And Be Thy Love

by Rose Burghley

  “You—you’re very wet?” she asked, not knowing quite what she said as she wrapped the coat round Thibault, and then kept

  him closely hugged to her in-her arms. Armand had taken the torch from her and was shining it away from himself.

  “Very wet, and very odorous,” he answered. “That patch of water must be the foulest in this corner of France! Now lead on, if you will, my little one, and I will keep the beam of the torch directed straight ahead, so that you can see where you are going”

  She did exactly as he requested, stepping carefully in order to avoid catching her foot in a trailing bramble, or coming up against a stump of tree trunk that would cause her and the child to end up lying in the middle of the path, and behind her Armand encouraged her occasionally, and she thought that he sounded just a trifle jaded, or perhaps exhausted. And she realised that he wasn’t used to swimming in his clothes at the wrong end of the day, and on top of the swim he had had to row the boat back, after dragging it down to the water’s edge. And he had wasted so little time after returning from what must have been a reasonably exhausting day already—a day devoted to sightseeing, most probably, since Helen Mansfield had been a member of the party, and Helen was an indefatigable sightseer—and it was little wonder his voice sounded dragging, and he breathed a little heavily as he plodded along behind her.

  When they reached the house at last Monique threatened to become almost hysterical with relief as soon as Thibault was handed over to her, but Armand silenced her a little curtly— which was probably the best thing he could do under the circumstances—and told her that she owed the safe return of her small son to Mademoiselle Darcy. It was Mademoiselle Darcy who had thought of the lake, and saved Thibault a long night, at least, of exposure.

  Then he excused himself hastily and vanished upstairs to a bathroom, and it was not until he emerged from his own room, once more neat and correctly attired and smelling distinctly more wholesome, and Caroline accidentally met him in the corridor, that she saw the cut over his right eyebrow. He had done nothing about it save dab some iodine on to it, and it looked dark and ugly, to say nothing of having quite a large area of bruising around it.

  Caroline took one look at the ugly cut, and then exclaimed with horror.

  “You are hurt!” she said. “Something must have hit you while you were swimming!”

  He shook his head.

  “It was a branch of a tree when I landed. I didn’t see it in the dark.”

  He smiled at her rather oddly.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry...!” Her voice sounded as if she was actually upset. “You were wonderful...! I can’t think how you dived into that horrible water...!”

  “I can’t think how you were clever enough to hit upon the lake, and the boat, as an explanation of Thibault’s absence!”

  She smiled rather wanly.

  “I knew all about his secret aspirations to become a sailor, and that the water fascinated him.” She moved a little nearer to him. “Have you really cleansed that cut thoroughly?” she asked anxiously. It’s almost bad enough to have a stitch put into it! Are you sure we oughtn’t to get a doctor to have a look at it?”

  “Quite sure.” He sounded amused at the idea, and there was a definite suspicion of dryness in his voice as he added: “Why, would you like to put on a Florence Nightingale act and assist him if he ordered me to bed for a few days, or went in for a little rough surgery? Would you hold my hand while he worked over me?”

  She couldn’t help being convinced that there was mockery in his voice as well, and she looked at him with a certain amount of perplexity in her dark violet eyes. His dark brown ones studied her in an inscrutable fashion.

  “I would assist him, of course, if it was necessary.”

  “And you would hold my hand if it was necessary?”

  Suddenly, looking at the injury above his right eyebrow, and thinking of him swimming through that evil water—and perhaps remembering all that she had heard of him that day from Monique—her love for him rose so triumphantly to the surface that her whole being felt as if it was being dissolved in the uprush of her emotions. Her eyes ceased to be perplexed and reflected only a kind of yearning, and a tender anxiety, as she looked up at him, and she actually put out a hand impulsively and touched his sleeve.

  “Armand, I------”

  He covered the hand lightly, carelessly, with his own, and then patted it gently.

