A Wife in Waiting
Autor
Jessica Steele
Lecturas
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CHAPTER ONE
JOSY looked through a window of the cross-channel ferry and let go a shaky sigh. Albeit that she would be back from France by Christmas, she had made the break, had made that decision to leave the home she had shared with her father and, hopefully, to start a new kind of life.
Although she had to admit that she felt extremely nervous about what lay in front of her, Josy could not help but be pleased that she had made the decision she had—long delayed though that decison had been. In fact so delayed that it was still a wonder to her that Dacre Banchereau had waited all this while. Particulary since she had agreed to take the job for only six months. She realised she had the family connection to thank for that.
Abruptly she switched her thoughts away from that family connection, and mused instead on how few were the decisions she had ever had to make. She reckoned she could count them on the fingers of one hand.
Her first decision, though panicky, had been to stay home and keep house for her widowed father when she had left school. Some years later she and her twin, Belvia, had reached twenty-one and had come into an inheritance from their much loved mother who had died when they were sixteen.
Josy had bought a car, and decided also to purchase a horse. Dear, dear Hetty—it had been a wrench leaving her, but the next six months would go quickly, and Tracey up at the commercially run stables where Hetty was permanently housed had promised to look after her as if she were her own, and Josy knew she could trust her.
Her lovely brown eyes clouded over as thoughts of the stables inevitably triggered off other memories—memories she did not wish to dwell on but memories which she could not always turn her mind from, memories that returned so constantly to crucify her.
It had been up at the stables where she had met Marc, a shy, unassuming Frenchman. Marc had worked there. She had met him—and had made the biggest decision of all. Last year in early June she had married him.
She choked down a knot of emotion. They had gone to his parents in a village some miles from Nantes for their honeymoon—but before they had been married twenty-four hours Marc was dead. He had been killed in a riding accident and had been dead over ten months now—eleven in two weeks’ time—and still she was haunted by her own inadequacies.
She tried not to think about it, to concentrate on this new life she had determined that she must make for herself. She knew that she would never marry again, yet at twenty-three she felt that she had to get out and start to do something with her life. She did not want to go on being her father’s housekeeper. And, after the despicable way he had used her—but more outrageously her sister Belvia—for his own devious ends, Josy felt she owed him nothing.
It was partly for Belvia too that she had decided to leave England for a while—Belvia, who had been so wonderfully good to her. This was Belvia’s first year of marriage, and to Josy’s mind her sister more than deserved that she did not have to worry about her. It was important to Josy that her twin had this time with Latham, her husband, completely worry-free.
Dacre Banchereau, Marc’s cousin, a banker whom she had met only once, had been in England on business at the end of September and had made a courtesy call on her. Whereas her French was the schoolgirl variety, and all but forgotten through lack of use, Dacre had spoken English with barely a trace of an accent. And, when all her life she had been plagued by a most disabling and unwanted shyness, she had somehow found Dacre far easier to talk to than most other strangers she’d met.
It could have been, of course, that because he had been a guest in her home she had felt honour-bound to make something of an effort—good manners pushing her to invite him in and offer him refreshment.
All her inhibitions had been out in full force, however, when, glancing at her over the rim of his coffee-cup, he had enquired kindly, ‘You are well, Josy?’
She did not like to have anyone’s personal attention on her. ‘Yes, of course,’ she’d replied stiffly.
But, before she had been able to think up anything to say that would take his by now steady scrutiny from her, he’d replaced his cup in his saucer and remarked, ‘You are very pale—do you get out in the air?’
‘There’s the garden. The shopping. The—the…’ Her voice faded.
‘You still have your horse at the stables,’ he put in quietly, when she seemed totally stuck for words.
‘Hetty. Yes,’ she replied stiltedly.
‘You manage to ride her every day?’
She did not want him questioning her; she wanted him to go. But he was a guest, was Marc’s cousin and, though he was ten years older than her husband’s twenty-five years, she knew from her conversations with Marc that there had been a bond between the two as of brothers.
‘No,’ she replied.
‘Every other day?’ Dacre suggested.
‘No,’ she replied again. And, to save him asking, Every week, every other week? went on, ‘I haven’t ridden at all since I came back—fr-from France, I mean.’
