matter of seconds later Andrea heard one of the upper windows being opened. Too late she remembered the face she thought she had glimpsed on her arrival, and a hand flew to her mouth in dismay.
There was indeed a face, rather a nice .one with a beard and a pair of rimless glasses, gazing down at her with pained astonishment.
'
Pardonnez-moi
,
mademoiselle. Puis-je vous aider?'
The words might be French, she realised hysterically, but the accent was unmistakably English.
'I—I'm awfully sorry,' she said. 'I—I didn't realise anyone lived there. No one mentioned you, you see.'
'You're English too!' The look of pained astonishment gave way to a beaming smile. 'I say, what a coincidence. Are you a tourist? You're rather off the beaten track here, you know. This isn't one of the show places.'
'No.' Andrea turned and looked at the chateau, narrowing her eyes against the sun. 'But it could be lovely,' she added, feeling like a mother rushing to defend an ugly child.
'I've got some tea.' His voice became almost conspiratorial. 'Would you like a cup?'
Tea wasn't her most favourite drink, but Andrea could recognise a friendly gesture when she saw one. Besides, the very fact that Blaise Levallier had concealed the fact that one of her compatriots was occupying his gatehouse, presumably with his knowledge and permission, was intriguing. Wild horses wouldn't have dragged her away from the gatehouse now.
The small studded door swung open as she approached. Her host was younger than she had imagined from her first glance, probably only a year or so older than herself. He was of medium height and looked as if his wardrobe of faded jeans, sweater and scuffed suede boots had been purchased at Oxfam.
'Alan Woodhouse,' he introduced himself. She appreciated the firmness of his handshake.
'Andrea Weston.'
'The same initials.' He looked at her solemnly through his glasses. 'We were obviously fated to meet. Do come in. I should watch the stairs—I think they're supporting a family of death watch beetle and damned little else. This way. This is my living room. It's a bit of a mess, I'm afraid, because I do—rather—live in it.'
That, Andrea thought, was an understatement. Her eyes roamed dazedly round the small room, taking in the camp bed with its sleeping bag, the portable stove with its blue gas bottle standing next to it, the wooden crate loaded with tins, and the round table cluttered with crockery in various stages of cleanliness, books, scattered papers and a portable typewriter.
Alan Woodhouse plunged at the table and began to hunt around. 'I did do some washing up yesterday, actually—or was it the day before? There's no water laid on here, so I fetch it all from the stable yard in a bucket. But I can't complain. He isn't charging me a penny, and if I can't work" here, then I don't deserve to get on.'
'Are you a writer?' Andrea lowered herself gingerly on to a rickety stool.
'One day, perhaps. I'm doing research at the moment, for a thesis—the life of Vercingetorix. He came from these parts, you know.'
Memories of schoolday struggles with the classics came back to Andrea. 'Oh, I know. "All Gaul is divided into three parts."'
'Yes.' He looked at her soberly. 'I suppose everyone knows that beginning. But it's the end of the story that's always fascinated me. I must have a soft spot for losers, anyway, and Julius Caesar has always seemed such a cold fish to me. Always so objective and—laconic. I mean, when you think—here's his great enemy, the Gallic chieftain who has defeated his army and withstood a terrible siege, coming out to surrender to him, riding down the hill from Alesia in his golden armour—or that's how the legends describe him. And what does Caesar say?' He dived at a tattered paper-bound book and opened it towards the end. 'Just listen. "He"—that's Caesar talking about himself— "seated himself at the fortification in front of his camp, and there the chiefs were brought; Vercingetorix was
There was indeed a face, rather a nice .one with a beard and a pair of rimless glasses, gazing down at her with pained astonishment.
'
Pardonnez-moi
,
mademoiselle. Puis-je vous aider?'
The words might be French, she realised hysterically, but the accent was unmistakably English.
'I—I'm awfully sorry,' she said. 'I—I didn't realise anyone lived there. No one mentioned you, you see.'
'You're English too!' The look of pained astonishment gave way to a beaming smile. 'I say, what a coincidence. Are you a tourist? You're rather off the beaten track here, you know. This isn't one of the show places.'
'No.' Andrea turned and looked at the chateau, narrowing her eyes against the sun. 'But it could be lovely,' she added, feeling like a mother rushing to defend an ugly child.
'I've got some tea.' His voice became almost conspiratorial. 'Would you like a cup?'
Tea wasn't her most favourite drink, but Andrea could recognise a friendly gesture when she saw one. Besides, the very fact that Blaise Levallier had concealed the fact that one of her compatriots was occupying his gatehouse, presumably with his knowledge and permission, was intriguing. Wild horses wouldn't have dragged her away from the gatehouse now.
The small studded door swung open as she approached. Her host was younger than she had imagined from her first glance, probably only a year or so older than herself. He was of medium height and looked as if his wardrobe of faded jeans, sweater and scuffed suede boots had been purchased at Oxfam.
'Alan Woodhouse,' he introduced himself. She appreciated the firmness of his handshake.
'Andrea Weston.'
'The same initials.' He looked at her solemnly through his glasses. 'We were obviously fated to meet. Do come in. I should watch the stairs—I think they're supporting a family of death watch beetle and damned little else. This way. This is my living room. It's a bit of a mess, I'm afraid, because I do—rather—live in it.'
That, Andrea thought, was an understatement. Her eyes roamed dazedly round the small room, taking in the camp bed with its sleeping bag, the portable stove with its blue gas bottle standing next to it, the wooden crate loaded with tins, and the round table cluttered with crockery in various stages of cleanliness, books, scattered papers and a portable typewriter.
Alan Woodhouse plunged at the table and began to hunt around. 'I did do some washing up yesterday, actually—or was it the day before? There's no water laid on here, so I fetch it all from the stable yard in a bucket. But I can't complain. He isn't charging me a penny, and if I can't work" here, then I don't deserve to get on.'
'Are you a writer?' Andrea lowered herself gingerly on to a rickety stool.
'One day, perhaps. I'm doing research at the moment, for a thesis—the life of Vercingetorix. He came from these parts, you know.'
Memories of schoolday struggles with the classics came back to Andrea. 'Oh, I know. "All Gaul is divided into three parts."'
'Yes.' He looked at her soberly. 'I suppose everyone knows that beginning. But it's the end of the story that's always fascinated me. I must have a soft spot for losers, anyway, and Julius Caesar has always seemed such a cold fish to me. Always so objective and—laconic. I mean, when you think—here's his great enemy, the Gallic chieftain who has defeated his army and withstood a terrible siege, coming out to surrender to him, riding down the hill from Alesia in his golden armour—or that's how the legends describe him. And what does Caesar say?' He dived at a tattered paper-bound book and opened it towards the end. 'Just listen. "He"—that's Caesar talking about himself— "seated himself at the fortification in front of his camp, and there the chiefs were brought; Vercingetorix was
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