Tower of Shadows (8 page)

Sabine was totally lost. 'Who was Monsieur Fabien?' she enquired,

as they went out to the car.

Marie-Christine's lively face sobered. 'He was the
Baron's

brother—his twin, but younger by just a half-hour, and so different

—in looks, temperament — everything. He was the true
vigneron,'

she added, sighing. 'He loved the land, and understood the grape.'

She paused. 'Monsieur Gaston concerned himself with other

things.'

'Monsieur Gaston being the
Baron,
I take it.' Sabine also hesitated

for a moment. 'So, where does — Monsieur Rohan —' she

stumbled over the name a little '-fit in?'

'Monsieur Fabien married a Madame Saint Yves, who was a

widow with a little boy,' Marie-Christine explained readily. 'She

was having another baby, but something went wrong—apparently,

she was never strong—and she and the child both died.' She shook

her head. 'It was a terrible thing—a great tragedy. Monsieur Rohan

stayed with Monsieur Fabien and was brought up as his own son

—at first anyway.'

Sabine stared ahead of her through the windscreen. Fabien de

Rochefort, she thought. Rohan's stepfather, who had loved and lost

her mother, had a name, if not a face.

Maybe I know now who my real father was, she thought. But the

swift excitement bubbling inside her was mingled inevitably with

sadness, because it was all too late. He was lost to her too.

She asked colourlessly, 'When did Monsieur Fabien die? How long

ago?'

Marie-Christine considered. 'It must be over a year and a half—

nearly two years. Time goes so fast,' she added apologetically.

'Why was the house only emptied then?'

'Because he had been living there.'

'Even though the house belonged to my mother?' Sabine queried,

her heart thumping. She tried to sound casual. 'I suppose he was

some kind of tenant.'

'My aunt will be able to explain better, perhaps.' Marie-Christine

was clearly embarrassed. 'It is none of my affair and, besides, it

was all a long time ago.'

'I'm sorry to ask so many questions,' Sabine said, after another

pause. 'But apart from the fact that my mother obviously lived here

at some time I know nothing at all.'

Marie-Christine bit her lip as they turned on to the road leading up

to the chateau. 'Well, I wish I could be more help, but all I've heard

are rumours —a lot of confused stories. It wouldn't be fair to

repeat them,' she added firmly.

'I suppose not,' Sabine said wistfully. She paused again, then tried

a new tack. 'So, apart from the
Baron
and Madame de Rochefort,

who else lives at the chateau?'

'Well, Rohan lives there —for the time being, anyway. And

Antoinette, of course.'

'Oh.' Sabine digested that. 'Is —is she —Rohan's wife?'

Marie-Christine laughed. 'Not yet, but it is expected. It would be a

very suitable marriage. She's Madame Heloise's niece, and very

beautiful. Her parents were killed in an accident when she was

very young, and she has been brought up at the chateau, almost as

the daughter of the house. The
Baron
and his wife have no

children of their own,' she added.

'I see,' was all Sabine could think of in reply.

She never forgot her first proper view of the chateau. It was much

smaller than she'd imagined, just a country house, she thought,

which had been added to in a haphazard way over the centuries.

The stones glowed like warm apricots in the afternoon sun, and the

jumble of towers and turrets with their high pointed roofs topped

with blue-grey tiles had an endearing and slightly eccentric charm.

Sabine had half expected to be taken round to some tradesman's

entrance, but Marie-Christine led the way to the main door,

chattering nineteen to the dozen, clearly relieved that her mission

was almost accomplished. She was probably glad that the

inquisition was over too, Sabine thought drily.

Some parts of the house had been closed off, for economic

reasons, she was told. Madame de Rochefort and Antoinette both

had suites on the first floor, while the
Baron
occupied rooms at

ground level. She didn't volunteer any information about where

Rohan Saint Yves slept.

One of the main rooms, and the most beautiful, the grand chamber,

was used solely for vineyard business these days. All the

entertaining was done there, and there were regular wine-tastings

for customers.

'May I see it?' Sabine asked.

'Another day, perhaps,' Marie-Christine said non-committally. 'We

must not keep
Madame
waiting.'

After the radiance of the sunlit walls, the interior of the chateau

was frankly a disappointment. The entrance hall, although large

and square, was panelled in some dark wood, which made it

gloomy, and the ancestral portraits which stared disapprovingly

down on Sabine as she mounted the stairs did nothing to lighten

the atmosphere.

To reach Madame de Rochefort's suite, they had to traverse a

series of other rooms, most of them shuttered to exclude the sun.

The furniture seemed very grand, and totally impersonal, as if the

rooms were never used, except as a passage to somewhere else.

Sabine couldn't imagine anyone lounging in those chairs, or

throwing a book or a magazine down on one of the tables.

This place is like a labyrinth, she thought with a sudden shiver, as

yet another door opened in front of her. Just like last night's bad

dream. She had the sensation that if she looked over her shoulder

she would find Rohan Saint Yves watching her from the shadows.

. . Her hand lifted and touched the medallion at her breast, as if

warding off an evil spirit.

They stepped out into a corridor, richly carpeted in Turkey red.

'This is
madame's
part of the house.' Marie-Christine lowered her

voice. 'She has carpet everywhere because she said the noise of the

servants' shoes on the polished floors made her head ache.' She

rolled her eyes, then sobered, tapping respectfully on the double

doors at the end of the passage.

'Come in.' The answering voice was clear, controlled and

authoritative, giving no sign of yesterday's weakness.

