by Susan Lewis
Her question seemed to amuse him. ‘I live here, remember?’
She was in such turmoil that she hardly knew what she was saying, ‘But … the letter. In the letter you said …’
‘You thought I was never coming back?’ he said. ‘So did I. At least, I hoped I wasn’t.’
His words viciously stripped away her panic, leaving her with a raw, aching emptiness. ‘Are you all right?’ she heard herself ask.
‘As you can see,’ he answered. ‘And you? How are you?’
‘I’m well. Louis misses you,’ she added, after a pause.
He looked away, but not before she had seen the quick pain in his eyes.
He knew he should walk into the study now, get away from her before …
‘François …’
He looked up, but the hunted, almost desperate look retreated from her eyes and she only smiled and shrugged awkwardly.
‘You look lovely,’ he remarked, noting that she was wearing the short sable coat he had bought her. ‘But then you always do.’
She watched him take off his hat and put it on the table beside the front door. Then he looked at her again, measuring her with an arrogant smile.
‘If you have an engagement, don’t let me keep you,’ he said abruptly. Then he turned and walked into the study.
How could seven months away from her have done this to him, he wondered angrily. How could that look in her eyes, the one he had seen so many times before, have suddenly now the power to crack the barrier he had always held between them? What was happening to him that he should want so desperately to take her in his arms, when before he had always managed to resist her?
He tensed as the door opened, and felt the anger spring to his lips as he turned to look at her. But when he saw the temper flash in her eyes, his own evaporated, and he relaxed, smiling, against the edge of the desk. This was the Claudine he knew, the Claudine he could handle.
‘Whatever engagement I have can wait,’ she snapped. ‘You owe me an explanation, François, and I want to hear it now.’
He nodded. ‘I take it you are referring to the contents of the letter I sent my father?’
‘Naturally.’
‘Then I think you can be in no doubt …’
‘But how dare you!’ she seethed, slamming the door behind her. ‘How dare you think you could dismiss me like a servant? I am your wife! Louis is your son! Have you no conscience, François?’
‘You need to ask?’ he remarked dryly. ‘And what is all this anger anyway? I thought I’d given you what you wanted. The freedom to marry Armand.’
‘The Catholic church does not permit divorce,’ she cried.
‘But it does permit annulment,’ he said, not without irony.
‘It’s too late for that! We have a son, remember!’
‘Non-consummation is not the only grounds for annulment,’ he answered. ‘And if my father disinherits me, which I have good reason to believe he will in the next few days, I think you will find the Bishop of Touraine sympathetic to your cause.’
She stared at him in horror. He meant it. He did want to be rid of her. Her feelings were in turmoil. She wanted him. God, she wanted him so much … But she wouldn’t think about that now. ‘So you are a traitor?’ she breathed.
‘I’m working with the Germans, yes,’ he said, folding his arms. ‘In fact they have promoted me to the rank of commandant.’
‘No!’ she cried, clasping her hands to her head. ‘No. You can’t! You’re French, your family are French! Haven’t you considered what this will do to them?’
‘I have considered,’ he said, taking a cigarette from the box on the desk and lighting it. ‘But we’re getting away from the point. Which is, that you now have grounds for your annulment, and this time I will do nothing to stand in your way.’
‘I don’t want an annulment!’
She cried out as he suddenly gripped her arm and dragged her towards him. ‘You do!’ he said viciously. ‘Do you hear me? You do!’
She looked up at him, frightened and bewildered. There were tears in her eyes, and as her lips started to tremble he suddenly pushed her away. ‘Go, Claudine,’ he growled. ‘Go back to Armand. I don’t want you. I never have.’
She stood staring at the window, tears rolling down her cheeks. ‘But I want you,’ she said quietly, unable to stop herself.
‘No!’ he roared.
