IN THE DAYS that followed her first encounter with François, Claudine became aware that the boundaries of her world were beginning to draw in. It was as though anywhere beyond Lorvoire and Montvisse had become so far distant as no longer to matter: the focus of her life was here, these few acres of French countryside – and the man she was unshakably determined to marry.
It surprised her a little to find that she harboured no desire to return to the glamorous, carefree life she had pursued in London, and there were moments, as she roamed about the gardens of Montvisse, or gazed at herself in the mirror while Magaly fought with her wilful hair, when she found herself as intimidated and perplexed by her determination to marry him as she was by François himself. The emotion she experienced every time she thought of him was always enough to restore the unparalleled sense of purpose he had left her with – and yet, whenever she thought seriously about her future she felt as though she was being sucked into an ever-changing mirage, in which that saturnine, almost sinister presence dominated and eclipsed her. But despite the confusion, she was determined to see the marriage through, and there was nothing in her outward manner to indicate either the resentment she bore François, or the self-loathing she felt whenever she recalled her behaviour that day in the water-garden. On the contrary, she gave every appearance of being happier than Céline could remember, which, given Claudine’s intrinsic joy in life, was quite something to witness.
In the middle of the week Claudine’s Lagonda arrived from England. To see her niece hover round Pierre for a full two hours while he checked the car over, to see her take a cloth herself to make sure every inch of the chrome glistened like new, Céline found fatiguing enough, but when, with a whoop of delight, Claudine dragged her into the car and zoomed off down the drive, her hair flying in the wind and a cloud of dust billowing behind them, she was so agitated by fear that she thought she might never recover.
It was the first and last time Céline ever graced the Lagonda with her presence, but fortunately Magaly, who had not a faint-hearted bone in her body, enjoyed nothing more than an afternoon spin in the country with her mistress – especially when that country was her own beloved France – so Claudine was not deprived of company during the frequent excursions she took to distract herself from contemplating her future with François de Lorvoire.
Solange and Monique visited the Château de Montvisse on several occasions. Monique’s hostility remained as obdurate as ever, and the fact that Claudine was so obviously entertained by the way Monique disagreed with everything she said, only succeeded in making matters worse. The Comtesse chose not to notice her daughter’s attitude; her way of dealing with anything unpleasant, as Claudine had come to realize, was simply to pretend it didn’t exist. Already Claudine had become inordinately fond of Solange, delighting in her dotty little ways and outrageous comments –which were mostly directed at Céline.
During these visits François was never mentioned; it was as if all concerned – with the exception of Claudine – were embarrassed by his abrupt return to Paris. Claudine knew he was there because her father had told her so during one of the frequent telephone calls he had made since his own departure for the capital. From François himself there had been no communication at all, a fact that both annoyed and pleased her. On balance, she thought she was probably more pleased than annoyed, for she had a great many decisions to make before she saw him again. For one thing, she had no intention of being thrown like the last time – or of allowing him the final word. Next time they met, she would be the one to take control of the situation, and she would make certain he understood that under no circumstances would she tolerate his appalling manners once they were married.
The other problem Claudine felt she must sort out before much longer was Monique’s dislike. She knew now that Monique was two years older than her, that she was devoted to her two brothers, and that she had had a very poor time of it romantically. When Céline told her this last fact, Claudine was surprised, for Monique’s wealth and position obviously made her an excellent match, and she was also remarkably attractive. Still, if Monique’s character was as like her elder brother’s as Claudine suspected, it was hardly surprising she was still unmarried. Nevertheless, she was determined to win Monique’s friendship, though it wasn’t going to be easy, she mused now, eyeing Monique as she sat beside her mother on one of the Japanese sofas in Céline’s favourite drawing-room. Monique was balancing a cup and saucer in her hands, and looking haughtier than ever in a pastel-rose flannel suit, silk stockings and short-veiled hat.
‘I’m so delighted that you have fallen in love with our countryside, chérie,’ Solange was saying. ‘I must say, I don’t think there’s a place on earth to beat it. Have you been for many walks?’
Claudine turned her eyes from Monique to smile affectionately at the Comtesse. ‘Yes, lots,’ she answered, ‘but I have to confess I try to avoid the long grass as I have a mortal dread of snakes.’
‘Oh, but I love snakes,’ Monique cried theatrically. ‘They are such graceful creatures, so beautiful.’
‘Perhaps, then,’ Claudine said smoothly, ‘you would care to come for a walk with me, Monique, help me to conquer my fear.’
Monique’s small nostrils flared. ‘But I am so busy at the château,’ she answered, tossing her head in a way that made her sleek black hair bob gently on her shoulders. ‘I really don’t have time for walks. However, I’m sure Maman would be only too happy to oblige.’
‘What?’ Solange cried, turning her head rapidly between Claudine and Monique. ‘Oblige? Of course, anything, chérie. Absolutely anything.’
‘Then that is settled,’ Claudine said, with an impish grin. ‘And perhaps,’ she added, avoiding Céline’s eyes, ‘while we are walking Solange, you might care to tell me about your son Lucien. He’s the only member of your family I haven’t yet met.’
Céline sighed inwardly. Wasn’t that just like Claudine? She obviously hadn’t missed the silence that had so far surrounded Lucien’s name.
‘Ah, Lucien!’ Solange trilled. ‘My boy. My baby. He is coming home tomorrow.’
‘Maman, he came home yesterday,’ Monique reminded her gently.
‘And where has he been?’ asked Claudine.
Monique’s lips puckered with annoyance. ‘He’s been in Spain, fighting with the International Brigade. Lucien is a born soldier, he has no time for frivolities.’
That was on odd thing to say, Claudine thought. ‘What kind of frivolities do you mean, Monique?’ she asked mildly.
‘I mean romance,’ Monique responded, not in the least fazed.
Claudine smiled. ‘Then he is like his brother.’
‘Exactly.’
‘And does he look like his brother?’
There was an awkward pause. ‘Lucien,’ Céline answered at last, ‘is an exceptionally handsome young man, Claudine.’
Claudine turned back to Monique, and not even attempting to suppress the laughter in her voice, said, ‘A handsome young man, and wedded to the army. What a tragedy for French womanhood!’
Again there was a long, uncomfortable silence. It was Solange who broke it, announcing suddenly: ‘Hitler’s coming!’
Céline’s cup hit her saucer with a clatter, and swallowing hard to stop herself from choking, she said, ‘He is?’ Her eyes were dancing. ‘When, chérie?’
‘I’m not certain, but I heard François telling Louis just the other day. I can’t quite decide which room to put him in.’