There followed a quite lengthy pause, and again she wanted the tall, good-looking Frenchman gone. But all at once, as she watched, she would have sworn that he lost some of his colour. There was certainly a trace of shock in his voice anyway when abruptly, bluntly, he questioned harshly, ‘You are with child?’
‘No! No!’ she denied sharply, crimson colour staining her previously pale cheeks. ‘I…’ She turned her head from him, anguish again crucifying her. ‘No,’ she said once more, her voice a mere whisper this time. Oh, how she wished that she was with child—that she was pregnant. Oh, if only that were so then she would be rid forever of this torment of guilt at the fact that she had been unable to give herself to Marc.
‘Forgive me; please don’t be distressed!’
Josy came away from the torture of her memories to see that Dacre no longer appeared shocked, but was looking truly regretful that he had upset her.
‘It—w-was a natural assumption, I suppose,’ she managed to reply, her good manners holding up when what she wanted to do was to dash from the room rather than stay in what she felt was a strained atmosphere.
She flicked a nervous glance to the watching, observing, grey-eyed man. He seemed to be missing not a thing. Then suddenly, as she looked at him, he smiled a smile of such charm and ease that she stared at him in fascination and all at once forgot to feel strained.
‘But you still like horses?’ he commented in friendly fashion, swiftly changing the subject back to horses.
‘Oh, yes, I love them.’ She smiled shyly back, once more finding him easier than most to talk with. Then she saw a light of something almost speculative come into his eyes. It worried her a little.
But his expression was relaxed when unhurriedly he questioned, ‘I wonder—and I hope you won’t mind my asking—if you could help me?’
‘Help you?’ she queried. ‘How?’
‘It’s to do with a couple of horses I own,’ Dacre replied. ‘I live in a very isolated area in the Loire valley—’
‘You don’t live in Nantes near your aunt and uncle?’ she questioned impulsively—Dacre Banchereau had been there at the airport to meet their plane—she had assumed that he lived close by.
‘My weekend home is a couple of hours’ drive from Nantes, in a place near Saumur. During the week I live and work in Paris.’
‘But—you were visiting Marc’s parents the day Marc and I…’ Her voice dried up. Oh, Marc, Marc, Marc. She should never have married him. If they hadn’t married they wouldn’t have gone to France, and he—
‘I was at my weekend home on the day my aunt Sylvie and uncle Philippe received an early morning call from Marc, during which he told them he was coming home that day and bringing someone very special with him,’ Dacre revealed, his look alert to the changing, shadowed expressions on her face. ‘My aunt in particular was extremely excited. She had the strongest feeling that she was about to meet her future daughter-in-law.’
Josy had known about Marc’s phone call, but not the rest of it, and while part of her did not want to hear any more there was another part of her that seemed to need to know more. She’d had plenty of time to think since Marc’s death, and only now did she realise that, with Marc having loved horses even more than she did, horses had seemed to be their sole topic of conversation.
‘Marc’s mother rang you?’ she asked.
‘She had already phoned my mother, who, during the course of the conversation, said I was not in Paris but at home clearing up a few matters prior to starting a two-week vacation the next day. As soon as Aunt Sylvie had finished that call she rang me, insisting nothing would do but—because I was going away and would miss you and Marc—that I drive over to meet the woman who she was sure was her son’s fiancée.’ Dacre looked steadily at her for a long, long moment, and then commented, ‘The surprise to all of us was that you were already his wife.’
‘We didn’t mean to hurt anyone!’ Josy blurted out in an unhappy rush. ‘Neither Marc nor I wanted a big wedding and—’
‘My dear, you didn’t hurt anyone,’ he cut in to soothe understandingly. ‘We who are of Marc’s family knew of his preference for horses rather than human beings. When we met you we saw that Marc had been exceedingly lucky in that he had found someone with the same reserved temperament as himself.’
Lucky! How could Marc have been lucky? He had married her—and died. ‘I…’ she began, but felt choked suddenly and could not go on.
She fought desperately hard to get herself back together again, not to break down in front of this man who, for all he was of Marc’s family, was a stranger, and as Dacre waited silently, watchfully and patiently she was grateful to him that, observing her emotional state, he gave her the time she needed in which to regain her control.
