by Anne Mather
Dionne, watching them, wondered why, as they were so obviously going to get married, the ceremony had not taken place before this. Louise had told her it was three years since Yvonne’s accident and her presence here, at the mas, showed that nothing had changed between them.
Her heart twisted. What were Yvonne’s chances of recovery? Would she ever be able to live a normal life again, a normal married life? Would she ever be able to give Manoel a son to carry on the line of St. Salvadors? Dionne sighed. If she had had any faint doubts about not telling Manoel about Jonathan the situation here precluded them. Yvonne’s condition would always stand between them, and no matter how unkind Yvonne had been to her in the past, she could not destroy her hopes for the future.
Madame St. Salvador brought her a large cup of steaming, aromatic coffee. It was strong and black and was exactly what Dionne needed after the events of the afternoon. Manoel lit a cheroot and moved away from Yvonne’s chair, his gaze flickering over Dionne with disturbing appraisal. Then Dionne remembered what Gemma had said.
‘Your – your grandmother wishes to see you before we leave,’ she said awkwardly. ‘I forgot to tell you.’
Manoel hesitated a moment and then strode out of the room. Left alone with Madame St. Salvador and Yvonne, Dionne felt reasonably apprehensive.
Manoel’s mother gave Yvonne some coffee and then looked across at Dionne. ‘When are you leaving?’ she asked abruptly.
‘You mean – when am I going back to England?’
‘Of course.’
Dionne ran her tongue over her dry lips. ‘I – I’m not sure. In a few days, I suppose.’
Yvonne looked at the other girl’s bare fingers, and then at the magnificent solitaire diamond on her own finger. ‘You’re not married, then? Or betrothed?’
Dionne shook her head. ‘No.’
Madame St. Salvador came towards her. ‘Did you come back here to cause trouble, mademoiselle?’ she demanded angrily.
Dionne was taken aback. ‘No. No, of course not.’ She bit her lip before going on. ‘I didn’t want to come here, to the mas! That – that was Gemma’s doing, as I’m sure you know.’
‘Gemma!’ Manoel’s mother uttered the word disparagingly. ‘That woman has been the cause of all the trouble between Manoel and his family! She has done her best to ruin his life!’
‘Gemma is his family, too,’ Dionne pointed out quietly.
Madame St. Salvador lifted her head. ‘She is not family! She is a gypsy, a lazy gitana, fit for nothing but pilfering and horse-stealing! A careless, irresponsible old woman who thinks she can rule our lives by her own laws!’ Her fists clenched fiercely. ‘But she is getting old, old, do you hear? And she will die soon! Then we’ll all be free of her – of her incantations and superstitions, her stupid beliefs that have cast a pall of misery over this household!’
Dionne drew back from her in disgust. ‘She’s an old woman, yes,’ she said distinctly. ‘But she is not irresponsible! You must know she was a princess in her tribe, and if Manoel’s grandfather hadn’t fallen in love with her and brought her to live here, at the mas, she would have married the chief of the tribe!’
‘Allons, donc!’ Madame St. Salvador sneered. ‘What tale is this she’s been telling you? So she married my father-in-law, but her love for her family was so great that as soon as her husband was dead she abandoned them and went back to the Romany life!’
Dionne rose to her feet. ‘You don’t understand; she hated being confined! She hated living in a house, having the same scenery outside her windows day after day, year after year! And by the time her husband died her son was already married … to you.’
Madame St. Salvador thrust her face close to Dionne’s. ‘At least my husband knew his position and kept to it, mademoiselle! He despised his mother just as much as I do!’
‘Do you think I don’t know that?’ Dionne snapped, her own anger aroused by Manoel’s mother’s condemnation of the woman Dionne had once cared for deeply. ‘You made her life a misery! A living death! You with your petty rules and regulations, your proud plans for Manoel’s future! You never cared for his happiness, only that he should further your ambitions for power!’