‘Maman,’ Monique said patiently, ‘I don’t think François meant that he was coming to stay – at least not at Lorvoire.’
‘What a relief!’ Solange cried. ‘I find it so difficult to refuse anyone hospitality, but I’ve heard such dreadful things about the man, haven’t you, Céline? What he did to all those poor people in Gibraltar a few weeks ago! It’s quite beyond me why the British put up with that, you know.’
‘You mean Guernica, Maman,’ Monique told her. ‘And Guernica is in Spain, it has nothing to do with the British.’
‘Oh. Well, the point is, the man is German, which doesn’t do much to commend him to anyone, does it?’
‘I think François is mistaken about him coming here,’ said Céline. ‘Paris is full of scaremongers, but I’m surprised at François. He doesn’t normally go in for that sort of gossip.’
‘Well, all I know is that François and his charming friend Charles told Louis that Hitler was coming. I know, because I was listening outside the door.’
‘Solange!’ Céline laughed. ‘You are the only person alive who could describe Colonel Charles de Gaulle as charming! But I can assure you, chérie, France is perfectly safe now that we have the Maginot Line. There can’t be any question of Hitler coming.’
‘Unless of course François has invited him to Lorvoire,’ Claudine remarked to no one in particular.
‘I consider that remark in very poor taste,’ Monique said acidly. ‘To suggest that François even knows Adolf Hitler –’
‘But François knows everyone!’ Solange declared. ‘He meets them when he is taking our wine for them to taste. Why, he’s even met the King of England, that lovely Edward.’
‘Edward is no longer the King of England, Maman. He abdicated at the end of last year.’
‘So he did. Tell me, did you ever meet the Simpson woman, Claudine?’
‘Only once,’ Claudine answered. ‘We were introduced at a charity ball. She was rather pleasant, I thought, but it’ll be a long time before the English forgive her for stealing their king.’
‘In my opinion,’ said Solange, ‘the English should count themselves lucky that they have one at all. France has never been the same since the Revolution.’
As Céline and Claudine struggled to choke back their laughter, Monique rose from the sofa. ‘I think,’ she said stiffly, ‘that it is time Maman and I were leaving.’
‘Must we, chérie?’ Solange protested.
‘Yes, Maman, we must.’
‘And we were having such fun,’ Solange grumbled as she pulled her reedy frame up from the sofa.
‘If you like,’ Claudine said, ‘I could drive you back to the château in my car, Monique, and your mother could stay a little longer.’
‘Your car, Claudine!’ Solange interrupted. ‘Oh, I’d just love to have a ride in your car!’
‘Oh no,’ Céline muttered under her breath.
‘And I’d love to take you,’ Claudine said, giving up on Monique. ‘Shall we race them Solange? See who gets to the château first? – Monique and your chauffeur, or you and me in the Lagonda?’
‘How splendid!’ And Solange, flushed with excitement, made for the door, Claudine following after her.
For several moments after they had gone, Monique stood still in the middle of the room, her face pinched with resentment. Céline walked over to her and slipped an arm round her shoulders. ‘What is the matter, chérie?’ she said kindly. ‘You are not normally unfriendly, but you have hardly uttered a civil word to Claudine since she arrived. Why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind?’
Suddenly it was as though something inside Monique had snapped. ‘If you must know, then I don’t want her to charm my family or to make friends with people in the area,’ she cried. ‘I don’t want her to like them or them to like her. If they do, she’ll never leave. And she can’t stay, she can’t!’ She tried to pull away from Céline, but Céline, gently lifting her chin, forced Monique’s tear-filled eyes to meet her own.
‘It’s Lucien, isn’t it?’ she said.
Monique’s lovely face was suddenly tortured by anguish. ‘Come along, chérie,’ Céline said, ‘come and sit down.’
‘But Maman. Is she safe with Claudine in that car?’
‘I can assure you that they will arrive at the château in one piece.’ Céline led Monique to the sofa, then sat down beside her. ‘Claudine may be a little wild at times, but she is not completely lacking in sense.’
‘Unlike Maman,’ Monique said ruefully.
Céline chuckled. ‘And neither is your mother as dizzy as she would have us all believe.’
‘I know,’ Monique sighed. ‘It’s just her only way of coping with it all.’
Céline bowed her head, then reaching out for Monique’s hands, she took them between her own and said, ‘You’re afraid, chérie, aren’t you? You are afraid that Claudine will fall in love with Lucien.’
Again Monique’s eyes were swamped by tears as she tried to turn away.
‘It’s all right, I understand,’ Céline soothed. ‘I know how much you love François, how much you love both your brothers. But you must try to forget what happened with Hortense, chérie. It was an accident.’
‘Of course it was an accident! How could it have been anything else? Oh, I know what everyone was saying at the time, but Lucien couldn’t help it, Céline, he didn’t mean things to turn out the way they did. He loves François as much as I do. They are close, as close as brothers can be.’
‘That is true,’ Céline acknowledged. It was perhaps the one thing she admired about François, his devotion to his family. ‘But now you are afraid that the same thing is going to happen again?’
‘Aren’t you?’
‘No,’ Céline lied. ‘And neither is Beavis. He and François have spoken about what happened to Hortense, and he has no reservations about François marrying Claudine.’
‘Then he is a fool! François will never love her, they will never have the kind of marriage you want for her. Do you know what François said to me after their meeting last week? Claudine was frivolous beyond endurance, and that if he hadn’t given his word to Beavis he would call the whole thing off. Don’t you see she’ll marry him, and he won’t love her, and then shell, she’ll –’
‘Fall in love with Lucien?’
‘She’s bound to, Céline! Everyone does.’ Monique buried her face in her hands. ‘I don’t understand why she hasn’t returned to London. Why is she still here, Céline? What is she trying to prove by marrying François?’
‘I’ve no idea, chérie. That’s a question only Claudine can answer. But he hasn’t asked her yet. Maybe she will refuse him.’
Monique took a deep breath. ‘Do you think so? Do you think she might?’ She sighed. ‘Oh, if only she weren’t so beautiful …’
‘Are you going to tell her about Hortense?’ Céline said, after a pause.
‘No. François has forbidden it.’
Again there was silence. ‘Lucien will be there at the château when she arrives with Maman,’ Monique said miserably.
‘Then better they meet now, while Claudine is still free to make her choice,’ Céline replied. ‘And there is one fundamental difference between Hortense and Claudine, Monique, which is that François is not in love with Claudine. So if she should fall in love with Lucien now, there will be no harm done.’
