Tower of Shadows (13 page)

history could see that?

She grasped the heavy iron handle and turned it cautiously. If a

slab of stone fell on her head now and flattened her, it would serve

her right for prying, she thought wryly, as the door opened slowly

and reluctantly with a grudging squeal of rusty hinges.

The room was festooned with cobwebs, the air musty and thick

with dust and disuse. What light there was filtered uneasily

through slit-like windows, high in the wall, and there were traces

of animal droppings on the floor. Probably rats, she thought,

grimacing. The atmosphere of neglect and abandonment was

almost tangible.

But it had clearly been used at some time in the past. A huge,

elderly sofa, its upholstery stained, torn, and oozing stuffing, stood

in the centre of the room. A small table lay on its side, with one

broken leg, and a narrow dresser, its cupboard doors hanging open,

stood against one wall.

Perhaps they used to picnic here, Sabine thought. I wonder why

they stopped? She paused, shivering suddenly. Because she knew

why. Could understand completely why no one came here any

more. There was a sadness in the room, a feeling of oppression,

that had nothing to do with the years of dirt and disarray. It

permeated the stones and filled every corner with shadows. She

could well believe that the betrayed husband had taken his ultimate

revenge centuries before. There'd been no happy endings here.

She looked at the narrow flight of stone stairs leading to the upper

floors, and knew that wild horses wouldn't drag her up them. She

backed out of the door, and closed it securely again. The tower

was a disturbing place, but so was the whole of La Tour

Monchauzet, for that matter. There were too many shadows

obscuring its past, and still blurring the present. She could

understand why Isabelle had wanted none of it and chosen Les

Hiboux instead.

As she started back across the clearing, she found she was walking

faster and faster all the time. The compulsion to get away, and not

look back, was as strong as a hand on her shoulder urging her

forward. And when she reached the path down to the farm she

began to run.

She was breathless by the time she reached the farm. At the sound

of her flying footsteps, a small dog trotted out and barked at her,

and a woman emerged from the farmhouse itself, shading her eyes

against the sun. She was dark',
petite
and
soignée,
and her smile,

though warm, held a hint of reproof, as Sabine came to a halt,

gasping, her hand pressed to her side.

'Miss Russell. I knew it must be. But it's not wise to exercise so

violently in such heat.' She held out her hand. 'I am Monique

Lavaux. I have been left an agitated message from my niece

Marie-Christine telling me that you are camping at Les Hiboux,

without chairs or even the bare necessities of life.'

'That's a bit of an exaggeration.' Sabine returned her smile. 'It was

my own choice to stay there, when I could have gone to a hotel.'

She pulled a face. 'It— hasn't made me very popular in some

quarters.'

'No, I can imagine that.' Monique Lavaux bent, scooping the small

dog up into her arms. She looked at Sabine with frank wistfulness.

'Your mother and I were friends from our schooldays. For a

moment —as you ran down the hill. . .' She paused. 'Seeing you

here — alone —is a sadness for me. I thought —we always

believed, Fabien and I —that Isabelle would come back one day.'

She sighed, then said more briskly, 'But come in, and have a drink

with me —I've just made some fresh lemonade —and we'll talk

about the furniture. It's stored in a depot in Monpazier at the

moment. But I've packed up a bundle of bedding — towels —

things like that for you to use in the meantime.'

'That's very kind of you.' Sabine followed her to the shade of the

veranda, and took the cushioned chair her hostess indicated.

Monique Lavaux deposited the dog at her feet and vanished into

the house, to return almost immediately with a tall jug, clanking

with ice, and two tumblers.

'Your niece said you've been to Paris,' Sabine said as the lemonade

was poured.

'Yes.' She pulled a face. 'But I regard it as a penance. I do not like

cities, even one as beautiful as Paris. I am only ever happy at home

here in the Perigord.'

'I can understand that,' Sabine said, looking around her.

'You feel it too.' Monique Lavaux nodded her satisfaction. 'It's no

wonder. This region after all is the cradle of civilisation.

Prehistoric man chose to live here because he knew it was unique,

endowed with everything he could ever need to survive and thrive.'

She smiled at Sabine. 'You have heard, of course, of our famous

caves at Lascaux.'

'I've heard of them,' Sabine said. 'But haven't they been closed to

visitors?'

'Alas, yes, because the wall paintings were beginning to

deteriorate. Only archaeologists and scholars are allowed to visit

now, in small, strictly limited groups. But for the rest of us they've

built an exact replica near by at Lascaux Two.' She shrugged. 'But

if you prefer to visit a real cave the complex at Les Eyzies is

fascinating, and less restricted.'

'I haven't done any sightseeing yet,' Sabine confessed. 'But I really

must before I go —' She'd been about to say 'home' but substituted

'back' instead.

'You're returning to England soon?' Mademoiselle Lavaux stared at

her. 'But you've only just arrived. And what do you intend to do

with the house?'

'I haven't even given that a thought. Finding it existed was enough

of a shock.' She briefly outlined the events which had brought her

to France, omitting, however, for the time being, the question mark

over her parentage.

'I wanted to find out why Maman had kept the past such a big

secret, but all I seem to have done is spook everyone — even you,'

she said wryly. She paused. 'Do —do you condemn her too,

mademoiselle,
for running away as she did?'

