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  Sometimes she wished he would talk to her more, for it was a lonely existence she was living, but always he seemed to find other things to do. She would have liked to have talked to him about her father, and about his private life before he came to Bellaise. She knew so little about him—whether he had any relatives, who had been his first wife, and how had she died, whether in fact there had been any children from that union. She didn’t think there could have been. Little as she knew about him, she sensed he would not shirk that kind of responsibility. But, as he discouraged any attempt on her part to put their relationship on a more companionable footing, she doubted she would ever know. He was polite to her, punctual for meals, he appreciated what she did about the house; but he gave her no more attention than he would a housekeeper, and a faint resentment was stirring inside her. No matter that her father had been the instigator of this situation, Alain had practically forced her into accepting it; surely it was up to him to try and make it as pleasant as possible for her.

  During the next few days the letter was constantly on Ryan’s mind. Alain did not mention it again; apparently, so far as he was concerned, the matter was closed, but Ryan was far from satisfied. She didn’t really know what to do. She was tempted to reply to Louise Ferrier that although her husband was too busy to make the trip to Paris, she would come herself, but she put off making such a big decision. Besides, for some reason which she didn’t altogether understand, she was loath to go away and leave him alone for several days. She had no doubt that he would be capable of taking care of himself, and Marie was always around to cope with the housework, but something held her back. So long as she was here, she could pretend that things were normal, even though she knew they were not, but if she went to Paris and had to tell this woman a lot of lies, how would things seem on her return? The human brain was an odd creation. It saw what it wanted to see and no further. Was her existence here so unacceptable that she was afraid to view it with the objectivity distance might give? she asked herself. But she knew it wasn’t entirely that either, and as there were other daily problems to contend with, she postponed her reply.

  One morning, about a week before Christmas, Alain told her he was going into Anciens, and asked whether she would like to accompany him. Ryan was taken aback by his unexpected invitation, and as she had been rather cool towards him lately she wondered whether this was in the nature of an apology.

  ‘I suppose I could come and buy a few things for Christmas,’ she murmured thoughtfully. Since their marriage, Alain made her an allowance from the estate as well as paying all the housekeeping bills in the village.

  Alain shrugged, regarding her with vague impatience. ‘Well, if you do want to come, you’d better hurry. I want to leave in half an hour.’

  Ryan looked at him indignantly. ‘But I haven’t made the beds yet—and there’s the dishes—’

  ‘Marie is coming, is she not?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Then she can do the dishes and make the beds. Her work here is not arduous, you see to that.’

  Ryan sensed a hidden meaning to his words, but she hadn’t the time to question them. Instead, she put their breakfast dishes into the sink, and then ran upstairs to change.

  For the first time she felt like making the most of herself, and she hastily pulled a cream-skirted suit from her wardrobe, and put this on together with a royal blue shirt. Knee-length suede boots encased her slender legs, and a hooded suede coat, edged with shaggy cream fur, completed the ensemble. She knew she looked good, the thick chestnut hair emerging in curling tendrils against her cheeks, and her spirits rose.

  If Alain was impressed by her appearance, he managed not to show it, and she felt a ridiculous sense of disappointment which she quickly squashed. What was the matter with her? she asked herself angrily. She didn’t care what he thought of her. Her reasons for getting dressed up stemmed from the knowledge that she was going to town where there would be other eyes to appraise her and admire her.