Monique didn’t bother to answer. There were a thousand thoughts spinning around her head, and every one of them was yet another reason why Claudine should not be allowed to stay in Lorvoire. But she would never tell them to Céline, she would never tell anyone. She was too ashamed even to voice them to herself.
When Monique had left, Céline sat quietly thinking over their conversation. She had a feeling that Monique had only skimmed the surface of her resentment of Claudine, but what really lay at the root of it she couldn’t be sure. Perhaps, as she said, she was just deeply concerned to protect her brothers from another catastrophe like the one with Hortense. Claudine knew nothing about Hortense, of course, and Beavis had forbidden Céline to tell her. And she herself, Céline reflected, did not know exactly what had happened on that fateful night. Only François and Lucien knew; and perhaps their father. And Hortense, she thought, with a shiver.
Well, she shrugged, getting up from the sofa, there was really no point in worrying any further. It seemed as if Claudine was determined to marry François, and nothing would dissuade her – probably not even his brother Lucien.
As the shiny red Lagonda skidded to a halt on the gravel outside the Château de Lorvoire, Claudine was laughing so hard she almost lost control of the car. Solange had been singing heartily the whole way; then, on entering the drive she had torn off her hat, hauled herself to her feet, and was now giving a splendid rendition of an old and extremely bawdy music-hall song, clutching the windscreen and jerking her head from side to side as the wind stood her greying tufts of hair on end. Claudine was hooting on the horn to keep her company, and so intent were they upon the climax of their performance that neither of them noticed the young man come out of the château and circle round behind the car, looking it over with marked appreciation and smiling at the din coming from within. It wasn’t until he came to stand beside Solange, hands on hips and head tilted humorously to one side, that they both saw him – where-upon Solange abandoned her song to a screech of joy and threw herself into his arms.
‘Lucien!’ she cried, and laughing, her younger son scooped her out of the car and set her down in front of him. Then, to Claudine’s delight, Solange hooked him round the waist and started to quick-step him round the forecourt. As she watched them enjoying themselves so naturally, Claudine’s heart was full. How hard it was to believe that François belonged to the same family!
At last Lucien twirled his mother to a halt, and slipping an arm around her shoulders, turned back to the car. As they came towards her Claudine’s heart gave an involuntary leap, and for a fleeting moment she felt as though she were in a dream where faces change beyond belief, reality turns into fantasy. It was as though François was approaching her, mocking her, letting her see how handsome he could be if only his eyes were blue and his smile was as ready and sincere as his brother’s.
She blinked, trying to clear her vision, then found herself placing her hand in Lucien’s as he said, ‘Captain Lucien de Lorvoire at your service, mademoiselle.’
The twinkle in his eyes was so infectious that Claudine felt the laughter spring to her own as she made a curtsey to his bow. ‘Delighted to make your acquaintance, Monsieur le Capitaine.’
They both turned to Solange, who was bobbing excitedly up and down beside them. ‘Do you know who this is, Lucien?’ she cried. ‘Can you guess?’
Lucien frowned thoughtfully, then casting a sidelong glance at Claudine, he said, ‘I imagine, unless I am greatly mistaken, that this is none other than Mademoiselle Rafferty.’
‘Yes!’ Solange clapped her hands together delightedly. ‘And isn’t she beautiful? And she drives like a maniac, Lucien, just like you. Oh, it was such fun, and if Papa will allow it I think I shall go again.’
‘If it makes you happy, Maman, then I am sure Papa will allow it. But don’t you think that perhaps you’ve had enough for today?’
As Solange’s face fell, Claudine had to fight the impulse to hug her. ‘You could be right,’ Solange sighed. ‘All right, I shall leave you two to get to know one another. Such a shame you’re not in uniform, Lucien. He looks so dashing in his uniform, you know.’ Then, leaning towards Lucien, she whispered, ‘If you’re feeling exceptionally brave, chéri, you should ask Claudine to take you for a spin, but I warn you, she’s a better driver than you.’ And before he could answer she tripped lightly up the steps and disappeared inside the château.
Laughing, Lucien turned back to Claudine. ‘She’s incorrigible,’ he said.
‘I think she’s adorable,’ Claudine smiled, as she met his clear blue eyes. They looked at each other for several moments, openly assessing one another and both amused by the frankness they were displaying, until, rubbing his hands together in a businesslike manner, Lucien turned to the car.
‘So, how about that spin?’
Claudine inclined her head, and waving her hand towards the passenger seat, pulled open the driver’s door. ‘I warn you, this is not for the faint-hearted.’
‘Then do your worst, mademoiselle,’ he said, jumping in.
‘Are you ready?’ she called, as she revved the engine and slid it into gear.
‘Go!’ he shouted in English.
And with a spin of the wheel and a screech of tyres, she swung the car round and sped off down the drive, leaving a cloud of dust billowing in their wake.
‘Where would you like to go?’ she yelled, as they squealed out of the drive onto the forest road.
‘Surprise me.’
Claudine tossed him a look, then pressed her foot hard to the floor and headed full speed through the trees towards the village of Lorvoire.
‘You’re crazy,’ he shouted, as they all but took off going over a humpback bridge.
‘Had enough?’
‘Never!’
Laughing, she turned her eyes back to the road – and just in the nick of time, for they had suddenly swallowed the distance between the bridge and a lumbering tractor. Claudine steered the car up the bank, round the tractor, across the road again and into a ditch, where they came to an unceremonious halt.
‘And Maman thinks you’re a better driver than me!’ Lucien declared, rubbing his forehead where it had bumped the windscreen.
Claudine was laughing so hard that for a moment she couldn’t speak. ‘But I am,’ she finally spluttered. ‘If you’d been driving I’ll bet you’d have braked.’
‘Damn right I would,’ he said, getting out of the car to inspect it for damage. He slapped his hand on the bonnet as if to give it the all-clear, then turned to wave down the old man who was chugging up in his tractor. Claudine, who was just beginning to get out of the car, took one look at the farmer’s outraged face and decided that it would be wise to leave the explaining to Lucien.
‘Oh no you don’t!’ Lucien said, pulling her out from behind him. But just as she was assuming her most winsome smile and bracing herself for the wrath to come, the old man suddenly seemed to surrender.
‘Monsieur le Capitaine,’ he muttered, clutching the beret from his balding head. ‘I didn’t realize it was you in the car. Pardon me for saying so, monsieur, but you could have been killed, driving like that.’
‘My sentiments exactly, Thomas,’ Lucien told him heartily. ‘It would appear that mademoiselle’s tutor has not adequately schooled her in the art of braking, don’t you agree? But you may rest assured, Thomas, I shall see to it personally that she does no further damage to our ditches.’
