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.

Devil in Velvet
Anne Mather

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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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

THE door wasn’t locked, so she didn’t need the key, and as she pushed it wide, the sickly-sweet odour of dampness and decay, and what might have been rotting apples, assailed her nostrils. A wooden table flanked by wooden benches and a disreputable old rocking chair near the hearth was the only furniture she could see, and a chipped enamel sink was surmounted by the kind of pumping mechanism she had thought obsolete for years. The stone floor was littered with leaves and other debris, blown in through the open gaps in the window, no doubt, and an ominous scuttering in the corner seemed to signify squatters of another species. Considering the heat outside, the air was cool, and her shirt which had been sticking to her back now sent a shiver of chill along her spine. The huge blackened hole of the fireplace had not even been swept clean before the last tenants departed, and the ashes from the grate had filmed everything with a fine grey dust.

Harriet’s heart sank. How could they possibly stay here? The place was filthy, and damp; and what was that rustling sound she could hear? Rats? Involuntarily, she shifted from one foot to the other, suppressing a desire to wrap the flared cuffs of her trousers about her ankles. Where was the spotless furnished farmhouse she had expected? The white-painted retreat, set in the lush valley of the Dordogne, the land overflowing with wine and pâté de foie gras, as the brochure extravagantly put it? How could anyone sell this as a suitable dwelling place, when it resembled nothing so much as a derelict? Her temper rose. How dared anyone sell such a place—and to her!

She had left Susan in the car, but now she heard the girl’s footsteps on the path behind her, and turning to face her endeavoured to disguise a little of the rage and frustration that was gripping her. Susan had had enough to stand these past weeks. Harriet hoped the sight of this place would not undo all the good work that had been done. It had seemed such a good idea, bringing her niece to France for a couple of months, giving her a completely new change of scene. Charles, Harriet’s employer, had been so kind, giving her the time off like this. But practically all Harriet’s savings had gone on this place. She had relied on the Paris agent’s assurances that this farmhouse in Rochelac was exactly what she wanted; and now to find that this was not so was the most bitter kind of humiliation.

‘Well?’ Susan’s young voice was reassuringly bright. ‘Is this the place?’

Harriet allowed a small sigh to escape her. ‘Unfortunately,’ she conceded.

‘Unfortunately?’ Susan brushed past her to stand inside the door. ‘Why unfortunately?’

‘Why?’ Harriet gazed at her incredulously. Then she waved an expressive arm. ‘Need you ask?’

Susan shrugged. ‘It is dirty,’ she agreed, with the casual gift for understatement of a fourteen-year-old. ‘But that doesn’t matter, does it? I mean, we can soon clean it up.’

‘It’s damp!’ retorted Harriet flatly. ‘Can’t you see those patches on the walls? I dread to think what it’s like upstairs. As for the furniture…’

‘Have you looked around?’ enquired Susan, crossing the floor, apparently unperturbed by the possible presence of their unwelcome visitors, and opening a door which hitherto Harriet had taken little notice of. ‘Hmm, this must be the parlour. Is that what it’s called in France?’

‘The salon,’ replied Harriet automatically, staring bleakly about her. ‘Susan, do mind where you’re putting your feet. I heard scufflings when I came in.’

‘Field mice probably,’ called Susan airily. ‘They always invade empty houses. Where are the stairs?’

‘Oh, Susan, I don’t know.’ Harriet heaved another sigh, and looked round. ‘I wonder who—’ She broke off abruptly. ‘It’s my own fault, I suppose. I should have insisted on seeing this place before spending a penny. Wait until I lay my hands on Monsieur Frond! I doubt if he’s ever been further south than Orleans!’

Susan came back into the kitchen. ‘Why are you getting so upset, Harry? There’s quite a decent pair of armchairs in there, and a sort of dresser. It’s not the end of the world. I think it’s rather super. You can see the garden at the back of the house, and there’s actually a stream…’

‘I imagine it’s overgrown with weeds, too. The garden, I mean. And don’t call me Harry!’

Susan grinned, the freckles on her face standing out against its pallor. These past weeks had robbed her of what little colour she had had, and it was good to see her smiling again. If the house could do that for her, it couldn’t be all bad.

‘Well, you don’t like me calling you Aunt Harriet, do you?’ she was saying now, and Harriet’s features relaxed.

‘No, that’s true. But I’d prefer it if you called me plain Harriet instead of the abbreviation.’

‘All right. Plain Harriet, it shall be,’ teased Susan mischievously, and they both laughed. ‘Seriously, though,’ she went on, ‘it’s not so bad, is it? I like it. I’m sick of—conventional things.’

