THE ENGAGEMENT WAS announced, the date for the wedding was set: it was to take place at the Royal Abbey of Fontevraud at the beginning of September, less than three months away. The haste was because Beavis could remain in France only until mid-September, when he was obliged to leave for a spell of duty in Berlin – but Claudine was used to having her calendar dictated by the diplomatic corps, and she felt too that, given the circumstances, a long engagement would be nothing short of a farce. As far as she was concerned, the quicker they were married the better. François expressed no feelings on the matter at all.
He remained at Lorvoire for five days after the announcement of their engagement, then left for Paris. While he was gone he made no contact with Claudine, though she knew he was regularly in touch with his father. She could not decide whether she was glad that his disturbing presence was removed from her, or whether – in some curious way she could not define – she missed him. Once or twice she allowed herself to consider what he had told her about Hortense, but she did not dwell on it, for she was quite convinced he had been lying. She also tried to dismiss from her mind the peculiar emotions he stirred in her – and did her best to spend a calm and cheerful time helping Solange and Tante Céline with the wedding arrangements.
Then, one morning, four days before he’d said he would return, Claudine arrived at Lorvoire to find François’ car parked in the courtyard outside the wine caves. At the sight of the large black Citröen her heart somersaulted violently, and as she drew up alongside it, she saw him standing just inside the entrance to one of the caves talking to Armand St Jacques. Slowly she climbed from the car, waiting for him to see her, but when he did eventually look up, he merely turned away again and continued his conversation.
Seething with indignation, and without even thinking what she would say when she got there, she marched towards him. Before she reached the cave Armand came out, and seeing the look on her face, instantly made himself scarce.
Claudine barely noticed him. François had his back to her now, and seemed intent on the bottles lined up on a counter in front of him. Hearing her footsteps, he looked up, and the harsh impatience that flashed across his face inflamed her temper even further.
‘What are you doing here?’ he snapped, before she could speak.
She stared at him, her anger for the moment blunted by his rudeness.
‘Why haven’t you returned to England?’ he demanded.
‘England?’ she repeated stupidly.
For several moments he glared at her, then with a shrug he said, ‘Do you not have affairs to attend to in England?’
‘No,’ she answered, anger tightening her beautiful features. ‘My father’s lawyers and the staff at Rafferty Lodge are dealing with matters there.’
‘So you are staying here, in Touraine, until we are married?’
‘Unless you have any objection?’
He gave a derisive laugh. Then suddenly his eyes were hard, and leaning his face towards hers, he hissed, ‘What do you want from me?’
‘Nothing!’ she seethed, cowering from the venom in his voice.
‘Then go! Go away from here. I don’t want you!’
She couldn’t help flinching at the malice in his voice, but quickly mustering the full might of her fury, she said, ‘If you think your atrocious behaviour is going to make me change my mind, then think again, François. The only way you’re going to get out of this marriage now is to call it off yourself.’
For a long moment they glared at one another. Then, to her horror, Claudine found that she was remembering the feel of his fingers as they curled about her breast. The shock of the pleasure it gave her slaked through her body as powerfully as the loathing which hammered at her heart. She struggled to break free of those eyes, but she was bound by their magnetism. Her senses were reeling, she felt she would drown in the sheer force of him. Then she saw the sneer on his lips, the contempt that disfigured his face more brutally than the scar, and at last she was able to turn away. She was dazed by what was happening to her: she knew she hated him, yet she felt so drawn to him that at times it was as though she were in danger of losing herself in him.
In the dining-room of the château she found Solange waiting for her, her lively grey hair standing on end and Louis’ spectacles perched on the tip of her nose. The table in front of her was in chaos, strewn with cards and envelopes, lists and letters. Today they were to begin the enormous task of sending out invitations. Solange looked so bemused that Claudine felt a great wave of affection for her, and dismissing François from her mind, she sat down to help.
She didn’t see him again until midday, when Tante Céline arrived for lunch and he walked into the dining-room with her. Claudine got up to greet her aunt, studiously ignoring François, but as she was about to sit down again he put a hand on her arm. ‘I’ve brought you something from Paris,’ he said.
Claudine stared at him. She watched him reach into his pocket and pull out a small box bearing the insignia of Van Cleef and Arpels. He did not look at her as he put the box into her hand, but simply stepped back, waiting for her to look inside.
