The Eden Inheritance (10 page)

And none of it seemed to her in that moment more alien than her husband, Charles. He faced her across the drawing room, the same slim olive-skinned man she had married, dressed, she fancied, in the exact same Breton jersey he had been wearing when she had first met him in Geneva six years earlier, or certainly one very like it. Yet the face above it was subtly different, older. His hair had receded and thinned, his forehead was perpetually creased into a perflexed frown and there was a look in the deep blue eyes that was sometimes anxious, sometimes resentful, bordering almost on the surly. There was little now of the sophisticated debonair man she had fallen in love with; occasionally, despairingly, she wondered if he had ever existed at all or if it had all been an illusion conjured up by an ingenuous teenager hungry for romance.

The ingredients for romance had been there, certainly – a handsome Frenchman, heir to a title and estates, ten years her senior – and Charles had stirred those ingredients skilfully into an irresistible recipe. He had wooed her in the French way, with flowers and presents and extravagant compliments, making her feel the most desirable woman in the world, and she had been flattered and charmed, awed by both the power she appeared to have over him and by the man himself.

But the gilt was off the gingerbread now. Six years of marriage had removed the blinkers from her eyes and revealed weaknesses in his character she had never dreamed of. She looked at him now and saw not so much a man who was his own master as the slave of tradition, weighted down by what he saw as the responsibilities of his heritage, driven more by the need to preserve the status quo than to explore uncharted territory, and anxious above all to win favour in the eyes of his father. She had felt first disappointment and impatience, then frustration. And that frustration was now, slowly but surely, giving way to disgust – and open rebellion. Kathryn was no longer the child who had come to Savigny as a dewy-eyed bride – the claustrophobic atmosphere at the château, where Guillaume's word was law, and law was the preservation of the dynasty, had begun the change in her, the birth of her son and the onset of the war had accelerated it. The arrival of the German occupying forces and the attitude of the de Savignys to them had completed the process.

‘I don't understand how you can bear to be civil to them,' she said now.

Charles sighed, passing a hand through his thinning hair.

‘We've been through all this before, Katrine.' He pronounced her name in the French manner. ‘We have no choice but to get along with them.'

‘We have every choice!' Her eyes were beginning to flash, dark brown mutating to tawny gold around the irises. ‘ Oh, I realise we have to have a certain amount of dealings with von Rheinhardt. He's in charge of the region now that he has replaced Buhler and as such it's necessary for your father to negotiate with him on behalf of all the people who live on the estate and in Savigny village. But he doesn't have to be so friendly with him. And he certainly does not have to invite him to dinner! It's mostrous!'

‘It is also expedient. Surely you realise how awkward he could make things for us if he chose? It's important to keep him sweet, for everyone's sake.'

‘That might be your way of looking at it – it's not mine.'

‘Be sensible, Kathryn, I beg you,' Charles pleaded. ‘Don't you see it's asking for trouble to take this attitude?'

‘I don't care. I won't have dinner with that bastard. I couldn't. If I tried it would choke me. You can say I've got a headache, if you like. Say whatever you choose – I can't stop you.'

‘He'll see through that. You're never ill. He will be very offended, Katrine.'

‘Not nearly as offended as if I said something dreadful about Hitler, and I can't guarantee I wouldn't.' Her eyes were flashing in earnest now and Charles shook his head helplessly.

‘Oh Katrine, Katrine, what am I to do with you?'

‘You don't have to do anything. Just allow me my principles.'

‘That's all very well. But can we afford them?'

‘What has that to do with anything? The Germans are our enemies! I won't socialise with them just to please your father.'

‘Not to please my father. To please me.'

‘Isn't that the same thing?' she flashed.

She saw him whiten and felt a
frisson
of fear, knowing she had gone too far.

‘What do you mean by that?'