There was a long, long silence. The clock over the mantle ticked away the minutes, and François ground out his cigarette. It was tearing him apart to hurt her like this. But why was this happening now? Why was he allowing her to break down his defences at a time when it was more important than ever that they remain invincible? And why, now, was he so longing to tell her how much he wanted her too? How much he loved her. The words were there in his throat, clamouring to be spoken, but he wouldn’t, he couldn’t, utter them. As von Liebermann himself had pointed out, he was a man who could not allow himself the luxury of love …
And yet, how could he carry on like this? Looking at her now, he saw how straight she held herself, how she averted her head so he could not see her pain, and her courage and dignity wrenched at his heart. He had always known how much she loved him. He had known it, probably, before she knew it herself. But he had hardened his heart, pushed her away – though there were times, so many times, when it had half-killed him to do it. It had never been easy, even at the start, before he loved her, but most difficult of all had been the times when he made love to her, when her exquisite body moved beneath his with such hunger that it was enough to seduce his very soul. But still he had held back, even though her every move, every breath, every murmur, was a source of unbearable torture for him. She was his wife, and he longed for her with an ache that knew no threshold of pain.
And as that ache once again surged through his loins, he closed his eyes and willed her to leave. But still she didn’t move. He wondered how much longer he could hold on. The desire to touch her, to feel her mouth beneath his, was becoming so intense that it was almost beyond his control. Then suddenly his feelings threatened to overpower him. He knew if she didn’t leave now, that very instant, there would be nothing he could do to stop himself pulling her into his arms and crushing her with the full force of his love.
She told herself that soon, any minute now, she would be able to walk away. She must go, and she must not turn back, because if she did she knew she would tell him. She knew that she would be unable to stop herself falling to the floor in front of him and confessing how deeply she loved him. How the need to feel his arms around her was tormenting her beyond endurance. But she would rather die than let him see her like that. And rather die than see the contempt in his eyes as she begged him.
She started to move, and for one terrifying moment felt that she couldn’t. It was as though the tension between them was holding her back, pulling her to him; but taking a breath, she willed herself to try again. She heard him move, and as she felt his hand on her shoulder the breath locked in her throat. His fingers brushed against her neck, and as her head fell back she gave a tortured, choking sob.
He grabbed her into his arms, holding her against him, pressing her face to his neck and breathing the scent of her hair. He could feel her trembling, just as he could feel his own need tearing through him. He lifted her face, and as desire engulfed them he covered her mouth with his.
She clung to him, pushing hard against him, wanting to lose herself in him so that he would never let her go again. Her body shook. She could feel his hands in her hair, his mouth covering her face with kisses, and all she could hear was the agony in his voice as he repeated over and over again, ‘Oh my God, my God, Claudine. I love you. I love you.’ Then his mouth was on hers again, sucking her lips between his own, thrusting his tongue into her mouth.
The telephone behind them started to ring, and there was nothing in the world that could have torn him away from her then – except his fear of Halunke. But as he started to pull away she clung to him, beggin
g him with her eyes to stay with her. He kissed her again, more urgently and more passionately than before, then he gently removed her arms from his neck and turned back to the desk.
He picked up the receiver, his eyes on Claudine as she walked to the window. Instead of von Pappen’s voice, as he had expected, he heard Lucien’s. ‘Yes,’ he said gruffly. ‘Claudine is here.’
She looked up, and the way he was looking at her sent a shock of such commanding hunger through her body that she felt herself start to sway.
‘Yes, Lucien, it is François,’ he said. Then after a pause, ‘I arrived yesterday.’
He said no more after that, listening to his brother, and Claudine watched him, unable to tear her eyes away. Then she saw the blood drain from his face, his knuckles whiten with the tension of his grip, and in his eyes, as he looked back at her, a sudden appalling rage. Her heart leapt into her throat and she started towards him.
‘We’ll be there as soon as we can,’ François said finally, and replaced the receiver.
Already her eyes were wide with terror as she whispered, ‘It’s Louis, isn’t it? I know it. François, what’s happened to him?’
