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He paused. ‘An old friend has offered us his villa in the South of France. It stands on a headland above St Benoit Plage, and all the bedrooms have views of the Mediterranean. What do you think?’
‘You seem to have made up your mind already,’ Helen said. ‘So what does it matter?’
She thought she heard him sigh. ‘Then consider again about New York, Hélène. After all, how long is it since you had a holiday?’
‘I went skiing with the school in my last spring term,’ she said. ‘That’s what the passport was for.’ She paused. ‘But I can’t just leave here. I have things to do—responsibilities. Besides…’ She halted awkwardly.
‘Besides, spending time alone with me in America, or anywhere, is not your idea of a vacation?’ His voice was faintly caustic. ‘Is that what you were about to say?’
‘Something of the kind, perhaps,’ Helen agreed woodenly.
‘I suppose I should find your candour admirable, ma mie,’ he said, after a pause. ‘However, one day soon—or one night—we shall have to discuss your ideas in more detail.’
His tone sharpened, became businesslike. ‘In the meantime, I suggest you use some of the money I shall deposit in your account to begin recruiting extra staff for the house and grounds.’
‘But there’s no need,’ Helen protested. ‘We can manage quite well as we are.’
‘It is not a question of managing, ma chère,’ Marc told her crisply. ‘Monsieur and Madame Marland are no longer young, bien sûr, and at some point will wish to retire. In the meantime they will be glad of help, especially when there is entertaining to be done or when you are away.’
‘But I’m never away,’ she protested.
‘Until now, perhaps,’ he said. ‘But that will change. You will be my wife, Hélène, not merely my housekeeper. Perhaps I have not made that sufficiently clear. When my work takes me abroad there will be times when I shall require you to go with me.’
Her voice rose slightly. ‘You expect me to be your—travelling companion?’
‘My companion,’ he told her softly, ‘and my lover. Sleeping with you in my arms was so sweet, cherie, that I cannot wait to repeat the experience.’
‘Thank you.’ She kept her voice stony, telling herself that the faint quiver she felt inside was anger. Hating the fact that she was blushing.
She took a steadying breath. ‘Have you any more orders for me, or may I go now?’
He laughed. ‘If I gave orders, Hélène, you would be coming with me to New York.’ He gave her a second to consider that, then added more gently, ‘Sleep well, mon ange—but think of me as you close your eyes, hein?’
She murmured something incoherent, and replaced the handset.
His unexpected call had shaken her, and raised issues she’d not wanted to contemplate. Questions of autonomy, among others.
It was disturbing that he seemed to want her to share his life at all kinds of levels she hadn’t imagined. Starting with this—this honeymoon in the South of France. Exercising his power by taking her from her own familiar environment to his own domain, she thought, and shivered.
Slowly, she went up to her room. She took off his ring and placed it in the box which also housed her grandmother’s pearls—bestowed on her for her eighteenth birthday, and the only other real valuable that she possessed.
Jewellery like the ruby didn’t go with her lifestyle, and its non-stop cleaning and gardening. Nor would she take on extra staff, as he’d decreed. The arrival of his tame architect and his work crew was quite enough of an invasion of privacy, making her feel as if her personal hold on Monteagle was being slowly eroded.
But that wasn’t all of it, she thought, looking down at her bare hand. There was still part of her in rebellion against the decision that had been forced on her. And she didn’t want to admit to anyone, least of all herself, that both she and Monteagle would soon belong to Marc completely. Or display the symbol of that possession.
Think of me. His words came back to haunt her as she slid into bed and pulled the covers over her.
Oh, but he’d made sure of that, she thought bitterly. Turned it into an essential instead of a choice. Placed himself at the forefront of her mind each time she tried to sleep, making himself impossible to dismiss.
And when sheer fatigue overcame her, her sleep was restless and patchy, scarred by dreams that she burned with shame to remember in the morning. Dreams so real that when she woke she found herself reaching for him again across her narrow bed, before shocked realisation dawned.
She turned over, furious and humiliated, burying her heated face in the pillow.
‘Damn him,’ she whispered feverishly. ‘Oh, damn him to hell.’
She got up, late and listless, and searched for distraction. With Daisy’s assistance she finally removed the fragile bed and window hangings from the State Bedroom, folded them carefully into plastic sacks, and took them down to the village to deliver to Mrs Stevens at the post office.
The post mistress accepted them with a workmanlike glint in her eye. ‘Now, this will be a real pleasure,’ she said. ‘We’ll start on the cutting-out at once, while you decide on the new fabric.’ She gave Helen a kind smile. ‘So you’re courting, then, Miss Frayne—that French gentleman who stayed at the Arms a while back, I hear. Met him then, did you?’
The village grapevine, Helen realised, was in full operation already.
‘Oh, no,’ she said with perfect truth, aware at the same time that she was blushing. ‘It was before that—at a meeting in London.’ Just don’t ask how long before, that’s all.
