But there was a social imperative with which both women had always felt it prudent to comply: Twins were supposed to feel themselves in a uniquely close relationship, particularly if they were identical.
Not that that had been so obvious since they grew up, the Comtesse reflected as she sat in her black at the funeral luncheon, murmuring responses to the people who came up to her to commiserate — not a great many, as she had lived somewhat reclusively since her husband’s death. Monica had met all the members of her sister’s small circle during the couple of weeks of holiday that had preceded her death, and several of them had remarked on how unlike one another the twins looked, forbearing of course to put into words the most obvious reasons why this was so: Madeleine’s fashion sense and Monica’s lack of it; Madeleine’s verve and Monica’s troubled stare...
But today a few of them mentioned that stare.
“Yes,” the Comtesse agreed. “Monica was troubled, I’m afraid. You sensed it?... Yes, I was aware of it too, but I never dreamed...” Here she paused to raise a scrap of white lawn to her lips. “I hoped she was enjoying herself... beginning to recover...” That was where she choked to a standstill. Not really having to fake her distress, because she was so wary of her final evening with Roland.
He came over to her the moment the last guests had taken their leave.
“You must be tired, Madeleine.”
She got to her feet, wishing he was not standing so close to her. “I’m tired of these clothes, and I’m glad it’s all over.” Almost all over. “I’m going to change. Don’t forget this, Roland.” She went to the side table where she had placed the urn when it had been delivered by an acolyte during the last stages of the funeral feast. Ashes were not usually presented to the relatives on the day of cremation, but the Comtesse was anxious to be rid of Roland at the earliest possible moment and had been financially persuasive.
She picked up the urn, which, to her distaste, felt slightly warm, put it into his unwilling hands. “Drinks on the terrace at half-past seven.”
The Comtesse prepared herself for the evening with particular care, and in her most elegant manner. She did not wish to encourage the gleam in Roland’s eye, but it was preferable to his other possible reaction.
Out on the terrace, where the brilliant colours of the day were paling to pastel under the darkening sky, she poured herself a stiff drink and sat down to await him, realising as she saw the glass tremble in her hand how everything since her sister’s death had taken a toll on her — the early-morning discovery of the body facedown in the pool, the shock waves through the house and village, the questioning, the inquest, the effort to appear more upset than she was and preserve the secret. Roland under her roof for a week had been the worst ordeal of all, but although the lustful gleam had appeared from time to time the Comtesse could not so far complain of his behaviour.
Tonight, though, was his last night at Les Pigeonniers.
The last time he and she would ever have to meet.
“Ah! Roland! Come and sit down. After you’ve helped yourself to what you want.” She waved her hand at the glass trolley with its array of bottles. “Have you been packing?”
A swift, keen look. “Not packing, no. Not yet. Not wanting to see the evidence around me that I’m on the way home, to tell you the truth. I don’t suppose I should say this, Madeleine, but I’ve been very comfortable here.”
“People usually are.” She had made a nestling movement into her lounge chair before deciding it might appear provocative. “But you’ll be glad everything’s sorted.”
“Yeah. Sure.”
She watched him survey the bottles, select the scotch and generously pour, throw in two ice cubes. Swirling his glass so that the ice clinked, he strolled over to the nearest of the other lounge chairs and threw himself down.
“Ah! That’s better! Old ticker been playing up a bit today. Has to be the strain, I suppose. But I’m bearing up.”
“Good for you, Roland.”
What a wimp! the Comtesse thought. Seeing himself now as a desirable male on the loose, but still the same pathetic Roland Millican using the excuse of his dicky heart to tout for sympathy. Still the same meagre figure with the stooped shoulders, round pink tonsure, small mean mouth, and close-set suspicious eyes...
In which the lascivious gleam was back as he leaned towards the Comtesse’s chair.
The Comtesse’s desire to be rid of him was suddenly so strong she could scarcely contain it. Dinginess seemed to spread physically from his unlovely body, casting a film over the sparkling landscape beyond the terrace.
“You’ll be glad to get home, Roland, get on with your life. I hope the memorial service goes well, I’m sorry I don’t feel up to being there.” The Comtesse had no parents alive to be distressed by her nonattendance. “And I’m sorry I failed to help Monica. I’ll always feel that if she hadn’t come to me she might still be with us.”
“Forget it.” Roland made a nestling movement in his turn. The Comtesse had never seen him so relaxed. “If she hadn’t done it here she’d have done it somewhere else. She’d made up her mind.”
“Weren’t you afraid... Didn’t you wonder when you came home from work that you might find—”
“She’d promised to pull herself together. So I hoped...”
Hoped she might have broken her promise? She wouldn’t put it past him. “Yes, of course. Well, I’ll try not to feel guilty. And if she wasn’t happy...”
“She should have been!” Roland exploded indignantly. His drink splashed over the edge of his glass as his body jerked, and the Comtesse watched it spread like string across the creamy stone floor. “She had everything she wanted. A nice house — well, not on the same planet as yours, of course, but a nice house — and a nice garden where she enjoyed working. Things weren’t so easy when she stopped earning, but we didn’t have to count every penny and I never complained.”
“You feel she’s let you down, don’t you, Roland?” the Comtesse inquired softly.
“I... Well, yes, in a way I do, you know.” There was admiration, too, now in the pale eyes. “You’re very perceptive, Madeleine. And very, very beautiful.” The light of lust was growing into a powerful beam, and the Comtesse had to suppress a physical recoil. “You know, I’m beginning to think I chose the wrong sister. But you were always so busy with other people. Rather more than you are these days, it seems to me.”
Now the Comtesse had to suppress a terrible desire to laugh. “What do you mean, Roland?”
“I mean... I don’t have to go home, you know. Well, I do, of course, for the time being, the memorial service and all that, and I suppose the look of things, but afterwards... I’ve a few weeks of holiday due to me.” He was near enough to lean forward and place a hand on her bare knee. Her revulsion and disgust were so strong they made her choke, and she was able to move her knee without seeming to rebuff the hand as she searched for a tissue. “Oops!” he said. “Am I as bad as that?”
Roland in rare jesting mood made her think of a puppy panting its hope that a ball is about to be thrown for it to retrieve. “Look, Roland... Whatever I feel or don’t feel doesn’t come into it. How can I explain? I may look like a free woman, but I’m still a Chameux-Periard, and the Chameux-Periards guard their widowed family members. Ruthlessly. The way the Mafia guard theirs. You understand?” Grinning, the Comtesse drew a finger melodramatically across her throat. “I’m not saying my husband’s family is on the wrong side of the law, but they have that in common with the first family of crime. Unless, of course,” she went on, “a subsequent attachment is seen to be serious and honourable, when it can be approved by the family. This happens very rarely, and as you must realise, Roland, there can never be anything between you and me which could be seen in that light. All right?”