The Right Bride?. Jessica Steele

seems to be yours, Alice.’

      She started violently as she realised that Lady Marchington, lips faintly pursed, was holding out the blue envelope.

      ‘I presume it’s from your French great-aunt,’ the older woman added. ‘I hope it isn’t bad news.’

      ‘I hope so too,’ Allie said lightly, ignoring the hint that she should open it instantly and divulge the contents. ‘But at least she’s alive.’

      She heard the hiss of indrawn breath, and braced herself for a chilling rebuke over inappropriate levity, but instead the dining room door opened to admit the housekeeper.

      ‘Excuse me, your ladyship, but Mrs Farlow is asking to speak to you on the telephone. A problem with the Garden Club accounts.’

      ‘I’ll come.’ Lady Marchington rose with an expression on her face that boded ill for the unfortunate Club treasurer. And for Allie, too, if she was still around when her mother-in-law returned.

      As soon as she was alone, Allie went quickly across to the French windows and let herself out on to the terrace. A few minutes later she was pushing open the wrought-iron gate into the Fountain Court. It was one of her favourite places, with its gravelled paths, the raised beds planted with roses, just coming into flower, and the tall, cascading centrepiece of ferocious tritons and swooning nymphs from which it took its name.

      It was an odd thing to find at an English country house, she had to admit, but it had been designed and installed by a much earlier Sir Hugo, who’d fallen in love with Italy while on the Grand Tour, and had wanted a permanent memento of his travels.

      Allie loved the fountain for its sheer exuberance, and for the cool, soothing splash of its water which made even the hottest day seem restful. She sat on one of the stone benches and opened Tante’s letter. She read it through swiftly, then, frowning, went back to the beginning, absorbing its contents with greater care.

      It was not, in fact, good news. The writing was wavery, and not always easy to decipher, but the gist of it was that all was far from well with her great-aunt.

      It seems that this will be my last summer at Les Sables d’Ignac. However, I have had a good life here, and I regret only that so long has passed since we were together. You remind me so much of my beloved sister, and it would make me truly happy to see you again, my dearest child. I hope with all my heart that you can spare me a little time from your busy life to visit me. Please, my dear Alys, come to me, and bring your little boy with you also. As he is the last of the Vaillac blood, I so long to see him.

      My God, Allie thought, appalled. What on earth could be wrong with her? Tante Madelon had always given the impression that she was in the most robust of health. But then she hadn’t seen her for almost two years—and that was indeed a long time.

      She realised, of course, that her great-aunt must be in her late seventies, although her looks and vigour had always belied her age. In fact, to Allie she’d always seemed immortal, only the silvering of her hair marking the inevitable passage of time.

      Soberly, she thought of Tante as she’d seen her last. The older woman’s pointed face had been drawn and anxious, but the dark, vivid eyes had still been full of life. Full of love for this girl, her only living relative.

      ‘Don’t go back, ma chérie,’ she’d urged. ‘There is nothing for you there. Stay here with me…’ Her voice had died away, leaving other things unsaid.

      And Allie had replied, stumbling over the words, her head reeling, her emotions in shreds, ‘I—can’t.’

      Now, she took a deep breath to calm herself, then slowly re-read the postscript at the end, the words running down the page as if the writer had been almost too weary to hold the pen.

      Alys, I promise there is nothing that should keep you away, and that you have no reason to fear such a visit.

      In plain words, Tante was offering her assurance—the essential guarantee that she thought Allie would want. Telling her, in effect, that Remy de Brizat would not be there. That he was still working abroad with his medical charity.

      Only it wasn’t as simple as that. It wasn’t enough. He might not be physically present, but Allie knew that her memory—her senses—would find him everywhere.

      That she’d see him waiting on the shore, or find his face carved into one of the tall stone megaliths that dotted the headland. That she’d feel him in every grain of sand or blade of grass. That she’d hear his laughter on the wind, and his voice in the murmur of the sea.

      And, in the fury of the storm, she would relive the anger and bitterness of their parting, she thought, as she’d done last night. And she shivered in spite of the warmth of the morning.

      Besides, she had too many memories already.

      Her breathing quickened suddenly to pain. Words danced off the page at her. Please, my dear Alys, come to me…

      She closed her eyes to block them out, and heard herself repeat aloud—‘I can’t.’

      Then she crushed the letter in her hand, and pushed it into the pocket of her skirt.

      She got to her feet and began to wander restlessly down the gravelled walk, forcing herself to think about other things—other people. To build a wall against those other memories.

      Turning her thoughts determinedly to the Vaillac sisters, Celine and Madelon. During the Second World War, their family had sheltered her grandfather, Guy Colville, an airman forced to bail out on his way home. He’d broken his leg during his parachute descent, but had managed to crawl to a nearby barn, where Celine Vaillac had found him.

      The Vaillacs had nursed him back to health, and risked their lives to keep him hidden and fed, eventually enabling him to be smuggled north to the Channel coast and back to England in a fishing boat. It was part of family folklore, and a story she’d never tired of hearing when she was a child.

      She thought how romantic it was that Guy had never forgotten the pretty, shyly smiling Celine, and how, as soon as the war ended, he’d returned to their rambling farmhouse with his younger brother Rupert, to make sure that she and her family had all survived relatively unscathed, and discover whether Celine shared similar memories of their time together.

      That first visit had been followed by others, and, to Guy’s surprise, Rupert had insisted on going with him each time. When eventually Guy had proposed to Celine, and been accepted, his brother had confessed that he too had fallen in love with her younger sister, Madelon, a vivacious imp of a girl, and suggested a double wedding.

      It was a real fairy-tale, Allie thought wistfully, but the happy ending had been short-lived—for her grandparents at least. Celine had always been the fairer of the two, and the quieter. A girl slender as a lily and ultimately as delicate. Because what should have been the straightforward birth of her first child had developed unexpected and severe complications which, tragically, she had not survived.

      Guy had been totally devastated, firstly by the loss of his adored wife, and by having to learn to cope with a newborn motherless son. He had naturally turned to Rupert and Madelon, who’d provided him with the deep, steadfast support he needed, in spite of their own grief. Ironically, they themselves had remained childless, pouring their affection and care into the upbringing of their nephew, forming unbroken ties into Paul Colville’s adult life.

      So, Tante had been an important part of Allie’s background from the moment she was born. It had only been when both Guy and her husband had died that she’d finally decided to return to Brittany, renting a house in Quimper for a while. Allie and her father Paul had visited her there on several occasions, although her mother had never accompanied them, making the excuse that she was a poor sailor, who found the ferry crossing a nightmare.

      Looking back, Allie always suspected that Fay Colville had resented her husband’s deep affection for his French aunt, and that it had been jealousy rather than mal de mer that kept her in England. She’d also openly disliked the fact that Allie had been christened Alys,