Solitaire

‘My apologies, mademoiselle. Do you use these things?’

With a start Marty pulled herself out of her disturbing reverie to the realisation that he was holding the pack of cigarettes out to her.

A faint smile was curving his mouth as if he was letting her know that he had been quite well aware of her scrutiny, and that her face had been an open book for the conflicting thoughts and emotions stirring within her.

A wave of colour rose to complete her betrayal as she swiftly shook her head. ‘Thank you, but I don’t smoke.’

‘But how wise,’ he said, still with that faint amusement underlying his words, and making her feel gauche and defenceless. He lit his own cigarette and blew out a cloud of pungent blue smoke before resuming his perusal of her letter. Marty bent her head and stared down at the scuff marks on her dusty sandals. She was beginning to wish that she had made no protest, no attempt to justify her presence here. At least by this time she would have been away from this place, and why the prospect of being alone and almost penniless in a strange country should seem safer than the comparative luxury of her present surroundings was far too complex a question for her to answer to her entire satisfaction in her present confused and emotional state.

She started as the door opened and Madame Guisard came back into the room carrying a tray. In spite of the strange inner conviction that the housekeeper did not approve of her for some reason, Marty could not deny that her preparations for this unwanted tea-party were well-nigh perfect. As well as the hot and fragrant tea with its attendant dish of sliced lemon, there was also a plate of enticing pastries—horns filled with cream and smooth chocolate and pastry shells filled with peaches and cherries and glazed in rich syrup. The housekeeper arranged the tray to her satisfaction on a small table and busied herself with the pouring out of the tea. Marty supposed that she considered the delicate porcelain cups and teapot too fragile to be entrusted to her own tender mercies, nor did she miss the narrow-eyed glance Madame favoured her with as she handed her the cup. And apparently the master of the house did not miss it either, in spite of his preoccupation with the letter. His voice was pitched too low for Marty to catch the words, but the tone was quite plainly dismissive and Madame Guisard left the salon with something of a flounce.

Now that they were alone again the silence between them seemed almost tangible, and Marty felt the tension building up inside her as she waited for him to make some comment. The initiation of any discussion was beyond her, and the fingers that held the delicate handle of her cup shook slightly as she raised her tea to her lips.

‘It’s incredible,’ he said at last. ‘I would swear that this was Jacques’ handwriting, yet it must be a forgery.’

Marty’s heart missed a beat and she set down her cup, staring at him wide-eyed.

‘A forgery—but who on earth would do such a thing?’ She caught the faint derision in the glance he bent upon her and exploded, ‘You think I did it, don’t you?’

‘It seems the most reasonable explanation.’

‘But why?’ She almost wrung her hands in fury. ‘What possible motive could I have for doing such a thing?’

He shrugged. ‘Perhaps because you wanted to attract my attention. If so, your ploy has succeeded admirably, mademoiselle. I congratulate you.’

She loked at him fiercely, her small breasts rising and falling in time with her erratic breathing. ‘You really must be the most abominably arrogant and conceited man it has ever been my misfortune to meet,’ she said, her voice shaking. ‘Do you honestly think that you’re so irresistible that a woman would travel half across Europe simply to be noticed by you, because if so . . .’

‘A number of women have travelled twice that distance—and shown even more determination on their arrival than you have,’ he said dispassionately. ‘Where you differ from them is in your unwillingness to admit that your motives for coming here are not of the purest. I can only guess that Jacques must have written to you before his death telling you to whom he had sold the villa, and your ambition led you to make the best possible use of your information.’

Ambition—motives—information? Marty’s head reeled. Nothing he was saying made the slightest sense, and to her horror she felt the weakness of tears threatening to overcome her again. She couldn’t break down a second time under his ironic gaze. She sprang to her feet.

‘You accused me of playing games, monsieur, but it’s you that seems to enjoy talking in riddles. But I’m afraid your snide insinuations are wasted on me. I came here hoping to find a home and someone to love me, that’s all. Laughable, isn’t it, and I apologise for being so naïve. But if that letter was a fraud and a hoax, then I was the victim, not the perpetrator. And I can assure you I have no desire to pander to your overwhelming ego by adding another name to your list of conquests. I’ll go now. Please don’t bother to show me to the door.’

