The Eden Inheritance (11 page)

But Celestine was not only the third child and still at college in Paris, she was also a girl. The Baronage would never pass to her. He was left with doing the best he could with Charles. And an unrewarding struggle it seemed to be. Couldn't the boy get anything right? If he couldn't control his own wife what hope was there of him making a good job of running the de Savigny estates when the time came?

If the de Savigny estates were still there to be run. Guillaume gave his head a tired shake. It was more than a year now since the French army had laid down its weapons, more than a year since the lines had been drawn and the country divided up – occupied territory in the north and east, heavily policed by Hitler's forces, the rest still governed nominally, at any rate, by Pétain from his base in Vichy, the demarcation line slicing through the heart of Savigny land.

It made life difficult, that line. A pass was necessary in order to cross it for even the most mundane, everyday reason, and the border patrols were surly and suspicious. But Guillaume tried to view it as an inconvenience and no more, part of the price that had to be paid for the moment at least for having resisted the German invasion. It would not last for ever. When the conflict was finally decided things would settle into some sort of pattern closer to normality. In the meantime it was in everyone's best interests to keep on the right side of the invaders. Anything else was asking for trouble. Keep them sweet and the heritage of Savigny and all those who depended on it would be safe. Antagonise them and property would be destroyed and lives lost needlessly.

He had explained the position he intended to take to his family when France had fallen and they had gone along with it. Louise, his wife, hated violence in any form and in any case always abided by his decisions. It was a pattern that had been established early in their married life; she accepted his authority without question, content that by reason of his gender and position he must know best. Charles, typically, had agreed with him that though it was far from an ideal situation there was no point in having blood spilled on Savigny land to no useful purpose. Christian and Celestine he was less sure of – Christian was a hothead who hated living under the Nazi regime and where Christian led Celestine was likely to follow. But Christian had been wounded during his brief period of service in the French army – a serious leg wound which was taking a long while to heal – and for the present, at least, was incapable of doing anything stupid, and Guillaume was reasonably confident that the family tradition of putting duty and heritage above all else would persuade them to follow his lead.

No, Kathryn, Charles' English wife, was the greatest threat to the fragile peace at Savigny, Kathryn, whose countrymen were still at war with Hitler and who showed, by her every word and gesture, her contempt for his minions.

Guillaume experienced a stab of anger for the young woman who could so easily, he felt, do something to endanger the rapport he had established with the occupying power. Yet in spite of himself it was qualified by a grudging respect. Kathryn had spirit – that was more than could be said for Charles. He had recognised it in her the very first time Charles had brought her to Savigny and introduced her as his bride-to-be, and he had been glad. They might not always see eye to eye but if some of that spirit could be handed down to the children of the union then there might be hope yet for the Savigny line. And his hopes appeared to be justified. Already in Guy, their little son, Guillaume could see a great deal of his mother's character, though physically he was very like his father. Now just short of his fourth birthday, Guy was already bolder than Charles had ever been and showing clear signs of the self-confidence that was lacking in Charles. Guillaume knew he had Kathryn to thank for that.

But it did not mean that he intended to pander to her. She had to understand the danger she could place them all in if she continued her stand against von Rheinhardt. Already Guillaume had noticed how she had gone out of her way to avoid him and how ungracious she was about the presents of food, cigarettes and precious petrol coupons he had made to them. At the moment von Rheinhardt was well disposed towards them, appreciating the advantages of being in charge of a relatively trouble-free district, but he could turn against them just as easily if he was upset in any way and his revenge would be terrible. Kathryn must be made to realise that.

Of course, he thought, Kathryn was an optimist. If she had not been she would not have been taken in so readily by Charles' surface charms. Now her optimism refused to allow her to countenance defeat in the long term.

Guillaume was not so optimistic. He was very afraid that the old order had gone for ever and the German regime was here to stay. If so it was his duty to try to establish a place in the new order for his family and all those who depended on them. The de Savignys had discharged their responsibilities to their estates and those who lived and worked on them for more than five hundred years, providing for them in almost feudal fashion. They had survived the Revolution, they would survive the German occupation. They
must
survive and Guillaume would do whatever was necessary to make certain they did. Kathryn and her pride and obstinacy could not be allowed to jeopardise that.

