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she thought, when the house was unoccupied. But it
    made it habitable, for which she was grateful. She would have
    hated it if she had to admit defeat, and crawl off to a hotel
    somewhere. She'd included a sleeping-bag in the luggage she'd
    brought with her, so she could manage.
    She unloaded the car and carried everything in, dumping it all in
    the middle of the salon. Then she retrieved her map, plotted the
    route to Villereal, and made a list of what she wanted to buy.
    Villereal was charming, and busy too, with its narrow streets and
    central square with a timbered-covered market. But exploration
    would have to wait. She had more pressing matters in hand. And
    the supermarket Jacques had mentioned was sited on the outskirts
    of town, she discovered.
    Cleaning materials were the first priority, and enough china,
    cutlery and glassware for her own use. It was doubtful, she told
    herself wryly, whether she would be doing any entertaining.
    After that, she could have fun. She wandered round the aisles,
    filling up her trolley with cheese, sliced ham and wedges of
    terrine, lingering over the huge butchery section, where the cuts of
    meat looked so different from those she was used to.
    Finally she chose a plump boiling fowl, in deference to that great
    Gascon King of France, Henri Quatre, whose ambition it had been
    to see that all his subjects were well fed enough to have a chicken
    in their pot each week, and had made La Poule Au Pot a loved and
    traditional name for restaurants. Perhaps, she thought, her poule au
    pot , made as Maman had taught her, would make her feel less of
    an alien.
    Her choice made, she went back for vegetables to accompany it,
    recklessly adding a demi-kilo of the huge firm-fleshed tomatoes,
    as well as nectarines, oranges and a punnet of strawberries to her
    collection. Her last purchase should have been bread —she picked
    a flat circular loaf rather than a baguette —but she succumbed to
    temptation and bought one of the plastic containers of the local vin
    ordinaire, amazingly cheap and good for its price, and several
    bottles of water too.
    Driving back to the house through the small back-roads was more
    difficult than she'd anticipated, and she took a couple of wrong
    turnings. She could have cried with relief when at last she passed
    the war memorial with the crucifix and realised the next track led
    to the farm.
    And the house no longer seemed to be on the defensive, she
    realised as she parked the car. The late afternoon sun lent a
    warmer, more welcoming glow to its washed stones, and that
    exterior wall wasn't a barrier, but a promise of security. She
    thought, I've come home.
    It took several journeys to unload her provisions from the boot.
    She put everything away in the kitchen cupboards, then went out
    to lock the car. It was probably unnecessary, she thought, but old
    habits died hard.
    Then she saw him.
    In fact, it was impossible to miss him. He was standing in the
    archway, hands on hips. Sabine halted, her hands balling into fists
    at her sides.
    'What do you want?' Her voice rang with defiance.
    'That's what I came to ask you.' He strolled forward, and Sabine
    fought down a prickle of apprehension.
    'That's close enough,' she said sharply.
    His brows rose mockingly. 'Do I make you nervous?'
    'You make me angry.'
    'And you,' he said, 'make me curious. Tell me, Mademoiselle
    Riquard, what possessed you to come here?'
    'My name is Russell,' she said tightly. 'And my reasons are my
    own affair.'
    'Russell,' he repeated slowly. 'So, Isabelle found another fool to
    marry her in England. Your French is excellent, but that is where
    you come from —isn't it?'
    'I'm not ashamed of it,' she retorted, taut with anger over his
    reference to her mother. 'Anyway, we're all Europeans now—aren't
    we?' she mimicked his own phrasing.
    'And that's why you've come — for international reasons?' His
    tone was openly derisive. 'I ask your pardon. I thought there might
    be some — personal