Mills & Boon is proud to present a fabulous collection of fantastic novels by bestselling, much loved author

ANNE MATHER

Anne has a stellar record of achievement within the

publishing industry, having written over one hundred

and sixty books, with worldwide sales of more than

forty-eight MILLION copies in multiple languages.

This amazing collection of classic stories offers a chance

for readers to recapture the pleasure Anne’s powerful,

passionate writing has given.

We are sure you will love them all!

I’ve always wanted to write—which is not to say I’ve always wanted to be a professional writer. On the contrary, for years I only wrote for my own pleasure and it wasn’t until my husband suggested sending one of my stories to a publisher that we put several publishers’ names into a hat and pulled one out. The rest, as they say, is history. And now, one hundred and sixty-two books later, I’m literally—excuse the pun—staggered by what’s happened.

I had written all through my infant and junior years and on into my teens, the stories changing from children’s adventures to torrid gypsy passions. My mother used to gather these manuscripts up from time to time, when my bedroom became too untidy, and dispose of them! In those days, I used not to finish any of the stories and Caroline, my first published novel, was the first I’d ever completed. I was newly married then and my daughter was just a baby, and it was quite a job juggling my household chores and scribbling away in exercise books every chance I got. Not very professional, as you can imagine, but that’s the way it was.

These days, I have a bit more time to devote to my work, but that first love of writing has never changed. I can’t imagine not having a current book on the typewriter—yes, it’s my husband who transcribes everything on to the computer. He’s my partner in both life and work and I depend on his good sense more than I care to admit.

We have two grown-up children, a son and a daughter, and two almost grown-up grandchildren, Abi and Ben. My e-mail address is mystic-am@msn.com and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.

Come the Vintage
Anne Mather

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

A FINE grey drizzle filtered down through the bare branches of the trees and dampened the shoulders of the few mourners gathered about the open grave. It was a fitting day for a funeral. Since early morning, clouds had hung low over the valley, and a chill wind brought the breath of snow from the Jurals not far away. The cemetery was erected on the hillside, above the village, and the weathered gravestones of its occupants were streaked with rain and sodden leaves. Autumn had come late to the valley, but it was here now, and Ryan shivered in spite of her warm coat and trousers.

She had her arms wrapped closely about her as if to ward off the chill which came as much from within as without. Despite the solemnity of the occasion, the brass-handled coffin lying in its six feet of earth, the sombrely clad group around her, she found it all very hard to believe. Was it possible that in the space of four short weeks her whole life could change so dramatically that she no longer recognized it as being her life?

Four weeks ago when Aunt Maggie died, her grief had been tempered by the letter her aunt had left. The letter, which had given her her father’s address and begged her to go and see him. Since Ryan’s mother had died five years before, Aunt Maggie had talked often about her father, softening the bitterness she had always felt towards him on her mother’s behalf. Aunt Maggie had tried to make her see that Pierre Ferrier had not been wholly to blame for the break-up of her parents’ marriage, there had been faults on both sides; most particularly her mother’s refusal to return with him to France.

Ryan had thought for a long time before contacting her father. It was ten years since she had seen him, and then she had been a mere child of some nine years, totally incapable of judging what manner of man he might be. But the realization that with the death of her aunt she was alone in the world had persuaded her to send him a letter advising him of her aunt’s death. His reply had been reassuringly swift, in the form of an invitation, urging her to give up her job as an assistant librarian in a small south coast town, and join him at Bellaise in the valley of a tributary of the River Rhone. The Ferrier vineyards were there, her father’s inheritance, and he wished for her to share his life.

In the days that followed Ryan had pondered his suggestion. Although her father was French, she was not, and although she spoke the language she had been taught at school, not by experience. It was a big step, expecting her to give up everything she had known and cared about and leave England to make her life in a strange country.

She had discussed the matter at length with her aunt’s solicitor, and it was this which had finally decided her to go. Her aunt’s house was rented, she was told, and the owners required possession as soon as possible. What little money her aunt had left would barely pay the funeral expenses, and her own earnings would scarcely enable her to rent a flat in these inflationary days. If she remained in England, she would need to find a room in a boarding house, and that prospect had filled her with dismay.

The priest’s voice was droning on and Ryan felt a certain dryness in her throat. Could anyone have foreseen that fate would play such cruel games with her? If she had known her father would die of a heart attack within four days of her arrival in France, would she then have come? Would she have risked so much for four short days?

She did not know. Meeting her father again after all the years had been a bitter-sweet experience. He had seemed so much older than she had expected, thin and grey-cheeked, nothing like the dark-haired man she could vaguely remember. But of course, she had been unaware of his illness …

His delight in seeing her had dispelled a little of the grief she had felt at the death of her aunt. Although there were things between them which could never be erased, they had both felt an immediate affinity which time and experience would have strengthened. It was eight years since her mother had divorced her French husband, but he had not married again. Ryan was his only offspring. But she had had no idea of his intentions …

She raised her eyes now and looked across the yawning chasm of the grave to the man standing alone at the opposite side. Alain de Beaunes – her father’s partner, though she had been unaware he had a partner until she met the man.

As his curious tawny eyes lifted to meet hers, she quickly looked away. There were things which had been said between them that morning which she did not want to have to remember until she was forced to do so. Even so, that did not prevent her from shivering at the recollection of the scene which had taken place.

The priest was sprinkling soil down on to the coffin. It echoed hollowly as it fell on the hard surface, and Ryan wondered morbidly how long it would take to rot in this damp ground. Not long. She took an involuntary step backward. For a moment she felt dizzy, probably because she had had nothing to eat since morning, and she had a horror of pitching forward into the grave.

