Tower of Shadows (15 page)

with its past.' He paused. 'Perhaps it's a lesson we should all learn.'

'Maybe.' She looked down at the spotless white surface of the

table. 'Does that mean you're prepared to forgive Maman for —

leaving as she did?'

'I said I never would.' His face was grave. 'It wasn't just Fabien

who was hurt, you understand. I was a child who'd lost his own

mother, and was looking for affection. With Fabien and Isabelle I

was promised a family again.' He shrugged. 'I wondered so often

whether it was my fault that Isabelle went. Whether she could not

face the thought of having a stepson foisted on her.'

'No,' Sabine said instantly. 'I know that's not true. I found a

photograph of you among her things. She wouldn't have kept that,

if she hadn't loved you.' She took the folder from her bag and

passed it across to him. 'Do you remember this?'

His face softened. 'Yes, I remember. Antoinette was being a pest,

as usual, and Tante Heloise was scolding me for not wanting to

play with her.'

Sabine closed her bag carefully. 'You and Antoinette were —

brought up together, I understand.'

'For a while —until I was sent back to Arrancay.' He spoke almost

absently, his attention concentrated on the photographs in front of

him. She saw his face change, his brows snap together.

She saw what he was looking at —the man, standing alone. She

said gently, 'She kept that too. I've just realised where it was taken.

It's the tower, isn't it?'

There was a silence, then Rohan said, 'Yes—the tower.' His voice

and face were bleak. 'Have you shown these to anyone else?'

'No. I thought they might — distress people, in the circumstances.

And they've upset you, haven't they?'

'Yes.' He put out a hand and touched hers. 'But not for the reason

you think. You've done nothing wrong, believe me.' He sighed

quickly and sharply and put the photographs back in the folder.

'May I keep these for a while?'

'Yes, of course,' she said, as the coffee arrived. She hesitated. 'Is

something the matter?'

'Yes,' he said. 'But I can't explain —at least not yet.' His eyes

looked deeply into hers. 'Can you be patient and trust me?'

'I hardly know you.' The warm tingling confusion was back,

turning her mind to jelly and her legs to water.

'That's true,' he said. 'Yet in some ways we seem to have known

each other forever. That all our lives we've been waiting to meet. I

think you feel that too.'

She picked up her coffee-cup hurriedly and drank some, burning

her mouth. 'Rohan, don't, please.' She was falling over her words.

'It doesn't matter what I think. You—you mustn't talk like that. . .'

'Why not?'

'Because people —' she couldn't bring herself to say Antoinette's

name ' — are going to be hurt, and you know it.' She took a breath.

'You're not free.'

'Not at the moment. I won't pretend there aren't problems, but

nothing we can't overcome together.'

'Ever since I came here, I've been called Isabelle's daughter

virtually as a term of abuse.' Her voice shook slightly. 'I don't want

to be accused of causing havoc in my turn.'

'I think that was inevitable from the moment you arrived in

France,' he said quietly. 'But we can't discuss it now. I have my

appointment to keep.' He pointed down a street leading off the

corner of the square where they were sitting. 'Meet me at the

restaurant at the bottom at twelve.' He got to his feet, leaving a

handful of coins for the bill, then came round to her, bending to

give her a swift, hard kiss on the mouth before striding off.

Sabine watched him go, prey to all kinds of conflicting emotions.

Part of her mind, the cool, rational fragment, was insisting that it

was all happening too fast and too soon. Yet blind instinct told her

that Rohan was her man, and had been since time began. All they'd

had to do, as he said, was recognise each other.

But he still belongs to Antoinette, she thought achingly. We can't

hurt her—humiliate her like this when she's expecting to marry

him in just a few weeks, even if it has been arranged for family

reasons, and not for love. There's been too much bitterness already.

Certainly, there wasn't an atom of tenderness in his voice when he

spoke of her, but what did that prove? They were used to each

other, and Antoinette was undoubtedly physically desirable. A lot

of marriages staggered along with less.

Yet if Rohan did marry Antoinette, caring nothing for her, that

would make three wretched people instead of one. She sighed

soundlessly. What a mess it all was. But Rohan had told her to

trust him, and that's what she had to do.

She finished her coffee, and set off to explore the town. As well as

the usual souvenirs, she found a shop selling interesting ceramics,

and treated herself to a pair of pottery owls. There were also

numerous local specialities on sale including
pate de foie gras,
and

tins of
confit—
goose and duck preserved in their own fat, and the

famous walnut liqueur, while a small art gallery offered original

oil-paintings and water-colours, including views of Monpazier

itself.

She bought some postcards, and an illustrated book on the
bastides

of the Dordogne from the local newsagent, and spent a mouth-

watering few moments coveting the strawberry, peach and

raspberry tarts displayed in a
patisserie
window.

She was just coming out of Credit Agricole, having cashed some

traveller's cheques, when she saw Antoinette emerging from the

pharmacie
opposite. She checked instantly, but it was too late.

She'd been seen.

'So, it's you.' The other girl's face and tone were equally

ungracious. 'What are you doing here?'

'Sightseeing,' Sabine returned shortly, wondering if she looked as

guilty as she felt.

'I thought you were supposed to be leaving for England. Tante

Heloise said there was nothing for you here, and that you'd soon be

gone.'

'In my own good time,' Sabine said levelly.

