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www.millsandboon.co.uk
Former journalist SARA CRAVEN published her first novel ‘Garden of Dreams’ for Mills & Boon in 1975. Apart from her writing (naturally!) her passions include reading, bridge, Italian cities, Greek islands, the French language and countryside, and her rescue Jack Russell/cross Button. She has appeared on several TV quiz shows and in 1997 became UK TV Mastermind champion. She lives near her family in Warwickshire – Shakespeare country.
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
About the Author
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
Endpage
Copyright
PROLOGUE
IT WAS always the same dream. A long, deserted beach, stretching out into infinity. Straight, firm sand under her bare feet. No twists, no turns. No rocks or other place of concealment anywhere. Near at hand, the hiss and whisper of the sea’s rising tide.
And suddenly, behind her, the steady drumming of a horse’s hooves, pursuing her. Drawing closer all the time, relentless—inescapable. Preparing to ride her down …
Not daring to look over her shoulder, she began to run, going faster and faster, yet knowing as she did so that there was no escape. That her pursuer would follow her always.
She awoke gasping, sitting bolt upright in the big bed as she stared into the darkness, dry-mouthed, her heart pounding to the point of suffocation and her thin nightdress sticking to her sweat-dampened body.
And then she heard it—the low growl of thunder almost overhead, and the slam of rain against her window. No tidal race or galloping hoof-beats, she recognised shakily. Just a storm in the night—the inevitable climax of the mini-heatwave of the past few days.
She sagged back against the mound of pillows, suppressing a sob.
A dream, she told herself. Triggered by the weather. Nothing more. Only a dream. And one day—one night soon—it would let her go. He would let her go. And she would know some peace at last. Surely …
CHAPTER ONE
AS ALLIE came down the broad curving staircase, she paused for a moment to look at the view from the big casement window on the half-landing.
There was nothing new to see. Just the grounds of Marchington Hall in all their formal splendour, unfolding over immaculately kept lawns down to the gleam of the lake in the distance. To her right, she could just glimpse the mellow brick walls of the Fountain Court, while to the left dark green cypresses sheltered the Italian Garden.
But on a day like this, when the air seemed to sparkle after the rain in the night, the vista made her heart lift. It even made her feel that being forced to deal with all the petty restrictions and irritations of life at the Hall might be worth it, after all.
Worth it for Tom’s sake anyway, she thought. I have to believe that. I must. Because there is nothing else …
Her throat tightened suddenly, uncontrollably, and she made to turn away. As she did so, she caught sight of her own reflection, and paused again. She looked like a ghost, she thought soberly. A pale, hollow-eyed, fair-haired phantom, without life or substance. And as tense as if she was stretched on wire.
Part of that, of course, was down to last night’s storm. Part, but not all.
Because it also had to do with the ongoing battle over the upbringing of her fourteen-month-old son, which, in spite of her best efforts, seemed to be turning into a war of attrition.
She’d just been to visit him in his nursery, to make sure that he hadn’t been woken by the thunder, but had been faced by the usual confrontation with Nanny, looking disapproving over this disruption to Tom’s routine.
‘He’s having his breakfast, Lady Marchington.’
‘I’m aware of that,’ Allie had returned, counting to ten under her breath. ‘In fact, I’d like to help feed him. I’ve said so many times.’
‘We prefer to have as few distractions at mealtimes as possible,’ Nanny returned with regal finality.
And if I had the guts of a worm, Allie thought grimly, I’d stand up to the boot-faced old bag.
But behind Nanny’s portly and commanding frame, she knew, stood the outwardly frail figure of Grace, the Dowager Lady Marchington, her mother-in-law, known irreverently in the village as the Tungsten Tartar.
Any overt clash with Nanny led straight to ‘an atmosphere’ in the nursery, and also resulted in Allie becoming the target of the elder Lady Marchington’s icy displeasure. An experience to be avoided.
Anything for a quiet life, she’d told herself as she’d left the nursery, closing the door behind her. And, my God, was this ever a quiet life.
