BREAKFAST ON SUNDAY morning was served on the garden roof of the château’s east wing, overlooking the orchard of dwarf-like fruit trees and the maize fields beyond. The breeze was no more than a whisper of warm air carrying the mingled scents of roses, cut grass and freshly ground coffee. The only sounds were the billing and cooing of the doves and the distant clatter of dishes in the kitchens below.
The previous day, Magaly had arrived from Paris bearing the dresses, suits, hats, shoes and lingerie Claudine had been fitted for during her stay. Even Céline, whose shopping sprees were legendary, had been amazed at how much Claudine had managed to purchase in such a short time, but she was even more impressed once the garments had been removed from their protective coverings.
Claudine’s knowledge of what suited her had always been exceptional, but on this occasion she had managed to excel herself. With amusement, Céline noted that virtually every designer in Paris was represented in the garments that spilled from the endless number of tissue-strewn boxes scattered around her niece’s bedchamber, from Schiaparelli’s startling pinks and circus prints, to Piguet’s sumptuously risqué evening gowns, to Mainbocher’s sophisticated day-time elegance.
Now, with so many things to choose from and with such an important day ahead, the conversation over breakfast was quite naturally about what Claudine should wear. Beavis, with his head buried in the newspaper and a plate of untouched kedgeree in front of him, paid scant attention to Céline’s deliberations on what would be correct for an afternoon party in the country. Though the news from Germany and Japan came as no surprise to him, it was nonetheless disturbing, and he was beginning to wonder just how long he would be able to stay in Touraine. Long enough, he hoped, to see his daughter’s wedding.
Finally, heaving a weary sigh, he put the newspaper down just as Céline, looking utterly charming in her peach satin peignoir, signalled to Jean for more coffee. ‘I have quite run out of suggestions, chérie,’ she declared to Claudine, ‘but I have a suspicion that you have already made up your mind.’
‘Do you know, Tante Céline,’ Claudine responded in a conspiratorial tone, ‘I do believe I have.’
‘Beavis!’ Céline cried. ‘She is impossible. Quite, quite impossible. Thank you, Jean,’ she added, as he refilled her cup.
Chuckling, Beavis picked up his fork. ‘What time are they expecting us?’ he asked.
‘Around three. After lunch – which, knowing you two, you will be able to eat. As for me, I am simply too nervous even for breakfast. Claudine, are you really going to eat all that?’ she said, as Claudine returned from the hot-plate with another helping of kedgeree.
Claudine looked down at her plate. And it was then, quite unexpectedly, that the first pang of apprehension wrenched at her stomach, completely obliterating her appetite. ‘I was going to,’ she said uncertainly. She sat down, and started to look anxiously around the table.
‘They’re under the newspaper,’ Beavis said, and watched Céline’s bewildered expression as Claudine located the cigarette packet and took one out.
‘You have an uncanny knack of doing that,’ Céline remarked, smiling despite herself at the way Beavis had read his daughter’s mind. ‘Perhaps, as an encore, you can enlighten me as to what she is intending to wear today.’
‘Now that,’ Beavis answered, ‘is beyond even me.’
Claudine, still clad in black jodhpurs, riding boots and a white silk shirt after her early morning canter across the fields, got up from the table, wandered to the edge of the terrace and leaned against the ornate railings. Her sudden attack of nerves had disturbed her deeply; part of her was so happy that she wanted to throw out her arms and embrace the world, and part of her longed to flee back to London. It was the first time since she’d arrived in France that she had experienced anything approaching fear, and now that it had begun, she was finding it difficult to overcome.
She drew on her cigarette and turned to gaze out at the shimmering horizon. Then, tossing her hair back over her shoulders, she perched one leg on the railing, and ran through in her mind the recent imaginary conversations she’d had with François, How silly they seemed now! She wondered if he had thought about her at all. But of course, he must have done; no matter what everyone said, he couldn’t be completely lacking in sensibility. She rather doubted that he was suffering from sudden attacks of nerves, though. How naive of her not to have foreseen that she would.
