Large windows ran the length of each of its four stories, the symmetry broken only by a centre balcony, stone-railed and jutting from the first floor to form an arched roof for the main entrance below.
The surrounding gardens were deeply buried in snow; clipped yew hedges were just visible along the terraces where Sophie glimpsed two giant carriage lamps, their thick stone feet embedded in the squat pillars on which they perched, their sloping iron and glass frames clear of snow. On the far side, extensive woods hid the castle from the main road, wide paths stretching away under thick fir trees that rose to top the roof of the castle.
As the car drove under the archway and stopped before the heavily studded iron door, Sophie sat bemused, stunned by the beauty of the castle and its setting. Inside, the inner door gave on to a panelled hall, where modern sofas and comfortable chairs were grouped round a roaring log fire, windows at the far end giving a glorious view across the gardens and the woods beyond. A woman was waiting to greet her.
'Frau Glaser,' she introduced herself in German. 'I am the housekeeper and welcome you to Schloss Hartog. The Frau Baron asked me to give you her apologies for not greeting you in person. She hopes you will join her for tea when you have rested.'
'Thank you,' Sophie smiled, just as a low growl from behind had her spinning round to see an enormous black dog raise himself from the hearth and move deliberately towards her.
She froze. He looked dangerous and distinctly hostile.
'Here, Boy,' a familiar voice said behind her, and she turned to see Max von Hartog in the doorway. The dog changed direction, and Max leaned down to touch one hand to his collar while he murmured to him softly. Without lifting his head he spoke.
'Just walk towards me, Sophie, quite slowly.' She obeyed instinctively. 'Give me your hand,' he said when she reached him, and a slight quiver shook her at the touch of those firm warm fingers. He placed her hand on the dog's collar, resting it against the powerful neck. 'Say something,' he instructed, 'anything, just to let him hear your voice.'
'Hello,' she said softly, and stroked the short silky hair. 'You are a beauty, aren't you?'
The dog arched his neck and looked up at her. He was truly magnificent. A beautiful wide forehead, white touched with brown, long black ears and a proud lift to the head; intelligent dark eyes now gazed at Sophie with a hard unblinking stare.
'He's a Rottweiler,' Max explained. 'Like the St Bernard dogs, the Rottweilers go back to the Middle Ages when they were highly prized as cattle dogs. Now they're used mainly in police work, because they're quiet, very intelligent and enormously courageous.' He straightened up. 'I had Boy as a puppy and trained him to do mountain rescue work with me.' He paused and added softly, 'How I wished for him the day of the avalanche!'
Hurriedly Sophie turned her head away as she felt the colour rise from her neck.
'But he's dangerous,' Max went on. 'He kills without compunction.' She gasped, and he glanced round at her shocked face. 'You've no need to fear him,' he assured her. 'He's accepted you.'
Her heart was pounding, standing so close to him and listening to his words. He was wearing the traditional Austrian costume, the slim grey trousers with brown wooden buttons and green braiding on the smooth wool of the jacket. On other men Sophie had always considered it too theatrical, as though designed for a musical comedy. But on Max it looked right, casually elegant in the way it fitted across the wide shoulders and fell to his narrow hips.
As though aware of her scrutiny, he turned his head to look at her. She did not flinch, meeting those clear green eyes with a steady regard. And then her breath caught in her throat. The eyes were empty. Bland and expressionless, they were regarding her with disinterested friendliness. In London there had been tension and anger. Emotion had flared and been quickly controlled. But she could find no feeling at all in that curiously blank stare.
Slowly, and with unexpected force, a tight pain seemed to constrict her heart as the hopes she had secretly cherished crumbled and died. Max no longer cared for her. Perhaps Lottie had been wrong, or perhaps his interest had finished in London. His indifference was clearly genuine. She began to shiver, and held herself rigidly to control it. He must not guess at her distress.
'You'll want to rest now,' he said, and released the dog. 'Frau Glaser will show you your room. My grandmother takes tea at four-thirty. Perhaps you could be ready then.'
Sophie was ready and waiting when the knock sounded on her door an hour later. She had bathed and changed into a wool skirt and matching sweater, adding a brilliant green silk scarf to contrast with the soft tobacco-brown of her outfit.
'You had a good flight?' Max asked politely as they walked along the corridor.
'Thank you, yes,' she said, and lapsed into silence.
She was flustered and too preoccupied with her own feelings to take note of her surroundings. Acutely aware of Max and his long fluid stride at her side, she wondered what lay ahead. Until this moment she had not given any thought to what his grandmother might actually want from her.