‘Nothing,' she said defensively. This was not the time to tell him she believed he would do anything – anything – to gain favour in his father's eyes, that he would sacrifice anything – his principles, his marriage, her respect – to be the son his father wanted. If she started down that road she would say a great deal more than she should – that it was his weakness his father deplored, his inability to stand up to him on any single issue, and that the more he strove to please, the more his father despised him. She might even tell him how pathetic she thought him, how his endless belly-crawling disgusted her – and she knew instinctively that such things, once said, could never be retracted. One day she would tell him. But not now.

‘Katrine.' He was changing tack. ‘ You must understand why my father behaves as he does. All he is trying to do is make life bearable, not only for us, for our family, but for everyone who depends on us – estate workers, village folk, everyone. The Germans are in control, whether we like it or not, and whatever garbage Pétain spouts about ‘‘the renaissance of France being the fruit of our suffering''. Don't you know what happens to those who resist? They are taken away, tortured and shot. At least this way we are allowed to get on with our lives virtually unhindered. There's a lot to be said for that.'

‘Is there indeed? And when the war is over and the Germans sent packing, what will your life be like then? How will you live with yourselves, knowing you appeased the enemy – collaborated with them?'

‘At least we will
be
alive!' Charles said harshly. ‘Have you thought what could happen if we antagonise them, Katrine? It wouldn't be just you that would suffer, either. It would be Guy too. If you won't consider the rest of us, at least consider him. If you can't do that, what sort of a mother are you?'

The mention of her son brought a quick flush to Kathryn's cheeks.

‘Don't bring Guy into this!'

‘But he's in it, can't you see? The Nazis are no respecters of little children or anyone else.'

‘How, then, can you possibly bear to entertain one at your dinner table?'

‘General von Rheinhardt is a soldier who happens to be in control of this district. He's not Gestapo or SS. They are the real devils. And some of our own Vichy police are almost as bad, I'm ashamed to say.'

‘Typical French,' she muttered under her breath.

‘What did you say?' he demanded, his patience finally snapping.

She did not answer, feeling again the sharp thrill of fear, of knowing she was saying things she should not say, thinking things she should not even think, but the depth of her disillusion was too great to be stifled. She had loved France just as she had loved Charles and both had let her down. She couldn't bear to see people she had cared for and respected ingratiating themselves with the enemy.

They were everywhere, the collaborators, village girls walking out with soldiers, business people making a fast buck from their custom, and the de Savignys treating them as socially acceptable. Charles could excuse it as the manifestation of the instinct for survival, she thought it degrading and repulsive. She would rather die, she thought, than lie back, and pretend to accept their dominance. At least that way she would retain her self-respect.

Charles stared at her coldly for a long moment; she stared back and saw only a stranger.

‘I'm ashamed, Charles,' she said quietly at last. ‘And so should you be.'

For a moment anger flashed in his dark-blue eyes and she wondered if he might strike her. He had never done so, though sometimes during their more violent arguments she had seen his hands clench into fists, but there was always a first time. He had shocked her in so many ways, why not this? In fact she thought she would prefer it if he struck her. At least hitting out was a typically masculine reaction whereas spineless appeasement put her more in mind of a frightened old woman begging not to be hurt.

But Charles did not strike her. After a moment he turned away wearily.

‘I won't say any more, Katrine. I can see I am getting nowhere. But think about what you are doing, I beg you. If you are willing to jeopardise your safety, and mine, at least don't jeopardise Guy's. Now – I am going to dress for dinner. If you have any consideration for your son, you will do the same.'

He turned abruptly and left the drawing room. Kathryn stood for a moment, conquering the urge to pick up one of the priceless antiques which adorned it and hurl it after him. Then, as her anger began to ebb away, the desolation crept in, yellow and scummy like the foam on the tide, and helpless tears filled her eyes.

There was nothing she could do. Nothing. She was trapped here with her little son and it was not only the Nazis who were the jailors but also her husband and his family. How could she hope to fight all of them?

‘Katrine is refusing to dine with us, Papa,' Charles said.

