‘So, I am going to lose you,’ said Robert unexpectedly, as they settled themselves with coffee on the balcony of their hotel.

Although the evening was warm and pleasant, the few inhabitants of the dining room had not even stirred when Clare and Robert moved towards the balcony doors. They sat on in the stuffy gloom created by the heavy furniture and the rich velvet curtains, the hotplates on the sideboard, the candles on the tables, completely cut off from the long fingers of sunlight that picked out the sharp limestone crags and rich green foliage plunging down into the deep-cut valley below.

Swollen by unexpected late summer rain, a small tributary of the Tarn rushed noisily over its rocky bed, swirled vigorously beneath the cliff opposite their viewpoint and lapped gently on a beach of white pebbles directly below them.

‘Who told you that, Robert?’ she asked, puzzled, as she poured his coffee.

All through their meal, they had talked about the proposals in hand. Robert was not entirely sure the old-fashioned hotel could transform itself into a centre for climbing and water sports, but he had listened attentively to the group of businessmen who were putting up half the money.

In the afternoon, he’d insisted on being driven round the surrounding area. Clare was intrigued by the rugged limestone country, the sudden gushing streams, the rich vegetation clinging to steep slopes. An empty landscape with few patches of cultivation except where the river flowed in a wider valley and cattle grazed in the rich meadows.

They’d stood looking across at the hotel from the other side of the steep valley, driven slowly through the nearby villages, visited a local viewpoint. Robert had agreed to make a decision before they left in the morning. Now, he asked her what she thought.

‘I think they have the right idea,’ she said. ‘So many people want to escape from the cities and be active, not just sit around. After all that’s what most of them have to do, most of the time, during working hours. Other parts of France have developed water sports and rock climbing, I know, but this place has both. And there’s good walking too, once they signpost the paths. That means you have a spread of activities. Safer than having just one. Even in sport and pastimes fashions change.’

He’d seemed particularly pleased by her comments, though he’d said little.

There was a comfortable pause. She decided to ask the question that had been in her mind all day. ‘Why did you bring me with you, Robert, when everyone speaks French?’

‘Do you want the professional reason, or the personal one,’ he replied, crisply.

‘Both,’ she replied, equally crisply.

‘Personally, I bring you because I don’t get bored if you are with me. Professionally, I know you’ll react to anyone who isn’t telling the truth. The first time it happened was when I thought Charles Langley might not be quite sound. You reassured me, and that enterprise has been a great success.’

‘But I might have been wrong,’ she said, suddenly anxious.

‘Of course, there is always that possibility, but your score so far is remarkably good. You must have realised by now that my job isn’t about money, it’s about risk, and people are the largest part of the risk. It’s my task to assess them. If I make a mistake it costs the bank a lot of money. If I am too cautious, that’s just as bad, the bank makes no money. The calculated risk is the heart of the matter. I told you once before that you have a gift for assessing people. You always seem to know who is to be trusted. And I have learnt to trust your judgement.’

Clare sat listening to the rush of water and the cheep of sparrows that had found the crumbs beneath a nearby table, waiting for Robert to explain why he thought he was about to lose her. As he seemed reluctant to return to the subject, she prompted him gently.

‘Madame Japolsky says you have asked for a long weekend in lieu of your extra hours and that you have booked a ticket to Toulouse.’

Clare laughed.

‘Honestly, Robert, you are impossible. I shall only be gone three days. Christian wants to show me his part of France. He says his parents have never met anyone from Ireland and they keep asking him to bring me to see them. I promised ages ago I’d fly down the first long weekend you could spare me,’ she explained. ‘I would have told you,’ she added gently.

Yes, you would. But I see you do not understand why I think I am about to lose you.’

‘No, I don’t.’

Something was upsetting Robert, but she couldn’t work out what it was. Certainly, she’d made no secret of her growing relationship with Christian. He knew they’d spent every possible minute together in the last three months and that he’d flown to Greece to share a week of the fortnight’s holiday she and Louise had already booked.