When she did, her mouth fell open. Beside her Tante Céline gasped, and Solange clapped her hands in delight. The diamond was flawless and the size of a centime. Claudine looked up at François, but he was staring at the ring, his face devoid of expression. But as she lifted it from the velvet crease to raise it to the light, he took it from her, picked up her left hand and slid the diamond onto the third finger. It was a perfect fit.
‘I hope you like it,’ he said softly.
Again she looked up at him, dimly aware that her breathing had all but stopped. ‘I like it very much,’ she answered.
He nodded, and with a flicker of one eyebrow, he turned and walked from the room.
After that, Claudine threw herself into the wedding plans with renewed enthusiasm – while Solange took to rushing about Lorvoire creating one muddle after another. After three days Louis threw up his hands in despair, declaring that he’d given up all hope of ever knowing a moment’s peace again, while François complained that he had not been embraced so often since he was an infant.
‘Oh Maman, not again,’ he would groan as she clasped him to her, but there was a gentleness in his eyes as he kissed her that brought a lump to Claudine’s throat. For her there was no such display of affection; for all the attention he paid her she might just as well not have been there. But all that would change once they were married, she told herself, and treating him to the same chilly disdain as he showed her, she went about her business.
A week after he’d given her the ring, François went away again, informing her, through Tante Céline, that she should not expect him back before the end of the month. After his departure, at Solange’s insistence, Claudine became a daily visitor at Lorvoire in order that she should get to know the household better. It was a happy time for them all: the old gramophone was dragged from a cupboard, and she and Solange whirled about the neglected ballroom while Louis sat quietly in a corner, his round glasses teetering on the end of his nose and his feet tapping to the spritely rhythm.
As that scorchingly hot summer progressed the château saw other visitors too, as noble families from all over the region beat a path to Lorvoire, eager to get a glimpse of the English beauty who was to marry François. The hospitality they received was, by normal standards, unusual: there were games of cache-cache in the forest and rowing races on the river, cricket on the sloping bank of the meadow and dancing in the courtyard. But they all seemed to enjoy themselves, and on the rare occasions François was at home, though he never deigned to join in, Claudine occasionally caught him smiling. But never at her. For her there was only the stark hostility she was coming to know so well. But why should she care, she asked herself defiantly, when everyone else welcomed her so warmly?
The wedding was drawing closer, and it was time to leave the château and go to Paris, where Claudine’s wedding gown was being created by the House of Worth, and almost every other designer of note had a hand in her trousseau. Claudine and Tante Céline stayed with the de Lorvoires at the house in the Bois de Boulogne, where the afternoon parties, while not quite as unorthodox as those at Lorvoire, were nonetheless lively. In return they were bombarded with invitations to the theatre and the ballet, to private concerts and to dinner with friends, and once, but only once, they went in a party of twelve to the most famous cabaret in Paris, the Lapin à Gill. The original plan had been to visit the Bal Bullier where, so Claudine had heard, it was difficult to tell the men from the women, and ladies of the night paraded naked through the ballroom – but Louis had drawn the line at that.
That was towards the end of August, and François returned from a three-week trip to North Africa the morning after their exotic night out. He was highly amused to hear that his parents had set foot inside such an establishment, and rather regretted that he could not stay, he said, if this was the kind of entertainment they were going in for – but he must leave again the following day as he had business to attend to in Marseilles, and he wanted to call in at Lorvoire on the way, not only to see Armand but also to check on the work that was being carried out on his apartment in the west wing of the château, to make it ready for Claudine.
Claudine experienced some very strange feelings when she heard that, but she showed none of them when he joined their party at the theatre that night, where he sat beside her, watching as she offered her left hand to those who came into their box to get a glimpse of the by-now famous Van Cleef and Arpels diamond. He accepted their congratulations graciously, but his attitude towards Claudine remained cold and aloof.
After the play they all went on for a late supper before returning to the Bois de Boulogne, and Monique was the only one to see François slip out of the house after everyone had retired to bed. She knew where he was going, for she had made a brief call on Élise Pascale herself that day, and François had telephoned while she was there to tell Élise to expect him.
