Читать книгу: «Solitaire», страница 3

‘But why?’ Marty fought her tears. ‘I didn’t want—all this. I would have been content with something far smaller—humbler.’

‘But maybe he could not,’ he said. ‘Perhaps a promise made to a child assumed paramount importance in his life, in his thinking. Perhaps when you make a dream come true for someone, there should be no half measures. And perhaps too he knew he did not have a great deal of time left. According to the letter, this was meant to be your inheritance.’

‘You’re talking now as if you believe Uncle Jim really did write that letter!’

He shrugged. ‘What other rational conclusion is there? All that remains to be explained is the lapse of time between the writing, and its posting.’ He paused and she saw an intentness in his expression as if he was listening to something. He released her and with a fierce gesture to her to keep silence, he strode swiftly and quietly towards the door of the salon, jerking it open.

Marty heard him speaking to someone in French, his voice like a whiplash, and she quailed. Surely the austere Madame Guisard didn’t descend to listening at keyholes, she thought, a hysterical desire to laugh welling up inside her.

But when Luc Dumarais reappeared he was holding the arm of a young boy, thin and dark-haired, the slenderness of his wrists and ankles betraying how brief the journey he had taken so far towards adolescence. His mouth set and mutinous, he glared up at the man who was thrusting him mercilessly towards where Marty was standing, open mouthed.

‘I have the honour to present my son Bernard, mademoiselle,’ Luc Dumarais said tightly. ‘His interest in the matter we have been discussing leads me to think he could shed some light on the problem that has been perplexing us.’ He picked up the letter and the envelope and held them out to the boy, who stared at them sullenly.

‘Alors, Bernard,’ his father said almost silkily. ‘Did you send this letter to Mademoiselle Langton?’

There was a long silence. Bernard’s slightly sallow complexion took on a deep guilty flush. His lips parted slightly, but no sound came out.

Marty felt suddenly sorry for him. ‘It’s all right, Bernard,’ she said, trying to sound encouraging. ‘I’m sure you meant well and …’

‘I did not mean anything,’ he interrupted flatly in heavily accented English. ‘I found the letter in a book that Jacques gave me. I thought that I would send it, that was all.’

‘How long ago did you find it?’ Luc Dumarais demanded.

Bernard shrugged, his face peevish. ‘I don’t remember. A long time ago—just after he died.’

‘And it did not occur to you that a more proper course of action would have been to give me the letter, so that I could pass it on to the lawyer who was dealing with Jacques’ affairs?’ Luc said coldly.

‘Why should I?’ Bernard flung his head back defiantly and faced his father. ‘The letter was not written to you. It was not your business.’

‘Or yours,’ Luc Dumarais returned harshly. ‘Yet you chose to make it so.’

Bernard shrugged again. ‘I did not know what was in it,’ he muttered defensively. ‘I did not know that Mademoiselle would be fool enough to come here. Who is she?’ he added. ‘Jacques’ mistress?’

Almost before he had finished speaking, Luc’s hand shot out and slapped him across the face. The boy staggered back wincing with a gasp that was echoed by Marty’s.

She whirled on Luc. ‘There was no need for that, surely!’

‘There was every need.’ His voice sounded weary. ‘Or are you accustomed to be insulted in such a manner?’

‘No, of course not.’ Marty was taken aback. ‘But he didn’t mean it.’

Luc’s smile held no amusement whatsoever. ‘He meant it.’ He turned and gave his son who was standing, his fingers pressed to his cheek, a long hard look. ‘As he always means every word of the mischief he makes. Pauvre Bernard! Were you so lost for ways to anger me that you had to send all the way to England? Involve a complete stranger?’

‘Well, it has been a success, tout de měme,’ the boy burst out suddenly, and Marty was horrified at the malice in his voice. ‘For now this girl has come, and you will have to deal with her, mon père.’ He turned and ran out of the room, banging the salon door behind him.

Marty heard Luc Dumarais swear softly under his breath before he swung back to face her.

‘As you see, mademoiselle,’ he said coldly, ‘your intervention on my son’s behalf was quite unnecessary. He has his own weapons.’

Marty spread her hands out helplessly in front of her. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said inadequately.

‘There is no need,’ he said impatiently. ‘It is I who must apologise to you as it was my son who has brought you on this wild goose chase.’

