THE DRIVE TO Poitiers was long and silent. François kept his eyes on the road ahead as in the darkness shadows and light swept through the car. After they had been driving for about an hour, Claudine rested her head against the back of the seat and closed her eyes. She would never have expected to be able to sleep at such a time, but she did for a while, and when she woke she saw they were on the outskirts of a town.
François was smoking a cigarette. ‘May I have one?’ she said. It was the first word either of them had spoken since leaving Lorvoire.
She smoked in silence, and it was soon after she had rolled down the window and discarded the last of her cigarette that he turned the car into a dimly lit courtyard, and they came to a halt in front of a rambling old manor house. A coach lamp illuminated the door, and at once a man came out. As they stepped from the car he was smiling a welcome; it was obvious that François was well known to him.
‘Monsieur de Lorvoire,’ he said, shaking François by the hand. ‘And this is your charming wife? I am very pleased to meet you, madame. I am Bertrand Raffault, at your service.’
Claudine started at the word ‘madame’, then smiled as Bertrand brushed his lips over the back of her hand. She looked at François, and wondered if he was even half as apprehensive as she. He was lighting another cigarette, but otherwise showed not the least sign of nervousness and she determined that she would show none either.
Inside, the manor had retained the look of a very old country house. Glad of the small fire burning in the hearth, and admiring the low, beamed ceiling and the wooden settles, Claudine almost failed to hear it when Bertrand told François in a low voice, ‘This message arrived for you about half an hour ago, monsieur.’
‘Thank you.’ François took the folded paper and tucked it into an inside pocket, then picked up a pen to sign the register.
Unable to stop herself, Claudine moved closer to watch what he wrote. François et Claudine de Rassey de Lorvoire. Seeing their names together made her feel strangely lightheaded, and as she put out her hand to steady herself, François moved his own and their fingers touched. Before she could stop herself she had snatched her hand away – but François didn’t seem to notice.
Bertrand ushered them towards the wide, well-trodden staircase. ‘I have, as you requested, monsieur, prepared the Victory Suite.’
‘The Victory Suite?’ Claudine said, suppressing a smile. Surely a rather indecorous name for a honeymoon suite?
‘They are the rooms,’ Bertrand answered, ‘so the legend has it, where the English Black Prince celebrated his victory at the Battle of Poitiers in 1356. Myself, I do not believe that the house is so old, but it is a charming thought, don’t you agree?’
Claudine refrained from answering. As she mounted the stairs she couldn’t help wondering when, and with whom, François had visited this hotel before.
When they reached the first landing, Bertrand walked ahead of them down the corridor to a small black door. Both Claudine and François had to stoop to enter the sparsely furnished sitting-room: low oak beams, a huge fireplace and no windows.
‘If you are cold, madame,’ Bertrand said, ‘I can ask Jacques to light a fire for you.’
‘That won’t be necessary, thank you,’ François answered, standing aside as the valet came into the room with their luggage.
Bertrand glanced at Claudine, then opened a door at the back of the room. ‘Through here you will find the bedroom, madame, and the bathroom is to your right. There is plenty of hot water.’
‘Thank you,’ she smiled. The room was decidedly Spartan, dominated by the high, wide bed with its faded tapestry covers.
‘So now, I will wish you a good night, monsieur et madame,’ Bertrand said. ‘If there is anything you require, then please push the button beside the bed.’
When the door closed behind him, Claudine walked back into the sitting-room, trying to undo the clasp of her bracelet so that she could remove her gloves. She wished her fingers weren’t shaking so badly, but as she continued to fumble with the catch François walked towards her, took her hand and calmly undid it.
‘Thank you,’ she said, half in a whisper.
She pulled off her gloves. Then, as she reached up to take the pin from her hat, she said, ‘Aren’t you going to read your message?’
‘No.’
‘But aren’t you curious to know who it’s from?’
‘I know who it’s from,’ he said, turning to put his hat on the table.
Obviously he had no intention of enlightening her. She decided not to demean herself by asking, and walked back into the bedroom.
‘I imagine,’ he said, following her in, ‘that you would like to use the bathroom for a while.’
She nodded, avoiding his eyes as a warm, prickling sensation crept over her skin.
‘In that case,’ he said, ‘I shall go downstairs to make a telephone call. Perhaps you will be ready for me when I return.’