Then it was that he gave her something else to think about when he continued, ‘To go back to the great help you could be to me. I live in a very isolated location, as I mentioned and, since I need someone to look after my horses, and with you loving horses so much—’ He broke off. Then, looking at her with a steady grey gaze, he asked, ‘I don’t suppose you’d be interested in the job?’
‘No!’ she replied before he could draw another breath.
‘It would be too isolated for you?’
‘It isn’t that,’ Josy answered, and, realising that her manners had slipped and that her refusal had been too blunt, went on, ‘I think I should like very much to live in an isolated area, but…’
‘But you’ve no wish to live in France?’
It wasn’t even that. ‘I th-think I might like to live in France,’ she told him honestly, and, starting to feel a mite panicky, added, ‘But I couldn’t come—I keep house for my father. He—’
‘You’re entitled to a life of your own, Josy,’ he interrupted, and there was that something not to be put off in his tone that disturbed her.
‘I know,’ she replied, only just holding down her panic. ‘But—but—I told you, I don’t ride now. I’ve had nothing to do with horses since Marc died.’
For long, long moments after these words had left her Dacre Banchereau just sat silently looking at her. And then very quietly he let fall, ‘Don’t you think that you should?’ She opened her mouth to say no, but, still talking quietly, he went on to state that just because Marc had died while out riding he would not have wanted her to deny herself the sport of riding which they had both loved, ending, ‘And, talking of horses, are you now going to show me the stables where my cousin worked?’
‘Stables?’ she gasped, oblivious of his level-eyed gaze. She had avoided the stables like the plague since she had returned from France almost four months ago. ‘I—I—I don’t go to the stables! I haven’t been to the stables since I got back!’ she stated agitatedly.
‘Then I think,’ Dacre replied calmly, ‘that it’s time that you did.’
Josy stared at him, to her astonishment feeling quite angry with him. She, who seldom ever felt anything so positive as anger, realised that she felt astonishingly angry with him and his interference.
‘I…’ she began defiantly, and saw his grey glance go to the angry sparks flashing in her eyes—as if her anger surprised him as much as it did her. And as she remembered some of her own recent thoughts and feelings on the subject of the stables—only just lately she had started to wonder herself if she should try and do the self-same thing that he was suggesting—suddenly her anger fizzled out. Her sister had been little short of an angel—exercising Hetty every day for her, loving, protecting and caring for her. But many had been the times over the last week or two when Josy had thought that she wasn’t being fair to Belvia—that she really should make an effort. ‘D-do you really want to—to see where Marc worked?’ she heard herself ask.
Dacre’s firm gaze held hers. She then saw that steady look move over her pale, unblemished complexion, rest on her long fair hair with its hint of red, before it came back to her large, deeply brown eyes. ‘Yes,’ he said, looking straight into them. ‘I really do.’
Josy clenched her hands tightly as she fought to find the courage she would need. She owed it to her dear twin, who had done so much for her, to be strong. She owed it to Marc—oh, my heavens, how she owed it to Marc. And because of Marc, whose family had lost him, she owed it very much to this man Dacre Banchereau, who had loved him more as a younger brother than a cousin, to be strong and to do as he asked and show him where Marc had worked and been happy.
‘C-could you—would you w-wait while I go and get changed?’ she asked.
‘Of course,’ he replied kindly.
Josy left the room, but when she returned she had changed not from her everyday dress into a smarter outfit but—and it had taken all of her courage to do it—was wearing her riding clothes.
Dacre was on his feet. ‘R-ready?’ Josy asked jerkily, saw his glance flick over the long length of her legs in their well-fitting jodhpurs and had her answer when he joined her at the door.
They went to the stables in his car, and Josy silently owned to feeling all strung up and tense when, leaving him to follow, she went looking for Hetty. But the moment she saw her so, for the first time in almost four months, Josy felt something in her start to come back to life.
‘Oh, Hetty, Hetty,’ she crooned, the fact that Dacre Banchereau was but a yard or so behind her entirely lost to her as warmth for the horse flooded her heart. She hugged Hetty and laid her face against her neck, and Hetty whinnied in approval.
How long she stood there stroking the mare, a glow of loving about her, life entering her being, Josy did not know. But, her eyes still alight, some slight sound made her turn around, and then it was that she remembered Dacre.