‘How dare you?’ Madame St. Salvador was incensed, and even Yvonne was leaning forward in the wheelchair, her eyes bright with vicarious enjoyment. ‘You – you troublemaker! Coming here with your pretence in researching gypsy lore, your academic qualifications! Trying to blind my son with your intellectual talk when all you really wanted was to get into bed with him!’ She took a deep breath. ‘And that senile old chienne encouraged you. Poor fool, don’t you know she would do anything to spite me; even arrange a so-called marriage ceremony between the two of you to make what you were doing seem right and decent to my son!’
Dionne gasped, drawing the collar of her blouse together with trembling fingers. ‘You are a malicious liar!’ she cried, and then fell back aghast as Madame St. Salvador’s hand stung painfully against her cheek.
‘God in heaven! What is going on here?’
Manoel strode angrily into the room, his gaze going first to Dionne standing in horror with a hand pressed to her stinging cheek and then to his mother, who was gripping the edge of the polished wood table in an effort to support herself.
‘Get her out of this house!’ Madame St. Salvador cried fiercely. ‘She has been saying the most vile things to me! How could you bring her here knowing how she felt about – me – about everything!’
‘That’s not true!’
Dionne’s indignant exclamation was lost in the storm of weeping that Manoel’s mother suddenly succumbed to, while Yvonne spoke reproachfully to Manoel in the patois she had used before, casting angry glances in Dionne’s direction. She wheeled her chair close to the woman who was going to be her mother-in-law, putting an arm around her, comforting her with soft remonstrances.
Dionne stared at the three of them; Madame St. Salavador sobbing bitterly into her handkerchief; Yvonne trying apparently unsuccessfully to comfort her; Manoel, an exasperated expression on his face, obviously trying to decide who was telling the truth; and with a broken ejaculation she brushed past them all, rushing out of the room to the comparative privacy of the yard outside where only the hens and an inquisitive sparrow shared her mortification.
She stood just outside the door of the building taking great gulping breaths of air, trying to still the wild beating of her heart. She had never been so humiliated, not even on that occasion three years ago when Madame St. Salavador, had told her, in no uncertain terms, exactly where Manoel’s duty lay. Then there had been hope to fortify the lonely nights to come. Now there was none, and she felt desolated.
She walked on unsteady legs across the yard to lean on the fence of a corral where several of the sturdy white horses used on the mas were confined after their morning’s work. Bales of hay had been thrown into the corral for them and they were eating and rolling in the dust with complete disregard for anyone or anything. Dionne envied them. How simple their lives were compared to hers. All that was expected of them was a fair day’s work in return for which they were fed and housed and when necessary, mated. She scrubbed a hand across her cheek, wiping away the solitary tear that refused to be suppressed. She should never have come here, she told herself again, as she had told herself so many times before. She should never have allowed Clarry to persuade her that Jonathan should not be denied this chance to get completely well again simply because she could not afford it, when his own father had unlimited wealth. Some things were worth more than money, and she shivered uncontrollably when she considered how she would feel if Manoel’s mother ever got control of Jonathan. And it could happen, she thought sickly.
She was so absorbed with her own misery that she was not aware that anyone had come out of the house and crossed the yard to her side, and consequently she started violently when Manoel said: ‘Dionne!’ in a totally different voice from the one he had used in the house.
She shrank away from him and he
muttered an impatient exclamation. ‘Dionne, for God’s sake!’ A muscle worked in his jaw and his eyes were dark with emotion. ‘Stop looking at me as though I was about to beat you! I’m not. I’m only sorry you had to – take – what you did!’
Dionne’s breath came in jerky gulps. ‘Is that supposed to be an apology for what happened in there?’ she demanded shakily.
Manoel’s eyes narrowed. ‘I apologize for nobody. I’m only telling you what I feel.’
Dionne made a little shaking movement with her head. ‘You – you St. Salvadors! Exactly who do you think you are?’ She quelled a sob that rose in her throat. ‘I didn’t want to come here, and I certainly didn’t want the kind of confrontation with your mother I had, but at least I don’t imagine that I’m immune from blame!’
‘Do you think I do?’ Manoel’s eyes glittered.
