by Susan Lewis
François was smoking a cigarette. ‘May I have one?’ she said. It was the first word either of them had spoken since leaving Lorvoire.
She smoked in silence, and it was soon after she had rolled down the window and discarded the last of her cigarette that he turned the car into a dimly lit courtyard, and they came to a halt in front of a rambling old manor house. A coach lamp illuminated the door, and at once a man came out. As they stepped from the car he was smiling a welcome; it was obvious that François was well known to him.
‘Monsieur de Lorvoire,’ he said, shaking François by the hand. ‘And this is your charming wife? I am very pleased to meet you, madame. I am Bertrand Raffault, at your service.’
Claudine started at the word ‘madame’, then smiled as Bertrand brushed his lips over the back of her hand. She looked at François, and wondered if he was even half as apprehensive as she. He was lighting another cigarette, but otherwise showed not the least sign of nervousness and she determined that she would show none either.
Inside, the manor had retained the look of a very old country house. Glad of the small fire burning in the hearth, and admiring the low, beamed ceiling and the wooden settles, Claudine almost failed to hear it when Bertrand told François in a low voice, ‘This message arrived for you about half an hour ago, monsieur.’
‘Thank you.’ François took the folded paper and tucked it into an inside pocket, then picked up a pen to sign the register.
Unable to stop herself, Claudine moved closer to watch what he wrote. François et Claudine de Rassey de Lorvoire. Seeing their names together made her feel strangely lightheaded, and as she put out her hand to steady herself, François moved his own and their fingers touched. Before she could stop herself she had snatched her hand away – but François didn’t seem to notice.
Bertrand ushered them towards the wide, well-trodden staircase. ‘I have, as you requested, monsieur, prepared the Victory Suite.’
‘The Victory Suite?’ Claudine said, suppressing a smile. Surely a rather indecorous name for a honeymoon suite?
‘They are the rooms,’ Bertrand answered, ‘so the legend has it, where the English Black Prince celebrated his victory at the Battle of Poitiers in 1356. Myself, I do not believe that the house is so old, but it is a charming thought, don’t you agree?’
Claudine refrained from answering. As she mounted the stairs she couldn’t help wondering when, and with whom, François had visited this hotel before.
When they reached the first landing, Bertrand walked ahead of them down the corridor to a small black door. Both Claudine and François had to stoop to enter the sparsely furnished sitting-room: low oak beams, a huge fireplace and no windows.
‘If you are cold, madame,’ Bertrand said, ‘I can ask Jacques to light a fire for you.’
‘That won’t be necessary, thank you,’ François answered, standing aside as the valet came into the room with their luggage.
Bertrand glanced at Claudine, then opened a door at the back of the room. ‘Through here you will find the bedroom, madame, and the bathroom is to your right. There is plenty of hot water.’
‘Thank you,’ she smiled. The room was decidedly Spartan, dominated by the high, wide bed with its faded tapestry covers.
‘So now, I will wish you a good night, monsieur et madame,’ Bertrand said. ‘If there is anything you require, then please push the button beside the bed.’
When the door closed behind him, Claudine walked back into the sitting-room, trying to undo the clasp of her bracelet so that she could remove her gloves. She wished her fingers weren’t shaking so badly, but as she continued to fumble with the catch François walked towards her, took her hand and calmly undid it.
‘Thank you,’ she said, half in a whisper.
She pulled off her gloves. Then, as she reached up to take the pin from her hat, she said, ‘Aren’t you going to read your message?’
‘No.’
‘But aren’t you curious to know who it’s from?’
‘I know who it’s from,’ he said, turning to put his hat on the table.
Obviously he had no intention of enlightening her. She decided not to demean herself by asking, and walked back into the bedroom.
‘I imagine,’ he said, following her in, ‘that you would like to use the bathroom for a while.’
She nodded, avoiding his eyes as a warm, prickling sensation crept over her skin.