‘Being in love suits you,’ he said abruptly. ‘It makes your eyes shine. But I am impressed. However much you may think of your handsome admirer, you still manage to keep your mind on your work. A most unusual feat for young women in love, in my experience. But that’s only one of the problems it produces.’

‘And what are the others?’ she asked, her curiosity getting the better of her.

‘They tend to be extravagant. But again, you’d never be guilty of that. Your housekeeping bills wouldn’t feed a mouse,’ he said matter-of-factly.

‘Robert!’ she said laughing, ‘How on earth did you guess that? I sometimes can’t believe how little I spend. I don’t have time to go shopping, even if I wanted to. And I so often have meals while we’re working, I hardly ever have to cook at home,’ she went on. ‘But how did you guess?’

‘I didn’t,’ he said sheepishly. ‘I monitor the accounts of all our young staff. I know it seems an intrusion, unpardonable were it not done for their own protection. Many young people are overwhelmed by the salaries we offer. Jewellery, evening gowns, sports cars. Monitoring the account gives me early warning of the weaknesses I may expect.’

‘And what are mine?’ she demanded, grinning at him.

‘Abstemiousness. You are too hard on yourself. You should relax a little. You look as if you’re saving for a rainy day when the climate is perfectly dry,’ he said crisply. ‘Were I not about to lose you to a wealthy young man, I’d offer you some advice on investment. But you’ll hardly need that in his situation.’

‘Robert, do you think I’m going to elope with Christian?’ she asked, laughing. ‘Christian has never mentioned marriage. I know he loves me and I love him too, but we’ve never talked about getting married. Not yet, anyway. We’ve only known each other three months and, apart from that week in Greece, we’ve only met when we’re both free, which isn’t often.’

It was true their free hours didn’t often coincide, but when they did, their time together was very exciting. From that first evening when they had danced and talked all of the short night, had walked the empty streets and up the steps of Sacré-Coeur to watch the sun rise over the stirring city, to the weekend in the French Alps when they had first become lovers, lying naked, the doors of their room opening to a balcony that framed rugged peaks still dusted with snow, sharp outlines against a star-filled sky, there’d seemed a kind of magic in every meeting.

‘Clare, my dear. Christian Moreau comes from a privileged background about which I know relatively little. But I have known Emile a long time. I can assure you that a man like Moreau will not ask you to marry him until you have met his parents. It may seem a little old-fashioned. Or you might say it is a matter of courtesy to them. They will certainly not object, of that I am quite sure. I think your weekend at Moreau’s château will almost certainly involve his proposing to you, and, in the circumstances, I imagine you are rather unlikely to refuse him.’

 

Clare did not sleep well that night. At the time, she thought it was the sound of the river beyond her open window. Its noisy flow seemed to enter all her dreams, an insistent presence, like an unanswered question continually repeating itself.

She woke at six with a headache and couldn’t go back to sleep again. Given the long drive to Avignon and how difficult Robert could be in the mornings, a headache was not to be recommended. She took two Anadin and had a long, leisurely bath. As she lay soaking, feeling the tension drain out of her, she heard Louise’s voice, so clear and sharp.

‘If you marry Christian your children will be French.’

She’d said it suddenly, when they were sitting under an olive tree above the stadium at Delphi sharing a melon.

‘But, of course,’ she laughed. ‘They could hardly be anything else.’

‘I don’t think I could have French children,’ Louise went on. ‘I thought about it once, when there was this wonderful Frenchman,’ she said, rolling her eyes. ‘Before I met you,’ she added. ‘I thought about taking the children home to my parents, showing them the places I love. I just couldn’t do it. I could teach them Italian, that’s easy with children. But I couldn’t teach them to be Italian. It wouldn’t be right anyway. Could you do it?’

Clare was grateful for the Anadin and the bath. The headache had eased by the time they left and the drive to Avignon was pleasanter than she expected. Robert was silent and preoccupied most of the way, leaving her free to take in the detail of this unfamiliar and fascinating countryside. He told her he had an afternoon engagement and they were being entertained by some local businessmen in the evening.

‘What will you do this afternoon?’ Robert asked as they finished an unusually silent lunch. ‘You’ve read all the documents, I expect.’