Mrs Stevens nodded with satisfaction. ‘I knew it must be so,’ she said.
And I wish it had been. The thought came to Helen, unbidden and shocking in its implication, as she made the short trip to the Vicarage.
‘Oh, my dear girl.’ Marion Lowell hugged her ebulliently. ‘How amazing—a whirlwind romance. And such a gorgeous man.’ She turned to her husband. ‘Jeff, darling, now we have an excuse to drink that champagne we won in the Christmas tombola. I’m so glad we didn’t give it back.’
‘I hope none of the parishioners call,’ Jeff Lowell said, grinning as he passed round the fizzing glasses. ‘They’ll probably have me defrocked.’
‘Will you be getting married here in the church?’ Mrs Lowell asked, after they’d drunk to her happiness, and Helen shook her head, flushing.
‘I’m afraid not. It will be at the registry office in Aldenford.’
The Vicar looked at her quietly. ‘I’d be delighted to hold a short service of blessing afterwards, if you’d like that. Perhaps you’d mention it to your fiancé.’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Helen, hating herself for lying.
She felt sombre as she walked home. They were so kind, so pleased for her, as if she and Marc had really fallen headlong in love.
Thank goodness they had no idea of the soulless—and temporary—bargain she’d struck with him. His words still echoed in her mind. You do not profess undying love… I find that—refreshing.
And that, she thought wearily, seemed to say it all.
As she rounded the bend in the road a lorry carrying scaffolding poles went past her, and carefully negotiated its way between Monteagle’s tall wrought-iron gates.
She watched it bewilderedly, then began to run after it up the drive.
In front of the main entrance chaos confronted her. There seemed to be vans and trucks everywhere, with ladders and building supplies being briskly unloaded.
As she paused, staring round uncertainly, a man came striding towards her. He was of medium height, with brown hair and rimless glasses, and his face was unsmiling.
He said, ‘I’m sorry, but the house is no longer open for visitors.’
‘Where did you get that idea?’ Helen demanded coldly.
‘From Monsieur Marc Delaroche,’ he said. ‘The owner of the property.’
‘Not yet,’ Helen said with a snap. ‘I’m Helen Frayne, and the house still belongs to me.’ She paused. ‘I presume you’re the architect?’
‘Yes,’ he acknowledged slowly. Behind the glasses his eyes had narrowed, as if he was puzzled about something. ‘I’m Alan Graham. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Frayne,’ he added, with no particular conviction.
‘Marc mentioned you’d be coming—but not all this.’ She gestured almost wildly around her. ‘What’s going on?’
He shrugged. ‘He wants work to start as soon as possible.’
She said, ‘I can see that. But how? You can’t have arranged all this in twenty-four hours—it simply isn’t feasible.’ She stopped, dry-mouthed. ‘Unless this was all planned some time ago, of course,’ she added slowly. ‘And you were just waiting for his word to—swing into action. Is that it?’
Alan Graham fidgeted slightly. ‘Is it important? The house needs restoring, and we’re here to do it. And time is of the essence,’ he added with emphasis.
His tone implied that there was no more to be said. ‘Is there a room I could use as an office, Miss Frayne?’ He paused. ‘Marc suggested that your late grandfather’s study might be suitable, but any decision must be yours, naturally.’
Helen bit back the angry words seething inside her. Marc must have made his decision and given his orders almost as soon as they’d met, she realised with incredulity. As if he’d never had any doubt that she would ultimately accede to his demands.
How dare he take her for granted like this? she thought stormily, grinding her foot into the gravel in sheer humiliation. Oh, God, how dare he?
But it was done now, and she could see no way to undo it.
She took a deep breath. ‘My grandfather’s study has been unoccupied and unfurnished for some time,’ she said expressionlessly. ‘But you may use it if you wish.’ She hesitated, still faintly stunned by all the activity around her. ‘May I ask where all these people are going to stay?’
‘That’s not a problem. Accommodation has been arranged for them in Aldenford, and I’ve got a room at the Monteagle Arms.’
‘Oh.’ Helen digested this. She gave the architect a small cold smile. ‘I’m afraid you won’t be very comfortable there.’
‘So Marc has told me.’ For the first time Alan Graham’s face relaxed a little. ‘But it won’t be for long. My wife is joining me today to look for a cottage to rent for the duration.’
‘I see,’ Helen said woodenly. ‘And meals?’ She had a horrified vision of cauldrons of soup and platters of sandwiches to be prepared daily.
‘Packed lunches will be delivered.’ He paused. ‘Perhaps you’d direct me to the study, so that I can unpack my papers and drawings?’
‘Of course,’ Helen said, turning and leading the way to the house.
It seemed that Mr Graham shared Lottie’s disapproval of this lightning marriage, she brooded over a mug of coffee a little later, having left the architect sorting out his workspace with chilling efficiency.
‘Well!’ Daisy exclaimed, bustling into the kitchen. ‘You could have knocked me down with a feather when all those men started arriving. Mr Marc certainly doesn’t waste any time.’