Throughout the remainder of the morning she roamed the towers and stairways of the château. She went to the library and sat at the bureau de dame, trying to write a letter to Dissy in London, but got no further than ‘Dearest Dissy’. Thinking she would prefer it, Beavis and Céline left her alone, but there were moments when Claudine longed to speak to them about the way she was feeling. As she bathed, then dressed herself for the afternoon ahead, she was torn by a bewildering paradox of emotions –anticipation and apprehension, excitement and dread. And to make matters worse, the instincts she had relied upon to guide her through seemed to be completely lost in the confusion.
Well, there’s only one thing for it, she told herself, as at three o’clock precisely Céline’s chauffeur turned the car from the forest road into the steep, winding drive which approached the west wing of the Lorvoire château; that is, to remember that when I had my wits about me, I had no doubts at all. Just because I feel now as though I’m journeying beyond the borders of reality doesn’t mean I’m not doing the right thing. And with that decided, she settled herself back against the leather upholstery of Céline’s Armstrong Siddeley to await the first glimpse of her future home.
When it came, it was as though someone had caught hold of her heart and stopped it beating for a moment. Her eyes dilated and her lips parted as she sat forward in her seat. Never could she have envisaged such mesmerizing splendour: the fairy-tale magic of the soaring towers, the massive creamy-white façade, the magnificent Renaissance windows. And then there were the gardens, which fanned gently out from the château towards the surrounding forest, whose impenetrable green foliage was like a bastion, protecting the Château de Lorvoire from everything but the elements.
‘Well, chérie,’ her father said, as the car pulled slowly to a stop in front of the château, ‘a charming little place, wouldn’t you say?’
But as Claudine turned to look at him, Beavis felt himself almost choked with a welter of emotion. He couldn’t remember ever having seen her so lovely. Her bright blue eyes were blazing with such passion it almost dazzled him, and his heart melted as a breeze from the car’s open window caught the fiery black curls, and blew them across her lips.
‘I know what I say,’ Céline said. ‘I say that if François de Lorvoire can bring the same light to Claudine’s eyes as his home has, then I will bless this marriage with all my heart.’
Claudine stared at her aunt as a sudden bolt of nervousness soared inside her. This was his home. This was where she would live with François de Lorvoire. How strange it suddenly seemed. She looked around, and for one perplexing moment felt detached from herself, as though her thoughts had scattered like the pearls of a broken necklace.
Then, seeing the puzzled faces of her aunt and her father, an impish light flared in her eyes and she began to get out of the car, saying, ‘Come along, you two, this lamb has waited long enough to be led to the slaughter,’ and she was still smiling as she led them up the steps, and the liveried butler ushered them through the hall and into a magnificent walnut-panelled drawing-room.
Claudine had not been sure quite what to expect when she first arrived at the Lorvoire château, but one thing she had certainly not anticipated was that she would find herself confronted by a room so filled with people. The noise was deafening, the air heavy with a mixture of scent and cigarette smoke. Several people turned as the door opened, and for one horrifying moment, as Claudine stood on the threshold in the clinging black woollen dress by Charles Creed, with the red, navy and white striped piqué that matched the crown of her little black straw hat, it occurred to her that they might all be de Rassey de Lorvoire relatives. Seeing her stricken face, and reading the situation perfectly, Beavis leaned towards her and whispered, ‘The Comtesse thought it might be easier if there were people here, friends and acquaintances, so that you could be introduced to François as naturally as possible.’
Claudine’s relief was evident, but then Beavis ruined everything by adding: ‘Of course, now that you’ve let the cat out of the bag and informed the whole world why you are in Touraine …’ He broke off, wincing, as Claudine’s heel found his toe.
Assuming her most radiant smile, Claudine held out her hands towards Solange de Lorvoire, a tall, rangy woman with startlingly wide amber eyes and oddly cropped grey hair, who had that moment finished beating a path through the crowd and was clearly intent upon taking Claudine in her arms.
‘Ma chérie!’ she cried, kissing Claudine on both cheeks. ‘Ah, ma chérie! Let me look at you. Oh, but you are so like your mother it almost breaks my heart. How is it that we have never met when I have heard so much about you? And you are even more beautiful than they say. But look at me, I am going to cry, I am so happy. Ah, Louis,’ she said, as the distinguished-looking man beside her passed her his handkerchief, ‘do you see Antoinette’s daughter? Is she not the loveliest creature? Beavis, why have you been hiding her from us? Why have you never brought her to Lorvoire before?’
