A Place of Storms by Sara Craven Read Free Book Online Page B

said, 'Probably,' in a wooden voice.
    She took a firm grip on herself and the reins after that, determined to cope better. Certainly, in spite of everything, there was a great deal to enjoy. The air seemed to sparkle after the night's rain, and the views as they continued to climb were breathtaking. Away in the distance she could glimpse the flattened cones of the
puys
, the dead volcanic mountains of Auvergne, while around them the trees still wore the last remnants of their autumn glory before the stark onset of winter.
    Andrea felt so exhilarated that when they eventually reached a level, grassy stretch of ground she forgot to be nervous when the horses broke into a canter, and then a gallop. Delphine was no longer a monster, fixed on her undoing, but a lovely creature, fluid of bone and muscle, who merely wanted to share her pleasure in her own swift eagerness.
    When they reined in, Andrea saw that from this vantage point it was possible to look down on the village and the chateau. Seen from above, it had an even more forlorn look, and Andrea stole a sideways look at her companion to see his reaction. The scarred side of his face was hidden from her, but his expression was bleak and brooding and she did not dare venture a remark.
    At last, when she had begun to think he had forgotten her presence, he said '
Allons
!' in an impatient tone, and they turned the horses and rode on.
    The black mood that possessed him persisted as they toured the vineyards, and looked at the new bottling plant which had been installed. Andrea, somewhat to her own surprise, found she was genuinely interested in what was being achieved, and it was frustrating to have her questions answered in monosyllables.
    At last she could hold her tongue no longer.
    'This ride was your idea,
monsieur
,' she reminded him acidly. 'If you want me to learn about the estate, you need to improve your teaching technique.'
    The look he sent her was chilling, but he made no response. She was not altogether surprised, however, when she found they were on their way back to the chateau.
    'Here endeth the first lesson,' she observed flippantly.
    This time he did reply, and his voice was icy with rage. 'It may all seem a joke to you,
mademoiselle
, from your secure English background, but to me and many others in this village, it is life and death. Do you know how many villages there are in France where old people sit in their houses alone, because their children have left—gone to the cities to find work? Do you even care? I doubt it. But I care. And I care too that my home—the house which my family has occupied for hundreds of years—is falling into a ruin about me. Do you imagine that I would have permitted this neglect? Regard it well,
mademoiselle
. That is what hate can do, and spite and revenge. It is not pretty,
hein
?'
    'Whose hate,
monsieur?
    'My father's,
mademoiselle
. My younger brother was his favourite. He could not forgive me for being the elder and his heir. I could do nothing right—nothing that would please him, except absent myself. He could have stopped the rot then, if he had wished, but he did not wish. I do not think he cared if there was one stone standing upon another when I came into my inheritance. Every last franc was devoted to Jean-Paul, and to our plantation Belle Riviere.'
    'Your brother ran the plantation?'
    '
Oui
. It was his part of the inheritance. God knows I never grudged it to him. But there were problems. Several bad seasons—hurricanes, pests which destroyed the crop. At last my father ordered me to go there and put things right. It would have taken a miracle. By the time I arrived, Jean-Paul had speculated trying to recoup some his losses, and was facing ruin.'
    He stopped abruptly, as if sensing her tension. The anger and bitterness died from his face as if a slate had been wiped clean.
    'But I am boring you,
mademoiselle
, with our sordid family squabbles. My father has been dead for two years, God rest his soul, and