‘But why should he do such a thing?’

‘You heard,’ he said. ‘To annoy me. To disrupt the peace I have tried to establish here. To cause me yet more problems, and eventually to prove such a thorn in my flesh that I will willingly send him back to Paris to his mother’s family.’

‘And you aren’t prepared to do that?’ Marty ventured.

‘No, I am not.’ Luc Dumarais stretched tiredly. He did not volunteer any further explanation and his dark face was so harsh and strained suddenly that Marty did not dare probe further.

There was a long silence. It was eventually broken by Luc, and Marty had the impression that he was forcing himself back from some bitter journey into the past. She tried to remember what Jean-Paul had said about the household while she was still under the mistaken impression that his remarks referred to Uncle Jim. He had spoken of a divorce, she thought, and also that Bernard’s mother was dead. He had also given her the feeling that Bernard would not welcome her presence. But then, she thought, Bernard would not be welcoming to anyone. Brief though their meeting had been, she had sensed an air of resentment and hostility which seemed to encompass the world at large.

‘Now we must decide what must be done with you.’ He sounded resigned.

‘That’s easily settled.’ Marty tried to shut out of her mind the chilling realisation of just how much she had staked on this trip and the pitiful amount of money now left to her. ‘I—I shall return to England. There really isn’t any need to concern yourself …’

‘Don’t be a fool.’ His voice bit at her. ‘My son was to blame for bringing you here. The responsibility now rests with me. Just how do you propose to return to England? Did you buy a return ticket for the ferry?’

‘No,’ she admitted. ‘But that’s no problem.’ She tried to sound careless—a seasoned traveller, and saw his eyes narrow speculatively as he looked her over.

‘You have travellers’ cheques?’ he asked pleasantly. ‘Or are your resources restricted to those few francs you have in your bag?’

For a moment she was stunned, then she blazed at him. ‘You dared—you actually dared to look in my bag?’

‘Yes, I dared,’ he said calmly. ‘I wished to check your passport and make sure you had a right to the identity you were claiming. Or did you think I would trustingly let any strange waif into my house, merely because she professed kinship with a man no longer alive to support or deny her claim? It seemed to me that you had planned only on a one-way trip.’

‘The more fool I,’ she said tightly. ‘But it really isn’t any of your concern. I’m sure if I really had been an actress with an eye on a part in your latest film you would have thrown me out without a second thought. Just because Martina Langton, starlet, doesn’t exist, Martina Langton, secretary, doesn’t require your charity either.’

‘There are arrangements you can make? Relatives in England you can cable for money?’

Marty suppressed a wry smile as she visualised Aunt Mary’s reaction to any such demand.

‘No, there’s no one,’ she acknowledged quietly. ‘But I’ll manage. I’m quite capable of working, you know, and Les Sables is a seaside resort. I can get a job at one of the hotels—waiting at tables perhaps, or as a chambermaid.’

‘Les Sables is a small resort. Most of the hotels are family businesses and do not make a habit of employing outsiders, especially foreigners. Any casual work available has already been snapped up by students,’ he said unemotionally. ‘What other ideas have you?’

‘None,’ she was provoked into admitting. She lifted her chin defiantly and looked at him. ‘But I’ll think of something.’

‘I have already thought of something.’ His voice was cool and almost dispassionate. ‘You can remain here.’

CHAPTER THREE

‘THAT,’ Marty said after a heart-thumping pause, ‘is the last thing I shall do.’

She spoke carefully, anxious to keep any betraying quiver out of her voice. Her pulses were behaving very oddly all of a sudden, and she wanted to wipe her damp palms on her jeans, but she restrained herself. The last thing she wanted was to let Luc Dumarais know the turmoil his suggestion had thrown her into.

Frantic thoughts began to gallop through her head. If she screamed, would Madame Guisard hear—and if she heard, would she bother to take any action? Could she manage to get past Luc Dumarais to the door? Thanks to Bernard, it was shut. Would he catch her before she could get it open and make her escape? Then there was the dog. Her mouth felt suddenly dry, and she moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue.

‘Mon dieu,’ he said very softly. ‘It’s really true. The prototype English virgin, spying rapists behind every bush. Calm yourself, ma petite,’ he went on, his mouth twisting sardonically. ‘I’ve never been forced to resort to rape yet. And if I wanted a little adventure, believe me I wouldn’t choose an inexperienced child as a partner.’

