Darkest Longings

by Susan Lewis

  He approached his father’s desk and took the bunch of keys from his pocket, slid the smallest one into the lock and eased open the bottom drawer which housed the document safe. Then he sat down and turned on the desk lamp. The safe combination was easy to remember, it was his and Lucien’s dates of birth in reverse order.

  In less that five minutes he had everything he had come for. The documents were on the desk, the safe was closed and the drawer locked.

  Now, the only thing left to be dealt with was the gun which was pointing straight at his head …

  He glanced again at the shadow splayed across the wall, then swore under his breath as he sank back in the chair. The man was standing over him. The lamp was between them, so that the man’s face was lost in shadow, but François knew who it was, and his mouth curled in a grim smile as he waited to be recognized.

  ‘Monsieur de Lorvoire!’ Philippe gasped.

  François’ eyes narrowed, and he watched with callous amusement as the footman’s mouth begin to twitch.

  ‘I – I heard a noise, monsieur,’ Philippe stammered, feeling himself break into a cold sweat under that terrible gaze. ‘I didn’t know it was you.’

  ‘You weren’t supposed to.’ He nodded towards the gun.

  Philippe started as he realized he was still pointing it, and his boyishly middle-aged face was white and trembling as he placed it on the desk.

  François stood up, then sweeping the documents into the deep pocket inside his coat, he turned off the lamp.

  Philippe’s heart started to pound as his eyes adjusted to the eerie blue darkness. François’ face was hidden in shadow, but Philippe could see the whites of his eyes and the vicious silvery gash that tore across his cheek. Ordinarily Philippe was a brave man, but faced with such menace he was terrified, not only for his life, but also, he suddenly realized, for his immortal soul. Involuntarily his hand moved to make the sign of the cross, but before he could even begin François had grabbed it and twisted it behind his back.

  ‘God won’t save you!’ he hissed. Then he laughed, a low, demonic sound, and Philippe felt the air around him turn chill. ‘Pick up the gun, Philippe, and return to your room. Forget you have seen me tonight … if you can.’ Again François laughed, and Philippe needed no second bidding. He picked up the gun, and fled from the room.

  Once he was in the hall he stopped, and took a deep breath in an effort to steady his nerves. His fear had been genuine enough, his heart was still thudding like the drums of hell and that diabolical laugh still rang in his ears, but petrified as he was, he could still rejoice in the immense good fortune he’d had to stumble upon François de Lorvoire in the dead of night, stealing documents from his father’s safe. The content of the documents was of no concern to Philippe, nor did it interest him that de Lorvoire obviously didn’t want his family to know he was here. All that concerned him was the fact that, just as his employer had suspected, François de Lorvoire was no longer in Germany. Now all Philippe had to do was to get the information through.

  Having given Philippe enough time to return to his room, François let himself out of the library and started back up the stairs. He’d been in half a mind to dispense with the footman there and then, but since he didn’t present any immediate danger, either to himself or his family, he’d decided not to bother. However, the very moment Philippe looked like becoming a problem, his stay at the château would be cut dramatically short. François liked that ‘dramatically’; given the man’s theatrical background, it was peculiarly appropriate. He allowed himself a quiet chuckle as he considered how Philippe’s employer might respond to the bogus footman’s hasty despatch.

  Dismissing the man from his mind, François made his way back to the nursery landing. Once again he hesitated at Claudine’s door, and this time, instead of walking on, he pushed the door wider and stepped into the moonlit room.

  He walked to the foot of the bed, his hands in his pockets and a heavy frown between his eyes. He looked down at her for some time before allowing himself actually to see her. When he did, the frown deepened as he became aware of his response. Her tousled raven hair tumbled over the pillows, and her sleeping face looked vulnerable in the soft grey light from the window. Her shoulders were bare, and he could see the gentle curve of her breasts beneath the flimsy silk of her nightgown.

