‘Let them,’ he said. ‘They’re not doing any harm.’ There was amused tolerance in his reply.
Her shoulders rose in a hapless shrug. ‘Well, I don’t suppose it’s very hygienic, but they do so enjoy it and they know I indulge them. What’s really irresistible is when they bring their ducklings here to learn to swim. They bob about adorably!’
The open warmth in her voice appealed to him.
‘Have they got ducklings?’ Lycos found himself asking. Why he should ask he did not know, but he did all the same.
She answered with a shake of her head.
‘Not at the moment. Matilde usually lets Honore sit on her eggs when she lays a clutch.’
‘Honore? Another duck?’
‘No, she’s one of the hens. They come into the garden, which helps with pest control, but they are mostly on the waste ground on the other side of the barn, by the pond. They get fed corn as well, for breakfast and in the evening. It’s the only way to get them to come in and roost safely in the barn, or the foxes would make short work of them! The ducks come in then as well.’
He heard her voice change. Stiffen.
‘Whatever…whatever happens to themas, the poultry must go to my neighbours. They need to be looked after. If you consider them your property as well as everything else…’ the twist in her voice was tight ‘…I will buy them off you.’
Lycos’s eyes went back to the renegade ducks, splashing contentedly in the azure water, openly contemptuous of any attempt to get them to abandon this preferred location. They looked at home.
‘There’s no rush,’ he heard himself say. Then, glancing around, he went on, ‘OK, so what’s next?’
She led the way past the pool, through a gateway in a high stone wall. He found himself at the front of themas, beyond which was the gravelled space where he’d parked his car. The gateway leading into the cobbled courtyard was visible, along with the barns bordering the other side of the courtyard.Bordering the barns was open ground, in which the contours of a pond were visible. Presumably, he reckoned, the pond where the errant ducks should be. Hens were pecking haphazardly, and pigeons nestled on the tiled roof of the barns, their cooing soft and murmurous. It was very peaceful. The only thing that was out of place was his long, low car.
And himself.
‘If you want to see the citrus orchard, it’s beyond the pond,’ she said, interrupting his surveillance of the scene.
Lycos shook his head. ‘Later,’ he said. ‘First, show me the rest of the interior of the house.’
She led the way through into the cobbled courtyard and back into the kitchen, waiting while he looked about him.
The kitchen was large and old-fashioned, with a black range set in a fireplace. There was a slightly less old-fashioned electric stove, large old wooden store cupboards, a massive and solid-looking dresser with solid-looking earthenware crockery on its shelves, an ancient-looking refrigerator rumbling in a corner, an even more ancient-looking stone sink with wooden work surfaces either side. The centre of the room was dominated by a scrubbed oak table set with kitchen chairs. The combined scents of cinnamon, citrus and coffee from breakfast hung in the air.
He gave a nod and moved towards the door that led through to the central hallway and the parlour beyond. He’d seen the parlour already on his way out to the terrace earlier. As old-fashioned as everywhere else, the room was dominated by a large fireplace with a wood-burning stove and a handsome baby grand piano, which raised his eyebrows slightly though he said nothing. As he headed up the stairs, Arielle followed him.
‘My room I know,’ he said. ‘Show me the other bedrooms.’
There were another three bedrooms. Two of them were small and just as old-fashioned as his own.
‘The remaining bedroom is mine,’ she said.
He glanced at her. ‘Show me,’ he said. It was not a request.
He saw her expression stiffen.
‘Arielle,’ he said, ‘whatever your objections and protests and obvious resentment, this property does not belong to you. It belongs to me. So, show me the bedroom you have been using.’
For a moment, as they paused on the landing, her eyes refuted his assertion. Then, her gait as stiff as her expression, she opened the bedroom door. He stepped past her.
It was, very obviously, her bedroom. Just as old-fashioned as the others, but far more personal. Far more feminine. The walls were papered with pink roses, the pattern reflected in the quilt and the fabric covering the stool in front of the dressing table. An earthenware vase full of pink roses stood on the chest of drawers and the curtains were rose-patterned. The white painted chest of drawers also had a rose stencil adorning it, as did the large, old-fashioned wardrobe.
‘Seen enough?’ Her voice was cool. Hostile.
He gave a brief nod.
‘You have an en-suite, or only the bathroom I used?’