The short service appeared to be over. The priest had moved from his position and was now talking in undertones to Alain de Beaunes. Ryan couldn’t help looking at them wondering what they were discussing so earnestly. Was it to do with her? Her gaze flickered over the surplice-clad figure of Abbé Maurice. Thin and slight, the frailty of his appearance was accentuated by the tall powerful frame of the man standing beside him, his head stooped to listen to what the priest was saying. Alain de Beaunes was a big man. He in no way resembled the man who had been his partner, Ryan’s father. Ryan had felt an aversion to him on sight, due no doubt to the bluntness of his manner, the lack of common politeness in his treatment of her. Looking at him now, noting the strong, Slavic features, the thick neck and square powerful shoulders, the long, muscular legs moulded against his trousers by the pressure of the wind, she felt totally incapable of facing what was to come. She didn’t know why he intimidated her so, but he did, and she turned her attention to his shabby overcoat and carelessly blown hair in an attempt to disparage her fears. He was not a handsome man, nor yet a particularly young one. She guessed him to be in his early forties, and although some women might find his harshly carved features and heavy-lidded eyes attractive, she was repelled by him. His hair had a generous sprinkling of grey, she noticed with satisfaction, but as it had once been very fair it had now acquired the ash-blond appearance much sought after by women in expensive hair salons. Nevertheless, she regarded him as a peasant, and found no pleasure in his company. She had resented her father’s obvious dependence on him, the way he had deferred to the younger man in all things, and now that her father was dead she resented his authority over her.

But what authority was it? She scuffed her boot impatiently against the stony earth. None that she could actually lay her finger on, and yet he controlled her future as surely as if her father had left her in his care. Why had her father done such a thing? Why had he made the situation so impossible? Was it a final gesture against his dead wife? She didn’t know. All she knew was that she was in the most ignominious position of her life.

Abbé Maurice was approaching her now, shaking his grey head at the leaden skies. ‘The day is weeping, Ryan,’ he said in his own language. ‘Come – let us get back to the warmth of our firesides.’

Ryan forced a smile and allowed him to take her arm and lead her away from the graveside. She was conscious of Alain de Beaunes following them, and behind him the few villagers who had turned out to see her father laid to rest. A dusty black station wagon waited on the gravelled track which wound through the cemetery, and as they neared it Alain de Beaunes went ahead to open the doors. His shabby overcoat flapped in the wind and his dark suit had seen better days, and yet he had an arrogance which defied anyone to underestimate him.

Avoiding his eyes, Ryan climbed into the back of the station wagon. Abbé Maurice sat in the front and de Beaunes took his place behind the wheel. The black-clad villagers would make their own way to their homes and Ryan looked back only once as the vehicle bumped away down the track. Already the grave-digger was filling in the space above the coffin and she turned back quickly, her throat tightening in the way it had done so many times these last days.

The Abbé and de Beaunes were talking together and she tried to interpret what they were saying. But they spoke swiftly and in undertones and she gave up after a while and allowed her own thoughts to fill her head.

What was she going to do? Her whole being shrank away from the future her father had mapped out for her, and yet she was honest enough to know that it had to be considered in all its aspects. That was the French half of her, she supposed, the practical working of a French mind which far from being governed by emotion as was sometimes supposed could take a situation and analyse it objectively, realistically.

They were coming down the valley and she stared broodingly out of the windows. It looked a barren place, a remote area where the people depended so much upon one another for their livelihood. The broad flatness at the base of the terraces where the vines grew was threaded by the swift flowing waters of the Bajou, and tall poplars lined the river bank. The village with its grey-spired church and slate-grey roofs had only one narrow street, cobbled, and uninspiring in the rain. There were cottages lining the street, a stores, a garage, and the school, and beyond the village the road wound up again towards the weathered walls of her father’s house, a rambling old building whose stone-flagged floors struck chill against bare feet. And yet it was an attractive house, a house with character, and when her father was alive, filled with warmth, too. But to consider returning there alone with the thin-lipped stranger who occupied the seat beside the Abbé filled her with dismay.

Alain de Beaunes stopped the station wagon at the small gate to the priest’s house, and the Abbé turned to speak to her.

‘Do not look so alarmed, my child,’ he said gently. ‘God works in curious ways. I will come and see you tomorrow when you have had a little time to assuage your grief. Be thankful you had these days with your father. He might have died without ever knowing what a beautiful young woman you have grown into.’

‘Thank you.’ Ryan managed a lifting of the corners of her mouth, but it was difficult. Her face felt stiff, the muscles taut, unyielding.

‘God go with you, my child, and with you, Alain.’ The Abbé made the sign of the cross and climbed out of the vehicle. The station wagon was put into motion again and the priest soon became a shadowy figure disappearing into the gloom of the afternoon.

Ryan pressed her shoulders back against the leather of the seat. She was trying hard not to give in to the shivering which trickled up and down her spine. Somehow she had to gather her strength to face what was to come and remember that her destiny was in her own hands. But she felt more alone now than she had done at the time of her aunt’s death.

Dusk was gathering as the station wagon turned between the wooden gateposts which gave on to the cobbled yard at the back of the house. The hens which scratched a living amongst the grains of animal foodstuffs scattered near the barn had long since sought the warmth and dryness of their coops, and the sound of the rain dripping from overflowing pipes added to the melancholy air of the place. No lights gleamed from the windows of the house, there was no smell of cooking to tantalize the nostrils, it looked desolate; as desolate, Ryan thought, as she felt.

Alain de Beaunes parked the station wagon beneath the bare branches of an elm tree where in summer one could sit on the circular wooden bench which surrounded it. Ryan wondered how often her father had sat beneath this tree, smoking his pipe, and perhaps wondering about his estranged wife and daughter in England. No one would want to sit on the bench now. It was too wet, and cold, and the wind blowing down from the high mountains could pierce the most adequate clothing.

Alain de Beaunes thrust open his door and climbed out without a word, swinging open the rear door as he did so. Then he left her to walk towards the back of the house, pushing open the kitchen door and disappearing inside.

Ryan sat for a few more minutes, mutinously, delaying the moment when she must get out of the car and follow him. She saw a light appear in the kitchen window and by its harsh illumination she saw him filling a kettle with water, setting it on the stove. She took a deep breath and knew that at any moment he would appear at the door again and demand her presence. She pushed her legs over the valance and slid out, closing the door behind her.

The kitchen was large, the room where most of the eating, as well as the cooking, was done. Its ceiling was beamed and hanging from it were the inevitable strings of onions. The fireplace was wide and leaded, but its adjoining oven had been superseded by a comparatively modern gas cooker. At the moment the fire was smouldering sulkily, but Alain de Beaunes was adding fresh wood which, when it caught hold, would flare up encouragingly. A scrubbed wooden table was still set with the bread and ham which her unwilling host had supplied in lieu of lunch before leaving, but Ryan had been unable to eat a thing. The lighting in the building was electric, a modern innovation supplied by their own small generator.

