Tower of Shadows (19 page)

startled flight, its wings almost brushing her, and Sabine jumped

back against the wall, her heart hammering.

The floorboards in the centre of the room had clearly rotted,

leaving gaping holes in places, and she edged her way round the

perimeter, keeping the wall at her back all the time. The windows

up here were waist-high, but very deep, and she found that by

lifting herself up into the actual narrow embrasure, and leaning

precariously forward, she could get a limited view of the clearing

below. But it appeared totally deserted, she acknowledged with a

sigh. Devoid of either anxious friends, or triumphant adversaries.

As she was about to wriggle back into the room, the faint scent of

the climbing rose came to her nostrils, and she sniffed it

appreciatively, then paused, remembering the legend. It had

worked for that other Sabine, she thought. So it was worth a try, at

least.

She took a deep breath and leaned out further, groping for the

nearest bloom, closing her eyes to the drop beneath her. The rose

didn't give up without a struggle. It had thorns like daggers, Sabine

discovered, wincing with the pain of her torn fingers. Well, if all

else failed, she could always bleed out of the window, she thought,

with a mordant shrug.

Eventually she managed to pick three blooms. She held them for a

moment, inhaling their perfume. She whispered, 'Help him to find

me—please,' then threw them down, one at a time, into the

gathering shadows. It was impossible to see where they'd landed,

so all she could do was hope.

She retreated back downstairs, and climbed on to the mildewed

sofa, hugging her knees up to her chin. And waited.

In spite of her discomfort, she must have dozed off, because she

found herself sitting up with a start, all her senses suddenly alerted

by the sound of a key, the creak of a hinge. Her throat constricted

in passionate relief. Rohan had come. She'd been found at last.

She began to say, 'Thank God. . .' then halted, as the door swung

open and she saw a figure momentarily silhouetted against the pale

evening light. Into the shadows of the room came the beam of a

powerful flashlight, and she flung up a hand to shield her eyes

from its glare.

But the shaft of light didn't waver. It stayed on her, pinning her

down mercilessly, like a fly trapped in amber. And from

somewhere behind it she heard once more the menacing whisper,

'Isabelle's daughter.'

Only this time she recognised the voice.

She uncurled herself, and got to her feet, grimacing slightly at the

pain in her cramped muscles. She said quietly, 'Good evening,

Madame la Baronne.
May I ask the meaning of all this?'

There was a silence, then Heloise de Rochefort said, her voice

grating, 'You cannot stay here. You should never have come. You

must go away—to England — tonight.'

'Why should I do that?' Sabine kept her own tone level.

'Because you're not wanted here.' The intensity deepened in the old

woman's voice. 'When you came, you ruined everything. The same

story repeated all over again. I saw the way Rohan looked at you. I

knew what it meant. You had come—Isabelle's daughter— to steal

another woman's man, as your mother did before you.' She gave a

little harsh laugh.

'I followed you both the way I used to-do so many years ago. I saw

you together. But I won't allow you to take Rohan. I stopped your

mother all those years ago, and I shall stop you now.'

Sabine was very still. She said quietly, 'What do you mean?'

'Antoinette is to marry Rohan. It's what I planned for her—what

I've dreamed of for her all these years. Nothing and no one is

going to get in the way of that dream. We had no children of our

own,' the
Baronne
almost choked on the words, 'but there was

always Antoinette, my beautiful, radiant Antoinette, dearer to me

than any daughter could have been. Rohan belongs to her. So does

the vineyard — everything, Gaston was on the point of making her

his heir. Until you came.' She drew a hissing breath.

'When I saw you at the side of the road, it was as if a nightmare

had come true. For a moment —ah,
Dieu!—
I thought it was

Isabelle herself, who had dared to return.'

It was eerie listening to this voice, one moment high and

hysterical, sibilant as a snake's the next, issuing from the shadows

as if directed down that merciless beam of light. Sabine could see

the
Baronne's
figure, rigid and unyielding, blocking the doorway.

But for the heavy torch in the older woman's hand she might have

been tempted to make a dash for it. In the circumstances, she

supposed wryly, it was safer to stay where she was. It was also

important to remain calm, and not reveal how unnerving she found

this confrontation.

She said quietly, 'It's no business of mine who inherits La Tour

Monchauzet,
madame,
unless you think I have some prior claim

through Monsieur Fabien. But I swear to you that's not something I

intend to pursue.'

The
Baronne
laughed harshly. 'Are you really still so naive,

mademoiselle
? Even if you genuinely wished to forgo your claim,

do you think Rohan would allow it? What a romantic notion you

must have of him.'

'We've fallen in love with each other,' Sabine said quietly. 'It

wasn't something either of us expected, perhaps. . .'

'Oh, there was no question that Rohan would want you—once he

realised who you were. And he knows. He had an interview with

my husband this afternoon. I listened at the door. He knows

everything.'

'Then he's much wiser than I am,' Sabine returned wearily. 'I don't

understand any of this.' She took a deep breath. 'However, you

must be aware,
madame,
that Rohan has never —cared for

Antoinette in that way. You can't want her to marry someone who

doesn't love her in return.'

'She wants him. That is enough. Sometimes in life it has to be

enough.' The
Baronne's
voice was brittle. 'And Rohan has always

wanted La Tour Monchauzet.

He would have taken her to make it his own, just as he is now

taking you.'

