Susan Stephens - Susan Stephens Selection

‘So now you can feed me,’ he murmured, rolling on to his back again.

Kate’s hands remained suspended in mid-air. For a moment it seemed as if the bees stopped humming and the soft breeze rustling through the leaves died away. Then Guy’s laugh splintered her trance.

‘Hurry up, Kate. Or I’ll just have to come over there and make you,’ he warned.

Kate’s eyes cleared and the soundscape burst into life again. ‘You wouldn’t,’ she said confidently.

‘ Vraiment? ’ he countered softly.

Before his intentions could be put to the test, she switched to a subject that was both important to her and safe. ‘Guy, I know I’ve only just arrived. But, if it’s possible, I would like to make arrangements to see your mother.’

His mood altered in an instant. ‘She isn’t seeing anyone.’

‘Are you quite sure she wouldn’t see me?’

‘Anything that reminds her of the accident— And in particular anything that reminds her of her dearest friend, your aunt—’

‘I understand,’ Kate broke in softly. ‘I’d just like her to know that I was asking after her, that I’m thinking about her. You will tell her that?’

‘ Naturellement ,’ he said. ‘And thank you, Kate. It’s very good of you to be so concerned. I think she gets very lonely up at the château. As soon as she feels up to it I’ll suggest that you pay her a visit.’

‘Or she’s always welcome here at La Petite Maison,’ Kate said quickly. ‘At least when everything’s back to normal,’ she qualified. ‘I’d hate her to see the cottage as it is right now.’

A muscle worked in Guy’s jaw as he sprang to his feet. ‘Now you’re making me feel guilty,’ he said, coming over to help her with the food. ‘If I had even suspected you meant to come back—’

‘Don’t,’ Kate said firmly. ‘It’s not all your fault.’

‘Well, I’ll just have to keep a closer eye on my estate manager in future,’ he said. ‘It seems my request to dispose of the holiday cottages was handled with more rigour than I had bargained for.’

‘I’m sure that’s the way business is usually conducted,’ Kate said wryly. ‘I know I won’t brook any time-wasting once I set my sights on achieving a certain goal.’

‘But this isn’t business,’ Guy pointed out as he cut a slab of creamy Brie and pressed it into the soft heart of the fresh bread for her. ‘It’s you.’

His eyes were dancing with laughter. At her? With her? Kate had no idea as she took the bread from him and sucked her thumb appreciatively. ‘This is delicious.’

‘I couldn’t agree more,’ Guy murmured as he poured them both a glass of chilled white wine.

After the picnic Guy insisted on staying on until he had removed every single board from her windows. And he promised that his workmen would bring tubs of plastic wood with them to repair any holes made by the nails. Then the decorators would arrive.

Waving him off, Kate decided that the cottage would be back to normal in no time. Except that it never would be completely back to normal, she thought wistfully, taking the wicker trug laden with flowers they had collected inside with her. Her intention was to keep everything just as it had been during Aunt Alice’s lifetime. A memorial? No, a tribute, she corrected herself as she dropped the bunch of garden blooms into a vase of water. And when Guy found out what she really planned to do with La Petite Maison? She would have found the opportunity to explain her plans to him long before that became a problem, she told herself confidently.

CHAPTER THREE

IT WAS deep in the still and secret part of the night when time had no meaning that Kate woke up coughing. Reaching out still half-asleep for the switch on the lamp by her bed, she suddenly realised that her eyes were stinging too. Squinting her eyes as she peered at the clock she became slowly conscious of the sharp, throat-catching tang of fire. She could taste it, smell it…and, as if drawn by an invisible hand to contemplate the dawning horror, she could see it too as her eyes fixed on the bottom of the heavy oak door where the first few puffs were billowing innocently through a tiny gap at the base.

Instantly alert, she sprang out of bed and raced to grab her robe. Returning to the door, she felt down the length of it with the flat of her hand. It was still cool and formed a sturdy barrier between her and whatever lay beyond. She stiffened, listening intently as she tried to gauge the extent of the fire. Her face tensed with concern. She could hear the crackling of the flames quite clearly. But she had been so careful…

Obviously not careful enough, she thought, remembering the candles she had lit on the kitchen table. Recreating the scene in her mind, she pictured the photograph albums next to the candles. She had meant to move them before going to bed. But she had stayed up too long worrying about Guy, her mixed-up feelings, the state of the cottage and whether she could possibly get it ready in time for her first guests. A sharp sound of distress escaped from her throat as she realised that would never happen now. And if by some miracle it did? Guy would never forgive her either way. She had lied to him. And she had planned to coax Guy’s elderly mother out of isolation too, bring her to the cottage… Was this like drowning, she wondered, having your whole life flash before your eyes?

Kate forced her attention back to the door. One thing was for sure; she had wasted enough time. Opening the door a crack, she stared into the smoke-filled gloom. The stairs were still clear and probably safe. Glancing behind her into the bedroom, she took the chance to go back and snatch up a couple of things.

On the glass-covered surface of the bow-fronted dressing table sat a silver frame containing a photograph of Aunt Alice, and to either side of Aunt Alice like two disapproving sentinels stood Kate’s mother and father. Clutching the frame in one hand, she snatched up a silver locket. The locket contained a photograph of herself as a young child staring defiantly into the camera. Kate felt a sudden pang to see that at nine years old there had already been something pinched and anxious behind her bravado. Snub-nosed and freckled and with a halo of red-gold curls in such disarray it proved that the photograph could only have been taken in France. And on the facing side, in perfect counterbalance to the reckless young hoyden she had once been, Aunt Alice appeared, apple-cheeked and twinkling. The locket had no real value except that it expressed everything about her young life and the influence Aunt Alice had wielded upon it…and that made it one of her most treasured possessions. She never went anywhere without it, for in spite of the angst behind the tomboy façade, those two photographs represented everything that had been good and happy and carefree about her childhood once her parents had agreed that she could be released into Aunt Alice’s care each summer.

The smoke was growing dangerously thick and Kate knew she would have to find some clean air or fall where she stood.

This time when she opened the door the heat scorched her face, forcing her to draw back in alarm. Snatching another glance, she saw the fire licking up the sides of the wooden staircase, creating a surreal vista of shadows and flame and smoke and ash. Gathering her courage around her like an invisible blanket, she burst out of the door and with gravity as her only guide she launched herself down the stairs. Her eyes were stinging so badly they filled with tears, blinding her as the thick black smoke curled its deadly tentacles around her chest.

Stumbling across the kitchen she found the back door, but fear made her clumsy as she struggled to pull back the locks. Gasping, coughing and sobbing all at once, only sheer bloody-mindedness kept her going. As the locks yielded she fell into the night and half-crawling scrambled along the path until she could no longer feel the heat of the fire. But as her mind slowly cleared she realised that somehow during her flight the precious locket had fallen from her hand. Her cry of despair sounded eerie in the darkness. But when she turned her agonised gaze on the cottage she saw that smoke was already billowing from the roof and glowing cinders were issuing in burnished clouds through the kitchen window like some unseasonable firework display.