didn’t like skinny women. He liked them plump and curvaceous, with hearty appetites at the table and in bed. Women who did not cling or need cosseting. Women who enjoyed and moved on as he did. It was better that way.
Mrs Holte looked as if she needed a strong arm at her waist, or she would blow away in one of the infernal winds that swept down from the foothills they called Peaks. No, Mrs Holte was not his style at all.
So why could he not get her out of his mind?
He tossed his hat on the desk in his tiny office where he kept his papers and accounts and hung up his apron. He grabbed his coat from the hook behind the door. ‘I will not be more than an hour or two. Finish the potatoes and the root vegetables. They should keep you employed until I return. Agnes can help you when Madame Stratton has finished with them. Tell Charlie to bring in more wood, and coal too.’
Tonight there would be no untried dishes.
He stepped out into a grey day. Clouds obscured the hills he scorned and had left a fresh layer of white over the ground. Barely enough to cover the toes of his boots. He turned up his coat collar and headed for the path that wandered across the grounds to the small house set aside for the widow of the heir.
As he left the courtyard the wind hit him full force, tugging at his coat and making him grab for his hat. But it wasn’t the wind that took his breath away; it was the sight of the woman and the child in the middle of the lawn scooping snow into a pile.
Building un bonhomme de neige. How many years was it since he had entered into such a childish game? A long time. If ever. He shook his head. Once, he recalled, the soldiers in his company had flung snowballs around. Then they’d created a man of snow and topped it with a shako, calling it their captain’s name and telling him what they thought of him. They’d all been very drunk, but they had laughed until they fell down. They were lucky not to have been flogged for such foolishness.
He’d been fifteen.
He stood watching them, mother and daughter. He heard their laughter carried on the wind. It made him want to smile. He liked children. He liked their innocence. Their lack of guile. He especially liked that Madame Claire would spend time with her child, instead of leaving her to a nursemaid. She was a woman to be admired.
He narrowed his eyes. They were making a very poor job of the man of snow.
He found himself walking closer. The child saw him first. ‘Have you come to help?’ she asked in a high piping voice. Her cheeks were rosy from the wind, her eyes bright, her smile welcoming.
‘Good morning, madame, mademoiselle.’ André looked at her mother, who regarded him warily. Her grey eyes reminded him of clouds full of rain. Her smiles for her child hid fear and sadness. He had a terrible urge to offer his help, not with the snowman, but with the deeper troubles reflected in her gaze. It wasn’t his place to offer anything.
He glanced down at the heap of snow at his feet and back at the child. ‘I do not wish to intrude, but if you take a handful of snow like this—’ he bent, picked up a handful of snow and formed a ball in his gloved palms, squeezing it until it was round ‘—and then you roll it like so …’ He rolled the ball and it gathered all the snow in its path until it grew three times its size. He looked up at the child. ‘Then you will soon have his body.’
He stood up.
‘Mama, look, isn’t he clever?’
‘Very,’ the woman said, but she did not smile. She no doubt found him impertinent. And he was. It was in his nature. Dictated by his heritage, he presumed. It had got him into all sorts of trouble in his youth. But he did not need trouble now, not when he was so close to achieving his dream.
He bowed. ‘I wish you both a good day.’ He headed for the path.
‘Don’t go,’ the child called. ‘Stay and help.’
He hesitated, then turned back.
‘I am sure Monsieur André has better things to do than play at making snowmen with us,’ her mother said. She had a nice voice. Light yet musical. She spoke his name beautifully, like a Frenchwoman.
‘I have time to build un bonhomme.’ The words were out of his mouth before he thought about them and the little girl was looking at her mother for agreement.
The woman raised her hands from her sides in defeat. ‘Then I am sure Jane and I will appreciate the help.’
In short order the three of them were pushing a very large and very heavy ball of snow around the lawn. Twice his hand touched that of the English madame. He felt the shock of it all the way from his fingers to his chest. And then lower down. Deep in the pit of his belly. The rise of desire.
She moved her hand away so quickly he had the sense she had felt the tingles too. After the second time it happened, she was careful to keep the child between them.
Finally they could barely push the uneven-shaped ball it was so heavy.
‘I think it is quite big enough,’ Mrs Holte said, laughing and panting.
‘I want him to be the biggest snowman ever,’ Jane said.
‘He is,’ André said. ‘Now we need a head. Make a ball the way I did and we will start again.’
Jane pressed snow together in her hands, then raced around in larger and larger circles gathering snow on her ball, the green grass being revealed in an increasingly wide track behind her.
Breathing hard, Madame Holte watched her daughter with a smile on her lips. She was really pretty when she smiled. Not pretty. Striking. Because it was so unexpected, and so full of joy.
A joy he’d made possible.
Insanity. He’d simply stopped to help the child. He’d wanted to see the little girl happy, that was all. Children deserved to be happy.
Did they not? His childhood, the parts he allowed himself to remember, must have had some happy moments. He tried to recapture the feeling he saw in Jane’s bright eyes and flushed cheeks. The delight and the innocence ringing in her laughter. He couldn’t do it. Yet he had the sense of memories buried deep inside.
What would it be like, having his own child? A family. During the war, he had always avoided thoughts of family, children, ties. Life was too dangerous. And since then he had been working too hard to establish himself.
Watching this child at play today had created a longing that had nothing to do with lust for the mother. It was far too much like a need of the soul. It cut the ground from under his feet in a way he did not like, yet could not seem to resist.
For some reason he felt as if he stood at the brink of an abyss.
He turned away from the sight, turned to speak to the mother. ‘She is having a good time, non?’ He was shocked at how husky his voice sounded. How unsure.
Her face tipped up to meet his gaze. The love in her smile held him entranced. ‘She is. Thank you for your help.’
The smile was not for him. It was for the child. And still it burned a path through his chest. Not all smiles were honest. Bitter experience had taught him not to believe them. He waved a dismissive hand. ‘De