On the floor below, an elderly woman opened the door to Max's knock. Sturdily built, she had grey hair braided round her head; her pale face was clear of make-up, her brown eyes oddly hostile.
'Hello, Martha. My grandmother up?' asked Max in German, and Sophie wondered who she was. A maid? A companion? Max didn't introduce them.
The sitting-room beyond the hallway was high-ceilinged but surprisingly cosy, with satin curtains at the windows, an open fire and several thick Turkish carpets on the parquet floor. A round mahogany table was surrounded by velvet-upholstered chairs, and several china lamps with pearl-fringed knotted shades stood round the room on occasional tables. The tapestry-lined walls were in muted shades of grey, an inlaid side table covered with photographs in silver frames of all shapes and sizes.
'Grand'mère.' Max moved across the room as an old lady came through a door at the far end. He bent his head to kiss her cheek, and led her to a chair where she settled herself.
'Don't fuss, Max,' she said in German as he hovered and raised her head to look at Sophie still standing inside the door.
'This is Sophie Carter, Grand'mère,' Max said formally, one hand protectively on his grandmother's shoulder. 'My grandmother, Frau Baron Véronique von Hartog.'
Sophie nodded and tried to smile, but her face felt stiff and rigid.
'Come and sit down,' the old lady said in heavily accented English before she looked up at her grandson. 'Thank you, Max, I don't believe we'll need you now.'
He took her hand and bent to kiss it.
'Yes, yes,' she complained, 'there's no need to overdo it.' But she softened the remark by reaching out to caress his cheek lightly with one small hand, her eyes tender on his bent head.
A lump rose in Sophie's throat. They're very close, she thought with sudden envy, sensing the deep understanding between them.
'Sophie.' He bowed politely and she looked up to catch the cool indifference in his glance. The next moment he had gone.
'Tea, I think, Martha,' her hostess ordered, and watched the other woman leave. 'I have to thank you for coming,' she said formally, 'and at considerable inconvenience.'
Sophie lifted her head to find herself being carefully scrutinised. Deliberately she had worn a simple outfit, making no effort to try and appear glamorous. But now she felt self-conscious, and for the first time for many years she wished passionately that she had the looks and wealth to dazzle this woman. The inspection continued, steady eyes probing with a curious intensity, and finally Sophie rallied, looking back at the other woman with equal curiosity.
Had she been asked what she had expected Max's grandmother to be, she would have replied without hesitation: a frail old lady. Instead she was confronted by an indomitable aristocrat. From the top of her white, softly styled hair to the high-heeled buttoned boots, she was unmistakably a lady of the old order. Sitting very straight, her waist tightly corseted, she wore her afternoon tea gown with true elegance, a gold brooch
at her throat, a long rope of even-sized pearls hanging to her waist and a large emerald ring on her right hand. The heavy-lidded eyes were as green as her grandson's and her soft skin was pale and wrinkled. Not beautiful, but a face of strength and character.
Why had she wanted this meeting? What could she possibly hope to gain from it? Her face gave Sophie no clue.
'You speak French?' the Frau Baron asked unexpectedly.
'A little.'
'Me, I am French. The German I detest. It rumbles and has no lightness, no sophistication. My grandson—he has a passion for the English.'
'I will try to follow your French,' offered Sophie.
'No.' She thought for a moment. 'We try the English. And if I mistake, you do not scold, n'est-ce pas?'
Sophie smiled.
'Ah, when you smile, your face—ça change!' She put her head on one side. 'It has the animation.' She paused. 'But beautiful you are not,' she added sadly.
Faintly Sophie blushed. 'No,' she agreed shortly.
'So why, I ask myself, has my beauty-loving grandson chosen you?' She was genuinely perplexed. 'More than ten years I wait. Mon Dieu, how I wait— for the marriage, the children. And the women they come and they go. Some love him, some do not.' She shrugged. 'He has money, a title and a handsome face. For most women it is enough. They ask no more. But always for him it is—pas sérieux. You understand?'
Sophie nodded. The old lady was a real charmer, her small hands emphasising her words, expressions chasing across her face which lifted and shed years as she talked vivaciously.
'Not this one, Grand'mère, he says. Not yet, he says. Be patient. But patience I have had too long.' Her hands stilled and she gripped the arms of her chair, looking directly into Sophie's eyes. 'And now there is you. And for me the waiting is at an end. But you say no. You refuse the marriage. And I want to meet you, to see the woman who can say no to my Max. It is to me incroyable—impossible!'
There was silence when she finished, and Sophie looked down at her clasped hands, curiously at a loss how to deal with this fascinating woman.