'No,' Monique Lavaux said slowly. 'But I wish she had confided in

me —told me her reasons. Perhaps I could have dissuaded her. I

was so happy that she and Fabien had found each other again, even

though there were still obstacles. And Isabelle seemed content too,

at last.' She sighed. 'But when Fabien went to California things

changed. She became nervous,
distraite,
almost as if she was

frightened of something.'

She shrugged. 'I can only think she decided she could not marry

Fabien after all, but could not bear to tell him so either. And yet he

was so kind — so understanding. He would not have blamed her.

But to return and find her gone, without a word, without a trace,

was devastating for him.'

'Didn't he try to find her?'

'He was too ill. After the quarrel with his family, he had a nervous

collapse. He spent months recovering in a private clinic in

Bordeaux. When he came back, he was different. It was as if the

old Fabien had died, and another man was living in his skin,

pretending to be him, but without his spirit —his soul.'

'Why did he quarrel with his family? You'd have thought they'd

have rallied round him—given him their support.'

'
Au contraire.''
Monique Lavaux's tone was dry. 'I believe they

behaved as if he'd had a fortunate escape — condemned Isabelle as

an
aventuriere,
and worse. Terrible words were exchanged.

Unforgivable things were said.

'That, of course, is why, when he returned from the clinic, he came

to live alone at Les Hiboux. If Isabelle returned, he said, she

should not find her home empty and unloved.' She bit her lip, the

dark eyes suddenly very bright.

'And the chateau had become anathema to him,' she went on after a

moment. 'He continued to visit his mother until her death, but I

don't think he and Gaston ever spoke to each other again.'

Sabine's lips parted in a soundless gasp. 'But I talked to the
Baron

earlier, and Madame de Rochefort. They didn't say anything about

a rift. . .'

'Naturally, they would not. It is hardly to their credit, after all. I

thought, perhaps, when Gaston had his terrible accident, that there

might be some softening— some attempt at a reconciliation, but I

was wrong. Fabien was like stone.

'Because of his illness, he had lost Rohan, who went back to live

with his grandfather at Arrancay. That was another severe blow.

He and the boy adored each other. The vines eventually became

his salvation. He'd taken over from Hercule Riquard as
maitre de

chai,
and he poured his whole life into promoting La Tour

Monchauzet wines into a class of their own. He had a sense of the

land — the weather. He left the grapes on the vine as long as

possible — sometimes even late into October—but he never lost a

vintage through frost.'

'Well, I'm glad something went right.' Sabine shook her head.

'What a catalogue of doom and disaster it's been, otherwise.

Monique Lavaux smiled a little. 'I suppose it must seem so.' She

hesitated. 'But truly, after Isabelle's departure, it often seemed as if

the family had been cursed.' She gave a little shiver, then laughed.

'But that is fanciful.'

Sabine remembered the tower and its shadows, and thought, I

wonder. . . Trying to keep her voice casual, she said, 'When did

Rohan — Monsieur Saint Yves come back from Arrancay?'

'When his stepfather's health began to suffer. Fabien wanted the

vignoble
to be run by someone in sympathy with his aims, who

would continue with the modernisation process he'd started, and

produce wine of the same quality. Rohan was the obvious choice,

although his grandfather was reluctant to let him go, I think.'

Mademoiselle Lavaux shook her head. 'But he has no easy task.'

She insisted on helping Sabine carry the bundles of bedding over

to Les Hiboux. Standing in the
salon,
she looked around her

wistfully. 'It is sad to see all this emptiness, and remember how it

used to be.' She paused. 'It is a house that needs to be lived in.

What will you do with it, do you think? Will you take up residence

in France?'

'I don't think I can afford to —not immediately anyway. I work as

a freelance translator, and I'd have to find out what opportunities

there are here before I could decide.'

'Well, then, would you consider renting the house to a holiday

company, perhaps? There is always demand among tourists for

property such as this.'

'It hadn't occurred to me,' Sabine admitted. 'But it could be a

solution.' She looked round her. 'I have to admit I don't want to sell

up, not at once, anyway, when I've just found the place.'

'Of course not.' Monique Lavaux smiled understandingly, then

became brisk again. 'However, if you wish to sell, I work as an

estate agent, and I could help. But I think you should look over the

stored furniture before you come to any decision. Some of the

pieces are from Hercule's family, and are very old.' She produced a

business card from her bag, and wrote an address on the back of it.

'Speak to Monsieur Pallon, and he will show you what there is.'

Sabine took the card. 'Has the furniture been in store for very

long?' she asked doubtfully. 'Is there an account I should pay?'

'No, no. It has all been paid from Fabien's estate, also the local

taxes and the charge for water and electricity. Everything had to be

maintained just as it had been —for the day when Isabelle returned

to Les Hiboux. Those were his orders.'

'That's a wonderful thing to have done.' Sabine's eyes shone.

Monique Lavaux smiled. 'Ah,' she said. 'But he was a wonderful

person.'

She was in love with him, Sabine realised, with the insight of her

own pain. And he probably never knew it. She said, with a catch in

her voice, 'I —I wish very much that I'd been able to meet him.'

Mademoiselle Lavaux patted Sabine's shoulder, then glanced at her

watch. 'Is there anything more I can do to help? No? Then I must

be going. If you have no plans for tomorrow evening, perhaps you

would like to have dinner with us.' She gave a pleased smile at

Sabine's delighted acceptance, and disappeared purposefully back