‘In that case,’ he said, ‘I shall go downstairs to make a telephone call. Perhaps you will be ready for me when I return.’
It was more an instruction than a request, and as he turned to leave the room, Claudine retorted, ‘I’ll do my best.’
‘I expect you will,’ he said lightly, and closed the door behind him.
On legs that were trembling as much with indignation as trepidation Claudine went into the bathroom. After the shabby, dark rooms she had seen so far, its white marble tiles and brightly lit mirrors took her by surprise. She pulled a chair up to the mirror, and after studying her face for several minutes, started to unbutton her jacket.
Twenty minutes later, with her glorious hair cascading about her shoulders and the soft, pale silk of her nightgown clinging to her body, she cast one last glance in the mirror, took a deep breath and unlocked the door.
She thought that maybe François had returned without her hearing, but the bedroom and the sitting-room were empty. She stood beside the bed, staring down at it, but found she couldn’t bring herself to pull back the covers. After a time she wandered over to the window and stood looking out at the darkened courtyard. Then suddenly she squared her shoulders, walked over to the bed and slipped between the cool cotton sheets.
As she lay there in the silence she thought back to that morning – a lifetime ago now – when her desire for François had reached such a pitch that she had wanted to scream with the force of it. It seemed incredible that she could have felt like that when now she was so dreading him. She wondered again who he had come here with before, whether he had made love to another woman in this bed, and the thought inflamed her with a terrible sense of outrage, made her feel used, and unbearably naive. Then it occurred to her that he might be telephoning that woman even now, and though common sense told her that even François wouldn’t do such a thing on his wedding night, she could do nothing to stop the feelings of jealousy that clenched her gut.
He had been gone over an hour by the time she heard the door to the suite creak open. She tensed as she heard him moving about in the next room. Her fury had vanished, and in its place was a choking knot of panic. Then the noises ceased, and she could hear nothing. Long minutes ticked by, and she was just at the point of swallowing her pride and going to find him when the bedroom door opened.
She stared up at him with wide, fearful eyes. She felt almost like a child. But her body was not behaving like a child’s, for beneath his sombre black gaze an exquisite ache was opening in her loins and her nipples were beginning to throb as savagely as her heart.
He regarded her for some time, taking in the honey-soft skin of her shoulders, the slender arms that lay on the covers and the tumbling chaos of her hair on the pillow. Then the corner of his mouth dropped, and tugging at his tie, he closed the door.
She knew she should ask him why he had been so long, demand to know who had sent him a message on the night of their honeymoon, but as he walked over to the bed she found that the paralysis of her limbs had now spread to her tongue.
He removed his jacket as he sat down, and she averted her eyes as he started to unbutton his shirt. But then she felt the bed move as he leaned towards the lamp, and she looked back. The last thing she saw before the room plunged into darkness was his hideous profile: the hooked nose, the thin, contemptuous mouth, and the black, greased hair curling at the nape of his neck.
She listened as he removed the rest of his clothes, then the bed dipped as he got in beside her. They lay quietly for a moment, side by side in the darkness, the space between them so narrow tha
t she could feel the warmth of his arm next to hers. She had no idea what he expected of her now, so she closed her eyes, and in an effort to steady her nerves, started to count her heartbeat. Part of her was longing for his arm to go round her, to hear him tell her that it would be all right, but another part of her was shrinking away from him in terror. The confusion of her feelings was terrible, and suddenly there were tears stinging the backs of her eyes.
She allowed one tear to slide unchecked to the pillow, then, as she raised her hand to stop the next, he moved towards her.
Neither of them spoke, but she could feel his breath on her face as his hands sought the hem of her nightgown. She wondered if she should put her arms about his neck, but then he pushed her nightgown up to her waist and threw back the covers, leaving her exposed to the moonlight.
She squeezed her eyes tight shut and fought the urge to cover herself with her hands. Then she tensed even more as his fingers slid between her legs and began easing them apart.
No, not like this! she heard a voice crying inside her. Please, not like this!