‘Sssh,’ he said sharply. ‘Calm yourself. Louis is all right.’
‘Then what is it? What’s happened? Why are you looking like that?’
‘It’s Papa,’ he answered, dashing a hand savagely through his hair.
‘What about him?’ she cried.
He raised his eyes to hers, and his haunted, murderous face sent a jolt of pure terror searing through her veins. ‘What about him?’ she cried again – then she screamed as he swung round and smashed his fist into the mirror behind him.
‘He’s dead!’ he roared. ‘My father is dead!’
– 23 –
BY THE TIME they arrived at Lorvoire it had been dark for some hours. From where she was sitting in the back of the Citröen, Claudine had watched François throughout the journey, every now and again catching a glimpse of his thunderous face in the mirror as he drove furiously through the night. Before they left she had telephoned Tante Céline to ask her to go to the Ritz for Monique. She would have gone herself, except that she didn’t want to leave François. But as she’d bandaged his hand and they’d waited for Monique, she had watched him withdraw so deeply into himself until he had appeared almost oblivious to her presence.
Absently, she stroked Monique’s hand where it was resting in her lap. She knew from the steady sound of her breathing that she had finally fallen into a doze. She had taken the news badly; as they set out she had become almost hysterical, recalling the last time they had all been in Paris, when her father had stood at the drawing-room window with an arm round Solange, waving her off … To where? She couldn’t remember. All she remembered was that he had been standing there, his kind, smiling face reflecting all the love he felt for his daughter … At that point she had collapsed into Claudine’s arms, and Claudine had stopped trying to persuade François to let her drive.
Now, as he steered the car into the drive of the château, he said in a voice made hoarse by too many cigarettes, ‘I’m sorry. I know how much you loved him. You must be hurting too.’
She was, but that didn’t matter when she could see how brutally he was fighting his own pain. For now she had to be strong, and keep herself together for him, and for … She closed her eyes as she wondered how Solange had taken the news, and she knew that was uppermost in François’ mind too as he pulled the car to a halt outside the front door.
As they got out, Lucien came down the steps to greet them. He took Monique in his arms, then turned to François.
‘How is Maman?’ François asked.
‘She hasn’t cried yet,’ Lucien answered. Then with a sigh he added, ‘I wish she didn’t worry about me so, it’s only that that has stopped her. She feels she has to be strong for me.’
François nodded, then turning to Claudine he took her by the elbow and ushered her into the château.
They found Solange in the semi-darkness of the family room, sitting beside the fire in the deep, worn armchair Louis had always used. Her eyes were wide and staring, and Claudine’s heart turned over as she saw how harshly she was wringing her hands. As they walked in, Doctor Lebrun and Father Pointeau got to their feet, but François ignored them as his mother’s tormented eyes met his. They all heard her choke, then turned away as a heart-rending cry broke from her lips and she stumbled into her son’s arms.
Solange’s body was racked by sobs as François led her from the room, and as the door closed behind them Monique turned to Claudine, burying her face in her hands.
‘Poor Maman!’ she cried. ‘Oh, poor, poor Maman! What is she going to do without him, Claudine? He was her whole life.’
‘Ssh,’ Claudine whispered, putting her arms around her. ‘François will take care of her. So will we.’ She took the glass of brandy Lucien held out, and put it to Monique’s lips. ‘What was it?’ she said quietly, looking at Doctor Lebrun. ‘How did he die?’
‘He had a heart-attack,’ the doctor answered, shaking his head sorrowfully.
‘It could have happened at any time,’ Lucien added. ‘We all knew that. But it still comes as a shock.’
They all looked up as the door opened and Jean-Paul, the butler, came in. ‘Monsieur asks if you will wait to speak to him,’ he said to Doctor Lebrun.
Doctor Lebrun nodded, and Jean-Paul went quietly from the room. Many of the staff had left now, either to join the army or to go to work in the factories, but there was still Arlette, the cook, and the ladies’ maids who would need his comfort that night.