Now Alain de Beaunes turned from the fire and saw her hovering in the doorway. His dark brows ascended interrogatively and then he said: ‘Don’t you think it’s time we started talking to one another?’

He spoke in French, but Ryan chose to reply in English. She knew his English was not good, and the chances were that he would not understand her. ‘After our confrontation this morning, I should have thought it was obvious that our differences outweigh all other considerations.’

His lips tightened at the deliberately chosen words, and for a moment she was afraid of what he might do. He came towards her, but when she backed away he ignored her and merely closed the kitchen door, sealing them in the gathering tension of the kitchen. Then he took off his overcoat and jacket and slung them carelessly over a chair before rolling up his sleeves. His arms were strong and muscular, darkened to a deep tan by the heat of the sun, his collar when he loosened it revealed a broad chest liberally covered with fine brown hair. This was how she had first seen him, coming in from the fields, apparently unaware of his latent sensuality. Perhaps it was this that had repelled her so, this knowledge of that earthy quality about him, the hair on his body, the thick straight hair of his head which brushed the collar of his shirt, his flesh which aroused a feeling almost of distaste within her. She was not used to men in such a raw state. She had been brought up in a house of women, and the young men she had encountered in the course of her work as a librarian had not prepared her for anyone like Alain de Beaunes.

She looked away from him and approached the fire, holding out her cold hands to the blaze. There were wooden settles beside the fire and she perched on one of these, holding herself closely. When she had first come here, a little over a week ago, she had experienced a sense almost of homecoming. The house, which had reminded her a lot of farmhouses in England, the open fires instead of central heating, the smell of home-baked bread which Berthe, her father’s housekeeper, had baked in the oven adjoining the fireplace; all these things had warmed and cheered her. But now her father was dead, and she had no idea whether Berthe would return. She had gone to her family two days ago, and Ryan had not liked to question her. Besides, it wouldn’t matter to her, she would soon be leaving herself …

The kettle began to sing and she heard Alain de Beaunes setting out cups and a jug of cream. He made tea, a habit her father had acquired during his years in England, and when it was ready he handed her a cup.

‘Thank you.’ She took the tea reluctantly, and he stood looking down at her with obvious impatience.

‘What are you going to do?’ he demanded at last.

Deciding there was no point in antagonizing him further, Ryan looked up and said, in his own language: ‘You know what I am going to do, monsieur.’

‘Do I?’ His curious tawny eyes were cold.

‘I explained this morning. I – I have no intention of staying here.’

‘Why not?’

‘Why not?’ She almost choked over the words. ‘Monsieur, my father may have been a Frenchman, and I must accept that things are done differently in his country, but I am English! I have no intention of – of satisfying some – some crazy notion my father dreamed up!’

‘Why is it crazy? I would suggest it is a most sensible solution to your problems.’

Ryan unfastened her coat. Suddenly she was hot. ‘Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I disagree.’

Alain de Beaunes seated himself on the settle opposite, legs apart, hands hanging loosely between. For such a big man he moved sinuously, and she tried to avoid the temptation to watch him.

‘Ryan,’ the way he said her name was curiously alien in intonation. ‘Ryan – what do you intend to do if you go back to England? You have no job, I know you have no money—’

‘Oh, yes, I know you know that!’

His eyes darkened with quickly suppressed anger. ‘I do not deny that I found your sudden dependence on a father you had not seen for more than ten years less than admirable, nevertheless, I am prepared to admit that your presence here brought him a certain amount of satisfaction in those last few days.’

‘Am I supposed to thank you for that?’ Ryan was insolent.

Ignoring her outburst, he said: ‘You are young, Ryan. Very young. But as you grow older you will learn that the world can be a very cold and unfriendly place to someone with neither home nor job nor money.’

Ryan forced herself to look into the fire. ‘I’ll manage.’

‘Will you?’ She was conscious of his eyes upon her. ‘Tell me, please, how do you intend getting back to England? As I understood the situation, your father told me you had used most of what you possessed to get here.’

Ryan’s head jerked round. ‘I—’ She broke off with a little gesture. ‘I’ll borrow the money.’

‘From whom?’

‘You’re not offering, I suppose?’

‘Oh, no.’ He shook his head.

Ryan pressed her lips together. ‘I – I’ll speak to Abbé Maurice—’

‘Abbé Maurice has barely enough to live on. Priests do not earn comfortable salaries here. They do not live in detached houses, and buy new cars every year.’

Ryan stared at him. ‘You seem to know a lot about it,’ she retorted sarcastically.

‘I have been in England. I have read books. I am not entirely the barbarian you would like to think I am.’

Ryan flushed then, but the heat of the fire could be held responsible for the darkening of colour in her cheeks. ‘I’ll manage somehow,’ she insisted.

Alain de Beaunes shrugged. He got up and went to a cupboard and took out a bottle of red wine. He uncorked the bottle, found a glass, and brought them both back to his seat near the fire. Pouring some of the ruby liquid into the glass, he held it up to the light for a moment, examining it intently, before nodding his satisfaction at its clarity. Then he raised the glass to his lips and drank some of the wine. Its bouquet drifted across to Ryan, rich and fruity, his lips reddened for a moment before he licked them clean.

When he lowered his glass, he looked again at Ryan. ‘This wine has matured with age, little one, as all things do. Once it was rough and bitter – as you are. Now it is rich and full-bodied.’

‘Spare me your similes, monsieur.’ Ryan shifted irritably. ‘I should have never have come here. I should never have written to my father.’

‘And do you think if you had not written to your father that this situation would not have arisen? I assure you, it would.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Your father did not make his will during these few days that you have been in France. His decision was made some time ago.’

‘And you knew of it?’ Ryan was aghast.

Alain de Beaunes hesitated. ‘Not – entirely, no.’

Ryan shook her head. ‘And you believe that – that had my aunt still been alive – and I still been living in England – that – that my father would have made the same stipulation?’

‘I know he would.’

Ryan got unsteadily to her feet and walked dazedly across the room. ‘But – why? Why?’

‘It was what he wanted.’

‘And you had no – objection?’

‘Let us say I – did not care, one way or the other.’

Ryan felt sick. It was as much with emptiness as anything, but the nausea that filled her was equally upsetting. ‘I – I can’t marry you, monsieur,’ she got out thickly. ‘Please, let us say no more about it.’

Alain de Beaunes regarded her impatiently. ‘There is no one in England, is there?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Then what is your objection?’

