As she allowed her restless glance to wander her nerve jumped. On a side table where some family photos were displayed, the lovely couple blazed out at her. Luc in evening dress, Manon in a beautiful bare-shouldered gown, her hair up, on this occasion honey-blonde. Another of them in relaxed weekend mode with several of the present company. Clearly, Manon had been part of the family.
Excruciatingly out of her comfort zone, Shari answered questions about her journey, Sydney, Emilie and her children, the new twins about to be born, smiling, smiling. Babies, mothers, newborns—all were popular here, apparently.
Shari gazed at her sherry. Would it look suspicious if she didn’t drink it? In a limbo of indecision, she held the glass in her hand, untouched.
Not that any of those pregnancy rules would have to apply to her, necessarily. After all, if she didn’t stay pregnant … Why was it so hard to control one’s breathing and slow it down?
There was a bit of discussion about Rémy, then the conversation moved on to other things. People appealed to Luc often for his opinion, and when he replied he was always pleasant, measured, amused. Occasionally though he seemed not to hear them. He kept staring at the floor, or at Shari. Then he looked grave and so darkly handsome she felt the twist in her heart that signalled trouble ahead.
As if she didn’t have enough.
At a point where the conversation grew loud and lively, Luc strolled over to her and murmured, ‘What did you want to talk about?’
‘Nothing, nothing. Shh.’ She smiled as if everything were as normal as gramma pie while on the inside she was imagining herself growing huge, going to hospital all by herself and coming home to her flat in Paddington, with a … Well, not quite by herself.
The meal was an exquisitely prepared torture.
At first there was foie gras on slivers of toast on her plate. In her strangely disconnected state she couldn’t help wondering how many poor geese had died to produce it. Lucky there was some lettuce she could chew on, a few curls of celery.
Sensing Luc’s gaze, she was tempted to let their eyes tangle for an instant. His compelled her, questioning, uncertain, and she skittered hers away.
Oh, God. Had he guessed?
‘You have made a journey très, très, vraiment long, Shari,’ Laraine said. ‘A pity the occasion is so melancholy.’
The family showed their concern for the grieving fiancée with a series of questions, punctuated by discussions about the food and family concerns Shari wasn’t privy to, interrupting themselves and each other so rapidly she found it barely possible to get in a word.
‘Oui, les pois, s’il te plait. How long were you and Rémy engaged, Shari?’
‘Not long. You see—’
‘Try some of this, Sophie-Louise. So, Shari … had you planned your wedding soon?’
‘No. Well, actually—’
‘You are not enjoying your wine, ma chérie?’ That was Tante Marise, worrying she wasn’t partaking of enough sustenance.
Not to be outdone in the hospitality stakes, Laraine quickly asserted her authority. ‘Vite, Gilbert, apportes ce Sancerre. Shari, you have had a terrible ordeal. You must eat to recover your vitality. You will find this chablis is very fine.’ She beamed.
It looked beautiful, pale and chill in its crystal glass. Without a doubt, all the food was of the finest, though Shari could barely do more than taste. A rabbit that had scampered across meadows fragrant with thyme before it was murdered. Artichokes dressed in a manner a duke from the Perigord had only recently demanded on his deathbed.
If she didn’t drink the wine, would she give offence? Maybe just a sip, though even a sip could damage something very small and fragile. What if she drank it and the poor little face shrivelled up in agony?
Her insides clenched. She put her glass down.
‘While you are here you must visit the village where Rémy and Emi grew up,’ someone offered.
‘I am certain Luc would be happy to take you there and show you everything,’ Tante Laraine said warmly. ‘Tiens! I say, we must all go together and picnic in the woods.’
‘Bien sûr, Shari,’ Tante Marise added kindly. ‘Rémy would have liked to see you there.’
She guessed they weren’t intending to torture her, but with her world now dominated by an embryo—Luc’s—this constant harking back to Rémy was an agony.
When she wasn’t moving her food around the plate or being addressed by someone, Shari rested her gaze on a burnished antique sideboard with lovely pieces of delicately painted china. An exquisite vase holding jonquils, a Chinese bowl, a fragile urn painted with birds and flowers.
Once she disciplined herself to look at Luc firmly, like a normal, non-pregnant person. His eyes locked with hers, alert, guarded, and her heart turned over.
It was during the cheese she lost her cool. Tante Marise said, ‘Poor Shari, you must feel you have lost your whole world. Tsk-tsk-tsk-tsk-tsk.’
Shari shook her head, ready to deny the charge and explain about Rémy, when Laraine exchanged a meaningful glance with all the others and leaned tenderly towards her.
‘Forgive us, Shari. This is a delicate subject, ma chérie, but it must be dealt with. We have spoken with Emilie and do not believe Rémy has left any instructions. Are you aware of his thoughts? We must decide how to dispose of his ashes. It is good you are here in France and you are able to participate.’
Appalled, Shari said, ‘Oh, look. No, no, please.’ She glanced about at their enquiring, sympathetic faces and cast an agonised look at Luc. Then she rose to her feet, the better to breathe.
‘Please, you know, you’re all being so kind, but I—I really must explain.’ She saw Luc’s dark brows draw into an alarmed frown, but she carried on regardless. ‘The truth is, that while I was engaged to Rémy for a while, it was not a—a very happy thing. Our engagement ended several months before he—before the accident.’
A heavy stillness descended on the room. She could hear pigeons cooing on a distant steeple.
‘I haven’t wanted to mislead you. And truly, I don’t want to hurt anyone. I know you all loved him, he was part of your family, but in fact to me Rémy wasn’t always the most gentle person. He could lose his temper and be really quite—’ Just at that moment, her eye fell on the painted urn resting innocently on the bureau.
A horrifying realisation shocked through her. She grasped at her throat. Unable somehow to manage breathing, she felt herself grow unbearably hot, then without warning whirled forward into a bottomless black hole.
Through a misty haze she heard Luc’s shocked voice, distant chairs scraping, a babble of consternation. She opened her eyes again immediately, or so it seemed to her. Well, perhaps some time had passed, because she was now horizontal and in another room, her head on a feather soft pillow, a feather-soft blanket tucked around her.
Luc’s mother was sitting at her side patting her knee while Luc was standing over her, looking anxious. They didn’t notice she was awake because they were deeply involved in an intense, murmured conversation.
Shari couldn’t follow it because they were speaking in rapid French. Not all of it, anyway. There was one word she picked up. She knew it rather well from years of experience with Emilie.
Enceinte.
She knew the meaning of that, all right. It meant pregnant; with child; having conceived; in the family way; up the duff; in the pudding club; fat. It was Laraine who uttered the fateful word, and when she did Shari saw Luc’s face change.