‘Solange,’ Beavis answered, the twinkle in his grey eyes belying the formal tone of his voice, ‘may I present my daughter, Claudine. Claudine, the Comtesse de Rassey de Lorvoire and her long-suffering husband, Louis.’
‘Oh, but it is I who do the suffering, Claudine,’ the Comtesse assured her. ‘It is always we women who do the suffering, don’t you agree?’
Laughing as she looked from one to the other, Claudine said: ‘I am so pleased to meet you at last, madame.’
‘Oh no, I won’t hear of “madame”, you must call me Solange. Ah, Céline!’ she cried. ‘I didn’t see you standing there, chérie. But you look so divine. Is that Molyneux you are wearing? He has done you proud, my dear. I wish I could wear a hat like that, but … You know, I think I shall! If you don’t mind what people say, then why should I? Louis, do you hear me, I’m going to buy a hat like Céline’s. Now tell me, Céline, how do you manage to keep yourself looking so young when I know for certain that you must be at least fifty?’
Claudine, both amused and bewildered, suddenly found herself looking into the aristocratic face of the Comte. He gave her the smallest of winks, then, removing the round spectacles perched on the end of his large Roman nose, held out his arms to welcome her. There was such warmth in his tired, shadowy eyes that for a moment she was almost overwhelmed – then found herself spluttering with laughter as he whispered in English, ‘Never mind Solange, she’s batty. Harmless, but batty.’ Then, letting her go, he turned to Beavis. ‘Now, my friend, there is someone over here I’ve been wanting you to meet …’ and Claudine blinked several times as she recognized the name of the French Prime Minister.
‘Is that really Léon Blum?’ she whispered to Céline.
‘Of course, chérie.’
‘But what on earth is he doing here? He’s a communist.’
‘Odd isn’t it?’ Céline responded, casting her eyes about the room to see whom she recognized. ‘Now,’ she said, ‘who shall we introduce you to first?’
For the next half-hour a sea of faces passed before Claudine’s eyes, most of them unknown to her. She was aware that her presence was exciting a great deal of comment amongst the guests, who seemed to include politicians, aristocrats, soldiers, writers, musicians and even a couple of actors. But there was only one person who could hold any interest for Claudine, though, as thoroughly as she searched the room with her eyes, she couldn’t see anyone who might conceivably be him.
At last she managed to get a moment alone with Céline. ‘For heaven’s sake,’ she whispered, ‘which one is he?’
‘Now, chérie, you’re not to be angry,’ Céline whispered back, ‘but he hasn’t come.’
Claudine’s face paled as the excitement that had charged her veins ever since she first walked into the room, evaporated so abruptly it was as though someone had landed a blow to her stomach. Then seeing the gleam of I told you so in Céline’s eyes, she turned sharply away.
So he hadn’t come. She didn’t know why she should feel so crushed; after all, with everything she had heard about him she should have expected something like this. And yet, could he really be so ungallant as to humiliate her in front of all these people? It was true that if she had learned anything at all about François de Lorvoire, it was that he cared nothing for social graces. Yet she had hoped, believed, that with her he would be different … Now his absence made more than a mockery of that, it showed her how utterly naive and foolish she was.
The next ten minutes were some of the longest she had ever known, as she flirted and joked with guests while all the time anger welled inside her. It was directed at herself as well as at François, for didn’t she have only herself to blame that many of the de Lorvoire guests would know the reason for her presence here? She was certain she could already see the delight on their faces as they witnessed François’ humiliation of her – and suddenly she hated him with an overpowering intensity that threatened to drive her out of this room, out of the château, out of the de Lorvoires’ lives for ever.
‘Steady,’ her father murmured beside her, his hand on her arm. ‘Be patient.’
‘Be patient!’ she hissed. ‘Do you think I’ve come here to be humiliated like this?’
Beavis smiled. ‘Would it calm you if I told you that he’s arrived?’
Her answer was snatched by the sickening lurch of her heart, and unable to stop herself, she looked desperately round the room.