She took two steps across the salon before his hand descended on her shoulder, turning her forcibly to face him. She gasped in mingled pain and fury as his fingers bruised her flesh.

‘Take your hands off me!’ she raged, her balled fists lifting instinctively to strike at his bare chest.

‘Tais-toi,’ he ordered, his voice as harsh and abrupt as a blow in the face. ‘Calm down for a moment, you little firebrand, and tell me something. What’s my name?’

His hand snaked down and closed around both her slender wrists, holding them in a paralysing grip as he stared down into her face. He was holding her so close to him that she could feel the warmth from his half-bared body on her own skin. This new proximity was too sudden, too intimate, she found herself thinking wildly.

‘I said what’s my name?’ The dark face came threateningly near her, his piercing eyes seeming to mesmerise her.

‘How should I know?’ she flung back at him. ‘Don Juan, I suppose, or Casanova. They both seem eminently suitable.’

‘Try Luc Dumarais.’ His eyes continued to bore relentlessly into hers while the grip on her wrists increased in pressure until she thought she would be forced to cry out if he did not let her go. He seemed to be awaiting a particular response from her, but for the life of her she could not guess what it was.

‘Is that supposed to mean something to me?’ she asked at last.

‘Perhaps. Perhaps not.’ The black brows were drawn together frowningly, but to her relief that crushing grasp of her wrists had slackened. ‘You don’t go to the cinema?’

She shook her head, her startled eyes searching his face. ‘Is that … I mean, are you a film star?’

He gestured impatiently. ‘God spare me that! I’m a director. And you? If you’re another would-be actress looking for a part in my next film, you’d better confess now.’

‘An actress?’ She closed her eyes for a moment. ‘You must be mad! I’ve never been on a stage in my life.’ Not since, she thought achingly, that abortive chance she’d been offered as a child at school. She managed an unsteady laugh. ‘I could hardly look less like an embryo film star.’

‘It is no longer necessary to look like a carbon copy of Bardot,’ he said drily. ‘Your clothes are poor and your hair is badly cut, but with a little attention you would not be unattractive.’

She flushed angrily, pulling herself free from his slackened grasp. She was quite well aware of her own shortcomings, she thought furiously. She didn’t need to have them pointed out by this arrogant Frenchman, even if he was a film director as he claimed. And she had to admit that for all she knew he could be all he said and more. Aunt Mary had considered the price of cinema seats a sinful waste of money and had reacted in horror against the permissive trend in what was being shown at a great many film centres. Within this context, all foreign films had been a particular anathema to her, and Marty had never even been allowed to watch any of the great classics of the genre shown on television.

‘Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I’ve never heard of you,’ she said with childish ungraciousness, and saw his firm lips twist in wry acknowledgment.

‘I believe you,’ he said. ‘I don’t think even an experienced actress could have managed that look of total blankness when you heard my name. So I acquit you of coming here with an ulterior motive.’

‘Thank you!’ She concentrated as much acid as she was capable of in her tone.

‘But that still does not explain the letter.’ He walked back to his chair and picked it up, studying it yet again, then turning his attention to the envelope.

‘The letter is undated, but there is a postmark,’ he remarked at last. ‘Curious. It was posted in Les Sables just over a month ago.’

Marty moved her shoulders wearily. ‘Someone’s idea of a cruel joke, I suppose,’ she said. ‘I hope whoever it is will be delighted with their success.’

‘I think not,’ he said abruptly. ‘As I said before, no one here knew of your existence. Jacques never mentioned you, and as far as we all knew he died without kin.’

‘He was always a loner,’ Marty said tiredly. ‘He—he travelled a great deal all his life and seemed to find it difficult to put down roots. But he always promised that when he finally made a settled home for himself, he would send for me.’

‘And you believed him?’

She looked at him in bewilderment. ‘Of course. Uncle Jim wouldn’t lie to me.’

‘I didn’t mean that. I meant that you believed he would be capable of creating this stable environment that you desired so greatly. You never paused to ask yourself whether this was the right thing to ask of such a man—a loner, as you yourself have said—a nomad even. You never asked yourself whether such a leopard would be able to change his spots?’

