Tower of Shadows (22 page)

intervening time with Gaston. But Rohan had not put in so much

as a token appearance . It was almost as if he'd vanished into thin

air. Pride and hurt wouldn't allow her to ask where he was, and

Gaston had volunteered no information, so it had remained a

mystery.

To her shame, she'd postponed her departure to Bordeaux until the

last possible moment, hanging round Les Hiboux, hoping against

hope that he would come there to find her —to say a formal

goodbye at least, even if she could hope for nothing else, she'd

thought achingly.

Even at the airport itself she'd maintained a fantasy that he would

appear from nowhere, and prevent her, somehow, from getting on

the plane. It was pitiful and degrading, and she knew it, but she

couldn't help herself. She wanted — needed him so much, in spite

of everything, that it seemed as if her entire heart and soul were

crying out to him.

If he'd loved her—if he'd cared for her even marginally, he would

have been there, she had told herself, weeping inwardly, as her

flight was called. That he could let her go so easily was the final

damning proof that his interest in her had been prompted by solely

mercenary considerations.

It was the heiress of La Tour Monchauzet that he wanted, she

thought desolately. Well, she wished Antoinette joy of him.

Perhaps the other girl didn't mind being part of a deal over a

vineyard. Maybe having Rohan —being his wife—was enough for

her, and she didn't mind occupying some secondary place in his

affections.

I'd mind, Sabine acknowledged. I'd want all the love he had to

give.

Since her return to England, her existence had been little more

than a living nightmare. Rohan filled her mind, sleeping and

waking. Her spirit wept for him, while her body ached in

deprivation. It was as if she'd been given a glimpse of paradise,

and then had it barred to her forever.

She was a fool, and she knew it. Rohan had tried to exploit her

cynically for his own gain. But not even the acknowledgement of

that could make the pain of losing him go away.

She took the drink Gaston handed her with a brittle smile, and

sipped. He resumed his seat opposite her. 'You are enjoying your

life in England?'

'Very much.' She lifted her chin.

'I am glad.' He saw her sceptical look and lifted a hand. 'I mean it. I

want you to be happy, even if your happiness is not derived from

me, and the heritage I have offered you.'

She stared down at her glass. 'That was never possible—for all

kinds of reasons.'

He sighed. 'You are probably right. All my life I have tried to

manipulate people —bend them to my will. I have learned at last,

and bitterly, that I cannot do this.' He paused. 'But I still wish you

had accepted my invitation to stay here for the wedding, instead of

at a hotel.'

Sabine swallowed. 'It didn't seem right—in the circumstances.'

'I respect your scruples. And you go back to England —when?'

'Immediately after the wedding, I'm afraid. I can't afford to take

any more leave for a while.'

'But later, perhaps, in October at the time of the vintage. You

might return then? It is always a time of celebration. We give a big

party with food and dancing for the grape-pickers and the workers

on the estate. You'd enjoy it.'

Pain lanced through her, and her fingers clenched round her glass.

'I —I can't promise. I —I do have my living to earn.'

She heard the door behind her open, and every muscle tensed.

Gaston said urbanely, 'Ah, Ernestine, have you come to tell us that

our dinner is served?' He used a silver-topped cane to assist him to

the dining-room. 'We shall be dining tête-à-tête tonight,' he

announced, as Sabine's eyes flickered uncomprehendingly over the

two isolated covers laid on the massive dining table. 'Antoinette is

staying with friends in Paris at present.'

'And Rohan?' The question was totally involuntary. She could have

bitten her tongue out for asking it.

'Rohan?' Gaston repeated blandly. 'Why, Rohan has gone back to

the Haut-Medoc. He is at Arrancay with his grandfather.' He

waved her courteously to a chair. '
Bon appetit.'

The bedroom looked beautiful, Sabine thought the following

morning, as she stepped back to regard her handiwork.

The bed was crisply made up with the be-frilled white broderie

anglaise bed-linen which she'd brought specially from England as

her gift to Marie-Christine and Jacques. She'd put bowls of fresh

flowers everywhere, so that their cool scent filled the room. Later,

she would slip back somehow, and put some champagne on ice on

the table beside the bed.

Although the threat of having to meet Rohan had been removed,

the wedding was still going to be an ordeal for her, and she'd been

sorely tempted to plead sudden illness and stay away from the

actual ceremony and celebrations. It wouldn't have been a

downright lie either, she thought wretchedly. She was emotionally

raw and bleeding after all.

Dinner last night had been torture. Gaston had chatted lightly on

every topic under the sun, except the one that was consuming her.

She was almost sure this was quite deliberate. He had volunteered

no more details about Rohan's departure, and she couldn't allow

herself to ask. Stalemate.

She'd been so sure he would still be at La Tour Monchauzet — had

steeled herself to meet him again — which made his absence a

total anticlimax. She tried to feel thankful. Seeing Rohan, even

fleetingly in a crowd, would simply have caused her more pain,

especially at a wedding with all its attendant might-have-beens,

she told herself forcefully.

But that was nothing to the agony of never seeing him again, her

heart replied despairingly.

As she turned away, she caught a glimpse of herself in the

bedroom mirror, and paused to take a longer, critical look. She'd

been slender before. Now she was positively skinny, a fact which

the dark red silky dress with its cross-over bodice and wrap-around

skirt did little to conceal. A sleepless night had added to her pallor

and the haunted look in her eyes. She'd hoped the dress could give

her some colour. She'd chosen it for that reason —and because it

was the colour of wine. The '86 vintage, she thought.