It was more an instruction than a request, and as he turned to leave the room, Claudine retorted, ‘I’ll do my best.’
‘I expect you will,’ he said lightly, and closed the door behind him.
On legs that were trembling as much with indignation as trepidation Claudine went into the bathroom. After the shabby, dark rooms she had seen so far, its white marble tiles and brightly lit mirrors took her by surprise. She pulled a chair up to the mirror, and after studying her face for several minutes, started to unbutton her jacket.
Twenty minutes later, with her glorious hair cascading about her shoulders and the soft, pale silk of her nightgown clinging to her body, she cast one last glance in the mirror, took a deep breath and unlocked the door.
She thought that maybe François had returned without her hearing, but the bedroom and the sitting-room were empty. She stood beside the bed, staring down at it, but found she couldn’t bring herself to pull back the covers. After a time she wandered over to the window and stood looking out at the darkened courtyard. Then suddenly she squared her shoulders, walked over to the bed and slipped between the cool cotton sheets.
As she lay there in the silence she thought back to that morning – a lifetime ago now – when her desire for François had reached such a pitch that she had wanted to scream with the force of it. It seemed incredible that she could have felt like that when now she was so dreading him. She wondered again who he had come here with before, whether he had made love to another woman in this bed, and the thought inflamed her with a terrible sense of outrage, made her feel used, and unbearably naive. Then it occurred to her that he might be telephoning that woman even now, and though common sense told her that even François wouldn’t do such a thing on his wedding night, she could do nothing to stop the feelings of jealousy that clenched her gut.
He had been gone over an hour by the time she heard the door to the suite creak open. She tensed as she heard him moving about in the next room. Her fury had vanished, and in its place was a choking knot of panic. Then the noises ceased, and she could hear nothing. Long minutes ticked by, and she was just at the point of swallowing her pride and going to find him when the bedroom door opened.
She stared up at him with wide, fearful eyes. She felt almost like a child. But her body was not behaving like a child’s, for beneath his sombre black gaze an exquisite ache was opening in her loins and her nipples were beginning to throb as savagely as her heart.
He regarded her for some time, taking in the honey-soft skin of her shoulders, the slender arms that lay on the covers and the tumbling chaos of her hair on the pillow. Then the corner of his mouth dropped, and tugging at his tie, he closed the door.
She knew she should ask him why he had been so long, demand to know who had sent him a message on the night of their honeymoon, but as he walked over to the bed she found that the paralysis of her limbs had now spread to her tongue.
He removed his jacket as he sat down, and she averted her eyes as he started to unbutton his shirt. But then she felt the bed move as he leaned towards the lamp, and she looked back. The last thing she saw before the room plunged into darkness was his hideous profile: the hooked nose, the thin, contemptuous mouth, and the black, greased hair curling at the nape of his neck.
She listened as he removed the rest of his clothes, then the bed dipped as he got in beside her. They lay quietly for a moment, side by side in the darkness, the space between them so narrow that she could feel the warmth of his arm next to hers. She had no idea what he expected of her now, so she closed her eyes, and in an effort to steady her nerves, started to count her heartbeat. Part of her was longing for his arm to go round her, to hear him tell her that it would be all right, but another part of her was shrinking away from him in terror. The confusion of her feelings was terrible, and suddenly there were tears stinging the backs of her eyes.
She allowed one tear to slide unchecked to the pillow, then, as she raised her hand to stop the next, he moved towards her.
Neither of them spoke, but she could feel his breath on her face as his hands sought the hem of her nightgown. She wondered if she should put her arms about his neck, but then he pushed her nightgown up to her waist and threw back the covers, leaving her exposed to the moonlight.
She squeezed her eyes tight shut and fought the urge to cover herself with her hands. Then she tensed even more as his fingers slid between her legs and began easing them apart.
No, not like this! she heard a voice crying inside her. Please, not like this!
She felt him move over her as he pulled her legs wider, then he held his weight on one arm as he took his penis and ran the tip of it over her moist flesh to the mouth of her womb. Then his shoulders closed over hers and he placed a hand on either side of her.
‘I take it you’re a virgin?’ he said, in a tone of appalling disinterest. ‘Then this might hurt.’