Monique had no idea at what hour of the morning he returned, but he was there at breakfast when she joined the table, as were Louis and Claudine. Often, when François and Claudine were in the same room, Monique would study them, trying to work out exactly what was going on between them, but as the date of the wedding drew closer their relationship became more and more of a mystery to her. They made a striking couple – François so tall, so powerful and so ugly, Claudine so beautiful, so vibrant and so happy – yet they rarely spoke to one another, and never, simply never touched each other. Yet oddly, whenever they looked at one another they seemed suddenly enclosed in a world of their own. But perplexing as their relationship was, Monique felt certain that Claudine didn’t love François any more than he loved her.
As for her own relationship with Claudine, as each day passed Monique was growing to hate her more. She was no longer afraid that Claudine would come between Lucien and François; now she only longed to be rid of her so that her own private hell of jealousy would be at an end. Each night, as the wedding drew closer, she lay awake reliving the rejections she had suffered. She wept for her own wedding – the wedding she had always dreamed of, but which now, perhaps, would never be. She smarted with the pain of her loneliness, and ached with the memory of being loved. She did not know what she had done to turn her lovers away, she only knew that if there was to be a wedding at Lorvoire, it should be hers. She deserved it for all the suffering, all the heartache she had known – not Claudine, who had never had a moment’s unhappiness in her life.
Had she seen any way to destroy Claudine’s happiness, Monique would have taken it. She had even toyed with the idea of telling her about Élise, but Élise herself had warned against it. There was no knowing how François might view their interference, Élise said, and besides, knowing that he had a mistress wasn’t in any way guaranteed to make Claudine change her mind. And so Monique nursed her hatred in silence. When she was with Claudine she worked hard to hide her feelings – with such success that even her own parents believed the two of them had struck up a firm friendship. The only person she had not managed to deceive was Claudine herself.
Quite what she was going to do about her future sister-in-law, Claudine didn’t yet know. She had worked out for herself what lay at the root of Monique’s enmity, and though she had no intention of calling off her wedding she was already wondering what she could do to make it less painful for Monique. It was a shame, she thought, that she couldn’t discuss the matter with François – but then he told her something that pushed every other thought from her mind. He had arranged their honeymoon, which was to be in Biarritz. Honeymoon. The word alone was enough to send her nerves galloping into disarray. So too was any thought of intimacy with François, who had not as yet even attempted to kiss her …
A week after his departure for Marseilles, she was at the opera, though paying scant attention to what was happening on stage as she was engaged in a rather gratifying fantasy in which François came bursting into their box, grabbed her by the hands and dragged her off to a secret place to tell her how much he loved her. She didn’t get as far as to what her response might be to such an unlikely occurrence, as some twenty minutes into the first act she became aware that someone was watching her. She glanced around the darkened opera house, but all eyes seemed to be on the stage. However, the feeling didn’t go away, and when the lights came up for the interval she looked again to see who it might be.
‘What is it, chérie?’ Céline asked when she saw the puzzled frown on her niece’s face.
‘Oh, nothing,’ Claudine answered.
‘Come, have a glass of champagne. And perhaps tonight we should go straight home after the performance. We’ve an early start for Touraine tomorrow, and you must be tired after all this gaiety in Paris.’
‘Claudine, tired!’ Louis exclaimed. ‘How I have longed for the day!’
They all laughed, but as Claudine turned in her seat she was again aware of someone watching her, and this time as she scanned the faces in the adjacent boxes, her attention was caught by the downward sweep of a fan. Then, to her amazement, she found herself looking into eyes of the most beautiful woman she had ever seen. Instantly the smile dropped from Claudine’s face, for she knew beyond a doubt that this was the person who’d been studying her. She was breathtaking. With her heavy, honey-blonde hair, delicate ivory skin and seductive eyes, she looked like a Greek goddess reclining in the glow of golden light that fell around her.
Finally, with a barely perceptible nod of her head, the woman looked away, and collecting herself, Claudine turned back to her aunt.
‘Tante Céline,’ she whispered. ‘Tell me, do you know that woman over there? She’s been staring at me ever since we arrived.’
Céline followed her niece’s gaze, and Claudine felt her stiffen. ‘Ah no, you’re imagining things, chérie,’ Céline said.
‘But do you know her?’
Céline glanced quickly at Louis, who gave a brief nod. ‘She’s Élise Pascale,’ Céline said.