  There was no denying her sensuality, and his body craved the release, but even as the thought entered his mind, he discarded it. Quite apart from the need to keep this visit secret, any encounter with his wife meant walking into an emotional minefield … But his need was pressing, which made him wonder how long it was since he had seen Élise. Six weeks – six long weeks since they had lain in her bed and she had told him how all Paris was talking about the success of the Lorvoire wine feast for which Claudine had been responsible. The memory brought a grim smile to François’ face as he recalled how his response had dissolved into a groan when Élise’s succulent mouth closed over his genitals.

  His eyes were now on Claudine’s mouth, and he nearly laughed aloud at the idea of her satisfying him in that way. He wondered then if he had ever kissed her; he couldn’t remember. If anything, that pleased him – he had done everything in his power to make her despise him, and hoped that by now he had succeeded. It would make life a great deal easier if he had, but he had never met a woman of such infuriating tenacity. Under different circumstances he might have admired her for it, for no matter what he did to her, it seemed that nothing would break that intransigent spirit of hers. But since he had learned of the Abwehr’s intention to recruit him, and knowing only too well the methods German Intelligence employed to achieve what they wanted, the dangers and decisions that faced him during the years ahead were such that he could not allow himself the luxury of the kind of wife she so obviously wanted to be.

  What a fool she was, he thought, for not having listened to him at the outset! She could have saved herself so much pain. But he had never done anything to encourage her love, and the responsibility for her suffering must be hers alone. She meant nothing to him, she was there only because his father wanted her to be.

  Not wanting to waste any more time, he turned away from the bed and went back to the landing to recover his shoes. He stopped for a moment, sensing suddenly that the night sounds had changed. But it was only that the rain was lighter now, and raking his fingers quickly through his damp hair, he let himself out into the night.

  As she heard the door to the bridge swing closed, Claudine opened her eyes. She had known he was there. She had been in the nursery, not in bed, when he came out of the forest; she had seen him crossing the bridge from the window, and had run back to her bedroom so he should not find her awake. She had heard him go downstairs, then come up again. She had felt him standing at the end of her bed, watching her, but she had not stirred. She didn’t want him to ask why she had been in the nursery, and she didn’t want to know why he had entered his own home like a burglar. Not that he would have told her, of course, but he would have been angry that she had seen him. And something she couldn’t face just now was François’ anger.

  Ever since the night of the wine feast she had felt as though her life was crumbling to pieces. The confusion and pain she had suffered as a result of François’ indifference was now exacerbated by her feelings for Armand. During her waking hours she could think only of him, and there was little release to be found in sleep, for the dream she had had the night she returned from the café with Lucien, when François had carried her up the stairs to bed, was waiting to taunt her every time she closed her eyes.

  She knew now that the man making love to her in the dream wasn’t François at all, it was Armand. François was only there at the end, looking down at her with contempt, as if warning her that no matter who she made love with, no matter how passionately she wanted them, she would never be rid of him.

  Perhaps the dream would have been easier to bear if she hadn’t spent so many hours asleep. At first when she had taken to her bed, the day
after the wine feast, she had thought she was simply tired after all the exertion. But when she was still sluggish and lifeless after two weeks, Solange had wanted to call in the doctor. Claudine had refused, knowing that there was nothing Doctor Lebrun could do to ease the hurt of Armand’s silence: he had not sent a message, had not even asked how she was, it seemed. But of course he knew, just as she did, that it was madness to think that there could ever be anything between them. So he was avoiding her, just as she was avoiding him.

  For a while it had seemed as if she was avoiding life altogether. She continued to sleep, and was unable to dress herself or even find the energy to speak to her aunt. In the end Solange had called in Doctor Lebrun, and it was then, just over a week ago now, that Claudine had discovered the cause of her lethargy. She was carrying François’ child.

