Tower of Shadows (9 page)

She sighed faintly. 'An exquisite child, growing into a beautiful

girl. Unfortunately, she was also one of those women born to be

adored by men. That can often bring more grief than pleasure,

don't you find?'

'It's not something that's ever concerned me particularly,' Sabine

said drily. 'Are you saying that's why my mother ran away from

here—because she was loved too much?'

'She was certainly worshipped by my brother-in-law Fabien,' the

Baronne
said flatly. 'He always did, it seems. But he was

contracted to marry elsewhere —a suitable marriage, and Isabelle

was a dangerous distraction.'

She paused. 'That was why, when she showed promise as an artist,

my mother-in-law arranged for her to be trained in Paris — and

even provided money for the purpose.' She sighed faintly. 'It was

thought — everyone assumed —she would marry in her turn, and

that would be the end of it. But she didn't. And when Hercule

became ill she came back to look after him, and it all began again.

'By this time Fabien was a widower, you understand. After

Hercule died, it was suggested that Isabelle should stay on for a

while —assist with the children. Antoinette was just three.' Her

face softened perceptibly. 'And so spirited. None of the nursemaids

I had engaged were of any use at all. Rohan was older, of course,

but he needed the kind of attention that Fabien could not give him,

although he was devoted to the boy.'

She threw back her head. 'It was a terrible mistake, of course, for

Isabelle to stay —to be close to Fabien again. I —realised that at

once. But it was too late. He had already asked her to marry him.

We protested, naturally, but he was adamant. He had married once

for duty, he told my husband. This time he would make his own

choice.'

'So they were actually engaged?' Sabine queried.

'Yes, but there were problems. Your mother had learned to be

independent in Paris—her own woman. She refused outright to

live here at the chateau. She wanted a house of her own, and she

persuaded Fabien to give her the money to buy Les Hiboux in her

own name. He could refuse her nothing, of course, and she bought

the house. I suppose he thought that when they were married they

would live there together.'

She was silent for a moment, then she said harshly, 'And then she

left—disappeared —without a word — without a trace, only two

weeks before the wedding.'

'So soon?'

The
Baronne
nodded. 'Fabien was not here when she went. He was

on a business trip to California. She had —laid her plans carefully,

it seems. He was inconsolable when he found what she'd done. It

— destroyed him. Nothing was ever the same again.'

'But she couldn't just go, like that. She wasn't a cruel person.'

The
Baronne
shrugged. 'Clearly, she never loved him as he did

her. I sensed that, but it is the same in many relationships. There is

one who loves, and the other who allows that devotion.' She

paused for a moment, biting her lip as if fighting for her

composure.

Sabine was silent too. It was not easy to come to terms with this

view of Isabelle as someone who received love without giving in

return. That wasn't the woman she remembered at all. But the

memory of Hugh Russell's blind, unthinking adoration of her

mother raised doubts in her mind.

I was a child after all, she thought. I saw only what I wanted to.

Isabelle's acquisition of Les Hiboux seemed inexplicable too. It

was an oddly cold-blooded act to coax a large sum of money from

someone she had no intention of marrying to buy a house she

didn't intend to live in.

And why had she secretly kept it all those years, when she didn't

want it? Why hadn't she arranged for the house to be sold so that

Fabien de Rochefort could at least be repaid to some extent?

Because she didn't want to be traced, that was why, she thought.

And negotiations over the sale of a house — signature of the

various contracts would have inevitably revealed her whereabouts.

But surely even having second thoughts about marriage wasn't

enough to prompt that kind of reaction, particularly as Isabelle

must have known she was expecting Fabien's child. Yet she'd been

prepared to chance it, alone and pregnant as she was.

Something must have happened, Sabine told herself. Some

traumatic, terrible thing. And I have to know what that was. I can't

just leave it and walk away. She said quietly, 'If you want me to

explain why my mother acted as she did,
madame,
I can't. I only

recently discovered her connection with this place, and that was by

accident. She—left some things.' She took the wine label from the

envelope, and handed it across. 'This was among them, and that's

why I came here.'

The
Baronne
had retreated behind her mask again, but her lips

tightened as she glanced at the label.

'It was one she designed for our chateau at Fabien's request. A new

label, he said, to mark a new beginning for the
vignoble.
He —

insisted that it be used, even afterwards. The legend of the tower

and the rose,' she added, half to herself.

'And there was also this.' Sabine unfastened the chain round her

neck, and put the medallion gently into the
Baronne's
hand. 'It

obviously belonged to your family, and I'd like to return it.'

The older woman was very still, staring down at it. 'Where did you

get this?'

'I found it. It must have been another gift.'

'Yes.'
Madame
drew a deep breath like a sigh. 'Another gift.' She

opened a small drawer in the pretty rosewood table beside her

chair, dropped the trinket into it, then closed it with a kind of

finality.

Then she looked at Sabine. 'Why have you come here, Miss

Russell? Fabien is dead —your mother also. Why do you want to

probe into old wounds like this? What do you hope to gain?'

Sabine lifted her chin. 'I want the truth,' she said. 'It's that simple.'

The
Baronne
shrugged. 'The truth? Your mother was a silly greedy

girl —a gold-digger who wanted to marry above her station, but

took fright at the last moment, without caring what hurt she

bestowed. That is the truth.'

