by Isobel Chace
Emma laughed, leaning against her grazing mare. “And you accuse me of being stubborn!” she teased her.
Her grandmother gave her a caustic smile.
“Ah, but it was Charles who won in the end!”
Emma looked bewildered.
“But yes,” Madame went on simply. “After a few years he bought me out and I became a sleeping partner. He does all the work and I draw my money from him. He arranged this when it was discovered that my heart was not behaving properly. He was very gentle and very sweet. Do not underrate Charles, ma petite, he has built up everything he has by his own hard work!”
“Then the whole place really belongs to him?” Emma couldn’t believe it. She wouldn’t believe it! And yet hadn’t there been certain pointers in that direction? His name appearing over the Mas’s brand, for example, and Monsieur Clement telling her it was equally important for her to marry Charles! It was horrible, all of it!
“Truly. Did I not tell you that you were really Charles’s guest while you were here? I think you would be more sensible to accept his help and even maybe allow him to grow rice here.” Madame’s lips curled with distaste even as she said it.
“Never!” Emma exclaimed. “Never! I shall ask Sam to help me. But I shall never grow rice here. Never!”
Her grandmother regarded her with open amusement. “We shall see,” she said calmly.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE work began slowly. The lines of trees were repaired and the seedlings watered daily to make up for the drying quality of the wind. It all took a great deal of time, but eventually Emma was ready for the really heavy work of clearing the dead trees. It was difficult to speak of what she was trying to do at home, for Marie-Françoise remained hostile to the whole project and she had a way of neatly turning the conversation before any real plans could be made. The French girl seemed bitter and hopeless. She shut herself up in Charles’s cabin for hours together, only coming up to the house for her meals or in one of her sudden rages, when she would demand to see Charles. But Charles was never there. He seemed busier than ever, putting his friend’s house in order.
Emma was curious to see what he was doing, but she was too afraid of getting one of his crushing snubs to ask him. Sometimes, though, she rode out that way and was astonished to see the dramatic improvements that he had already made. Once, when she was out that way, she had run into him and he had asked her whether she had wanted any help in clearing her own land, and she had found herself snubbing him, although she had longed to accept his offer. Pride, she discovered, was an uncomfortable emotion, but what other choice had she?
“Why don’t you go into Les Saintes Maries for the shopping?” her grandmother suggested when she heard of this incident. “Perhaps you have been working too hard, ma fille, if you have lost the ability to be polite!”
Madame too was taut and nervy and feeling the strain.
“Perhaps I shall,” Emma agreed. “Shall I get a list from Jeanne?”
Her grandmother nodded.
Jeanne was only too delighted.
“We are needing many things,” she said, scribbling down a hasty list. “And, mademoiselle, would you be so kind as to bring me home some black ribbon? The old ribbon on my bonnet is frayed and I want to look my very best for Jean-Claude!”
Emma took the list and nodded.
“I shan’t be very long,” she said.
One of the gardiens saddled her mare for her and she mounted, turned the mare towards the sea, and set off at an idle canter.
The last of the gipsies had arrived at Les Saintes Maries de la Mer. One day the ground had been practically deserted, except for the family from England, and the next it was covered by motorized trailers from every country in Europe and beyond, and one painted caravan, such as one traditionally associates with gipsies, drawn by a large ungainly black horse. Everywhere one could hear the itinerant musicians making the most of the novelty of their arrival, sometimes for money, sometimes for the sheer joy of playing their music. Gipsies in splendid Spanish costumes, gipsies in rags, children unselfconsciously trying out a flamenco dance, women busily engaged in telling fortunes, or taking the opportunity of a lull to do their washing, talking to one another in heavily accented Romany, causing even more confusion and sometimes even suspicion when understanding temporarily broke down.