Marty felt the hot blood invade her cheeks. ‘You’re quite wrong,’ she protested without conviction. ‘I wasn’t thinking …’

‘Don’t lie,’ he said. ‘Has no one told you, mon enfant, that your face is a mirror to your thoughts? Did you really imagine that you had inflamed my passions to such an extent that I could not bear to let you go?’

‘You,’ she said very distinctly, ‘are quite the most loathsome man I have ever met.’

‘But then I would say such encounters have been rather limited, have they not? Nor is it exactly courteous to describe a prospective employer as loathsome.’

‘You’re not my employer. Nothing would prevail on me to work for you,’ Marty declared tremblingly.

‘No? But do you imagine you have a great deal of choice?’ he enquired. ‘You haven’t sufficient money to eat, and travel to a larger place to find work—even supposing there was anyone willing to give you a job. You have no relatives or friends to help you, on your own admission, and I should warn you that the authorities do not look kindly on indigent foreigners.’

‘How dare you call me indigent! I’m a trained secretary.’

‘So I read in your passport,’ he said almost negligently. ‘I should not otherwise be offering you work.’

Marty gave a gasp of utter frustration. No matter what she said, he seemed to have an answer.

‘Oh, this is ridiculous!’ she declared. ‘I—I’m going.’

She tried to march past him to the door, but his hand closed on her arm detaining her. She was aware of an almost overwhelming impulse to forget her upbringing and sink her teeth into his tanned flesh.

‘I advise against it,’ he said infuriatingly, almost as if she had voiced the thought aloud. ‘I can promise you that you would not enjoy the inevitable reprisals.’

She stood very still, her eyes downcast, conscious only of the firm pressure of his hand upon her arm.

‘Will you let me go, please?’ she asked politely.

‘Will you stop turning my salon into a battleground?’ he returned, but he released her arm. ‘You are in no fit state to discuss anything rationally at the moment. You have had a number of shocks today, which I regret. At least let me make amends by offering you a meal and a room for the night. In the morning you may feel better disposed to listen to what I have to say to you.’

‘I doubt that very much,’ she muttered. ‘All I really want to do is get away from this place.’

‘Then your most sensible course of action is to earn sufficient money to make this possible,’ he said unemotionally. ‘You would not find me ungenerous in the matter of wages. In any case, earnings in France are higher than in England.’

There was an awful kind of logic in what he said, Marty told herself despairingly. For a moment, she toyed with the idea of asking him to advance her the fare home on the understanding that she would repay him when she got back home and found another job. But she herself could see the flaws in this. For one thing, with unemployment running rife, she had no real guarantee she would find another job very easily. And when she did, she would need somewhere to live, and had little idea how much she would have to pay for rent, and heating, not to mention her food and clothes. What money would she have to repay anyone?

An involuntary sigh broke from her lips. He had not exaggerated when he had said she was in no state to consider his offer. She wasn’t just physically tired from her days of travel. She felt emotionally battered as well, her grief and disappointment at what she had discovered at the Villa Solitaire now being joined by a very real fear of what the future might hold. She had destroyed what fragile security she had had to snatch at a shadow. It had been the first reckless act she had ever committed, this journey to France, and it had ended in disaster.

And as in a kind of dream she heard Luc Dumarais summon the housekeeper and order her to escort her to a guest room, it occurred to her with a little shiver of disquiet that this might only be the beginning of the disaster …

In spite of her forebodings, Marty fell asleep on the bed Madame Guisard somewhat grudgingly made up for her. The room itself was charming, with its white-painted walls, contrasting with the smooth modern lines of the furniture, and the deep velvety green of the fitted carpet. There were no curtains at the windows, but Marty had grown accustomed to using shutters, and she was used too to managing the long rather hard bolster that fitted under the bottom sheet in place of a pillow. Sleep when it came was dreamless, and she felt oddly refreshed when she woke to find the shadows lengthening in the room, and Madame Guisard bending over to tell her stiffly that dinner was on the point of being served.

