by Susan Lewis
‘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.
– 5 –
MARCEL, THE DE Lorvoire chauffeur, arrived at Montvisse a few minutes before eight o’clock the following morning. Claudine was ready and waiting in the small octagonal hall, wearing her blue velvet riding jacket, a high-necked ruffled blouse and a new pair of tailor-made fawn jodhpurs. Her hair had been coiled into a diamond-studded snood by Magaly, and in her gloved hands she carried her hat and crop.
After being endlessly quizzed by Tante Céline the previous evening about the time she had spent with Lucien, she had retired early to bed only to pass an almost sleepless night. She was still shaken, not only by her extraordinary and bewildering confession to Lucien that she was in love with François – which was absurd in the extreme – but by the way François himself had behaved after she lost her temper. Of course, she was under no illusion that his feelings towards her had changed, she knew perfectly well that he had merely been humouring her; but she couldn’t deny the pleasure it had given her to hear him admit to being jealous. She had no idea what it had cost him to say it, but she sincerely hoped it was a lot. Though that was unlikely, she realized despondently – as unlikely as that he would be losing any sleep over her. At that she had closed her eyes and drawn the sheets over her head, but pride made an uncomfortable pillow, and it wasn’t until the first light of dawn that she had finally fallen into an uneasy slumber.
Now, as she sat back in her seat behind Marcel on the way to Lorvoire, she was for once oblivious to the poppies springing up at the roadside, the wide open spaces around her filled with maize fields and vineyards, and the way the sunlight danced on the Vienne as they crossed the bridge at Chinon. She was too engrossed in what she was going to say to François that morning to think of anything else. Her decisions might have been more easily reached were François de Lorvoire not a man of such unpredictable and infuriating response. However, there was one thing she was resolved upon, even though her stomach reacted violently each time she thought of it, and she had as yet no clear idea of how she would approach it. But approach it she would. Why should she be subjected any longer to that abominable man’s game of procrastination? He was going to ask her to marry him – and he was going to ask her today.
When the chauffeur pulled up outside the château she remained in the car, waiting for him to open the door, flatly refusing to admit to herself that she was nervous. But there was no denying the sudden rise in her spirits when she saw that it was raining: perhaps there would be no rendezvous with François this morning after all! With a wry grin, she stepped out of the car. That man really does bring out the coward in me! she thought ruefully.
Jean-Paul, the butler, had his umbrella at the ready, and after greeting her with the respectful informality that was typical of the de Lorvoire household, he took her into the hall, then led her through the drawing-room to the library, where François was sitting in a leather armchair reading the newspaper.
The instant she saw him, Claudine felt as though a great cavern had opened up inside her, leaving her bereft of everything but her thudding heart. Quickly she averted her eyes, taking in the shelves of leather-bound books, the ornate writing desk, the grey marble fireplace … Behind her, Jean-Paul cleared his throat, and finally François looked up.
‘Ah, good morning,’ he said in English, and putting the paper to one
side, he stood up. Then, sweeping an arm towards the window, he continued in French, ‘As you can see, it is not the weather for a ride. Perhaps later, if the rain subsides. In the meantime, may I offer you some breakfast?’
‘Just coffee, thank you,’ Claudine answered, pulling off her gloves and noting with relief that her hands were steady. François looked past her and nodded, then she heard the door close behind Jean-Paul.
The room was so quiet she could hear the clock ticking on the marble mantlepiece. François walked to the window, and lifting one shining black riding boot onto the window-seat, he folded his arms and leaned a shoulder against the wall. His hair was wet, and she wondered if it was from the rain or an early morning shower. Then, to her alarm, her skin started to burn at the thought of him taking a shower; it was extraordinary to think that one day they might share that kind of intimacy – that she would come to know the habits of this man. Looking at him now, she tried to imagine what it would be like to see him smile, to hear him laugh, to have him hold her in his arms and kiss her – make love to her.
‘You look rather pale this morning,’ he remarked. ‘Are you sickening for something?’
‘Er, no,’ she stumbled. ‘No, not at all. I didn’t sleep too well, I’m afraid.’
‘I trust there is nothing troubling you?’ His hooded eyes were regarding her intently, and the unmistakable challenge he had thrown her was enough to restore her equilibrium and bring the fire back to her veins.
‘As a matter of fact,’ she said, tossing her whip and hat onto a table, and sinking into a chair, ‘there is.’
‘I have a feeling,’ he said, turning and sitting on the window-seat to face her, ‘that you’re going to tell me what it is.’
‘And I have a feeling that you already know.’
His smile was odious in its arrogance, but he said nothing.
‘Lucien told me yesterday,’ she went on, ‘that if you have something unpleasant to do, then it is your custom to dispense with it as quickly as possible.’