She looked at him, felt shy, but because for the first time in an age she had experienced a small fraction of inner peace she just had to say a quiet, ‘Thank you.’
And he understood, it seemed, for he just looked back at her, his eyes travelling over her expressive face. Then softly he hinted, ‘It would be a pity not to put those jodhpurs to good use.’
In truth Josy was not at all sure why she had changed into her riding clothes, save that she always dressed like this when she came to the stables. But Hetty looked willing and eager, and as more life lit Josy’s eyes so she found that she was asking, ‘Will you wait?’
‘I will wait,’ Dacre confirmed solemnly, and the next she knew was that he was helping her to saddle up.
And wait for her he did, and when, with a hint of pink in her otherwise pale cheeks, Josy returned, he helped her unsaddle Hetty and attend to her before he drove Josy back to her home.
Outside her house she wondered if she should ask him in. But in the close confines of his car she felt shy again, and was not sure that she wanted him inside her home a second time. However, good manners being what they were, she was about to invite him in just the same when he got out of the car, came round and opened the passenger door. And as she got out and stood with him on the pavement for a moment he asked her to, ‘Think about my suggestion, Josy. I need someone reliable to look after my horses.’
‘I—’ she began to decline.
‘Think about it,’ he urged. ‘Think about it most carefully. If you feel you can come for only a short while-say six months—think about it.’
‘I…’ Again she was about to refuse.
‘I’m hardly ever there. Some weekends I don’t make it at all,’ he informed her. And with a disarming smile added, ‘I should feel happy to know that a member of my family was there.’
How nice he made that sound! ‘I’ll—er—think about it,’ she heard herself promise.
And Dacre went away, and she did think about it, right until the next morning when Belvia came home from spending the weekend with a friend. Barely had she told her sister all about Dacre’s visit when Latham Tavenner came looking for Bel. And then—staggeringly—Belvia, with an adoring Latham by her side, told her that they were getting married.
Josy gasped at the shock of that and later, when her sister told her all she had to tell her—including what their father had been up to in his endeavours to get Latham to invest in his company—there was no space in which to think about Dacre’s suggestion that she go to France to work for him.
Five days later, as September gave way to October—and after a whirlwind of shopping and arranging—Belvia and Latham married. Belvia looked radiant, and Latham looked as if he could not believe that she had not only agreed to marry him but had just said so in church.
And, for Belvia and the love she had for her, Josy managed to overcome her shyness to be her bridesmaid—only Belvia and Latham being aware that because of her married status she was more matron of honour than bridesmaid.
Josy had never told her father that she had married Marc. In fact her father had never met Marc. She had wanted to bring him home one time, but her father was a snob of the first water and had looked down his nose at the idea of her bringing a mere groom into his home. And Josy had thought too much of Marc to introduce him into such an atmosphere.
She’d no idea then, though, that because he was averse to meeting people Marc had opted for a simple life when in actual fact he came from quite a wealthy background. Only when they had been married and on their honeymoon flight to tell his parents of their marriage had Marc confided about the businesses his father owned, and the fact that he had no need to work at all unless he wanted to.
Her head was still filled with thoughts of Marc, and of Belvia and Latham and their wonderful happiness a week later. She also thought a great deal about her father and his treachery. And then she started to think too of Dacre Banchereau’s job offer.
It would mean leaving her father to look after himself, but after the way he had behaved Josy felt little compunction about doing that. She had planned to leave home anyway when she and Marc returned from their honeymoon, though she had planned to look in on her old home daily to check her father’s larder and his laundry. But, as Bel had said only a couple of weeks ago, ‘Let him pay for a housekeeper.’
Suddenly it all seemed possible—if she dared. For Belvia, and for herself. It would mean leaving Hetty, but she was such a lovable mare that everybody wanted to spoil her—and would. And it would only be for six months—Josy was certain about that as she began to look on Dacre’s offer as a lifeline.
She felt she needed to get away, to take stock, to make the break from her domineering father. What better chance? If she went to France there would be no way that he would ring her when he couldn’t find something or other and expect her to come home and find it for him.
Some weeks ago she had started to think that she couldn’t go on like this, that she must make more of an effort. Whilst still swamped by guilt, she was better than she had been, and over the worst of the shock, at what had happened, which had so rocked her.