Guillaume looked up from his desk to see his son standing in the doorway of his study and experienced a flash of familiar impatience with him.

‘What do you mean – she's refusing to dine with us?'

‘Exactly that. She says she won't sit down at the same table as von Rheinhardt and I think she means it.'

‘Didn't you tell her he is my guest – that if we want to keep our home we'd do well to cultivate his goodwill?'

‘I've tried to talk some sense into her, yes, but she won't listen. I thought perhaps you would have a word with her.'

Guillaume's impatience grew.

‘What's the matter with you, Charles? Can't you control your own wife?'

Charles said nothing. His brows had contracted, giving his face a sullen look, and Guillaume thought he looked more like a small boy afraid of being sent to his room in disgrace than a grown man, heir to the ancient Baronage de Savigny.

It had always been the same, of course. He was probably reminded of a small boy now when he looked at Charles because that was the very same expression he had worn when chastised as a child. It had infuriated Guillaume then and it infuriated him now. Did the boy have no backbone at all? Why wouldn't he let fly in return instead of standing there, taking it, and looking utterly wretched? At a very early stage Guillaume had discovered he had little time for his son – even now, across the years, he could remember with perfect clarity the first time he had acknowledged it.

Charles had been about three years old and Guillaume had acquired a pony for him. An enthusiastic horseman himself, he was keen that his son and heir should learn to ride as soon as possible. He had taken Charles to the stable block at the rear of the château, expecting him to be pleased and excited at having his very own pony. But Charles' response was quite the opposite. When Guillaume tried to lift him into the small saddle he clung to his father, white and shaking, and nothing would induce him to relinquish his grasp on Guillaume's neck.

‘Don't be so stupid, boy! I won't let you fall!' Guillaume had said, less gently than he might have done because it was beyond his comprehension why Charles should behave in such a fashion. He had taken him riding plenty of times before, sitting the child in front of him on Beau, his chestnut hunter, and telling him to hold tight to Beau's mane. But of course he had never seen the terror on Charles' face as he cantered across the hillside with him and he had imagined that the tears on his cheeks when he lined him down were the result of the wind.

‘
Non!
' Charles had yelled, kicking so hard with his heels that he raised bruises on Guillaume's side that had lasted for days. ‘
Non – non! Papa – non!
'

It had been the same when Guillaume tried to teach him to swim. He had hung back at the edge of the pool, screaming in terror. Eventually Guillaume had climbed out and thrown him in bodily, diving in after him and rescuing the spluttering child whose open mouth had filled with water, then wading away from him and forcing him to doggy-paddle frantically to reach the safety of his arms.

Charles had learned to both ride and swim eventually, of course, mastering his terror by the sheer force of his desire to please his father, but Guillaume's impatience with him had scarcely diminished. Rather it intensified. If the boy really did not want to do these things why didn't he at least have the guts to stand up and say so? The lack of spirit seemed to Guillaume to be almost worse than the physical fear.

As Charles grew older the relationship between them failed to improve. The boy was afraid of him, he knew, and knowing it made Guillaume despise him the more. A vicious circle was set up, Charles continually striving for his father's affection and respect, Guillaume growing colder and harder and more impatient. He could not understand why a son of his should be so spineless. His mother, making excuses for him, said he was gentle, with a kind heart and a sweet nature. Guillaume merely thought him a milksop.

Matters were not improved either by the fact that Christian, Charles'younger brother, was everything Charles was not. Christian was a tearaway, fearless to the point of recklessness, with an athleticism to match. Though two years younger than Charles, he could soon beat him across a swimming pool, and in their rough-and-tumble games it was always Christian who came out on top. If anything he was too uninhibited, too forceful, too dismissive of authority. If he could have taken the two boys and jumbled them up a little, Guillaume thought, he might have been able to produce the perfect son. That, of course, was not possible. Unfortunately the required balance had materialised in only one of his children – his daughter Celestine, who was everything he could have wished for.