Suddenly, in one almighty surge, the fire returned to her blood, and before he could stop her she had wrenched herself away. ‘How dare you treat me like this!’ she hissed, twisting out from under him. ‘How dare you!’ But as she started to scramble from the bed, he grabbed her and threw her back against the pillows.
‘You have a duty to perform, Claudine,’ he snarled.
‘Stop it!’ she cried, as his hands dragged her legs apart again. ‘Stop! You can’t make me …’
‘Oh, but I can,’ he said. ‘You are my wife now, remember?’ And grabbing her wrists in one hand, he pinned her arms above her head and pushed his legs between hers.
‘No!’ she cried. ‘No! Let me go!’
He pressed his mouth hard against hers, drowning her screams, then using his free hand, he drew her hips towards him and entered her.
The struggle was useless, he was far too strong for her, but nevertheless she managed to wrench her mouth away and sank her teeth into his arm. He only laughed, and squeezing her jaw between his fingers, he turned her face back to his.
‘I warned you, Claudine,’ he snarled, ‘but you wouldn’t listen, would you?’
‘Get off of me!’ she hissed. ‘Get your hands off me!’
‘All in good time,’ he sneered, thrusting himself in and out of her.
‘Let go of me now!’ she seethed. ‘Let go or I’ll scream!’
His only response was to tighten his grip on her jaw and slam into her even harder. She writhed and kicked and scratched, but all to no avail, she was trapped beneath him, there was no escape. She lay rigid, eyes closed, lips compressed and fists clenched. Dimly, she was aware that his breathing had quickened, that he was moving even deeper inside her; then she gasped as her whole being seemed suddenly to turn inside out.
It was as though she was alive with him; she could smell him, feel him, taste him, she was submerged in him. She could hear herself sobbing, then she almost screamed as she felt sensation in her start to build to an excruciating pitch. He took her thighs in his hands and pushed them up so that her legs were around his waist, and she clutched at his shoulders, curled her fingers savagely through his hair, feeling that at any moment she was going to explode. His pumping grew harder and harder, then he was touching her so deep inside, filling her so full of himself that she cried out his name. Then suddenly he withdrew.
Her senses reeled with the shock of it, her whole body screamed in protest. She looked up at him, then recoiled as she saw the sadistic smile that curved his lips.
‘You’re sick!’ she cried, wiping the back of her trembling hand across her mouth. ‘You’re sick, and disgusting!’
‘I gave you what you wanted,’ he replied, as he rolled off her and sat on the edge of the bed.
‘How dare you say that …’
‘I gave you what you wanted,’ he repeated, ‘and you know it.’
‘You raped me!’ she seethed.
‘No,’ he said, standing up as he pulled on his under-shorts. ‘I merely showed you what a ridiculous woman you are.’ He was glaring down at her, a vile expression in his eyes. ‘I warned you not to marry me, but you had to have your own way, didn’t you? And you were prepared to go to any lengths to get it. But have you ever asked yourself why, Claudine? Have you ever stopped to wonder why you were so determined to marry me?’
When she didn’t answer, he gave a harsh laugh. ‘No, I thought not. Then I’ll tell you why. It was because I didn’t want you, and you just couldn’t face up to that. Your pathetic vanity couldn’t accept that there was someone in this world not ready to fall at your feet. That’s why you married me. Well, perhaps you can see now what blinkering yourself to get your own way can bring. Marrying me has changed nothing – I still don’t want you. All I want is an heir, and as my wife you will make it your business to give me one. And now, since I believe I have cleared your head of any false illusions regarding our union, I shall bid you good-night.’
For a long time after the door had closed behind him, Claudine lay on the bed staring sightlessly at the place where he had stood, too stunned even to think. Eventually she became aware of how cold she was, and as she glanced down at the bare skin of her legs, a tiny flicker of life ignited somewhere very deep inside her.
At first she moved slowly, pulling herself from the bed into the bathroom. Once there, she turned on the taps and began to wash herself, with little energy, but a dim hope that she could cleanse herself of his venom. Once or twice she glanced at herself in the mirror, but she barely recognized the ashen face that looked back at her.
Mechanically she lowered the straps of her nightgown and let it fall to the floor. Her nakedness embarrassed her, and she turned from the mirror. Slowly she began to pull on her clothes. Soon, she told herself, the numbness would leave her mind and she would be able to decide what she should do.