‘Yes!’ Dionne nodded. ‘Yes, yes, I do. You – you’ve treated me like – like a – puppet – ever since I arrived, making me dance to your tune because you had the upper hand. Well, no more! I’m through with the whole rotten business! You can keep your money! I don’t want it!’
‘Dionne!’ He ground out the word furiously, but she turned away, running across the yard to where Melodie was standing, waiting patiently.
Ignoring his commands to leave the horse alone, Dionne swung herself up into the saddle and digging in her heels set the animal cantering away before Manoel had chance to stop her. He flung himself into the saddle of his own horse, and Dionne felt a quivering thrill of apprehension. She knew she could try Manoel so far and no further, and right now he was nearing the end of his tether.
But she didn’t stop to consider the consequences, giving Melodie her head and galloping swiftly across the plain stretch of grassland that fronted the mas. The white mare sped across the turf, but this time Dionne was in control and the wind through her hair was clean and invigorating after the close confines of the farmhouse and its accompanying atmosphere of hate and suspicion.
She could feel the wind tearing the pins out of her hair, sending it streaming out behind her like a scarf of black silk, but she didn’t care. It was wonderful to feel free again.
But inevitably, as they splashed through a shallow étang Manoel’s black mare began to gain on them, and soon she was alongside and Manoel was reaching purposefully for her reins. Dionne sheered away, almost unseating him, and as she turned to glance back at him Melodie turned again, throwing Dionne sideways out of the saddle. There was an awful moment when she was in the air, and then she landed, but softly, in the squelching mud of marshy ground. Her immediate reaction was not one of pain or even of feeling winded, but rather a depressing realization that her cream pants and purple blouse would be ruined.
She lay there for several moments, too annoyed to get up, but suddenly Manoel was beside her, sliding down from the black mare’s back, dropping to his haunches to stare down at her anxiously.
‘Dionne,’ he exclaimed huskily. ‘Are you all right? Have I hurt you?’
Dionne looked up at him bemusedly, propped on one elbow, the revers of her blouse parting to reveal the creamy curve of her breast. ‘I’m dirty, that’s all,’ she answered helplessly, her antagonism dissolving beneath the concern in his eyes. She shook her head so that the curtain of her hair fell about her face. ‘I guess it was a crazy thing to do. I’m sorry, Manoel.’
‘Oh, Dionne!’ Manoel got abruptly to his feet, raking a hand through his hair with violent compulsion. ‘For God’s sake, get up!’
Dionne looked up at him, very much aware of him, of his strength, of his disturbing personality, of her aching need of him. With deliberation, she said: ‘Help me up, Manoel. Unless you’re afraid of getting your hands dirty.’
Manoel turned, his expression controlled, holding out a hand to her automatically. Dionne put her hand into his, feeling his skin burning hers even though his flesh was cool. He drew her up easily, and then released her, turning to grasp Consuelo’s bridle with mechanical movements.
Dionne’s throat constricted. Even the back of his head disturbed her, and she had the strongest impulse to slide her arms around him from behind, pressing her body close against his. But then sanity returned and she forced herself to think about Jonathan and the terrible risks she was taking by just being near Manoel. For a few moments she had been in danger of making him do something that would have made him despise her even more than he did already, and for what? A whim! A moment’s urgency that had temporarily dismissed all other considerations.
As though in control of himself again, Manoel turned at that moment, his eyes taut and angry. ‘Are you ready?’ he demanded, and she nodded slowly. ‘Good. Then shall we ride back to the mas?’
‘To the mas?’ Dionne was horrified. ‘I don’t want to go back there!’
‘You intend entering town in your condition, then?’ His voice was cold, indifferent.
Dionne glanced down at her mud-stained garments and put up a hand to her untidy hair. ‘I – er – I’ll have to, shan’t I?’
Manoel hesitated and then he heaved a sigh. ‘We will go to the cabane,’ he said decisively.
Dionne trembled. ‘All right.’
‘Bien! Allons!’
Manoel mounted Consuelo and held Melodie’s bridle as Dionne scrambled into her seat. Then without another word he dug in his heels and sent the black mare cantering gracefully across the marsh.