‘No, I never did.’ It was shaming to have to confess her lack of perception, her stubborn refusal to accept that the doubts Aunt Mary had raised had been valid ones. She had been too ready to blame them on prejudice, and had failed to see that they were not without foundation. She cleared her throat. ‘Why did Uncle Jim sell the villa to you?’

‘He needed the money,’ he returned with brutal frankness. ‘The flower farm had been a failure, although he tried hard enough to make a success of it, and he was deeply in debt. We had met some months before when I was staying in the locality and he knew I was looking for a house, so we came to an arrangement.’ His hand came out and lifted her chin gently. ‘If it is any consolation to you,’ he said quietly, ‘he clearly intended that you should have the best. I have not altered the house at all since I moved in except to install my own furniture. It took all the money he had been able to save in a lifetime and all he could borrow as well to buy this villa.’

‘But why?’ Marty fought her tears. ‘I didn’t want—all this. I would have been content with something far smaller—humbler.’

‘But maybe he could not,’ he said. ‘Perhaps a promise made to a child assumed paramount importance in his life, in his thinking. Perhaps when you make a dream come true for someone, there should be no half measures. And perhaps too he knew he did not have a great deal of time left. According to the letter, this was meant to be your inheritance.’

‘You’re talking now as if you believe Uncle Jim really did write that letter!’

He shrugged. ‘What other rational conclusion is there? All that remains to be explained is the lapse of time between the writing, and its posting.’ He paused and she saw an intentness in his expression as if he was listening to something. He released her and with a fierce gesture to her to keep silence, he strode swiftly and quietly towards the door of the salon, jerking it open.

Marty heard him speaking to someone in French, his voice like a whiplash, and she quailed. Surely the austere Madame Guisard didn’t descend to listening at keyholes, she thought, a hysterical desire to laugh welling up inside her.

But when Luc Dumarais reappeared he was holding the arm of a young boy, thin and dark-haired, the slenderness of his wrists and ankles betraying how brief the journey he had taken so far towards adolescence. His mouth set and mutinous, he glared up at the man who was thrusting him mercilessly towards where Marty was standing, open mouthed.

‘I have the honour to present my son Bernard, mademoiselle,’ Luc Dumarais said tightly. ‘His interest in the matter we have been discussing leads me to think he could shed some light on the problem that has been perplexing us.’ He picked up the letter and the envelope and held them out to the boy, who stared at them sullenly.

‘Alors, Bernard,’ his father said almost silkily. ‘Did you send this letter to Mademoiselle Langton?’

There was a long silence. Bernard’s slightly sallow complexion took on a deep guilty flush. His lips parted slightly, but no sound came out.

Marty felt suddenly sorry for him. ‘It’s all right, Bernard,’ she said, trying to sound encouraging. ‘I’m sure you meant well and …’

‘I did not mean anything,’ he interrupted flatly in heavily accented English. ‘I found the letter in a book that Jacques gave me. I thought that I would send it, that was all.’

‘How long ago did you find it?’ Luc Dumarais demanded.

Bernard shrugged, his face peevish. ‘I don’t remember. A long time ago—just after he died.’

‘And it did not occur to you that a more proper course of action would have been to give me the letter, so that I could pass it on to the lawyer who was dealing with Jacques’ affairs?’ Luc said coldly.

‘Why should I?’ Bernard flung his head back defiantly and faced his father. ‘The letter was not written to you. It was not your business.’

‘Or yours,’ Luc Dumarais returned harshly. ‘Yet you chose to make it so.’

Bernard shrugged again. ‘I did not know what was in it,’ he muttered defensively. ‘I did not know that Mademoiselle would be fool enough to come here. Who is she?’ he added. ‘Jacques’ mistress?’

Almost before he had finished speaking, Luc’s hand shot out and slapped him across the face. The boy staggered back wincing with a gasp that was echoed by Marty’s.

She whirled on Luc. ‘There was no need for that, surely!’

‘There was every need.’ His voice sounded weary. ‘Or are you accustomed to be insulted in such a manner?’

‘No, of course not.’ Marty was taken aback. ‘But he didn’t mean it.’