Her voice quavered a little, and to give her a moment to recover herself, Harriet essayed a determined interest in her surroundings. There were other doors, and with some trepidation she opened one of them, relieved to find a wooden stairway winding to the upper floor.

‘The stairs!’ she announced dryly, and taking a deep breath, began to climb up.

There was no handrail, and they were very steep, and any notion of carpeting them would have to be abandoned. But at least they seemed sound enough. They emerged into a square apartment with a ceiling that sloped sharply towards tiny windows set under the eaves, and a floor that was rough with knots and uneven boards. There was a sagging bedstead, and a rag mat, and near the windows was a rickety old washstand with a cracked jug and basin. The smell of rotting fruit was stronger here, and the heat of the sun had robbed the room of all air, giving it a stuffy oppressive atmosphere.

The windows would all be intact here, thought Harriet cynically, but when she tried to open them they resisted all her efforts. The fact that it was cleaner up here registered only faintly as she fought with swollen woodwork.

Susan had followed her up and now exclaimed excitedly: ‘Look! There must be a loft. There’s a trapdoor.’

Harriet looked round half impatiently, looping her long pale hair back behind her ears with a careless hand. Susan was pointing to a square-shaped opening set into the crumbling plaster of the ceiling, and now Harriet noticed a wooden ladder propped against the wall beside the bed. Leaving the stubborn window, she came to stand below the trapdoor, but vetoed Susan’s eagerness to explore further.

Glancing at her watch, she said: ‘It’s almost a quarter to five. If we’re to spend the night here, and I’m not at all sure that we should, we ought to be making an effort towards tidying up downstairs.’

Susan stared at her. ‘You’re not thinking of leaving!’

‘Not that exactly.’ Harriet spoke slowly. ‘But you must admit, Sue, it isn’t exactly what we expected.’

‘I don’t mind.’

‘You say that—’

‘I mean it,’ Susan interrupted her. ‘It’s a sort of adventure, really. And I’ve slept in worse places. Heavens, when I went camping with the Guides—’

‘Well, I certainly didn’t spend several thousand francs on a house that’s only fit to camp in!’ declared Harriet firmly, and then seeing Susan’s face beginning to crumple, added quickly: ‘Perhaps we can do something about it, but for tonight I think we should find a pension and stay there until I’ve had a chance to contact Monsieur Frond—’

‘But we planned to camp here!’ Susan pursed her lips. ‘We’ve brought our sleeping bags.’

‘Because I expected the beds might need airing,’ Harriet reminded her, gesturing behind them. ‘As you can see, there’s only one bed, and I wouldn’t allow a dog to sleep on that mattress! Besides, the air up here is foul, and until we can get those windows open…’

Ignoring the lost look that came into Susan’s eyes, she clattered down the stairs again, her cork soles echoing hollowly on the treads, and emerged into the infinitely fresher atmosphere of the kitchen.

Susan followed her and together they surveyed the room. ‘You have to admit—it is deplorable!’ Harriet insisted, and Susan hunched her shoulders.

‘Where are we going to stay then? And what will you say when you speak to Monsieur Frond?’

Harriet shook her head. She didn’t honestly know herself. Had she any redress? She doubted it. She should have investigated the property beforehand, and not allowed herself to be duped by fairytale fantasies of vineyards and chateaux, and lazy afternoons punting along the river with an unlimited supply of Dubonnet.

‘I don’t know what I shall do,’ she said now, noticing how the dust had already soiled her shirt. She stepped gingerly across the flagged floor and emerged into the sunlight breathing deeply, and unfastened another button to reveal a depth of cleavage she would never have dared display at home.

The car was parked in the lane, beyond the thorny hedge that marked the garden. It was certainly peaceful enough, and approaching down a tree-shaded avenue she had been as enthusiastic as Susan. But even this front stretch of garden rioted heedlessly, and what had seemed a simple enough task when she walked up the path, had now assumed larger proportions. The walls of the house needed painting, along with all its other shortcomings, she saw now, but she had allowed the wild roses and nasturtiums to blind her to that fact. She had scarcely noticed the knee-high grasses and choking bindweed, or the nettles that threatened to sting unwary legs.

‘We will come back, won’t we?’ Susan demanded anxiously, as Harriet turned the key in the squeaking lock, and her aunt looked at her ruefully.

‘We shall probably have to,’ she conceded dryly. ‘Or go home.’

Susan’s lips trembled. ‘You wouldn’t—we couldn’t do that, could we?’

Harriet gave a resigned grimace. ‘Probably not,’ she agreed. ‘Come on, I’m thirsty. I think there’s a can of lime juice in the car.’

Harriet felt tired and depressed now. She had been driving since early that morning, urged on by the eagerness to reach their destination. But it had all gone flat, and even her resentment towards Monsieur Frond was giving way to anger towards herself. When would she learn that people were not always what they seemed?

