Sara Craven - Place Of Storms

‘That remains to be seen.’ He finished the coffee in his cup and stood up. ‘When you have finished breakfast, I thought you might like to ride with me. As you reminded me, you have a vested interest in the estate now, and you may be interested in the changes we are making.’

She was just about to inform him frankly that the only thing she could imagine worse than a morning in his undiluted company was a morning on horseback, when she remembered with dismay that Clare was a keen rider and had probably mentioned this in her letters. She nearly groaned aloud. She could always invent a headache or some other minor ailment, but this might arouse his suspicions, and this was the last thing she wanted. She could ride, but she had none of Clare’s equestrian flair, and she was nervous of horses.

She forced a smile. ‘That would be lovely,’ she agreed. ‘I—I’ll just get a jacket.’

‘Soit.’ He sent her a long look, and for the first time she noticed, inconsequentially, how long his eyelashes were. ‘Shall we say then that we will meet at the main door in—ten minutes’ time?’

As she came downstairs again, Andrea wondered if it would be possible to slip on the stairs and feign a sprained ankle. But as she came round the final curve of the stairs, she saw Blaise Levallier just below her glancing idly through an agricultural catalogue.

He glanced up at the sound of her step. ‘Docile—and punctual,’ he remarked. ‘You will make an admirable wife, ma mie.’

She glared at him in impotent silence. Crossing verbal swords with him would get her nowhere, she reasoned, and all past scores would be paid off anyway when she took her departure and he realised he no longer had the proof he needed of his hold over Clare.

She noted ironically that the stables were in much better condition than the house itself, and commented sweetly on the fact.

‘Perhaps because I find animals of considerably more value than human beings, mademoiselle,’ came the immediate retort, and she subsided angrily.

Her heart sank when Gaston led out the mare that Blaise had designated for her to ride. She was a far cry from faithful old Penelope on whose broad back a much younger Andrea had taken her first quaking lessons. She was a sprightly roan, who sidled and jumped and tossed her head, and her bright eyes spoke of mischief.

‘She needs exercise,’ said her tormentor, already astride his own horse, and looking, Andrea thought bitterly, as if he were part of it.

She looked round for Gaston to help her mount, but he had disappeared back into the stables, so she had to lead the reluctant Delphine over to an ancient mounting block and get herself somehow into the saddle. It was not a polished performance, but at least she found herself on the mare’s back, instead of spreadeagled on the ground when it was completed. So far, so good, she thought, her sense of humour aroused by the sheer absurdity of the situation.

If I break my neck, at least it will be one way out of this mess, she told herself philosophically.

But before they had been out for very long, Andrea knew that it was a very different part of her anatomy that was going to suffer. Apart from that, Delphine was proving the handful she had feared and more. Clare had always said that horses could sense who had the mastery, and it was clear that the mare had written her off as an easy touch. She began to take liberties almost as soon as they were out of the stable yard, refusing to respond to Andrea’s rather tentative pressure on the reins with a toss of her head, and even swinging aside to eat the grass from the verges at the side of the track. The moment of truth came when a large bird flew out of the hedge immediately in front of her, and she squealed with indignation and reared up, nearly unseating Andrea in the process. Humiliatingly but inevitably, Blaise Levallier was there, grabbing the reins and soothing the mare, at the same time forcing her to compliance.

‘Thank you.’ Andrea knew her face was crimson.

‘It is nothing.’ He gave her a narrow look. ‘Perhaps it was a mistake asking you to ride so soon. You must still be tired after your journey—and your sleepless night.’

Now why didn’t I think of that? Andrea asked herself in exasperation. Aloud she said, ‘Probably,’ in a wooden voice.

She took a firm grip on herself and the reins after that, determined to cope better. Certainly, in spite of everything, there was a great deal to enjoy. The air seemed to sparkle after the night’s rain, and the views as they continued to climb were breathtaking. Away in the distance she could glimpse the flattened cones of the puys , the dead volcanic mountains of Auvergne, while around them the trees still wore the last remnants of their autumn glory before the stark onset of winter.

Andrea felt so exhilarated that when they eventually reached a level, grassy stretch of ground she forgot to be nervous when the horses broke into a canter, and then a gallop. Delphine was no longer a monster, fixed on her undoing, but a lovely creature, fluid of bone and muscle, who merely wanted to share her pleasure in her own swift eagerness.

When they reined in, Andrea saw that from this vantage point it was possible to look down on the village and the chateau. Seen from above, it had an even more forlorn look, and Andrea stole a sideways look at her companion to see his reaction. The scarred side of his face was hidden from her, but his expression was bleak and brooding and she did not dare venture a remark.

At last, when she had begun to think he had forgotten her presence, he said ‘Allons!’ in an impatient tone, and they turned the horses and rode on.

The black mood that possessed him persisted as they toured the vineyards, and looked at the new bottling plant which had been installed. Andrea, somewhat to her own surprise, found she was genuinely interested in what was being achieved, and it was frustrating to have her questions answered in monosyllables.

At last she could hold her tongue no longer.

‘This ride was your idea, monsieur,’ she reminded him acidly. ‘If you want me to learn about the estate, you need to improve your teaching technique.’

The look he sent her was chilling, but he made no response. She was not altogether surprised, however, when she found they were on their way back to the chateau.

‘Here endeth the first lesson,’ she observed flippantly.

This time he did reply, and his voice was icy with rage. ‘It may all seem a joke to you, mademoiselle , from your secure English background, but to me and many others in this village, it is life and death. Do you know how many villages there are in France where old people sit in their houses alone, because their children have left—gone to the cities to find work? Do you even care? I doubt it. But I care. And I care too that my home—the house which my family has occupied for hundreds of years—is falling into a ruin about me. Do you imagine that I would have permitted this neglect? Regard it well, mademoiselle. That is what hate can do, and spite and revenge. It is not pretty, hein?’

‘Whose hate, monsieur?’

‘My father’s, mademoiselle. My younger brother was his favourite. He could not forgive me for being the elder and his heir. I could do nothing right—nothing that would please him, except absent myself. He could have stopped the rot then, if he had wished, but he did not wish. I do not think he cared if there was one stone standing upon another when I came into my inheritance. Every last franc was devoted to Jean-Paul, and to our plantation Belle Rivière.’

‘Your brother ran the plantation?’

‘Oui. It was his part of the inheritance. God knows I never grudged it to him. But there were problems. Several bad seasons—hurricanes, pests which destroyed the crop. At last my father ordered me to go there and put things right. It would have taken a miracle. By the time I arrived, Jean-Paul had speculated trying to recoup some his losses, and was facing ruin.’