Adjoining her room was a tiny cubicle containing a shower, a handbasin and the ubiquitous bidet. As she hurriedly rinsed her face and hands in the basin, and dragged a comb through her sleep-tousled hair, Marty wondered whether she ought to have made the effort to change for dinner. But a swift mental review of the clothes she had brought with her soon convinced her it would only be foolish. She found herself wondering whether Luc Dumarais would subscribe to convention sufficiently to put on a shirt before sitting down to dinner. After a final slightly disparaging glance at herself in the mirror, she went out of her room and downstairs to the hall where she hesitated, wondering where she would find the dining room.

As she stood there, Luc Dumarais walked out of the salon and stood watching her, his dark face enigmatic. He was wearing close-fitting dark trousers, and though he was tieless, his frilled white shirt was immaculately white. A dark blue velvet jacket hung casually over his shoulders. He looked totally and arrogantly masculine, and Marty felt the force of his dark attraction reach out and take her by the throat. She swallowed, every instinct urging her to deny these new and troublous feelings which were invading her tranquillity.

She was defiantly glad she had made no effort to change. It would have been humiliating if he had interpreted such an action as an attempt by her to persuade him of her own femininity. The casualness of jeans and a top made her feel less vulnerable.

‘I have decided that we will eat outside tonight. It’s a perfect evening,’ he said. ‘Would you care for an aperitif?’

‘No—I mean—yes, I suppose so,’ she said, feeling unutterably gauche.

‘What do you drink?’ he enquired.

She was tempted to reply, ‘A glass of sherry—once a year for the Queen’s speech,’ and see what his reaction was, but she controlled herself.

‘What do you recommend?’ she countered brightly.

‘Perhaps you should try a pineau,’ he said. ‘It’s the local aperitif, and you probably won’t have come across it in England.’

How very true, Marty thought, as she followed him into the salon. He left her there with a quick polite word of apology while he went to fetch the drinks, and she wandered over to the glass doors that led out to the patio. A table set with a white linen cloth had been placed there, and Marty noticed with a sinking heart that place settings had only been laid for two. It appeared that Bernard would not be joining them, and she was going to have to suffer a dinner těte-à-těte with the master of the house—the very last thing she wanted under the circumstances. She gave a little barely perceptible sigh. The setting, the warm summer night, and the man who was soon to join her were all of the stuff that dreams were made on, and the sooner she remembered that she was prosaic Marty Langton, the better it would be for her. She had listened to the other girls who worked in her office gossiping about their boyfriends, but none of them had ever warned her that you could be physically attracted to a man you did not even like. She’d imagined there would be a safe pattern to these relationships—an enjoyment of a man’s company leading steadily on to warmer, more intimate feelings in the fullness of time.

But Luc Dumarais did not fit into any pattern that she had ever conceived, even in her wildest dreams. He was quite simply beyond her scope, and it worried her to realise how much of her thoughts he was beginning to monopolise.

‘Martine.’ She turned with a little start, to find that he had come silently back into the room and was standing close behind her holding out a glass to her.

‘A votre santé,’ he said rather mockingly, raising his own glass in salute.

She bent her head, muttering an embarrassed, ‘Cheers,’ and sipped at her drink which in spite of the fact that it was icy cold, spread a new and welcome warmth through her body. Its flavour was sweet and rather rich, and she smiled at him with rather shy appreciation.

‘It’s good.’

He inclined his head in acknowledgment. ‘Shall we take our drinks outside?’ he suggested.

The heat was not as intense as it had been earlier now that evening was approaching, and the merest whisper of a breeze came sighing through the clustering pines only yards from the house to disturb the stillness of the warm air.

César was lying on the patio, his head sunk on his paws. He lifted his head and barked as Marty appeared, but at a sharp word from his master he resumed his somnolent pose.

‘Are you frightened of dogs?’ Luc Dumarais held the chair for Marty to sit down.

‘I’m not really used to them,’ she answered truthfully.

He smiled slightly. ‘César will soon come to accept your presence here.’ He lifted a water jug from the table and added some water to the liquid in his glass, watching it appraisingly as it turned cloudy.

He spoke, Marty thought indignantly, as if it was all cut and dried that she was going to stay and work for him. She was just about to voice her thought when Madame Guisard appeared with the tureen of soup that constituted the first course, and she had perforce to save her comments for later.

‘Is Bernard not joining us?’ she asked tentatively as she picked up her spoon.