‘I’ve explained—’

‘All you have said is that you cannot marry me. No – that you would not marry me! That you believe I took advantage of your father in accepting a partnership with him when I had nothing to offer but my strength.’

Ryan took a deep breath. ‘Half the vineyard is yours, monsieur. Is that not enough for you?’

‘And half – should you refuse to accept your share – will belong to Gaston Aubert, your father’s greatest rival. Is that what you want, English miss?’

‘Of course it’s not what I want.’ Ryan shifted restlessly from one foot to the other. ‘But your acceptance of your share does not involve entering into a marriage with a – with someone you – you—’

‘Despise?’ He finished the sentence for her. ‘Oh, yes, I am aware of your aversion for me, mademoiselle. However, your feelings do not enter into it so far as I am concerned. I am concerned only for the vineyard. I know your father depended on you understanding his feelings in this.’

‘Then why did he do it?’ she burst out hotly.

Alain de Beaunes finished his wine and rose to his feet, towering over her. She was quite a tall girl, but he was so much bigger, so much broader, that he dwarfed her.

‘You are either being very obtuse, or very stupid,’ he said coldly. ‘Consider the situation. Whether you like it or not, your father needed me. He was not strong. He had been ill for many years. Doctors had warned him he should give up working altogether. But this he could not do. The vineyard was his inheritance, it was his life. Your mother, so he said, could not accept this. She was a cold, foolish woman, more fitted to afternoon bridge clubs than working in the fields. Oh—’ this as she would have protested, ‘—this is my interpretation, not his. Your father always spoke most regretfully about your mother. So – this is the position. When your father knows he is dying, what is he to do? No matter what you may have been told, he never stopped thinking about you. He used to talk to me of his little girl, and of how, some day, he hoped you would come to the valley and share his delight in cultivating the vines to make some of the finest wines of the district. But, being the man he is, he feels loyalty to me. He cannot leave me the vineyard, that would not be right. You are his flesh and blood, his heir. But he would not – he could not hand it to someone who knew nothing of the vine, of the grape, someone who might sell – to the Auberts.’ He shrugged. ‘He is still very much a Frenchman, your father. He knows that the marriage of convenience is still the most successful marriage there is. He tries to – manipulate us, no?’

Ryan had listened to him in silence, but now she turned away. ‘You cannot manipulate people, monsieur.’

‘Can you not?’ Alain de Beaunes voice contained a trace of mockery. ‘So you intend to leave?’

‘Of course.’ She swung round on him angrily. ‘Did you think that what you have just told me would change my mind?’

He ran his long fingers through the heavy straightness of his hair. ‘I thought it might have done,’ he conceded.

‘Well, it hasn’t.’ Ryan’s lips moved tremulously. ‘I – I’m sorry, of course. I understand your difficulties—’

‘You! You understand nothing!’ His voice was harsh now.

‘I do not wish to enter into another argument with you, monsieur—’

‘Do you not?’ His lips twisted. ‘Then that is unfortunate, because I cannot stand by and watch you destroy everything your father and his father before him ever worked for without making some effort to show you how selfish you are being.’

‘I didn’t ask for a share of the vineyard!’

‘Didn’t you?’ He put his hands on his hips. ‘Then why did you come here?’

‘I came to see my father.’ Ryan was trembling now. ‘And – and in any case, you said yourself, it would have made no difference—’

Alain de Beaunes swung away from her as though afraid if he remained near her he would strike her. Ryan watched him nervously, and then said: ‘Why couldn’t he have left me half the vineyard without that condition?’

‘And what would you have done then?’

Ryan shrugged. ‘I – I don’t know.’

Alain turned to face her. ‘Shall I tell you? You would have sold it. Without ever coming here to see it for yourself.’

‘You don’t know that!’ she exclaimed.

‘Don’t I?’ His lips curled. ‘I think I do. I think your father knew you were half your mother’s daughter, after all.’

‘Don’t you dare slander my mother!’

‘Why not? Don’t you think she treated your father abominably?’

Ryan’s breathing was swift and shallow. ‘You know nothing about it.’

‘Don’t I?’ he mocked again. ‘I know what your father told me. He was a sick man before he returned to France.’

Ryan stared at him unbelievingly. ‘Wh-what are you saying?’

‘Don’t you know? Didn’t your mother tell you? Your father developed a heart condition almost two years before he left England.’

‘No!’

‘It’s the truth. And the climate did not help. Wet summers, cold winters; he was a prey to bronchial complaints, complaints which weakened the muscles of his heart.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

Ryan couldn’t allow herself to believe him. Her mother could not have permitted her father, a sick man, to return to France alone knowing that he might die at any time!

Alain hunched his shoulders. ‘Nevertheless, it is the truth,’ he asserted firmly. ‘I am sorry if it destroys the image you have of your mother, but quite frankly your father’s last wishes are all that concern me.’

Ryan sought one of the wooden chairs that flanked the kitchen table, and sat down rather heavily. Her legs no longer felt strong enough to support her, and the sickness she had felt turned to a dull throbbing in her temples. Could it be true? Could it be proved? Surely Alain de Beaunes would not risk telling her something like this knowing that her father’s doctor could refute it if it was not true.

She looked up at him unsteadily, her pale cheeks and hollowed eyes eloquent of the shock she had suffered. ‘I – I never knew.’

‘I believe you.’ His tone was less aggressive, but without sympathy.

Ryan shook her head helplessly. ‘How – how could she?’

‘That’s what I asked myself, many times.’

Ryan pressed her palms together. ‘I – I need time to think.’

‘About what?’

She glanced up at him piteously. ‘You know about what.’

He shrugged and turned away. ‘I have things to do. Life goes on, even in the face of death. You’ll let me know your decision, of course.’ Sarcasm had crept in to his tones.

Ryan closed her eyes against the sight of him. Then she opened them again and said: ‘I – I have to do it, don’t I?’

‘That’s for you to decide.’

‘No, it’s not.’ She gazed at him desperately. ‘What – what did you mean by – by a marriage of convenience?’

‘Exactly what it says. I have no interest in a child, mademoiselle.’

Her cheeks burned. ‘I’m not a child, or the situation would not arise.’

‘Maybe not in years, but in experience …’

‘And – and are you experienced, monsieur?’

