Darkest Longings (35 page)

pain she had suffered as a result of Francois’ indifference

was now exacerbated by her feelings for Armand. During

her waking hours she could think only of him, and there was

little release to be found in sleep, for the dream she had had

the night she returned from the cafe with Lucien, when

Francois had carried her up the stairs to bed, was waiting to

taunt her every time she closed her eyes.

She knew now that the man making love to her in the

dream wasn’t Francois at all, it was Armand. Francois was

only there at the end, looking down at her with contempt, as

if warning her that no matter who she made love with, no

matter how passionately she wanted them, she would never

be rid of him.

Perhaps the dream would have been easier to bear if she

hadn’t spent so many hours asleep. At first when she had

taken to her bed, the day after the wine feast, she had

thought she was simply tired after all the exertion. But when

she was still sluggish and lifeless after two weeks, Solange

had wanted to call in the doctor. Claudine had refused,

knowing that there was nothing Doctor Lebrun could do to

ease the hurt of Armand’s silence: he had not sent a

message, had not even asked how she was, it seemed. But of

course he knew, just as she did, that it was madness to think

that there could ever be anything between them. So he was

avoiding her, just as she was avoiding him.

For a while it had seemed as if she was avoiding life l. altogether. She continued to sleep, and was unable to dress : herself or even find the energy to speak to her aunt. In the end Solange had called in Doctor Lebrun, and it was then, just over a week ago now, that Claudine had discovered the cause of her lethargy. She was carrying Francois’ child.

That was why she had been in the nursery earlier; she went there often now, to think about the future. And that was why she had pretended to be asleep when Francois came in. She didn’t want to have to tell him, she didn’t want it to be happening at all. She had sworn everyone to secrecy, saying that she wanted to tell him herself-and not on the telephone, but when they were together. But she dreaded telling him, almost as much as she dreaded giving birth, because Francois had left her in no doubt that if the child was a boy, then their marriage would be at an end. But still she would have to live here, pretend that she was happy, pretend she was fulfilled, when all she wanted in the world…

She turned her face into the pillow as she thought of

Armand, remembered how he had responded to her touch

on the night of the wine feast, how she had longed to go to

him, to feel his arms around her. But was it really his arms

she craved, or did she just want to make Francois jealous?

She laughed bitterly to herself. Nothing she did would ever

make Francois jealous. So why shouldn’t she try to find

happiness in the arms of another man? After all, hadn’t he as

good as told her to himself?

It was the second week of the New Year, 1938, and Armand

was standing in the chill morning air in front of the wine

caves, laughing at something one of his assistants was telling

him. Though he hadn’t seen him yet, he knew that Francois

had returned to the chateau the evening before, just as he

knew that Claudine was, at that very moment, standing at

the window watching him. If he looked up she would wave,!

and he would wave back. They did this almost every

morning, but today he couldn’t bring himself to do it; he

didn’t want to see the heartrending pretence of happiness in her eyes, and he didn’t want her to see the hunger in his own. This morning, knowing that Francois was back, he

could feel the anger and torment surging through his veins,

and knew that if he looked at her he would be in danger of

losing control, of doing something he might bitterly regret

And so clapping a hand on Michel’s shoulder, he turned

into the cave where she could no longer see him.

As he disappeared into the darkness, Claudine tore

herself from the window, picked up a newspaper and left the

room. She abhorred the weakness in her that made her

watch him as she did - it was as if she was deliberately

intensifying her pain by feasting her eyes on him during the

day, so that at night she could lie in her bed and fantasize

about him. She didn’t know any more what she loved most

about him, whether it was his thick blond hair, his laughing,

tender blue eyes, his sensitive mouth or the muscular

contours of his body. Or maybe it was that crazy woollen hat

he pulled rightly over his head to keep out the cold. Or

perhaps what she liked best was picturing him in Liliane’s

wonderful kitchen, with its smells, its warmth and its

homeliness that must contrast so painfully with the bleakness

of his heart. She thought often of the wife and child he

had lost, and wished that in some way she could make it up

to him Perhaps if the child she was carrying were his …

She tried to imagine what Francois would say - or do - if she

ever told him that, and as the thought intensified her misery

her head started to spin.

When Francois had returned the night before, it was just

as they were finishing dinner. He hadn’t wanted anything

himself, and after handing gifts to her, Solange and

Monique he had closeted himself in the library with his

father. She knew they had had a terrible row; before they lowered their voices she had heard Louis shout something about papers, and Francois answer that he had had his reasons for taking them. This morning Francois had not come down for breakfast, and Louis had seemed distracted.

She had mentioned Francois’ fleeting visit to no one, and she wasn’t going to ask him about it. She wanted nothing to do with him now, and wished with all her heart that she didn’t have to tell him about the baby. Somehow, when Francois knew, it would make it all seem real in a way that neither her lethargy nor her expanding waistline had succeeded in doing.

She let herself quietly into their apartment, and found to her relief that his bedroom door was still firmly closed. But when, an hour later, she came out of her own room wearing the sable coat he had given her the night before, she saw to her dismay that he was in the sitting-room reading the newspaper she had brought up with her. She was going to the beauty salon with Tante Celine. She was early, but she had hoped to get away before she was forced to confront him.

She stood in the middle of the room, waiting for him to look up, but when he merely continued to read she turned towards the door.

‘Where are you going?’

‘To the beauty salon,’ she answered, and tucking her purse under her arm, she opened the door.

‘When, precisely, Claudine, are you intending to tell me?’

She stopped as the full impact of his question reached her. He couldn’t know about the baby, he couldn’t possibly, no one would have betrayed her … He was still looking down at the paper. After a moment or two, he turned the page, and without looking up said, ‘Close the door, Claudine.’