Those first few weeks after Marc’s death—his funeral, she and Belvia flying home and Belvia covering for her so that their father should know none of it—had passed for the most part in a traumatised haze.
It was only lately that Josy had begun to realise how much she owed her sister. Bel had at once dropped everything to rush to France to be with her, had supported her, and back in England she had defended her, been an avenging angel for her—and Josy knew that she would be forever grateful to her.
But Belvia was married now, and while there would always be a strong bond between them Josy realised that it was time to let go. She took a deep breath and at that moment determined that she would take up Dacre Banchereau’s offer.
Then the phone rang, and to her amazement it was him! ‘How are you, Josy?’ he enquired.
‘I’m very well,’ she replied politely.
‘Can I hope you have made a decision in my favour?’ he asked, without further ado.
Josy took a shaky breath, but the determination of her decision a moment ago was still warm, and while her nerve held out, with a ‘neck or nothing’ kind of gulp, she told him, ‘I should like to—um—take the job for six months.’ The taut kind of silence that followed was equally unnerving—so much so that Josy found herself blurting out, ‘I don’t speak much French—well, hardly any at all, really.’
‘That’s no problem,’ Dacre’s voice came back charmingly in her ears. ‘Would you like me to come for you?’
‘Oh, no.’ She at once rejected the idea. ‘I can come by myself.’
‘When?’ he wanted to know, now that he had her acceptance of the job seeming to be impatient for her to start.
‘I don’t—er—can I let you know? I—um—haven’t told my father yet.’
‘You won’t let him change your mind?’
‘No, I won’t do that,’ she promised, and heard Dacre all businesslike as he asked her if she had a pen and gave her his telephone numbers where she could contact him.
In the event, however, over six months were to pass before Josy was able to keep her promise and leave England for France. To start with, her father was not at all pleased to hear that the streamlined running of his existence was going to be interfered with.
‘I don’t want to employ a housekeeper,’ he snapped angrily.
Josy looked at him and thought of the many times she had given in to his likes and dislikes. She thought of the dreadful life he had given her mother. And she thought of his deviousness and—for only the second time in her life—she stood up to him. ‘The house is going to get very untidy without one,’ she told him.
‘Did your sister put you up to this?’ he snarled.
‘Belvia’s still away on her honeymoon,’ she reminded him.
‘You’re horse-mad!’ he attacked nastily—and the next day went down with a heavy bout of flu.
Josy rang Dacre. ‘I’m sorry, my father’s ill with flu. I don’t know when I’ll be able to come.’
‘You’ve told him you’re coming to France?’
‘Yes—but…If you don’t want to wait…I mean, it’s only a temporary job, after all. If you want to get somebody else…’ she offered, seeing her chance of going getting away from her.
‘You’re family—I’ll wait,’ Dacre replied.
Never had she known flu to last so long. She was still nursing her father well into November. ‘Don’t you think you should try to go into work?’ she dared to hint.
‘Latham Tavenner’s had the nerve to send his accountants in!’
‘That’s natural enough, surely, since he intends to invest a tremendous sum in your company?’ Josy suggested fairly.
‘Well, they can do it without getting any answers from me!’ he declared spitefully. ‘If they ring tell them I’m indisposed.’
Josy rang Dacre Banchereau again in December. ‘I should still like to come, but I don’t feel I can leave my father alone over Christmas and New Year,’ she stated.
‘I’ll see you in January,’ he clipped, sounding not at all pleased, and put the phone down.
Only then, as she began to panic that the job was going away from her, did Josy realise that she really wanted this chance to change her life. Much to her relief, however, Dacre rang her on Christmas Day and seemed much more friendly.
‘I wanted to wish you the best Christmas you can have,’ he stated, and Josy started to feel quite warm towards him, knowing that he must have been thinking of Marc and realising that she must be feeling particularly low at being without him at this festive time.
She didn’t want his sympathy, though. She was still weighed down by guilt—and didn’t want to think about it. ‘Thank you,’ she replied. ‘Have a good Christmas.’ She had nothing more to add, so rang off—and oddly found that she was wondering in which of his two homes he was spending Christmas—and who with. He was a good-looking, virile, sophisticated man—it went without saying that he would not be spending it alone.