Guillaume looked at his son with a mixture of scorn and pity. If Charles could not convince his wife of her duty to conform then Guillaume would have to do it for him.

‘All right, Charles,' he said wearily. ‘I will speak to Kathryn.'

A strange expression, half relief, half resentment, flickered across Charles' sallow features.

‘It won't do any good. She won't listen to you.'

Guillaume's mouth tightened.

‘Oh yes, Charles, I think she will,' he said.

The long refectory table had been set for six but as yet the dining room was empty. The de Savigny family were gathering in the salon as they always did for pre-dinner drinks. The food, when it was served, might be meagre compared with what they had been used to in the days before shortages and rationing; the old traditions were maintained nevertheless.

Guillaume and Louise had been first down, as they always were, followed by Christian, and a rather sombre Charles. All were formally dressed, as was their custom. They had been joined by General von Rheinhardt, resplendent in the uniform of an officer of the Third Reich. The only member of the party who had failed to put in an appearance was Kathryn and as Guillaume poured wine, made from his own grapes, and passed it around, Charles found himself watching the door and hoping without much optimism that she might yet walk through.

His father had been up to speak to her, he knew, but he couldn't imagine that anything Guillaume could have said would make much difference. Kathryn was impossible – a law unto herself. He didn't know what had happened to the charming girl he had met and married, a girl so acquiescent and naive he had had no doubt he could mould her into the wife he both wanted and needed, a girl whose admiration of him had amounted almost to hero-worship so that she made him feel powerful, amusing and mature – all the things he had striven all his life to feel and yet which, under his father's critical eye, had eluded him.

She did not make him fed those things now. Somewhere along the line, in the six years of their marriage, they had slipped away from him. The adoration had paled in her eyes, sometimes he felt she almost disliked him, and she questioned his authority and even openly defied him at every turn. Nowadays she made him fed as inadequate as did his father, perhaps more so, because he had always been in awe of his father whilst once, not so long ago, Kathryn had been a child he wanted to pet and protect. The hurt and bewilderment burned sourly in his stomach, spoiling the taste of his father's good wine, and he found himself thinking, with longing, of Regine, his mistress and the woman he would have liked to marry if she hadn't been six years his senior and married already. Regine wouldn't have behaved in this infuriating manner; Regine would not have made him look a complete fool. She would have been there at his side, bolstering his confidence, reassuring him that he was doing the right thing, that there was nothing else he
could
do, and that anyway, in the end nothing mattered except that she loved him and they were together. He saw her now in his mind's eye, the thick blonde hair that came tumbling around her shoulders when he pulled out the pins that secured it, the generous breasts that he could bury his face in and suck on as if he were a baby again, and ached with need of her. It had always been the same – from the first moment he had met her he had wanted to drown in her pale yielding flesh and allow her to banish all the demons that haunted him. Regine had been more than just a lover to him, she had been father, mother and offspring all rolled into one, and he had worshipped her. She had taught him to make love as opposed to simply copulating, she had praised his endeavours as well as his successes, she had comforted him and cheered him when things went badly for him, she had even, sometimes, made him laugh. The one thing she had refused to do was leave her husband for him.

‘I can't do that,
chéri
, you mustn't ask me to,' she had said, tenderly stroking his hand.

‘Why not? Why not, Regine? It's me you love!' He had said it defiantly, but in reality he was seeking her affirmation.

‘Of course I love you, but that has nothing to do with it. I am Claude's wife. I couldn't leave him and the children. It wouldn't be right. They would be hurt.'

‘And what about me? Don't you think you are hurting me?'

‘A little, perhaps, but that's the way it is, I'm afraid. And it's not so bad, is it? We can be together as often as you like.'

‘No, we can't. I want to be with you all the time.'

She laughed; he saw the rise and fall of her magnificent breasts and wanted her so desperately he thought he would die of it.

‘No, Charles, you don't,' she said. ‘ You'd soon be tired of me.'

