knew it.
“Regretting that you didn’t listen to my advice?” Charles asked her.
She jumped, for she hadn’t heard him come over, and flushed scarlet as she remembered how she had tried to conceal from him the fact that the mare had rolled on her.
“So you did know,” she said simply. “Grand’mere said you would.”
He laughed.
“She is a little wiser than you,” he said slyly. “Do you think you could manage just one dance?”
She would have managed it if it had crippled her. She had to know what it was like to dance with Charles, whether he used those beautifully co-ordinated muscles as well on the dance floor as he had in the hastily contrived ring.
His arm was hard against her back as he led her into the rhythm of the music. He made it very easy for her so that she could hardly feel her ankle at all.
“We should have done this before,” he said in her ear. “You are quite as good as your grandmother.”
She was complimented, as she had known she would be. Her grandmother had been taught by the very greatest Russian masters; Emma had had to make do with the brothers of her friends and her own natural aptitude.
“Aren’t you afraid of tripping over a clump of saltwort?” she asked him.
He looked surprised.
“I suppose it does seem odd to you,” he said. “To me it is natural to dance out of doors. I do it more often than anything else.”
But to her it was definitely different. The fr
esh, healthy smell of salt carried on the breeze, the lazy dust beneath their feet, and still the remnants of the pungent smell of cattle, wine and people.
The dance came to an end and he swung her high off her feet, deposited her neatly at the edge of the circle, bowed and kissed her hand with a grace that left no room for embarrassment.
“I think your cavalier wishes to say goodnight to you,” he said on a laugh. “Shall I leave you?”
Emma turned hastily to Sam. He had Marie-Françoise hanging on his arm and he looked more than a little cross.
“I thought you weren’t going to dance any more,” he said testily. “I’m afraid I really shall have to go now too. I’ve promised to take Marie-Françoise home.”
Emma’s lips twitched. Sam wasn’t very good at hiding his feelings and he wasn’t being very tactful. Didn’t he know that Charles probably wanted to take the French girl home?
“Goodnight, Sam,” she said warmly. “Now that you’ve found me, I hope you won’t abandon me entirely for your thesis.”
“Hell, no! If the worst comes to the worst I’ll get you to help me.” He grinned, and they all exchanged good-nights before he went off with Marie-Françoise, leaving Emma and Charles together. Charles looked suddenly tired.
“Can I hope that you are going to allow me to see you home now?” he asked.
Emma gave him a quick, suspicious look.
“I was waiting for you to offer,” she said with a lightness she was far from feeling. Her joke had the desired effect. His laughter lines deepened and he looked unbelievably handsome, his face golden in the setting sun.
He walked her the long way round to the homestead, and she didn’t notice her ankle once. The flamingoes had started on their evening flights, enormous soft pink clouds in the evening light.
“It will be dark in a minute,” he told her. “Aren’t you a little bit afraid to be out here alone with me in the dark?”
She shook her head, laughing up at him.
“Then you should be,” he warned her softly. “Sam is not the only person who can kiss a pretty girl!”
His hands were gentle but compelling. It was no use telling herself that he was only punishing her because Sam had taken Marie-Françoise home. It was no use telling herself anything at all. She just melted into his arms though she belonged there, and she had never known anything so beautiful as that moment.
He only kissed her the once. Afterwards he walked her on towards the house in silence while she tried to sort out the wild turmoil of her thoughts.
“I have something for you,” he said on the doorstep. He dangled the red cockade he had won during the afternoon before her eyes. “I think you like this sort of thing?” he added tauntingly. “No?”
And then he was gone, striding across the wild land with his head held high. Emma longed to fling the button after him, but she knew she would do no such thing. She would put it carefully away in a drawer and she would keep it until the day she died. And she despised herself, because she knew even in her anger that that was exactly what she would do.
CHAPTER SIX
EMMA had never brought property before. It was all a much more complicated business than she would ever have supposed. The money arrived from England, promptly, and with a minimum of fuss and bother. It was then that all her troubles began.
“You will need a solicitor,” Monsieur Clement had told her.
Emma had tried several times to ask her grandmother to recommend one to her, but that old lady refused to admit that there was such a thing as an honest solicitor, and she wouldn’t ask Charles.
She could imagine what his reaction would be. The faint lift of the eyebrows and the slight deepening of the laughter lines around his eyes. Oh no! She couldn’t ask Charles!
But to her intense annoyance her grandmother suddenly brought it up at the lunch table.
“What is this about a solicitor?” she demanded suddenly. “For what do you require him?”
There was a long uncomfortable silence. She stared down at her plate and tried to persuade herself that Charles was not looking at her with an astonished interest.
“I just wanted to see one. A good one,” she added unnecessarily.