She supposed that for Tom’s sake she wouldn’t have it any other way. He was Hugo’s heir, she reminded herself stonily, so she should have known what to expect.
Besides, on the surface at least, the Hall had all the necessary elements to supply him with an idyllic childhood.
But I’d just like to be able to enjoy it with him, she thought rebelliously. Without Nanny standing guard as if I was a potential kidnapper instead of his mother.
He said his first word to her, not me. And it wasn’t Mama either, which hurt. And I missed the moment he took his first step, too. It’s as if I don’t feature in the scheme of things at all. I gave him birth, and now I’m being sidelined. It’s a ludicrous situation to be in.
Most of her friends were young marrieds, struggling to cope with child-rearing alongside the demands of their careers. They must think that, apart from the tragedy of being widowed at twenty-one, she’d pretty much fallen on her feet.
After all, she had a large house to live in, a staff to run it, and no money or childcare problems.
Besides, some of them clearly thought that the premature end of her marriage was a blessing in disguise too, although they never said so openly.
And if they did, Allie thought, sighing, could I really deny it?
She walked slowly across the hall and, drawing a deep breath, entered the dining room. Grace Marchington was seated at the head of the table—although ‘enthroned’ might be a better description, Allie thought as she fielded the disparaging glance aimed at her denim skirt and white cheesecloth blouse, closely followed, as usual, by the glance at the watch—just pointed enough to be noticeable.
‘Good morning, Alice. Did you sleep well?’ She didn’t wait for an answer, but picked up the small brass bell beside her place and rang it sharply. ‘I’ll ask Mrs Windom to bring some fresh toast.’
Allie took her seat and poured herself some coffee. ‘I’m sorry if I’m late. I popped in to see Tom on my way down.’
‘Not a terribly convenient time, my dear, as I think Nanny has mentioned to you.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Allie said. ‘She has.’ She fortified herself with some coffee. ‘So, perhaps she could suggest when it would be more appropriate for me to visit my own son. Because somehow I always seem to get it wrong.’
Lady Marchington replaced her cup in its saucer in a measured way. ‘I’m not sure I understand you, Alice.’
Allie took a breath. ‘I’d like to see Tom first thing in the morning without it being regarded as an unreasonable request. In fact, I’d love to be there when he wakes up, so that I can sort out his clothes and bath him, and then give him his breakfast. That’s surely not too much to ask.’
‘Are you implying that Nanny is incapable in some way of supplying Tom’s needs? May I remind you that she was entrusted with the care of Hugo as soon as he was born.’
‘I do realise that, yes,’ Allie said wearily. I’ve never been allowed to forget it.
‘And I’m sure you also recall that there was a time, after Tom’s birth, when Nanny’s presence became indispensable?’
The dagger between the ribs …
‘Yes, I had postnatal depression for a while.’ Allie kept her tone even. ‘But I got over it.’
‘Did you, my dear? Sometimes I wonder.’ Her mother-in-law gave her a sad smile. ‘Of course, you are still grieving for our beloved boy, which may account for the mood swings I sometimes detect. But I’m sure Dr Lennard would be happy to recommend someone—a specialist who could help you over this difficult period in your life.’
Allie’s lips tightened. ‘You think that wanting to look after my small child means I need a psychiatrist?’
Lady Marchington looked almost shocked. ‘There are many different levels of therapy, Alice. And it was only a suggestion, after all.’
As if signifying that the matter was closed, she turned her attention to the pile of post which had been placed beside her, as it was every morning. And, as she did so, Allie suddenly spotted the pale blue envelope with the French stamp, halfway down, and stifled a small gasp.
A letter from Tante Madelon, she thought, and felt the hair stand up on the back of her neck. Was that the real reason for last night’s dream, and not the storm at all? Why she’d heard all over again the sibilant rush of the incoming tide and the thunder of the pursuing hoofbeats? Because somehow she’d sensed that all the memories of Brittany she’d tried so hard to bury were about to be revived?
