Celebration. Rosie Thomas

thought he had.

      He was nineteen years old.

      Jeanne was older, the daughter of a baker. She had a pale, ethereal beauty that was utterly at odds with her robustly passionate nature. They had become lovers almost at once.

      Charles was enthralled but at the same time tortured with guilt. Jeanne had had her sights set firmly on marriage, but Charles even at the height of his passion knew that that was impossible. For weeks he had wavered, tasting the illicit delights that Jeanne was only too pleased to share with him. He stayed away from church, promising himself that each time they made love it would be the last.

      Then he had steeled himself to make his confession.

      His priest had told him exactly what he had known all along. There must be no more Jeanne.

      She had fought to keep him, using every weapon in her armoury, but he had kept faith.

      Then he had missed her, achingly, month after month.

      Almost ten years later he had met Catherine, who had the same dark beauty as Jeanne. The moment he saw her he was reminded of his old, agonizing love. Yet here was Catherine whose family was as old as his own, and she was young, rich, and a virgin.

      She was perfect.

      Charles, at his most imperious, had swept her off her feet. Within weeks they were married with the full panoply and the blessing of their Church on their heads.

      Once again, devastatingly, Charles had made the mistake of confusing sex with love. His faith was about to be tested as it never had been before.

      Bell and Charles had stopped walking and were leaning on a low stone wall. In front of them a forest of fishing smacks, festooned with drying nets, was bobbing on the water. Charles went on talking in a low, husky voice that told Bell how painful these memories were.

      His marriage to Catherine had broken down almost before it had begun, in a cruel flood of disappointment and mutual destructiveness. In the confusion of all the terrible things that had happened over those months Charles had almost abandoned his faith. Then, in despair, he had snatched at it again. He had found that it held, and it became the centre of permanence in his life. His belief remained, even though he was left with nothing else. And by a bitter irony that very faith kept him married to a woman he could never live with, and from whom he could never be free.

      Charles’s dark gaze travelled over Bell’s intent face and stopped at her mouth. Through the blood rushing in her ears she heard him say, ‘For so long, it’s been all that I have – except for Juliette. It just isn’t possible for me to pretend, to you or to myself, that I’m not married. Even to kiss you, as I did last night, even to think about you as I have, is …’

      ‘A sin.’ Bell finished the sentence off for him. ‘Charles, I am an outsider. I can only admire the strength of your faith without understanding it. But how, why, is it wrong for us to feel as we do, to want to know each other better, provided that it doesn’t hurt anyone else? Does God want you to go on being alone, denying yourself the … the comforts of a human relationship because of one honest mistake?’

      She saw that there was amusement in his face and felt a prickle of irritation.

      ‘So, I sound naïve. I don’t know the priestly language to dress up what I want to say. But must there be so much difficulty? Why can’t we just … see what happens?’

      Charles took her hand in his.

      ‘You are innocent, Bell, and so free of feminine guile that I could almost forget you are a woman. Don’t run away with the impression that I am a monkish recluse. Nothing would please me more than to take you to bed, now, at once, and I think we would match each other to perfection. But …’ his face darkened, ‘it would be going against my faith, and every principle that I have tried to live by. Up until today.’

      Bell nodded, her heart already seizing on the glimmer of hope that he held out in the last three words.

      ‘Yes, I see that. Charles,’ she said impulsively, not giving herself time to remember that what she was saying ran contrary to all her own considered thoughts, ‘this has happened so quickly, but I know it’s more important than anything that has ever happened to me before. Time doesn’t matter to me. Won’t you just think about what it means? Ask for … spiritual advice?’

      His stare was speculative, almost calculating.

      ‘I can hardly ask you to wait,’ he said coolly, ‘while I tussle with my conscience.’

      Bell raised her face to his and kissed him.

      ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘You can ask me. I want you to, and you can trust me to wait for as long as it takes. Whatever it costs.’ For an instant Bell listened to her own words in stunned disbelief. No, wait … she wanted to say, as the realization dawned on her that she was giving away her precious, hard-won prize of independence. Then, following the uncertainty, came a wave of absolute conviction. She was coming home, home to the man she wanted. Why should she ever again crave independence? When Bell looked back at Charles there was no trace of doubt in her smile. There was surprise, disbelief and the beginning of a kind of happiness in Charles’s face as he wrapped his arms around her.

      The three deckhands in stained blue overalls who were watching from one of the cargo boats whistled and catcalled, but neither Bell nor Charles heard anything.

      He drove even faster on the way back to Château Reynard, and with only one hand on the wheel. The other hand held Bell’s, their fingers tightly laced together. Juliette came bounding down the steps to meet them as soon as the car skidded to a stop on the gravel sweep.

      ‘Lunch? You didn’t say that you were going to vanish for practically a weekend. I’ve asked people for six-thirty and Mama is having the vapours because she thought you wouldn’t be back in time. Not that she wouldn’t be having them anyway, giving a party at a day’s notice.’

      Then she looked sharply from one face to another. Her tone changed. ‘Oh, I see,’ she said softly. ‘I see.’

      Her broad, freckled face was full of concern, but there was no surprise in it. She took Bell’s arm firmly and led her up the steps.

      ‘You must change,’ she told her. ‘We only have an hour …’ Once they were inside Bell’s room, Juliette shut the door firmly behind them.

      ‘Look,’ she said, some of her habitual cheerful confidence having drained away. ‘May I say something?’

      ‘Of course.’

      ‘If you and Charles are falling in love, will you try to be careful? Of yourself, of course, but of him too? It won’t be easy for either of you, I am afraid, but Charles has been so much hurt …’

      Bell loved her for her concern for him.

      ‘If I can make him happy,’ she answered, ‘I will.’

      ‘Yes. I think you will, too. Now, hurry.’

      Bell was ready within minutes. She picked up the flamboyant violet and gold jacket and slipped it on. Her eyes were very bright, and there was a warm blush of colour over her cheekbones.

      ‘You look,’ she told her reflection, ‘like someone who has just fallen in love. What madness, after all the decisions you have just struggled to make. But, ohhhh … how wonderful.’

      Bell danced down the stairs towards her birthday party.

      She met Marianne crossing the hallway with a loaded tray of champagne glasses.

      ‘Monsieur le baron?’ asked Bell.

      ‘In the grande chambre, madame,’ Marianne indicated with a tilt of her head.

      ‘Thanks. Oh, is there anything I can do to help?’

      The little maid looked shocked.

      ‘But no, madame.’

      Bell pushed open another pair of double doors, then gasped. Under