Thomas leaned conspiratorially towards him. ‘I don’t think they should ever have let women behind the wheel myself, monsieur. They don’t have what it takes to control a machine like that. No wits.’
‘None at all,’ Lucien agreed solemnly.
Unable to stop herself, Claudine gave a snort of indignation, which brought such an imperious arch to old Thomas’s brows that Lucien had to turn away before the old man realized he was laughing.
‘Incidently, Thomas,’ he went on, once he had himself back under control, ‘before you do the decent thing and get us out of this mess, I think I’d better do you the honour of a formal introduction. Thomas Crouy, meet Mademoiselle Claudine Rafferty, possibly the future Comtesse de Lorvoire.’
He was looking at Claudine, waiting for her confirmation, but Claudine was watching Thomas, whose confusion was so apparent that she rushed forward to clasp his hand between hers, apologizing for being such a hazard on the roads, lamenting the shame of having so few wits, and promising to take more care in the future …
‘That was a rotten thing to do,’ she told Lucien, as ten minutes later they waved Thomas goodbye and drove off at a respectable pace.
‘I know,’ he confessed, ‘but he can be such a pompous old cake at times. And better he finds out now who you are than later. Imagine how he would feel then?’
She threw him a quick glance, then flattened the accelerator and sent the car shooting off down the road into the open countryside.
A few minutes later, halfway up a hill, he yelled for her to stop, and with a screeching of brakes she pulled into the roadside. ‘Over the brink of that hill are the de Lorvoire vineyards,’ Lucien said, ‘and below them, at the heart of the valley, is the Vienne and the village. It’s a view you shouldn’t miss, so we’ll walk from here.’
‘As you like,’ she murmured, but instead of getting out of the car she closed her eyes, stretched her arms above her head and inhaled the fresh country air. Then, allowing her head to fall back against the seat, she sat quietly watching the tiny patches of white cloud as they drifted across the sky.
‘What are you thinking?’ Lucien asked, watching her with amusement and not a little fascination.
As she turned to smile at him she was pleasantly struck by how relaxed she felt in his company, as if she had known him for ten years rather than ten minutes. ‘I’m not sure I’m thinking anything,’ she said softly.
He nodded. ‘Mm, as Thomas said, no wits.’ And he started to walk on up the hill, his hands buried in the pockets of his corduroy trousers and the silk back of his waistcoat billowing in the breeze.
Claudine smiled. Effortless charm, dark good looks and ready humour – Lucien really was very attractive! It might be quite hard to resist him, if it wasn’t for the fact that … She stopped smiling, and got out of the car.
‘So,’ he said, falling into step with her as she joined him, ‘how are you finding it all?’
‘If by that you mean Lorvoire, would it be too sentimental to say I’m in grave danger of losing my heart?’
‘But you haven’t seen it yet. At least, not the village.’
‘I’ve seen it from the top of the hill over there.’ She pointed to where she and François had stood a week ago.
‘One of the best views,’ he admitted. ‘Who told you about it?’
She smiled as she remembered how she had come to be there. ‘As a matter of fact, I found it for myself. I was in a mind to escape your brother at the time.’
He grinned. ‘And did you succeed?’
Claudine thought about that for a moment, then said, ‘No, but I’d be lying if I said he came after me with passion beating in his heart.’
Lucien gave a shout of laughter. ‘So how did you find my brother?’ he said.
‘Rather sore that he lost the toss of the coin,’ she answered, gazing nonchalantly about her.
Lucien came to an abrupt halt. ‘He told you about that?’
‘Not in so many words,’ she answered, turning back to look at him. ‘But that is what happened, isn’t it? Two confirmed bachelors tossed a coin to decide which of them must make the ultimate sacrifice?’
As they stared at one another, the corner of Lucien’s mouth curved in a sheepish grin. ‘I can see there’s no point in lying,’ he said.
‘None whatsoever,’ she agreed happily.
They started to walk on, keeping in single file as Thomas rolled past in his tractor. ‘Has François asked you to marry him yet?’ Lucien asked bluntly, as he caught her up.
‘No. Did you think he would on our first meeting?’
‘As a matter of fact, I did. Whenever François has something unpleasant to do, he usually gets it over with as quickly as possible. And I could have phrased that a little more tactfully, couldn’t I?’
Claudine laughed. ‘Never mind. Besides, it suggests he might have found the prospect a little less unpleasant than you imagined!’
Knowing precisely what François’ first impression of her had been, Lucien passed no comment. Instead he asked, ‘What about you? Have you decided what your answer will be when he does get around to asking?’
‘Oh yes. I will marry him. And he’ll ask me the very next time he is at Lorvoire.’
‘He will?’ Lucien said, highly entertained by this answer. ‘And when will that be?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t have the faintest idea. François has not seen fit to communicate with me since he left for Paris last Monday.’
‘Very remiss of him. Also very like him. But maybe it will put your mind at rest to know that he is returning to Lorvoire this evening.’
Claudine’s eyes closed as her stomach lurched sickeningly. ‘This evening?’ she repeated, in a small voice. It was one thing to have brave resolutions when he was so far away, it was quite another when she was faced with carrying them out so soon. ‘Your mother didn’t mention it,’ she said, trying to sound indifferent.
‘That’s because she didn’t know. He telephoned early this afternoon, while she and Monique were over at Montvisse with you. I’d like to be able to tell you that he is rushing back to be at your side, but I believe his unscheduled return has a little more to do with my own presence at the château.’
‘You are so gallant, Lucien,’ she said breezily.
‘The truth, Claudine,’ he said seriously, ‘always the truth between us. What do you say?’
‘I’d like that very much,’ she answered with surprise, but equal sincerity; and they smiled.
When they reached the top of the hill they stopped, and Lucien draped an arm loosely about her shoulders as he pointed out the tiny houses below, the mairie and the café. She was glad of not having to speak. As they stood there, two lone figures at the top of the hill, ruffled gently by the breeze and embraced by the sun’s warmth, and she listened to Lucien telling her how he and François used to hide from their nanny in the forest, then row along the Vienne to the village where Sebastien St Jacques would scoop them up onto his horse and take them back to the château, she was aware of a deep feeling building inside her that was beyond words.
‘Over there.’ Lucien’s voice seemed suddenly louder, and for a moment she was startled, and a little sad, to realize that it wasn’t François standing there with her – François, who hadn’t seen fit to share anything of his past with her. Then in her mind’s eye she caught a glimpse of that cold, brutal face, and realized she was in danger of confusing the François of her imagination with the François of grim reality – and her hands tightened in resentment. Quickly she pulled herself together and looked to where Lucien was pointing, at a large house partly hidden by the church. ‘That’s where Armand St Jacques lives,’ he told her, ‘old Sebastien’s son. Armand is probably the closest friend François and I have.’
