unpleasant thought had come to her.
'I—suppose,' the little girl said at last, colourlessly, and made no
attempt to reclaim her toy. It was obvious that a chance
resemblance, which had escaped Samma completely, had spoiled
the gift for her.
And put me back at square one, Samma thought, sighing inwardly
as she poured the coffee.
Liliane, aware she'd been tactless, hurried into speech. 'So you are
also an artist. Do you accept commissions?'
'Not exactly,' Samma said warily.
'You should paint Elvire. She is like the portraits of the ladies in the
house, only more beautiful,' Solange put in unexpectedly.
Samma felt a dismayed flush rise in her face, and saw it echoed, to
her surprise, in Elvire's own heightened colour.
Elvire said sharply, 'That is nonsense, Solange,' and walked away,
back to the house.
So she can actually be embarrassed, Samma thought. Amazing!
But at least she knew now how Roche and his mistress had met.
She'd come to Belmanoir to act as watchdog for his alcoholic wife.
Samma wondered with a pang if the affaire had begun while
Marie-Christine was still alive, and whether the knowledge of it had
driven her towards the final tragedy. The thought made her shiver.
Conversation over coffee proved desultory, and Samma wasn't
sorry when Liliane Duvalle excused herself afterwards, on the
grounds that she had work to do.
'My little book, which Roche hates so much,' she said with a little
laugh. 'Perhaps you would care to read some time what I have
completed so far—learn a little about the past of this family that has
become your own.'
'Thank you,' Samma said politely. But she knew she wouldn't be
taking Madame Duvalle up on her offer. I'm not a Delacroix, and I
never will be, she thought. I'm just an imposter here. Another
unwanted wife.
And definitely an unwanted stepmother. Samma was aware of
Solange watching her, with a kind of quietly hostile speculation.
And she made no attempt to touch her doll, lying half dressed and
face-down beside the lounger.
She sighed inwardly. She couldn't blame Solange for being so
prickly. She'd had a raw deal out of life, so far. A father who
virtually ignored her, and a mother who drank. No wonder she'd
lashed out at all well-meaning attempts to provide her with
companionship. And, each time she'd succeeded in driving one of
her companions away, it must have reinforced her doubts about her
own lovableness, Samma thought with a swift ache of her heart.
Whatever pranks she'd played must have been some kind of test,
which no one had ever passed. Or not until now.
She longed to put her arms round Solange, and reassure her in some
way, but she knew it was too soon, that they might never, in the
year she'd been allowed, achieve such terms of intimacy. The
person best able to help Solange was her father, she thought
restlessly, but was he prepared to do it? Or was Solange, perhaps,
an all too potent reminder of the wife he'd hated?
Samma shivered. Because suddenly, frighteningly, she understood
only too well the desperation which must have driven
Marie-Christine when she finally realised Roche would never be
hers. Perhaps, to her fuddled mind, life without him would have
seemed just another form of eternal darkness.
Oh, God—that's how I could feel—only too easily, she thought.
And knew with a pain too deep for words that it was already too
late.
CHAPTER SEVEN
SAMMA hauled herself out of the pool, and reached for a towel,
blotting the water from her shoulders and arms, and wringing the
excess moisture from her hair.
Her swim had refreshed her physically, but not mentally. She was
still reeling from the implications of that unheralded, unwanted
self-revelation.
She couldn't have fallen in love with Roche Delacroix! Common
sense, logic and even decency all legislated against it. She knew so
terrifyingly little about him, she thought. The only certainty was that
he was quite cynically prepared to exploit her for his own
'I—suppose,' the little girl said at last, colourlessly, and made no
attempt to reclaim her toy. It was obvious that a chance
resemblance, which had escaped Samma completely, had spoiled
the gift for her.
And put me back at square one, Samma thought, sighing inwardly
as she poured the coffee.
Liliane, aware she'd been tactless, hurried into speech. 'So you are
also an artist. Do you accept commissions?'
'Not exactly,' Samma said warily.
'You should paint Elvire. She is like the portraits of the ladies in the
house, only more beautiful,' Solange put in unexpectedly.
Samma felt a dismayed flush rise in her face, and saw it echoed, to
her surprise, in Elvire's own heightened colour.
Elvire said sharply, 'That is nonsense, Solange,' and walked away,
back to the house.
So she can actually be embarrassed, Samma thought. Amazing!
But at least she knew now how Roche and his mistress had met.
She'd come to Belmanoir to act as watchdog for his alcoholic wife.
Samma wondered with a pang if the affaire had begun while
Marie-Christine was still alive, and whether the knowledge of it had
driven her towards the final tragedy. The thought made her shiver.
Conversation over coffee proved desultory, and Samma wasn't
sorry when Liliane Duvalle excused herself afterwards, on the
grounds that she had work to do.
'My little book, which Roche hates so much,' she said with a little
laugh. 'Perhaps you would care to read some time what I have
completed so far—learn a little about the past of this family that has
become your own.'
'Thank you,' Samma said politely. But she knew she wouldn't be
taking Madame Duvalle up on her offer. I'm not a Delacroix, and I
never will be, she thought. I'm just an imposter here. Another
unwanted wife.
And definitely an unwanted stepmother. Samma was aware of
Solange watching her, with a kind of quietly hostile speculation.
And she made no attempt to touch her doll, lying half dressed and
face-down beside the lounger.
She sighed inwardly. She couldn't blame Solange for being so
prickly. She'd had a raw deal out of life, so far. A father who
virtually ignored her, and a mother who drank. No wonder she'd
lashed out at all well-meaning attempts to provide her with
companionship. And, each time she'd succeeded in driving one of
her companions away, it must have reinforced her doubts about her
own lovableness, Samma thought with a swift ache of her heart.
Whatever pranks she'd played must have been some kind of test,
which no one had ever passed. Or not until now.
She longed to put her arms round Solange, and reassure her in some
way, but she knew it was too soon, that they might never, in the
year she'd been allowed, achieve such terms of intimacy. The
person best able to help Solange was her father, she thought
restlessly, but was he prepared to do it? Or was Solange, perhaps,
an all too potent reminder of the wife he'd hated?
Samma shivered. Because suddenly, frighteningly, she understood
only too well the desperation which must have driven
Marie-Christine when she finally realised Roche would never be
hers. Perhaps, to her fuddled mind, life without him would have
seemed just another form of eternal darkness.
Oh, God—that's how I could feel—only too easily, she thought.
And knew with a pain too deep for words that it was already too
late.
CHAPTER SEVEN
SAMMA hauled herself out of the pool, and reached for a towel,
blotting the water from her shoulders and arms, and wringing the
excess moisture from her hair.
Her swim had refreshed her physically, but not mentally. She was
still reeling from the implications of that unheralded, unwanted
self-revelation.
She couldn't have fallen in love with Roche Delacroix! Common
sense, logic and even decency all legislated against it. She knew so
terrifyingly little about him, she thought. The only certainty was that
he was quite cynically prepared to exploit her for his own
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