Marie-Christine turned her friendly grin on Sabine.
'Courage
,' she

whispered. 'You're on your own now.' And pushed her gently but

firmly into the room.

The royal summons had clearly brought Sabine to the throne room

of the palace, she thought drily, as she halted inside the door. The

far end of the room was built on a higher level than the rest, and

was reached by a single step. And there, seated by a window in a

big winged chair, shaded by peach silk curtains, was Heloise de

Rochefort.

She was not a tall woman, but the classic smoothness of her grey

hair, immaculately dressed, gave her an air of distinction. To

Sabine, used to Aunt Ruth's dab of power and smudge of lipstick,

the
Baronne's maquillage
made her appear as if she was wearing

an exquisite but remote mask, spoiled only by the small piece of

sticking plaster on her forehead. Her eyes were deep-set and cold,

and her dress in matching blue emphasised an impression of chilly

reserve. She wore an antique brooch on one shoulder, and her

hands, discreetly beringed, were folded in her lap, and one wrist

had been bandaged.

'Miss Russell,' she said almost musingly in English. 'Please take a

seat.' She indicated a brocaded chair placed opposite to hers, and at

an angle.

Sabine obeyed, folding her hands in her lap with equal composure.

She had the oddest impression that she was taking part in a play,

for which she knew neither her lines, nor the stage directions.

Madame
turned her head slightly. 'Antoinette, my dear, you

haven't met this young lady, who is paying a short visit from

England.'

When the leading lady's on stage, you don't notice the rest of the

cast, Sabine thought wryly, the wording of
madame's
introduction

not lost on her, as a young woman got up from a sofa in another

part of the room, and came forward with open reluctance.

She was taller than Sabine, and older too. Her thick dark hair fell

in a waving mass to her shoulders, and she had a short, straight

nose, a mouth that was full-lipped to the point of petulance, and

almond-shaped brown eyes, currently studying Sabine without

friendliness. She wore a pale yellow dress cut to emphasise

shapely legs and the thrust of her rounded breasts. Altogether, she

had the kind of gloss normally associated with models and film

stars, and it seemed oddly out of place here in her aunt's elegant

sitting-room.

Her fingers barely touched Sabine's in greeting, but one swift

head-to-toe appraisal absorbed everything she had on, and

dismissed it. The de Rochefort clan, as a whole, had a pretty strong

line in contempt, Sabine decided, not letting her own polite smile

slip by one iota.

So, this was the girl Rohan Saint Yves was planning to marry. His

scowl wedded to her sulks, eh? Well, they were welcome to each

other.

Antoinette turned and addressed .the older woman in her own

language. 'Tante Heloise —is it really necessary that we do this —

that we receive this person?'

'Entirely necessary,' Madame returned imperturbably. 'And I

should warn you, Antoinette, that Miss Russell understands our

language perfectly — and speaks it too.'

She didn't need to be warned, Sabine thought drily, as Antoinette

flushed angrily.

'Now ring the bell,
ma chere,
for Ernestine to bring us some tea,

then you may leave us. I wish to speak privately with Miss

Russell.' She smiled. 'But how can I be so formal with Isabelle's

child? What is your name, my dear?'

'Sabine,
madame.'

She saw the upright figure stiffen suddenly, and the hands clench

together in her lap.

Then, 'What insolence!' Antoinette exclaimed shrilly. 'That is a de

Rochefort family name. She had no right.' Her intervention

snapped the sudden tension in the room, as if a wire had been cut.

The
Baronne's
rose-tinted lips twisted slightly. 'Calm yourself, my

child. We do not have a monopoly in names —or very much else

these days,' she added, almost as an aside. 'And Sabine has not

been used as a de Rochefort name for several generations. Now

ring for tea, as I requested you, please.'

Antoinette looked mutinous, but she obeyed, leaving the room

with something of a flounce.

'So,' Madame de Rochefort said, when they were alone. 'Now we

can talk comfortably.'

Can we? Sabine wondered. She said levelly, 'I hope you've

recovered from your unfortunate accident,
madame.'

The
Baronne
gave a silvery laugh. 'Oh, do not remind me of my

own stupidity, I beg you. I am so ashamed. But for a moment, you

understand, I thought I had seen a ghost.' She nodded slowly. 'Yes,

you are Isabelle's daughter without mistake.'

'Is that the reason you invited me here — to a house where I'm

clearly not welcome — to have another look at me?'

'No, of course not,' the
Baronne
returned peevishly. 'I wished to

express my regrets for my nephew's— hasty reaction. Such a dear

boy. So devoted to our family's interests.'

She paused. 'I was sorry to hear that your mother is dead.'

'Thank you,' Sabine said quietly.

'Tell me—was she content in England? Your father—was he a

good husband to her?'

'They—seemed very happy,' Sabine returned neutrally.

'She grew up here, of course. Her father, Hercule, was our
maitre

de chai,
responsible for making our wine, as Rohan is now. But no

doubt she told you this?'

'No,
madame
.' Sabine shook her head. 'My mother never

mentioned her life here, except to say that I had no grandparents.'

'She said nothing else?'
Madame's
fingers twisted the magnificent

ruby she wore. 'But that is —quite extraordinary.'

'I thought so too,' Sabine agreed. 'No doubt she had her reasons,'

she added pointedly.

'Ah.'
Madame'
s eyes seemed to look past her into a different time.

'She was very lovely. My mother-in-law was alive then, and she

indulged her — encouraged her artistic talents, I believe.'