Luc’s dark brows drew together. ‘He is eating in his room,’ he said briefly. His tone did not encourage any further discussion, so Marty let the matter drop. She recalled Jean-Paul telling her that afternoon that Bernard had only come to live with his father a year ago. It seemed that even in that short period the relationship between them had deteriorated drastically. And she still wasn’t clear about Bernard’s motives for posting Uncle Jim’s letter as he had done. It seemed such a pointless thing to have done. Yet, she supposed philosophically, at least through his action she had learned that Uncle Jim had died, however painful the knowledge was. At least she now knew she had nothing to hope for, and that she had to put that childish dream of loving security which Uncle Jim had inculcated behind her for ever.

Had it really been a burden to him, she wondered, as she drank the delicately flavoured vegetable soup, that rash promise he had made to her all those years ago? The thought grieved her almost as much as the news of his death had done. She could imagine him becoming increasingly desperate as the years went by, and there seemed no way to redeem his promise, then this final reckless splurge on this villa he could not really afford. But even then he had hesitated to send for her, as if aware that it was all going to go wrong for him. Why else had he written the letter and not posted it? And his forebodings had proved only too real, it seemed, and she sighed imperceptibly as she laid down her spoon.

‘You look sad again,’ Luc Dumarais remarked as the fish, cooked in cream and mushrooms, was set in front of them. ‘Is the food not to your liking?’

‘Oh no, it’s magnificent.’ Marty glanced up startled. She had not realised he was observing her so closely. ‘I—I was just thinking about Uncle Jim.’

He shrugged. ‘That is natural. I hope these thoughts will persuade you to act sensibly.’

‘What do you mean?’ she asked guardedly.

‘I should have thought it was obvious. Jacques must have had a deep concern for you to act as he did. Can you imagine his reactions now if he knew you were alone, without friends or money, refusing help when it was offered?’

She bent her head. ‘I think, like myself, he would have wanted to know a little more about what that help entailed before committing himself,’ she said in a low voice.

‘You surely don’t still suspect that I have designs upon your virtue?’ His brows rose. ‘Please believe, Martine, that I do not steal from cradles. And there are moments when you seem hardly older than Bernard.’

‘No, I don’t suspect—that.’ She felt that betraying colour rise in her cheeks again and prayed that he would not notice. Was it any wonder, she asked herself bitterly, that he had written her off as another gauche adolescent? ‘But—was it some kind of domestic work you had in mind or …’

‘Diable!’ He was laughing openly now. ‘Albertine would have my blood if I tried to interfere in her arrangements. No, I thought I had made it clear that it was your secretarial ability that interested me—or at least that was the first thing.’

Anxious grey eyes met his and his smile widened. ‘What are you thinking now, I wonder? Whatever it is, mon enfant, you are wrong. I need a companion for Bernard. The long vacation is ahead of us, and I have to work on a new script so I shall not be able to give him the time or the attention he so badly needs. On the other hand, I do not wish him to be left to his own resources. He is unpredictable at the best of times. When bored—–’ He lifted a shoulder.

Marty stared at him. ‘And do you really think for one moment that my presence would make the slightest difference?’ She tried to smile. ‘I’m a complete stranger to him. We don’t even speak each other’s language very fluently. Surely he must have some friends that you could invite.’

‘Unfortunately, no.’ A look of strain crossed the dark face. ‘While he was living in Paris, he was permitted to associate with a group much older than he was—a group which exercised much influence on Bernard, little of it good. I have forbidden any further association with these people. Since then, he has made no effort to make other friends.’

‘I see,’ Marty said slowly. It was not a happy picture that Luc Dumarais had painted, and she could well imagine Bernard’s reaction if she was foisted on him. On the other hand, if he was cut off from all those he had thought of as his friends, he would undoubtedly be lonely, as she was herself. An antagonistic thirteen-year-old boy was not her ideal choice of a companion, but perhaps beggars in loneliness could not be choosers.

She cleared her throat. ‘You said something about secretarial work too.’

‘Yes.’ Luc Dumarais’ eyes never left her face. ‘As I said, I am working on a new script. We hope to go into production in the autumn, so time is of the essence to me. I need to get at least a workable treatment to my producer and other colleagues in the next week or two. I was thinking of bringing a secretary from Paris, but if you decide to stay, there will be no need for that.’

