The Wild Land

by Isobel Chace

  Sam frowned.

  “Did she, though? What a pity! She wants some life away from here, not to exchange one form of slavery with another!”

  “Life with Charles would not be slavery!” Emma said coldly.

  He scratched his ear thoughtfully.

  “Not for you maybe. What was it you said about the Camargue? It’s the wind and the salt. And you can see for miles. And there’s so much sky! No, it wouldn’t be a prison to you.”

  “And Marie Françoise is so different, I suppose,” she said tartly. “I don’t believe it!”

  He gave an elaborate sigh.

  “Perhaps you’re right,” he said. “I rather liked your little French friend, though.” He grinned. “Perhaps I’m jealous!”

  But to Emma it was not a joking matter. She wanted to think that Marie-Françoise at least loved Charles. The thought of her marrying him for no more than convenience chilled her to the very soul. Charles deserved better than that. He deserved the very best in a wife. She was on the point of saying so when she realized that Sam wouldn’t understand how she felt about it. She might dislike the way Charles had ousted her grandmother out of her rightful position, but that didn’t mean that she wanted to see his life blighted for ever. She smiled a little at her own romantic rendering of the position. Charles would never allow anyone to blight his life! Not even Marie-Françoise.

  “Sam, is it terrible of me? But I’m awfully thirsty. Do you think we could get something to drink here?”

  He smiled.

  “I’ll get something,” he offered. “You wander around. I’ll soon find you when I get back.”

  She followed his advice. The ruins were impressive now, but they must have been tremendous in their heyday. The great lower chambers had been hewn out of the living rock and goodness knows how many floors there had been above them, all built from stones, dragged somehow up those truly terrible escarpments. She stood at the edge, staring out across the valley to the Alpilles beyond. The cliffs ran down steeply, as straight as any wall, hurling defiance to any potential invaders. It had been a splendid place to build, but what it must have cost in time and effort and probably lives as well to call it into being!

  Sam would have made a good troubadour, she thought with amusement, with his fair, almost beautiful, good looks. She wondered what songs he would have sung. She would ask him when he came back. As for Charles, he would have been a knight. A splendid knight, a champion of champions, wearing his lady’s favour with a devil-may-care air. And who could doubt that the lady would have been Marie-Françoise? She looked her part, with her long fair hair, whereas her own black hair was cast for less becoming roles.

  She was glad when Sam came back with two bottles of lemonade and a couple of straws. She was almost beginning to wish she had not come to Les Baux with Sam. It was too perfect a backdrop to her own thoughts. So perfect as to be almost uncanny.

  Emma said goodbye to Sam at the end of the drive and walked up to the house. He had wanted to go straight back to Arles and she hadn’t even tried to persuade him to come in with her. She had wanted that walk across the land she had come to love. To see the small clouds of dust rise every time she put her foot down and to see the slight haze over the etangs.

  The front door was standing open and she leant against the frame to wipe her shoes, half wondering where everyone was. The hall seemed dark after the sunlight outside and she stood blinking for a second or two until she could see more clearly. She thought she heard a slight noise from the salon and went to investigate. Strangely, she was nervous. She couldn’t help thinking that it might be Monsieur Clement coming to call on her as he had promised.

  But it was Marie-Françoise who looked up as she entered, looking white and tired and very unhappy.

  “I thought you were never coming!” she said petulantly. “Where have you been?”

  “Sam took me to Les Baux.”

  Marie-Françoise pouted.

  “I saw you out this morning, but you didn’t even wave,” she complained. “Have I done something to offend you?”

  Emma laughed.

  “Of course not! I nearly did call out to you, as a matter of fact, but I thought you were too far away to hear me.”

  A reluctant smile spread over the French girl’s face.

  “I thought perhaps Papa—” She broke off with an expressive movement of her hands. “You were shocked to find he is my father, n’est-ce pas?”

  “I don’t like him,” Emma replied carefully. “But that has nothing to do with you.”

  “But it has!” Marie-Françoise said bitterly. “Of course it has! I feel responsible, can’t you understand? And that you should have bought land from him!”

  “Does it matter so much to you that he is selling all his land?”

  “To me? I would sell it all tomorrow!” Marie-Françoise retorted. “But to Charles it matters. He wants land—always he wants land! And what else am I to bring him when we marry? A drunken father?”

  Emma turned away as though she had been struck. “I see,” she said evenly. “But if he hadn’t sold the land to me, he would have sold it to someone else. You know that.” But she might as well have been talking to a brick wall. Marie-Françoise’s mouth set ominously.

  “It would not be the same, to a stranger!” she insisted. “It is his selling it to you that hurts. I could have borne a stranger, but not you!” She was almost in tears and she sounded desperate.

  Emma felt unexpectedly vulnerable. She had thought that the French girl had accepted her—more, had liked her!

  “But why not?” she asked.

  Marie-Françoise hunched up her shoulders and looked mutinous.

  “Because,” she said.

  “Because you don’t like me?” Emma prompted her, knowing that she was betraying her own hurt but no longer caring.

  “No, no. I do like you! But”—the French girl’s voice became sulky—“so possibly does Charles!”