  That was why she had been in the nursery earlier; she went there often now, to think about the future. And that was why she had pretended to be asleep when François came in. She didn’t want to have to tell him, she didn’t want it to be happening at all. She had sworn everyone to secrecy, saying that she wanted to tell him herself – and not on the telephone, but when they were together. But she dreaded telling him, almost as much as she dreaded giving birth, because François had left her in no doubt that if the child was a boy, then their marriage would be at an end. But still she would have to live here, pretend that she was happy, pretend she was fulfilled, when all she wanted in the world …

  She turned her face into the pillow as she thought of Armand, remembered how he had responded to her touch on the night of the wine feast, how she had longed to go to him, to feel his arms around her. But was it really his arms she craved, or did she just want to make François jealous? She laughed bitterly to herself. Nothing she did would ever make François jealous. So why shouldn’t she try to find happiness in the arms of another man? After all, hadn’t he as good as told her to himself?

  It was the second week of the New Year, 1938, and Armand was standing in the chill morning air in front of the wine caves, laughing at something one of his assistants was telling him. Though he hadn’t seen him yet, he knew that François had returned to the château the evening before, just as he knew that Claudine was, at that very moment, standing at the window watching him. If he looked up she would wave, and he would wave back. They did this almost every morning, but today he couldn’t bring himself to do it; he didn’t want to see the heart-rending pretence of happiness in her eyes, and he didn’t want her to see the hunger in his own. This morning, knowing that François was back, he could feel the anger and torment surging through his veins, and knew that if he looked at her he would be in danger of losing control, of doing something he might bitterly regret. And so clapping a hand on Michel’s shoulder, he turned into the cave where she could no longer see him.

  As he disappeared into the darkness, Claudine tore herself from the window, picked up a newspaper and left the room. She abhorred the weakness in her that made her watch him as she did – it was as if she was deliberately intensifying her pain by feasting her eyes on him during the day, so that at night she could lie in her bed and fantasize about him. She didn’t know any more what she loved most about him, whether it was his thick blond hair, his laughing, tender blue eyes, his sensitive mouth or the muscular contours of his body. Or maybe it was that crazy woollen hat he pulled tightly over his head to keep out the cold. Or perhaps what she liked best was picturing him in Liliane’s wonderful kitchen, with its smells, its warmth and its homeliness that must contrast so painfully with the bleakness of his heart. She thought often of the wife and child he had lost, and wished that in some way she could make it up to him. Perhaps if the child she was carrying were his … She tried to imagine what François would say – or do – if she ever told him that, and as the thought intensified her misery her head started to spin.

  When François had returned the night before, it was just as they were finishing dinner. He hadn’t wanted anything himself, and after handing gifts to her, Solange and Monique he had closeted himself in the library with his father. She knew they had had a terrible row; before they lowered their voices she had heard Louis shout something about papers, and François answer that he had had his reasons for taking them. This morning François had not come down for breakfast, and Louis had seemed distracted.

  She had mentioned François’ fleeting visit to no one, and she wasn’t going to ask him about it. She wanted nothing to do with him now, and wished with all her heart that she didn’t have to tell him about the baby. Somehow, when François knew, it would make it all seem real in a way that neither her lethargy nor her expanding waistline had succeeded in doing.

  She let herself quietly into their apartment, and found to her relief that his bedroom door was still firmly closed. But when, an hour later, she came out of her own room wearing the sable coat he had given her the night before, she saw to her dismay that he was in the sitting-room reading the newspaper she had brought up with her. She was going to the beauty salon with Tante Céline. She was early, but she had hoped to get away before she was forced to confront him.

  She stood in the middle of the room, waiting for him to look up, but when he merely continued to read she turned towards the door.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘To the beauty salon,’ she answered, and tucking her purse under her arm, she opened the door.

  ‘When, precisely, Claudine, are you intending to tell me?’

  She stopped as the full impact of his question reached her. He couldn’t know about the baby, he couldn’t possibly, no one would have betrayed her … He was still looking down at the paper. After a moment or two, he turned the page, and without looking up said, ‘Close the door, Claudine.’