Sabine's head lifted sharply. 'What do you mean?'

'Are you really such a fool? Of course, with you he has to

pretend—to play the lover. He was with you last night, wasn't he?

I saw him return this morning, so pleased with himself.'

Warm blood stung Sabine's face. 'I think that's our business.'

'Oh, yes,' the
Baronne
said bitterly. 'With Rohan, it is always a

matter of business. Or did he really make you believe he had

developed some sudden, overwhelming passion for you?'

It was like being on stage in a spotlight, which revealed every

minor action and reaction. Sabine did her best not to flinch from

the contempt in
madame's
voice as well as the implications of

what she was saying. But there was a sour taste in her throat

suddenly. She thought, I don't want to hear any more of this.

Aloud, she said coolly, 'I don't think this conversation is getting us

anywhere,
madame.
And I'm still waiting for you to explain why

you locked me in here.'

'So that you would go, just as she did, and never come back.' The

older woman's tone was almost matter-of-fact.

Sabine caught her breath. 'Are you saying you locked my mother

in here?' she demanded.

She saw the poised head nod slightly. 'Of course. But in her case I

was able to leave her in here much longer, Fabien was away, and

Gaston had gone to Bordeaux on business, so there was no one to

raise the alarm.'

She paused. 'I talked to her through the door, I told her that I

wouldn't allow her to take him from me. That I would do

anything—anything to keep him.' Her voice deepened in intensity

for a moment, then became reflective. 'At first, she argued. She

didn't realise, you see, that I had followed them, that I had seen

them here together—and knew what they were planning.

'She was frightened then, and so, in the end, she agreed to do what

I wanted, and leave La Tour Monchauzet forever.'

She's mad. The chilling thought struck Sabine to the bone. She said

carefully, 'You—wanted Fabien yourself,
madame?'

The torch beam jerked suddenly as the
Baronne
moved her hand in

an irritable gesture of negation.

'Fabien? What foolishness is this? It was never Fabien. That was

just a pretence to cover up her real
affaire.
No, Isabelle's lover was

Gaston—my husband. And he was the father of her bastard child.'

Sabine's gasp seemed torn out of her throat. 'No, it can't be true.'

'Ah, but it is,' Rohan said quietly. 'Your father is waiting at the

chateau to greet you as his daughter, Sabine.'

Neither of them had heard his approach. The
Baronne
cried out

hoarsely, and turned, the beam of light dipping and wavering like

some live and frightened creature seeking sanctuary, as Rohan

took the torch from her hand. He said very gently, 'It's all over,

Tante Heloise. There's nothing more you can do.' He called over

his shoulder, 'Jacques—come and help
madame.'

Heloise de Rochefort stood very still for a moment, then she

covered her face with her hands and began to cry in great, gusty,

choking sobs. It was one of the worst sounds Sabine had ever

heard.

Jacques appeared in the doorway. He said respectfully, '
Madame
,'

and offered her his arm. 'You should go home and rest a little now.

Ernestine—everyone has been concerned about you.'

For a moment it seemed as if she would pull away from him, then

she nodded, and, still weeping, allowed herself to be led away.

Rohan came to Sabine's side. 'You're all right.' It was a statement

rather than a question.

'I —suppose so.' Her voice sounded strained. 'I just feel — stunned

— and so terribly cold.'

He slipped off his jacket and put it round her shoulders. 'I did not

want you to find out like this,' he said, more gently. 'I planned to

tell you myself.' He paused. 'How did she get you here?'

'I found a note at the house. I thought it was from you.' She drew a

shuddering breath. 'She locked my mother in here years ago —

threatened her. That's why she ran away.'

'It wasn't just that. There were other factors. The child she was

having, for example. Obviously, she could not bear to hurt Fabien

with the truth.'

Her lips felt stiff. 'How —how long have you known — that the

Baron
was my father?'

'I knew for certain when you showed me that photograph, and I

realised it was Gaston, not Fabien whose picture she had kept all

those years. This afternoon I confronted him with my suspicions,

and he admitted everything. I think it was almost a relief to him —

after all this time.' He was silent for a moment. 'It is a painful

story. Some aspects of it may shock you.'

'I don't think I can handle any more shocks,' she said with taut

bitterness. 'It's bad enough just knowing that Isabelle was having

an affair with a married man while she was supposed to be

engaged to his brother. I feel as if the woman I loved and looked

up to never existed.'

'Talk to your father before you judge her too harshly,' he said.

'Do I have to? I feel as if I just want to leave this place —and

never see it —or anyone here ever again.' She didn't look at him as

she said this.

'I'm afraid it is essential,' he said. 'You were the one after all who

wanted the truth. You can't avoid it now, even if it isn't the clean,

pure vindication that you desired.'

'No.' She fought down a sob. 'How —how did you know where to

find me?'

'I was on my way down to Les Hiboux when I saw a light in the

trees. Jacques caught up with me to say that Tante Heloise, who'd

gone to her room with a supposed migraine, had disappeared too,

and Ernestine was having hysterics.' He paused. 'Then I saw these.'

For the first time, she saw he was holding the roses she'd thrown

from the window, and he handed them to her. She looked down at

them expressionlessly. They were crushed — almost lifeless, but

the thorns were still sharp.

As he turned to close the door of the tower behind them, she let

them fall to the ground again. The legend—the romantic flight of