Luc’s smile held no amusement whatsoever. ‘He meant it.’ He turned and gave his son who was standing, his fingers pressed to his cheek, a long hard look. ‘As he always means every word of the mischief he makes. Pauvre Bernard! Were you so lost for ways to anger me that you had to send all the way to England? Involve a complete stranger?’

‘Well, it has been a success, tout de měme,’ the boy burst out suddenly, and Marty was horrified at the malice in his voice. ‘For now this girl has come, and you will have to deal with her, mon père.’ He turned and ran out of the room, banging the salon door behind him.

Marty heard Luc Dumarais swear softly under his breath before he swung back to face her.

‘As you see, mademoiselle,’ he said coldly, ‘your intervention on my son’s behalf was quite unnecessary. He has his own weapons.’

Marty spread her hands out helplessly in front of her. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said inadequately.

‘There is no need,’ he said impatiently. ‘It is I who must apologise to you as it was my son who has brought you on this wild goose chase.’

‘But why should he do such a thing?’

‘You heard,’ he said. ‘To annoy me. To disrupt the peace I have tried to establish here. To cause me yet more problems, and eventually to prove such a thorn in my flesh that I will willingly send him back to Paris to his mother’s family.’

‘And you aren’t prepared to do that?’ Marty ventured.

‘No, I am not.’ Luc Dumarais stretched tiredly. He did not volunteer any further explanation and his dark face was so harsh and strained suddenly that Marty did not dare probe further.

There was a long silence. It was eventually broken by Luc, and Marty had the impression that he was forcing himself back from some bitter journey into the past. She tried to remember what Jean-Paul had said about the household while she was still under the mistaken impression that his remarks referred to Uncle Jim. He had spoken of a divorce, she thought, and also that Bernard’s mother was dead. He had also given her the feeling that Bernard would not welcome her presence. But then, she thought, Bernard would not be welcoming to anyone. Brief though their meeting had been, she had sensed an air of resentment and hostility which seemed to encompass the world at large.

‘Now we must decide what must be done with you.’ He sounded resigned.

‘That’s easily settled.’ Marty tried to shut out of her mind the chilling realisation of just how much she had staked on this trip and the pitiful amount of money now left to her. ‘I—I shall return to England. There really isn’t any need to concern yourself …’

‘Don’t be a fool.’ His voice bit at her. ‘My son was to blame for bringing you here. The responsibility now rests with me. Just how do you propose to return to England? Did you buy a return ticket for the ferry?’

‘No,’ she admitted. ‘But that’s no problem.’ She tried to sound careless—a seasoned traveller, and saw his eyes narrow speculatively as he looked her over.

‘You have travellers’ cheques?’ he asked pleasantly. ‘Or are your resources restricted to those few francs you have in your bag?’

For a moment she was stunned, then she blazed at him. ‘You dared—you actually dared to look in my bag?’

‘Yes, I dared,’ he said calmly. ‘I wished to check your passport and make sure you had a right to the identity you were claiming. Or did you think I would trustingly let any strange waif into my house, merely because she professed kinship with a man no longer alive to support or deny her claim? It seemed to me that you had planned only on a one-way trip.’

‘The more fool I,’ she said tightly. ‘But it really isn’t any of your concern. I’m sure if I really had been an actress with an eye on a part in your latest film you would have thrown me out without a second thought. Just because Martina Langton, starlet, doesn’t exist, Martina Langton, secretary, doesn’t require your charity either.’

‘There are arrangements you can make? Relatives in England you can cable for money?’

Marty suppressed a wry smile as she visualised Aunt Mary’s reaction to any such demand.

‘No, there’s no one,’ she acknowledged quietly. ‘But I’ll manage. I’m quite capable of working, you know, and Les Sables is a seaside resort. I can get a job at one of the hotels—waiting at tables perhaps, or as a chambermaid.’

‘Les Sables is a small resort. Most of the hotels are family businesses and do not make a habit of employing outsiders, especially foreigners. Any casual work available has already been snapped up by students,’ he said unemotionally. ‘What other ideas have you?’

‘None,’ she was provoked into admitting. She lifted her chin defiantly and looked at him. ‘But I’ll think of something.’

‘I have already thought of something.’ His voice was cool and almost dispassionate. ‘You can remain here.’

CHAPTER THREE

‘THAT,’ Marty said after a heart-thumping pause, ‘is the last thing I shall do.’