She didn’t know what made her ask the question, except that she sensed he would have no small knowledge of her sex. He regarded her disconcertingly for a while, and then said: ‘As much as any man who has already had one wife.’

Ryan gasped. ‘You – you have a wife, monsieur?’

‘I had,’ he corrected expressionlessly. ‘My wife died almost ten years ago.’

‘Almost ten years ago!’ Ryan found it hard to take in. Ten years ago she had been a child …

‘I am forty years of age, mademoiselle. Old enough to be your father, I admit. Perhaps you had better regard our relationship in that light. With luck, you could be a widow before you are my age.’

Ryan sucked in her breath on a sob. ‘Don’t say such things!’

‘No?’ He moved his shoulders indifferently. ‘Perhaps not. Perhaps I will live my three score years and ten. Perhaps even a little more. Who knows? A life sentence, mademoiselle, is it not? I am sorry, but I did not make the rules. Your father did that.’

CHAPTER TWO

RYAN’S room was at the head of the twisting flight of stairs which led to the upper reaches of the house. It was not a large room and towards the eaves the ceiling sloped a little, but it was a comfortable room and when she had first seen it, Ryan had been delighted with it. The uneven floorboards were covered with fluffy wool rugs, the bed-spread was a rich folkweave, and the curtains were patterned with sprigs of lilac. If the furniture – the iron-posted bedstead, the heavy tallboy, the mahogany wardrobe and dressing table, were a little outdated, they nevertheless shone from frequent polishings, and the room smelt sweetly of freshly laundered sheets and bees-wax.

On the morning following her father’s funeral, Ryan stood by the window of her room, looking down the sweeping length of the valley. She could see the river, the terraced hillside, the houses huddled at its base, the reaching spire of the church of St. Augustine, and the distant mountains where the snow could always find a resting place. In summer when the snows receded to the high plateau, the goatherds sought the lush pastures that had been hidden all winter long, and the air echoed with the sound of goat bells, but now it was almost time for the snow to come again and Ryan shivered at the prospect.

Still, the rain had departed and the morning was fresh and clear, if a little chill. Ryan had been dressed since the first grey fingers of light probed her bedroom curtains, but she had delayed the moment of going downstairs and confronting Alain de Beaunes. The evening before had a curiously unreal quality about it, and although she had slept almost as soon as her head touched the pillow, she had been awake early, lying staring into the darkness, trying not to feel afraid of the future.

But it was impossible for her not to do so. The idea of marrying a man she had known little more than a week was a terrifying prospect, particularly as that man inspired no confidence inside her. He was so much older, so much more experienced, so big and powerful, so much a man in every sense of the word. She had seen the broad strength of his shoulders, the hair-covered skin of his chest which narrowed to a flat stomach, the muscles bulging against the taut cloth which covered his thighs; how could she believe him when he said theirs would be a marriage of convenience only, that he had no interest in her? Once they were married, she would have no defence against him except his word.

A disturbing shivering sensation ran down her spine and into her legs. Married! Married to Alain de Beaunes! She would be Ryan de Beaunes; Ryan Ferrier, no longer. It was an incredible prospect!

The church bells were ringing out the hour and she glanced automatically at her watch. It was nine o’clock. She would have to go downstairs and face her future husband. She caught her breath on a gulp. If it was not so deadly serious, it would be laughable.

A slim figure in denim jeans and a chunky green sweater, her chestnut dark hair confined with an elastic band, she descended the winding staircase and reached the panelled hall. A smell of freshly ground coffee emanated from the direction of the kitchen, and Ryan’s spirits rose when she thought that perhaps Berthe had returned.

But when she opened the kitchen door, it was not the plump housekeeper who was bending over the fire, but Alain de Beaunes, his tanned skin contrasting sharply with the curious lightness of his hair. Dressed in close-fitting corded pants and a thick black sweater, his trousers pushed into tall black boots, he had obviously been outside, and he exuded an aura of virile good health.

‘Good morning, Ryan,’ he greeted her easily, as though nothing had changed since the previous day. ‘I was just about to bring you some coffee upstairs.’

Ryan closed the door and leaned back against it. ‘That wasn’t necessary,’ she managed, picturing her own alarm at the image of him entering her bedroom. He would dwarf its less than generous proportions.

He shrugged, and indicated the percolator on the stove. ‘Help yourself,’ he directed. ‘I am afraid there is no fresh bread, but perhaps tomorrow …’

Ryan crossed the room rather awkwardly, and reaching down a mug from the dresser poured some of the strongly flavoured liquid into it. She added cream and sugar and stood cradling the cup in her two hands, watching him adding wood to the already blazing logs. Then she licked her lips and said: ‘When is Berthe coming back?’

Alain straightened and looked round at her, brushing his palms over the seat of his pants. ‘Berthe is not coming back,’ he replied flatly.

Ryan’s eyes were wide. ‘Not – coming – back?’ she faltered.

‘No.’ Alain lifted his shoulders expressively. ‘Berthe stayed because of your father. Now there is to be another mistress in the house, she has left.’

Ryan’s cheeks coloured. ‘But – but that’s not necessary.’

‘Isn’t it?’

‘No.’ Ryan spread an expressive hand. ‘Who – who will do all the cooking here – the cleaning – looking after the animals?’ Then at the mocking look in his eyes, she uttered an exclamation of protest. ‘Not me!’

‘Why not you? What do you intend to do all day?’

Ryan sought for words, swallowing some of the coffee as though its bitterness might sharpen her means of retaliation. ‘I – I – I’m not a housekeeper!’

‘What are you, then? Or rather, what do you intend to be?’

Ryan’s brows drew together. ‘I – I’m a librarian—’

‘There are no libraries in Bellaise.’

‘I could do other work – other office work—’

‘For whom? I know – you may take charge of the book-keeping which up till now I have dealt with myself.’

Ryan bent her head. ‘You don’t understand—’

‘On the contrary, Ryan, it is you who do not understand.’ He felt about in his pockets and drew out a case of narrow cheroots. He put one between his teeth, and as he lighted it with a spill from the fire, he went on: ‘Let me tell you something, may I?’ He did not wait for her acquiescence, but continued: ‘You have a lot to learn, Ryan. Oh, I know your father has shown you the vineyards, taken you down to the cellars, and introduced you to the men who work for us. But as yet, you know nothing of our life here. Ours is a small vineyard. We produce less than two hundred cases of wine every year. But we like to think that what we do produce is good, very good. Our wine is comparatively unknown as yet. It is drunk locally, in the hotels and restaurants of the tourist resorts, but we do not make a lot of money. We do not compare to the great wine-producing chateaux of Bordeaux and Burgundy. In consequence, our life is quite simple. We do not waste money employing housekeepers when the mistress of the house is perfectly capable of running her own establishment, do I make myself clear?’