She opened her vanity-case and began packing her toiletries. She had no idea how she was going to get out of the hotel, but there was no question that somehow she must. Then she would take a train to Chinon, and from there a taxi to Montvisse. Her father would still be there, he wasn’t leaving for Berlin until the following week. She wouldn’t allow herself to think how he would view her sudden return; once he knew the circumstances, surely he would agree that she had done the right thing?
Closing her vanity-case, she picked up her hat and walked back into the bedroom. From the chink of light under the door she guessed that François was still in the sitting-room, but she couldn’t run the risk of opening the door to find out. She walked over to the window. It was a struggle to get it open, for it was imperative she make no sound, but eventually the heavy wooden frame responded and she pushed it gently upwards until there was enough room for her to climb through.
First she leaned out to see how she was going to get down, knowing that if it was necessary she would jump. But her painfully thudding heart flooded with relief as she saw the rusty fire-escape only a few feet below the windowledge.
Once she was outside, she eased the window closed, then carefully picked her way down the steps to the moonlit courtyard. Now all she had to do was find the railway station – and again she was in luck, for almost at once she saw a sign in the trees opposite, Centre Ville. The station was sure to be somewhere near the centre of the town; not too long a walk, she hoped, because though she doubted that François would go into the bedroom again that night, if he did, there was every chance he would come looking for her.
As she lifted her arm into the light and looked at her watch, she was shivering, and fighting hard against tears. It was one thirty in the morning, just three and a half hours after she had left Lorvoire. With an overpowering sense of sadness, she realized that her wedding party was probably still going on.
Collecting herself, and trying not to be daunted by the looming shadows of the trees, she walked out into the dark, deserted country road.
At about the time Claudine was leaving the hotel in Poitiers, Beavis and Céline were arriving back at Montvisse. All the way home they had sat silently staring in opposite directions, while Céline’s chauffeur drove them through the night. Both were acutely aware of the dull red stain of Lorvoire wine on the front of Beavis’s shirt. Céline had spilt it just before they left the party, and had been careful to make it look like an accident.
The staff at Montvisse were still up, waiting to attend to Céline’s guests as they returned from the wedding. Céline and Beavis were the first to arrive home; they passed through the hall, bidding the servants good-night, then walked up the stairs together, parting company on the landing outside Céline’s room.
When Céline went inside she found Brigitte dozing in a chair, but the maid managed to pull herself to her feet as she heard the door open.
‘Go to bed, Brigitte,’ Céline said, throwing her purse on the dressing-table.
‘But I must brush your hair, madame, and …’
‘Go to bed, Brigitte,’ Céline repeated.
Had she not been so tired, Brigitte might have been quicker to understand, but as she made to protest again Céline shot her a look, and this time, in no doubt about what was on her mistress’s mind, Brigitte bobbed a swift curtesy and did as she was told.
Céline waited, glancing about the room, pleased with the subtle yellow glow from the lamps beside the bed and the position of the cheval mirror in the corner between two occasional chairs. Then she heard footsteps outside the door. Her heart started to pound and her breathing quickened. She spun round as Beavis walked in, without knocking. When she saw the angry look on his face she turned away, lowering her head as if in shame.
He closed the door behind him. ‘On countless occasions,’ he said harshly, ‘I have had to speak to you about your clumsiness.’
Her lips parted and her chest began to heave as he took a step towards her, but she didn’t look up.
‘My shirt is ruined,’ he continued. ‘I could have you dismissed for such carelessness, you do realize that?’
‘Yes, sir,’ she whispered.
‘Is that what you want?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Then you know what must happen?’
‘Yes, sir.’
He walked past her, then picking up one of the chairs and placing it in front of the mirror, he said, ‘It gives me no pleasure to punish you, but you leave me no alternative. Come over here.’
Keeping her eyes lowered, Céline walked across the room. When she was standing beside him, he sat down on the chair, resting his hands on his knees. ‘Pull up your dress,’ he said.
Obediently Céline gathered the skirts of her short Molyneux evening dress and pulled them to her waist. Over her white lace suspender-belt she was wearing a pair of pink satin French knickers.
‘All right,’ he said, watching her reflection in the mirror. ‘Have you anything to say for yourself before I begin?’
‘Only that I am very sorry, sir. And that I will try not to do it again.’