Antoinette tossed her head. 'I should be ashamed to stay where I

wasn't wanted. But that's what your mother did, of course. She was

just a common slut, making trouble, just like you —chasing other

women's men.' Her tone seethed with poison. 'I've heard all about

her—everything. I know what you're trying to do, and it won't

work. You're trying to take Rohan away from me.'

'I don't have to listen to this.' Sabine swallowed, desperately aware

that their altercation was attracting the attention of other customers

to the bank.

'I'm warning you.' Antoinette pushed her face, distorted with

temper, towards Sabine's, forcing her to recoil. 'Go away from

here, and leave Rohan alone, or it will be the worse for you. I've

wanted him all my life, and I can give him in return what he most

desires — La Tour Monchauzet. That's what counts with Rohan —

the vines. Becoming one of the great
vignerons
of the south-west.

That's his real passion, you stupid bitch. I realised it long ago. And

you're not going to interfere, and spoil things.' She turned on her

heel, and stormed off, pausing only to hurl, 'Isabelle's daughter,'

over her shoulder, in a voice which rang with contempt.

Sabine felt physically sick as she watched her go. The unseen

watcher. The whisperer in the woods. Incredibly, that must have

been Antoinette after all. She felt as if she'd been dipped in slime.

Somewhere a bell rang out in the age-old call of the Angelus,

reminding her that it was midday and she had to meet Rohan. But

how could she —feeling as she did?

If she had her own car, she knew she'd have turned tail and run,

back to Les Hiboux to begin with, and then to Bordeaux and its

airport. She felt totally unnerved by the encounter, and wasn't

ashamed to admit it.

When she arrived at the restaurant, Rohan was waiting in the

doorway with open impatience.

'I thought you were lost,' he laughed, kissing her hand and then her

lips. He saw her pallor and the trouble in her eyes, and frowned.

'What is it,
cherie?
What's happened?'

'It's Antoinette. She knows about us. She made a horrible scene

outside the bank.' Her voice was toneless.

'Antoinette has made a speciality of horrible scenes since her

birth,' he said grimly. 'I hope you told her that our relationship was

none of her affair?'

'How could I?' she challenged. 'She has a right to be angry. She's

your fiancée, after all.'

He stared at her, his brows snapping together ferociously. 'What

did you say?' The question exploded out of him.

She said wearily, 'Rohan—you told me yourself you were going to

be married in a few weeks.'

He said forcefully, '
Dieu!
I need a drink. We both do,' and almost

dragged her into the restaurant's bar. He ordered a
pastis
for

himself and a
pineau de Charentes
for Sabine, then sat down with

her at a table in the corner.

'Now listen to me,' he said quietly. 'And listen well. I am not

marrying Antoinette. I am not such a fool. Oh, the idea has been

put to me many times. I admit it. We've known each other since

childhood, after all, so it would be convenient, and make good

sense. I know all the arguments.' He paused. 'But it would also be a

living hell. You could not have thought that I had ever considered

her as my wife. Did I ever give the slightest sign. . .?'

'No,' she admitted. 'But when we were in the great chamber you

mentioned a wedding—in a few weeks.' Her voice was small. 'So I

assumed. . .'

He groaned. 'Not mine, little fool. Marie-Christine is marrying

Jacques. They've been engaged for a year, and it was decided the

wedding could take place during August, when there is just routine

spraying and pruning to be done, well before the
vendange
itself,

when I cannot do without him.'

'Marie-Christine,' she repeated. 'And —Jacques. The Jacques who

drove me to Les Hiboux?'

'Yes,' he said, and she nodded slowly.

'I'm glad.'

'So am I.' He reached across the table and raised her hand to his

lips. 'We'll dance together at their wedding, you and I,' he said

softly, and the promise in his voice brought a warm flush to her

cheeks. He finished his drink. 'But now we'll eat.'

When they walked into the restaurant, the owner's wife, slight,

dark and bright-eyed, came to welcome them, and there were

greetings from everyone in the room as they went to their table.

They began with a creamy vegetable soup. Rohan chose
escargots

as his next course, but Sabine laughingly declined to share them

with him.

'I'm not quite French enough —not yet,' she said.

He smiled back at her. 'It will happen.'

Her own
petit friture
was a plateful of tiny fish, crisply fried and

sprinkled with garlic, and they both opted for guinea fowl

casseroled in red wine, and so tender it almost fell off the bone,

with sautéed potatoes and cabbage cooked in butter, as their main

course. They drank red wine too from a small earthenware jug,

toasting each other, savouring the delectable flavours of the food

and their new-found joy.

Sabine thought, I'll remember this meal all my life, from the

smallest crumb of bread to the pattern on the china —and how

happy we are.

Coffee was brought and a platter of pale, sharp cheeses. They

talked about everything and nothing, as they embarked on their

mutual voyage of discovery, learning that they both had a passion

for reading, and enjoyed the cinema and going to concerts. Both of

them skiied, and played tennis, and Rohan, in addition, played

rugby each winter, and was dedicated, like most of his fellow-

countrymen, to
la chasse.

'Isn't it amazing that we have so much in common?' she marvelled.

He shook his head. 'What else do you expect —when you meet the

other half of yourself?'

She traced a line on the tablecloth with her nail. 'Is that what we've

done?' Her voice was shy.

'Yes,' he said. 'And I knew it from that first day when you came

driving down to the
chais
like a crazy woman. I think the shock of

that recognition drove me a little crazy myself. You — everything