  Alain had not bothered to change, but the fur-lined leather coat and dark trousers suited his sombre countenance. To her annoyance, Ryan found her eyes drawn to him in the car, and she decided, rather maliciously, that it was that brooding masculinity which she disliked most about him. His thick hair needed cutting and strayed over his collar at the back, and the sideburns which grew down his cheeks showed the toughness of the beard he shaved from his jaw. But his hair always bore the sheen of good health, she had to admit, and although he used no hair dressing it lay thick and smooth against his head. He smelt of shaving lotion and tobacco, and something else—something which she decided was the clean male smell of his body. Turning her attention to the mountainous slopes ahead of them, she supposed she ought to consider herself fortunate that he bathed every day. Not all men were so particular about personal hygiene. He could have been like Henri Vachelle, who worked for the Abbé Maurice, attending to the cleaning of the church and keeping the yard tidy. He was just a young man, in his late twenties, Ryan guessed, and he always watched her closely whenever she passed him, revealing in the caressing darkness of his eyes that he was attracted to her. But he smelled of sweat and stale wine, and his fingernails were dirty. Ryan had always thought that she could never allow any man to touch her who had dirty fingernails. Alain’s fingers were long and brown, but the nails were square cut and clean. She wondered how it would feel to have a man’s hands probing the secret places of her body, and felt a wave of heat sweep over her. She brought herself up short, controlling her quickened breathing, but just for a moment the images in her mind had given way to Alain de Beaunes’ dark face.

  Alain flicked back his cuff at that moment and consulted the plain gold watch on his wrist. ‘I have some business to attend to when we reach Anciens,’ he said, without looking at her. ‘I suggest you spend the time doing whatever shopping you intend to do, and then we can meet and have lunch before coming back.’

  Ryan was still shocked by the duplicity of her own body, and her reply was short and offhand. ‘If you like.’

  He looked at her then, his eyes narrowed and interrogative. ‘Is something wrong? Do you not wish to meet me for lunch?’

  ‘Oh—yes. Of course.’ Ryan ran a nervous hand over her hair.

  He shrugged. ‘It was a suggestion, nothing more. If there is something you would rather do…’

  ‘There’s not,’ she broke in on him. ‘Have you no shopping that you want to do?’

  He shook his head. ‘Anything I need is catered for quite adequately at Bellaise,’ he replied.

  ‘I can believe it.’ Ryan was bitter.

  ‘And what is that supposed to mean?’

  She coloured. ‘Nothing. I—I was just agreeing with you.’

  His fingers tightened round the wheel and she saw the whitening of his knuckles. She tore her eyes away, and stared tensely down at her own hands. I hate him, she told herself fiercely, but she knew that he was not to blame for her sudden awareness of him.

  There was silence for a few minutes, and then he said quietly: ‘If your behaviour is due to frustration over Louise Ferrier’s invitation, then I suggest you make arrangements to spend several days in Paris. The shops there are bound to be more exciting than those in Anciens.’

  Ryan’s head jerked up and she stared at him resentfully. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Yes, you do. For days now you’ve been sulking, and haven’t had a word to say for yourself. Now that you’ve found your tongue, it’s unnecessarily sharp.’

  ‘I didn’t think you noticed,’ she retorted scornfully, and had the satisfaction of seeing his facial muscles grow taut.

  ‘I noticed,’ he returned, in a controlled voice. ‘You’re not very adept at hiding your feelings.’

  ‘But you are, I suppose.’

  ‘I’m considerably more adept than you are,’ he agreed, with infuriating calmness. ‘Otherwise I might well have said something I’d have later regretted after learning that you’d been discussing our persona
l affairs with all and sundry!’

  Now Ryan was taken aback. ‘Discussing our affairs with all and sundry?’ she echoed blankly. ‘I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Don’t you? But you have discussed our—relationship with Marie, haven’t you?’

  Ryan moved restlessly. ‘I—I may have said something.’

  ‘More than that. You virtually told her that you wouldn’t let me touch you!’

  ‘I—I didn’t!’

  ‘She feels sorry for you, of course, but she feels equally sorry for me. I warned you what she was like. She feels I need—well, consolation.’

  Ryan gasped. This was terrible. Hiding her dismay in anger, she demanded: ‘And how did you get to know what I had said?’

  ‘That’s my business.’

  ‘Oh, is it?’ Ryan half turned in her seat towards him. ‘Perhaps Marie told you herself. Perhaps you—console yourself with her. Perhaps that’s why you’re so keen for me to go to Paris!’

  As soon as the words were uttered, Ryan wished she could retract them. They sounded so silly, so childish; impossibly jealous. What on earth had possessed her to say such things to him!