‘Then I’d like to meet him,’ Claudine said.
‘I doubt he’ll be there at this time of day,’ Lucien answered, letting her go and starting to stroll on down the hill. ‘He’ll be out checking the vines. He lives alone with his mother, Liliane. Armand’s wife died giving birth to their son, almost two years ago now, then his son died too. He took their deaths very hard. He does nothing but work in the wine caves and vineyards, or drink alone at the café. Even Monique has trouble persuading him into the château these days, and there was a time when he couldn’t refuse my sister anything. Speaking of Monique,’ he said, making an obvious effort to lighten the conversation, ‘Maman informs me you’ve become the best of friends.’
‘Ah, well,’ Claudine said, ‘I wouldn’t have put it quite like that myself. However, we shall be. One day. Now, come along, I’m going to race you to the bottom of the hill.’ And snatching the shoes off her feet, she sprinted on ahead of him.
Knowing he could outdistance her with the minimum of effort, Lucien held back, watching as her long legs flew through the grass, her red and grey checked skirt flapping about her knees, her scarlet silk blouse ballooning out behind her, her incredible hair rising on the wind.
He had hidden his surprise well when he first set eyes on her, for nothing François had told him on the telephone had prepared him for such incredible beauty – or such vivacity. But most intriguing of all was the effect she was having on him now. He had known her for barely more than half an hour, hardly a serious word had passed between them, yet for some reason he felt an overpowering protectiveness towards her. But that was crazy. What did he want to protect her from? His own brother?
Lucien frowned as he remembered François’ words. ‘She is not only vain, she is unspeakably trivial. She entertains such disgusting notions of romance that I can hardly bear to look at her. Far better that you had won the toss, Lucien, for you would know what to do with her. However, a pact is a pact, so you need have no fears about me fulfilling my duty. Unless, of course, I can persuade her to refuse me.’
François had never had much patience with women, particularly those who fell in love with him. And looking at Claudine through his brother’s eyes, Lucien could see that beside the worldly sophistication of Élise Pascale, Claudine might appear embarrassingly gauche. But there was more to her than François gave her credit for – or would allow himself to see. There was something that set her apart from other women, and it wasn’t just her extraordinary beauty. Everything about her seemed so natural, so lacking in artifice – admittedly qualities that François might not choose to find attractive – yet there was no denying she had a quick, intelligent mind and a ready wit, and she emanated such spirit, such tenacity, that Lucien was amazed that even François could remain immune. And even La Pascale couldn’t compete with the still youthful loveliness of that face or the tender smoothness of that honey skin … He felt suddenly saddened by the pain François would cause her, the heartache and the loneliness she would have to suffer, being married to a man like his brother. And because of the kind of woman she was, he could already see the hopeless struggle she would put up to make her marriage work. He hoped she had the courage, the stamina, to survive.
‘Don’t think I don’t realize you’re letting me win!’ she called back to him over her shoulder.
‘Of course I am!’ he shouted back.
As they were nearing the bottom of the hill, Claudine stopped and flopped down on the grass, trying to catch her breath. ‘You’re incorrigible, Lucien de Lorvoire,’ she gasped as he sat down beside her, his breathing as steady as if he had walked down the hill.
And you, he thought, looking at her with a sudden blinding realization, are a virgin. Why that thought had struck him now, he had no idea, but unprompted though it was, he knew it to be true. He gazed into her eyes – and suddenly he longed to be the one to take her, the one to introduce that unbearably sensuous body to the pleasures of love. To leave her to the indifference of François seemed a crime … yet wasn’t it an even greater crime that he should harbour such a thought after what had happened in the past? When they were both of them, François most of all, still paying the price for what had happened to Hortense?
‘Oh no, I’ve torn my stockings,’ Claudine complained, running a finger over the ladder that was snaking along her calf. ‘And again there! What a wreck I am! Oh, well, there’s nothing else for it, I’ll simply have to take them off.’
Lucien’s eyes lit up, and leaning back on one elbow, he snapped off a blade of grass and put it between his teeth, ready to watch.
Claudine eyed him dangerously, and laughing, he rolled onto his stomach while she unhooked her suspenders.
‘Is your father with you at Montvisse?’ he asked, gazing through the columns of vines which spread across the hillside in front of him.
‘Not at the moment, he’s in Paris. He’s coming back sometime this week, though. Do you know him?’
‘Of course. I knew your mother too. You’re very like her.’
She gathered up her stockings and pushed them into her skirt pocket. Then, sitting cross-legged facing him, she said, ‘What about François? Did he know my mother?’
‘Yes. He was very fond of her as I remember.’
‘It’s strange, isn’t it?’ she mused. ‘I mean, how fond François is of my parents when he seems to despise me.’
Lucien turned onto his back to look at her, and studied her remarkable face for some time before, fighting back a sudden surge of anger, he said, ‘It’s not you that François despises. It’s …’
‘Yes?’ she prompted.
He sat up, and throwing away the blade of grass, he said, ‘There’s a lot you don’t know about François, Claudine. I only wish you could have met him before …’
‘Before what?’
He looked at her as if in some way assessing her. ‘Obviously your father hasn’t told you,’ he said, and this time she detected the anger in his voice. ‘But maybe Beavis doesn’t know. I thought François had told him, had explained, but …’
‘Explained what? Lucien, you’re talking in riddles.’ Then she cried out as he suddenly grasped her shoulders, and his frown was so like François’ that she found herself cowering away.
‘Why are you marrying him, Claudine?’ he growled. ‘Why?’
‘Lucien, you’re hurting me!’
‘Why?’ he repeated, tightening his grip. ‘What is it that’s driving you into this marriage? Surely it’s not your father, he wouldn’t force you to do something you found repellent. And you do find him repellent, don’t you?’
‘No! Yes! I don’t know! Lucien, please –’
‘The truth!’
‘Then the truth is that, yes, at first I did.’
‘And now?’
‘I don’t know. All I know is that I’m going to marry him.’
‘He’ll hurt you, Claudine.’
‘I can look after myself.’
‘Don’t be naive. François isn’t like other men, you must have seen that already. You won’t be able to manipulate him, you …’
’I don’t want to manipulate him, I want to many him. I can’t explain it, I don’t even understand it myself, but I want to be his wife and I want to have his children. That’s what he wants of me, isn’t it? To have his children?’