  Emma sat down on a chair facing her.

  “But does that matter?” she asked, bewildered.

  Marie-Françoise’s eyes flashed.

  “Perhaps not,” she said thoughtfully. “I’m not sure. I thought that it didn’t, that you understood my position. But Papa says you are in love with Charles yourself, and so—”

  “Your father says I’m in love with Charles!”

  “He is a nasty man, but astute in these matters, you understand.”

  “Very astute,” Emma agreed weakly.

  “Then you are in love with Charles!” Marie-Françoise shot at her. “Papa was right! I thought he had only said it to hurt me, but now I think he was right. You do love Charles, don’t you?”

  There was a long silence. Perhaps Sam was right, Emma thought. Perhaps it was written all over her.

  “Yes, I do,” she said simply. And she felt better for having said it.

  The two girls looked at each other in dismay.

  “I didn’t really know,” Marie-Françoise whispered. “I’m sorry, Emma.”

  Emma looked down at her lap and studied her hands intently.

  “Do you?” she asked in her turn.

  Marie-Françoise shook her head.

  “No,” she admitted. “But I’m going to marry him all the same. I have to marry him. You do see that, don’t you?”

  “I suppose I do,” Emma agreed wearily. She stood up, feeling suddenly unbelievably tired and depressed.

  “And you’ll help me?” Marie-Françoise pressed her. “You’ll re-sell the land?”

  Emma winced.

  “No,” she said briefly. “I shan’t do that.” And she went quietly out of the room. The whole house was silent as she went up the stairs. She undressed with rapid hands, putting her clothes carefully away. And then she broke down and wept. Half an hour later she was still crying and she had a raging headache.

  “Anyone at home?”

  She could hear Charles’s voice as clearly as if he were in the corridor outside and not downstairs at all.
r />   “I’m coming,” she called back.

  She got up from the bed and washed her face in the coldest water she could find. She still looked as though she had been crying, but with a little powder, and if she stayed in the shadows there was just the chance that Charles wouldn’t notice.

  “Are you respectable?” he asked.

  “N-no.” She pulled on a shirt and her converted gardien trousers. “I am now,” she said.

  Her door was thrown open and Charles stood, grinning, in the entrance.

  “Had a good day?” he asked.

  She found herself blushing and feeling rather small It had not been his fault that her grandmother had thought it necessary to ask his permission. And he hadn’t been downstairs. He must have been just outside in the corridor.

  “I liked it,” she said, almost shyly. “It’s a sad place, though. Sad, but very beautiful.”

  Charles stroked his chin reflectively.

  “Sam behave all right?” he asked.

  She made a face at him.

  “What do you want?” She changed the subject.

  “I came to tell you about your land. Here’s the title. All signed, sealed, and correct. Here you are!” He held out the title deed to her and then drew it back again.

  “Hey, what is this?” he demanded. “Tears, chérie?”

  She pulled away from him.

  “It’s nothing,” she denied. “Nothing at all!” And then when she saw that he didn’t believe her, “Go away, Charles! Can’t I even be free of you in my own room?”

  CHAPTER NINE

  MADAME was proud of the manade and was given to making sudden inspections of it in all its aspects. It came as no surprise to anyone therefore when she pointed out that one of the cabanes needed re-building. Indignantly she bore Charles and Emma off to look at it.

  “It’s a disgrace!” she told them crossly. “Look at the roof! Do you think that will keep anything out? Look at the walls! The wind will break them up in no time! It must come down and we must put up another.”

  Georges, the gardien whose cabane it was, looked sadly at the little building.

  “Bien, madame,” he agreed. “But when? We already have so much to do!”

  Madame Yourievska looked at Charles.

  “When?” she demanded.

  Charles shrugged his shoulders.

  “Whenever you suggest, ma mie,” he said lightly. Emma suspected that he was rather enjoying the situation and that he knew as well as she did that the gardiens were mildly resentful of the suggestion that they should build the new cabane.

  Emma turned expectantly towards her grandmother. At last, it seemed, she was taking her rightful position as co-owner of the manade. It was only right and proper that she should have a share in decisions of this kind. But to her dismay Madame hesitated.

  “We could patch the walls and re-thatch the roof,” Charles suggested helpfully. “That wouldn’t take nearly so long, and I think it would be quite effective.”

  He looked outrageously handsome as he stood gazing at the dilapidated cabane through half shut eyes, his head flung back and his hands on his lips.

  “That is the better idea,” Georges agreed eagerly.

  “Very well,” Madame said thankfully. “So be it. But it must be done quickly!”

  “But of course,” the men agreed smoothly.

  Emma thought it compared very unfavorably with the cabin that Charles occupied. The white distemper had turned grey with age and the paint on the windows and door had long ago weathered into the same indeterminate grey.

  “How are you going to repair it?” she asked. It was the first time she had spoken to him after that disastrous incident when he had brought her the tide deeds of her strip of land, and, as soon as she had spoken, she found herself biting her lower lip and wishing that she hadn’t.

  But he was not looking at her. Instead he poked his finger into a crack in the wall.

  “Easy enough. The framework is pretty solid.” He smiled right into her eyes. “Are you going to help us?”