‘Well, we’ll just have to see that you don’t,’ he said, and lifting a hand, he pulled her across his lap. Then arranging her dress so that the hem fell around her shoulders, he slipped his fingers under the elastic of her knickers and pulled them down over her thighs.
By now Céline’s breathing was so rapid that she was beginning to shake. As she cast her eyes towards the mirror she could see the reflection of her naked buttocks and the grim determination on Beavis’ face. Then, as his hand rose, she closed her eyes, bracing herself for the first blow. When it came, the pain that shot through her body was almost unbearable, but she sank her teeth into her lips to stop from crying out. He lifted his hand again, but this time, as the sharp, stinging slap hit her naked flesh, she could do nothing to stop the moan of pure ecstasy.
He spanked her again and again, until she was bound in a knot of such overpowering arousal she could no longer breathe. But the exquisite torture continued as his long, gentle fingers started to soothe her smarting skin, moving in gentle circles over her buttocks and thighs, caressing and stroking. Then at last, just as she thought she could bear it no longer, his hand came down in one final excruciating slap.
‘Mon Dieu,’ she choked.
He caught her about the waist and pushed her back to her feet. Her dress fell around her knees and her knickers slipped to her ankles. ‘Now let that be a lesson to you,’ he said.
‘Yes, sir,’ she murmured, as she stooped to retrieve her knickers.
‘Did I give you permission to do that?’ he barked.
‘No, sir.’
‘Then leave them where they are.’
She let her knickers go, and allowed her arms to hang loosely at her sides as she stood before him.
At last he stood up, and putting his hands on his hips he said in a dark voice, ‘Unfasten my trousers.’
As she fumbled with his fly, her hands were shaking so badly that in the end he pushed her away. ‘Take off your dress,’ he said, tugging at his tie.
‘But, sir …’
‘I said take it off!’
Obediently she peeled the ruched bodice from her shoulders and let the dress fall to the floor. Now she was wearing only her white lace brassière, suspender-belt and pale silk stockings.
‘Turn round and face the bed,’ he told her.
As she did as she was told, he ran two fingers down the crease in her buttocks, then pushing them between her legs, he buried them deep inside her. ‘In future,’ he said, rotating his fingers as he bent her over, ‘you will make it your business never to come into my presence unless you are dressed as you are now.’ And withdrawing his fingers, he lowered his trousers and undershorts.
As he entered her, she cried out at the unendurable excitement of it, and clutched the edge of the bed as he tore at the lace holding her breasts. ‘Now tell me you spilt the wine purposely,’ he growled, as he pulled and squeezed her nipples, while grinding hard against her. ‘Tell me that you did it because you knew this would happen.’
‘Yes. Oh yes, sir. I wanted you, sir. I wanted you inside me like this, sir.’
‘That’s it,’ he breathed. And as he ran his hands over the insides of her thighs, he lifted her from the floor.
‘Oh my God,’ she cried, as she felt him push even deeper inside her. Then suddenly she knew she couldn’t hold on any longer. ‘Please!’ she cried. ‘Now, please!’
Putting her back to the floor he quickly moved his fingers between her legs, and holding her to him as he expertly stroked and teased her, he slammed into her with long, urgent strokes until he too passed the point of control. As the orgasms shuddered through their bodies, Céline’s knees began to give way, but he caught her about the waist and held her up until with one final thrust, the last of his semen leapt from his body.
Both were drenched in sweat, and both were breathing too heavily to speak. He was still inside her, and could feel her muscles clenching him in the dying throes of her climax.
‘Ah, Beavis,’ she murmured at last, pulling herself upright and leaning back against him. She tilted her head to look up at him, and as he bent to kiss her he wrapped his arms around her, taking her small breasts in his hands.
Eventually he eased himself away, and she moaned softly as he withdrew from her. Then she turned to sit on the bed, and looking at him, she started to laugh.
Bemused, he stared down at himself, then he too began to laugh. His shirt and jacket were open, revealing the hard muscles of his chest and his trousers and undershorts were round his ankles, well below the suspenders that held his socks.
‘What do you look like, chérie!’ she giggled.
‘Ludicrous, I should say!’ he chuckled. ‘But you and your erotic games are enough to make any man forget his dignity.’
‘What did you think of the maid?’ she murmured, resting her head on his shoulder and trailing her fingers over his thigh.
