“But…” I say thinking it through. “My moving into your house would attract attention, too.” I’m starting to get the hang of how this island works.
Millie comes in with coffee, a fresh cup of herb tea for me, and a plate of biscuits, the same lavender honey biscuits Brandon had last night.
“What you need to consider is your name.” Du Montfort says when Millie has left.
My name?
The old man says nothing more while he sips his coffee and takes a bite of biscuit.
He’s going somewhere with this, clearly. I haven’t spent years around political manoeuvring without learning to read a silence.
“Anyone can come to the island, as you can see, we have festivals and events that attract visitors. But anyone staying longer than a few days has to register with the Municipalité. And they’ll need – ”
“My passport and other documents.” I finish for him. “So my name won’t stay secret.” I keep my voice light and relaxed, but I don’t think it fools him for a minute.
That sparkly fantasy about living here, despite the gossip, despite the – what did Brandon call it? The smallness and middle-of-nowhereness of this place. I’m not going to have the chance to live here after all. Another door closes in my face.
I blow out a long, slow breath. It’s all happening too fast; I need time to think. To plan.
The old Alice would have already worked out a new plan and have been on the first boat out. But it’s all happening too fast, and the pomegranate is something new and big and needs careful weighing up of consequences. If I let myself, I could get very frightened. I need a couple of days to think and find another place to go.
Du Montfort’s eyes soften a little. “Of course, there is a better solution. One that would work very well.”
Which is?
“Marriage is still a surprisingly old-fashioned business.”
I have no idea what he’s talking about now, so I just listen.
“Even in England, wives are legally a dependent entity of their husbands’ and a man can sign for his wife.” He fixes me with his bright gaze. “If you were accepted as Brandon’s wife, you wouldn’t need to register with our Municipalité. No one would even ask about your own name. You’d be accepted as plain Mrs Hazelwood.”
Chapter Eleven
Brandon
It’s an insane idea and completely out of the question.
Fortunately, I’m saved having to refuse because Alice herself doesn’t bring it up. Lord Du Montfort must have told her his idea, too. It’s clear in the way she doesn’t meet my eyes. Earlier today, she was relaxed around me; none of that awkwardness that usually comes from unresolved attraction. All the attraction and awkwardness has been on my side, and I envied the way she treated me like a casual acquaintance, maybe even a friend.
Anyway, shewascomfortable with me. Not anymore. Now she holds her body very carefully away from me.
I give her the quiet she seems to need, and we simply walk around looking at pumpkins, woodland mushrooms and casks of apple cider.
Another round of donkey racing is about to start. My testicles are deeply grateful that I don’t have to take part this time. Not after the bumpy quarter mile I endured earlier in the name of supporting Lord Du Montfort’s team. Just as well I won’t be having sex tonight. Or ever, I spread my legs a little to give my abused ‘nads a bit more room.
We pass a stand selling roasted nuts. This must be the ‘nutting’ part of the festival. Small piles of chestnuts, hazelnuts, spiced almonds, and some others less recognisable. “Would you like some?” I reach for my wallet.
She shoots a quick glance at me then at the gooey toffee being poured over walnuts and grimaces. Her hand brushes over her stomach; an unconscious movement she’s done a few times today. A different man would have understood a lot sooner. The clues were all there: the sickness, the urgent need to buy something from a pharmacy followed by the epic sojourn in the bathroom, then the hollow look in her eyes when she came out.
Had I not spent my entire adult life avoiding messy entanglements with women, I’d have got it long before the knowing nods from people at the fair, and the two or three villagers who’d pumped my hand and congratulated me.
I turn my head away and pretend not to notice her hand on her stomach. If she hasn’t told me, then she doesn’t want me to mention it. Poor woman, she’s had a hell of a time lately. Yet, she walks around the autumn fair, smiling politely at people as if her only worry was to choose the right squash for dinner tonight.
“Heya, Brandon.” A man in high-viz jacket waves from a makeshift circular dance floor. A banner hanging above, reads, French dance contest at 2pm.
“You two joining in?” He holds up a clipboard with list of names.
“Not right now.” I wave back. “But maybe later.”