The name meant nothing to Claudine. ‘Can we meet her?’ she wanted to know.
‘I think not, chérie.’
‘But why?’
‘Because she is not quite … how can I put it? She is not quite …’
‘She is what we in polite circles call a courtesan,’ Louis supplied.
‘Oh,’ Claudine said, drawing out the word as her eyes brightened with laughter. She looked back at Élise. ‘How absolutely fascinating,’ she whispered. ‘I’d still like to meet her!’
Of course it was out of the question, and it was to Céline’s profound relief that Louis came to the rescue once again by saying, ‘I would prefer that you didn’t, chérie. I wouldn’t want her putting ideas into Solange’s head.’
They all burst out laughing, and as the curtain rose for the second act of Milhaud’s Le Pauvre Matelot, the conversation was, to Céline’s relief, at an end.
Later, as they were leaving the theatre, Claudine scanned the foyer in the hope of getting a closer look at Élise Pascale. When she saw her her heart gave a sudden vicious lurch as she saw an appallingly familiar figure leaving Élise and coming towards them through the crowd. She’d had no idea François was planning to return to Paris that night – nor, it seemed, had anyone else. He had just arrived from Marseilles, he explained, and had come to meet them in the hope of joining them for dinner. And so, their plans for an early night abandoned, they joined another group of friends and strolled off down the avenue de l’Opéra for a lobster supper at Drouant’s.
The following morning François escorted them to the railway station, where he assured his mother that he would be home in time for dinner the next day. Lucien, however, would not be home tomorrow, he told her in response to her urgent enquiry.
‘But he is coming to the wedding, isn’t he?’ Solange cried, as Louis gently pushed her onto the train.
As she asked this question at least once a day, François rolled his eyes and said, ‘Yes, Maman, Lucien will be coming to the wedding if he can.’ And he smiled at her shriek of delight.
‘And what about you? Will you be coming to the wedding?’
He turned to find Claudine standing beside him. Her hat cast a light shadow over her eyes, and in her pastel chiffon dress, with the steam billowing around her, she was like an apparition.
‘A strange question,’ he remarked.
‘A strange engagement,’ she countered.
He looked at her for a long moment, but she was unable to read his eyes.
‘It’s the first of September today,’ she said. ‘You have ten days in which to change your mind.’
‘So have you,’ he answered, and her cheeks flooded with colour at the way she felt suddenly naked beneath the lascivious smile that curved his thin lips, the eyes that swept the length of her body.
‘I have no intention of changing my mind,’ she said, through clenched teeth.
‘A pity,’ he replied, and held the door open for her to board the train.
The day of the wedding dawned. The evening before, Claudine had moved into one of the guest rooms in the west tower of the château de Lorvoire – a circular room with wide, arched windows that overlooked the meadow and gardens at the front and side of the house. The four-poster bed was of carved oak, the hangings, like the window curtains, pale yellow brocade, and the Heriz carpet was a field of sea-green. There were two Louis XV armoires, and a Sormani kingwood and marquetry dressing-table on which Magaly had set out her ivory-backed hairbrushes, silver-topped bottles and two vases of flowers.
Since she had woken at six o’clock Claudine had been aware of the day’s excitement. Through the leaded windows she had watched the caterers arrive, then the florists. Then there had come designers and hairdressers, an army of extra staff hired for the day, and a band of musicians. She had seen Tante Céline’s car draw up outside, and heard the clatter of horses’ hooves as her father and Lucien returned from an early morning ride.
There had been several knocks on her door, mainly from Dissy, who had arrived with her husband, Lord Poppleton, at the start of the week. But Claudine wasn’t ready to see anyone yet today – not even her best friend. She was perched on the edge of the bed, staring into space as she struggled to make sense of her astonishing reaction to what she had discovered last night, when she crept upstairs to take a look at the apartment she would be sharing with François.
The first room she entered had been a pleasant surprise – an elegant but intimate drawing-room, with fringed lampshades over brass lamps, candy-striped sofas and armchairs, and big windows opening onto a terrace that was only feet away from the trees on the hillside behind the château. But it was when she opened the door to her left that the extraordinary reaction started. It was a bedroom, a very beautiful bedroom, with rose-silk-panelled walls, matching bed linen and carpets, rosewood furniture, marble fireplace and high, arched French windows. But a sixth sense was telling her something else about the room. And then her heart started a strange, unsteady rhythm. This was her room, she realized; hers alone.