She put the key to Les Hiboux under a stone on the terrace as

arranged, and drove to the
mairie.
The farms and houses around La

Tour Monchauzet had all festooned their fences, walls and hedges

with garlands of paper flowers in pastel colours. The road into

town was bright with them.

This, Gaston had told her last night, was a local custom which

indicated the popularity of the bride in the community. Marie-

Christine must be riding high in local esteem, Sabine thought as

she parked her car in the square, and walked up the steps to the

mairie
with the other guests.

Marie-Christine was beautiful in her billowing gown, and both she

and Jacques looked almost incandescent with happiness.

Sabine had expected the civil ceremony conducted by the mayor to

be a formal, rather bureaucratic business, but it was very much a

family affair, celebrated among neighbours who had known the

bride and groom since birth.

It was followed by a lunch party at a local restaurant where the

tables had been placed outside in the cobbled square. A superb

pate de foie gras
with truffles was served first, and the main course

was
confit de canard —
duck crisp and succulent from having been

preserved in its own fat. Then the entire party walked to the parish

church for the religious ceremony.

Sabine found Monique at her side. The older woman squeezed her

arm. 'It is good to see you again. But what has happened to you?'

She tutted. 'You need good food, wine and sunshine to put the

roses back into your face. And love, of course,' she added archly.

'We shall celebrate your wedding next, I suppose.'

Sabine forced a smile. 'That's —not very likely.'

'No?' Monique looked genuinely astonished. 'But I do not

understand. When Rohan left as he did, we thought—we all

assumed that he had gone to prepare your home together at

Arrancay.' She stopped, biting her lip. 'Clearly, we were all

mistaken. I am desolate.'

She sighed. 'But then, it is never prudent to settle the affairs of

others.'

'Now I don't understand,' Sabine said, after a startled silence. 'Are

you saying that Rohan has left La Tour Monchauzet for good —

gone back to Arrancay — to live?'

'But of course. That was his intention from the first. It is his

heritage, after all.'

'But I thought he wanted La Tour Monchauzet.'

Monique shrugged. 'It is a valuable property, and he was needed

there while
Monsieur le Baron
was infirm and Jacques was

learning to make wine,' she returned. 'But it cannot compare with

Arrancay. A truly great vineyard,' she added with a respectful nod.

'Rohan felt for a long time — a tug of loyalty between his

grandfather, and the de Rochefort family. They exerted much

pressure on him to persuade him to stay. But since this sudden,

amazing improvement in the
Baron's
health there was no reason

for him to remain.

'Rohan obviously felt he could make plans for his own future, at

last. Especially now that his grandfather is no longer as robust as

he once was, and needs him at Arrancay.'

She shot Sabine a swift, shrewd look. 'This is a small community,

you comprehend. There has been—much talk, naturally about the

—changes at the chateau.'

'Naturally,' Sabine agreed in a hollow tone, her mind whirling.

The church was old, dark and redolent of the incense of centuries.

Statues of unknown saints looked gravely down from their alcoves

as Jacques and Marie-Christine knelt reverently before the altar.

Sabine tried to concentrate on the intricacies of the unfamiliar

service, but all she could think of was Rohan. Rohan at Arrancay.

Rohan, contrary to everything she'd been led to believe, turning his

back on La Tour Monchauzet.

What could it all mean? she wondered frantically. Her father had

spoken sadly about his ultimate failure to manipulate people to his

own ends. Was it Rohan he had meant?

I was so ready to think the worst of him, she wailed inwardly. I

never gave him a chance to explain—to tell me his side of things.

We should have talked together— hammered the whole situation

out. Instead, I listened to Madame de Rochefort and Antoinette, of

all people. I was jealous and confused, so I let them twist me up

distort everything. What kind of love—what kind of trust was that?

And now he's gone, and I've lost him forever, just as I deserve.

When the ceremony was over, Sabine slipped away from the

congratulations and laughter, and the clicking cameras outside the

church, and drove back to Les Hiboux.

She needed desperately to be alone for a little while—to think. The

house seemed to put comforting arms around her, as she wandered

from room to room. But she couldn't bear to go back into the

bedroom, with all its bitter-sweet memories, so she left the ice

bucket with the champagne in the
salon.

He seemed to be in every room with her. She heard the murmur of

his voice, the whisper of the laughter they'd shared, experienced

again the warmth of his arms which had held her with such

tenderness and passion.

The urge to get in the car and drive to Arrancay, wherever that

was, tempted her almost overwhelmingly, but she suppressed it.

She had no reason, after all, to believe Rohan might welcome her

reappearance in his life.

She had dismissed him quite brutally, relegating him to the status

of a passing fancy, or less. She'd even told him to take La Tour

Monchauzet and Antoinette with it, she recalled, wincing.

Rohan was a proud man. How could he forgive or forget such a

slight? He'd probably dismissed her altogether by now as fickle,

shallow and all too easily swayed by other people. He had his own

life —the life he'd offered her. There was no place for her in that

life now.

She would sell Les Hiboux, she thought. When the wedding was

over, she would talk to Monique, place the transaction in her