‘But I’ve never – I wouldn’t know how—’

‘You will learn. I will employ a young girl from the village to help you with the heavy tasks, but you will find there is reward in knowing yourself capable of managing alone.’

Ryan finished her coffee and put the mug down heavily on the draining board. ‘You have it all worked out, haven’t you?’ she demanded bitterly. ‘When did you tell Berthe she would no longer be needed? As soon as my father was dead? Were you so sure I’d agree to your outrageous plans?’

‘They were not my plans, mademoiselle,’ he retorted, and his voice had cooled perceptibly. ‘I suggest you stop feeling sorry for yourself and start appreciating your good fortune!’

‘The good fortune of marrying you, monsieur?’ she taunted him insolently, and then felt an inward thrill of fear at the menacing darkening of his tawny eyes.

‘Have a care, little one,’ he said chillingly. ‘Once we are man and wife I will have certain rights where you are concerned. Do not tempt me to exert them.’

Ryan’s cheeks flamed now. ‘But you said—’

‘There are other rights beside the conjugal ones,’ he retorted swiftly. Then he made an impatient gesture. ‘But this is getting us nowhere. I suggest we stop this bickering and begin accepting that for both of us there will have to be – adjustments.’

‘Adjustments?’ Ryan felt stupidly near to tears. She knew whose the greater adjustment would be. Schooling her features, she nodded. ‘All right, all right. I suppose I have no choice, as I’m to be confined here …’

‘In what way confined?’ His voice was dangerously quiet.

Ryan spread her hands, unconsciously revealing her likeness to her father. ‘What else is there for me to do? There are no buses here. No trains that I can see. I can hardly walk to the nearest town, can I, and the village isn’t exactly huge!’

‘You don’t drive?’ It was more of a statement than a question. ‘No? Then I will teach you. There are two vehicles here – the station wagon, and a Landrover. You are welcome to use either of those when you have become proficient. Anciens is only twenty kilometres away. There are shops there, and a cinema. And a library, too, should you require one.’ This last was said with a reversion to his earlier mockery, but Ryan chose to ignore it.

‘Thank you.’

He inclined his head. ‘It is nothing. And now I suggest you help yourself to something to eat. Fatigue follows swiftly on the heels of malnutrition.’

Ryan shook her head. ‘I’m not hungry.’

‘You will be before the morning is over. I suggest you spend the time exploring your domain. The Abbé Maurice will no doubt join us for lunch. Perhaps you should be considering what you are going to offer him.’

Ryan stared at him in horror. ‘You – expect me to provide a meal?’

Alain walked towards the kitchen door and picked up a black leather coat he had thrown ready for use over the back of a chair. ‘I have to go into Bellaise to see Gilbert Chauvin. I expect to be back soon after one o’clock. You will find the larder is well stocked, and there is a deep-freeze in the storeroom. Berthe was a careful housekeeper. I do not think you will be disappointed. Do not trouble to enter the cellar. I myself will choose the wine when I return.’

‘But—’ Ryan took a step towards him. ‘I mean, I’ve never served a meal before!’

Alain opened the door, and stood regarding her with scarcely-concealed amusement. ‘There is always a first time for everything, little one. Adieu – and good luck!’

Ryan stood motionless as the door closed behind him, and after a few moments she heard the station wagon’s engine roar to life. She hurried to the window as the tyres crunched over the cobbles of the yard, but he did not turn to look at her as the vehicle drove between the gateposts and disappeared down the track towards the village.

She told herself she was glad to see him go, but with his departure the house seemed suddenly very empty, and very isolated. For a girl who all her life had been spared the drudgery of housework, it seemed there was a tremendous amount to learn, and she hadn’t the first idea where to start.

Remembering that someone had once told her that the best way to clean a house was from the top down, she looked doubtfully towards the door which led into the hall. The bedrooms, she supposed, were the place she should begin. But where was Alain de Beaunes’ bedroom, and was she expected to make his bed?

Shaking her head, as if to shake away the sense of bewilderment and confusion that filled it, she walked purposefully into the hall and up the stairs. The first landing, where her room was situated, presented what seemed to be an alarming amount of doors to her inexperienced eye. But after discovering broom cupboards, and airing cupboards, and renewing her acquaintance with the rather antiquated bathroom, she discovered that there were only four bedrooms to cope with. The room which had been her father’s offered an air of melancholy which she was little prepared to bear in her emotional state, and she quickly closed the door again, promising herself that she would go through his things fully when time had dulled perception. Apart from her own room, there only were two other rooms, one of which was dust-sheeted, and the other was Alain de Beaunes’.

She hesitated before entering his bedroom, but then pushed away her feelings of distaste. After all, once they were married she would have to get used to caring for his clothes, washing his linen, making his bed. All the same, she felt somewhat of an intruder as she hung his bathrobe on the hook behind the door, straightened the tumbled pillows and smoothed the sheets of the bed. There were no pyjamas lying about, and she assumed he must have folded them away into a drawer. It was an odd thing for him to have done, but it was not up to her to question his actions.

When the bed was made and the coverlet had been neatly spread, she looked round with reluctant curiosity. What was there here to indicate what manner of man he was? A bookcase beside the bed revealed a selection of theses on viticulture, books on economics and the geology of the Rhone basin, and a couple of novels, which Ryan herself would not have been opposed to reading. A bedside cabinet supported a lamp and an alarm clock, but she respected his privacy sufficiently not to probe into its drawers and cupboard.

The furniture matched that in her own own room, although his bed was broader and longer, and looked rather more comfortable. On impulse, she opened the wardrobe door and looked at the clothes hanging inside. There were not many, obviously Alain de Beaunes did not pay a lot of attention to keeping up with current fashions, but as she closed the door again she had to concede that in his case clothes were merely a necessary covering and not something to accentuate his masculinity. His masculinity was in no doubt.

Realizing she was wasting time, she quickly left his bedroom, made her own bed and tidied her room, and then went downstairs again.