Her heart was thumping against her ribs, but she knew there was no point in claiming the letter. That wasn’t the way the system worked. All the mail delivered to the Hall came to Grace first, to be scrutinised before it was handed out to staff and family alike.
And if she thought you were taking an undue interest in any item, she was quite capable of taking the day’s post to her private sitting room and letting you seethe quietly for half a day, or even twenty-four hours, before handing it over with the mellifluous words, ‘I think this must be for you.’
‘It’s madness,’ Allie had once told Hugo heatedly. ‘Your mother is the ultimate control freak. Why don’t you say something?’
But he’d only looked at her, brows raised in haughty surprise. ‘Mother’s always dealt with the mail. My father preferred it, and I don’t see it as a problem.’
But then Hugo had seen very little as a problem, apart from the utter necessity of providing a son and heir for his beloved estate. That, in the end, had been the driving force—the obsession in his ruined life. Two ruined lives, if she counted her own, and she tried hard not to do that. Bitterness, after all, was futile, and damaged no one but herself. Regret, too, altered nothing.
But was she still mourning her late husband, as her mother-in-law had suggested? In her innermost heart, she doubted that. The suddenness of his death had certainly been an acute shock, but she suspected her reaction was largely triggered by guilt because she’d never really loved him.
For a long time she’d felt numb—too emotionally paralysed even to feel relief that the nightmare of their marriage had ended—but that had been over and done with long ago.
Slowly and carefully, she’d begun to find herself again, and somehow she had to move on from that—to regain the here and now, and stop allowing Grace to treat her as some kind of cipher—even if it did end with blood on the carpet.
How to go about it, of course, was not so clear, she told herself ironically. Because her mother-in-law seemed to hold all the winning cards.
In those tragic crowded weeks after Hugo had died with such shocking suddenness and Tom had been born, Allie herself had temporarily descended into some bleak, dark limbo.
It was then that Grace Marchington had effortlessly reassumed the role of mistress of the house. In fact, Allie could see, looking back, that she’d never really been away.
I was just the temporary usurper who gave Hugo the son he’d craved, she thought. And after that I was supposed to retire into well-deserved obscurity, while Grace and Nanny pursued the task of turning Tom into a tintype of Marchington Man.
But that’s not going to happen, because I won’t let it.
She realised, however, that she needed to conserve her energies for the battles she had to win—and Grace being anally retentive over a bunch of letters was not the most important. A minor irritation at best.
So, for the time being, she sat and ate the toast that Mrs Windom had brought, and never gave a second glance at the mail that Grace was examining with such torturous slowness. It might only be a small victory, but it counted.
She looked instead at the picture on the wall in front of her. It was a portrait of Hugo that his mother had commissioned for his twenty-fifth birthday, two years before the accident. Lady Marchington had not been altogether satisfied with the result, saying it was a poor likeness. But Allie wasn’t so sure about that. The artist had given Hugo credit for his undoubted good looks, but also hinted at a slight fleshiness about the jaw, and a peevish line to the mouth. Nor had he made any attempt to conceal that the crisply cut dark hair was already beginning to recede.
It was Hugo, she thought, as he would have become if his life had taken a different path. If there’d been more time …
And suddenly superimposed on it, she realised, her heart bumping, was another face—thinner, swarthier, with a beak of a nose and heavy-lidded eyes, as blue and cold as the sea. And a voice in her head whispered a name that she’d tried hard to forget—Remy …
‘This seems to be yours, Alice.’
She started violently as she realised that LadyMarchington, lips faintly pursed, was holding out the blue envelope.
‘I presume it’s from your French great-aunt,’ the older woman added. ‘I hope it isn’t bad news.’
‘I hope so too,’ Allie said lightly, ignoring the hint that she should open it instantly and divulge the contents. ‘But at least she’s alive.’
She heard the hiss of indrawn breath, and braced herself for a chilling rebuke over inappropriate levity, but instead the dining room door opened to admit the housekeeper.
