Сара Крейвен – The Right Bride?: Bride of Desire / The English Aristocrat's Bride / Vacancy: Wife of Convenience (страница 2)

Lady Marchington looked almost shocked. ‘There are many different levels of therapy, Alice. And it was only a suggestion, after all.’

As if signifying that the matter was closed, she turned her attention to the pile of post which had been placed beside her, as it was every morning. And, as she did so, Allie suddenly spotted the pale blue envelope with the French stamp, halfway down, and stifled a small gasp.

A letter from Tante Madelon, she thought, and felt the hair stand up on the back of her neck. Was that the real reason for last night’s dream, and not the storm at all? Why she’d heard all over again the sibilant rush of the incoming tide and the thunder of the pursuing hoofbeats? Because somehow she’d sensed that all the memories of Brittany she’d tried so hard to bury were about to be revived?

Her heart was thumping against her ribs, but she knew there was no point in claiming the letter. That wasn’t the way the system worked. All the mail delivered to the Hall came to Grace first, to be scrutinised before it was handed out to staff and family alike.

And if she thought you were taking an undue interest in any item, she was quite capable of taking the day’s post to her private sitting room and letting you seethe quietly for half a day, or even twenty-four hours, before handing it over with the mellifluous words, ‘I think this must be for you.’

‘It’s madness,’ Allie had once told Hugo heatedly. ‘Your mother is the ultimate control freak. Why don’t you say something?’

But he’d only looked at her, brows raised in haughty surprise. ‘Mother’s always dealt with the mail. My father preferred it, and I don’t see it as a problem.’

But then Hugo had seen very little as a problem, apart from the utter necessity of providing a son and heir for his beloved estate. That, in the end, had been the driving force—the obsession in his ruined life. Two ruined lives, if she counted her own, and she tried hard not to do that. Bitterness, after all, was futile, and damaged no one but herself. Regret, too, altered nothing.

But was she still mourning her late husband, as her mother-in-law had suggested? In her innermost heart, she doubted that. The suddenness of his death had certainly been an acute shock, but she suspected her reaction was largely triggered by guilt because she’d never really loved him.

For a long time she’d felt numb—too emotionally paralysed even to feel relief that the nightmare of their marriage had ended—but that had been over and done with long ago.

Slowly and carefully, she’d begun to find herself again, and somehow she had to move on from that—to regain the here and now, and stop allowing Grace to treat her as some kind of cipher—even if it did end with blood on the carpet.

How to go about it, of course, was not so clear, she told herself ironically. Because her mother-in-law seemed to hold all the winning cards.

In those tragic crowded weeks after Hugo had died with such shocking suddenness and Tom had been born, Allie herself had temporarily descended into some bleak, dark limbo.

It was then that Grace Marchington had effortlessly reassumed the role of mistress of the house. In fact, Allie could see, looking back, that she’d never really been away.

I was just the temporary usurper who gave Hugo the son he’d craved, she thought. And after that I was supposed to retire into well-deserved obscurity, while Grace and Nanny pursued the task of turning Tom into a tintype of Marchington Man.

But that’s not going to happen, because I won’t let it.

She realised, however, that she needed to conserve her energies for the battles she had to win—and Grace being anally retentive over a bunch of letters was not the most important. A minor irritation at best.

So, for the time being, she sat and ate the toast that Mrs Windom had brought, and never gave a second glance at the mail that Grace was examining with such torturous slowness. It might only be a small victory, but it counted.

She looked instead at the picture on the wall in front of her. It was a portrait of Hugo that his mother had commissioned for his twenty-fifth birthday, two years before the accident. Lady Marchington had not been altogether satisfied with the result, saying it was a poor likeness. But Allie wasn’t so sure about that. The artist had given Hugo credit for his undoubted good looks, but also hinted at a slight fleshiness about the jaw, and a peevish line to the mouth. Nor had he made any attempt to conceal that the crisply cut dark hair was already beginning to recede.