A mewing at the kitchen door admitted the huge tortoiseshell-coloured tabby which had occupied the settle by the fire until Berthe’s departure, and which Ryan had assumed belonged to her. But now the cat walked into the kitchen as though it owned the place, and ignoring Ryan completely took up its former position on the settle. Although piqued at its treatment of her, Ryan was almost glad of its company, and there was something reassuring about knowing it was there, relaxed and uncaring, licking its paws.

Her distraction had cost more time and her eyes sought the clock on the mantelshelf with some alarm. It was half past ten already. How long did meat take to cook, and what on earth was she to give them for lunch?

As she pushed the dirty dishes from the table into the sink, she reflected that Alain at least had had breakfast that morning. There was the sweet smell of conserve on his knife, and a thick slice had been cut from the crusty loaf that still resided on the table. A quick look round revealed a bread bin, and she stuffed the remains of the loaf inside, and closed the lid over the curls of butter in their dish. As she did so her own stomach gave a knowing little rumble, and she sighed. She ought to have something to eat. But time was precious, and she steeled herself against hunger.

The storeroom adjoined the kitchen. She had been in there once with Berthe and seen the sacks of salt and flour, the bins containing sugar and dried fruit, only then she had never dreamt that in so short a time she would have charge of the household.

The freezer revealed an impressive array of meat and vegetables. Obviously Berthe had frozen a store of greens for the coming winter, as well as bottling jams and chutneys and preserved fruits. It was alarming for Ryan to imagine herself coping so efficiently. She felt sure she would never do it.

Abandoning any ideas of producing a thoroughly continental meal such as Berthe might have provided, she took some steaks from the freezer and a jar of apricots in syrup from the shelf. The meat would need some time to thaw, and she put it on a plate on the draining board while she made an inspection of the kitchen cupboards. When the fire needed more logs, she smiled as the cat protested at the sparks which flew when she put on more wood.

With the dishes washed and draining, and the table clear for the first time since Berthe’s departure, Ryan began to feel she was making progress. As well as the huge kitchen, there were three other downstairs rooms, and she decided to inspect these, too. There was a dining-room, which was seldom if ever used, a parlour for sitting, which was treated with respect, and which Ryan privately thought was quite hideous with its stiff-backed chairs and antimacassars, fiddly little tables and unlikely ornaments, and the study which had been used equally by her father and Alain de Beaunes.

The study was obviously the most favoured room of the house. Its worn leather armchairs bore witness to frequent use, and it had a comfortable untidiness that went well with its atmosphere of pipe tobacco and good wine. Papers were strewn over the wide top of the desk, and the typewriter which was pushed to one side must have been a prototype of its kind. Ryan put in a sliver of scrap paper and pressed the keys and was pleasantly surprised at the result.

She sat in the chair behind the desk and studied the vintage charts which had been framed and hung on the wall opposite. The Ferrier vineyards were obviously improving, and the charts for the past five years showed a steady rise in ratings. She felt a stirring of compassion for her father that he should have died when things were going so well. But side by side with the Ferrier charts hung those for the Aubert vineyards. Their ratings were improving also, and seemed to prove that Alain de Beaunes had not been exaggerating when he spoke of her father’s rivalry with such forcefulness.

The emptiness in her stomach eventually reminded her that it was time she was preparing the meal. She could make herself some coffee while the steaks grilled, she thought, and sauter the vegetables for quickness.

But a shock awaited her when she returned to the kitchen. The huge tabby was licking her paws on the draining board, and the plate on which she had laid the steaks was empty.

Ryan was horrified. ‘Oh, cat!’ she exclaimed angrily, lifting the creature and dropping her unceremoniously on to the floor. ‘Oh, what am I going to do now?’

Knowing she had no time to ponder, she went back into the storeroom and took three more steaks from the freezer. Their coldness clung to her fingers and without stopping to consider the advisability of such a course, she plunged them into hot water, thawing them quickly. By the time the Abbé Maurice came tapping his walking stick at the kitchen door, the meat was under the grill and potatoes were frying appetizingly in the pan.

The old priest came in smiling warmly, obviously impressed by her activity. ‘I see you are going to make a good housekeeper, my child,’ he pronounced, sniffing the air appreciatively. ‘Alain has invited me for lunch. I trust that will not inconvenience you.’

‘Oh, no!’ Ryan’s cheeks were flushed from the heat of the stove, but she felt rather sick inside. She had still had nothing to eat, and her exertions were beginning to tell. ‘Won’t you sit down, Father? Can I offer you something? Some coffee – or tea?’

The old priest was breathing rather heavily, and he sat down with obvious relief. ‘No, nothing just now, child,’ he refused politely, taking off his hat. ‘My, my,’ he patted his chest, ‘that walk up from the village gets steeper, I think.’

‘You’ve walked?’ Ryan was astonished. She hadn’t heard a car, but she had just assumed he had used one.

‘But of course. The exercise does me good. I must say, though, that after one of Berthe’s good lunches, I could not always walk back, even though it is downhill,’ he chuckled.

Ryan turned back to the stove. His words were rather unfortunate in the circumstances, but he was not to know that. And after all, steak and tomatoes and chips, followed by apricots and icecream, was not such a frugal repast. Perhaps she should have opened a tin of soup. She shrugged. Another day. Alain could think himself lucky he was getting any meal at all.

The station wagon roared into the yard about five minutes later, and Alain came in bringing a breath of cold frosty air with him. In his absence she had forgotten the overwhelming domination of his presence, and the penetration of those tawny cat’s eyes. He greeted the priest warmly, exchanged a glance with Ryan, and then bent to the cat who had leapt from her perch to rub herself lovingly against his booted legs.

‘Hey, Tabithe!’ he chided gently, his deep voice acquiring a disturbing tenderness Ryan had never heard before. ‘So you came back, did you? Have you been keeping our mistress company?’

Ryan lifted the potatoes into a serving dish, her hands trembling slightly. She was tempted to tell him exactly what kind of company the beastly creature had provided, but to do so would embarrass the Abbé, and she had no quarrel with him. All the same, she felt a faint resentment that her overtures towards the animal had been ignored, while Alain had only to appear for her to be caressing his legs with her sinuous body. But of course, she thought impatiently, the cat was a female, and had all the usual attraction towards the male. Obviously the creature did not regard the Abbé Maurice in his flowing robes in quite the same light.

