Sara Craven - Solitaire

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 …’

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