Darkest Longings

by Susan Lewis

  – 11 –

  CLAUDINE’S SPIRITS LIFTED the following afternoon when Lucien arrived home and announced he was staying for at least a week. She and Armand had no trouble in persuading him to help with the preparations for the harvest celebration, and even got him to drive Gertrude Reinberg to Chinon market the morning after his arrival, to purchase fabric remnants for the children’s pantomime costumes. As Gertrude loaded him up with crêpes and satins, cottons and lace, Claudine couldn’t resist creeping up behind him with a feather headdress from the stall and jamming it on his head. He looked so absurd that everyone started to laugh, and Claudine escaped through the crowd before he could catch her.

  Later in the day, Armand began what was to become a daily routine, of driving about the countryside in his Citröen van, persuading the local wine-growers to enter their last year’s vintage in the competition Claudine was going to judge. There were snorts and guffaws, loud protests and much waving of hands at the idea of a woman judging their wine – and an English woman at that – but Armand’s charm invariably won the day and they grudgingly allowed their names to be put forward.

  Meanwhile Claudine was out on a talent hunt – or so Armand thought. In fact she was following after him and informing the wine-growers that whoever donated the largest sum of money for charity would secure first place for his wine. Their donations were to be sealed in an envelope, she told them, so that no one would know what anyone else was giving. This way, she had told herself smugly, she not only got out of judging a contest which would certainly earn her the hostility of half Touraine, she also made money for a good cause. Armand protested strongly when he finally learned what was going on, and to Lucien’s great enjoyment told her that she was the most devious and brilliant diplomat he had ever come across.

  The Mayor of Chinon agreed to let them use the town hall for auditions and rehearsals, and the hilarity of the days spent there was only surpassed by Armand and Solange’s evening sessions at the piano. The first time Armand opened his mouth, he got no further than the opening line of the song they had chosen before Claudine stopped playing and turned to him in horror.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he demanded testily.

  ‘You can’t sing!’

  ‘I never said I could,’ he retorted.

  ‘But your voice is terrible! You sound like a bull elephant with a trumpet in its trunk.’

  ‘Right, that’s it!’ he said, throwing down his sheet-music. ‘I’m not staying here to be insulted. And if you think it’s so funny, Lucien de Lorvoire, you get up there and do it!’

  In the background Solange started humming tunelessly under her breath, at the same time gliding back and forth across the room with her arms outstretched, her head thrown back and her chiffon dress floating around her.

  ‘What is she doing?’ Armand said.

  Claudine and Lucien glanced at one another – then Lucien leapt from his chair and swept his mother into his arms, while Claudine seized Armand and they all started to dance about the ballroom. Solange was a wily old thing, Claudine thought, who knew as well as anybody how to take the sting out of a situation.

  After that the rehearsal went more smoothly, but Armand was always on the watch for Claudine to wince – or worse, laugh – and her struggle to keep a straight face was made only marginally easier by banishing Lucien from the room.

  They found him later at the café, drinking pastis with half a dozen or so men from the village, who were between them setting the world to rights. They were sitting round a table in front of the roaring fire, and the air was thick with cigarette smoke. Armand and Claudine’s arrival brought a cheer of welcome, and chairs were pulled up and fresh glasses called for. Since Claudine didn’t much like the aniseed drink Gustave brought her a pichet of wine, and she sat between Thomas and Yves Fauberg who started telling her outrageous tales of the things Lucien and Armand got up to as boys.

  ‘And what about François?’ she asked, after a time. ‘Wasn’t he into mischief too?’

  ‘Oh, he was away at the Jesuit school in Paris by that time,’ Thomas answered, ‘but yes, he always had some scheme going when he was here. I remember the day he took these two for a ride in my tractor – he couldn’t have been above ten years old at the time. Caught up with them in the end, halfway to Saumur, after they’d knocked some poor onion seller off his bicycle and squashed his onions.’ He gave one of his throatier chuckles. ‘The Comte was so angry, we didn’t see François again that holiday.’