She felt him move over her as he pulled her legs wider, then he held his weight on one arm as he took his penis and ran the tip of it over her moist flesh to the mouth of her womb. Then his shoulders closed over hers and he placed a hand on either side of her.
‘I take it you’re a virgin?’ he said, in a tone of appalling disinterest. ‘Then this might hurt.’
Suddenly, in one almighty surge, the fire returned to her blood, and before he could stop her she had wrenched herself away. ‘How dare you treat me like this!’ she hissed, twisting out from under him. ‘How dare you!’ But as she started to scramble from the bed, he grabbed her and threw her back against the pillows.
‘You have a duty to perform, Claudine,’ he snarled.
‘Stop it!’ she cried, as his hands dragged her legs apart again. ‘Stop! You can’t make me …’
‘Oh, but I can,’ he said. ‘You are my wife now, remember?’ And grabbing her wrists in one hand, he pinned her arms above her head and pushed his legs between hers.
‘No!’ she cried. ‘No! Let me go!’
He pressed his mouth hard against hers, drowning her screams, then using his free hand, he drew her hips towards him and entered her.
The struggle was useless, he was far too strong for her, but nevertheless she managed to wrench her mouth away and sank her teeth into his arm. He only laughed, and squeezing her jaw between his fingers, he turned her face back to his.
‘I warned you, Claudine,’ he snarled, ‘but you wouldn’t listen, would you?’
‘Get off of me!’ she hissed. ‘Get your hands off me!’
‘All in good time,’ he sneered, thrusting himself in and out of her.
‘Let go of me now!’ she seethed. ‘Let go or I’ll scream!’
His only response was to tighten his grip on her jaw and slam into her even harder. She writhed and kicked and scratched, but all to no avail, she was trapped beneath him, there was no escape. She lay rigid, eyes closed, lips compressed and fists clenched. Dimly, she was aware that his breathing had quickened, that he was moving even deeper inside her; then she gasped as her whole being seemed suddenly to turn inside out.
It was as though she was alive with him; she could smell him, feel him, taste him, she was submerged in him. She could hear herself sobbing, then she almost screamed as she felt sensation in her start to build to an excruciating pitch. He took her thighs in his hands and pushed them up so that her legs were around his waist, and she clutched at his shoulders, curled her fingers savagely through his hair, feeling that at any moment she was going to explode. His pumping grew harder and harder, then he was touching her so deep inside, filling her so full of himself that she cried out his name. Then suddenly he withdrew.
Her senses reeled with the shock of it, her whole body screamed in protest. She looked up at him, then recoiled as she saw the sadistic smile that curved his lips.
‘You’re sick!’ she cried, wiping the back of her trembling hand across her mouth. ‘You’re sick, and disgusting!’
‘I gave you what you wanted,’ he replied, as he rolled off her and sat on the edge of the bed.
‘How dare you say that …’
‘I gave you what you wanted,’ he repeated, ‘and you know it.’
‘You raped me!’ she seethed.
‘No,’ he said, standing up as he pulled on his under-shorts. ‘I merely showed you what a ridiculous woman you are.’ He was glaring down at her, a vile expression in his eyes. ‘I warned you not to marry me, but you had to have your own way, didn’t you? And you were prepared to go to any lengths to get it. But have you ever asked yourself why, Claudine? Have you ever stopped to wonder why you were so determined to marry me?’
When she didn’t answer, he gave a harsh laugh. ‘No, I thought not. Then I’ll tell you why. It was because I didn’t want you, and you just couldn’t face up to that. Your pathetic vanity couldn’t accept that there was someone in this world not ready to fall at your feet. That’s why you married me. Well, perhaps you can see now what blinkering yourself to get your own way can bring. Marrying me has changed nothing – I still don’t want you. All I want is an heir, and as my wife you will make it your business to give me one. And now, since I believe I have cleared your head of any false illusions regarding our union, I shall bid you good-night.’