‘Yes, I did that before we left Paris,’ she said. ‘There’s something I’ve wanted to do here since I started learning French.’

‘And what is that?’

‘I’m going to find the “pont” in “Sur le pont d’Avignon”. Only I’ve been told they didn’t dance on the bridge, but under it.’

‘I shall be back by six-thirty. I would enjoy your company but I wouldn’t wish to inflict this duty upon you. I am going to visit my eldest sister. She moved to Provence for the good of her health and now complains about the heat,’ he said tartly, as he rose from the table.

Clare went to her room, changed her costume for a blouse and skirt and her high heels for walking shoes. She put some money in the pocket of her skirt, picked up a street map at reception and headed for the river.

She walked briskly, grateful to be by herself, outdoors on such a lovely, warm September day. How long was it since she had been free to walk in comfortable shoes, without a handbag, or briefcase, or a pile of documents under her arm? A light breeze tempered the warmth of the afternoon, but in a short time she began to perspire.

‘What’s the hurry, Clare? You’d think you’d a train to catch,’ she said to herself sharply, as she came down to the river bank. She found a summer seat and sat down gratefully. For a little while, she did nothing but watch the river flowing, fast and deep, sunbeams glancing from its slightly rippled surface.

‘Marry him. Now? This year. Next year. Sometime. Never?’

She’d been completely taken aback when Robert had said that Christian was sure to ask her to marry him, once she’d met his parents. It had never occurred to her. It was one thing sharing thoughts about marrying a man from another country with Louise, but quite another actually to be faced with the prospect so suddenly. Besides, she’d been so bound up in their loving, the pleasure of sharing all that they did, she’d never thought beyond their next meeting.

Marrying Christian would mean leaving Paris, of that she was certain. Christian loved the city as much as she did, but his home was in the south, north-west of Toulouse, a region she’d never visited. His family had been wine growers for generations. How they’d amassed the wealth that clearly impressed Robert, she had no idea. Christian seldom spoke about his work or asked about hers.

Christian knew Paris very well. He’d been to school at Henri Quatre, on the Left Bank, then gone to the Sorbonne. He knew parts of the city as well as she’d known every hedgerow and tree, every path and lane, in the few square miles of her own world.

‘Where shall we go now? Do you like sculpture? Good. Then we will go to the Rodin.’

She could hear his voice, feel his arm round her waist, his hand in hers, his lips brushing her cheek, as they visited all the places she’d not had time to see in this busiest year of her life. They’d sailed up to the top of the Eiffel Tower, had dinner on a river boat that chugged past her own apartment, driven to Versailles and carried candles in the Catacombs.

He’d insisted she saw everything she’d ever heard of, or read about, and he would be her personal guide. A very knowledgeable guide he was too. Not only could he tell her the history and significance of every building they viewed, but he had that same passion for French literature she’d first met in Henri Lavalle. He’d read everything she’d read and much more. There seemed to be no limit to his experience and enjoyment of French culture. Whatever she mentioned, he responded to it with enthusiasm, sweeping her along, cherishing her with his love, enfolding her in the richness of his world.

‘Hallo, doggy,’ she said, her reflections interrupted by a young spaniel who came trotting purposefully along the river bank wanting to be friendly.

‘What’s your name?’ she asked, fondling his ears and looking for a disc on his collar. ‘Conker,’ she read. ‘And you are too,’ she said, stroking his gleaming chestnut coat.

She thought of Ginny, of those fresh August mornings, when she’d taught her to ride, walking her round the small paddock at The Lodge, Andrew and Edward perched on the gate, teasing and encouraging her.

Conker barked at her. It was not a hostile bark, more a communicative noise. Clare looked at him closely, not sure exactly what it might mean. An invitation to play, perhaps?

‘Come on, hop up here beside me,’ she said, patting the summer seat encouragingly.

Conker obliged immediately, leaned forward and licked her nose. She hugged him, close to tears, quite unable to resist his good-naturedness or the memories that flooded in upon her.

‘There he is. There he is.’