  Everyone laughed; then Claudine, raising her glass, abruptly changed the subject by challenging them all to take part in her cabaret. The response was a unanimous No, but Gustave, refilling their glasses, whispered in her ear that she stood a better chance of talking them into it if they were under the influence, so to speak …

  ‘Which means,’ Lucien said into her other ear, ‘that you are footing the bill.’

  An hour later they were all singing, even Armand, but Claudine was no nearer persuading anyone to perform at the harvest celebration. The crafty old rogues told her as she was leaving that if she were to come again the following night, they might reconsider.

  ‘Not one of them is above bribery!’ Armand said as Claudine handed Gustave what money she had and put the rest on account.

  Her cheeks were glowing, from the warmth of the fire as much as from the wine, and as she looked up at him she saw the laughter fade from his eyes. Surprised, she paused – but the next thing she knew, Lucien had grabbed her about the waist and was waltzing her towards the door. Once out in the square, she broke free, and then somehow a furious game of chase developed round the well, with Claudine running off at last through the misty night towards the river. Both Armand and Lucien caught up with her at the same time, swept her into the air and threatened to throw her in. Her screams were answered by the lighting up of windows all over the village, and Florence Jallais without knowing whom she was addressing, leaned out and delivered Claudine an extremely savoury piece of her mind.

  Still laughing, the three of them finally parted company outside the café, where Lucien and Claudine got into their respective cars and Armand strolled off along the street. Claudine, spinning the car round the well so that she was facing in the right direction for home, called out, ‘Don’t forget, Armand! We’re expecting you at six in the morning.’

  ‘I’ll be there,’ he shouted back. As she drove out of the village she saw that he was still standing beside the well, watching her go.

  Lucien was the first to arrive back at the château, and was waiting for her on the front steps. ‘Nightcap?’ he said, as she joined him.

  ‘Splendid idea,’ she hiccoughed, and laughing they walked into the hall together – where they very nearly collided with François and Captain Paillole who were just emerging from the drawing-room.

  It was more than obvious that both she and Lucien had had too much to drink, and Claudine had been quite happy with her condition – until she came face to face with her husband. Now, feeling suddenly hot, she took her arm from Lucien’s and tried to concentrate on what he was saying to his brother, but there was a buzzing in her ears and her head started to spin. She took a deep breath, which seemed to steady her for a moment, but still she wasn’t listening … She was thinking how alike the two brothers were. Both had the distinguished de Lorvoire nose, deep-set eyes and powerful jaw, and both – though François was taller and larger all round than Lucien – had the physique of an athlete: so how could it be that one was so devastatingly handsome and the other so appallingly ugly? And why was it that she felt so drawn to François, when …

  Quickly she pulled herself together, reminding herself that she hated him. But then he laughed at something Lucien was saying, and she felt horribly light-headed again and started to sway. She blinked, trying to bring his face back into focus, but it only seemed to make her worse. For a moment everything went black, and as if from a great distance she heard François saying, ‘It’s all right, I’ll see to her,’ and she was suddenly
aware that she was in his arms and he was carrying her towards the stairs.

  That night she dreamt that he was holding her and kissing her. That his cruel mouth was soft and warm and moving tenderly over hers. Each time he pulled away, she moaned softly at the way his eyes were looking down at her, suffused with laughter and love, and she pulled him back, wanting to feel his lips on hers again, and the hardness of his body as his passion grew. She shivered as his hands moved to her breasts, stroking and fondling them, then his lips closed around her nipples and she fell back, dazed by the overpowering sensations coursing through her. Then finally he lay over her and pushed himself slowly inside her.

  She cried out at the ecstasy of it, lifting her hips to meet his while his tongue probed the depths of her mouth. He moved against her, holding her close, and she clung to him, gripping him with her legs and her arms as he started to push into her with longer, harder strokes. His breath was coming quicker, and the sound of it inflamed her senses and carried her towards a peak of impossible sensation. She arched her back, calling out his name as he took her higher and higher. Then, at the very moment the ecstasy started to explode through her body, he jerked himself away.