Emma rode through the lines of caravans, keeping a tight hold over her mare. Whitsun had come so quickly that she felt unprepared for it. And yet they were already more than half-way through May, and the pristine sun of her arrival had changed to a burning copper disc in the sky at night and morning and pure liquid fire for the rest of the day. It was growing steadily hotter and she had hardly been aware of it.
“Coming to have your fortune told again, my pretty?” a laughing voice accosted her.
Emma reined in her mare and returned the greeting. “I’ve come to do the shopping,” she said. “You seem to be quite crowded now. Did all these people arrive overnight?”
“It’s a bit more lively,” the gipsy agreed. “I like a bit of life myself. Coming in for a cuppa, my dear?” Emma smiled and shook her head.
“Not this time,” she said. “I have to get back. How much longer are you staying?”
“We’ll be leaving soon after Sara’s Day.” The gipsy woman came close to the mare and stood on tiptoe to whisper in Emma’s ear. “Beware the old man,” she said. “He’s been inquiring about you and your grandmother. He says you’ve abducted his daughter.”
“But that’s nonsense!” Emma exclaimed.
“We know that,” the gipsy agreed. “In fact everybody knows it. But that one could persuade himself into thinking anything. So be careful, love.”
“I will be,” Emma said a trifle grimly. She felt suddenly weary. Things couldn’t go on for very much longer as they were, but Marie-Françoise showed no signs of easing the situation.
“Will you be coming on Monday for Sara’s Day?” the gipsy asked.
Emma smiled.
“I expect so. It’s a busy week-end with the Whitsun Parade in Arles on Sunday too.” She laughed suddenly. “But Grand’mere is devoted to Sara, so I’m sure we’ll be there!” She urged her mare lightly forward. “I’ll look out for you,” she said. “And thanks for the warning.” She passed a woman, often in the town, blowing a trumpet to attract attention to the wares she was selling, and came to the shops, leaving her mare in the square by the church. It took a few moments only to make her purchases, and then she was off home, riding as fast as she could across the wild land.
She went past Charles’s cabane at a gallop. Her hair had come down and blew out behind her like a black cloud. The door was open, she saw. But it was not Marie-Françoise who was inside. It was Charles himself.
Jeanne wore her Arlesienne costume with an air. She explained how the corners of the fichu had to be absolutely square to be correct, and twitched it firmly into position with experienced hands. The perky little cap suited her. Old with use, it fitted on to the top of her head, its forward slant giving her height and grace. It was very becoming and was held on, Emma noticed, by the ribbon she had bought for her.
“Jean-Claude has polished his saddle so well that it gleams!” Jeanne told her excitedly. “Have you seen him? He has on his best boots and he looks very handsome!”
But Emma hadn’t seen a sign of any of the men. She was wearing the dress her grandmother had made for her and had reached that stage, inevitable whenever one wants to look one’s best, of not liking to sit down anywhere in case she crushed the skirt.
“Is Marie-Françoise ready?” she asked.
Jeanne shook her head.
“She is not coming. It seems she is a little afraid that she might meet her father.”
As well she might. It was unkind to feel relieved, but Emma couldn’t help it. The Whitsun Parade was supposed to be a joyful occasion, and it would undoubtedly be far more enjoyable without the French girl. And so it was arranged that Emma and her grandmother would go in
to Arles together, leaving the men to bring in the horses.
“Are you coming with us?” Madame asked Jeanne. The girl shook her head, coloring a little.
“I shall go with Jean-Claude,” she said. “There now, we are all ready. Are you meeting Monsieur Charles in Arles? He looks magnificent! Have you seen him?”
It was Emma’s turn to blush. He would, of course, look magnificent in his gardien dress. He was dark enough to show up to advantage the pale trousers and the checked shirt. And he wore his hat with an incomparable air! She was glad he was going even though Marie-Françoise was not.
Madame Yourievska drove them into Arles. She was wearing black, as all widows are apt to do in France, and looked very distinguished and dignified. Emma felt proud to be seen with her, and said as much. Her grandmother patted her hand, her own covered in rings that looked valuable despite their old-fashioned settings.