Sharing the can of lime juice with Susan, and assuming an interest she was far from feeling, she consulted the map, spreading it out over the steering wheel of the car, pinpointing their position with wry accuracy.

‘Well, we’re about thirty kilometres from Beynac, which I suppose is the nearest town, but the village is nearer, of course—Rochelac. Do you think we should try there?’

‘Of course.’ Obviously Susan preferred to stay within a reasonable distance, and the village was only a matter of some three or four kilometres.

‘There may not be a pension there,’ Harriet observed thoughtfully, but Susan felt sure there would be. ‘What if there’s not?’ asked Harriet reasonably, and her niece shrugged.

‘We can always sleep in the car,’ she pointed out, and unwillingly Harriet let her have her way.

To reach the village necessitated reversing back up the lane, it was too narrow to turn, and regaining the road that ran between two villages, Bel-sur-Baux and Rochelac. There was something vaguely familiar about Rochelac, which was what had attracted Harriet to it in the first place, but she didn’t exactly know what it was.

From the road, it was possible to look down on the trees that surrounded the house. They were even able to see the grey tiles of the roof, and beyond, the shallow ravine where the stream tumbled. Distance lent enchantment, but Harriet was too tired and dishevelled to appreciate its finer points right then. Susan was less inhibited and looked back longingly, but her aunt pressed her foot down hard on the accelerator, and the small Fiat surged obediently forward.

Rochelac seemed to cling to the hillside above the river of which their stream was a tributary. Harriet guessed it might be possible to walk to the village as quickly as to drive the few kilometres round by the road, and then stifled the weakening thought. They would probably never find out, she told herself firmly, and there was no point in pretending otherwise.

The village was as picturesque as she could have wished: narrow streets, balconies overflowing with flowering creepers, a tiny square, and the inevitable spire of the church. Harriet parked the car outside a patisserie, where the smell of new bread was mouth-watering, and then locking the car she and Susan took a walk down the steep cobbled slope which led to the river.

The houses that flanked the stone jetty were tall and thin, jostling together as if to conserve space. Steep, pointed roofs thrust up against the rocky buttresses above, with jutting attic windows projecting at right angles. Here and there, colourful canvas blinds shielded the upper windows from the effects of sun on shining water, while the river flowed by, smooth and mysterious.

Susan stood at the very edge of the path and looked down into its depths, and Harriet came to join her, her eyes drawn by the enviable sight of a pleasure launch floating downstream, its passengers trailing wrists in the cooling water.

Then she heaved a deep sigh and said: ‘Come along. We have to find somewhere to stay.’

‘Oh, look!’

Susan had turned and was pointing beyond the village to where the turrets of a castle or a chateau, Harriet was never quite sure of the distinction, could be seen above the trees at the top of the escarpment. They had seen many such examples of architecture on their way to Rochelac, and had even taken the time to stop in Beynac and look at the castle which had once been the base of the sinister Mercadier. During the reign of Richard the Lionheart, he had pillaged the countryside around Beynac on behalf of the English king, until Simon de Montfort himself seized control in 1214. This area of France was rife with such stories, and its turbulent history was no small part of its attraction.

‘Do you suppose anyone lives there?’ asked Susan curiously, but Harriet could only shake her head.

‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ she replied. ‘Let’s walk up into the square again. There are no hotels or pensions down here.’

But the village appeared not to cater for passing tourists, and the proprietor of the only café explained that they did not get a lot of visitors. Fortunately Harriet was reasonably fluent in his language, her work having brought her to France on more than one occasion, as he explained that he only spoke a little English.

‘So what now?’ Harriet asked of Susan, trying not to show impatience with the girl. ‘I don’t honestly find the prospect of driving back to Beynac appealing.’

Susan grimaced, and addressed herself in school-girl French to the proprietor: ‘Connaissez-vous quelqu’un qui pourrait nous héberger cette nuit?’

The proprietor frowned, and then launched into a long speech of which Susan understood little except the word chateau. She turned confused eyes in Harriet’s direction, and taking pity on her, Harriet explained: ‘Monsieur—er—Monsieur—?’

‘Macon,’ supplied the proprietor importantly, and smiling her thanks, Harriet continued: ‘Monsieur Macon was saying that apart from the chateau, there are no houses large enough to accommodate visitors around here.’

‘Is the chateau an hotel, then?’ cried Susan excitedly, obviously finding the prospect of spending the night in some mediaeval castle to her liking, but Harriet quickly disillusioned her.

‘Apparently no one lives in the chateau these days,’ she said. ‘The owner couldn’t afford its upkeep, and it’s fallen into disrepair like some other property I could mention. Wait a minute!’

