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  Ryan’s cheeks were flaming. ‘You seem to have noticed quite a lot yourself, Marie!’ she declared curtly. ‘And I think you’re confusing love with—with lust!’

  Marie dimpled. ‘Without lust, what is love? The union between a man and a woman is a cold thing without desire.’

  ‘Oh, go away and get on with your duties!’ exclaimed Ryan frustratedly. ‘I shall expect you to finish before you leave.’

  ‘Yes, madame.’

  Marie sauntered away and Ryan wondered whether she was being too familiar with the girl. She doubted that Vivienne Couvrier would permit such conversations with her staff. Vivienne Couvrier! Ryan wondered why her name had suddenly sprung to mind. And then she remembered. Marie had mentioned that there were women in the village who would like to change places with her. She had no doubts at all that Vivienne Couvrier fell into that category.

  The New Year was born and soon after this Alain was able to come downstairs to his study and conduct his business affairs from there. Gilbert Chauvin was a frequent visitor to the house, and Ryan grew to like the rotund little Frenchman who paid her such outrageous compliments and treated Alain’s impatience with such tolerance.

  Within another week Alain was able to get out and about again, and although he maintained his amiable attitude towards Ryan, it wasn’t the same. They no longer lingered over lunch together, talking about casual topics like books and films, comparing likes and dislikes of all manner of things. She had not learned a lot about his past at this time, but she had felt that they were beginning to know one another’s minds. His return to normal changed all that, and when he began going out in the evenings again she wanted to curl up and die.

  Of course, she didn’t. But a certain withdrawal crept into her manner towards him again, and as though he was aware of it he became cool and withdrawn as before. Christmas, its events and casualties, might never have been, and she sometimes wondered whether she had imagined that night spent in his bed.

  Towards the end of January Ryan was visiting the village one afternoon for supplies when she saw Alain’s station wagon parked in the forecourt of the garage. It was the first time she had seen his car there, although she conceded that had he parked round the back she would never have noticed it. She had no need to read the broad sign which indicated: Poste d’Essence, G. Couvrier, Propriétaire, to know whose garage it was, and as though to emphasize the point Vivienne Couvrier emerged from the small office at that moment accompanied by Alain and another, younger man.

  The last thing Ryan wanted just then was to be found observing his movements, and although anyone seeing her would no doubt find it strange that she did not stop to speak to her husband, she hurriedly pushed open the door of the village stores and effaced herself amongst the jumble of boxes and fixtures. Fortunately Madame Caron had been through the back of the shop, and when she appeared her attention was not drawn to what was going on across the street.

  But walking home again, Ryan found herself filled with righteous indignation. How dared Alain parade his affair with Vivienne Couvrier for everyone to see? How could he humiliate her so, particularly after the way he had behaved over David Howard? She wondered how the Englishman was getting on now that school had started. She had intended asking Alain whether she might invite him to dinner one evening, but circumstances had always been against it. Now she wished she could see him and ask him. She would have done so there and then, in the heat of her anger, and to hell with what Alain would say.

  She had intended making a chicken curry for dinner that evening, serving it on a bed of flaky rice, with a raspberry mousse to follow. But she was so angry with Alain that she decided he could make do with something far less exotic like omelette and chips. The raspberry mousse, which she had made earlier in the day with some raspberries taken from the freezer, she put to the back of the fridge, and she set the table instead with cheese and biscuits.

  If she had expected some violent reaction from Alain to this plain repast, she was sadly disappointed. He arrived home as usual, soon after five, was closeted in his study until seven, and then emerged to wash and change before their evening meal. Even when he sat down to the meal, he was obviously absorbed with his own thoughts, and Ryan held her tongue with difficulty.

  By the time they had reached the coffee stage, Ryan was really frustrated, and she set his coffee before him with such a force that she spilled at least a third of it into the saucer. But at least she succeeded in arousing his interest, although his eyes were enigmatic as he said: ‘Is something wrong?’

  Ryan slammed their dirty plates into the sink. ‘What could be wrong?’ she demanded sharply.

  ‘That is what I want to know.’ Alain studied her expression as she turned back to the table. ‘The meal was very enjoyable. Is that what you want me to say?’

