Celebration. Rosie Thomas

She gave a tiny resigned sigh. ‘Unlike Juliette and me. My own daughter is a mystery to me nowadays.’ Bell was still watching Charles, noticing how the tiny blond hairs on his cheekbone glinted in the pinkish light when he clenched his jaw muscles. Moving very slowly, as if he found it an effort to control his movements, he leant forward and put his cup back on the tray.

      Bell sensed that something in him was vibrating, ready to snap.

      ‘As soon as Catherine returns from Paris.’ Hélène’s voice rippled on and Bell listened in puzzlement.

      Charles had said that they were separated. Weren’t they, after all?

      ‘She has been ill. She needed a long rest, and a complete change, but now she is well enough she will be coming home. Then we …’

      With a sudden movement, as lithe as a cat, Charles was on his feet. In a split second his dark figure was towering over his mother. Bell saw that his fists were clenched.

      ‘Mama,’ he hissed, ‘you will stop this pantomime. Now.’ Hélène shrank backwards for an instant and then the lines of her face hardened in defiance.

      ‘It is your pantomime,’ she breathed back at him. ‘You are a fool, and not only a fool but a destroyer. Of my life, as well as your own.’

      Bell longed for the floor to open up and swallow her. They were oblivious of her presence now, but later they would remember that she had been there and they would find it difficult to forgive her for that.

      Charles’s face was grey and he seemed to be struggling to breathe.

      ‘Your life? I don’t care about the pretence and sham that life means to you. You know nothing about human emotion. Love or hate, so long as appearances are preserved.’

      Hélène snatched up her embroidery frame and held it against her as if to shield herself.

      ‘You talk to me of love and hate? You are hardly better than a murderer, and you …’

      Bell sank in her chair as she saw the expression in Charles’s eyes. His fist swung up, and then dropped again, leaden, at his side. Hélène’s voice faltered as she saw him.

      ‘You know I didn’t mean … I just meant that you would have let Catherine die of grief and done nothing … it was left to …’

      ‘Will you be quiet?’ Charles spat out the words as if they were poison.

      Hélène stood up. Her head barely reached his shoulder and she had to tilt her face to look up into his. She looked years older, and racked with bitterness.

      ‘Why must you humiliate us, in front of … this girl?’ Her hand waved towards Bell. ‘A stranger. I am ashamed of you. Ashamed.’

      She turned away and crossed the room without a backward glance, walking slowly as if her body ached. The door shut fast behind her.

      Bell swallowed, dry-mouthed, to ease the tension in her throat. She stared down at the pattern in the rug, wishing she was anywhere else in the world. The scene had been so unexpected and so shocking. So pregnant with things that she didn’t understand. Didn’t want to understand. Whatever it was that had happened at Château Reynard, it had shattered the lives of both Hélène and Charles.

      Then a tiny movement made her look up at Charles. She saw horror and bewilderment in his face, as if he was staring into a black pit that had opened at his feet.

      Bell recognized that expression. And she knew in the same instant why Charles had struck that odd chord of familiarity deep inside her.

      Her father. That aloof assurance belied by the loss, the pain showing in his face.

      Oh, God.

      Without giving herself time to think she went to Charles and put her hands on his arms. This time at least she was old enough to understand, even if she was powerless to help. For a moment the man looked down into her eyes, bewildered. Then, with a low groan, his arms went around her and his head dropped on her shoulder.

      Bell had no idea how long they stood there. She felt as if all the blood had drained out of her head and body and she struggled to stay upright, supporting what felt like the entire weight of Charles de Gillesmont.

      At last he looked up, shivered a little and let her go.

      When he spoke, his voice was thick.

      ‘I am ashamed too. Bell, I’m sorry that you should have had to sit through that.’ He made a visible effort to pull himself together and Bell saw the ghost of the elegant baron reappearing in front of her.

      ‘As you see, this isn’t always the happiest of households. It’s one of the reasons why we don’t entertain many of your profession. I’m glad it was you here, tonight.’ He was trying to make his voice light, but he meant what he was saying.

      Bell nodded. It had been shocking, but somewhere inside her head she was glad that she had been with him too.

      ‘I think we need a drink,’ he said. ‘Let’s get out of this room.’

      In the comfortable clutter of his study he said, quickly as if he wanted to get it over with, ‘You must be wondering what that was about. My mother is not an easy woman, but she has had too many disappointments. She was close to Catherine and she misses her badly.’ He rubbed his hand over his eyes. ‘It was unforgivable of me to have given way like that. Sometimes I …’

      Bell shook her head. ‘No. Please, there’s no need.’

      She recoiled from the idea of hearing their secrets. She could guess enough, and she had no desire to reawaken the pain she had seen in Charles’s face. It was too close to home.

      Charles looked relieved. He sat down in a leather armchair and Bell found herself cross-legged on the floor, leaning against the arm. She had often sat like that with Edward, and she remembered with a sad little smile. He seemed very far away now.

      Charles murmured, ‘Talk to me about something else, then. Anything so long as it has nothing to do with Château Reynard. Tell me about Bell Farrer.’

      Haltingly at first, then more fluently under the pressure of his gentle questioning, she did. She felt that there was no need for self-protection after what she had witnessed tonight. It should have felt incongruous, sitting there telling her private thoughts to Charles de Gillesmont who she had known a bare few hours.

      Yet it didn’t.

      Charles sat motionless in his armchair as she talked. His eyes were fixed on her profile, and on the shadow in the hollow of her cheek.

      It was very late when Bell stretched and turned to smile at him.

      ‘That’s all. I know where I am, now. At least, I think I do.’

      ‘You think you do,’ he agreed, smiling back at her.

      They stood up and with his hand on her arm he guided her across the dark hallway to the curving stone stairway.

      ‘Goodnight,’ said Bell. She wanted to tell him that it was all right, that she would forget what she had heard tonight, but she couldn’t find the words. ‘Thank you for asking me to Château Reynard,’ she said, simply.

      The baron made a quick movement in the dimness and for an electric moment Bell thought he was going to kiss her.

      No, she thought. Not yet. Then he took her hand. The blond head bent over it and he kissed her knuckles. When he looked up again their eyes met and laughter bubbled between them.

      ‘If one is going to be a French baron,’ he murmured, ‘one might as well behave like one. You would have been disappointed if I hadn’t kissed your hand.’

      ‘Bitterly disappointed,’ said Bell.

      He let go of her fingers and she turned to climb the shallow stairs. When she reached the top and looked down he was still standing there, watching her.

      Bell woke up to a morning that was