‘What do you think?’
She turned to find Lucien watching her from the sitting-room door, hands in pockets, one shoulder leaning casually against the doorframe.
‘I’m not sure,’ she answered shortly. ‘I haven’t seen it all yet.’
He frowned. ‘You seem angry.’
‘Angry? Why should I be angry?’
He shrugged. ‘Shall we take a look around, then?’
She nodded. After all, she was telling herself, it was quite normal for husband and wife to have separate rooms, wasn’t it? But why, then, did she feel so disturbed? She took the hand Lucien held out to her, and allowed him to lead her across the sitting-room to a room she hadn’t yet entered.
It was, as she had expected, another bedroom. It was plain, uncluttered and unmistakably masculine – just as the other had been unmistakably feminine. From the moment she walked into it Claudine felt she was trespassing, and would go no further than the foot of the vast oak bed, though Lucien explored the bathroom and dressing-room, loudly voicing his approval. She showed him her own suite. At the far end of it was another door which, when she opened it, led out onto a narrow landing. Across the landing, Lucien showed her, was the nursery; and the door at the end of the corridor opened onto a bridge leading from the château into the forest behind. He and François had often used it as an escape route when they were children.
‘So,’ he declared, as they walked back into the sitting-room, ‘my brother has thought of everything, right down to your need to be close to the children – when they come.’
It was that remark, as much as anything, that was causing Claudine so much misgiving now. As she sat on her bed on her wedding morning, the reality of what lay ahead – and of what she felt about it – was at last beginning to come home to her.
She looked down at her hands, at the diamond that glittered in the sunlight, and for a moment her feelings engulfed her. Then suddenly she got up from the bed, dragged the cheval mirror away from the window and stripped off her clothes.
As she gazed at her reflection she tried to see herself through François’ eyes. Tried to imagine his hands on her breasts, his mouth seeking hers, his fingers exploring her most intimate places. His own naked body …
She closed her eyes as the heat seared through her veins, and as her fingers closed around her nipples the sensation that shot through her loins snatched the breath from her body. She clutched at the bedpost, biting her lips as she waited for the tide of longing to subside.
How could her body betray her like this? How had this come about when she detested and despised him? Yet, almost from the moment when she discovered that exquisite bedroom in the apartment upstairs, when she realized that even after they were married she was to sleep alone, she had known it was pointless to go on deluding herself. Ugly as he was, cruel and malevolent as she knew he could be, she could no longer deny that she wanted him in a way she had never wanted any other man in her life. She desired him with every fibre of her body, and had done almost from the moment she met him.
She threw back her head and looked up at the ceiling, wanting, but not daring, to scream. Why, dear God, when he so plainly did not want her, did she want him so much?
Suddenly she froze as she heard his voice outside, calling to Lucien. Then hearing him laugh, it was as if all her resolve gathered in a towering surge of defiance; when she looked back at herself in the mirror, her eyes were hard and shining.
‘Today,’ she whispered to her reflection, ‘you are going to marry him. And after that, only you can see to it that he becomes the husband you want him to be. Your desires need not be a weakness, they can be a strength if you learn to use them correctly. And he will want you, one day he will want you every bit as much as you want him.’
She ran her hands down over her hips, then slipped her fingers into the moistness between her legs, and a cry escaped her lips as she discovered the power of her need. How could just the thought of him do this to her?
Quickly she withdrew her fingers, then picking up her négligé, she covered herself and walked to the window. He was there, standing at the centre of the stable yard with Lucien, and as if he sensed her eyes on him, he looked up. But when he saw her, he turned away. She watched him as he strode across the yard, feeling almost faint as she imagined that immense body lying over hers, taking her, violating her. She could almost feel the brutality of his mouth, the ruthlessness of his hands, the …
‘Mon Dieu,’ she murmured, and closed her eyes as her fingers were drawn to the ache in her loins.
Suddenly there was a knock on the door. She started, but hearing Dissy’s voice she swallowed hard and called for her to come in.
‘Ah, ha!’ Dissy cried. ‘Permission to enter at last!’ Then seeing Claudine’s naked body through the transparency of her négligé, she laughed. ‘A dress rehearsal for the big night?’