Beavis shook his head. ‘He’s upstairs, changing. He was delayed in Paris, he …’
‘There you are, Claudine!’
They turned to find Solange holding the hand of a remarkably striking young woman dressed and coiffured in the height of Paris fashion. She was, Claudine surmised, about her own age, but it was difficult to judge when her face bore an expression of such blatant hostility. This, Solange told them proudly, was her daughter, Monique.
Again, Claudine met the hostile gaze, and wondered what on earth she could have done to provoke it. ‘Enchantée,’ she said, holding out her hand and smiling.
‘Enchantée,’ Monique repeated, but though she returned the smile, her eyes remained cold.
‘You two are going to be such good friends,’ Solange enthused.
The situation was temporarily saved by Beavis, who stepped forward to embrace Monique in the French way. To Claudine’s surprise, Monique responded with genuine warmth, and for a few moments she felt as though she were looking at a different person. Then those suspicious amber eyes, with their cumbersome black brows, were upon her again as Monique embarked upon a formal recital of welcome.
Claudine remained silent throughout, smiling politely until Monique had finished. Then, to her amazement, as she was about to reply Monique turned on her heel and walked back into the body of the party.
‘Well!’ Claudine gasped, turning to her father, and to Solange’s delight they burst out laughing.
‘You see!’ Solange cried. ‘I told you you would love her!’
‘Oh, I do,’ Claudine answered. ‘Really I …’
She stopped, and the smile vanished from her face as her eyes were suddenly arrested by the massive figure standing just inside the door. He was talking to Léon Blum and a man her father had introduced earlier as Colonel Rivet, and though Claudine had never seen him before in her life she knew beyond all doubt that she was looking at François de Lorvoire.
For the moment shock paralysed her senses so that all she could do was stare. Not in her wildest dreams had she imagined him to look like that. He was tall, taller even than Beavis, and his unfashionably long hair, which was combed straight back from his forehead and curled over his collar, was as black as night. His head was bowed and he appeared intent upon what his companions were saying, then he turned slightly, and Claudine started as she saw the pronounced hook of his nose beneath the heavy, hawk-like eyes. His mouth was set in a firm line of concentration, but she could see the cruelty in it as clearly as she could see the hideous scar that curved jaggedly round his cheek bone to his jaw. He was the ugliest, most sinister-looking man she had ever seen.
Her mind started a slow spin, adding a strange lightheadedness to her stupor. She was both appalled and mesmerized; she couldn’t tear her eyes away as she felt herself responding to the bewildering force of his presence. It seemed to fill the room, to push aside the guests, opening a path between them and pull her towards him. But he wasn’t even looking at her, he didn’t know she was there. Her lips parted, but still she made no sound, and her eyes remained unblinking as a remote tightening sensation spread throughout her body, engulfing her in feelings she couldn’t begin to recognize.
Beside her, her father, though he was making a pretence of talking to Solange, was quite aware of his daughter’s confusion. Then suddenly Louis was there too, taking his wife by the arm and leading her away, almost as if he knew that Beavis and Claudine needed this moment to themselves. Claudine looked at her father, still too shaken to find her voice.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ he said.
‘But why? Why did you…?’
‘Claudine,’ he interrupted, ‘I have, from the start, made it clear to you that the decision is yours. You have, of course, put yourself in an extremely difficult position by letting everyone know why you are here. However, should you …’
‘But he’s so … Oh, dear God, Papa.’
Beavis looked across the room with a grim smile. Then turning back to her, he said, ‘You will, of course, meet him.’
It was the closest to an order she had ever heard him give. It made her feel dizzy, and it brought, too, a suffocating sense of betrayal. But worse was the feeling that she was suddenly a stranger to herself; new sensations were confusing her, frightening her almost. Then, as though they had a will of their own, she found her eyes moving back to François. He was talking now to Anton Veronne, a man Claudine had always considered handsome. Yet strangely, beside François Anton seemed almost insignificant. Then she realized that so too did all the men around him.
Again she looked at François, and this time her mouth dried with shock. He was looking at her, and his expression made her want to step behind her father, to have him protect her from such malevolence. But sensing her intention, Beavis moved away into the crowd, leaving her still bound by that invidious gaze.