He looked down at her. ‘You have to ask?’
Laughing, she planted a kiss on his cheek, then set about unfastening her suspenders.
When they were both naked, Beavis turned out the lights and they got into bed. For some time they lay quietly in each other’s arms until finally Céline whispered, ‘What are you thinking?’
In the darkness Beavis frowned. ‘Probably the same as you.’
She sighed, and turned in his arms. ‘Do you still believe their marriage will work?’
‘Why shouldn’t I?’
They were quiet again then, and after a few minutes she heard the steady rhythm of his breathing. Assuming that he was asleep, she too closed her eyes.
But Beavis wasn’t asleep, it was just that he didn’t want to talk. He had hoped that by now the sense of foreboding that had started just before he and Céline left Lorvoire, would have disappeared. But even the delightful episode with Céline hadn’t managed to dispel it, and now it was worse than ever.
When he was certain that Céline was asleep, he got up from the bed and lit a cigarette. Even if François had told him the name of the hotel in Poitiers, the idea of telephoning in order to put his mind at rest was, of course, unthinkable. And if he just looked at it rationally for a moment, he would probably see himself for the over-solicitous parent he was. After all, what could possibly have happened to give him such a sense of disaster? If there had been an accident they would have been informed by now. And as for Claudine losing her virginity … Well, it had to happen sooner or later, whether he liked it or not.
He ground out his cigarette and walked back to the bed. Knowing he would be unable to sleep, he toyed with the idea of returning to his own room – but Céline would be offended if he did, so he pulled back the sheets and got in beside her.
It was just after five in the morning when Claudine arrived at Montvisse. She hadn’t found a train, or a taxi, but a lorry driver who was travelling through the night from Angoulême to Tours had stopped when he saw her walking through the deserted streets of Poitiers in the early hours of the morning. She had hastily explained that she had to return home with the utmost urgency: could he direct her, or even take her, to the nearest railway station?
He laughed. ‘There won’t be any trains through here until at least seven in the morning,’ he said. ‘Where are you heading?’
‘Chinon. Near Chinon.’
‘Get in,’ the lorry driver said. ‘You’ll be far safer in here with me than out there walking the streets. I’m heading for Tours myself, so you won’t be much out of my way.’
Ordinarily Claudine would have balked at getting into a vehicle with a stranger, but this wasn’t ordinarily … All through the long drive she sat in the warmth of the small cab while the driver rambled gently on about his wife, his three sons and his seven grandchildren. He knew Claudine wasn’t listening, and wondered what lay behind this beautiful young woman’s need to get to Chinon with such haste. But he didn’t question her, and by the time he dropped her at the gates of Montvisse, he too had fallen silent. Claudine watched him go with an ache in heart, then turned into the avenue of limes and started to walk up the drive.
She found a side door that was open, and let herself into the silent château. Now she was so near her father, the resolve she had gathered in the lorry was beginning to fracture. But she was determined not to break down. No amount of anger or tears would change the situation, she kept telling herself; it could only be handled calmly, with reason and self-control.
She had decided that she must tell her father the whole truth – though now, as she climbed the stairs to Beavis’ room at the top of the tower, she was already faltering in her mind over the accusation of rape. But no matter what François thought, she told herself, no matter how her treacherous body had responded, she had not wanted him to make love to her … She hesitated as a burning wave of misery closed around her heart. But she had responded, neither she nor François could be in any doubt of it … The memory filled her with self-loathing; now, the very thought of those grotesque hands ever touching her body again repelled her.
She tapped gently on her father’s door, then let herself in. She was baffled at first by the bright light that flooded the room from the unshuttered windows, then, as she saw the empty bed, an unbearable despondency swept over her. He must have spent the night at Lorvoire; she had no choice but to go downstairs to Tante Céline.
There was no answer when she knocked on her aunt’s door, so she pushed it open and peeped in. The shutters were closed, but bright bands of light shone through the slats.
‘Tante Céline,’ she whispered, as she tip-toed across the room. ‘Taunte Céline?’
There was a movement in the bed. Claudine was on the point of speaking again when she froze.
Céline’s eyes as they looked up at her were as wide and disbelieving as her own, but Claudine wasn’t looking at her aunt. She was looking at her father, who after sleepless hours of worrying about his daughter, had finally fallen into a doze. Suddenly his eyes opened, and he looked straight at Claudine.