'I'm sorry,' Sabine said. 'But I don't believe it.'

The
Baronne
leaned forward, her eyes fixed piercingly on Sabine's

face. 'Be advised by me, Miss Russell. Take a little tour in our

beautiful country—sit in the sunshine — drink some wine. But ask

no more questions. Enough harm has been done.'

She looked past Sabine. 'And here comes our tea,' she added, her

face softening into an approach to warmth. 'It is good of you to

save Ernestine the trouble of the stairs,
mon cher.
As you see, I am

entertaining a visitor.'

Sabine sat rigidly upright in her chair. She didn't have to look

round to know who'd entered the room. Every sense, every nerve-

ending in her body was tingling with sudden awareness.

'So I was informed,' Rohan Saint Yves said grimly, as he set down

the tray. 'Ernestine, however, failed to tell me the identity of the

guest. What are you doing here,
mademoiselle?'

'How fierce you are, my dear Rohan,' the
Baronne
intervened,

openly amused. 'I invited her, of course.'

'And I've clearly outstayed my welcome,' Sabine said tightly,

rising from her chair.

Madame
waved an imperious hand. 'No, no, sit down again, and

we will all have tea together. Such a pleasant English custom,' she

added as Sabine reluctantly subsided. 'Miss Russell and I have

been talking over the past.'

Rohan drew up a chair with gilded legs which looked altogether

too fragile for his tall frame.

'It's time that was forgotten in this house,' he said brusquely.

'We've dwelt too much on disaster —and former triumphs too.

Now we should be occupied totally with the future, or we shall risk

being left behind.'

'I gather you've been visiting Monsieur Jerome,'
Madame

remarked with a slight edge to her voice. 'I hope you found him

well?'

Rohan

shrugged.

'He's

getting

impatient,'

he

returned,

enigmatically.

The
Baronne's
gathering frown dispersed almost magically as she

espied a flat be-ribboned box on the tray. 'Macaroons from Saint

Emilion!' she exclaimed. 'My favourites, you dear boy.' She turned

to Sabine. 'These are the best macaroons in the world,

mademoiselle,
made from a centuries-old secret recipe. There is

nothing like them. You must try some.' She paused. 'You have

heard of Saint Emilion, of course.'

Sabine nodded. 'I passed it on the way here from Bordeaux. But I

only associated it with wine.'

'It is a charming village — almost a temple to wine.'
Madame

filled her cup. 'I hope you have time to visit it before you leave.

Cream or lemon, Miss Russell?'

'Lemon, please.' Sabine paused too. 'And I have all the time I need,

madame,'
she added with cool emphasis. Make what you want of

that, she thought, flicking a glance under her lashes at the silent

man lounging opposite her.

'Speaking of wine,' the
Baronne
said, as they sampled the

macaroons, which Sabine found to be crisp on the outside, moist

on the inside, with a delicate, delicious flavour. 'Have you tried our

own Chateau La Tour Monchauzet? Because you must: As the

granddaughter of a great
maitre de chai,
your opinion would be

valued.'

'I doubt that,' Sabine said drily. 'I'm no expert.'

'We are perhaps a little unusual in this region in that we produce

only red wine,' the
Baronne
went on. 'Many of our neighbours in

the Bergerac
vignoble
produce white wine, and often rose too.'

'Which gives them immediately a greater share of the market,'

Rohan put in drily. 'Our wine has been good, but it is not and never

will be one of the great classic vintages of, say, the Bordeaux

region. We should diversify too, and invest, if we wish to survive.

Or we may live to see the vines ploughed up and turned into

orchards as has been happening in other areas.'

'It is your uncle Gaston you have to convince,
mon cher,
not me,'

the
Baronne
said with a shrug.

'As I am already aware,' Rohan replied with a certain curtness. 'At

the moment, it seems impossible to convince him that any kind of

action at all is necessary.'

'Quite impossible this afternoon, at any rate,' said the
Baronne.

'Leon has taken him to Domme.'

Sabine cleared her throat. She had no wish to be drawn even

marginally into any of the other de Rochefort family contentions.

'It's really time I was going,
madame.
Thank you for the tea.'

'It has been my pleasure —Sabine.' The mouth smiled but the blue

eyes were oddly expressionless as the
Baronne
offered her hand.

'Rohan —make sure that Miss Russell samples some of our wine

before she leaves. It may be her only opportunity.'

Sabine groaned inwardly. 'Really, that isn't necessary—' she

began.

'Ah, but I insist for Hercule's sake.'
Madame
cut short the protest.

'Rohan, send Ernestine to me, if you please. I wish to rest now.'

He kissed her hand, his swift glance concerned. 'You shouldn't

disturb yourself like this. There was no need. Is your headache

better?'

'Completely gone, I assure you. And I wished to make amends a

little. We were not gracious yesterday—especially as this child

came so far to find us. I have spent a most interesting afternoon.'

And I'm fascinated to have met you — Tante Heloise. Walking to

the door, Sabine wondered detachedly what the reaction would be

if she voiced her unspoken thought aloud, but decided not to risk

it.

On one of the occasional tables, as she passed, she noticed a large

silver-framed photograph of two young men, presumably the

Baron
and his brother. Apart from their fair hair and strong

features, there was little to label them as twins, she thought,

wondering which was her father, and which her uncle.

It seemed crazy that she couldn't ask outright —