Bride of Desire by Sara Craven Page B

which was standing at the table. ‘She has loaned us this for Thomas. Also the cot, where her own son slept. He has married a girl from Rennes ,’ she added with a shrug. ‘And she does not need them for her baby. She wants everything that is new. So Amelie is pleased that her things will be used once more.’
     
      She paused. ‘I have told her that you are a widow, Alys, but also that your marriage only occurred after you left here and returned toEngland .’ Her gaze was steady. ‘You understand?’
     
      ‘Yes,’ Allie said woodenly. ‘Yes, of course.’
     
      Lunch was a thick vegetable soup, served with chunks of bread, and there was cheese to follow.
     
      Tom made a spirited attack on his soup, using his spoon like a stabbing spear. He was assisted in his efforts by Madame Drouac, who talked softly to him in Breton, and occasionally clucked at him like a hen, which provoked a joyous toothy grin. Shyness, it seemed, was a thing of the past, Allie saw with relief.
     
      ‘He usually has a nap in the afternoon,’ she mentioned as they drank their coffee.
     
      ‘Very wise,’ said Tante. ‘I do the same.’ She gave Allie a long look. ‘And perhaps you should rest also, ma mie. You are pale, and your eyes are tired.’
     
      ‘Well, I have had more peaceful nights,’ Allie admitted ruefully. She hesitated. ‘Would it be all right if I took a shower first? I feel as if I’ve been wearing these clothes for ever.’
     
      Tante covered her hand with her own. ‘You must do exactly as you wish, chérie. This is your other home. You know that.’
     
      It’s probably my only real home, Allie thought, as she carried Tom upstairs. The room had been rearranged, with its wide bed pushed under the window in order to accommodate the cot—a palatial, beautifully carved affair. For a moment, Allie felt almost sorry for the daughter-in-law from Rennes who couldn’t recognise a family heirloom when she saw it. But her loss was Tom’s gain, and he was asleep even before Allie had finished unpacking.
     
      She undressed slowly, and put on her thin, white silk dressing gown before making her way to the bathroom, which boasted a separate shower cabinet as well as a large tub. ‘It may be a cottage, but I insist on my comforts,’ Madelon Colville had declared, when the old-fashioned fittings had been torn out and replaced.
     
      And maybe I like mine too, Allie thought wryly, as she set out the array of exquisitely scented toiletries she’d brought with her.
     
      She stepped into the shower and turned on the spray, letting the water cascade luxuriously over her hair and body.
     
      The soup had been just what she needed, and, although she was still on edge, she was no longer shaking inside. Madame Drouac was clearly a good cook, and Allie found she was looking forward to the casserole of lamb that had been promised for the evening meal.
     
      ‘Amelie is a jewel,’ Tante had said quietly downstairs. ‘I only wish she was not considered a necessity. But the doctor insisted I should have help.’
     
      The doctor…But which one did MadelonColville mean? After all, there were three generations of de Brizats living at the big stone house at Trehel. It could hardly be the grandfather, Georges, who had retired under protest a few years before and must now be nearing his eighties, so it had to be Philippe still—or his only son, Allie thought, biting her lip savagely. And that was something she couldn’t ask.
     
      She wished that Madame Drouac spoke even a little English, so that, among other things, she could establish exactly what was wrong with her great-aunt. Because, when she’d tried a little tactful probing, Tante had merely waved a languid hand and said that she had good days and bad ones.
     
      ‘But today is nothing but good, because you are here,’ she’d added.
     
      On the other hand, Allie thought wryly, the language barrier between the housekeeper and herself