This last was spoken with such vehemence that both Susan and Monsieur Macon started violently, and stared in bewilderment at Harriet, who had sprung to her feet.

‘Monsieur Macon,’ she exclaimed earnestly, ‘is the chateau part of an estate? Would whoever owned the estate own the farms hereabouts?’

The proprietor looked taken aback now, and not altogether happy at her question. It was as though she had overstepped the mark of what was proper to ask, and he levered his overindulged body up from his chair.

‘It is possible, mademoiselle,’ he agreed stiffly. ‘Now if you will excuse me?’

Harriet clenched her fists. ‘Just—just one more thing, monsieur,’ she appealed. ‘Who owns the chateau?’

The proprietor smoothed his apron. ‘Why do you wish to know?’ he asked evasively.

Harriet glanced down at Susan. ‘I—we—as a matter of fact, I’ve bought a property only a few kilometres from here.’ She hesitated. ‘I was curious to know who used to own it, that’s all. You see,’ she hastened on, ‘I bought it through an agent, in Paris.’

The proprietor looked suspicious now. ‘But you said you needed somewhere to stay,’ he reminded her.

Harriet managed to prevent the surge of heat that seemed to be moistening every inch of skin on her body from filling her face with revealing colour. ‘Er—naturally the place needs airing,’ she protested, but she could see the man was not entirely convinced. ‘You were saying…?’

The proprietor frowned and looked doubtfully about him, as if hoping for another customer on whom to devote his attentions. But the tiny café was deserted at this hour of the day, and Harriet guessed he was wishing he had closed up earlier.

‘At least tell me the name of the chateau,’ she pressed him urgently, reasoning that whatever the chateau’s name, the owner’s would not be dissimilar.

‘It is the Chateau de Rochefort, mademoiselle,’ he told her reluctantly. ‘Anyone could tell you that.’

‘Thank you.’ Harriet gathered up her handbag and the map she had carried with her, and together with Susan left the café.

‘What was all that about?’ exclaimed Susan, as soon as they were outside and out of earshot. ‘What does it matter who owns the chateau?’

Harriet gave a secret smile. ‘I should have thought it was obvious.’

‘Well, it’s not.’

Susan was getting irritable, and Harriet gave in. ‘Don’t you see? Monsieur Frond is an agent, acting on behalf of the owners. The house—our house—was probably owned by the Count de Rochefort, or whatever the owner of that chateau up there calls himself.’

‘Oh, I see.’ Susan’s face cleared. ‘You mean—perhaps we should speak to him, is that what you mean?’

‘Something like that.’

‘But when? Now?’

‘Heavens, no.’ Harriet shook her head, and consulted her watch. ‘It’s nearly six. There’s no point in us trying to find our way there tonight and getting lost in the process. No, we’ll have to leave that until tomorrow.’

‘So what are we going to do?’ exclaimed Susan.

Harriet gave her a rueful look. ‘Well, I’m loath to say it, but I guess we go back.’

‘To the house!’ Susan sounded highly delighted.

‘Yes,’ agreed Harriet dryly, ‘to the house. But I suggest we buy a few things before we go. Like some cleaning materials, for example, and some disinfectant.’

The car was already loaded with food for a week, but Harriet added a carton of milk and some fresh eggs for good measure before bundling their recent acquisitions on to the back seat.

‘I hope you realise this isn’t going to be a picnic,’ she warned Susan, when her niece seemed incapable of wiping the smile from her face, and Susan laughed.

‘I don’t believe you’re really as sorry to be going back as you pretend,’ she insisted, and although Harriet disputed this, she couldn’t help the surge of pleasure she felt when the Fiat turned on to the bumpy, tree-lined lane. The setting sun through the trees was gilding the tiles of the house, casting a concealing mantle of shadow over the chipped and peeling walls so that like a courtesan at dusk, it did not reveal its flaws.

It was only as Harriet brought the car to a halt in front of the house that she saw the smoke emitting from the chimney, and her heart palpitated wildly as all the wild stories she had heard of ghosts and unearthly presences tumbled through her head.

‘The chimney’s smoking!’ cried Susan in alarm. ‘Harriet, we didn’t light the fire!’

One look at the girl’s haunted face was enough to bring Harriet to her senses. ‘No, we didn’t,’ she agreed grimly, thrusting open the door and climbing out with a degree of composure that inwardly amazed her.

Even so, her legs felt uncomfortably shaky as she traversed the short weed-strewn path to the open door, and her heart leapt into her throat when a tall figure appeared in the entrance, his face shadowed by the sun on her eyes. She halted uncertainly, wondering if he was a tramp or a squatter, wondering whether he might be violent; and then he spoke, and her whole world dissolved around her.

