The Right Bride?. Jessica Steele

‘But I suppose that’s impossible. Everyone round here—all your neighbours—friends—will know I’m married. You must have mentioned it.’

      ‘I told no one, mon enfant,’ Tante said quietly. ‘It was not news I ever wished to share. I have always believed that mistakes in one’s family circle should be kept private. And I had known for some time—long before his tragic accident—that you did not love this man. Your letters made it clear.’

      ‘But I hardly mentioned him.’

      Tante’s smile was kind. ‘Exactly, chérie.’ She paused. ‘When I received the invitation to your wedding I wrote to your mother, begging her not to allow you to ruin your life. Saying that such a marriage would have profound difficulties, even if you adored each other.’

      She shrugged wryly. ‘Her reply was very angry. She said that I knew nothing about it. That you were devoted to your fiancé, that my interference was not needed, and it would be better for everyone if I stayed away.’

      ‘She said you’d decided the journey would be too much for you.’ Allie bit her lip. ‘Oh—I should have known…’

      ‘Well, that is all in the past now. It matters only that you are here now, ma chère. And if you wish to be Alys Colville again—then that is how it shall be.’

      She became brisk. ‘Now, go and change, and I will try to repair the damage the sea has done to those expensive clothes.’

      Allie turned obediently, then paused. She said in a low voice, ‘Am I crazy—to pretend like this?’

      ‘Not crazy,’ her great-aunt said slowly. ‘But perhaps—not very wise.’

      Allie’s smile was swift and bleak. ‘Then I’ll just have to be very careful, too,’ she said, and made her way to her room.

      CHAPTER THREE

      THE sun had gone behind a cloud, and Allie got up from the bench, shivering a little.

      She’d sat there long enough, she thought, tormenting herself with her memories. Now it was time to go back to the house and draft a letter to Tante, explaining why any return to Les Sables was impossible for her—now or in the future.

      I can’t do it, she told herself with anguish. Because, even now, the pain of that time is still too vivid and too raw.

      She entered the house through a side door, and went straight upstairs. After Hugo’s death, and in spite of Grace’s protests, she’d moved out of the master suite she’d reluctantly shared with him into this smaller room at the back of the house. It wasn’t as grand and formal as some of the others, and she liked its creamy-yellow walls, and the warm olivegreen curtains and bedcover. Over the months it had become her refuge.

      She sat down at the small writing table that she’d bought at an antique fair, and drew a sheet of paper towards her. She sat for a moment, tapping her pen against her teeth and staring out of the window in front of her, as she tried to come up with an excuse that her great-aunt would find even feasible, let alone acceptable.

      Her room overlooked the vegetable garden, and the nowdeserted stableyard. After the accident, Hugo’s hunters had been sold, along with his polo ponies. Except, of course, for poor little Gimlet, who’d broken both forelegs in that terrible crashing fall in the final chukka, and had had to be put down on the field there and then.

      ‘He was the lucky one,’ Hugo had said with scalding bitterness when they’d told him. At that time he’d seemed to recognise the full extent of his injuries, Allie thought unhappily. It was later that he’d come to believe in his own self-will rather than the prognosis from the medical experts.

      Sighing, she wrote the date. Well, it was a start, she told herself wryly, then paused as there was a swift tap on her door. It opened instantly to admit her mother-in-law.

      ‘So there you are,’ she commented. ‘Mrs Windom has brought in the coffee. Are you coming down?’

      ‘Later, perhaps. I’m replying to Tante Madelon’s letter.’

      ‘Ah.’ Grace paused. ‘Did she have anything particular to say?’

      ‘She’s not well,’ Allie told her quietly. ‘She’d like me to visit her—and take Tom with me.’

      ‘No,’ Lady Marchington said, swiftly and sharply. ‘You can’t possibly go to Brittany, and even if you did consider it you certainly couldn’t take Tom. It’s out of the question, Alice, and you know it.’

      Allie found herself reeling back mentally under the onslaught.

      Of choice, she wouldn’t have mentioned Tante’s letter, or its contents, precisely because she knew what the reaction would be. And because she had no intention of going.

      Yet now she found herself bristling furiously, as a spirit of angry rebellion suddenly surged up inside her. This, she thought, is the last damned straw. I’ve had as much of her interference in my life as I can stand. I’m not living under a dictatorship, and it’s time I made that clear.

      She said coldly, ‘I wouldn’t be allowed to take my own child on holiday to visit a close relative? Is that really what you’re saying?’ She shook her head. ‘I can’t believe it.’

      ‘Then you’d better suspend your disbelief.’ Grace’s expression was grim. ‘I have no intention of permitting my grandson to be whisked out of the country—and to France, of all places.’

      ‘Why not? Was one of the Marchington ancestors killed at Agincourt?’ Allie tried to speak lightly, in spite of the anger building inside her.

      ‘Don’t be flippant,’ Grace snapped. ‘What I’m saying is that our lives are not going to be turned upside down at the behest of one arrogant old woman. I simply won’t permit it.’

      ‘Please don’t speak about Tante like that,’ Allie said icily. ‘The invitation came to me, and I’ll deal with it as I see fit.’ She paused, steadying her breathing. ‘I’m not a child. I’m twenty-two years old, and I don’t need your permission, or anyone else’s for that matter, to stay in Brittany with the woman who practically brought up my father.’

      She met Lady Marchington’s furious gaze in open challenge. ‘Anyway, why shouldn’t I go? Give me one good reason.’ If you dare…

      Spots of colour burned in the older woman’s face. ‘Tom’s far too young for a journey of that nature.’

      ‘A night on a ferry and a couple of hours by car?’ Allie’s tone was derisive. ‘Babies far younger make similar trips every day.’

      ‘But Tom isn’t just any child. He’s the Marchington heir. You have your position to consider. And his.’

      Allie’s gaze remained stony. ‘And is that your only objection? Because Tom isn’t just a Marchington. He has Colville and Vaillac blood too. And it’s entirely natural that Tante should want to see him, especially as she’s in bad health. After all, he’s the last of her line, too.’

      Grace’s mouth hardened. ‘Breton peasant stock. Hardly anything to boast about.’

      ‘They’re brave, and strong, with good, loving hearts,’ Allie returned icily. ‘That would be enough for most people.’

      ‘Now you’re just being difficult.’

      ‘Under the circumstances,’ Allie said, ‘that is almost amusing. Only I don’t feel like laughing.’

      ‘Alice—for heaven’s sake. There was enough talk last time when you simply—disappeared, for weeks on end, leaving poor Hugo to cope alone.’

      ‘Hardly alone. He had you, his nanny, a full-time nurse, and all the staff to look after him. I was pretty much surplus to requirements—except in one respect, of course.’

      She paused. ‘And I came back.