‘I wouldn't! I'd never tire of you, darling Regine. I wish I could be a part of you, so I could go with you wherever you go, every minute of the day. And we could make love all the time – in the bathtub, at the breakfast table, when you are working at your needlepoint, everywhere … anywhere!'

‘Be sensible, Charles, I beg you,' she had chided him, but he knew she was pleased. ‘I can't do it. You mustn't ask me. And besides, I wouldn't do for your wife. It's one thing to have a mistress who happens to be married, quite another to try to make her legitimate. Think of the scandal it would bring to the de Savigny name. Your father would be most displeased.'

‘I don't care.' Needing her made him bold. ‘If I had you I wouldn't care what he thought.'

‘Yes, you would. And you also care about providing an heir for the de Savigny line. I can't have any more children. When I had little Gilbert the doctor was quite definite about it. I was very ill; they told me categorically I can never have another. No, you must find a girl who will make you a suitable wife, Charles, and give you sons to carry on the name. But I will still be here for you, I promise. I will always be here for you.'

He had begged, cried even, but she had remained adamant and in the end he had seen the sense of what she said. Perhaps, he had thought, he could have the best of both worlds. The line
was
important to him, it was his duty to ensure its survival – just as long as he could still have Regine too. It was simply a matter of finding the right girl.

When he had met Kathryn he had thought she was the right girl. Strong enough to give him the sons he needed, young enough to adapt to his ways and not cause trouble, sufficiently in love with him to make him feel masterful, beautiful enough to make him proud of her.

Regine had thought so too. She had actively encouraged the match. Perhaps, he thought now with hindsight, she had considered Kathryn too naive and inexperienced to be any serious threat to her; perhaps she had thought he would lie beside Kathryn after making love to her and compare her unfavourably with Regine. Certainly in the early days she had asked him how things were in that direction, given advice and encouraged confidences that would have shocked Kathryn had she known about them.

But she had not known – at least, he didn't think so – and the arrangement had proved, in the beginning, to be very successful. Until everything had begun to go wrong.

Regine's husband, who was a wealthy wine merchant, had decided to move the centre of his operations to Paris and Regine and the children had gone with him. He still had a place in Charente, of course, and they came to stay for weekends and holidays, but somehow nothing could be quite the same. And then the war had come. Regine had been in Paris when France fell and she was there now. Regulations made it too difficult to travel, even their correspondence was curtailed. It was more than a year since he had last seen her and he ached for her with a hollow despair that grew worse rather than lessening as the weeks became months.

If only she were here now! he thought wretchedly. If only he could go to her, lay his head against her plump shoulder and tell her all his troubles. But she wasn't here. Somehow he had to bear them alone.

‘More wine, Charles?'

He became aware, with a slight sense of shock, that Guillaume was addressing him. He glanced down at his glass, scarcely touched.

‘No, I don't think so, thank you, Papa.'

‘It's very good wine. There's no doubt about it, you French know how to do things properly.'

It was von Rheinhardt speaking. Charles looked at him, mentally appraising the new Commandant of the district.

Physically he was a fine specimen of Aryan manhood and a far more impressive ambassador of the Third Reich than Buhler, his predecessor. Where Buhler had been a very ordinary-looking man of medium height, von Rheinhardt was tall and powerfully built; where Buhler's hair had been thinning and mouse-coloured, von Rheinhardt's was thick and fair. He was better-looking than Buhler, too, with features that bordered on the handsome. But there was something about him that Charles did not care for, and the mistrust went further than simple dislike for a man whose countrymen had humbled his own. There had been something almost ingratiating about Buhler's manner – which had also irritated in its own way, he had to admit – a strange fawning respect for the aristocracy of the country over which he had power, a desire for acceptance. Von Rheinhardt was quite different. There was an arrogance about him that was apparent in every deceptively lazy moment and Charles recognised it as not only the arrogance of the conqueror. It went deeper than that. Von Rheinhardt, he suspected, came from a priviledged family himself and was in no way awed by the de Savignys. And there was something else that Charles could not quite put his finger on. He thought it might be ruthlessness. The scar did not help, of course, running from the corner of his eye to his mouth and giving him a dangerous look. But it was more than that. There was cruelty in those very blue eyes, a hard line to the set of the mouth.