She spoke carefully, anxious to keep any betraying quiver out of her voice. Her pulses were behaving very oddly all of a sudden, and she wanted to wipe her damp palms on her jeans, but she restrained herself. The last thing she wanted was to let Luc Dumarais know the turmoil his suggestion had thrown her into.

Frantic thoughts began to gallop through her head. If she screamed, would Madame Guisard hear—and if she heard, would she bother to take any action? Could she manage to get past Luc Dumarais to the door? Thanks to Bernard, it was shut. Would he catch her before she could get it open and make her escape? Then there was the dog. Her mouth felt suddenly dry, and she moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue.

‘Mon dieu,’ he said very softly. ‘It’s really true. The prototype English virgin, spying rapists behind every bush. Calm yourself, ma petite,’ he went on, his mouth twisting sardonically. ‘I’ve never been forced to resort to rape yet. And if I wanted a little adventure, believe me I wouldn’t choose an inexperienced child as a partner.’

Marty felt the hot blood invade her cheeks. ‘You’re quite wrong,’ she protested without conviction. ‘I wasn’t thinking …’

‘Don’t lie,’ he said. ‘Has no one told you, mon enfant, that your face is a mirror to your thoughts? Did you really imagine that you had inflamed my passions to such an extent that I could not bear to let you go?’

‘You,’ she said very distinctly, ‘are quite the most loathsome man I have ever met.’

‘But then I would say such encounters have been rather limited, have they not? Nor is it exactly courteous to describe a prospective employer as loathsome.’

‘You’re not my employer. Nothing would prevail on me to work for you,’ Marty declared tremblingly.

‘No? But do you imagine you have a great deal of choice?’ he enquired. ‘You haven’t sufficient money to eat, and travel to a larger place to find work—even supposing there was anyone willing to give you a job. You have no relatives or friends to help you, on your own admission, and I should warn you that the authorities do not look kindly on indigent foreigners.’

‘How dare you call me indigent! I’m a trained secretary.’

‘So I read in your passport,’ he said almost negligently. ‘I should not otherwise be offering you work.’

Marty gave a gasp of utter frustration. No matter what she said, he seemed to have an answer.

‘Oh, this is ridiculous!’ she declared. ‘I—I’m going.’

She tried to march past him to the door, but his hand closed on her arm detaining her. She was aware of an almost overwhelming impulse to forget her upbringing and sink her teeth into his tanned flesh.

‘I advise against it,’ he said infuriatingly, almost as if she had voiced the thought aloud. ‘I can promise you that you would not enjoy the inevitable reprisals.’

She stood very still, her eyes downcast, conscious only of the firm pressure of his hand upon her arm.

‘Will you let me go, please?’ she asked politely.

‘Will you stop turning my salon into a battleground?’ he returned, but he released her arm. ‘You are in no fit state to discuss anything rationally at the moment. You have had a number of shocks today, which I regret. At least let me make amends by offering you a meal and a room for the night. In the morning you may feel better disposed to listen to what I have to say to you.’

‘I doubt that very much,’ she muttered. ‘All I really want to do is get away from this place.’

‘Then your most sensible course of action is to earn sufficient money to make this possible,’ he said unemotionally. ‘You would not find me ungenerous in the matter of wages. In any case, earnings in France are higher than in England.’

There was an awful kind of logic in what he said, Marty told herself despairingly. For a moment, she toyed with the idea of asking him to advance her the fare home on the understanding that she would repay him when she got back home and found another job. But she herself could see the flaws in this. For one thing, with unemployment running rife, she had no real guarantee she would find another job very easily. And when she did, she would need somewhere to live, and had little idea how much she would have to pay for rent, and heating, not to mention her food and clothes. What money would she have to repay anyone?

An involuntary sigh broke from her lips. He had not exaggerated when he had said she was in no state to consider his offer. She wasn’t just physically tired from her days of travel. She felt emotionally battered as well, her grief and disappointment at what she had discovered at the Villa Solitaire now being joined by a very real fear of what the future might hold. She had destroyed what fragile security she had had to snatch at a shadow. It had been the first reckless act she had ever committed, this journey to France, and it had ended in disaster.