Claudine blinked. It was inconceivable that someone could have such an effect on her – but then she had never before met anyone who emanated such power. She was afraid, though she didn’t know why, and yet she was unable to wrest her eyes from his. In the end, François was the first to turn away, but as he released her eyes, instead of being relieved she felt as though she had been cast adrift, left to drown in her own internal confusion, and without realizing what she was doing she found her arms starting to move from her sides as if they were seeking something to save her.
‘It’s all right, chérie, I’m here.’
Claudine spun round to find Céline standing beside her with a glass of brandy. ‘Drink it,’ she insisted. ‘You’ve had a shock, you need something.’
‘A shock?’
‘Don’t pretend, Claudine, I saw your face.’
Unthinkingly Claudine took the brandy and sipped it. ‘Did you see the way he looked at me, Tante Céline?’ she whispered. ‘It was as if he hated me.’
Céline smiled. ‘No, chérie, he doesn’t hate you. It is simply the way he looks. Which, I take it, is nothing like what you imagined.’
Already beginning to realize how ridiculous she had made herself, and acutely aware of the curious glances being thrown in her direction, Claudine forced herself to smile. To her surprise, this actually made her feel better – and suddenly her indomitable sense of humour broke free of the lingering pinions of shock, so that she actually laughed aloud at her melodramatic reaction to her first sight of the man she had vowed to marry. ‘Never mind,’ she said, giving Céline an impulsive hug. ‘Anyway, now I shall go and meet him.’
But to her consternation, he seemed to have disappeared.
‘What an infuriating man,’ she muttered. And then her heart gave a monstrous lurch as a voice behind her said, ‘Would you be looking for me, by any chance?’
With every pulse hammering in her body, Claudine turned around, and steeling herself, lifted her head to meet the black eyes that gazed down at her from beneath their hooded lids. For one fleeting second she thought she detected a glint of humour in them, but then his shadowed face was once again as severe as the tone of his deep, strangely alluring voice, as he said to Céline, ‘If you can bring yourself to do it, I should appreciate an introduction, Céline.’
Céline’s response was delivered through gritted teeth. ‘Claudine, may I present François de Rassey de Lorvoire. François, my niece, Claudine Rafferty.’
‘Thank you,’ he answered. ‘Now, as Mademoiselle Rafferty has seen fit to inform half of Paris as to the purpose of her visit here today, I’m sure there are a number of people in this room requiring details of her first introduction to me. Perhaps you would care to oblige, Céline.’
Céline’s gasp of outrage took his eyes, which had not yet moved from Claudine’s, to hers. ‘How dare you!’ she hissed. ‘I am not a servant to be dismissed …’
‘Céline, please go.’
Claudine watched as her aunt drew herself to her full height and stalked off. Then turning back to François, she said, ‘Was it necessary to be so rude?’
‘Shall we just say I try not to disappoint expectation,’ he answered smoothly. ‘Now, unless you want to stand here being ogled by the entire gathering, I suggest we take a walk in the garden.’
There was an unmistakable lull in the general conversation as François held open the door for her to walk out ahead of him. She followed him through the dimly lit hall, past the wide mahogany staircase and into a small, untidy sitting-room. Curtains fluttered at the tall, open windows, and François stepped over the sill onto the gravelled courtyard outside, then turned back to give her his hand.
For a moment Claudine was confounded by the extreme tightness of her skirt, and looking up, saw his eyes narrow with impatience at her hesitation. By the time she had hitched her dress up over her thighs, however, he had already started down the wide stone steps that led down to the water garden. He neither stopped nor turned round when she started to follow – and pride prevented her from hurrying after him.
When at last she caught up with him, he was standing with one foot on the low wall surrounding a small, circular fountain where three cherubs with arms and wings entwined in stone spouted water from their pouting lips. He had rested his arms on his knee and was gazing thoughtfully down at the goldfish darting about in the pool.
Joining him, Claudine perched on the wall, and crossing her legs demurely at the ankles began trailing a hand through the cool water. After a while the silence became uncomfortable. She was hunting about in her mind for a way to begin, yet at the same time was stubbornly determined not to. After all, he was the host, it was the correct thing for him to address her first. But the awkwardness became so insufferable that, unable to disguise her irritation, she said at last, ‘Do you intend to speak at all?’