  Alain looked sideways at her, and there was a hint of humour in the sardonic twist of his mouth. ‘I think you’re getting into very deep water, little one,’ he commented lazily. ‘But if it’s of any interest to you, Marie is not my type.’

  Thereafter there was silence until they reached Anciens.

  Anciens stood at the confluence of the Bajou and the Rhone. This was lush pastoral land, which in summer would graze the fat white Charollais cattle. The embankment was lined with poplars, and narrow streets led to the market square where one could buy practically anything. There were stalls selling meat, and fish, tiny sardines from the south and lobsters from Brittany, hams and cheeses of every kind. There was the smell of freshly baked bread, and pastries filled with cream and nuts to melt the most rigid diet. Tall houses, some with balconies still boasted window boxes bright with geraniums and thickly petalled roses, that defied the winds that whistled down the valley as the snows fell on the Alps.

  Ryan was enchanted. She forgot her antagonism towards Alain and exclaimed at the rich variety of it all. Alain answered her questions goodnaturedly, and parked the station wagon in a small mews off the market square.

  As Ryan would have scrambled out, he stopped her, his fingers hard about the flesh of her forearm. ‘One moment. Do you need any money?’

  Ryan flushed. ‘No. You give me a generous allowance.’

  Alain continued to consider her heated face. ‘Nevertheless, at this time of year there are bound to be extra expenses.’ He released her to take his wallet from his inside pocket. ‘Here!’ He held out a handful of notes. ‘Buy yourself something pretty for Christmas.’

  Ryan shook her head, not taking the money, and he uttered an imprecation. ‘Take it! It’s a gift. Buy yourself a present from me.’

  ‘I’d rather not,’ she retorted proudly. Wives did not buy their own gifts. Their husbands surprised them with something special. Only she was no ordinary wife, and he was no ordinary husband.

  ‘Why not?’ He flicked quickly through the notes. ‘Isn’t it enough?’

  Ryan gasped. ‘Oh, how can you ask such a thing! I don’t want your money. I have money of my own.’

  Alain’s expression changed, showing comprehension. ‘Ah! Do you expect me to produce a present on Christmas morning, is that it?’ he inquired, half derisively.

  ‘I don’t expect anything of you!’ she declared, and thrust open her door and got out before he could stop her.

  The cold air hit her after the warmth of the car, and she quickly drew up the hood of her coat. She was tucking strands of hair inside when he got out and walked round the car to join her.

  ‘Will you be all right?’ he queried, looking down at her with unexpectedly gentle eyes.

  Ryan felt a curious weakness in her stomach and the stupid prick of tears behind her eyes. ‘I should think so,’ she replied, her voice unnecessarily abrupt in her efforts to hide the effect he was having on her. Perhaps it was as well that he usually treated her with such detachment. She was finding it extremely difficult to remain immune from the not inconsiderable charm he was choosing to exert.

  He glanced again at his watch. ‘It is half past ten. I suggest we meet for lunch in say—two hours? Will that be long enough for you?’

  Ryan nodded, biting her lips. ‘But I don’t know my way about. You’ll have to direct me.’

  He took her upper arm between his fingers, and escorted her along a cobbled street to the market square. Then he drew her attention to a group of municipal buildings facing them. ‘I shall be there for most of the morning,’ he told her. ‘If you need me, don’t hesitate to come in. Otherwise I suggest we meet at Le Dauphin at half past twelve.’ He pointed to the small hotel with its striped awnings and white painted shutters.

  Ryan was overwhelmingly conscious of his fingers gripping her arm and of the closeness of his hard male body. She had the most ridiculous desire to hold on to him and tell him that she didn’t want to leave him and go shopping alone. It was more than two months since she had visited a town, and she told herself it was the busy thoroughfare and the crowds of unfamiliar faces which aroused such a feeling of panic at his proposed departure. But the almost possessive need she had to stay with him was not entirely due to her surroundings. She really did want to stay with him, and her interest in the shops had dwindled accordingly.

