‘You’ll get fleas,’ he said, looking at the cat.
‘I don’t care,’ I tightened my hold protectively, lifting my chin. ‘He just wants some attention, poor devil. I’ve a soft spot for strays.’
He smiled and stretched his long legs out in front of him, elbows propped against the top rail of the bench’s back. His presence, like the cat’s, was very peaceful, but for some reason that only made me more nervous. If only he would flirt, I thought, like Armand Valcourt had, then I’d be fine. But Neil was not Armand. He just went on sitting there, perfectly still, as though he were waiting for something.
I stroked the cat’s head, and cleared my throat. ‘Were you just up at the château?’
He nodded. ‘My nightly walk. It’s the only exercise I enjoy, really – walking. You ought to come with me some time.’ I glanced at him then, but he still wasn’t flirting. His face was dead serious.
I made a non-committal noise and swung my eyes back to the trickling fountain with its trio of lovely bronze women.
Neil followed my gaze. ‘Enjoying the fountain, are you?’
‘Yes,’ I said, and then because the silence stretched so long I cleared my throat again and told him, childishly: ‘There used to be a fountain in our garden when I was very small. My father worked in Rome, then, and we had this marvellous house, with a courtyard and everything, and the fountain in the middle of it. A wishing fountain, my father called it – he used to give me a coin at breakfast, every day, for me to make a wish with. Anything I wanted.’
Now why, I thought, had I told him that? It was a foolish thing to tell a total stranger.
Neil went on looking at the dancing fall of water. ‘And did it work?’
Did it work? I remembered the day I wished for a kitten, and found one wandering in our back lane. And the day the horrid girl next door fell off her bike. I tucked my jacket round the sleeping cat and shrugged. ‘I don’t remember.’
He brought his quiet gaze back to my face, and I hastily changed the subject. ‘Are these women in the fountain sculpture Greek?’
‘That’s right. Splendour, Joy and Beauty. The three Graces.’
‘Oh, I see.’ I peered more closely at the downturned faces. ‘Which one is which, do you know?’
‘Lord, no.’ His smile was disarming. ‘I only know their names because I looked them up last Tuesday. Simon asked me, and I didn’t want to appear ignorant, not when I’ve been coming to Chinon for so long.’ His eyes slid from me, looking at the figures with new interest. ‘Still, I imagine there’s some way to tell them apart, if we approach it logically. Splendour means brilliance, doesn’t it? So the lady facing into the sunset would be my choice for Splendour – she’d get the best light, vivid colours. And the prettiest one is round the other side, facing the hotel, so I’d say she’s Beauty. Which leaves Joy, and that fits,’ he decided, ‘because she’s got the widest smile.’
I frowned. ‘She’s not smiling.’
‘Of course she is. They all are. That’s what Graces do, you know. They smile upon you and make life beautiful.’
‘Oh.’ The man was seeing things, I thought, as I stared back at the nearest statue, the one Neil had pegged as Splendour. She certainly wasn’t smiling. Not at me.
High above, in the ruined château, the midnight bell began to toll, disturbing the sleeping cat. The green eyes opened and stared at me with a deeply disappointed air, then in one fluid motion the cat rose and stepped, stretching, from my lap onto the pavement. Stiff-legged, it wandered off into the shadows.
Neil watched it go, then looked across the square at the noisy corner bar. ‘Listen, since we’re both still up, can I buy you a drink?’
Five years ago, I would have told him yes. Five years ago, I would have done a lot of things.
Tonight I stammered some excuse about being tired, and faked an unconvincing yawn.
‘Another time, perhaps,’ he said.
‘Perhaps.’ I rose from the bench, and said goodnight, and his dark eyes gently called me coward.
‘Goodnight, Emily.’
It seemed a long walk across the little square to the hotel door, mainly because I felt those eyes upon me every step of the way, but when I turned at the door to glance back, Neil wasn’t watching me at all. He wasn’t even looking in my general direction. His face was turned the other way, towards the château steps.
The black-and-white cat had returned, weaving itself nimbly around Neil’s outstretched ankles. As I watched, he leaned forward and scratched the animal’s ears absently, but he didn’t look down. He just went on looking with narrowed eyes at something … or someone … I couldn’t see.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
‘O long ago,’ she said, ‘betwixt these two
Division smoulders hidden;’
Next morning the young bartender, Thierry, looked a little the worse for wear. He set the basket of croissants and bread between the boys and me, and leaned against the spare fourth chair at our breakfast table.
‘… but no,’ he went on, ‘they do not come down for breakfast today. Madame Whitaker, she has the headache since yesterday afternoon – the migraine. She stays in bed today. And Monsieur Whitaker, he went out very early.’
It was still only nine o’clock, and Simon looked with interest at the empty corner table where the Whitakers liked to sit. ‘By himself?’