  She woke with a start and sat bolt upright in bed. All she could see was his hideous face, only inches from hers, looking back at her with contempt. She gasped, blinked hard, and the illusion vanished. Sweat was pouring from her body and her hands, as she lifted them to her face, were trembling uncontrollably. It was some time before she could bring herself to look at the bed beside her, terrified that she would find him watching her, but when she finally reached out to turn on the lamp she saw that the room was empty, and there was no sign that he had been there.

  She collapsed against the pillows. So it had been a dream, a terrible nightmare, but her body was still pounding with the sheer power of it.

  After that she couldn’t sleep, and lay awake embroiled in the chaos of her thoughts. It made her angry and afraid that her body could betray her so cruelly, that even when she was asleep he could torment her. His malice pursued her, forcing her to relive, over and over again, the way he so sadistically denied her the final release of pleasure. Wherever she looked she could see his face, watching her, mocking her, drowning her in the contempt he felt for her.

  Just after six the next morning Claudine, Armand and Lucien mounted their horses and rode down over the meadow into the early morning mist of the forest. The air was bracing, and the branches that hung across their path sparkled with dew. They walked the horses to the towpath, then cantered gently along the river bank where the water was still and glassy, with a smoky haze drifting above the surface. Claudine was riding ahead, and surprised the others by turning her horse away from the path, around the edge of the forest to open ground, and urging it gently up the hill. By the time she reached the top, the sun was a glowing ball of orange sitting on the horizon, and as she looked down at the forest behind her she could see the glistening turrets of the château rising proudly through the trees.

  Seeing the open countryside had made her horse restless, so glancing challengingly back over her shoulder at Lucien and Armand, Claudine rose in the saddle, dug in her heels and galloped off towards the dawn. As she went, the fresh wind seemed to snatch away the confusion of the night, the thundering hooves seemed to trample her doubts, so that by the time Lucien and Armand caught her, she was laughing loudly at the way she had allowed herself to become so confused when, as Gustave had put it, she was simply ‘under the influence’…

  It was almost eight o’clock when the three of them, still in their riding clothes, walked into the dining-room, to find Louis humbly sipping his coffee while Solange lectured him about his health. They all enjoyed the look of relief that crossed his face when he saw them come in, and Claudine felt even more cheerful when Monique appeared and told them that François and Captain Paillole had left for Paris half an hour before. For reasons neither of them could have explained, Claudine’s and Armand’s eyes met; they smiled at each other, shrugged and looked away.

  That was the first time Monique had ventured from her room since her terrible row with Claudine, though Claudine knew that François had informed her of Freddy’s departure from Montvisse. What else he had said to his sister when they were closeted together in her room, Claudine did not know, but she was relieved to see that Monique was taking an interest in what Armand and Lucien were telling her about the preparations for the wine feast. She tried several times to catch her eye, but without success. Plainly, Monique needed a little more time before she could forgive her.

  Over the next two weeks all thoughts of François were banished from Claudine’s mind, and the only thing that happened to dampen her spirits was Lucien’s departure to rejoin his regiment. Armand missed him too, for the three of them had spent a great deal of time together; though they all had their own business to attend to during the day, they had fallen into the habit of going to the café almost every evening, then riding together the following morning. Sometimes Monique accompanied them, but after Lucien’s departure she stopped. However, Armand and Claudine continued with their early morning gallops across the countryside, and their rowdy soirées down at the café, and – to Armand’s continuing chagrin – their rehearsals with Solange. During the day, while Armand was working in the vineyards, Claudine busied herself with preparations for the feast, helped by Solange, Louis and Tante Céline.