‘Harriet!’ he said incredulously. ‘Mon dieu, Harriet, is it really you?’

CHAPTER TWO

HARRIET stood as if frozen to the spot. She was aware of Susan coming up the path to stand behind her, of her touching her arm and whispering: ‘Who is it? Harriet, do you know him?’ But she made no immediate reply. She was too stunned. Too shocked. Too lacking in control of her vocal cords to allow anything to escape them which might reveal to this man exactly what finding him here had done to her. Did she know him? Oh, God! she thought vehemently, if only she didn’t. If only she had never met him! But that still didn’t explain what he was doing here.

It helped to hold tightly on to her handbag, and as her eyes adjusted themselves to the light she was able to see him clearly. Without his instant recognition of her, she wondered if she would have recognised him; and then dismissed the thought as unworthy of her intelligence. Of course she would have recognised him. He had not changed so very much, except perhaps that he was thinner, and in consequence the lines of his face were more deeply drawn. There were more streaks of grey in his hair than she remembered, but why not? It had been eight years, after all, and he must be what? Forty—forty-one, now? Maybe even forty-two. Yet his hair was still predominantly dark, and presently overlapped the collar of the rough shirt he was wearing. He had obviously been cleaning out the grate, and his hands and forearms were blackened with soot; so he made no attempt to touch her, just looked at her with those dark, heavy-lidded eyes she remembered so well.

‘Harriet,’ he said again. ‘I did not know it was you!’

‘What was me?’

The words came out sharp and staccato, not at all like her usual husky tones, and his dark brows lifted interrogatively.

‘I did not realise you were the purchaser of the house,’ he explained simply. ‘What did you think I meant?’

Harriet chose not to answer this, and glancing round nervously at Susan, made a feeble introduction: ‘This is Monsieur Laroche, Susan. He—I—we met some years ago, in Paris. At—at an auction.’

This was such a travesty of the truth that Harriet was half afraid he might contradict her, but she ought to have guessed he would not commit himself so far.

‘How do you do, Susan?’ He inclined his head politely, displaying his dirt-grimed hands. ‘I regret I am unable to offer a salutation. My apologies.’

Susan smiled a trifle uncertainly, looking to Harriet for guidance, and her aunt cleared her throat. ‘You still haven’t explained what you’re doing here—monsieur,’ she prompted abruptly, and suffered the full strength of his gaze upon her.

‘Did I not? But then I would have thought it was obvious. I am afraid I have to offer apologies for the state of the house, but my excuse is that I did not learn until yesterday that Frond had in fact found a buyer.’

‘You mean—’ Harriet stared at him aghast. ‘You mean, you were the previous owner?’

‘That is correct.’

Harriet could hardly believe it. But then she could hardly believe any of this. Even Laroche himself was far removed from the sophisticated man she had met in the St Germain salerooms in Paris. The clothes he had worn then had been immaculate and expensive, fitting his lean body as only expert tailoring can. Now of course she had to make allowances for the fact that he had been cleaning out the grate, but nothing could alter the fact that the shirt he was wearing was made of rough homespun, and the tight-fitting jeans that moulded the powerful muscles of his legs were worn and shabby.

‘You lived—here?’ she echoed faintly, feeling a growing revulsion for the place if this were so, but he shook his head.

‘No, I did not say that. I live—well, a few kilometres from here, but when I learned from Frond that the house had been sold, I realised he could have no conception as to the state it was in.’

Harriet heaved a sigh. ‘I see.’

A sudden crackling from within made him turn his head swiftly, and excusing himself he went back to attend to the sticks which were burning brightly in the grate. Harriet exchanged a helpless look with Susan, and then followed him.

The room seemed smaller with his presence by the fireplace. But she noticed that the debris had been swept away, and some attempt at cleaning the table and wooden seats had been made.

‘You did this?’ she asked disbelievingly, and he nodded.

‘I swept upstairs yesterday evening,’ he explained, feeding more wood on to the flames, ‘but I did not have time to attend to everything. As you can see, it is very primitive.’ He paused, but when she made no comment, he straightened to stand facing them again. ‘You may look around, of course, but if you feel the house is not what you were led to believe, I shall quite understand. Naturally, I cannot blame Frond, but I can instruct him to refund your payment immediately.’

Susan looked anxiously up at her aunt. Laroche’s English was much better than Harriet’s French, and there was no mistaking his meaning. Susan’s feelings were unmistakable, too.

‘As—as a matter of fact we were here earlier,’ Harriet admitted reluctantly. ‘We looked around then.’

‘Ah.’ He did not look surprised. ‘I thought I had not locked the door.’

Harriet gasped. ‘You have a key!’

His expression grew wry. ‘But of course. I have just told you. I did not know Frond had sold the place.’