“Enjoy your day, my dear. That is enough for me. I have asked Charles to look after you, so you will be nice to him, yes?”
Emma nodded her head even as her heart quaked within her. He wouldn’t have very much time to look after her, she reasoned. The gardiens, she had been told, formed a major part of the procession, and that, surely, would dispose of most of the morning. She twisted her fingers together until they hurt and then abruptly pulled herself together. It was ridiculous that she should work herself into such a fret. She would enjoy herself today and tomorrow, and take things as they came. And nothing would stop her—not even Charles and the burning attraction he had for her.
They took up their stand in the Boulevard des Lices with a thousand others and waited for things to begin. Pretty girls in Arlesienne costume were everywhere, mixed with others from Avignon, Orange, Marseilles, Aix-en-Provence, from every town and village. Others had come from as far as the Pyrenees, from the Massif Central, even from Perigord, their costumes as varied as the districts they represented.
Slowly they began to line up, the traditional pipe and tambourin bands of Provence rushing up and down, hopefully trying to make order out of chaos. Their long drums, the tambourins, were beautifully carved and polished, their origins lost in antiquity. Every musician played two instruments—the flute, the cymbals, the long drum, or perhaps a smaller one, much lighter in tone.
Then quite suddenly, catching Emma completely by surprise, the gardiens arrived, their white horses groomed to perfection and moving in perfect order round the corner into view. She saw Charles immediately. He wore his hat exactly as she had imagined he would, so that it shaded his eyes, giving him a mysterious look. He looked unbelievably handsome and very much at home.
Behind him came George and Guy, and after them Jean-Claude with Jeanne up behind him, proclaiming to the world that they belonged together. Quite a number of the men had their wives, fiancées or sweethearts riding pillion, all in their traditional costume, smiling and completely happy in the bright sunshine.
At last the procession began to move off, taking shape as it went, and, just as the crowds really began to thicken, she saw Sam on the other side of the street with Marie-Françoise hanging on his arm. At least, she was almost sure that it was Marie-Françoise, for who else would have that long, bright yellow hair, tossed behind her shoulders in just that way? So she had come after all, and it was only a matter of time before Charles saw her too.
The tutu-panpan bands, as they are locally called, started up in earnest, but Emma scarcely heard them. She stood stock-still, staring across the street, until at last they saw her and waved and then fought their way through the procession towards her.
“Where is Charles?” Marie-Françoise demanded immediately.
Sam frowned slightly.
“You don’t need him now!” he told her firmly.
“But I do!” Marie-Françoise insisted petulantly. “He’s practically my fiancé. He had a right to know that I decided to come after all!”
Sam’s grasp on her arm tightened.
“You wouldn’t have come if I hadn’t almost forcibly brought you!” he reminded her. “For heaven’s sake, honey, relax, and let’s all enjoy this thing.” There was a faintly irritable rasp to his voice that Emma could sympathize with. Serve him right, she thought, he should never have insisted on bringing the girl!
“How unkind you are!” Marie-Françoise sighed, but a slight smile just twitched at her lips and for the first time for days she looked almost happy. “You are a great brute!” She turned eagerly to Emma. “Charles is here, isn’t he?” she asked.
“Yes,” Emma agreed wearily. “He’s here.”
The tutu-panpan bands went suddenly mad and the noise became so terrific that the attention of the crowd was caught despite themselves, and the excitement grew, rippling from person to person and back again. And then the gardiens rode past in splendid array, their tridents flashing in the sun. Emma looked up at them and her eyes met Charles’s. His glance flickered over her and went on to Marie-Françoise and he gave a quick little nod of approval. But then of course he would. Wasn’t he, after all, in love with her?
“I’m going to cut through to the Place du Forum and get a good place,” Emma said quickly. Anything to avoid those dark, challenging brown eyes knowing how she felt about him, and she didn’t feel that she could cover up for very much longer. Not when she had to see him with Marie-Françoise!
