by Susan Lewis
Now the family had gone too. The night before, Beavis had taken Solange, Céline and Louis to England in a Lysander, which had landed in a field near Angers, bringing in two more British agents. And Lucien had taken Jack Bingham and Monique to Poitiers, where Bertrand Raffault was to arrange their safe passage through France and into Spain. Lucien himself would return in a few days, but he wouldn’t stay long, Lorvoire was too dangerous a place for any of them to stay now. Reprisals for the battle which had raged on the field at Rigny-Ussé – a battle which had claimed the lives of five German soldiers – had been severe. Twenty of the twenty-five Résistants captured had been shot, and God only knew what hell the remaining five were now having to endure. Lucien and Gustave had put it about that he, François, was dead, but it was clear that the Germans didn’t believe it. Why else had they razed the vineyards? Why else had they pasted up reward posters all over the district? If he had believed that the Résistants’ lives would be spared in exchange for his surrender, he would have given himself up long ago, but he knew the Germans only too well – no one was going to be released from the bowels of the Hôtel Boule d’Or, and his family needed him, not only now but in the future, when this bloody war finally came to an end.
He sighed – and then the ghost of a smile crossed his face. It was on this very spot that he had found Claudine, the morning after they were married. He remembered how young she had seemed then, how angry, hurt and confused. Then the harshness returned to his face as he thought of all she had suffered since. All she had suffered because of him.
Until he fell in love with her he had always held himself aloof from the world, believing himself immune to the vagaries of love. Nothing could touch him, he was an island remote in an ocean of humanity, and just like waves lapped at a shore so emotion never stole beyond the surface of his heart. But Claudine had changed all that. She had reached into his heart, shown him that love, the kind of love he had for her, was not a weakness at all, but a strength. She had tamed him, mellowed him, warmed the fires of his soul. She had ignited his passion with love, tempered his fury with laughter. It was as though she had brought summer to a winter-torn land, rain to a desert. He loved her so much. She was the reason he laughed, the reason he raged. He lived for her. And it was the knowledge of how much she loved him in return that would give him the strength to carry on. To accept all that had happened and one day put it behind him.
He closed his eyes and let the faces of his past crowd in. There were so many, but some of them would haunt him maybe until the end of his days. Hortense. Élise. Jacqueline. Jacqueline who, in wanting him, had driven her husband to madness. And that was the greatest mystery of his life. Why had Jacqueline loved him like that? Why had Hortense? Élise? Why, even, had Claudine?
He knew he would never understand it. He had never shown any of them affection, encouragement or concern, yet they had all loved him. Claudine was different, of course, because he had fallen in love with her. But at the beginning, when she had first come to Lorvoire, he had failed to drive her away even though he had treated her to all the vileness he was capable of.
Was it true that no woman could resist a challenge? That not loving them was the surest way to win them? It would seem so. But that did not really explain what had happened to Jacqueline, Hortense and Élise. Why was it that they had all but lost their minds for wanting him?
There were no answers, there was only punishment. The punishment of guilt, confusion and … He threw back his head and gazed up at the sky. He had known during all those weeks when Claudine fought for her life that he would lose her in the end. That God would take her to punish him for what he had done to the others. No one had given up hope, not his mother, not Lucien, not even the doctor – but he, he had known she would go. As he’d held her in his arms and told her over and over how much he loved her, he’d known that in the end she would leave him. But he had never told her that; instead he had made her smile with the awkwardness of his words, and had brought colour to her cheeks when speaking of their love. And he had made her cry because he cried, and now he wondered if he was going to cry forever.
‘I love you, François.’
He heard her voice, and the grief locked in his throat, choking him. ‘I love you too, Claudine,’ he whispered. And closing his eyes, he turned his face to heaven and started to pray. Thank you, he said, over and over. Thank you, Mary Mother of Christ, for the love. Thank you for her beauty, for her strength, her will and determination. Thank you for letting her be mine, for the love in my own heart … He looked down at where she was sitting on the grass at his feet, and as his eyes blurred he added, but thank you most of all for sparing her.