‘Something like that,’ Claudine answered, almost gasping on a sudden onslaught of nerves. ‘How are things progressing downstairs?’
‘Don’t ask! But Jean-Charles and Sophia have arrived with the dress, they’ll be wanting to come up soon.’
‘I must bathe. Come and talk to me while I do.’
Just then Magaly walked into the room. ‘The packing is almost finished,’ she said, her round face beaming its habitual smile. ‘I shall put your lingerie here on the bed, then go to sort out these people downstairs. Estelle has arrived from the beauty salon with the manicurist. Shall I tell them to come up?’
‘Give me half an hour,’ Claudine answered. ‘Did Jean-Charles remember the shoes?’
‘Of course. I telephoned him yesterday to make certain,’ and she laughed as Claudine blew her a kiss.
Dissy picked up a nail file and stretched out on the chaise-longue at the side of the bath. ‘Did you invite Freddy to stay on at Montvisse after the wedding, or did he invite himself?’ she asked. She waited, but there was no answer. From the look on Claudine’s face Dissy could see that she hadn’t even heard. ‘Claudine!’ she called. ‘Hello!’
Claudine looked up. ‘I’m sorry, darling,’ she said. ‘What were you saying?’
‘I was asking about that brother of mine, but it doesn’t matter.’
‘Oh, Freddy! Hasn’t he grown? I would never have recognized him. He tells me he’s going to be nineteen at Christmas, and there was me thinking he was still in short trousers.’
‘Well, he’s at Oxford now, and very definitely in long trousers.’
‘He’s extremely handsome, Dissy. He has quite a romantic look about him too, don’t you think?’
‘He cultivates it, darling. He wants to be a poet.’
‘Is he any good?’
‘I’ve no idea. Daddy says he’s bally awful, but then Daddy would. Mummy, of course, thinks he’s better than Byron.’
‘And what does Poppy think?’ Claudine asked, referring to Dissy’s husband, by his nickname.
‘Best not repeat it,’ Dissy grinned, and laughing, Claudine let her négliǵe float to the floor and stepped into the bath.
‘Clo,’ Dissy said thoughtfully, a few minutes later. ‘I’ve been meaning to ask. Is there a reason why you’re not having bridesmaids?’
Claudine lay back in the scented water and closed her eyes. ‘I suppose,’ she said, ‘that it just didn’t seem appropriate.’
‘What? How on earth can bridesmaids not seem appropriate at a wedding?’
With her eyes still closed, Claudine merely raised her eyebrows and said, ‘I don’t know, but they didn’t.’
Dissy stared at her. The absence of bridesmaids wasn’t the only thing that struck her as odd about Claudine’s wedding. What worried her most was that ever since she’d arrived she had been aware of a change in Claudine herself, which as the week progressed she had no longer been able to dismiss as pre-wedding nerves. And surely it was strange that Claudine had said almost nothing about François – when Dissy had expected her to be talking of nothing else, confiding all the details of the proposal, declaring her undying love. Then there had been the mysterious absence of the bridegroom. Apparently he had been at the château just prior to her arrival, but he had then been called to Paris on urgent business which had kept him there until two days before the wedding.
Oddest of all, perhaps, had been Monique’s interrogation. Two days ago, while Claudine was in Chinon meeting François from the train so that they could register their marriage at the town hall, Monique had taken her for a walk in the woods, where she had proceeded to ask all manner of questions about the way Claudine and François felt about each other! If the bridegroom’s sister is in the dark about their relationship, Dissy had thought, who does know what’s going on? Then, she and Monique had talked about Freddy. Dissy had found Monique’s interest rather surprising – she must be at least five years older than Freddy, perhaps more.
But it was when she and Monique returned from their walk that Dissy had received the biggest shock of all. The man waiting there on the steps of the château to greet her, Monique proudly informed her, was none other than the future Comte de Rassey de Lorvoire.
Dissy was ashamed now at the way she had stopped dead in her tracks and her mouth had actually fallen open. But he was so ugly, and so … Well, so big, standing there beside her lovely Claudine. His hand, when he held it out, had made Dissy shudder, but that was nothing to what she had felt when she looked into his eyes … She’d hardly slept a wink that night, and even Poppy had confessed to finding the man a trifle unusual.