“Vraiment!” her grandmother exclaimed. “You are in trouble?”
“Oh no,” Emma said weakly.
She looked up and inevitably her eyes met Charles’s. There was a guarded look about him that bewildered her at first, and then she thought she had imagined it.
“You had better see mine,” he said smoothly. “I’m afraid it will mean going over to Salon, but he will look after you well.”
“Thank you,” she said quickly. She didn’t want to discuss it now. Perhaps afterwards she would tell her grandmother all about it.
“I could drive you over this afternoon,” Charles went on ruthlessly.
Madame Yourievska nodded.
“Yes, you go, ma fille. It cannot be so very dreadful if you have Charles with you.”
Emma smiled at her, touched. It was the first time that Madame had ever called her “daughter”.
“What will you do?” she asked. She didn’t want to seem ungrateful, but she would rather do anything than go to Salon alone with Charles.
Her grandmother sighed.
“I shall go and see these vines for myself. It will not do the slightest bit of good,” she added dismally, “but that is another matter.” She shrugged her still beautiful shoulders. “Vines!” she said with distaste. “They are a bore at this time of year! When the grapes are ripe and the towns come alive with pickers and there is dancing and wine-making, they become possible. But at this time of year—ah, bah!”
Emma had a vivid picture of the vineyards later in the year full of strangers picking the sun-filled grapes.
“Who looks after the vineyards?” she asked.
Her grandmother looked vague.
“I employ people,” she said with a splendid lack of precision.
“Good people?”
Madame Yourievska became impatient.
“Good? Bad? They have lived among vines all their lives. Isn’t that enough? What is there to growing grapes? You put the vine in the ground and the good Lord does the rest!”
Charles chuckled.
“But of course,” he agreed with mock solemnity, “and with the cattle you don’t even have to put them into the ground. What an easy life you lead, mon amie!”
Madame’s eyes sparkled.
“Ma foi! And is that how you speak to Emma?” she demanded. “Because if that is so I can well understand why she hides herself when you are by!”
Emma blushed.
“If you would lend me one of the cars, I could drive myself,” she said hopefully.
Charles presented her with the salad bowl.
“Certainly not,” he said definitely. “I shall come with you and make sure that you arrive all in one piece.”
There was a hard quality in his voice that made her look at him again. Surely he didn’t think she wanted to see a solicitor in order to satisfy herself about the legality of his co-ownership of the manade? She stared at him, her eyes wide with dismay, as the possibility dawned on her.
“It is a personal matter that I want to see him about!”
This time the guarded look was definitely back in his eyes.
“But of course,” he agreed courteously.
Emma was not given to weeping. If possible that only added to her sense of outrage as she surveyed herself in the looking-glass.
“What does it matter what he thinks?” she asked herself fiercely.
She poured some cold water into the old-fashioned wash-stand and splashed it up against her eyes. What a silly thing to do! Crying because somebody might think something!
“And don’t start again!” she admonished herself as she saw her eyes re-filling with tears. “What’s the matter with you?”
She put on a rather heavy foundation cream, briskly pulling herself together as she did so. She could still see
a few traces of tears, but she looked distinctly better. With some powder she would be practically back to normal. Eye-shadow helped too. Usually she thought it made her look tired rather than glamorous, but anything was better than looking unhappy.
“Are you ready?” Charles called up the stairs.
She gave herself a last despairing glance, switching her hair up into position as she did so. He would know, she thought. His sharp eyes missed nothing. She made a face at herself and hurried down the stairs.
Charles must have had the car out before that day, for it was as hot as an oven from being left out in the sun. Emma sat down on the burning leather with a little gasp. The pocket in front of her had been shut too hastily and the corner of a woman’s scarf peeped out. Marie-Françoise’s, Emma supposed. And why not? she asked herself.
“Have you been across the Crau before?” Charles asked. He sounded like a stranger making conversation, she thought.
“No,” she replied briefly.
He smiled.
“It’s a strange land,” he said.
It was a strange land. A pebbly desert where a few odd sheep scratched a living from the grass that peeped through the stones.
“How did it come about?” she asked.
Charles looked amused.
“You must blame Hercules,” he told her. “He was on his way home from one of his labors in Spain and ran into the Ligurians, a Celtic tribe. I’m afraid he was getting the worst of the battle, and so he prayed very earnestly to Zeus, who sent a hailstorm of stones from the sky, completely defeating the Ligurians.”
Emma laughed. She felt better.
Charles drove fast, and they were soon in Salon. He parked beside the tree-cum-fountain that dripped steadily in the sunshine and walked her down a back street to the solicitor’s office.
Emma felt mean when she went in alone and left him standing there. She turned back to him, but he wasn’t even looking at her, he was talking to a small child playing in the street.