  ‘Oh, was it?’ Ryan put her hands on her hips. ‘Well, I thought it was dull and boring! I had intended making a chicken curry, but after going down to the village this afternoon I decided I couldn’t be bothered!’

  Alain shrugged, getting to his feet to get his cheroots. ‘I do not expect you to go to a great deal of trouble on my account, Ryan,’ he stated, lighting one of the long narrow cigars he favoured. ‘And it was quite pleasant for a change.’

  ‘I’m so glad!’

  Ryan was openly sarcastic, and Alain gave her a resigned stare. ‘If you have something on your mind, Ryan, then tell me. All this verbal skirmishing is very childish.’

  ‘Oh, is it?’ He could not have said anything to hurt her more. ‘How tiresome for you! But then I am a child, aren’t I? A boring, tiresome adolescent, whose company you avoid at every opportunity.’

  Alain inhaled deeply on the cheroot and then studied its glowing tip. ‘I presume you imagine I did not see you this afternoon,’ he commented dryly, ‘scuttling into Madame Caron’s like a frightened rabbit!’

  Ryan’s lips parted in astonishment. ‘You—saw—me?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And of course you didn’t say anything to your—your companion!’ Ryan’s mouth was sulky.

  ‘Would you have wanted me to? Would you have wanted me to say—Oh, look, Vivienne, there’s my wife. Pretending she hasn’t seen me! I think not.’

  His statement had taken Ryan’s initiative, and she hunched her shoulders moodily. ‘Don’t pretend you expected to see me!’ she muttered. ‘I have to walk down to the village if I want something. No doubt your precious Madame Couvrier has you for her chauffeur.’

  Alain’s mouth twitched. ‘You are jealous. How amused Vivienne would be if she knew.’

  Ryan’s head jerked up. ‘I am not jealous!’ she denied furiously. ‘And don’t you dare to tell her that I am.’

  ‘Then stop behaving as though you own me!’ he retorted curtly.

  Ryan turned back to the sink. ‘Go to hell!’ she muttered, almost inaudibly, but not quite.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  DURING the following days Ryan avoided speaking to her husband. She behaved normally, doing the housework, preparing the meals, but outside of the common courtesies she said little. If Alain noticed, he chose to ignore it, no doubt assuming that sooner or later she would come round, and it was left to Marie to comment on the dark lines around Ryan’s eyes and the drooping curve of her mouth.

  ‘I think you are unhappy, madame,’ she said one day, as they were folding some sheets. ‘Has Monsieur Alain been unkind to you?’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Marie.’ Ryan couldn’t bear the sympathy in the other girl’s voice. ‘Hold the sheets more firmly. You’re creasing them.’

  ‘You don’t answer, but I know, madame.’ Marie was not to be put off. ‘I have seen the light go out of your eyes.’

  ‘You’re much too fanciful, Marie.’ Ryan laid the folded sheet over the airer. ‘How’s that brother of yours these days? Armand? Was that his name?’

  ‘Armand is all right.’ Marie shrugged inconsequentially. ‘He is getting married soon.’

  ‘Married?’ Ryan was
glad to have something else to think about. ‘But he’s only young, isn’t he?’

  ‘He’s eighteen, madame. Old enough to father the child that Brigitte Toulouse is carrying.’

  Ryan caught her breath. ‘Oh! Oh, I see.’ She made a helpless gesture. ‘And how old is—Brigitte?’

  ‘Seventeen, madame.’ Marie’s eyes twinkled at Ryan’s expression. ‘Do not feel sorry for her, madame. She has wanted Armand since he was—oh, fourteen, fifteen.’ She smiled. ‘He has only done what she wanted after all.’

  Ryan turned away. She still couldn’t get over the embarrassment of talking about such intimate things. To think that Brigitte—and Marie—and no doubt lots of other girls in the village knew everything there was to know about the relationship between a man and a woman, while she, married over three months, knew no more now than she had ever done. She tried to imagine how she would feel taking off her clothes in front of Alain and found the prospect so disturbing she had to abandon it.