  She nodded eagerly.

  “Good,” he said. “You can come and help me cut the sagne—the reeds, they are called, are they not?”

  The gardiens grinned.

  “An excellent arrangement,” they said cheerfully. “We shall leave you to it. Someone must look after the cattle. And this afternoon there will be something for us to do!”

  Charles looked sardonic.

  “And what of your possessions?” he demanded of Georges. “Are you content that we should remove them for you too?”

  The young gardien flushed.

  “I shall move them,” he said sulkily. “I shall move them now!”

  As a child Emma had watched the thatching of many a country cottage, and so she was not surprised at the enormous quantities of reeds that Charles seemed to think was necessary. They slashed away with the long knives he had fetched from the house, standing ankle-deep in water and piling the reeds up on the banks. Occasionally a nesting bird would protest at the intrusion and they would leave a little clump all round it rather than cause a domestic crisis down below.

  It was hot, heavy work, but it had its own satisfaction—the pleasing swish of the knife against the reeds, the gentle movement of the water, and the wide variety of the birds courting each other all along the banks.

  After about an hour Charles straightened his back with a grimace. Emma could feel his eyes on her as she worked and a slight blush crept up her cheeks though she was glad to see that her hands remained steady. She went on doggedly slashing away, completely unaware of the pretty picture she presented.

  “Have you checked to find out whether your land is in order?” he asked her.

  She jumped, breaking her rhythm and very nearly cutting her own leg.

  “No,” she said uncomfortably.

  Charles gave the very faintest shrug of his shoulders.

  “The ownership of land brings responsibilities, ma belle,” he said firmly. “There is much to be done. The far part could well be used for rice—”

  “Never rice!” She came out of her silence with a bang. “One can see the land from the windows of the house. Think how Grand’mere would feel to look out at it all the time!”

  He looked at her thoughtfully.

  “I was thinking more of your pocket,” he said at last. “I could rent it from you to graze some of the cattle, but you would make much more from rice.”

  She sat down on the bank, knowing that her trousers were trailing in the water but not doing anything about it.

  “But I didn’t buy the land to make money,” she explained. “Monsieur Clement said that if I didn’t buy it he would sell it to the rice co-operatives. And so, you see, I hadn’t any choice—”

  “If you were to save the land from the rice planters,” he finished for her. “Is it really so ugly? I rather like to see the flooded fields myself and to hear the wind blowing through the plants when they are ready for harvest.”

  Emma cast her mind back to the rice fields she had seen. They had been red and dusty, and banked round the edges, with ditches travelling for miles along the roads carefully designed to bring the water flooding in at the right moment. No, they certainly hadn’t been ugly! But she could understand her grandmother’s objection all the same. They tamed the land, and there was nothing tame about the Camargue. It was a splendidly wild tract of land and it was sad to see anything so savage and primitive domesticated like that.

  “I prefer cattle,” she said stubbornly.

  “Then you had better do something about re-planting some trees for shelter. I’ll tell you who to get hold of, if you like. There is an excellent man in Arles who will probably fit you out with all you need.”

  “You mean trees?” she asked him blankly.

  He nodded.

  “Trees, a couple of spades, and so on.”

  “Oh, but I thought I could borrow from the manade!” she exclaimed.

  The corners of his lips twitched.
r />   “I’m afraid not, chérie. The Mas Camarica is a large place to keep in order. We don’t often have any of our equipment lying around doing nothing.” It was kindly said, but quite definite.

  Emma was silent. She was almost sure that this was his way of snubbing her and she was honest enough to admit that she deserved it.

  “I believe I didn’t thank you properly for completing the purchase for me,” she said painfully.

  He looked down at her with some surprise.

  “Is this an apology?” he asked her with just a hint of mischief.

  “I suppose it is,” she admitted.

  His amusement broke into a smile.

  “Then I cannot do less than accept it,” he assured her. “If you like I will return the olive branch by taking you into Arles myself. I will introduce you to my friend, and then we can have dinner together.” He held out his hand to her and she took it reluctantly. She liked touching him far too much for it to be safe to do it often.

  “And no more tears, hein?” he said. “This Sam is not worth it.”

  “Oh, it wasn’t Sam!” she exclaimed naively.

  “No?”

  “No.”

  And she was glad when he turned back to the reeds and didn’t press her any further for an explanation.

  They looped the bundles of reeds together with string and carried them to the cabane on their backs. By the time they had finished, they were muddy, tired and more than ready for a shower and a change of clothing.

  Georges came back in the afternoon and grinned happily at the reeds, all spread out on the ground to dry.

  “You have been busy, no?” he said. “I should have returned before, of course, but there is always tomorrow for the actual re-building, n’est-ce pas?”

  Charles looked up and checked the position of the sun in the sky.

  “We,” he said, “have done our share for today. Hurry up and change, Emma, and we shall just have nice time to go into Arles tonight.”

  Obediently, Emma went into the house, and ran straight into her grandmother.

  “You are going out?” the old lady asked.

  Emma nodded.

  “Charles is taking me into Arles.” She hesitated. “What do you think I should wear?”