It did not take long to reach the cabane, but Dionne was scarcely aware of the passage of time. Outside the thatched roof dwelling she washed in water from the well while Manoel went into the cabane to get a drink. The mud soon dissolved from her hands and arms and she longed to take off her blouse and rinse her neck and shoulders. But of course she couldn’t do that, so she contented herself with unbuttoning her blouse and splashing cooling water on to her throat so that it ran down with chilling fingers over her warm body.
She was staring concentratedly into space, lost in her thoughts, when Manoel emerged from the cabane and came across to her with his lithe pantherlike tread. Immediately, confusion swept over her, and she drew her blouse about her in embarrassed silence while Manoel glared at her fiercely.
‘What in the name of God are you doing?’ he demanded savagely, his eyes lingering on her creamy throat rising from the opened neck of the blouse.
‘I was hot,’ explained Dionne defensively. ‘I was just trying to cool myself.’
Manoel surveyed her flushed cheeks with disturbing intensity. ‘You can’t treat the open plain as a bathroom,’ he snapped shortly. ‘Anyone could come upon you out here! How would you react to that idea?’
Dionne’s fingers trembled as she tried rather unsuccessfully to button her blouse. ‘You would say something like that, of course,’ she accused him unsteadily. ‘Well, you’ve come upon me, so what are you going to do about it?’
Manoel’s eyes darkened suddenly. ‘What do you want me to do about it?’
Dionne’s fingers were stilled by the look in his eyes, and she knew in that instant that she had gone too far this time; she had taken the fatal step towards the unknown.
Trying to dispel the tension that had fallen on them, she moved swiftly, and would have put the width of the well between them. But he was quicker and before she could escape, Manoel’s hand shot out, fastening on to the soft flesh of her upper arm, drawing her inexorably towards him, his arms sliding round her slim waist. Dionne struggled, but it was useless against his superior strength, and he pressed her unyielding body back against his so that she could feel every hard muscle of his chest and arms and thighs, and it was an exquisite torture. Then he bent his head and pushing her hair aside, his mouth found the soft nape of her neck, burning her flesh with its intensity.
‘Don’t! Manoel, please, don’t!’ she moaned, turning her head desperately from side to side.
His mouth moved up the side of her neck. ‘Why?’ he asked thickly against her skin. ‘Why shouldn’t I take what is mine, and you are mine – you know it as well as I d
o!’
And with rough expertise he twisted her round in his arms and his mouth sought hers. Dionne pressed her lips together tightly. This was madness, she must not respond, but she had invited it.
Manoel grew impatient, and one hand slid up her throat to her lips, forcing them apart, lingering against her tongue. Then his mouth found that parted sweetness, devouring her with hungry passion.
Dionne’s body lost all resistance and became soft and pliant, moulding itself to his. She clung to him convulsively, her hands sliding up his chest to grip the dark thick hair that grew low on his neck, caressing his nape. But when his hands slid beneath her blouse, against her bare flesh, seeking the soft warmth of her skin, Dionne fought for sanity. They were alone here, miles from habitation of any kind, and although the prospect of his lovemaking made coherent thought a mockery, she had to fight for self-preservation; for Jonathan as well as herself.
With a superhuman effort, she tore herself away from him, taking advantage of his relaxed hold on her, and fastening her blouse she walked swiftly away to the cabane, striving for control.
When she finally turned, Manoel still had his back to her, but as she watched he moved, bending to the well, and sluicing his face and neck with water. He ran his damp hands through his hair, and then straightened, flexing his muscles tiredly, before turning towards her. The expression on his face shredded her emotions. There was such a wealth of bitterness, of grim loneliness in his face.
Without speaking, he strode to the black mare and swung himself into the saddle. He came back to where Dionne stood, looking down at her contemptuously now.
‘Get on your horse!’ he commanded harshly, and Dionne hesitatingly complied. Without another word Manoel dug in his heels and rode away, leaving her to follow him. He rode well ahead of her all the way to the outskirts of Arles and made her dismount some distance from the hotel. She looked up at him puzzlingly, and his mouth twisted.