‘Well, if we’re staying here, naturally I shall expect you to surrender it,’ stated Harriet stiffly, and his mouth revealed a decidedly cynical twist.

‘Naturally,’ he assured her mockingly, and she felt the betraying heat enveloping her neck. It made her aware of the low cleavage of her blouse, and of how dishevelled she must appear. Until then, she had been so absorbed with his appearance, she had paid little heed to her own.

Now her fingers went automatically to secure that revealing button, and as if aware of her discomfort, he turned away once more to check the fire. With the shadows of dusk darkening the lane outside, the fire was a cheerful sight, and like the setting sun earlier, its bright reflection gave the room an unexpected charm. With the beams swept clean of dust, and a fresh coat of emulsion on the walls, it might not look half bad, thought Harriet in a moment of weakness, but the house was no longer the deterrent; the man facing the hearth had taken its place.

Susan tugged at her sleeve. ‘We are going to stay, aren’t we?’ she mouthed desperately, and Harriet made an impatient gesture. ‘Please!’

Susan was determined, but Harriet refused to be blackmailed. All right, so it had been her idea to bring her niece away for a couple of months until all the trauma of her parents’ death had died down, but if he—she refused to think of him by his Christian name—if he was prepared to give her her money back, there was absolutely no reason why she shouldn’t buy another house, or a cottage, in another part of the country entirely. Yet she had always loved this area, and she had wanted to stay.

But that was before she had known who her neighbours might be. How could she stay here, only a stone’s throw from him and his family? How could she bear to know that she might run into him at any time—into him, or his wife! Besides, he might view her presence here as an open invitation to take up where he had left off, and that he would never do. Never! Even so, his presence here puzzled her, and she wondered how long he had undertaken menial tasks himself.

‘There! That seems to be burning satisfactorily,’ he observed at last, and moved to the sink to rinse his filthy hands. ‘Are you planning to spend the night here?’

Harriet wrapped the strap of her handbag round her wrist. ‘We were,’ she conceded shortly. ‘We—we did go into the village, looking for an inn, but a Monsieur—Macon—?’

‘Macon, oui?’

‘—he told us there were no inns hereabout.’

‘No, that is true,’ he nodded. ‘Although recently an American company have been trying to buy the chateau to turn it into a luxury hotel.’

‘The Chateau de Rochefort?’ inquired Harriet involuntarily, and he frowned.

‘You have been there?’

‘Oh, no.’ She shook her head. ‘We just thought… It doesn’t matter.’ She gave Susan a thoughtful look, and then added: ‘Perhaps we could let you know tomorrow whether—well, whether we intend to stay.’ She consulted her watch. ‘It’s getting rather late, and we’re hungry.’

He dried his hands on a handkerchief he pulled out of his jeans pocket. It was not new but it was spotlessly clean, and she found herself speculating exactly what his position was. His circumstances were intriguing, even if he deserved whatever kind of retribution this might be, she thought maliciously.

‘How will you sleep?’ he asked, thrusting his handkerchief away again. ‘The bed upstairs is not fit to use.’

‘I don’t think that need concern you, Monsieur Laroche,’ Harriet retorted coldly, and had the satisfaction of seeing a faint trace of colour darken the brown skin covering his cheekbones.

‘I did not mean to pry,’ he said quietly, and she felt reproved. But before she could make any further comment, he added: ‘If you do decide to stay, I will supply you with two single beds to take the place of the one upstairs, which must be destroyed.’

Harriet did not thank him. After all, she justified herself angrily, the house had been sold furnished, and no one could argue that a bed was an absolute necessity.

‘Where’s the cooker?’ Susan asked suddenly, and Harriet glanced round impatiently.

‘There is no cooker—at present,’ Laroche told them. ‘Some years ago, the oven beside the fire was the only facility, but the last tenants of the house were provided with a Calor gas stove. Unfortunately it was removed some months ago. I will see that it is restored also if you choose to stay.’

Harriet sighed. ‘But how can we make a hot drink?’ she protested, momentarily shaken out of her incommunicative state, and he indicated an iron kettle on the hearth.

‘I regret you will have to boil water in that for this evening,’ he said. ‘Unless…’ He paused, his eyes probing Harriet’s. ‘Unless you care to join my family and myself for supper?’

How dared he?

Harriet dragged her gaze away from his feeling a sick awareness in the pit of her stomach. How could he invite her to share his supper, to sit at the same table as his wife and family, in the full knowledge of their previous relationship?

Almost choking on the words, she refused his invitation, and he moved his shoulders in a way that betrayed his Gallic ancestry. ‘As you wish,’ he acceded equably, and moved towards the door. ‘I will return in the morning for your decision.’ He indicated the lamp hanging from the ceiling. ‘There is oil inside. Can you light it?’

