to the nervous pulse throbbing in her throat.
Susan stared at her for several seconds, and then she asked impatiently: ‘Who is he? What’s going on?’
Harriet straightened, shaking her head. ‘I’ve told you. He—I—we met several years ago in Paris.’
‘Is he in the antique business, too?’ exclaimed Susan in surprise.
‘I don’t know.’
‘But you said you met him at an auction!’
‘We did.’ Harriet flapped her hand about dismissingly. ‘Look, we haven’t time to talk about it now. It will be dark soon, and we still have the car to unload.’
Susan regarded her sulkily. ‘You can’t brush it off, just like that. You didn’t just meet him once, did you? I’m not a baby. I could tell there was more to it than that.’
‘Oh, Susan…’ Harriet walked out of the house.
‘Well! What went wrong?’ demanded Susan, following her. ‘I mean, he’s rather dishy, isn’t he? He reminded me of Sacha Distel.’
‘Oh, good lord, he’s nothing like Sacha Distel!’ said Harriet crossly. ‘Are you going to help me carry these things in, or not?’
Susan shrugged, and lifted a box of groceries. ‘Did you have an affair with him?’ she asked casually, and for a moment her aunt was too stunned to speak. ‘Well,’ she went on, carrying the groceries into the house. ‘People do, you know. I even know girls of my age who—’
‘I’d prefer not to discuss the matter any further,’ Harriet essayed, depositing their sleeping bags on the kitchen table. ‘Now, do you want tea or coffee? It’s all the same to me.’
‘Well, at least tell me his name,’ exclaimed Susan, looking at her appealingly, and Harriet sighed.
‘Why?’
‘I’d just like to know, that’s all. I’ll stop asking questions if you tell me, honestly.’
Harriet hesitated. ‘Will you?’
‘Yes. Yes, I promise.’
Harriet bent over the box of groceries. ‘His name’s André. André Laroche. Now, can we please get some work done?’
The kettle, after a scouring at the sink, boiled remarkably quickly, and cold ham and cheese, with some of the crusty bread from the patisserie, went down very well with hot coffee. With the lamp lighted, and the door closed against the encroaching darkness outside, it was all rather cosy, and Susan said so.’
‘We haven’t sampled the delights of washing in cold water yet, and remember, there’s no bathroom,’ Harriet observed ruthlessly. ‘Did you see the privy when you went down to the stream?’
Susan nodded ruefully. ‘It’s just outside the back door, actually.’
‘Chemical, of course?’ Susan nodded, and Harriet grimaced. ‘Oh, well, I can hardly blame anyone for that. I knew the conditions would not measure up to what we were used to, but—’
‘We are going to stay, aren’t we?’ Susan broke in eagerly. ‘It’s not as bad as you expected, is it? And if André Laroche provides us with two single beds…’
‘Monsieur Laroche to you,’ Harriet corrected her sharply, and then went on brusquely: ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do, Susan. If—if Monsieur Laroche is prepared to give me my money back, I might be well advised to take it.’
‘Oh, no!’
Susan was aghast, and Harriet spread her hands helplessly. ‘We—I can buy another house, Susan. Somewhere else. Somewhere—less—isolated.’
‘But I like it here!’ declared Susan, pushing her fringe out of her eyes, and Harriet caught her lower lip between her teeth.
It was at times like these that her niece most resembled her mother. Unlike Harriet, Sophie had been red-haired, with the blue eyes her daughter had inherited. Harriet’s hair was much fairer, although her skin was not, and she had never had the problems with tanning that Sophie had suffered. Harriet’s eyes, too, were firmly brown, and therefore stronger than Susan’s slightly myopic vision.
It was this weakening memory of her dead sister that made Harriet hesitate now, when all her instincts urged her to get rid of the house while she could, and leave Rochelac before she was forced into a situation she would regret.
‘Susan… Susan…’ she began persuasively, but her niece had her father’s strength of will.
Facing her aunt stubbornly, she said: ‘You promised me we would stay here. You said you’d always wanted to spend time in the Dordogne, exploring the castles and the caves! Now you’re changing your mind. And all because of that man!’
‘That’s not true!’ Harriet’s cheeks were red now. ‘Susan, you know I had serious doubts about this place the minute I saw it.’
‘But you’d come back, hadn’t you? You were going to give it a chance. Until you met André Laroche!’
‘Susan!’
‘I don’t believe you don’t like the house. We could make it super, and you know it. What’s wrong? Did he walk out on you or something? Is that why you’re still an old maid at twenty-six!’
As soon as the words were uttered, Susan regretted them, and she threw her head down on her folded arms and began to sob as if her heart would break. Harriet let her cry for a while, realising there was more behind her tears than disappointment at her indecision. Susan was by no means recovered from the shock of both her parents being killed in a multiple pile-up on the M1 six weeks ago, and perhaps she was being unreasonable in imagining she could shunt the child about wherever the fancy took her. After all, she could have met André again any time, at any one of a dozen sales she had visited in France since. Perhaps it was a good idea to exorcise his ghost once and for all. Certainly the memory of that period of her life had cast a shadow over all subsequent relationships to the extent that Susan was not altogether unjustified in calling her an old maid. Only Charles got anywhere near her, and their association was governed by a mutual love of antiquities.
At last she got up and went across to the girl, sliding an arm about her shoulders. Susan uttered a muffled apology, and buried her face against her, sniffing and groping blindly for her handkerchief. But the storm was over, and presently she lifted her head and looked sheepishly up at her aunt.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be silly.’ Harriet spoke cheerfully. ‘I’m not offended. You could be right—about me being an old maid, I mean.’
‘But you’re not,’ protested Susan vehemently. ‘You’re just devoted to your career, that’s all. All my friends think you’re terribly sophisticated, and your clothes are always so—elegant. You’re not a bit like—Mummy, I mean—you’ve never shown any interest in getting married or having a family, have you? But I expect you’ve known heaps of men…’
‘You make me sound like a selfish bitch!’ remarked Harriet, her smile