‘Thats all he wants of you, Claudine.’ He leaned forward, staring into her face. ‘Don’t do this to yourself, Claudine. Go back to England and forget you ever met him. Go now, before it’s too late.’
‘I can’t!’ she cried. ‘I can’t leave. I already love him.’
Lucien stared at her. She stared back, so shocked by what she had said that the whole world seemed to have suddenly careered to a halt. All she was aware of was the strange buzzing in her ears and the pressure of Lucien’s fingers on her arms.
Finally he let her go, but his eyes were still on hers as he said quietly, ‘Is that true?’
She lowered her head, and eventually she shook it.
‘But you said it.’
‘I know.’
Long minutes passed. ‘Lucien,’ Claudine said at last. ‘If François wasn’t always the way he is now, did the change have anything to with a woman? Was it by any chance someone called Hortense?’
It was some time before Lucien spoke, and to her relief the humour was once again beginning to flicker in his eyes. ‘You are incredible, Claudine. How do you know about Hortense? Or should I say, what do you know about Hortense?’
‘Nothing. Except that she was described to me at a dinner party as “poor, poor, Hortense”.’
Lucien looked at her, his eyes resting on her full, shapely lips. It was with a relief bordering on disloyalty that he realized Beavis must have believed François’ account of what happened that night with Hortense – or he would never have agreed to the marriage. It wasn’t that he had ever seriously doubted his brother, but – contrary to what everyone thought – he had not actually been there that night, and there had always been that nagging suspicion … For he, like the rest of the de Lorvoire family, knew there was a dark side to François that rendered him capable of almost anything.
‘If you’re concocting some story to fob me off with, Lucien,’ Claudine remarked, ‘then may I remind you that it was your idea that we should always tell each other the truth.’
Lucien shot her a look from the corner of his eye. ‘It’s because I have no wish to lie to you that I can tell you nothing about Hortense,’ he said. ‘Besides, I haven’t actually admitted that it was Hortense who was responsible for changing François.’
Claudine leapt to her feet. ‘What a thoroughy infuriating person you are!’ she declared. ‘But I shall find out, I promise you.’
‘And I can promise you that you will only find out the truth when François himself decides to tell you,’ Lucien replied, pulling himself to his feet. ‘Now, what do you say to leaving our exploration of the village until another day? We’ve been gone for some time now, and Maman will start to fret.’
‘I could always,’ Claudine said, as they rounded the top of the hill and started the descent to the car, ‘ask Tante Céline about Hortense. Or any other hostess in Paris, come to that.’
‘Yes, you could,’ he acknowledged, ‘but I think you know as well as I do that you won’t discover the truth from them.’
Claudine was silent then, and by the time they rounded the bend in the drive leading to the château – rather more sedately than they had driven down it, since Lucien was now behind the wheel – she was so deep in thought that she didn’t notice the large black Citröen parked outside the door until Lucien pulled alongside it and casually remarked that François had returned.
Her immediate impulse was to leap into the driving seat and speed off into the sunset, but she somehow managed to control herself, and walked round the car with studied calm.
‘Aren’t you coming inside?’ Lucien said.
‘I don’t think so,’ she answered casually, getting into the driving seat and slamming the door. ‘Tante Céline will be wondering what’s happened to me.’
‘You can always telephone.’
Realizing he was teasing her, she poked out her tongue. Then, leaning forward to restart the engine, her hand suddenly froze. She knew, even before she lifted her head, that he was there. She looked up, aware of the pulsating heat in her chest. He was standing on the steps of the château, watching her. He seemed immense in the long, dark coat that hung from his shoulders, and even at a distance the scar on his face appeared livid and menacing. The smile faded from her lips, and she was profoundly glad she was sitting down, for every muscle in her body seemed to have turned to jelly. Then, to her relief, Lucien was bounding up the steps to greet his brother, slapping him on the back and calling him all manner of insulting names.
By the time François turned back to her, Claudine was fully in control of herself, and stepping as majestically as she could from the car, she walked towards the brothers and held out her hand to François.
Taking it, he said, ‘It is a pleasure to see you again.’
Biting hard on the sarcasm that was longing to spring from her lips, she smiled and said, ‘Thank you. I trust your stay in Paris was a pleasant one?’
‘Moderately so.’
His apparent indifference to the silence that followed, coupled with his pointed failure to invite her inside, inflamed her temper so that her cheeks started to burn with it. ‘As I am clearly no longer welcome, perhaps I had better go,’ she said – and immediately regretted the peevish resentment in her voice.
‘Perhaps Lucien would like to see you back to your car.’ François nodded to his brother, then turned on his heel and started back up the steps to the château.
‘François!’ As he turned, she thought she caught a flicker of amusement pass between the brothers, but she was too angry to care. ‘I would like you to see me to my car, if it’s not too much trouble,’ she snapped.
Sensing that his presence was no longer required, Lucien disappeared inside the château while, stuffing his hands into his trouser pockets, François strolled lazily back down the steps. He stood in front of her, gazing down into her eyes. ‘You have every right to expect an apology for my lack of communication this week,’ he said, surprising her so much that she actually jumped. ‘And naturally, I do apologize. It is my intention to call on you first thing tomorrow, so that perhaps we may get to know one another a little better. As for my manners, I hope you will find them a little less offensive than when we last met. For that I apologize also.’
‘And for the way you snubbed me a moment ago?’
His austere face became even more unsightly as he drew his heavy brows together. ‘Again, I must ask your forgiveness. But you seemed so relaxed in my brother’s company, and so appalled when you saw me, that I have to confess I was jealous. Childish of me, I know, but there it is.’
‘You are a liar!’ she declared. ‘You couldn’t give a damn … Where are you taking me?’ she demanded, as he slipped a hand under her arm and started to walk her away from the château.
‘To your car, of course,’ he answered.
‘Don’t patronize me!’ she shouted, wrenching herself from his grip.
‘Am I to spend the entire afternoon apologizing, Claudine?’
She wanted to sting him with words, to kick him even, but his use of her name had a sudden, deeply disturbing effect on her, and for a moment she was powerless.
‘Let me tell you,’ he said, as he opened her car door. ‘You are every bit as beautiful with your hair spilling about your face like that, and with no make-up and no stockings on, as you were the first time I met you. So you are wrong to say I couldn’t give a damn. I would have to be either insensate or dead to remain impervious to you.’
She was so stunned that she could do nothing more than slide speechlessly into her car.
‘I will send the chauffeur to collect you at Montvisse tomorrow. We shall take out the horses. You do ride, I take it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Would eight o’clock be too early?’
‘No.’
‘Then I shall look forward to the pleasure of your company.’
Dumbly she started the engine as he walked away.