At one time such a man would have terrified her. But Belvia and Latham—sometimes with Latham’s own sister, sometimes not—frequently urged her to dine with them, and the more she got to know her sophisticated and worldly-wise brother-in-law, the more she began to feel less constrained and more comfortable in a sophisticated man’s company.
She made another call to Dacre in January, to tell him that she was having trouble finding a suitable housekeeper for her father.
‘Please feel free to forget about your job offer if you feel I’m messing you about,’ she ended, and prayed hard that his feelings about her being family would hold up—because by then, while still nervous to some extent, she had started to feel quite excited at the prospect of going to Dacre’s home.
‘You insult my French honour,’ he replied—and she realised that he was teasing.
‘Er—g-goodbye,’ she said, and fancied that she liked his teasing.
It was in February that her sister took a hand in interviewing the next set of potential employees and decided that a stern-eyed Mrs Vale was ideal for the job of keeping house for their ill-humoured father.
‘Mrs Vale has to give notice to her present employer,’ Belvia said when they had seen her out. ‘So I’ve arranged for her to start on the first of April.’
‘Father will want to see her to give the OK first,’ Josy told her lovely blonde-haired sister.
‘Tough!’ Belvia laughed. To Josy’s mind she seemed to have grown more beautiful than ever since her marriage. ‘I’ve told Mrs Vale that her salary will be paid monthly into her bank, and I’ll arrange that since the old skinflint is likely to use “Can’t afford it” as another excuse. Now, you just get on that phone to France. You still want to go, love?’
Josy nodded, and because she thought it only fair to Mrs Vale to stay with her for a couple of weeks she decided to give Dacre a date in the middle of April.
‘And that’s definite?’ Dacre asked.
‘Most definitely definite,’ she replied, and laughed—and when there was a short silence on the other end realised that to hear her laugh must have surprised him as much as it had surprised her. She had laughed little lately. ‘I—um—I’ll make my own way,’ she added quickly. ‘Is there anyone I should see if you’re not home that weekend?’
‘I’ll make a point of being there. And I’ll also send you directions,’ he answered, which she thought was very nice, and then, before he rang off, he added, ‘Nina and César are looking forward to seeing you.’
‘Nina and César?’
‘Your charges,’ Dacre informed her.
‘Ah—um—it’s all right that I’m taking the job for only six months?’ she thought to ask, after all this while still anxious at the last minute.
‘Perfectly all right,’ he answered evenly, and, with nothing more to be discussed between them, bade her, ‘Au revoir.’
True to his word, directions for how to get to Saumur, and very detailed directions for how to get from there to his home, arrived—and Josy started packing.
She had decided to travel on a Friday, to stay overnight in Normandy, and to drive on to Saumur and from there to Dacre’s home the following morning.
It was, perhaps, with the view that her father might be unpleasant to her on her last night home that Belvia and Latham invited themselves to dinner on Thursday evening.
‘You’ve nothing to worry about, I feel sure,’ Belvia told her confidently as they were leaving. ‘I haven’t met Dacre Banchereau, it’s true, but his parents were at Marc’s funeral and they seemed lovely people.’
Josy couldn’t remember them. But that was not surprising. Apart from the fact that many, many other people had been there to pay their respects, she had been in deep shock, and little else had registered but that Marc was dead and wouldn’t have been if…
Belvia hugged her tightly. ‘I’ll miss you.’ She smiled—her eyes shiny.
Latham put an arm around his wife’s shoulders and held her close to him as he in turn smiled at his sister-in-law and told her, ‘Remember, Jo, any problems and we can be with you within hours.’
‘I’ll remember,’ she smiled, but did not anticipate any problems, and said goodbye to them realising that Belvia had been right when ages ago—when Josy had started to surface from her shock about Marc—she had said that her uncertainty about everything would pass. Because never would she have thought that she would so much as contemplate the step she was taking now—not only leaving home and taking a job, but a job in a foreign country!
An announcement to car drivers over the cross-channel ferry’s speaker system brought Josy out of her reverie. People started to move—they had arrived in France!
She had never driven on what she thought of as the wrong side of the road before, but after her first fifteen minutes of intense concentration she discovered that there was nothing to it. She had never had any problems with driving and, while confidence had never been her strong suit, she drove with confidence and care.