Harriet straightened her spine. ‘I should think so, monsieur. Goodnight.’

‘Bonsoir,’ he responded politely, and with a brief smile at Susan, he left them, striding away down the path to the lane.

Harriet waited until he reached the lane, and then hastened to the window, hushing Susan when she tried to speak to her, and watching which direction he took. He turned away from the road which ran between Bel-sur-Baux and Rochelac, and instead, entered the copse of trees that ran down to the stream, confirming Harriet’s speculation that one could walk to the village that way. She waited until he had disappeared from sight, and then sank back against the wall, one hand pressed quellingly to the nervous pulse throbbing in her throat.

Susan stared at her for several seconds, and then she asked impatiently: ‘Who is he? What’s going on?’

Harriet straightened, shaking her head. ‘I’ve told you. He—I—we met several years ago in Paris.’

‘Is he in the antique business, too?’ exclaimed Susan in surprise.

‘I don’t know.’

‘But you said you met him at an auction!’

‘We did.’ Harriet flapped her hand about dismissingly. ‘Look, we haven’t time to talk about it now. It will be dark soon, and we still have the car to unload.’

Susan regarded her sulkily. ‘You can’t brush it off, just like that. You didn’t just meet him once, did you? I’m not a baby. I could tell there was more to it than that.’

‘Oh, Susan…’ Harriet walked out of the house.

‘Well! What went wrong?’ demanded Susan, following her. ‘I mean, he’s rather dishy, isn’t he? He reminded me of Sacha Distel.’

‘Oh, good lord, he’s nothing like Sacha Distel!’ said Harriet crossly. ‘Are you going to help me carry these things in, or not?’

Susan shrugged, and lifted a box of groceries. ‘Did you have an affair with him?’ she asked casually, and for a moment her aunt was too stunned to speak. ‘Well,’ she went on, carrying the groceries into the house. ‘People do, you know. I even know girls of my age who—’

‘I’d prefer not to discuss the matter any further,’ Harriet essayed, depositing their sleeping bags on the kitchen table. ‘Now, do you want tea or coffee? It’s all the same to me.’

‘Well, at least tell me his name,’ exclaimed Susan, looking at her appealingly, and Harriet sighed.

‘Why?’

‘I’d just like to know, that’s all. I’ll stop asking questions if you tell me, honestly.’

Harriet hesitated. ‘Will you?’

‘Yes. Yes, I promise.’

Harriet bent over the box of groceries. ‘His name’s André. André Laroche. Now, can we please get some work done?’

The kettle, after a scouring at the sink, boiled remarkably quickly, and cold ham and cheese, with some of the crusty bread from the patisserie, went down very well with hot coffee. With the lamp lighted, and the door closed against the encroaching darkness outside, it was all rather cosy, and Susan said so.’

‘We haven’t sampled the delights of washing in cold water yet, and remember, there’s no bathroom,’ Harriet observed ruthlessly. ‘Did you see the privy when you went down to the stream?’

Susan nodded ruefully. ‘It’s just outside the back door, actually.’

‘Chemical, of course?’ Susan nodded, and Harriet grimaced. ‘Oh, well, I can hardly blame anyone for that. I knew the conditions would not measure up to what we were used to, but—’

‘We are going to stay, aren’t we?’ Susan broke in eagerly. ‘It’s not as bad as you expected, is it? And if André Laroche provides us with two single beds…’

‘Monsieur Laroche to you,’ Harriet corrected her sharply, and then went on brusquely: ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do, Susan. If—if Monsieur Laroche is prepared to give me my money back, I might be well advised to take it.’

‘Oh, no!’

Susan was aghast, and Harriet spread her hands helplessly. ‘We—I can buy another house, Susan. Somewhere else. Somewhere—less—isolated.’

‘But I like it here!’ declared Susan, pushing her fringe out of her eyes, and Harriet caught her lower lip between her teeth.

It was at times like these that her niece most resembled her mother. Unlike Harriet, Sophie had been red-haired, with the blue eyes her daughter had inherited. Harriet’s hair was much fairer, although her skin was not, and she had never had the problems with tanning that Sophie had suffered. Harriet’s eyes, too, were firmly brown, and therefore stronger than Susan’s slightly myopic vision.

It was this weakening memory of her dead sister that made Harriet hesitate now, when all her instincts urged her to get rid of the house while she could, and leave Rochelac before she was forced into a situation she would regret.

‘Susan… Susan…’ she began persuasively, but her niece had her father’s strength of will.

Facing her aunt stubbornly, she said: ‘You promised me we would stay here. You said you’d always wanted to spend time in the Dordogne, exploring the castles and the caves! Now you’re changing your mind. And all because of that man!’