There was a moment of dreadful silence, then Claudine turned and ran from the room.
Outside the château, Claudine saw her car. The keys were in it and in a moment she was out of the gates and roaring along the narrow road that ran parallel to the Vienne. She didn’t think about where she was going, it didn’t matter – she wanted only to drive. And she did drive, furiously, for over half a hour, before she realized she had come dangerously close to running out of petrol and was miles from the nearest pump.
But as she abandoned the Lagonda on the side of the hill and started to walk up over the brow, she didn’t care how she was to get back, or what she was going to do when she did. The drive had succeeded in calming her a little, but she still needed to think; she needed time to sort out in her mind the appalling events of the past twelve hours.
As she walked she took deep, calming breaths, but the shock of finding her father in bed with her aunt was still raw. Every time she thought of it she could see her mother’s face … How could they have done it? How could they, when Beavis had loved Antoinette so much he would have died for her? But it was Antoinette who had died, and wasn’t it just like Céline to be there with her own special kind of solace? Céline, who had as many lovers as she had dresses, who could have anyone she wanted, had seduced her sister’s husband. Perhaps she hadn’t even waited for her sister to die.
That thought was so terrible that Claudine buried her face in her hands, and at last, as she sank to her knees in the early morning dew, she allowed the tears to fall. Sobs racked her body, the pain and confusion seemed to tear her heart apart. She wanted her mother now as she had never wanted her before.
It was a long time before she lifted her head again, but when she did, gazing down into the valley of Lorvoire, she found that she felt a little steadier. She was sitting at the top of the hill on the far side of the valley, almost opposite the spot where she had stood with François the first day she met him. What a long time ago that seemed now – and she cringed as she remembered the childish way she had behaved at the fountain. But that was nothing to the way she had acted since.
She recalled the dreadful circumstances of François’ proposal, the way she had made herself so ridiculous in her determination to marry him. There was no denying now that she had made the greatest mistake of her life, and it didn’t help to know that she had only herself to blame. Everyone had warned her against him, but in her arrogance she had refused to listen, certain that she could be the one to change him. How badly she had needed to grow up! The whole world would know now that Claudine Rafferty had latched herself onto a man who didn’t love her, didn’t even want her. How they would laugh when they heard what had happened, and how they would pity her.
Engulfed in a wave of desperation, she fell back in the grass, beating her fists against the ground and screaming up at the sky. How could she have done this to herself? How could she have been so stupid and pig-headed?
She thought of the gypsy then, and gave a bitter laugh. Things aren’t always what they seem, the old woman had said. And she, like the fool she was, had applied that to François. A great love and a great danger, the gypsy had said. Well, there was no doubt in her mind now that François was the danger. She had only to remember what he had told her about Hortense to know that he was capable of any evil. How she was sickened now by her refusal to believe him! How simple she had been; how unspeakably obtuse …
By the time she pulled herself to her feet it was approaching midday, and yet despite her sleepless night she was feeling as though she had at last awoken from a state of stupefying somnambulance. Her mind was finally beginning to clear. One day, she knew, in the not too distant future, the anger and resentment she bore François would cease to exist. But for the moment she must live with it, and she must face him with it – for much as she blamed herself for what had happened, there was no reason on God’s earth why he should have treated her the way he had. Now she must face this last hurdle. She must confront him, prove that she could be dignified in defeat, and then she could put the whole thing behind her.
As she wandered back across the hilltop in her crumpled navy suit, she lifted a hand to her face and pressed gently against the bruises on her jaw. Then, as she glanced at the angry red marks that circled her wrists, she became aware, too, of the dull ache at the top of her thighs.
She tossed her head as again the flame of anger she had struggled to suppress suddenly flared. But she had reached her decision, she was going to give up the fight, and she must not allow herself to think of revenge: who could win against a man like François? An image of his naked body came unbidden to her mind then, and she faltered. But she pushed it away. Nothing, least of all her treacherous bodily desire, was going to weaken her resolve to escape him.