  “Armand—nothing!” he said. “It is too late to stand here in the corridor telling me how much you admired my behaviour this evening; and, besides, I badly need a drink! Let’s go downstairs and rejoin the others, and see what Monique has done with the dinner she cooked—and to-morrow, if you feel like it, you shall tell me how much you admire me!”

  There was no doubt about the mockery in his voice this time, and although it was quite gentle mockery it bewildered and confused her. She saw his white teeth as he smiled, his eyes remain unsmiling. And then he stood aside for her to proceed along the corridor ahead of him.

  She did so with so much absurd disappointment rushing up over her that she several times all but stumbled as she walked.

  CHAPTER XIII

  AND the following day she did not even see him to tell him anything.

  When Monique served her breakfast coffee and rolls on the terrace, in the sunshine of another beautifully fine morning, that promised another very warm day ahead, she learned that Monsieur le Comte had left at an early hour with Mademoiselle Montauban, whom he was driving to visit friends or relatives, who resided a good many kilometres the far side of Le Fontaine. They would be absent all day, and it might even be quite late when they returned.

  Caroline experienced her first sharp disappointment of the day when she received this news.

  Mademoiselle Montauban... !

  Oh, no...! she thought. Not after the way he had kissed her, Caroline, the night before! Not after he had said that he thought of her all the time...! It was true that having admitted as much he was curiously loath to talk to her again alone while the rest of that evening lasted, and she had gone to bed so full of apprehension and longing that she had hardly slept at all. He had said that to-day she could tell him what she thought of him... ! Well, she would have to let him know—let him know that it didn’t really matter to her who or what he was, because she loved him so much that nothing else really mattered at all! She could overlook everything he had ever done, and all the things he had not done that would have made him so much more worthy to bear the title that was his, and to be the last of an illustrious line, if only he would tell her once more that he loved her! If he would reassure her, and put her out of her agony of mind....

  Robert or Armand, it didn’t matter now....The only thing that mattered was that she loved Armand, whom she had first known as Robert, and somehow soon she must make him believe it, and that she wasn’t capable of change, whatever the shock that might temporarily stun her. And if only he would again ask her to marry him—to share his life with him...!

  It didn’t matter whether it was at the top of a tall building, in fashionable Paris, or unfashionable Paris.... loving as she did she couldn’t just go on alone, without the constant presence of the loved one.! Every part of her ached for the constant society of Armand, and she had looked forward so much to to-day because, if only she could find the courage, she would let him know all that he meant to her; and having said that he thought of her all the time he wouldn’t snub her—he wouldn’t do anything to make her ashamed of confessing so much.

  At least she was certain of that....

  For even if he had ceased to be as much in love with her as he had once imagined that he was, he was innately chivalrous. He was rather exquisitely chivalrous.

  But Monique had altered everything with her few words. Monsieur le Comte had gone off for the day with Mademoiselle Montauban....

  Christopher Markham came down and joined her at the breakfast table. He was wearing an open-necked tennis shirt, prepared for another hot day, a
nd he looked a little bored.

  “This is too much like the weather I’m used to,” he remarked, as he helped himself liberally to Monique’s strawberry preserve. “In my part of the world we expect it, but on leave I like to do things and go places without being reminded that my leave must end one day!”

  “How much longer have you got?” Caroline asked, without really caring.

  “Another couple of months.” He smiled across the table at her.

  “Come out with me to-day and let’s have lunch somewhere, and if our host chooses to absent himself all day why shouldn’t we?”

  “I don’t seem to remember that our host invited any of us,” Caroline couldn’t resist answering—being only too well aware that he hadn’t invited her, and the other four had more or less inflicted themselves upon him. “So I suppose he can go out for the day if he wishes.”

  “With Mademoiselle Diane?” He sent her a flickering glance. “Would you say she attracts him seriously, or is it he who attracts her?”

  “I—I wouldn’t know, would I?” Caroline replied, and then hastily enquired whether he would like some more coffee.