‘François,’ she called, as he started to mount the steps.
He turned back, the thick line of his brows raised in mild irritation.
‘Thank you for the compliment.’
‘It was nothing.’
And it wasn’t until she reached the end of the drive that she realized that that was precisely what he meant.
François found Lucien in the dining-room, helping himself to fruit from the generous bowl on the huge mahogany table. The long windows at the far end of the room looked out over the steep meadow at the front of the château, and in the distance, through the trees, he could see Claudine’s car as she drove along the forest road towards Chinon. Charolais cows were grazing in the shade of the forest, and two gardeners marched back and forth across the bank, cutting the grass.
The dining-room was a large room, but the wood-panelled walls, frescoed ceiling and worn rococo furniture gave it a feeling of intimacy, as did the paintings depicting scenes from the de Rassey de Lorvoire military past, and the crumbling stone fireplace, which at this time of year was regularly filled with fresh flowers. It was the room where the family took all their meals, including breakfast, and Lucien and François often came here to talk.
‘So,’ François said, closing the door behind him, ‘I am glad to see you looking so well, Lucien.’ He sat on one of the high-backed dining chairs and stretched out his long legs to rest his feet on the table. ‘What brings you home?’ he enquired, as he reached out to pull a grape from the bunch closest to him. ‘If my information serves me correctly, the Spanish war is far from over.’
‘Your information is correct. The Basque country is having a pretty rough time of it just now.’ Lucien shrugged, then bit into an apple. ‘The Nationalists will win, of course.’
‘Of course.’
‘Don’t you care?’
‘The only thing that concerns me is that my brother might lose his life fighting on the losing side.’
‘But it would be all right for me to die if I were on the winning side?’
‘Lucien, if you are asking for my permission to die, then I withhold it, unconditionally.’
‘Then, to oblige you, mon frère, I shall do my best to stay alive. But the fight continues, and I shall remain on the side of those whose cause I judge to be worthy.’
‘Very commendable. And if France should need you?’
‘Then of course it would be my patriotic duty to return to my regiment.’
‘A soldier and a patriot. You put me to shame, Lucien.’
At that Lucien gave a shout of laughter. ‘Shame! You don’t know the meaning of the word, François. But tell me, do you think France will have need of its army?’
‘If you’re asking me whether there will be a war in Europe, then how could I possibly know?’
‘Because, François, you know everything. And you have been seen only this week at both the Élysée Palace and the Foreign Office.’
‘From both of which I obtained some satisfactory orders for our wine.’
Lucien grinned. François always had been a difficult person to hold a straightforward conversation with, but he had always enjoyed their verbal sparring sessions. ‘And no doubt a wealth of information the Germans would kill for,’ he remarked mildly.
François raised his eyebrows, then popped another grape into his mouth. ‘I don’t know where you get such notions, Lucien. Who in their right mind is going to give such information to the proprietor of a vineyard? And even if they should, what on earth could I be expected to do with it?’
‘Oh, I’m sure you’d find something, François. Now, is there going to be a war?’
‘Some say so, yes. But perhaps not for a year or two. Hitler isn’t quite ready for us yet.’
‘So we are just going to sit and wait for him?’
‘Would you prefer that France declared war? I can assure you, she would be extremely foolish to do so. Apart from anything else, she is quite unprepared.’
Lucien thought about that for a while, then said, ‘Her defence is shaping up.’
François shifted in his chair. ‘If you are referring to our new ministry and its plans for the extension of the Maginot Line, I can tell you that Hitler and Goering make jokes at the dinner table about it. And so, might I add, do certain Frenchmen.’
‘You being one of them?’
‘In the right company, yes. After all, it is quite amusing when you consider that as long ago as ’34 it was known that Germany had ninety-three flights of first-line aircraft – fourteen hundred planes. How many do you suppose they have now? More to the point, how many do you suppose we have?’
‘Do you really hold your own country in such contempt, François?’ Lucien said, taking a last bite from his apple before pitching it into the coal-scuttle.
‘It is difficult not to when there are so many dunderheads running it.’
‘And if France does go to war, will you fight?’
‘I shall do everything in my power to avoid it. So I’m afraid, mon frère, that preserving the military honour and glory of the family name is up to you.’
‘As the continuance of the family name is up to you?’ Lucien countered.
François held his eyes for a moment, then looking away, he plucked another grape and rolled it between his fingers. At last he said in a low voice, ‘You have brought the information?’
Lucien nodded.
François’ eyes were gleaming as he threw the grape into his mouth and heaved himself to his feet. ‘You trusted no one else to bring it?’
‘It wasn’t a matter of trust. In the wrong hands that information could be lethal – I couldn’t, wouldn’t ask anyone else to risk his life for it. Not when I have no idea what you intend to do with it.’
‘I don’t ask questions, Lucien, and neither should you.’
They both turned as the door in the far corner opened and Fabienne, one of the young kitchen-maids, came in.
‘Oh, messieurs,’ she said, obviously startled to see them there. ‘I am sorry, I shall go away.’ She startled to turn, but then remembering why she had come, said, ‘I must set the table for dinner, messieurs.’
‘We were just leaving,’ Lucien smiled, allowing his eyes to linger on the firm breasts straining against the thin cotton of her uniform.
With cold detachment, François watched the agonized lust that burned in Fabienne’s eyes as she too allowed her gaze to wander over Lucien’s handsome body. François had seen his brother provoke such a reaction in countless women; once it had amused him, now it merely bored him.
‘If you’re going to put the silly wretch out of her misery,’ he told his brother when Fabienne had left them, ‘might I suggest you take her to your room this time? Papa tells me Jean-Paul has still not recovered from last time, when he found you in such a compromising position with whatever-her-name-was.’
‘Carlotta. And I can assure you, François, Jean-Paul’s embarrassment was nothing compared to mine. After all, what sort of fellow is it that enjoys being found with his trousers about his knees?’
‘And what sort of fellow is it, Lucien, that seduces kitchen-maids in the pantry?’
‘One who was dragged there in the first place!’
François laughed, and placing a hand on his brother’s shoulder, said, ‘I’m going to spend an hour with Papa before dinner, and you strike me as though you might benefit from a cold bath.’
‘Whereas you, I presume, are immune to such charms.’
‘Not always.’
Lucien grinned. ‘But there’s none to match La Pascale?’
François cocked an eyebrow, and laughing, they parted company.
Lucien walked off along the hall, where he let himself through a low door and started to climb the crooked wooden staircase which spiralled through the tower to his room at the top of the south wing. When he reached it, he found Monique waiting for him on the threshold.