  Monique went to Paris for a few days, and when she returned, to Claudine’s relief she started to enter into the spirit of things, and involved herself in the pantomime the children were putting on. Each afternoon she waited at the gates of the château for the school bus to return from Chinon, then escorted the village children to the ballroom where she and Philippe, the footman who had joined the household at the end of September, directed the rehearsals for Sleeping Beauty. Philippe had once been a great actor – or so he told the children; and while he took them through their moves and showed them how to deliver their lines – most of which he had written himself – he told them wonderful stories about life in the theatre. He made rehearsals such fun that sometimes only a ride home in Louis’ Bugatti could persuade the children to tear themselves away from him.

  Meanwhile Claudine was looking after the adult performers as well as organizing the seating and the staging. Much of her time was spent dealing with the displays of newly acquired artistic temperament; she managed to keep most people happy though, but those who refused to be pacified – mostly men, too chauvinistic to take orders from a woman – she sent over to the vineyards for Armand to cope with.

  As the day of the feast drew closer, they all began to pray for fine weather – Father Pointeau had even taken to mentioning it during mass. That the afternoon and evening should remain dry was now of paramount importance, for news of the feast had travelled as far afield as Tours, Châtellerault and Angers, and so many people were expected that it would be quite impossible to hold it inside the château. Tante Céline had invited a party of friends from Paris, and Claudine had written to Dissy and Poppy. Solange, who was continually surprising Claudine with the people she knew, had succeeded in attracting such diverse celebrities as the authoress Simone de Beauvoir, Madame Lebrun, wife of the President of France – an old school friend – and René Clair, the famous film director. Louis’ old comrades-in-arms had all accepted their invitations too, which meant that several generals and even two Maréchaux de France would be coming, as would Coco Chanel, Edward Molyneux and half a dozen other dress designers invited by Monique and Céline. The châteaux of Montvisse and Lorvoire would be bursting at the seams by the time the harvest was in, and Claudine didn’t know whether she was excited, nervous, or just plain crazy.

  On the Tuesday before the feast, Armand announced that the grapes were to be harvested – starting the next day. Already people had begun arriving at de Lorvoire and Montvisse, and to Claudine’s amazement and delight, when the sun rose the following morning aristocrats and peasants alike were gathering in the
vineyards ready to pick the grapes. It was back-breaking work, but everyone threw themselves into it with astonishing vigour, and the only person to complain was Florence Jallais.

  By this time Claudine had had several encounters with Florence Jallais – a little woman with staring eyes and a vicious tongue – and knew that complaining was about all she did. Over the past few weeks Florence had never missed an opportunity of reprimanding her: Claudine was giving people ideas above their station, and it wasn’t right. Claudine wasn’t French, of course, so she wouldn’t understand, but women didn’t go drinking in cafés without their husbands unless they were trollops, and they didn’t sit down at the table with the men when the meals were being served up, the way Claudine had the other day at Liliane’s. Oh yes, she knew all about that, her husband had been there, he had seen it. No, Claudine should have waited for the men to finish before she ate anything herself – that was how decent Frenchwomen behaved. She was setting a bad example all round, and should be ashamed of herself …

  Halfway through the final afternoon of the harvest, the day before the feast, it started to rain. A groan went up throughout the valley, but no one – with the exception of Florence Jallais – deserted his post. Even Tante Céline and her friends continued picking, scarves tied around their heads and mackintoshes draped over their shoulders. Not one of them had ever done anything like this before, but tremendous fun though it was, they all agreed later as they rubbed expensive creams into their swollen, scratched and in some cases bleeding fingers, that the novelty had now most definitely worn off – as, thankfully, had the rain.

  Everyone retired early to bed that night, exhausted from the day’s toil, and Claudine drove down to the village to spend the evening with Liliane and Armand, intending to go over the final details of the next day’s festivities. But Liliane took herself off to bed within half an hour of Claudine’s arrival, and Claudine, rocking back and forth in Liliane’s chair in front of the fire, fell into a deep sleep from which Armand had some difficulty in rousing her.