  Still, she had thought that their conversation about Marie’s brother had successfully distracted the other girl’s attention from Ryan’s own affairs. Two days later, however, she had reason to doubt this.

  It was another wet day and Alain had run Marie down to the village in the station wagon at lunchtime instead of allowing her to get soaked. After lunch, he had said he had to go into Anciens and as he had not invited Ryan to go with him she faced a miserable afternoon. The weather reflected her mood and she was pleasantly surprised when someone came knocking at the front door. No one she knew ever used the heavy oaken door that faced the sweep of the valley and although she was a little anxious about opening her door to strangers, curiosity overcame caution.

  To her astonishment, David Howard stood sheltering under the canopy, and grinned with relief when he recognized her. His mackintosh was dripping with rain water, and his dark hair was plastered to his head. He had obviously walked up from the village and Ryan stood aside almost automatically, inviting him inside.

  ‘Thank goodness it was the right house!’ he exclaimed, shedding his mackintosh. ‘What an afternoon!’

  ‘Yes.’ Ryan endeavoured to gather her scattered wits. ‘I—er—won’t you come through to the kitchen? It’s warmer in there.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  David followed her across the hall and as he did so Ryan wondered what Alain would say when he found out about this. Then she shook her head impatiently. He didn’t control her every movement. If she chose to have David here then he should not object.

  David hung his mackintosh on the hook behind the kitchen door and warmed his hands at the fire. ‘Mmm, this is much better.’ He glanced round at her hovering near the table. ‘Surprised to see me?’

  Ryan hesitated. ‘Shocked would be more the word,’ she conceded honestly. ‘How did you find out where I lived?’

  ‘Oh, I’ve known where you lived for some time,’ he replied, surprisingly. ‘Your name is not unknown in the village, as you must be aware. But it took some courage to come up here uninvited.’

  Ryan sighed. ‘I’m sorry. I did intend inviting you for a meal, but my husband has been ill, and—well, I haven’t had the time, I’m afraid.’

  ‘That’s okay. I know how it is. Look—’ he indicated the settle, ‘won’t you sit down? Then I can sit down, too.’

  Ryan nodded vigorously. ‘Oh, yes, please do sit down. I’m sorry if I seem such a poor hostess, but we don’t get a lot of visitors.’

  ‘So I hear.’

  Ryan frowned. ‘Who did you hear that from?’

  David looked embarrassed now. ‘Oh—just around. Look, do sit down. You’re making me nervous.’

  ‘I’ll make some coffee—’

  ‘Later,’ he insisted, and with a smile she subsided on to the seat beside the fire. David seated himself opposite, and then he said: ‘Now, that’s better, isn’t it?’

  Ryan nodded, looking down rather impatiently at her shirt and jeans. If she had known she might get company she would have changed into something more feminine. She had so few opportunities for dressing up.

  Forcing her thoughts into less depressing channels, she said: ‘And how have you settled down in Bellaise? Do you like working at the school?’

  David shrugged. ‘It’s all right. It will be better when the summer comes. Right now my rooms are cold and a little damp, and after school at night there is little for me to do. I don’t have transport, you see, and Bellaise offers little in the way of entertainment, as I’m sure you know.’

  Ryan nodded. ‘People make their own entertainment here.’

  ‘Do you mean the number of children there are around?’ he inquired dryly, and she chuckled.

  ‘No, of course not. I mean—people knit, and sew, and read. And talk.’ She paused, realizing with a sense of astonishment that she was not discontented with the absence of organized entertainment. ‘Don’t you do any reading?’

  David nodded. ‘Of course I do. If I didn’t I think I’d go quietly mad! No, but don’t you ever wish there was a cinema you could attend, or a concert you could listen to? What did you do in England before you came here?’

  ‘I worked in a library, actually.’

  ‘In London?’

  ‘No. A small south coast town, Lynport.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I know it. It’s not far from Southampton, is it? Near enough to London for you to know the advantages of urban life.’

  ‘I didn’t like London much. I liked Lynport, it was all right. But I’m afraid I didn’t particularly care for going out a lot.’

  David looked intrigued. ‘And now you live here—in Bellaise. It’s some transformation, you have to admit.’