To her amazement and outrage, he merely threw her a quick glance, then returned to his study of the fish.
She stood up, and as she walked round him he pulled at his bow tie, loosening the knot until it was free of his collar. Then he resumed his stance. The most infuriating thing was that he gave every appearance of being completely oblivious to her discomfort.
‘What were you thinking when you looked at me earlier?’ she demanded.
Casting her a look from the corner of his eye, he said, ‘I wasn’t aware of thinking anything.’
Claudine decided to swallow her temper and try a different approach. ‘Papa tells me you were delayed in Paris,’ she ventured.
There was a brief pause before he spoke, but still he didn’t look up. ‘My apologies for keeping you waiting.’ His tone was so thick with sarcasm that she felt the colour rush to her cheeks.
‘If the apology were meant I’d accept it,’ she snapped. ‘As it is …’
He made no response to her unfinished sentence though she stared furiously at him for several minutes. Then, before she could give herself time to think, she had kicked his foot from the wall so that he was suddenly ankle-deep in the fountain. To hell with him, she thought, as she marched angrily along the cobbled path. Then, hearing the slosh of water as he drew his foot from the fountain, she started to grin. She felt even better when she heard his footsteps behind her, but she didn’t stop until she reached a nearby lily pound, by which time her shoulders were shaking with suppressed laughter.
‘I take it,’ he said, as he came to stand beside her, ‘that it is your childish behaviour that so amuses you.’
‘Actually, no,’ she replied. ‘It’s your pomposity that so amuses me. And after just these few minutes of knowing you, I can already understand why Tante Céline dislikes you so intensely.’
When she looked up into his face she could see that her words had not succeeded in ruffling him at all, but when he looked back at her she felt a horrible heat burn across her cheeks, and turned quickly away.
‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘has Céline ever cared to enlarge upon why she dislikes me so intensely?’
‘Are you going to tell me?’ she countered.
‘No.’
They lapsed into silence again, and Claudine, assuming an air of nonchalance, looked about her. They were on the edge of the forest here, and there were several inviting pathways leading into the trees.
‘Why are you making this so difficult?’ she asked eventually.
His answering laugh was more of a sneer. ‘My dear girl,’ he said, ‘if you are expecting protestations of love and promises of undying devotion, then I am afraid you are going to be disappointed.’
‘I was expecting nothing of the kind,’ she snapped. But a small interior voice told her that that wasn’t strictly true. Suddenly she had had enough and reaching up to remove the pin from her hat, she shook out her curls, and started off into the forest. Should he take it upon himself to come after her, then maybe she would try again – providing he apologised first, of course – but as it was, she really didn’t see why she should put up with his rudeness any longer. And so, hitching her skirt up over her knees and gripping the branches to help her up the steep path, she climbed higher and higher into the woods.
As she reached the brink of the hill the shadows gave way to bright sunlight, and she found herself in a narrow meadow from which there was the most magnificent view over the next valley. Every hillside, for as far as the eye could see, was covered with row upon row, acre upon acre of leafy vines, and at the heart of the valley, where the river shimmered and sparkled in the sunlight, was a cluster of tiny cottages.
The unexpected and awe-inspiring spectacles of nature never failed to move Claudine, and by the time François came up behind her she was too delighted to bother about his earlier unpleasantness, or to feel any satisfaction that he had followed her again.
‘It’s so beautiful,’ she murmured.
‘I’m glad you like it,’ he said, coming to stand next to her.
‘And these are all your vineyards?’
‘Yes,’ he answered.
Every time he drew near her, she felt a thrill of such excitement, such recklessness … She should be repulsed by his ugliness, and yet … She could not make sense of what she was feeling. Could it be fear? All she knew for certain was that she found his physical presence deeply disturbing, and she moved away from him, walking on across the hilltop and gazing down at the unyielding symmetry of the vines as the wind swept through her hair. Far below she saw someone waving. She lifted her hat and waved back. ‘Who is it?’ she called out to François.
‘Armand,’ he answered, when he was close enough not to have to shout. ‘Armand St Jacques. He’s the Chef de Caves, and also the vigneron. In other words, Armand runs the place – as his father did and his grandfather before him. Theirs is the expertise, ours is the name.’
