Place Of Storms. Sara Craven

own childhood, it seemed incredible that such bitter hostility could exist in a family. It did much to explain the cynical lines that marked his mouth, and the cold ruthlessness he displayed in his dealings with Clare. Yet she could not doubt his affection for his dead brother. There had been no tinge of censure in his references to the problems Jean-Paul had experienced in running the plantation, only regret. His father’s favouritism had not had the power to sour that relationship at least. It was clear there was a connection between the loss of the plantation and Jean-Paul’s death, and that there was also a link between this tragedy and the scarring of Blaise’s face.

      She got carefully out of the bath and began to towel herself dry. She must not get involved, she thought, with a sense of desperation. She would not be here for much longer, and when she left, she wanted to be able to turn her back on St Jean des Roches and its master without a second thought or trace of regret. And if a warning inner voice murmured that it might already be too late, she closed her ears deliberately.

      Madame Bresson had taken her jeans and sweater to launder, so Andrea changed into a slim-fitting skirt in golden tweed, topped by a dark green woollen shirt, and pinned up her chestnut hair into a neat French pleat.

      She lunched on thick home-made broth, savoury with herbs and vegetables, ending her meal with fresh fruit from the chateau’s own orchards and local cheese. She was just finishing her coffee when Madame Bresson came to clear the table.

      ‘No, you must let me help you. You have quite enough to do.’ Andrea got up gingerly and began to load her dishes on to the tray Madame had brought in spite of the housekeeper’s protests. Then she carried the tray to the kitchen. After all, she told herself in justification, if she was really going to be the mistress here, she would be taking over some of the household duties, and her independent spirit rebelled at being waited on.

      The kitchen was a large cheerful room with an enormous glowing range, which also provided hot water as well as cooking facilities. In the middle of the room was a large wooden table with a well-scrubbed top, and an array of fearsome-looking knives to hand. Strings of onions and garlic hung from hooks round the walls, and a huge built-in dresser supported an assortment of copper and cast iron utensils. Andrea enjoyed cooking, although she had never embarked on a Cordon Bleu course as Clare had done for a brief period. She thought that once the vagaries of the range had been mastered, any woman could revel in preparing meals in these homely surroundings.

      Madame Bresson seemed not to resent her presence in the slightest, but showed a positive eagerness to open the china cupboards and disclose the secrets of the larder and the wine cellar. She grieved openly over the fact that the chateau was not supplied with electricity and Andrea learned, without any real surprise, that this had been one of the decisions of ‘Monsieur le père de Monseigneur’. She would have loved to know more, but Madame became so tight-lipped at the first of her tentative questions that she desisted.

      When she inquired whether anyone would mind if she looked round the chateau, Madame looked a little blank, but she cheered visibly when Andrea assured her, feeling wretchedly guilty, that she did not require a guide, but would be quite happy to look about on her own. Her guilt increased when a large bunch of keys was thrust trustingly into her hands with a beaming smile from the housekeeper.