CHAPTER THREE

ANDREA leaned her head against a folded towel, placed strategically over the high back of the huge old-fashioned bath, and closed her eyes with a sigh of relief.

The bathroom to which Madame Bresson had led her was next door to the room containing the massive throne-like lavatory which had reduced her to irreverent giggles the previous evening. It was a chilly apartment, its walls hung with large antique embossed tiles in an attractive scroll pattern. The bath, supported solidly on four large claw feet, stood against one wall, its brass taps gleaming. The wall above was festooned with a motley collection of elderly pipework, which emitted strange groaning noises when the taps were turned on.

Observing the care with which Madame had performed this operation, Andrea surmised that the chateau’s plumbing probably possessed a temperament all its own. But she had nothing to complain of in the actual temperature of the water, and the surroundings could be made less Spartan, she thought, mentally boxing in the pipes, and adding a rug to the chill of the tiled floor.

She moved her bruised legs in the cooling water, wincing slightly as she did so. She might be lucky enough to avoid total paralysis, she thought ruefully, but she was going to be very, very stiff. It was to be hoped that she wouldn’t find it necessary to run away during the next twenty-four hours, because even quite gentle exercise was probably going to be beyond her.

But she had to admit that her morning in the fresh air had done her good. She was really looking forward to the lunch that Madame Bresson had promised would be served as soon as she was ready.

And after lunch she was presumably free to do as she pleased. Some time she would have to write to Clare, but as yet she had little to report in the way of good news or even progress. Perhaps the letter could be delayed until things became more positive, and she would use the time instead to explore the chateau a little.

It had occurred to her that if Blaise Levallier was managing the co-operative he must have an office of some description, probably in the chateau itself, and that this would be the most obvious place for him to keep his personal correspondence including, presumably, Clare’s letter. That was the place she would begin her search. The thought filled her with distaste and she had to remind herself forcibly of the equally distasteful methods Blaise had himself employed to try and force her cousin into marriage.

It was useless to pretend that she had not been shocked into a certain sympathy for him by the morning’s revelations. Looking back on the happiness of her own childhood, it seemed incredible that such bitter hostility could exist in a family. It did much to explain the cynical lines that marked his mouth, and the cold ruthlessness he displayed in his dealings with Clare. Yet she could not doubt his affection for his dead brother. There had been no tinge of censure in his references to the problems Jean-Paul had experienced in running the plantation, only regret. His father’s favouritism had not had the power to sour that relationship at least. It was clear there was a connection between the loss of the plantation and Jean-Paul’s death, and that there was also a link between this tragedy and the scarring of Blaise’s face.

She got carefully out of the bath and began to towel herself dry. She must not get involved, she thought, with a sense of desperation. She would not be here for much longer, and when she left, she wanted to be able to turn her back on St Jean des Roches and its master without a second thought or trace of regret. And if a warning inner voice murmured that it might already be too late, she closed her ears deliberately.

Madame Bresson had taken her jeans and sweater to launder, so Andrea changed into a slim-fitting skirt in golden tweed, topped by a dark green woollen shirt, and pinned up her chestnut hair into a neat French pleat.

She lunched on thick home-made broth, savoury with herbs and vegetables, ending her meal with fresh fruit from the chateau’s own orchards and local cheese. She was just finishing her coffee when Madame Bresson came to clear the table.

‘No, you must let me help you. You have quite enough to do.’ Andrea got up gingerly and began to load her dishes on to the tray Madame had brought in spite of the housekeeper’s protests. Then she carried the tray to the kitchen. After all, she told herself in justification, if she was really going to be the mistress here, she would be taking over some of the household duties, and her independent spirit rebelled at being waited on.

The kitchen was a large cheerful room with an enormous glowing range, which also provided hot water as well as cooking facilities. In the middle of the room was a large wooden table with a well-scrubbed top, and an array of fearsome-looking knives to hand. Strings of onions and garlic hung from hooks round the walls, and a huge built-in dresser supported an assortment of copper and cast iron utensils. Andrea enjoyed cooking, although she had never embarked on a Cordon Bleu course as Clare had done for a brief period. She thought that once the vagaries of the range had been mastered, any woman could revel in preparing meals in these homely surroundings.

Madame Bresson seemed not to resent her presence in the slightest, but showed a positive eagerness to open the china cupboards and disclose the secrets of the larder and the wine cellar. She grieved openly over the fact that the chateau was not supplied with electricity and Andrea learned, without any real surprise, that this had been one of the decisions of ‘Monsieur le père de Monseigneur’. She would have loved to know more, but Madame became so tight-lipped at the first of her tentative questions that she desisted.

When she inquired whether anyone would mind if she looked round the chateau, Madame looked a little blank, but she cheered visibly when Andrea assured her, feeling wretchedly guilty, that she did not require a guide, but would be quite happy to look about on her own. Her guilt increased when a large bunch of keys was thrust trustingly into her hands with a beaming smile from the housekeeper.

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