Tower of Shadows (20 page)

fancy was over. Her head throbbed as she walked beside him up to

the chateau, and she was fighting a churning nausea deep within

her. It wasn't the truth awaiting her at the chateau that she feared,

but one much closer to home. She was Gaston de Rochefort's

daughter, and Rohan knew this —had known it when he became

her lover; had known it when they began to plan their lives

together.

The
Baronne's
words came stinging back at her: 'With Rohan, it is

always a matter of business.'

He wanted La Tour Monchauzet. Had wanted it all his life. 'That's

what counts with Rohan—the vines'. Antoinette had told her so

that day in Monpazier. The day she'd shown him the photograph. .

.

But I didn't listen to her, she thought. Because I didn't want to

hear. I preferred to think she was just a jealous bitch. I wanted to

believe that this man —this stranger—had seen me and wanted

me. I needed my own fairy-tale — my own legend —and to see it

come true.
And they both lived happily ever after.

Her throat constricted sharply. She wanted to scream out loud, to

strike at him with her fists for destroying her dream. The nails

scored the palms of her hands as she fought for control.

Because he wouldn't understand, she thought. He would think she

was being totally unreasonable. The French were a practical

nation, they knew the value of land—of inheritance. They made

arrangements accordingly. She was —part of an arrangement. The

plan had been originally for Rohan to marry Antoinette, but

because she was the
Baronne's
niece, not Gaston's, the inheritance

would have been penalised financially by the government. A

daughter — even an illegitimate one—was a much better bargain.

And if she was naive enough to fall in love with him—so much the

better. That way he got it all. And she'd been too stupid, too

besotted to realise — until now.

There were tears inside her, aching inside her chest, scalding her

throat, burning behind her eyes, but she couldn't shed them yet.

This was a separate — a private nightmare. The one awaiting her

at the chateau was far more public, and that was the one she had to

face head-on.

Every light seemed to be glaring from the windows when they

arrived. Rohan took her to a
salon
on the ground floor. The scene

that confronted her was like a tableau from a waxworks, she

thought with faint hysteria as she walked in.

Heloise de Rochefort was crouched in a chair like a small hunted

animal. On one side of her, Antoinette stood like a statue. On the

other, Ernestine kept up a flow of low-voiced chatter, permeated

by sobs. Gaston de Rochefort sat in his wheelchair by the

fireplace. Logs had been kindled in the hearth, and the room held

the faint, acrid tang of woodsmoke.

If she could, Sabine would have turned and run, but Rohan's hand

was on her shoulder, urging her forward gently but firmly.

'My child.' Gaston's voice throbbed with emotion. 'My girl.' His

hands gripped the arms of his chair, levering himself upwards, his

face grim and set with determination. As the room fell suddenly,

tensely silent, he began to walk, to hobble painfully and with

difficulty towards Sabine.

Heloise de Rochefort cried out, and covered her mouth with her

hand.

'Oh, God.' Sabine swung on Rohan. 'Help him. Stop him —he'll

fall —injure himself.'

'No.' Rohan shook his head, an odd smile playing about his mouth.

'That chair was his refuge, his excuse for avoiding life. It has been

for years. But it needed the right impetus to get him out of it.

You've supplied that, Sabine. He's going to be fine now:'

Gaston de Rochefort was panting, his forehead heavily beaded

with sweat when he reached her. But the arms which seized and

held Sabine were strong with no sign of weakness. There were

tears in his eyes.

'Little one.' He almost groaned the words. 'If I had only known —

if only Isabelle could have forced herself to tell me.'

Sabine heard Madame de Rochefort moan faintly.

'I don't understand.' Her voice shook slightly. 'If— if you were

having an affair—you would surely have realised —she would

have said something.'

'No.' Gaston closed his eyes, as if wincing away from some

unbearable memory. 'It was not like that. There was —no affair.'

He paused, drawing breath with an effort. 'May we—sit down?'

Rohan took his arm and guided him to a sofa. Sabine sat down

beside him, both her hands clasped in his. The room was warm,

but she felt cold, as her father's eyes sadly searched her face.

'This is not easy for me,' he said, after a pause. 'I have to speak of

things I wished so often to forget—of my guilt, of my shame.' He

bit his lips. 'I loved your mother always, I think. Even when I was

a child I was entranced by her. Fabien also, of course, but it was

always me that she seemed to prefer — or so I liked to think. My

parents were concerned at our attachment to her, although they

could understand it. She was beautiful, good and innocent too, a

wife any man would have been proud of—unless, of course, he

was a de Rochefort of La Tour Monchauzet. Fabien and I were

expected to marry—well. The daughter of our
maitre de chai
was

not considered in any way suitable. Therefore, as soon as Isabelle

was old enough, it was decided to exploit her aptitude for art by

sending her to Paris—out of harm's way.'

He paused again. 'My father arranged with Hercule to pay for her

training. They were in total agreement that it was the best thing for

both sides that Isabelle should go. It was seen as an act of

prudence. But I never forgot her—and nor did Fabien.

'Time passed, Hercule became ill, and she returned. Both Fabien

and I had become older, harder, perhaps, but she had not changed

at all. From the moment I saw her, I knew that I still loved her, and

that her absence had only deepened my passion.'