‘And how long would the job continue?’

He shrugged. ‘Shall we say until the script is finished—or you have earned sufficient money to pay your fare home—whichever happens sooner.’

He could not have sounded more businesslike or dismissive, and this was what she wanted, so why should his tone prove so hurtful? She pushed her plate away with hands that shook a little. The gesture was not lost on him, and his voice gentled a little.

‘Sleep on it, Martine,’ he suggested. ‘And let me have your decision in the morning.’

‘Very well,’ she agreed almost inaudibly, and was thankful when Madame Guisard reappeared with the next course—chicken, in a sauce redolent of wine and herbs.

It was delicious, but as far as Marty was concerned, she might have been eating reconstituted sawdust.

The sun was sinking behind the pines, and there was a new chill in the air, making her shiver involuntarily.

This house had well been named Solitaire, she thought. Apart from its seclusion, its former owner Uncle Jim had been a solitary man, and the present household seemed to operate in a curious isolation from each other. Her first impressions of Bernard had not been in his favour, but a sudden wave of sympathy went over her as she wondered what it must have been like for him, being torn away at a vulnerable age from the life he was used to, and brought to this remote corner with a father who clearly had little idea of his needs, and less time for them. And there was Luc Dumarais himself. A public man, because of his career, but demanding an intensely private life, judging by the seclusion he had chosen. He had one failed marriage behind him, but that surely did not mean he had forsworn the company of women for ever.

She stole a glance at him, confident that his attention was fixed on his plate. He was far from being the handsome Frenchman of convention. The planes of his face were too harshly drawn, the rugged lines of nose and chin too firmly insisted on for that. But that in no way diminished his dark attraction, and the frankly sensual curve of his mouth hardly denoted a man who lived a celibate existence.

‘Do you read character from faces, Martine?’

She almost choked on the forkful of chicken she had just placed in her mouth.

‘Because if you do, I hope that you won’t leap to too many hasty conclusions,’ he went on.

Marty felt utterly mortified to have been caught staring at him like an impressionable schoolgirl.

‘I beg your pardon,’ she said stiltedly.

He looked directly at her then, and there was an odd expression in his eyes that she thought might have been a sort of kind pity.

‘You are very young, aren’t you,’ he said, and her mortification was complete. She made herself go on eating because she was hungry, and she supposed resentfully that he would see this as yet another sign of her youth. And yet she had never considered she was young for her age. The other girls who worked at the office had always treated her as if she was much older than she actually was, nor had her aunt ever made any concessions towards childhood or adolescence. And earlier there had been Jean-Paul who had made it perfectly clear that he regarded her as a woman. So why was it just this man who could make her feel so juvenile and vulnerable? she wondered almost despairingly.

And would seeing him every day—working with him, being part of his household make their relationship any easier, or would it simply complicate matters still further? she asked herself, but no satisfactory answer seemed to be forthcoming.

She stole a glance at him, and saw him take a surreptitious look at the plain platinum watch he wore on his wrist. She bit her lip, feeling in the way. Probably his plans for the evening had not included entertaining her to dinner, she thought guiltily, laying down her knife and fork.

She only picked at the crěme caramel that Madame Guisard served as a dessert and declined the coffee altogether on the somewhat mendacious grounds that it might keep her awake. Whatever made her think she was going to be able to sleep anyway—no matter what she drank or refrained from drinking?

‘Are you tired?’ He looked at her, his eyebrows raised interrogatively.

‘Yes—I think I would like to go to my room,’ she said hurriedly, remembering that swift glance at his watch, and wondered if that was a look of relief in his eyes as he turned to Madame Guisard who had come to clear the table and instructed her to see that mademoiselle had everything she needed for the night.

‘Certainly, monsieur.’ Madame seemed to find the idea less than entrancing. ‘I have already unpacked Mademoiselle’s case,’ she added, giving Marty a sidelong glance which managed to convey she had been unimpressed by her findings. And it was true that the clothes she had brought with her were very different from the couture garments that Luc Dumarais’ female guests usually brought with them, Marty decided rather sadly. Madame probably considered that denim and cheesecloth was a considerable letdown after the crěpe de chine and cashmere she was accustomed to.