However, Claudine had done nothing to invite any comment about her fiancé, nor had she expressed any doubt about what she was doing. ‘In which case,’ Poppy had said only that morning, ‘it would be singularly inappropriate for you to mention your own doubts, Dissy. As we all know, Beavis has done nothing to pressure her into this marriage, so we can only conclude that this is what Claudine wants.’
‘But is it what François wants?’ Dissy said. ‘He doesn’t love her, Poppy, I know he doesn’t. I can see it in his eyes when he looks at her. If anything, he despises her. And surely she can see it too?’
But if she could, Claudine was saying nothing. And at three o’clock that afternoon Dissy stood amongst the two hundred guests in the Royal Abbey of Fontevraud and watched her best friend, in a dress to make even a royal wedding gown look dowdy, walk down the aisle on the arm of her father, to a man who was as unsightly as his brother – standing beside him in full dress uniform – was handsome.
As they knelt side by side before the priest, Claudine was shaking. She had no idea what she was feeling, she simply listened as the priest’s guttural chant echoed solemnly through the abbey and her own heart thudded in her ears. Then François’ hand was on her elbow, helping her to her feet, and the priest was whispering to her to remove her veil. She didn’t look at François as she did so, but kept her eyes fixed on the priest while François repeated the marriage vows in a warm, gentle voice that belonged to a man she didn’t know … Then it was time for her to pledge her troth.
A shadow fell over her face, and there was the briefest touch of lips against hers. After that she remembered nothing until the organ suddenly started to play and they were walking back down the aisle.
They returned to the château in Louis’ open-topped Bugatti. Marcel drove slowly, so that Claudine could wave to the people who lined the cobbled streets of the villages along the way – Fontevraud, Candés St Martin, St Germain-sur-Vienne – as they called out their good wishes. Beside her, François made no attempt to disguise his loathing of such a display. His discomfort was ridiculous, she thought, and she laughed – but even the sound of her own laughter did nothing to dispel the strange feeling of displacement.
When all the guests had returned, they sat down to the twelve-course wedding feast in the lavishly decorated ballroom of the Château de Lorvoire. Almost every noble family in France was represented, and several members of the English aristocracy were there too. Claudine sipped her champagne and laughed as everyone drank the bride’s health, then the bridegroom’s, then quite spontaneously, Solange’s. Hardly aware of what she was doing, she pushed away the oysters, then the smoked salmon, the turbot, the grives aux raisins. When someone called to her, she answered, her eyes dazzling in their beauty and her lips never far from laughter. Beside her François had his back half-turned as he conversed with her father – but Claudine barely noticed.
At seven o’clock the ballroom was cleared and the dancing began. There was much hilarity when Poppy took over the piano and the band picked up the rhythm of the Lambeth Walk, a dance from a London musical, while Dissy taught everyone the steps. Like a child who never tires of the same story, Solange insisted they play it over and over again, until Louis had a quiet word with the band leader, then tangoed his wife off across the floor. Lucien took Claudine, and soon the whole room was a mass of gaily twirling bodies and grandly stamping feet. Claudine danced for what seemed an eternity, moving with the music from a fox-trot to a quick-step, from a rumba to a waltz, changing partners with such frequency that in the end she laughingly pleaded exhaustion, and taking Solange by the hand, started to wander round the room talking to guests.
François remained on the edge of the proceedings, shaking hands where he had to, but mainly engrossed in what Beavis and his father were saying. One subject preoccupied them: the increasing probability of war. François was listening intently; as a British diplomat and a close friend of Neville Chamberlain, Beavis was naturally well-informed, and since the collapse of Léon Blum’s government in June and the rise to power of his father’s old friend Camille Chautemps, there was much to discuss.
Eventually, aware that Céline was watching him, and knowing that on this occasion he must do what was expected of him, he excused himself and made his way over to Claudine.
She was standing in the middle of a group, laughing at something Lucien was saying, but when they saw him coming the crowd parted to let him through. As everyone around her fell silent, Claudine turned, and when she saw her husband she cocked her head on one side and placed a hand on her hip.
‘Would you care to dance?’ François said, fixing her with his eyes in a way that seemed to banish the presence of those around her.