Automatically, she did as he told her.

‘I’m still waiting,’ he said a few moments later, and when

at last he did look up she felt a spasm of fear at the terrible

expression in his eyes. ‘When are you planning to tell me?’

he said again.

‘Does it matter, if you already know?’ she snapped.

‘Perhaps not. But what does matter is that you have

known you were pregnant since the beginning of December

and haven’t yet seen fit to inform me. Why?’

She flinched, but she had no answer to give, and wanting

only to get away from those appalling eyes, she started back

to the door.

‘Is it because you are unsure of the father’s identity?’ he

said.

It was as if he had struck her. She spun round, her face

ashen and her eyes flashing with rage. ‘How dare you!’ she

hissed.

His eyes darkened, but his voice remained level as he

said, ‘I should like an answer. I should also like the truth.’

He smiled coldly. ‘Do you have the courage for it?’

She was speechless, and could only stare at him. He

actually believed he might not be the father.

After a while he said, ‘Perhaps it would help you if I were to

phrase the question another way. Are you, Claudine, hoping to

pass Armand St Jacques’ child off as a de Lorvoire?’

His tone was so affable that for a moment she felt she was

losing her sanity. She opened her mouth to speak, but still

the words wouldn’t come. This was a nightmare, it was

worse than anything he had put her through before.

‘How long have you been lovers?’ he demanded.

Her head snapped up and her eyes were blazing with

hatred as she screamed, ‘We’re not lovers! But don’t think

it’s because I don’t want him. I want him more than I’ve ever

wanted anyone in my life. And I would have gone to him, I

would have left you to rot in your jealousy if this child I’m

carrying wasn’t yours.’

‘Jealousy?’ he repeated, clearly both surprised and

amused.

‘Yes! Jealousy! Why else would you accuse me …’

‘Claudine,’ he interrupted, “I am guilty of a great many

feelings towards you, but…’

‘Feelings! You don’t have any feelings!’

‘… jealousy is not one of them. I’m sorry if that

disappoints you, but it is the truth. Now, is the child mine?’

‘Of course it’s yours, damn you! You’re the one who’s

been raping me these past months. And for your information,

I probably fell pregnant the night we got married. How

does that make you feel, to know that your child was

conceived in such bitterness?’

He rubbed a hand over his jaw as he regarded her with

evident amusement. ‘If only we’d known at the time,’ he

drawled, ‘you might have been spared my rapacious visits in

the weeks that followed. But that wasn’t what you wanted,

was it?’

In a flash she was across the room and had dealt a stinging

blow to his face. ‘You’re sick! Do you hear me, sick!’

‘I hear you, Claudine,’ he answered mildly. ‘But try, for

your own sake, never to do that again.’

‘Why? Would you hit me back?’ she spat, her eyes

glittering. ‘It’s just the kind of thing you would do, isn’t it?

Strike a pregnant woman.’

‘Don’t think to hide behind your pregnancy, Claudine. If

I wanted to strike you, then neither that nor anything else

would stop me.’

‘What kind of a man are you?’ she cried.

He stood up, towering over her. She took a step back, but

he grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her so close that

his mouth was very nearly on hers. ‘The kind of man you

want so desperately that you can’t sleep at night for the sheer

hell it puts you through.’

Her eyes blazed into his, and she could feel his fingers

digging into her arms. She lifted her hands to push him

away, but he caught them and wrenched them behind her

bringing the full length of her body against his.

‘Deny it!’ he hissed. ‘Let me hear you tell me it’s not true.’

She opened her mouth, but her breath locked in her!

throat as wave after wave of paralysing desire rushed I

through her.

‘Tell me you don’t want me!’ he raged, and clutching her!

wrists in one hand, he brought the other to her hair and I

jerked her head back.

‘Let me go!’ she cried. ‘Francois, let me …’ Her words I

were drowned as he crushed his mouth against hers.

She twisted her hands free and slammed them into his chest, struggling to push him away. But he was holding her against him, pressing his body into hers and probing the depths of her mouth with his tongue. Her hands flew to his I

face, raked at his skin and tore at his hair, but he wouldn’t let her go. Then his hands were beneath her skirt, pulling it to her waist, pushing inside her knickers. He grabbed her buttocks so hard that he lifted her from the floor, and he I kissed her as though he would devour her.

She moaned and gasped and fought his tongue with hers,

holding his face between her hands, coiling her fingers in

his hair and panting for breath. Then she was tearing at his

trousers, pulling the buttons apart, and she heard the silk rip

as he tore her knickers from her. He lifted her onto the table

and pulled her legs wide.

‘Do you want me?’ he growled.

‘Yes,’ she gasped. ‘Yes, I want you.’

‘Where do you want me?’ And she cried out as he thrust

his fingers inside her. ‘Here? Is this where you want me?’

‘Yes. Oh my God, yes.’ She writhed madly beneath the

pressure of his fingers, jerking her hips, pushing herself

onto them, feeling them probe even deeper inside her.

He pulled his penis from his trousers, and as she saw him

Feme towards her she sobbed out his name, opening her legs wider and twisting them about his waist. He withdrew his fingers and caught her by the hips, dragging her towards him, ready to enter her.

Then suddenly their eyes met and he stopped.

For a long moment he looked down at her. She held her

breath, unable to read his expression as her blood pounded savagely through her body. Then his face changed, and suddenly she wanted to scream. The bitterness, the loathing,

the contempt that glittered in his eyes was unmistakable.

‘No!’

she cried. ‘Francois, no!’ But he had already turned