The procession wound its way through the town and gathered in the little square of the Place du Forum beneath the statue of Frederic Mistral, the poet who did so much to revive the language and the customs of Provence. The gardiens came first, leading the procession, playing their simple tribute to the great man. There were no speeches, no great orations. They just passed the statue and made their way back to the starting point of the Church of St. Trophime.
Emma took a seat at a table on the pavement and watched the people passing her in a blur. How lovely was this land of golden greys, filled with vivid, laughing people. It was a country she had come to love, a country she would like to live in—but how could she if Charles was going to marry Marie-Françoise? She didn’t bluff herself for an instant into thinking that she could bear to stay and see them living together.
There was a movement beside her and she looked up and saw Charles himself with his horse’s reins in his hand. He put out his other hand towards her, and she too must have moved, for an instant later he had tossed her up on to the back of his saddle and was mounted again before her.
“Hold on tight,” he bade her.
Emma trembled.
“Let me down, Charles,” she said primly. “I don’t want to ruin my dress.”
He glanced round at her, his eyes bright with challenge.
“But how else am I to talk to you? Shall I ride off with you now? Carry you away across the Camargue, with only the wind and the sea for company?”
She had a sharp memory of riding with him once before, in an out of the sea, and galloping home across the wild land.
“Certainly not!” she said. “Besides, Marie-Françoise is here, and what will she think?”
“What should she think,” he demanded, “but that I am taking you to the restaurant where we are going to have lunch?”
The disappointment was greater even than she had expected. Had she really thought, even for one glorious moment, that he had really wanted to talk to her? She loosened her grip and nearly fell.
“Hold on!” he warned her.
It was much more comfortable than she had expected, sitting on the leather saddle-bag, and she had a much better view of the colorful groups of people as they stood around and chatted, reluctant to admit that it was all over and that it was time for them to have lunch.
He stopped outside a restaurant and swung her down on to the pavement, slipping easily out of the saddle beside her.
“You are both sulky and stubborn,” he told her, with a thread of laughter running through his voice and taking the edge off his anger, “but soon we shall have to come to an understanding, and be very sure, I shall not be the
loser!”
She cast him an indignant look.
“I won’t let you have my land!” she cried out.
His eyes met hers, and this time there was no amusement in them.
“Your land! Your grandmother’s land! My land! You are too mercenary, ma belle. Can’t you see bigger, better things for you beyond? Who cares who owns which piece of land?”
Which coming from him was the most outrageous thing she had ever heard! Who cared indeed!
But she had no further time for any argument, for he gave her a little push towards the entrance of the restaurant, and then it was too late, for the others had joined them and they were engulfed in the noisy laughter all round them.
Sam took over the lunch party with American thoroughness. He was just as nice as he had always been, Emma thought with sudden affection for him. He even had Marie-Françoise laughing and, of course, he flirted quite openly with Emma. After all, as he put it, he had the right! Hadn’t he been her childhood sweetheart?
But after lunch Charles made his excuses and went off to spend the afternoon with the other men. To Emma it was as though the sun had gone in and, try as she would to respond to the jokes and the laughter, she could not rid herself of the brooding shadow of tragedy. She was beginning to see that she had spent too long in the Camargue. And yet to leave it would be like tearing out her heart. But sometimes it is wise even to do that before it is too late. Perhaps, she told herself, he would be at the Arena in the evening to see the folk dancing. But when the evening came, she sat beside her grandmother, and there was no sign of him anywhere.
The Arena made an ideal background for the dancers. Sitting up so high above them, one could follow the patterns they made in all their intricacies, the pretty colors of their costumes coming and going in the lights. But Emma could have been watching anything, it meant so little to her, and her wooden seat seemed progressively more and more uncomfortable. It was almost a relief when the dancing began to come to an end and she had an excuse to do something active.