Her pale, tired face was gazing up at him, and he smiled. ‘What are you thinking?’ she said softly.
‘I’m thinking of how merciful God is,’ he answered, reaching out for her hands and pulling her to her feet.
‘For letting me live?’
He nodded.
She looked lovingly into his eyes, then pulled his mouth to hers. ‘You were crying,’ she said.
‘Yes.’ And his mouth tilted in an ironic smile.
She watched him, knowing that it had taken great strength for him to give in to his tears. This wasn’t the first time he had wept, nor would it be the last. What had happened to him, to those he loved, would have broken any other man, and if she had died maybe it would have been the end for him. When she was so ill she had seen the spirit fading in him, dulling his eyes and extinguishing the light in his soul – and it was that that had given her the will to wrest herself from the hands of death. And now she would be there for him always, to soothe his wounds, those terrible internal wounds that were going to take many years to heal. Outwardly there would be no sign of them, and there would be times when he would try to hide them even from her. But she knew him too well – and she knew too that the way to treat him was not only with sympathy and understanding, but with defiance. Which was why now, as he told her that he was sending her to England, she protested.
‘No buts, Claudine,’ he said, smoothing the hair from her face. ‘This war is far from over, and you have stayed too long already. I should have been firm at the outset – I shall not make that mistake again.’
‘I won’t go,’ she said. ‘If you stay to fight on with Lucien, then so do I.’
‘Claudine,’ he said, trying to inject a little menace into his voice.
‘No, I told you before, you don’t frighten me with that tone. Besides, bombs are falling all over England. It’s safer here.’
‘With every German from here to Paris and beyond looking for you?’
‘And for you. So, if you stay, I stay with you.’
‘Don’t think I’m afraid to argue just because you’re not fully recovered,’ he warned. ‘You’ll do as I tell you and that’s final.’
‘No. My mind is made up, I’m not being parted from you.’
His eyes rolled in exasperation. ‘I reminded you once before, on this very hillside, that you promised before God to love, honour and obey me. The first you do admirably, but your efforts on the second and third counts are deplorable. You are going to England.’
‘But my instincts are telling me …’
‘Oh, no, no, no, no!’ he laughed. ‘You’ll be telling me next that the gypsy foresaw this hillside scenario and strongly advised you not to give in.’
‘She did.’
He shook his head. ‘No. I don’t believe it. And even if I did, I wouldn’t listen. You are going to England.’
‘Then so are you.’
‘That’s right.’
‘I won’t argue any more if … What did you say?’
‘I said, that’s right.’
‘Meaning?’
‘That I’m going to England too.’
Her face started to beam. ‘François!’ she cried, throwing her arms around him. ‘So you won’t let us be parted after all?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Then why didn’t you say so
?’
‘Because I love the way your eyes flash when you’re defying me,’ he grinned.
‘Oh, kiss me, François,’ she cried. ‘Kiss me before I hit you.’ It was a long and tender embrace that filled both their hearts with such love that neither wanted to stop. So it was a long time later when she turned in his arms to look down at the valley. He pulled her back to lean against him, resting his chin on her head.
‘We’ll go soon,’ he said. ‘Maybe in a week. Do you think you’ll be up to the journey?’
‘I think so. Will we be following the same route as Jack and Monique?’
‘Yes.’
She pondered quietly for a moment, then said, ‘Do you think anything will come of their relationship?’
‘Yes.’
She tilted her head back to look at him. ‘You seem very certain.’
‘I am. Jack talked to me before they left. The only thing they have to decide is whether they live in France or America.’
‘But Monique is so French, I can’t see her living anywhere else.’
‘She’s in love, Claudine. She’ll live where Jack wants her to live. You see, some wives do obey their husbands.’
‘But most wives don’t have such a tyrant as I have.’
She laughed as he dug her in the ribs, then purred softly as he pulled back her hair to kiss her neck.