The steak looked reassuringly good when it was served with sprigs of parsley, and Alain, who had been down to the cellar below the storeroom to fetch a bottle of wine for their delectation, stopped what he was doing to compliment her on its presentation. After a moment’s hesitation, she had decided to serve the meal in the kitchen, and obviously she had done the right thing. Had she not felt so unwell, she would have been almost satisfied with her morning’s work. However, the wine which Alain had uncorked and poured into her glass served to revive her.

‘Ah, but this is good,’ essayed the priest, nodding as he inhaled its bouquet. ‘What is it, Alain? Not the ‘68 or the ‘69? It cannot be the ‘66. No, I think perhaps it is a Beaujolais …’

Alain smiled, taking his seat at the head of the table, his fingers hiding the label on the bottle in his hand. ‘How astute, Father,’ he murmured humorously. He partially withdrew his fingers. ‘See – I will not tease you. It is from the Vosne-Romanée. But can you guess which it is?’

Abbé Maurice picked up the glass and inhaled again, his brows drawing together in perplexity. ‘You know I am no expert, Alain. A Burgundy is a Burgundy. I know what I like, and that is about all.’

Alain set the bottle down. ‘It is the Richebourg, see? The ‘61. A very special case which Ryan’s father had laid down for very special occasions.’

The priest surveyed them both expectantly. ‘And this is such an occasion, Alain?’

Alain’s eyes sought Ryan’s, but she looked away, unable to contemplate what he was about to say. ‘It is a special occasion, Father,’ he agreed. ‘Ryan and I are to be married, as soon as it can be arranged. Is that not so, Ryan?’

He was challenging her now. It was the moment of truth, and she was not prepared for it. ‘I – yes. Yes, I suppose so.’

The old Abbé beamed. ‘I could not be more pleased.’ He pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. ‘This calls for a toast, in this most excellent wine of the Côte de Nuits. I wish you every happiness, my children, and I drink to your future together.’

The priest insisted that they join in the toast, and he patted Alain on the shoulder and told Ryan that her father would have been so happy had he been alive to see this day. Alain had been like a son to him, he said, and it was always her father’s dearest wish that his two loved ones should meet.

Ryan couldn’t help thinking that had her father still been alive, this day would not have occurred. She wondered how much the priest had known of her father’s affairs, of the terms of his will, and decided he had probably been a witness to it. He obviously shared her father’s and Alain’s belief that marriage should first and foremost be treated as a business arrangement, but the cold-bloodedness of it, the calculating method of its inception, filled Ryan with despair.

Custom satisfied, they turned to the meal. Alain served the priest first, then Ryan, and finally himself. If he was surprised that Ryan would accept nothing more than a small steak and half a tomato, he made no comment, and for this she was thankful. But when she cut into the meat she found to her horror that although the outer casing was brown and smelt appetizing, inside the core was still hard and frozen.

She looked up aghast to find Alain and the priest eating silently, apparently unperturbed at the rawness of the meat, but her stomach revolted. What must they be thinking of her? she thought desperately. Were neither of them going to say anything? They must know she had not thawed it before cooking. They would think her an absolute idiot!

She pushed her plate aside, and waited for one of them to speak. But they said nothing, and she suddenly felt furiously angry. She didn’t want their pity, she didn’t want them to pretend to enjoy something so as not to hurt her feelings. It was too galling to contemplate!

Taking a deep breath, she burst out: ‘Don’t eat it! It’s horrible! It’s raw! The cat ate the meat I thawed, and I didn’t have time to thaw any more.’

Abbé Maurice lifted his head in an embarrassed way, and Alain regarded her steadily. ‘Don’t be silly, Ryan. I prefer my steak rare.’

‘There’s a difference between rare and raw!’ declared Ryan vehemently.

‘I tell you, it’s all right.’ Alain’s eyes had hardened slightly.

Ryan’s lips moved tremulously. ‘Well, I’m not going to eat it,’ she retorted, pushing back her chair and getting to her feet.

‘Where do you think you are going?’ demanded Alain, half rising also, but she didn’t reply, she merely shook her head and walked unsteadily to the door.

Somehow she made it to her room, closing the door and sinking down on the bed, tears probing hotly at her eyes. Her first meal and it was a disaster! She would never learned to cope as efficiently as Berthe.

The door opened on her misery and she looked up in amazement to see Alain de Beaunes blocking the doorway with his bulk. His eyes were dark and angry, and his mouth was a thin line in his tanned features. He came into the room and stood looking down at her coldly.

‘What do you think you are doing?’ he inquired tautly. ‘Is it your practice to abandon your guest half-way through the meal?’

‘He’s not my guest, he’s yours,’ she managed, biting her lips to stop them from trembling.

‘He is our guest,’ Alain corrected her shortly. ‘Stop behaving so childishly. So – the meat is not thoroughly cooked! No one expects you to produce a perfect meal at the first attempt.’

‘Oh, thank you. That’s very reassuring to know!’ she exclaimed with heavy sarcasm.

He thrust his hands into the hip pockets of his trousers, tautening the cloth across his thighs. ‘I make allowances for your immaturity, little cat. Be thankful that I do.’

Ryan turned her head away, her eyes smarting from tears suppressed. ‘I don’t remember inviting you into my room, monsieur. Aren’t you supposed to knock before entering a lady’s bedroom?’

The exclamation he made was half anger, half amusement. ‘You are determined to challenge me, are you not, little one?’ he commented quietly. Then he turned towards the door. ‘Very well. You have five minutes to tidy yourself, and then you will join the good Abbé and me for dessert. Do I make myself clear?’

Ryan turned to face him protestingly. ‘I don’t want anything else.’

‘Maybe not.’ His eyes assessed her in a way that caused the blood to quicken in her veins. ‘You had no breakfast, did you? In spite of what I said. Your colour is high at the moment, but underneath you are pale. It is food you require, little one. Perhaps not the steak, I admit, but maybe some soup would not come amiss, eh?’

Ryan’s stomach heaved restlessly. ‘There is no soup.’

‘There are tins. Even I am proficient with a tin opener.’ He paused in the doorway and looked back at her. ‘You are all right now?’

Ryan hesitated, and then she nodded. And she was. It was true. Although he had not sympathized with her, his quiet words had restored a little of her confidence. The knowledge surprised her.

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