Josy found the hotel she had a reservation with—one Latham’s PA had arranged for her—and went up to her room, feeling she would like to phone Dacre to say that she had arrived in his country.
Shyness and a feeling that since she would be seeing him tomorrow he would probably think her an idiot held her back. She had a meal sent to her room, and went to bed.
Josy was an early riser, and was up and on her way by eight on Saturday morning. This was it; this was the start of her new life. She had made the break from home, from her father. She would see how things went, and when she returned to England—if her nerve held out-she would see about finding somewhere else to live, see about finding another job.
The remainder of the money her mother had left her was still substantial but it wouldn’t last for ever. She might find a live-in job looking after horses. She’d like that. She might even be able to have Hetty with her. She’d have to have Hetty with her, she decided with unusual determination. It sounded a bit grand but she would truthfully be able to tell any prospective employer that her last job had been looking after a stables in France.
Josy smiled at her temerity. Grief, she hadn’t started the job yet—and Dacre had only two horses. But they were stables, weren’t they? She decided there and then that she was going to be more positive.
Feeling more light-hearted than she had in an age, she motored on. When she came to the sizeable town of Angers, however, some of her new-found confidence took a dip. Saumur and surrounds, she calculated, were getting on for an hour’s drive away.
She had no idea what time they had lunch in Dacre’s household, but she did not want to arrive slap bang in the middle of it. And even though it was over six months since she had seen Dacre Banchereau she remembered him clearly—dark-haired, grey-eyed, tall, good-looking, mid-thirties and sophisticated with it…and, to be painfully honest, she was starting to feel overwhelmingly shy again.
Josy left her car in a cark park in Angers and took a stroll around town. She also, and not without taking a deep breath, entered a café and ordered what she thought was a sandwich, but—her French being as poor as she had supposed—it turned out to be half a French loaf stuffed with everything one could imagine.
She was too embarrassed to leave it—yet didn’t know how to start it. Then suddenly she started to get cross with herself. This was her new life. She was a new person. Two-handedly she raised the filled French bread to her mouth and began her chewing marathon.
She arrived in Saumur some time after half-past two. At three-fifteen, Dacre’s directions having been faultless, she pulled up outside his house. Though ‘house’, she rather thought, was a misnomer. For, endorsing her knowledge that Marc came from moneyed people, in her view it was more of a manor-house. It stood in its own grounds with parkland about and not another dwelling in sight.
She loved its splendid isolation and, wondering if she had after all made a mistake with the directions, she got out of her car with Dacre’s instructions in her hand. Taking her glance from the white-fronted, many-windowed, two-storeyed building, she looked from the wide expanse of drive over extensive lawns with a small wood beyond, and then checked his directions again.
Then she discovered that she had not made a mistake, and nor did she need to check the paper in her hand, for a voice called, ‘Josy!’ She looked up at the sound of her name, and relief flooded through her.
‘Dacre,’ she answered, shyness taking her as the tall Frenchman, clad in trousers, shirt and light sweater, came from the house and over the gravel drive to greet her.
Her instinctive good manners pushed their way through her shyness, and as he reached her she extended a dainty hand to him—and then she realised that she was well and truly in France, when, ignoring her out-stretched hand, Dacre extended both his hands to her. ‘Welcome to my home.’ He smiled, his grey eyes taking in her hair, her face and her person, clad similarly in trousers and light sweater.
Josy felt his hands on her arms, felt him drawing her closer. She tried hard not to panic, and discovered as he came yet closer that even for a man with such an athletic build he had a surprisingly broad chest. Then she felt his skin against hers as unhurriedly he kissed first one of her cheeks and then the other.
She felt hot all over. Even while her brain registered that this was the way any Frenchman would greet someone whom he considered to be a member of his family she felt hot and in need of taking in great gulps of air.
She pushed him away, saw her action register with him, and then felt awkward and embarrassed and wanted the ground to open up and swallow her. From somewhere, though—and maybe it stemmed from her earlier decision to be more positive—she managed a smile. And as his hands fell away from her, she stated, ‘I’m glad to be here.’ And hoped that only she knew just how much the feel of his kisses to her cheeks had disconcerted her.