She turned to find a young man and a much younger girl hurrying towards her. Conker spotted them too, jumped down and greeted them with ecstatic barks. Then he ran back to Clare and barked at her too.

‘Thank you so much, Mademoiselle. I hope he’s not been a nuisance. He gave us the slip,’ said the young man apologetically, as he put Conker back on his lead.

‘No, he’s lovely. I like dogs.’

‘Do you have one?’ the girl asked.

‘No, I work in Paris and travel a lot. When I was very little my grandfather had a spaniel just like Conker, but he was pure black. He used to lick my nose as well.’

The girl sat down beside Clare, introduced herself as Madeline and asked her what it was like living in Paris. To her surprise, Clare found she was grateful for the interruption. She’d looked forward to having time to think, but now she had it, it seemed only sad thoughts were coming upon her, when she ought to be so very happy.

The young man would be about eighteen or nineteen, she thought, the same age as William. Sturdy, slightly square, and very good-humoured, he was only a little taller than his sister, who’d just informed Clare that she was twelve and two months old.

Clare laughed when he said his name was Robert.

‘There are so many Roberts in my life,’ she responded, without thinking. ‘My grandfather was Robert and my boss is Robert.’

She was about to add, ‘You remind me of him,’ but it seemed such a strange thing to say she stopped herself in time.

‘Robert is very clever,’ said Madeline proudly. ‘He’s always winning prizes at school. Last year he won the medal for mathematics. Father says he doesn’t know where he gets it from, because Mother is hopeless at sums.’

‘You don’t look at all like each other,’ Clare said, smiling, as she looked from one to the other.

There was something so open and easy about the two young people. Robert was the quieter of the two. He was not so much shy as thoughtful. He was clearly quite used to Madeline doing most of the talking.

‘I shall soon be taller than Robert,’ said Madeline, teasingly. ‘But he’s a nice brother. I’m so glad Mummy escaped with him. She ran away when the Germans came. His own father was killed fighting them.’

‘Do you remember him at all, Robert?’

‘No, I was only weeks old when my mother came south. I don’t even remember not having a father.’

‘Our father is a custodian at the Bishop’s Palace. Have you been there?’

‘No, I haven’t.’

‘Would you like us to take you there? Robert knows everything about it. He’ll tell you all the history. I always get the dates mixed up and forget the names of the Popes,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Wouldn’t that be a good idea, Robert?’

Robert smiled and nodded and got to his feet. He’d been kneeling down stroking Conker, who was lying luxuriously on his back with his paws up.

They set off with Robert and Conker leading the way. She watched his sturdy figure moving ahead of her while Madeline continued to chatter happily by her side. There was no doubt about it. He did look like Robert, particularly from the back, but then, she considered, so did thousands of other French boys. It was a type, possibly one she would recognise if she knew Brittany. Many women had escaped the German advance from the north and east. There was no reason to think that Robert and Madeline’s mother might have known Robert Lafarge’s wife. Nevertheless, she would find out exactly where she had come from, just in case it might be of some use to the second Robert in her life.

 

Next day, Wednesday, they finished their meetings in time to catch the afternoon express to Paris. Robert was pleased. He’d done his duty with his sister, who had been as unpleasant as he expected, and he’d completed arrangements with the Avignon group, who had been much more progressive than he’d expected. He was tired out.

While he fell asleep behind the financial pages, Clare sat staring out of the window, absorbing the sunlit countryside as it sped past, parched and dusty, after a hot summer. The sun still blazed down out of a clear blue sky, reminding her of the fields of sunflowers she’d seen earlier in the year, near Orange.

She’d always been fascinated by sunflowers. At school, they’d once planted the large seeds in two-pound jam pots, placed between the glass of the jar and wet sand insulated by blotting paper. Quite quickly they had sprouted both roots and shoots. When they’d finished their experiment, drawn sketches in their biology exercise books, labelled the parts and planted the seedlings outdoors, they’d grown to almost two feet high. Here, in the south, the sunflowers she’d seen towered above her head, their huge faces fringed with bright yellow petals, their massed seeds home to dozens of harvesting insects.