‘That’s not true!’ Harriet’s cheeks were red now. ‘Susan, you know I had serious doubts about this place the minute I saw it.’

‘But you’d come back, hadn’t you? You were going to give it a chance. Until you met André Laroche!’

‘Susan!’

‘I don’t believe you don’t like the house. We could make it super, and you know it. What’s wrong? Did he walk out on you or something? Is that why you’re still an old maid at twenty-six!’

As soon as the words were uttered, Susan regretted them, and she threw her head down on her folded arms and began to sob as if her heart would break. Harriet let her cry for a while, realising there was more behind her tears than disappointment at her indecision. Susan was by no means recovered from the shock of both her parents being killed in a multiple pile-up on the M1 six weeks ago, and perhaps she was being unreasonable in imagining she could shunt the child about wherever the fancy took her. After all, she could have met André again any time, at any one of a dozen sales she had visited in France since. Perhaps it was a good idea to exorcise his ghost once and for all. Certainly the memory of that period of her life had cast a shadow over all subsequent relationships to the extent that Susan was not altogether unjustified in calling her an old maid. Only Charles got anywhere near her, and their association was governed by a mutual love of antiquities.

At last she got up and went across to the girl, sliding an arm about her shoulders. Susan uttered a muffled apology, and buried her face against her, sniffing and groping blindly for her handkerchief. But the storm was over, and presently she lifted her head and looked sheepishly up at her aunt.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be silly.’ Harriet spoke cheerfully. ‘I’m not offended. You could be right—about me being an old maid, I mean.’

‘But you’re not,’ protested Susan vehemently. ‘You’re just devoted to your career, that’s all. All my friends think you’re terribly sophisticated, and your clothes are always so—elegant. You’re not a bit like—Mummy, I mean—you’ve never shown any interest in getting married or having a family, have you? But I expect you’ve known heaps of men…’

‘You make me sound like a selfish bitch!’ remarked Harriet, her smile hiding the pain the child’s words had unknowingly inflicted. If only Susan knew, she thought bitterly, if only she knew!

‘Well, anyway, that’s what I want, too,’ Susan insisted loyally. ‘I don’t want to get married until I’m thirty, at least. I’m going to make a career for myself first.’

Harriet turned away to carry their empty cups to the sink. Outside it was completely dark now, and insects attracted by the light, were beginning to throw themselves against the murky glass of the window. She had Sellotaped pieces of cardboard over the broken panes, and now, watching some of the hairy-legged moths making their futile attacks, she was glad she had. She was no lover of insects in any form.

‘Where are we going to sleep?’ asked Susan, apparently prepared to leave the question of what Harriet intended to do until the morning, and her aunt frowned.

‘In here, I think,’ she decided thoughtfully. ‘The air in the salon is definitely musty, and I’d like to be sure all the corners have been swept out before lying down in there.’

‘All right.’ Fully recovered now, Susan unrolled the sleeping bags, and spread them out before the fire. ‘Can I miss having a wash tonight? I feel too sleepy.’

Harriet nodded her agreement. ‘All right. Do you want to go outside first, or shall I?’

‘I’ll go,’ Susan offered with a grin. ‘I’ll make sure there are no spiders lurking about. At least that’s one thing I’m good for!’

An owl hooted as Harriet let herself back into the house a few minutes later, and she suppressed the hysterical laughter that welled up inside her. Why was it she had never anticipated what it might be like after dark? she wondered, securing the bolt with a definite feeling of relief.

For all she was tired, Harriet did not sleep well. She had too many things to think about, not least what she intended doing next day. Susan, lying curled up in her sleeping bag beside her, obviously had no such anxieties, and Harriet envied her her ability to leave her problems to solve themselves.

But where did that leave her? What could she do, knowing how distressed Susan would be if she insisted on selling the house? And how long might it take to negotiate another sale even if her money was instantly forthcoming? Charles had only given her eight weeks’ leave of absence, and besides, Susan had to return to school in September.

There seemed nothing for it but to remain where she was, however distasteful to her that might be. It was only eight weeks, and surely, once they were satisfactorily settled there would be no need for them to see André Laroche. It wasn’t as if they had any rent to pay, and no doubt his wife would soon object if he started paying undue attention to the new owners. Was she so unsure of herself and her feelings that she must succumb to the absurd and cowardly notion to flee? The past was dead; the pain she was experiencing was the vulnerability of an old wound that had suddenly been scratched by a heavy and insensitive hand. And like all injuries, exposure to the air might effect the swiftest cure. But nothing could convince her that she would ever feel anything but hatred and contempt for the man who had awakened her so rudely to the cruel facts of life.

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