  “Thanks.” He lighted a cigarette, and watched the smoke drift away dreamily in the direction of the moat. “You realise that my aunt rather led Helen to believe that it would be possible to put salt on Armand de Marsac’s tail? But she doesn’t seem to have been very successful, does she?” He glanced up at the peaceful front of the chateau. “Fancy owning a place like this and not wanting to settle down here! Although I suppose, as he said, it would be pretty expensive and unwieldy to run. But you’d think he’d come here more often than he does. Monique told me that Marthe sometimes doesn’t see him for months at a time, and it’s never more than a few days he spends here. This is his longest stay for ages, apparently, and he’s beginning to talk about his new autumn play— rehearsals and so forth—so that means we shall have to be pushing on.”

  Caroline felt almost startled.

  “How—how soon?”

  “Oh, in a day or so.” He gazed at her almost speculatively. “I don’t know whether Aunt Pen has said anything to you, but she’s going to ask you to return to Paris with us when we leave, and stay as her guest for a while. She’s taken an enormous fancy to you,” smiling, “and I can’t say I’m surprised.”

  “You mean—she’s going to ask me to stay with her in Paris?” Caroline asked, a little jerkily.

  “That’s it.” He tried to press her to have a cigarette, although she had already refused. “If you don’t know Paris you’ll probably enjoy it, and if you do accept Aunt Pen’s invitation—and I don’t mind admitting I’m banking on you doing just that!—you will let me show you all there is to be seen, won’t you?” He bent towards her a little eagerly. “Aunt Pen says you’re exactly like your grandmother, and if she was anything like you, Caroline, she must have been a beauty... ! Not the sort of beauty one acknowledges, perhaps, at first, but the kind that grows on one. The kind it would be next door to impossible ever to forget altogether! So you will return with us to Paris, won’t you?”

  “I—I-----“ Caroline was beginning; and he was so

  nice, and natural, and English—not the sort she could ever fall in love with for a single instant, but certainly not the kind of man she would ever want to hurt, or remind that until he had been certain of the attitude of Mademoiselle Montauban he had been very ready indeed to fall a victim to her charms—that she hardly knew how to respond to such a piece of determined flattery. For her grandmother had been an acknowledged beauty, and she knew she would never be that. Armand had discovered that she had something—something that had appealed to him while they were alone together—but apparently it wasn’t enough to keep him in thrall.

  Which shouldn’t really surprise her now that she had seen Diane Montauban.

  But she felt surprised and disturbed by this news that within a few days they were all likely to be scattered. And whether or not she should accept Lady Pen’s invitation she couldn’t make up her mind just then. For only that morning she had been thinking of spending the rest of her life with Armand...!

  Helen Mansfield joined them after breakfast—she broke her fast on fruit juice only, in order to preserve a figure that had more than once threatened to get out of hand—and Caroline was glad that Christopher said nothing more about going off together for the day. Lady Pen sat and sunned herself on the terrace, rested in the afternoon in her room as she always did, and in the evening spoke to Caroline about accompanying them to Paris.

  “I do want you to agree, my dear,” she said. I don’t want you to return to that lonely life of yours in London until you look much fitter than you do now—you strike me as being rather naturally fragile, and therefore someone ought to take care of you—and you can’t very well stay on here at the chateau after we have all gone. It would be too lonely for you, for one thing, and apparently Marthe Giraud is likely to be in hospital for some time. So why not say at once that you’ll come with us to Paris, and afterwards—who knows?—I might persuade you to come and stay with me in England, or Christopher might persuade you to return with him to Africa... “

  “Oh, no!” Caroline said, so sharply that the old lady looked at her quizzically.