‘I should be delighted,’ she said, and taking the hand he held out to her, she allowed him to lead her to the middle of the floor.
The band, who had been waiting for this moment, smoothly brought the piece they were playing to an end and started an instrumental version of ‘The Very Thought Of You’. It was one of Claudine’s favourite songs, and as the other dancers cleared the floor and François pulled her into his arms, she wondered if he knew the words. But if he did, he gave no sign, and she wasn’t sure whether she was sorry or glad.
‘It is unusual, I know, for the bride and groom to have the last dance,’ he said, as he led her through her paces, ‘but then ours is an unusual alliance, wouldn’t you agree?’
‘The last dance?’ she echoed.
He nodded. ‘Unless you’re intending to leave in your wedding gown, it is time you went upstairs to change.’
Trying not to mind that he had passed no comment on her dress, with its waterfalls of lace, flowing taffeta skirts and pearl-studded silk bodice, she said, ‘How long do I have?’
‘As long as you like. But I’d prefer to arrive at Poitiers before midnight.’
‘Poitiers?’
‘We are spending the night at an hotel there. Did I forget to tell you? My apologies.’
She looked away as she suddenly became aware of his hand in the small of her back. ‘Will you be driving us?’ she enquired, in a voice that wasn’t quite steady.
‘Unless you have a notion to do so,’ he answered. ‘However, if you continue to tremble the way you are now, I wouldn’t advise it.’
Her eyes shot to his, but there was no humour in his face; if anything, he seemed bored.
‘I’ll go upstairs to change,’ she said, and turning abruptly, she walked from the dance floor.
An hour later, followed by Céline, Solange, Monique and Dissy, Claudine walked down the grand staircase and into the hall. She was wearing a navy Mainbocher suit with a cerise silk blouse and navy wedged shoes. Magaly had redressed her hair, which was now rolled in a snood under her navy and cerise hat. In the distance she could hear the sounds of the party, which she knew would continue into the small hours of the morning. For one fleeting moment she wished with all her heart that she could stay.
The others were fussing around her, offering her all the advice traditionally given to brides for the first night of their honeymoon. Solange, as usual, was outrageous – but for once Claudine wasn’t laughing. She was staring past them to where François stood at the door with Lucien, Beavis and Louis. He too had changed out of his wedding clothes; now he was wearing a dark double-breasted suit and a black trilby hat.
Her eyes closed for a brief moment, then pulling herself together, she walked towards him. ‘I’m ready,’ she said in a quiet voice.
He turned, but before he could speak Beavis had taken his daughter in his arms. ‘Au revoir, chérie,’ he said, and for the first time that day Claudine remembered that her father wouldn’t be there when she returned from Biarritz. For a moment she was unable to speak, dreading that her tongue might betray her and announce to everyone present the sudden terror that had seized her. Then, taking a breath, she said goodbye to Beavis and turned to François. Behind her she could hear someone crying – she guessed it was Tante Céline, or perhaps Dissy.
François placed a hand under her arm, and without looking back she walked with him down the steps of the château. It was dark outside, but then the courtyard was flooded with light as Jean-Paul pulled the switch. The black Citröen was there, long and low and startlingly sinister. François opened the door for her to get in. With her eyes fixed straight ahead, she passed him and sat down in the deep leather seat. Then he closed the door behind her, and seconds later he was sitting beside her, starting the engine, easing it into gear. They moved slowly off down the drive. Behind them their families were waving, but neither of them turned back.
Beavis and Céline stood side by side, watching the tail lights until they disappeared from view.
‘Like a lamb to the slaughter,’ Céline murmured, repeating the words Claudine herself had uttered on these very steps the first time she had come to Lorvoire.
‘What was that, chérie?’ Beavis said, slipping an arm around her.
She looked up into his handsome, smiling face. Then, as her hand moved over his chest, smoothing the brilliant white stiffness of his shirt, she remembered that there was something she had to do, and linking an arm through his, she started to lead him back into the party. ‘It’s nothing,’ she said. ‘But I think we need something now to take our minds off our precious girl, don’t you?’
Beavis’ answering smile was remote; both he and Céline knew that it was unlikely either of them would be able to put Claudine out of their minds for long. But they would have to try, for she was no longer only Beavis’ daughter and Céline’s niece. First and foremost, now, she was François’ wife.