‘Excuse me, your ladyship, but Mrs Farlow is asking to speak to you on the telephone. A problem with the Garden Club accounts.’
‘I’ll come.’ Lady Marchington rose with an expression on her face that boded ill for the unfortunate Club treasurer. And for Allie, too, if she was still around when her mother-in-law returned.
As soon as she was alone, Allie went quickly across to the French windows and let herself out on to the terrace. A few minutes later she was pushing open the wrought-iron gate into the Fountain Court. It was one of her favourite places, with its gravelled paths, the raised beds planted with roses, just coming into flower, and the tall, cascading centre-piece of ferocious tritons and swooning nymphs from which it took its name.
It was an odd thing to find at an English country house, she had to admit, but it had been designed and installed by a much earlier Sir Hugo, who’d fallen in love with Italy while on the Grand Tour, and had wanted a permanent memento of his travels.
Allie loved the fountain for its sheer exuberance, and for the cool, soothing splash of its water which made even the hottest day seem restful. She sat on one of the stone benches and opened Tante’s letter. She read it through swiftly, then, frowning, went back to the beginning, absorbing its contents with greater care.
It was not, in fact, good news. The writing was wavery, and not always easy to decipher, but the gist of it was that all was far from well with her great-aunt.
It seems that this will be my last summer at Les Sables d’Ignac. However, I have had a good life here, and I regret only that so long has passed since we were together. You remind me so much of my beloved sister, and it would make me truly happy to see you again, my dearest child. I hope with all my heart that you can spare me a little time from your busy life to visit me. Please, my dear Alys, come to me, and bring your little boy with you also. As he is the last of the Vaillac blood, I so long to see him.
My God, Allie thought, appalled. What on earth could be wrong with her? Tante Madelon had always given the impression that she was in the most robust of health. But then she hadn’t seen her for almost two years—and that was indeed a long time.
She realised, of course, that her great-aunt must be in her late seventies, although her looks and vigour had always belied her age. In fact, to Allie she’d always seemed immortal, only the silvering of her hair marking the inevitable passage of time.
Soberly, she thought of Tante as she’d seen her last. The older woman’s pointed face had been drawn and anxious, but the dark, vivid eyes had still been full of life. Full of love for this girl, her only living relative.
‘Don’t go back, ma chérie,’ she’d urged. ‘There is nothing for you there. Stay here with me …’ Her voice had died away, leaving other things unsaid.
And Allie had replied, stumbling over the words, her head reeling, her emotions in shreds, ‘I—can’t.’
Now, she took a deep breath to calm herself, then slowly re-read the postscript at the end, the words running down the page as if the writer had been almost too weary to hold the pen.
Alys, I promise there is nothing that should keep you away, and that you have no reason to fear such a visit.
In plain words, Tante was offering her assurance—the essential guarantee that she thought Allie would want. Telling her, in effect, that Remy de Brizat would not be there. That he was still working abroad with his medical charity.
Only it wasn’t as simple as that. It wasn’t enough. He might not be physically present, but Allie knew that her memory—her senses—would find him everywhere.
That she’d see him waiting on the shore, or find his face carved into one of the tall stone megaliths that dotted the headland. That she’d feel him in every grain of sand or blade of grass. That she’d hear his laughter on the wind, and his voice in the murmur of the sea.
And, in the fury of the storm, she would relive the anger and bitterness of their parting, she thought, as she’d done last night. And she shivered in spite of the warmth of the morning.
Besides, she had too many memories already.
Her breathing quickened suddenly to pain. Words danced off the page at her. Please, my dear Alys, come to me …
She closed her eyes to block them out, and heard herself repeat aloud—‘I can’t.’
Then she crushed the letter in her hand, and pushed it into the pocket of her skirt.
She got to her feet and began to wander restlessly down the gravelled walk, forcing herself to think about other things—other people. To build a wall against those other memories.