  “Why not? Don’t you feel in the very slightest degree attracted?” Caroline felt certain that Lady Pen knew too well who attracted her much more than in a “slight degree”, and possibly that was one reason why she was so eager to get her to join up with them. Lady Pen was shrewd, had seen more than one young woman lose her heart to a man who didn’t want it, and having known her grandmother she very likely felt a certain responsibility where she was concerned. But the very thought of accompanying Christopher to Africa made her want to run away back to her own little London room, for there, at least, she would have her dreams, and her memories. Christopher...! After she had known Armand’s kisses...! “Don’t look so upset, my dear child,” Lady Pen said, gently, touching her. “I know how you feel about Armand —it was shining out of your eyes when we arrived here, although I believe the arrival of Miss Montauban just ahead of us gave you something in the nature of a shock! But men like Armand are like that, you know—much loved by their godmothers, and female relations, but not really very much use to other women.” She spoke regretfully, as if she had been trying for some time to accustom herself to this aspect of Armand. “I’ll admit I’ve always had hopes that he might change. I thought that perhaps when he met someone who didn’t actively chase him he might become interested. I’m quite prepared to believe you didn’t chase him, but that chic countrywoman of his is doing enough chasing for both of you.... And he seems to be rather under her influence, at least. Otherwise, why go off all day with her?”

  Why, indeed. . . ? Caroline had asked herself that question repeatedly since morning. And the only answer she could supply herself with was that both were French —which meant that they would have no language problems, and therefore no incoherent moments—and Diane’s family was almost as old as that of the

  Comte. She was as gay and vivacious as he was, had led his kind of life for years, and whether or not he was in love with her, she was almost certainly in love with him!

  Sitting on the terrace with the evening sunshine falling goldenly all about her, the moat encompassing the chateau like a glistening girdle touched with fire, Caroline recalled the kiss they had exchanged in the tower room—the kiss she had witnessed— and she wondered why she had awakened that morning with the determination actually to plead with Armand if it was necessary.

  She began to think she must have been slightly mad.

  She was glad when Lady Pen suggested a stroll in the grounds before dinner, and they lingered for a long time in a small, tucked-away herb garden where Lady Pen said she had once assisted the Comte’s mother to pick and dry enough lavender for lavender sachets for a bazaar that was to raise funds for a local family in distress.

  “It was she who imported practically every one of the herbs that are gro
wing here now,” Lady Pen said, as she plucked a leaf of bergamot. “She was a keen horticulturist, and very full of good works.” She sighed. “I’m afraid she would be a little disappointed in Armand.”

  Caroline stood inhaling the combined fragrance of many conflicting scents around her, and her thoughts went again to the tower room, and this time to the portrait above the fireplace.

  “But Armand is—like his father?” she suggested, a little diffidently.

  Lady Pen looked as if she was giving the matter thought.

  “In some ways,” she admitted. “Only in some ways Armand is more human—his potentialities are greater! Only I’m afraid they’re going to be wasted,” she added, with a sigh. “He’ll go down to history as a successful French dramatist, and nothing more.”

  “Perhaps there is nothing more he wishes from life to go down to history as,” Caroline suggested.

  “I wonder?” Lady Pen said.

  And then they both heard Monique exerting all her strength on the enormous beaten silver gong in the hall.

  The evening seemed years long to Carol, who played chess with Lady Pen on the terrace in a flood of wonderful, silvery moonlight that turned the chateau into a positive dream of beauty brooding on its past, and at ten o’clock they all went to bed.

  “I shall be glad when we get to Paris,” Christopher had said, sounding bored, and Caroline thought he had looked at her reproachfully. “In Paris we may find something to do.”

  In Paris she wouldn’t be allowed to play chess was what his eyes had told her. He would see to it that the many distractions the French capital offered should claim at least some of her attention, and as the one to show them to her a little of her attention would also, perforce, be concentrated on himself.

  Caroline, however, forgot Christopher, forgot the invitation that she ought to be grateful for—as she realised— forgot everything, as she lay in her bed and listened for the first, faint sound of Armand’s returning car. Monique had said they might be late, but when Caroline looked at her watch, after switching on her bedside light, it was very nearly one o’clock.