Here, the countryside was exotic. Full of colour, passionate, like a Van Gogh painting. Fields of lavender like purple lakes, fields of stubble bleached white by the sun. The brilliant flash of the Rhône, caught in glimpses. Houses and factories in brick or plaster reflected the light, pinks and blues and dazzling white, or remained quietly shabby, even their peeling paint and fading tones glowing warmly.

The rhythm of the train was soothing, the comfortable carriage empty but for themselves. She leaned back, her guide to Toulouse and its environs open on her knee. There was so much of it, this huge country, and she’d been lucky to see so much in such a short time. But she could not say she knew it. Could anyone say they ‘knew a country’? You could know a piece perhaps. A village, a small town, a locality. The way she knew The Grange, Armagh, the streets and roads round Queen’s.

She thought of Charlie Running, his wall covered with bits cut from maps, sketches he’d made. That was a way of knowing a piece of a country. But it was only one way. There were others. You could say Robert knew France in terms of its financial institutions. The problems he tried to solve were particularly French. No doubt his counterpart in London or Milan would face very different problems.

She paused, laughed at herself. Between the effects of lunch and the heat, she was far too sleepy to solve any problem, particularly one she wasn’t sure she could identify in the first place.

By the time they arrived, late in the evening, Paris was cooler. It was even cooler in her own apartment when she stepped into the dim room, the curtains and blinds meticulously closed by Madame to keep out the sun. She dropped her suitcase, drew them back, opened the windows, propped open her kitchen door to catch the slight breeze from the courtyard. Only moments later, the expected knock came.

‘Here you are, mam’selle, your lovely green dress, the blue costume and your breakfast,’ said Madame, handing over the garments on hangers from the dry cleaners. ‘You will see a small packet and your post with your bread and croissants,’ she explained, pointing a bony finger into the plastic carrier bag. ‘It made it easier to carry.’

‘Thank you very much, Madame.’

‘You look so tired, mam’selle. It is the heat. I will not come in. Tell me tomorrow evening what you need for your return from Toulouse.’

Clare hung up her dry-cleaning, put the bread in the bin, the small packet and the post on the low table by her chair in the window.

With a sigh of relief she stepped into her bedroom and peeled off her clothes. She felt as if she’d been wearing them for a week. She hung her costume over a chair and made for the shower.

‘Oh, that is better,’ she said aloud, pulling on a dressing gown and tramping barefoot back into her sitting room.

She picked up the packet, small but sturdily wrapped. It had been registered, and signed for by Madame. On the back, the slightly torn custom’s declaration said ‘Recipient’s own prop.’

‘I could do with a prop, this evening,’ she said, smiling to herself, as she struggled with the heavy brown parcel tape.

Inside, she found a small red velvet box like the one in Harry’s safe and a stiff sheet of embossed paper, badly creased by having been folded round it. She opened the letter, smoothed it out and peered at the short paragraphs in the fading light.

‘So she’s dead. Poor woman,’ Clare said, tears trickling unheeded down her face. ‘That’s why I could get no reply when I phoned June. She must have been in hospital, or already dead. I should just have gone up to Wiley’s. Someone there would have told me.’

She picked up the box. Yet again, for one strange, disturbing moment she’d thought it was the box containing her engagement ring.

‘How silly of me,’ she said as she opened it.

The brooch inside was small, just a single stone, set in a filigree of gold wire. Even in the dusk, it caught light from the quay outside to glow with a green fire. Could it really be an emerald?

She tried to read the letter through again, but the light had gone. She drew the curtains, put on a lamp, scanned the paragraphs. But no amount of reading was going to answer the questions that sprang into her mind.

Was the admirer who had pursued the Missus from Paris to Deauville the man she should have married? Or had she given him up to marry the Senator? Why had she kept the brooch all these years, when they’d been so short of money?

‘I’ll never know now,’ she said quietly, wiping her eyes. ‘I just know I must get to bed. It’s a full day tomorrow and Toulouse on Friday.’

Not even the thought of seeing Christian had the power to cheer her as she hid the brooch carefully among her clothes and climbed wearily into bed.