  ‘Well?’ He was looking down at her, waiting for her answer, and she tried to gather her wits. But when she looked up at him, a little of what she was feeling must have shown in her eyes, because his eyes darkened perceptibly, and his brows drew together in a frown. ‘What is it?’ he demanded huskily. ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’ His fingers encircled her arm. ‘Ryan, for God’s sake, what did I say?’

  One of her hands probed the fastening of his coat as though she would hold him away from her, but her voice was unsteady as she said: ‘I—I—Alain, I—’

  ‘Now why is it that one always meets one’s friends in the market place at Anciens?’

  The light feminine voice destroyed the moment of intimacy between them, and Ryan turned frustratedly to face the woman who was standing behind her. She was a tall woman, in her late twenties or early thirties, Ryan guessed, with a generously proportioned body which was sinuously accentuated by close-fitting nylon slacks and a chunky scarlet sweater. Her hair was blonde and curly and framed a face which even Ryan had to admit was very attractive.

  Alain had released Ryan at the appearance of the newcomer, and now he smiled. ‘Hello, Vivienne,’ he greeted her, with obvious pleasure. ‘I didn’t know you were coming to Anciens today.’

  ‘Nor I you,’ she countered, her blue eyes flickering calculatingly over Ryan. ‘I’d have begged a lift. As it is I’ve brought the car.’

  Alain glanced thoughtfully at his wife, and then said: ‘Ryan, this is Madame Couvrier, a neighbour of ours at Bellaise.’

  ‘How do you do?’ Ryan was polite, but her brain was working furiously. Alain and this woman obviously knew one another very well, and the confidence with which Vivienne Couvrier talked about begging a lift revealed an intimacy which Ryan found unpleasant to contemplate.

  ‘So you’re Alain’s wife!’ Vivienne was speaking to her now, and Ryan did not mistake the mockery in her tones. ‘You’re very young, aren’t you?’ The words implied a rebuke for which Ryan had no answer.

  Alain intervened. ‘Are you in Anciens on business, Vivienne, or is it a shopping trip?’

  ‘Mostly shopping, chéri. And you?’

  ‘I have some business to attend to,’ he admitted, glancing at Ryan. ‘My—wife—has some shopping to do.’

  Vivienne’s eyes narrowed speculatively. ‘Has she? Then perhaps we should join forces. It would enable us to get to know one another. You’ve kept her to yourself long enough, Alain.’

  There was m
ore mockery now, and Ryan turned dismayed eyes up to her husband. The last thing she wanted was to have to spend the morning in the company of a woman who would clearly derive a great deal of enjoyment from making fun of her. But Alain chose to ignore her silent plea.

  ‘That’s not a bad idea, actually, Vivienne. Ryan is a stranger here, and I was a bit doubtful about leaving her alone. She speaks quite good French, but the dialects here might confuse her. Would you mind?’

  ‘Oh, really, Alain, I’ll be all right—’ Ryan began desperately, but Vivienne was nodding her head.

  ‘Your husband knows best, chérie. We can have a gossip over coffee later, and at lunch?’ She looked expectantly at Alain.

  ‘We were meeting for lunch at Le Dauphin. Would you care to join us?’

  ‘I would love to.’

  Vivienne was highly satisfied now, but Ryan was furiously angry. How dared Alain arrange her morning for her with a complete disregard for her feelings. Just because earlier he had imagined something was troubling her, did not give him the right to put her into the hands of this woman like a fractious child.

  But there was nothing she could do. Short of making a scene and refusing outright to go with Vivienne Couvrier, she had to accept their arrangements, and Alain gave her a curt little smile before striding away across the square.

  With his departure, Vivienne lost her air of vivacity. ‘What do you want to buy?’ she asked in rather bored tones, and Ryan thrust her hands into her pockets.

  ‘I don’t know yet,’ she replied honestly.

  Vivienne heaved an exaggerated sigh. ‘Oh! You’re not one of those window-shoppers, are you?’

  ‘Yes.’ Ryan derived an immense amount of pleasure out of seeing Vivienne’s irritation. ‘But you don’t have to accompany me, you know. You can meet me a few minutes before we have to meet Alain, if you like.’