There was another small stifled sound from the
Baronne.

He went on as if he'd heard nothing. 'It wasn't long before I

realised that Fabien felt the same too. And he, as a widower, was

free to woo her, to offer himself as her husband. I was —insanely

jealous. I arranged to see Isabelle alone and told her of my

feelings.

'She was deeply shocked, and very angry. She reminded me that I

was a married man—forbade me to approach her or speak to her

again in that way, but at the same time I knew I had made her

think about the old days —the attraction we'd had for each other

which she could not deny. I'd made her question her own heart.'

He shook his head, his mouth twisted. 'Dear God, after that, it was

like a siege. I would not leave her alone. I told myself that I could

not —that I had to make her admit what we both knew—that she

was in love with me, and always had been.

'I persuaded her once or twice to meet me at the ruined tower. It

had always been our special place from childhood. She was always

reluctant, and always implacable. I had a wife. I should not be

pressuring her in this way. She begged me in tears to leave her

alone — to give her some peace.'

'Do you think I'm a fool? That we're all fools?' Heloise de

Rochefort's voice was hoarse —cracked. 'She was your mistress.

Your slut.'

Gaston shook his head. 'You were wrong, my poor Heloise.

Isabelle was guiltless. I was to blame for everything. Even when it

was announced that she and Fabien had become formally engaged

I would not give up my pursuit of her. She had been living here at

the chateau, helping with the children, but she moved down to Les

Hiboux to get away from me. I knew it was because she was afraid

—not just of me, but her own emotions.

'The old attraction couldn't be banished so easily. Their wedding

was getting closer all the time. I was half crazy with desire for her

— terrified of losing her forever. I begged her to meet me one last

time at the tower.' He paused again. 'It was then I told her I would

divorce my wife and marry her.'

The room was hushed. His words fell into the silence like stones.

The Baronne moved once, convulsively, on her chair, then was

still again.

Gaston went on heavily, 'I told her I knew she was in love with

me. She did not deny it. She called it infatuation — an illusion

which could destroy us both. She said that she loved Fabien, and

wanted to be his wife, and build a future with him. She told me, as

she'd done so many times, that happiness could never be created

out of the misery of other people, that Heloise was already jealous

of her and unhappy because of her influence with the children.'

'I hated her,' the
Baronne
said. 'Even my Antoinette was turning to

her rather than me. The doctors told me I would never have a child

of my own. Antoinette was all I had, and I loved her as if she were

my own. She had to love me best in return — only there was

always — always Isabelle.' Her voice rose slightly. 'She had stolen

my husband. I wasn't going to let her take Antoinette too.'

She looked up at the girl beside her. Antoinette was very pale, with

a muscle flickering in her throat, but when her aunt took her hand

she didn't pull away.

After a silence, Heloise went on, 'I knew Gaston was tired of me—

that he wanted to end our marriage — and I couldn't bear it. He

even gave her this.' She tugged the silver medallion from her dress.

'But as he loved her I loved him. I would have done anything to

keep him—anything. . .'

'There was no need.' The
Baron's
voice was very gentle. 'She

rejected me totally.' His voice cracked slightly. 'She said she had

known for some time that she and Fabien could not remain at La

Tour Monchauzet after their marriage — that they had been

talking together about moving away —of going, perhaps, as far as

Australia or California and starting a totally new life. One of the

reasons for Fabien's trip was to investigate various possibilities.'

His voice sank almost to a whisper. 'I went a little mad, I think. All

those years of wanting her, and for nothing. My love — my name

thrown back in my face. I'd always respected her—kept my

distance—until then. . .'

He threw his head back, staring straight ahead of him, his eyes

filled with agony. He said quietly, 'I took her—I—forced her. She

was weeping, pleading, fighting me, but I was obsessed by my

own need. I was strong, very strong then. She was going to be

Fabien's wife, but I would have her first. I could think of nothing

else. Cared for nothing else.' A shudder ran through his entire

frame, and he was silent.

Sabine freed her hands from his, staring at him almost dazedly.

She said in a low voice, 'You loved her—and yet you did —that?

How could you?'

'It's beyond belief, I admit, but it's true, to my eternal sorrow and

shame. It was my first and only time with Isabelle, and the

memory of it has been a shadow across the whole of my life.' A

sigh was torn from him. 'Afterwards — she would not look at me

or speak for a long time. At last, all she would say was, "Fabien

must not know. He must never know".'

He shook his head. 'I never saw her alone again, although I tried

desperately. I thought that now she belonged to me, she could not

marry Fabien.' He gave a bitter laugh. 'And I was right. But I did

not foresee that she would run away from us both — that we

would both lose her forever.' He turned and looked at the slender

woman cowering in her chair. There was compassion in his face.

'At least I now know why she ran away.'

He sat up, squaring his shoulders. 'She took the secret of our child

with her. She couldn't bear any more —the guilt, the hostility, the

confusion, and, of course, the inevitable breach between Fabien

and myself when the truth emerged.

'My poor wife's attempt to scare her into flight must have been the

final straw. To go —to disappear without trace must have seemed

the ideal—the only solution.'

He sighed. "Then Fabien returned. He was devastated, naturally.

He was also suspicious. He asked questions that I didn't want to

hear. Accused me of things I didn't want to face. Dragged answers