‘I want to go to Maman,’ Monique said, but as she started towards the door Father Pointeau put a hand on her shoulder.
‘Leave her for now,’ he said. ‘She needs to cry, and François is the only one she feels she doesn’t have to be strong for. She’ll sleep soon anyway, the doctor has given her some pills.’
Monique allowed Claudine to lead her to the sofa. Lucien came to sit the other side of her and Claudine held them both as they wept and talked of their memories, laughed, and wept again.
It was long past midnight by the time Claudine and Lucien took Monique up to bed. Then, hugging each other, they parted outside her door and Claudine went up to her apartment.
Despite her tiredness and the dull, distant ache around her heart, she could feel the gnawing pangs of hunger. It was hours since she had had a meal, but she knew that if she tried to eat she would be unable to. François was with Doctor Lebrun now, they had been together for some time but it wasn’t only that which told her there was something odd about Louis’ death, it was the way François himself had reacted to the news.
More than an hour passed before she heard his footsteps on the stairs, and as the door to the sitting-room opened she turned away from the fire to look at him. His anger seemed to have abated, but his pale, scarred face was ravaged with exhaustion.
‘You should have gone to bed,’ he said.
‘I wanted to wait.’
His eyes were blank as they looked into hers, but when she took a step towards him he turned away. ‘Go to bed,’ he said.
‘François,’ she pleaded.
‘No!’ he cried angrily. ‘Just go to bed.’
But she put her arms around him anyway, and to her relief he pulled her against him and buried his face in her neck.
They stood like that for a long time, neither of them speaking or moving. The only sound was the wind outside and the gentle tick of the clock.
‘Come along,’ she said finally. ‘Come to bed.’
As he raised his head she looked up into his face and saw that his eyes were dry and empty.
‘I can’t,’ he said gruffly.
‘But you must, you’re exhausted.’
He shook his head. ‘I mean, I can’t come with you.’ And before she could protest, he pulled away from her, saying, ‘Go to your room. Go now, before …’
‘But François …’
‘No, Cl
audine! I know what you’re going to say, but you must forget what happened between us today. You must put it from your mind, pretend it … Get your annulment, marry Armand. Then get as far away from me as you can, do you hear me? As far away as you can.’
‘No!’ she cried. ‘I can’t pretend that I don’t feel the way I do, and neither can you. We’ve got to stop this, François! You love me, I know you do …’
He put his fingers over her lips. ‘Don’t say any more. Just do as I tell you, Claudine. Please!’ And before she could protest any further, he walked into his room and locked the door behind him.
He knew that it was going to take a great deal more than a mere door to shut her out now, and as he stood in the middle of his darkened room, staring sightlessly down at the bed, he could still feel the softness of her body against his and the raging need to hold her again. But the death of his father had been a cruel and senseless reminder of why he could not give in to the demands of his heart. He still had no way of knowing if Halunke had been responsible, but the timing was too much of a coincidence for him to ignore, despite what Doctor Lebrun had told him. It seemed Louis had been down at the chapel, praying, when his heart went into arrest. There had been no one around to help him, but he had managed to drag himself to the door, where Armand had found him. By then he was already dead.
His one hope now was that Erich had managed to get to him before he died – he simply could not bear the thought of Louis going to his grave in the belief that his eldest son was a traitor. But whether Erich had reached him or not, there was no possibility now of being disinherited. He was already the Comte de Rassey de Lorvoire, and nothing he or anyone else could do would change that.
And that was why, in his heart, he knew that there was more to his father’s death than Doctor Lebrun realized. Halunke was here, he could feel it in his bones. Von Liebermann had sent him as retribution and reminder.
Squeezing his eyes tightly closed, he let his head fall forward. Dear God in heaven, how was a man to choose between his family and his country? He would never dare to risk deceiving the Germans again, not after this. And yet … perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps the death had been as Doctor Lebrun said. As long as there was doubt, there might still be a way …