It was Hugo, she thought, as he would have become if his life had taken a different path. If there’d been more time…

And suddenly superimposed on it, she realised, her heart bumping, was another face—thinner, swarthier, with a beak of a nose and heavy-lidded eyes, as blue and cold as the sea. And a voice in her head whispered a name that she’d tried hard to forget—Remy…

‘This seems to be yours, Alice.’

She started violently as she realised that Lady Marchington, lips faintly pursed, was holding out the blue envelope.

‘I presume it’s from your French great-aunt,’ the older woman added. ‘I hope it isn’t bad news.’

‘I hope so too,’ Allie said lightly, ignoring the hint that she should open it instantly and divulge the contents. ‘But at least she’s alive.’

She heard the hiss of indrawn breath, and braced herself for a chilling rebuke over inappropriate levity, but instead the dining room door opened to admit the housekeeper.

‘Excuse me, your ladyship, but Mrs Farlow is asking to speak to you on the telephone. A problem with the Garden Club accounts.’

‘I’ll come.’ Lady Marchington rose with an expression on her face that boded ill for the unfortunate Club treasurer. And for Allie, too, if she was still around when her mother-in-law returned.

As soon as she was alone, Allie went quickly across to the French windows and let herself out on to the terrace. A few minutes later she was pushing open the wrought-iron gate into the Fountain Court. It was one of her favourite places, with its gravelled paths, the raised beds planted with roses, just coming into flower, and the tall, cascading centrepiece of ferocious tritons and swooning nymphs from which it took its name.

It was an odd thing to find at an English country house, she had to admit, but it had been designed and installed by a much earlier Sir Hugo, who’d fallen in love with Italy while on the Grand Tour, and had wanted a permanent memento of his travels.

Allie loved the fountain for its sheer exuberance, and for the cool, soothing splash of its water which made even the hottest day seem restful. She sat on one of the stone benches and opened Tante’s letter. She read it through swiftly, then, frowning, went back to the beginning, absorbing its contents with greater care.

It was not, in fact, good news. The writing was wavery, and not always easy to decipher, but the gist of it was that all was far from well with her great-aunt.

It seems that this will be my last summer at Les Sables d’Ignac. However, I have had a good life here, and I regret only that so long has passed since we were together. You remind me so much of my beloved sister, and it would make me truly happy to see you again, my dearest child. I hope with all my heart that you can spare me a little time from your busy life to visit me. Please, my dear Alys, come to me, and bring your little boy with you also. As he is the last of the Vaillac blood, I so long to see him.

My God, Allie thought, appalled. What on earth could be wrong with her? Tante Madelon had always given the impression that she was in the most robust of health. But then she hadn’t seen her for almost two years—and that was indeed a long time.

She realised, of course, that her great-aunt must be in her late seventies, although her looks and vigour had always belied her age. In fact, to Allie she’d always seemed immortal, only the silvering of her hair marking the inevitable passage of time.

Soberly, she thought of Tante as she’d seen her last. The older woman’s pointed face had been drawn and anxious, but the dark, vivid eyes had still been full of life. Full of love for this girl, her only living relative.

‘Don’t go back, ma chérie,’ she’d urged. ‘There is nothing for you there. Stay here with me…’ Her voice had died away, leaving other things unsaid.

And Allie had replied, stumbling over the words, her head reeling, her emotions in shreds, ‘I—can’t.’

Now, she took a deep breath to calm herself, then slowly re-read the postscript at the end, the words running down the page as if the writer had been almost too weary to hold the pen.

Alys, I promise there is nothing that should keep you away, and that you have no reason to fear such a visit.

In plain words, Tante was offering her assurance—the essential guarantee that she thought Allie would want. Telling her, in effect, that Remy de Brizat would not be there. That he was still working abroad with his medical charity.

Only it wasn’t as simple as that. It wasn’t enough. He might not be physically present, but Allie knew that her memory—her senses—would find him everywhere.