  Automatically, she did as he told her.

  ‘I’m still waiting,’ he said a few moments later, and when at last he did look up she felt a spasm of fear at the terrible expression in his eyes. ‘When are you planning to tell me?’ he said again.

  ‘Does it matter, if you already know?’ she snapped.

  ‘Perhaps not. But what does matter is that you have known you were pregnant since the beginning of December and haven’t yet seen fit to inform me. Why?’

  She flinched, but she had no answer to give, and wanting only to get away from those appalling eyes, she started back to the door.

  ‘Is it because you are unsure of the father’s identity?’ he said.

  It was as if he had struck her. She spun round, her face ashen and her eyes flashing with rage. ‘How dare you!’ she hissed.

  His eyes darkened, but his voice remained level as he said, ‘I should like an answer. I should also like the truth.’ He smiled coldly. ‘Do you have the courage for it?’

  She was speechless, and could only stare at him. He actually believed he might not be the father.

  After a while he said, ‘Perhaps it would help you if I were to phrase the question another way. Are you, Claudine, hoping to pass Armand St Jacques’ child off as a de Lorvoire?’

  His tone was so affable that for a moment she felt she was losing her sanity. She opened her mouth to speak, but still the words wouldn’t come. This was a nightmare, it was worse than anything he had put her through before.

  ‘How long have you been lovers?’ he demanded.

  Her head snapped up and her eyes were blazing with hatred as she screamed, ‘We’re not lovers! But don’t think it’s because I don’t want him. I want him more than I’ve ever wanted anyone in my life. And I would have gone to him, I would have left you to rot in your jealousy if this child I’m carrying wasn’t yours.’

  ‘Jealousy?’ he repeated, clearly both surprised and amused.

  ‘Yes! Jealousy! Why else would you accuse me …’

  ‘Claudine,’ he interrupted, ‘I am guilty of a great many feelings towards you, but …’

  ‘Feelings! You don’t have any feelings!’

  ‘… jealousy is not one of them. I’m sorry if that disappoints you, but
it is the truth. Now, is the child mine?’

  ‘Of course it’s yours, damn you! You’re the one who’s been raping me these past months. And for your information, I probably fell pregnant the night we got married. How does that make you feel, to know that your child was conceived in such bitterness?’

  He rubbed a hand over his jaw as he regarded her with evident amusement. ‘If only we’d known at the time,’ he drawled, ‘you might have been spared my rapacious visits in the weeks that followed. But that wasn’t what you wanted, was it?’

  In a flash she was across the room and had dealt a stinging blow to his face. ‘You’re sick! Do you hear me, sick!’

  ‘I hear you, Claudine,’ he answered mildly. ‘But try, for your own sake, never to do that again.’

  ‘Why? Would you hit me back?’ she spat, her eyes glittering. ‘It’s just the kind of thing you would do, isn’t it? Strike a pregnant woman.’

  ‘Don’t think to hide behind your pregnancy, Claudine. If I wanted to strike you, then neither that nor anything else would stop me.’

  ‘What kind of a man are you?’ she cried.

  He stood up, towering over her. She took a step back, but he grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her so close that his mouth was very nearly on hers. ‘The kind of man you want so desperately that you can’t sleep at night for the sheer hell it puts you through.’

  Her eyes blazed into his, and she could feel his fingers digging into her arms. She lifted her hands to push him away, but he caught them and wrenched them behind her, bringing the full length of her body against his.

  ‘Deny it!’ he hissed. ‘Let me hear you tell me it’s not true.’

  She opened her mouth, but her breath locked in her throat as wave after wave of paralysing desire rushed through her.

  ‘Tell me you don’t want me!’ he raged, and clutching her wrists in one hand, he brought the other to her hair and jerked her head back.

  ‘Let me go!’ she cried. ‘François, let me …’ Her words were drowned as he crushed his mouth against hers.