  Ryan looked down at her hands. ‘I like Bellaise.’

  ‘Do you?’ David studied her bent head. ‘How did you meet your husband?’

  Ryan coloured. ‘I—my father introduced us.’

  ‘Your father? Oh, yes, I remember. Your father’s dead, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes.’ Ryan got to her feet. ‘Would you like some coffee?’

  David nodded, not deceived by her sudden activity. ‘Your husband’s quite a bit older than you are, isn’t he?’

  Ryan was filling the coffee percolator and pretended not to hear him, but he repeated the question and she had to agree, taking care to avoid his eyes.

  ‘Yes. I’ve never met him, of course, but I’ve heard about him.’

  Ryan poured cream from the fridge into a jug. ‘Do you take sugar, Mr. Howard?’

  ‘The name’s David, and yes, I take sugar. What’s the matter, Ryan? Don’t you like talking about your husband?’

  Ryan gasped. ‘I think that’s rather an impertinent thing to say!’

  ‘Nevertheless, it’s true.’ David crossed one leg over the other, leaning back lazily. ‘I should tell you, my rooms in the village are with a family called Cartier. Jeanne Cartier is the aunt of Marie Rideau who I believe works for you.’

  Suddenly it was transparently clear. ‘I see.’ Ryan’s fingers curled into her palms. ‘And I suppose you have been listening to Marie’s gossip?’ she demanded angrily.

  David sighed, and getting to his feet came towards her. ‘Gossip doesn’t have to be listened to. It’s common knowledge that you and Alain de Beaunes are not happy together.’

  ‘Oh! Is it?’ Ryan’s cheeks burned. ‘Well, I’m afraid common knowledge is mistaken! Alain and I are perfectly happy. Our marriage could not be more successful.’

  ‘Indeed?’ David shook his head. ‘That’s not what I’ve heard.’

  ‘I don’t particularly care what you’ve heard,’ Ryan retorted, clattering cups into saucers, and wishing that Marie was here so that she could tell her exactly what she thought of her.

  David seemed to realize he had gone too far. With a deliberate effort, he changed the subject, and soon had her laughing over the difficulties of teaching the declensions of irregular English verbs to a class of restless children. He was an amusing character when he was not involving her in personal que
stions, and Ryan found herself warming to him again. He was English, after all, and she had kown that their marriage would sound an unsatisfactory arrangement to the people she had known back in England.

  She found she was sorry when it was time for him to leave. It seemed so long since anyone had talked to her, really talked, that is, and when he asked if he could come again she agreed. As he was leaving, however, she caught his arm and said impulsively: ‘Please—don’t tell Marie that you’ve been here, will you? I mean, I should hate her to get the wrong idea.’

  David nodded understandingly. ‘There’s no reason why I should tell Marie anything. I hardly know the girl.’

  During the next few days, Ryan’s spirits rose again. David’s next visit was something to look forward to, something to think about when Alain buried his face in account books and spoke to her in monosyllables. She said nothing to Marie of her feelings, and although she had been tempted to dismiss the girl in spite of her friendship towards her, to have done so would have required explanations involving David Howard which she did not want to have to give. So things progressed more or less as normal, and only occasionally did she find Marie watching her rather speculatively. She guessed the other girl must find her change of mood surprising in the circumstances, but she parried her questions and Marie was forced to draw her own conclusions.

  The following Tuesday Alain told her he would be going to Lyon the following day. He suggested rather offhandedly that she might like to accompany him, and as this was his first overture of friendship since their row over Vivienne Couvrier, Ryan was eager to accept. The possibility that this might have been an opportunity of seeing David Howard faded into insignificance beside the prospect of several hours spent in Alain’s company.

  But on Wednesday morning she awoke with a thumping headache and the sure knowledge that she did not feel well enough to go anywhere.

  Alain, for once, was sympathetic. He felt her hot forehead with his cool brown fingers and cupped the nape of her neck, looking down at her doubtfully. Ryan was overwhelmingly conscious of a desire to move closer to him and beg him to stay with her, but she realized that to do so would invite his contempt and nothing else. So she suffered his probing gentleness in silence and succeeded in arousing his compassion.