‘No,’ Helen agreed through gritted teeth. ‘None at all.’
‘They’re starting on the State Bedroom,’ Daisy informed her with excitement. ‘The Helen Frayne portrait is being sent to London to be cleaned, and they’re turning the little dressing room and the room next door as well into a lovely bathroom, with a wardrobe area.’ She gave Helen a knowing look. ‘Seems as if Mr Marc intends to use the room when you’re married.’
‘Does he, indeed?’ was all Helen could find to say.
The master bedroom, she thought, her stomach twisting into nervous knots, being lavishly created for the master—and his bought bride.
When Marc telephoned that night, she was ready for him.
‘You had this planned all along,’ she stormed across his polite enquiries about her welfare. ‘Even before you came here and saw the place you knew you were going to take on Monteagle’s restoration. Why?’
‘I found your application for help—intriguing. Then I saw you, ma belle, and my fascination was complete.’ He had the gall to sound amused. ‘But it seemed I had a rival, so I decided to offer you an interest-free loan in the hope that my generosity might ultimately be rewarded.’
‘Then why didn’t you?’ Her voice was ragged.
‘Because I realised that Nigel was betraying you and soon there would be nothing to prevent me claiming you for myself. It seemed unlikely that you would become my mistress, so I offered the money as a wedding gift to you instead. Do you blame me?’
‘Blame you? Damned right I do,’ she flung at him. ‘I asked you to loan me that money—you know that. I begged you…’
‘But we are both getting what we want, mon coeur,’ he said softly. ‘And that is all that matters. Why question the means?’
‘Because you’ve deceived me,’ Helen said hotly. ‘You’ve behaved with a total lack of scruples. Doesn’t that trouble you at all?’
‘It is not of major concern to me, I confess,’ he drawled. ‘Particularly when it involves something—or someone—I desire. But if you wish it I will practise feeling ashamed for five minutes each day.’
Helen struggled to speak, failed utterly, and slammed down the phone.
He did not call her the following night, or the one after it. Gradually a week passed, and there was still silence.
And, Helen realised, she had no idea how to contact him. How ridiculous was that?
She presumed he was still in New York, and found herself wondering how he was spending his time, once work was over for the day. But that was a forbidden area, she reminded herself stonily. How Marc passed his evenings, or his nights, was none of her business. Or not until he spent them with her, of course.
Her only concern was, and always would be, Monteagle—not this ludicrously small, lost feeling that had lodged within her over the past days. There was no place for that.
All around her was a welter of dust, woodchips and falling plaster, as damp was eradicated and diseased timber ripped out amid the thud of hammers and the screech of saws and drills. Her dream was coming true at last, and Monteagle was coming slowly and gloriously back to life.
Alan Graham might still be aloof, but he knew his job, and his labour force were craftsmen who loved their work. No expense was being spared, either. Marc was clearly pouring a fortune into the project.
And that, as she kept reminding herself, was all that really mattered. She would deal with everything else when she had to.
She watched almost with disbelief as the State Bedroom was beautifully restored to its seventeenth-century origins, and, discreetly hidden behind a door, a dressing room and a glamorous twenty-first-century bathroom were created out of the adjoining room, all white and silver tiles, with a state-of-the-art shower stall and a deep sunken bathtub. Big enough for two, she noted, swallowing.
Members of the village embroidery group were already stitching the designs from the original hangings on to the pale gold fabric she’d chosen for the bed and windows, and had also promised a fitted bedcover to match.
Without the dark and tatty wallpaper, and with the lovely ceiling mouldings repaired and cleaned, and the walls painted, the huge bedroom looked incredibly light and airy, she thought. Under other circumstances it could even have been a room for happiness…
She stopped, biting her lip. Don’t even go there, she told herself tersely. Happiness is a non-word.
Particularly when there had still been no contact from Marc. Clearly he was enjoying himself too much in America to bother about a reluctant bride-to-be in England.
But on the following Wednesday, while she was standing outside watching, fascinated, as the new roof went on, she heard the sound of an approaching vehicle.
She didn’t look round because there always seemed to be cars and vans coming and going, until she suddenly heard Marc’s voice behind her, quietly calling her name.
She turned sharply, incredulously, and saw him a few feet away, casual in pale grey pants and a dark shirt. He held out his arms in silent command and she went to him, slowly and uncertainly, her eyes searching the enigmatic dark face, joltingly aware of the scorch of hunger in his gaze.
As she reached him he lifted her clear off the ground, and held her tightly against him in his embrace. She felt her body tremble at the pressure of his—at the pang of unwilling yearning that pierced her. Her throat was tightening too, in swift, uncontrollable excitement.
All those lonely nights, she thought suddenly, shakily, when she’d been able to think of nothing else but his touch—and, dear God, his kisses… All those restless, disturbing dreams that she was ashamed to remember.