Turning her thoughts determinedly to the Vaillac sisters, Celine and Madelon. During the Second World War, their family had sheltered her grandfather, Guy Colville, an airman forced to bail out on his way home. He’d broken his leg during his parachute descent, but had managed to crawl to a nearby barn, where Celine Vaillac had found him.
The Vaillacs had nursed him back to health, and risked their lives to keep him hidden and fed, eventually enabling him to be smuggled north to the Channel coast and back to England in a fishing boat. It was part of family folklore, and a story she’d never tired of hearing when she was a child.
She thought how romantic it was that Guy had never forgotten the pretty, shyly smiling Celine, and how, as soon as the war ended, he’d returned to their rambling farmhouse with his younger brother Rupert, to make sure that she and her family had all survived relatively unscathed, and discover whether Celine shared similar memories of their time together.
That first visit had been followed by others, and, to Guy’s surprise, Rupert had insisted on going with him each time. When eventually Guy had proposed to Celine, and been accepted, his brother had confessed that he too had fallen in love with her younger sister, Madelon, a vivacious imp of a girl, and suggested a double wedding.
It was a real fairy-tale, Allie thought wistfully, but the happy ending had been short-lived—for her grandparents at least. Celine had always been the fairer of the two, and the quieter. A girl slender as a lily and ultimately as delicate. Because what should have been the straightforward birth of her first child had developed unexpected and severe complications which, tragically, she had not survived.
Guy had been totally devastated, firstly by the loss of his adored wife, and by having to learn to cope with a newborn motherless son. He had naturally turned to Rupert and Madelon, who’d provided him with the deep, steadfast support he needed, in spite of their own grief. Ironically, they themselves had remained childless, pouring their affection and care into the upbringing of their nephew, forming unbroken ties into Paul Colville’s adult life.
So, Tante had been an important part of Allie’s background from the moment she was born. It had only been when both Guy and her husband had died that she’d finally decided to return to Brittany, renting a house in Quimper for a while. Allie and her father Paul had visited her there on several occasions, although her mother had never accompanied them, making the excuse that she was a poor sailor, who found the ferry crossing a nightmare.
Looking back, Allie always suspected that Fay Colville had resented her husband’s deep affection for his French aunt, and that it had been jealousy rather than mal de mer that kept her in England. She’d also openly disliked the fact that Allie had been christened Alys, rather than the Anglicised Alice that she herself always used.
Fay had become a widow herself by the time Tante had found herself a cottage by the sea in place of the family farm, which had been sold long ago, and was now a complex of gîtes. Even then, she had rejected each and every offer of hospitality from Madelon Colville, but she’d objected almost hysterically when Allie had suggested she should visit her great-aunt by herself.
‘Are you mad?’ she’d stormed. ‘What will Hugo think?’
Allie lifted her chin. ‘Does that matter?’
‘Oh, don’t talk like a fool.’ Fay glared at her. ‘You don’t seem to have a clue how to keep a young man interested.’
‘Perhaps because I suspect it’s only a passing interest,’ Allie told her coolly.
‘Nonsense. He’s taken you down to the Hall, hasn’t he? Introduced you to his mother?’
‘Yes,’ Allie agreed reluctantly.
‘Well, the invitation must be a sign that she approves of Hugo’s choice.’
‘And what about my own views on Hugo’s choice? Supposing I don’t approve?’
‘That,’ her mother said sharply, ‘is not funny.’
But I, thought Allie, wasn’t joking.
Her attitude to Hugo Marchington had always been ambivalent. At first she’d been convinced she was falling in love, carried away by the sheer glamour of him. She’d frankly enjoyed dining in top restaurants, being whisked off to polo matches, race meetings, regattas, and all the other leading events in the social calendar.
But, as weeks had become months, she’d realised that she simply did not know her own mind. And if he was indeed planning to ask her to become engaged to him, as she’d suspected, she had no real idea of what answer to give him. Which, by then, she should have done.
Naturally, she’d been flattered. Who wouldn’t have been? In previous eras Hugo would have been considered the catch of the county, because he was rich, handsome, and he could be charming.