‘Aren’t you involved at all in the wine-making?’
He shook his head. ‘Only in the selling.’
He was looking past her into the middle-distance, apparently unaware of the way she was searching his face. She watched him closely for several minutes, fascinated by the way his gruesome face was almost transformed when he wasn’t scowling. With those macabre features and that hideously disfiguring scar he could never be described as handsome, but when he looked as he did at that moment, his eyes devoid of rancour and his mouth relaxed in something close to a smile, there was an air about him that she found positively intriguing.
‘Tell me,’ she said softly, ‘why did you change your mind about marriage?’
Instantly the frown returned, and as his eyes bored into hers she felt herself grow suddenly weak. ‘Change my mind?’ he echoed.
Quickly she turned away, stunned by her peculiar reaction, but her voice was perfectly steady as she said, ‘I thought, at least everyone else seems to think, that you had vowed never to marry.’
His laugh was bitter. ‘For once the gossip-mongers are right, if a little exaggerated.’
‘So, why?’
‘I think,’ he said, starting to turn away, ‘that you would prefer not to know the answer to that.’
‘I think,’ she said, following him, ‘that if I am to marry you, I had better know the answer.’
‘Then I shall tell you – after I have proposed and you have accepted.’
‘Are you so sure that I will accept? And do you very much care, one way or the other?’
At that he stopped and turned to face her. To her dismay, she found herself caught by those black, impenetrable eyes, and again she felt that strange response to him sweeping through her body. ‘Claudine,’ he said coldly, ‘when I feel that the time is right, I shall ask you to marry me. I shall ask you because it is the wish of our fathers to unite our families. Whether you accept my proposal is a decision only you can make, but I can assure you that I have no personal feelings on the matter whatsoever.’
‘You rather give me the impression that I would be doing you the greatest favour if I were to refuse,’ she said, in a tone that disgusted her by its peevishness.
‘The words are yours,’ he said, ‘not mine.’
She was not a naturally violent person, but in the space of less than half an hour she had not only kicked him, but was now shaking with the urge to slap him. ‘I understand now,’ she seethed, ‘why your reputation is so foul. You are not only rude and insensitive, you are unpardonably offensive. In fact, I would go so far as to say that you are a truly despicable man.’
‘So I believe,’ he answered lightly.
For one horrifying moment Claudine thought she was going to cry – and since she would rather die than give him the satisfaction of witnessing that, she stormed back into the forest. She had gone no more than a few yards when, to her inexpressible humiliation, she slipped in the undergrowth and bumped several feet down the path on her bottom in the most undignified – not to mention, painful – manner. It was the final straw: the tears streamed from her eyes, and at the same time, as she buried her face in her hands, her body convulsed with sobs of laughter.
She heard him coming down behind her, and when she looked up it was to find him standing over her, holding out her hat. ‘Yours, I believe,’ he said.
‘Thank you,’ she said, wiping the back of her hand over her cheeks. Then, as she reached out to take the hat she noticed the damp patch at the bottom of his trousers, and unable to contain herself, was consumed by another paroxysm of laughter.
He waited, with an unmistakable air of boredom, for her to pull herself together, then offered her a hand to help her to her feet.
‘Tell me,’ she said, as she tried not to notice the way his hand swallowed hers in its grip, ‘do you have a sense of humour? The stories they tell about you in Paris suggest you might.’
‘There are very few things that concern me, Claudine,’ he said, letting go of her and starting to walk on. ‘And society gossip is not one of them.’
‘Then, may I venture to ask what does concern you?’
‘No.’
When they had reached the water-garden again, Claudine stopped at the fountain and sat down. For one alarming moment she thought François was going to walk on, but he halted a few paces away, keeping his back to her.
‘May I ask how you received the scar on your face?’ she said.
‘No.’
‘Am I allowed to ask anything at all?’
He turned slowly, but made no move towards her as he said, ‘Inquisitiveness is not a quality I find attractive.’
‘Do you intend ever to be anything but rude to me?’
‘That depends very much on you.’
Not knowing quite how to answer that, she sat quietly, hoping he might say more. At last, to break the silence she asked, ‘Do you know my father well?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you like him?’