‘Will you join de Gaulle when you get to England?’ she asked.
‘Yes. I have a great deal of information that will be extremely valuable to the Allies.’
‘But after the war, when it’s all over, will you stop then?’
‘Do you want me to?’
‘I don’t want you to be in any more danger.’
‘Then I shall stop.’
‘Just like that?’ she said, amazed.
‘Just like that,’ he confirmed.
‘Which means you had already decided to anyway. We’ll come back here though, won’t we? To Lorvoire?’
‘Of course. If we’re all still alive.’
‘Don’t be so gloomy. Do you think you’ll be able to stand doing nothing?’
‘I think so. What about you?’
‘I think so.’
He chuckled. ‘You couldn’t do nothing if your life depended on it. Which is why I have decided that you will run the vineyards.’
‘Me?’ she gasped.
‘Yes, you. You know a great deal already, and while they’re being re-planted we’ll send you to the agricultural college to find out the rest.’
‘And what will you be doing?’
‘Me? I shall be selling the wine, of course. And when I’m not doing that, I shall be sitting in the bosom of my family trying to cope with an overworked wife and over-active children.’
She smiled at the improbable picture he painted, and relaxed against him. ‘I’m glad you’re coming to England,’ she said a few minutes later. ‘It’s easier that way. You see, I really wouldn’t have been parted from you, no matter what you said, but I do think it’s better that I don’t give birth to this baby in a barn.’
His hands, which had been idly stroking her arms, suddenly stopped. Then taking her by the shoulders, he turned her to face him. ‘You mean …? Are you telling me …?’
She nodded.
‘Oh, Claudine,’ he breathed, clasping her in his arms. ‘Claudine, chérie. Why didn’t you tell me before?’
‘Because I only found out a few weeks ago. Doctor Lebrun told me, on one of his visits.’
‘Doctor Lebrun knew? But why didn’t he tell me? All the time he’s been coming to the Abbey to see you …’
‘Because I asked him not to. I was afraid that if I died, you’d see it as a Divine punishment for what had happened to Armand. He had lost his wife and child, you’d have lost yours too. I didn’t want you thinking that way. I didn’t want you to go on blaming yourself for something you could have done nothing to prevent. Jacqueline is dead now, so too is Armand, and we must bury the past with them. You must bury the past. You must let it go, my darling, and stop torturing yourself with all the questions that keep spinning around in your head.
‘I know what you ask yourself, you want to know why those women loved you so much. Well, all I can tell you is that you are different. That there is something in you that sets you apart from other men. I don’t know why that should be, but you must just accept it. God made you the way you are. He gave you the heart of a lion, the mind of Machiavelli, and the face of a devil. But he gave you something else too. He gave you a presence and a power. But it is a power, a presence, a mind and a heart that I love more than any other in the world. And I didn’t want you to suffer any more if I died. I couldn’t bear to think of you tearing yourself apart with guilt. And that’s what you would have done if you’d known that our child had died too.’
‘Oh, Claudine,’ he breathed, taking her face between his hands.
For the moment he couldn’t speak, his heart was too full, but at last he said, ‘Some people believe that love, real love, is experienced by very few, and that to attain that love you must know pain and suffering and heartache. If they are right, if the depth of love is measured by the depth of suffering, you can be in no doubt that what I have for you is a very great love indeed.’
‘No, I am in no doubt,’ Claudine said. ‘No doubt at all. We have suffered, we have loved, we have been happy and we have been sad. And all those things are waiting for us in the future too. I know, when you thought I would die, that you wanted to die too. It was then that I decided I must live. I wanted to live for you, for our children and for all that the future will bring. And I wanted to live so that you could never be in any doubt that what I have for you is a very great love indeed.’
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Copyright © Susan Lewis 1992
Susan Lewis has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work
This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser
First published in Great Britain in 1992 by William Heinemann
First published by Arrow Books in 1998
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 9780099514671
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