He wasn’t altogether surprised to see her. She had tried to talk to him that morning, before she and Solange departed for Montvisse, and though he had managed to avoid her then, he had known that sooner or later she would catch up with him. Treating her to one of his winning smiles, he put an arm around her shoulders and led her into his dressing-room, saying, ‘So, mon petit chou, you have something on your mind. Something you wish to discuss with me?’
‘You know I have, Lucien,’ she said, with a smile of exasperation. ‘And you know, too what it’s about.’
He nodded. ‘Henri Stubert?’ He was referring to Monique’s latest beau, who was also one of his comrades-in-arms.
Monique’s lips tightened, and the nostrils of her haughtily-arched de Lorvoire nose flared. ‘I’ll thank you, Lucien, never to mention that man’s name in my hearing again,’ she snapped.
‘Oh? But I thought you two …’
‘I received a letter from him a week ago, informing me of his engagement to Sybille Giffard, whoever she may be. Don’t tell me you didn’t know about it.’
‘But I didn’t,’ he answered truthfully. However, he had been aware that Henri, like many before him, found his sister somewhat over-zealous in her affections.
‘Well, it doesn’t matter,’ Monique declared, lifting her chin defiantly. ‘I had begun to tire of him anyway.’
He watched her pick a thread from the sleeve of his uniform which was hanging on the closet door, and saw the slight tremble of her fingers. He knew that Henri’s rejection did matter, and he longed to say something that might comfort her, but he knew too that she would rather die than admit to the hurt.
‘So,’ he said, ‘what is it that you wish to talk to me about if it isn’t Henri?’
‘I want to know why you are here.’
He saw the expression in her wide, amber eyes, and the corner of his mouth dropped in a smile. He knew now what was on her mind. ‘Does there have to be a reason?’ he teased, taking her hand and leading her to the sofa. ‘After all, this is my home. And you are my family,’ he added, crossing one leg over the other as he sat down beside her.
‘Lucien!’ she said meaningfully.
‘All right, all right,’ he said, holding up his hands. ‘Why do you think I’m here?’
She cast a quick glance at the door, then in a low voice she said, ‘You have brought something for François, haven’t you?’
‘Monique!’ he cried. ‘I thought it was only Maman who listened at doors.’
‘It is,’ she said, laughing despite herself, and he thought how lovely she was when she smiled. ‘But that revolting little man, Erich von Pappen, rang here earlier, while you were out and before François arrived. He wanted to know if you had seen François yet.’
‘He did, did he?’
‘Yes.’ She turned to face him. ‘Who exactly is Erich von Pappen, Lucien?’
‘You’ll have to ask François that question, I’m afraid.’
‘Perhaps I will,’ she said, though they both knew that it was unlikely she would. ‘But why did he want to know if you had seen François? No, Lucien, please. I know you’re going to lie to me, but I won’t stand for it. You’ve brought information here for François, haven’t you? Information from von Pappen. Look, I don’t want to know what it is. I have a feeling it would be better, safer, for both of you, if I don’t. But I need to know that you will never do this again, Lucien. It’s a dangerous game that François plays, but he’s an expert at it. I don’t want you to become involved.’
Lucien gave a shout of laughter, and clasping his hands about her face, he kissed the tip of her nose. ‘You are worrying unnecessarily, Monique, I promise you.’
‘No!’ The colour in her cheeks had deepened. ‘We have both known for some time what François is about, and I don’t want you getting mixed up in it. There’s not another person in the world I would say this to, but you know as well as I do that François …’ She stopped.
‘Go on,’ he prompted, the challenge gleaming in his lucid blue eyes.
Monique looked away, lowering her head so that her hair hid her face. ‘I can’t,’ she whispered.
‘Then I shall say it for you.’ But when it came to it, even he couldn’t bring himself to voice the word that he knew was searing the tip of her tongue. So instead he said, ‘You believe that François buys information, then sells it – not where it might do the most good, but where it will fetch the best price.’
‘Don’t you?’
Lucien thought about that for a long time. It was true that François played a dangerous game with the information he gathered, that he was not always ethical in the way he obtained it or the way he sold it. But his brother’s business was his own, and Lucien knew better than to interfere. Just as he knew it would be unwise to say anything that might add to Monique’s concern. In the end, he said, ‘If it will put your mind at rest, I can tell you that in this instance he will be selling it where it does the most good.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because I know who he bought it from.’
‘Erich von Pappen!’ she said angrily. ‘A German!’
‘Well then, François is hardly going to buy from the Germans to sell to the Germans, is he now?’
Slowly Monique shook her head, but her eyes were still full of doubt. ‘There are times, Lucien,’ she whispered, ‘when I wouldn’t put anything past François. He’s my brother and I love him, I would never do anything to hurt or betray him, but sometimes I feel as though I don’t know him.’
Lucien took her in his arms and rested her head on his shoulder. He felt her start to tremble. ‘And he would never do anything to hurt or betray you, you must know that,’ he said, stroking her hair.
‘That’s not what I’m worried about,’ she said, her voice muffled by his shoulder.
‘I know. But as you said yourself, François knows what he is doing. And if it helps, then I give you my word that I won’t get involved again.’
As he tilted her face to his, he was wondering what she would do if he were to tell her what the information was that he had carried from von Pappen. But she had been right when she said it would be safer for them all if she didn’t know. The fact that Adolph Hitler had announced to his inner circle his preliminary plans to annex Austria, was more than a dangerous thing to know. But at least, this time, he could be certain that François was selling the information to the French; it was rare, with François, that things were so blessedly simple.
And then, for no logical reason, an image of Claudine came into his mind – Claudine standing on the hilltop overlooking Lorvoire, tall and straight, her magnificent hair with its shades of blueish copper blowing in the wind, her eyes sparkling with laughter. And then, in his mind’s eye, he saw her as she later struggled to hide the confusion of her feelings for François … But there had been no confusion when she had stood at the foot of the château steps, those splendid almond-shaped eyes blazing with fury as François so crudely dismissed her. Lucien smiled as he remembered how his brother had turned back; it was probably the only time in his adult life that he had witnessed François obeying a woman. But the way François had so casually changed the subject when he referred to Claudine earlier, was enough to tell him that his brother had acted out of indifference – that he considered Claudine nothing more than a small irritant in his life, which would from time to time need his attention.
‘What are you thinking about?’ Monique whispered.
Lucien’s eyes moved back to hers. ‘François,’ he answered, ‘and Claudine.’
Monique’s face darkened. Then, to his amazement, she jumped angrily to her feet and ran from the room – but not before Lucien had seen the tears in her eyes.