‘I have a great admiration for him.’
‘Well, couldn’t you at least be civil to his daughter, then? Especially if she is going to marry you.’
‘If there is to be a marriage between us, Claudine, then it will be one of convenience only. Beavis is fully aware of that.’
‘Must it preclude friendship?’
He looked away, but she could tell that her question had annoyed him. ‘Why does it have to be you who marries, then,’ she went on angrily, ‘if you hate the idea so much? You have a brother, couldn’t he have rescued you from this obviously repugnant state of affairs?’
At that he gave a shout of mirthless laughter, and his eyes gleamed balefully as he turned to look at her. ‘From the moment you meet my brother,’ he said, ‘it will be one of the greatest regrets of your life that he won the toss of the coin.’
She frowned. ‘The toss of the coin?’
He merely smiled, but this time there was something so pernicious in the smile that though he was standing several feet away, she felt herself shrink back.
‘Earlier,’ she said, ‘I thought you hated me. But I was wrong. You despise me, don’t you?’
‘Does it matter what my feelings are for you?’
‘If I’m to marry you, then of course it does!’ she cried.
His eyes were suddenly harder than ever as the thick brows pulled together and the wide nostrils of his beaked nose flared. ‘If you care about such trivialities, perhaps you should return to England before your disappointment becomes an embarrassment to us both,’ he said, and sliding his hands into his pockets, he turned and walked back to the house.
Claudine was still sitting at the fountain when Céline came to find her half an hour later. In that time she had managed to overcome the worst of her fury, but her sense of outrage was still so strong that she had not yet dared to go back into the house. She was stunned by the effect he had on her – was still having. It was almost as if he had molested her, as if his monstrous presence had actually invaded her – though their only physical contact had been when he touched her hand. She was confused and hurt, she wanted to repay him for the way he had insulted her. But she wanted more than that; much more.
She started as her aunt’s shadow fell across the water; for one dreadful moment she thought he had returned. But when she saw Céline’s anxious face looking down at her, she got to her feet, smiling brightly and holding out her hands.
‘Sitting here all alone, chérie?’ Céline asked uncertainly as she took her hands. ‘Where is François?’
‘Didn’t he rejoin the party?’
Céline shook her head, and Claudine smiled as she remembered that of course he would have had to change his clothes.
‘How was your …? How did …? Céline laughed, ‘I don’t know how to put it,’ she said.
‘How was our first meeting?’ Claudine suggested, helpfully. ‘It was … eventful.’
‘But what do you think of him?’
‘I imagine, the same as he thinks of me.’
Céline’s face brightened as she let go of Claudine’s hands and embraced her. ‘Oh, thank heavens, chérie. So you will put all this nonsense behind you now and return to London?’
‘Oh, Tante Céline,’ Claudine laughed, ‘to think that you have such little faith in my charms!’ She pushed her aunt away, but keeping her hands on her shoulders, she said, ‘You are presuming, are you not, that he found me … how shall I put it? Not to his taste?’
Céline’s eyes rounded. ‘You mean, I am wrong? You mean that he has …?’ She blinked. ‘Has he asked you to marry him?’
‘Not yet, but he will.’
‘And you are going to accept?’
‘Of course.’
Céline took a step back from her niece, and stared at her. ‘Claudine,’ she said, ‘what has happened to you? You are not yourself. Your eyes, they are so cold. What has he done to you? Oh to think that I could have allowed this to happen, what would your poor mother say if she could see you now?’
‘Please don’t distress yourself,’ Claudine smiled. ‘François has done nothing to me, except perhaps to open my eyes to the reality of what our marriage will be like. And maybe it would help you to know that I want this marriage now with all my heart.’
‘Your heart? Mon Dieu! You have fallen in love with him!’
Laughing, Claudine slipped an arm around her aunt’s shoulders and started to lead her back to the house. ‘You are jumping to conclusions, Tante Céline,’ she said. ‘I mentioned nothing about love.’
And after that she refused to discuss him any further, for in truth she had no idea why she was still so determined to marry François when she found him so utterly abhorrent, and when every shred of common sense she possessed was screaming at her to leave Touraine and never return.