She rounded the crest of the hill and looked down towards her car. Then her breath caught in her throat and she stopped dead. The Lagonda wasn’t the only car parked at the side of the road. Beside it was the black Citröen, and standing beside the Citröen, smoking a cigarette and staring right at her, was François. In the early morning sunlight she could see the silver snake of his scar glinting gruesomely. He was wearing the suit he had worn the night before, but now both the jacket and waistcoat were undone, and the collar of his shirt was missing. As she watched he threw away the cigarette and, folding his arms, leaned against the side of his car. His attitude was that of a weary parent waiting for a disobedient child.
A quick temper flashed in her lovely eyes, and she was on the point of turning and walking in the opposite direction when she realized that running away was not the answer. She must face him now, tell him what she had decided, then she could get on with the preparations for her return to England.
Cautiously she started down the hill, but she held her head high and her face set in determination. Nothing in the world would induce her to betray her real feelings – this would be the last time they met, and she would rather die than let him know how badly she still wanted him.
‘How did you find me?’ she said, when she was close enough for him to hear.
‘It wasn’t difficult,’ he answered, ‘It followed that you would run to your father.’
‘But he can’t have known where I was.’
‘No. But he did know you’d gone off in your car.’
‘Then why didn’t he come after me himself?’
‘He would have done, if I hadn’t arrived when I did. I pointed out that though I respect the fact that you are his daughter, you are also my wife.’
She flinched, but then she looked him straight in the eye. ‘I want our marriage annulled,’ she said.
‘Do you now?’ His tone gave her the distinct impression that that was precisely what he had expected her to say. ‘Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, Claudine, but that isn’t possible.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘To begin with, you need my agreement.’
‘And you won’t give it?’
‘No.’
‘But why?’ she cried. ‘Why, when this marriage is obviously as repugnant to you as it is to me?’
‘We shall both learn to tolerate it,’ he answered.
She was beginning to panic, and her hands were trembling with the desire to strike his hideous face. ‘You raped me!’ she hissed. ‘Am I supposed to tolerate that?’
He sighed, as if already bored by their exchange. ‘It is a legal impossibility for a man to rape his wife,’ he said. ‘Now, get into the car.’
‘I will not!’ she cried.
He didn’t move, but a dangerous glint appeared in his eyes and she felt herself beginning to shrink away. ‘I think,’ he said, ‘that this is as good a moment as any to remind you that less than twenty-four hours ago you swore before God to love, honour and obey me. I do not expect the first, but I unconditionally insist upon the second and the third. Now, get into the car.’
‘Why?’ she said, casting wildly about in her mind for words she could hit back at him with.
‘Because we are going to Biarritz to continue our honeymoon,’ he answered.
She froze, and her eyes rounded in horror. ‘You’re insane,’ she breathed. ‘You can’t seriously believe that I’ll continue this farce of a marriage as if nothing had happened?’
‘I do. And you will.’
‘But people have seen me, they know …’
‘They know,’ he interrupted, ‘that we have returned to Lorvoire for Magaly, who incidentally is already packing. Perhaps you would like to thank me for seeing to it that you have company during the long, lonely days beside the sea?’
Her head was beginning to spin. ‘What do you mean?’ she whispered.
‘Only that I shall be unable to spend all my time with you. Of course, I shall return to the hotel each night, when I expect you to perform your wifely duty.’
‘I don’t believe this is happening,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘And I don’t understand why you want to stay married when you hate the situation as much as I do.’
‘You should have thought about what our marriage would be like before you walked down the aisle, Claudine. I gave you no reason to believe that my feelings towards you would change once we were married. If you imagined they would, then I’m sure you know by now that you were deceiving yourself. Now, I won’t ask again, so get into the car.’
‘Why do you hate me, François?’ she said. ‘What have I done to make you treat me like this?’
‘I don’t hate you, Claudine,’ he said, opening the car door.
‘What about my car?’ she asked, so bemused she hardly knew what she was saying.
‘Someone will come to fetch it.’
She looked at him, then not knowing what else to do, she got into the car.
‘I hate you,’ she said quietly as they started back down the hill. ‘I despise you. How can you possibly want to make love to someone who feels about you the way I do?’
‘But we won’t be making love, Claudine. We will merely be performing an act in order to conceive children.’ His lip curled in a smile. ‘And try to remember, while you’re reciting the Marseillaise, or whatever it is you women do when you’re lying on your backs, that you are not the only one performing a duty.’
Too appalled to speak, she turned to stare out of the window. In the space of a few hours her life had somehow turned into a nightmare from which, it seemed, there was no chance of waking.