For a long time after the door had closed behind him, Claudine lay on the bed staring sightlessly at the place where he had stood, too stunned even to think. Eventually she became aware of how cold she was, and as she glanced down at the bare skin of her legs, a tiny flicker of life ignited somewhere very deep inside her.
At first she moved slowly, pulling herself from the bed into the bathroom. Once there, she turned on the taps and began to wash herself, with little energy, but a dim hope that she could cleanse herself of his venom. Once or twice she glanced at herself in the mirror, but she barely recognized the ashen face that looked back at her.
Mechanically she lowered the straps of her nightgown and let it fall to the floor. Her nakedness embarrassed her, and she turned from the mirror. Slowly she began to pull on her clothes. Soon, she told herself, the numbness would leave her mind and she would be able to decide what she should do.
She opened her vanity-case and began packing her toiletries. She had no idea how she was going to get out of the hotel, but there was no question that somehow she must. Then she would take a train to Chinon, and from there a taxi to Montvisse. Her father would still be there, he wasn’t leaving for Berlin until the following week. She wouldn’t allow herself to think how he would view her sudden return; once he knew the circumstances, surely he would agree that she had done the right thing?
Closing her vanity-case, she picked up her hat and walked back into the bedroom. From the chink of light under the door she guessed that François was still in the sitting-room, but she couldn’t run the risk of opening the door to find out. She walked over to the window. It was a struggle to get it open, for it was imperative she make no sound, but eventually the heavy wooden frame responded and she pushed it gently upwards until there was enough room for her to climb through.
First she leaned out to see how she was going to get down, knowing that if it was necessary she would jump. But her painfully thudding heart flooded with relief as she saw the rusty fire-escape only a few feet below the windowledge.
Once she was outside, she eased the window closed, then carefully picked her way down the steps to the moonlit courtyard. Now all she had to do was find the railway station – and again she was in luck, for almost at once she saw a sign in the trees opposite, Centre Ville. The station was sure to be somewhere near the centre of the town; not too long a walk, she hoped, because though she doubted that François would go into the bedroom again that night, if he did, there was every chance he would come looking for her.
As she lifted her arm into the light and looked at her watch, she was shivering, and fighting hard aga
inst tears. It was one thirty in the morning, just three and a half hours after she had left Lorvoire. With an overpowering sense of sadness, she realized that her wedding party was probably still going on.
Collecting herself, and trying not to be daunted by the looming shadows of the trees, she walked out into the dark, deserted country road.
At about the time Claudine was leaving the hotel in Poitiers, Beavis and Céline were arriving back at Montvisse. All the way home they had sat silently staring in opposite directions, while Céline’s chauffeur drove them through the night. Both were acutely aware of the dull red stain of Lorvoire wine on the front of Beavis’s shirt. Céline had spilt it just before they left the party, and had been careful to make it look like an accident.
The staff at Montvisse were still up, waiting to attend to Céline’s guests as they returned from the wedding. Céline and Beavis were the first to arrive home; they passed through the hall, bidding the servants good-night, then walked up the stairs together, parting company on the landing outside Céline’s room.
When Céline went inside she found Brigitte dozing in a chair, but the maid managed to pull herself to her feet as she heard the door open.
‘Go to bed, Brigitte,’ Céline said, throwing her purse on the dressing-table.
‘But I must brush your hair, madame, and …’
‘Go to bed, Brigitte,’ Céline repeated.
Had she not been so tired, Brigitte might have been quicker to understand, but as she made to protest again Céline shot her a look, and this time, in no doubt about what was on her mistress’s mind, Brigitte bobbed a swift curtesy and did as she was told.
Céline waited, glancing about the room, pleased with the subtle yellow glow from the lamps beside the bed and the position of the cheval mirror in the corner between two occasional chairs. Then she heard footsteps outside the door. Her heart started to pound and her breathing quickened. She spun round as Beavis walked in, without knocking. When she saw the angry look on his face she turned away, lowering her head as if in shame.