'I do not frighten you into excuses,' the older woman went on after a moment. 'Perhaps I begin to see how he might love you—the quiet, the strength. Will you tell me now why you do not wish to marry him?'
Sophie looked up just as the door opened and Martha appeared with tea. She was relieved at the interruption and watched the two women busy with sugar and lemon, cake and biscuits.
'I, too, am obstinate,' the Frau Baron went on as she settled with her cup and Martha left them to sit unobtrusively in a corner with some sewing.
'Obstinate?'
'Oui. I think you are. When you make up the mind, you do not change it, I think.'
'Perhaps', Sophie admitted with a small smile.
'So it is not possible to—how you say—jump into confidence with you?' The old lady stirred her tea, but her lively eyes were on Sophie, searching for reactions. 'We must hope my grandson can persuade you to change that mind.' She smiled broadly. 'If I were betting, it would be on him,' she added, pleased with her own words. 'For the moment you and I will get to know each other.'
Dressing for dinner, Sophie thought back to that short exchange. It seemed Véronique von Hartog had hoped for a beautiful wife for her grandson, but was prepared to settle for what she thought he wanted. She wished Max had told his grandmother exactly what had happened between them in Kitzbühl. That would have avoided misunderstandings and disappointments. That she had rather liked the old lady at their meeting today only added to existing complications.
Absently she looked at her clothes. Before leaving London she had bought two new evening dresses, and she now pulled out the less formal. Hand-sewn in heavy silk jersey with long sleeves and lowered waistline, the dress was a deep rich blue, a striking contrast to the darkness of her hair; the full skirt was flattering to her long legs. Checking her appearance in the full-length mirror, she was conscious of the vanity that had prompted her to buy a dress she couldn't really afford and would have no occasion to wear again. In the expensive London boutique, all she had wanted was for Max to see her wearing it. Only it had been a pointless extravagance. Whatever his grandmother believed, Sophie was convinced of his indifference.
The family dining-room was a surprise. It was neither formal or grand as she had expected. The oval table with its white damask, cut glass and monogrammed silver occupied the centre of the room, graceful rococo chairs grouped round it. In one corner stood a slender ceramic stove, its shimmering lilac colour echoing the faint blue threads in the embroidered tapestries that hung on the walls. Darkened windows, their inside shutters folded back, reflected the lights from a gilded chandelier suspended over the table, and more lights flickered from tall yellow candles at the side of two scrolled baroque mirrors.
As she sat opposite Max, his grandmother between them, the image of the room stared back at Sophie, the three people at the table hazy and insubstantial as a mirage. Max had changed into a dark blue velvet smoking jacket worn with black trousers and a white frilled shirt. He had barely glanced at her as she appeared, his attention on the wine he was pouring into long-stemmed fluted glasses.
A clear vegetable consommé was followed by fillets of sole served with tiny french beans, and Sophie realised that she was hungry. The conversation at table between Max and his grandmother was desultory while the servants came and went. It was not until fruit, coffee and cheese appeared that the servants left them.
'Well, my dear, tomorrow we must plan how to make the most of your stay,' Véronique von Hartog said as she peeled a pear. 'Perhaps we should start with a tour of the plantation, Max. What do you think?'
He looked startled. 'Of course, if Sophie wishes, but there's not really all that much to see. I'm afraid she might be bored.'
'Nonsense. You always take visitors from England to the forests, and they all love it.'
He nodded his agreement. 'It can be arranged whenever convenient.'
'Please,' Sophie intervened. 'I don't wish to cause problems. I'm not here as a tourist, after all. I hope to spend my time with you, madame.'
'And so you shall. We'll have coffee together in the morning. Then we can plan. I love planning,' she said grandly.
'I'd like that.'
'And now, Max, please ring the bell for Martha. It's time I retired.'
'May I help you upstairs?'
'No, thank you, my dear. Martha knows just what to do and I wouldn't dream of taking you away from your coffee.'
Sophie said no more, but she noticed the sudden pallor in the old lady's face and wondered if she was in pain. Martha appeared, and Max helped his grandmother to the door, kissing her goodnight.
'Bonne nuit, mes enfants,' she said with a smile.
Max came back into the room. 'A liqueur?' he asked.
'Not for me, thanks.' Sophie was nervously anxious to be gone. 'I'm rather tired myself. I had an early start this morning. I think I'll follow your grandmother's example and go up to bed.' She rose from the table.
'There's no need to panic,' he drawled. 'I'm not about to pounce on you.'
The colour surged into her face. 'I never imagined you would,' she snapped at him, angry at his presumption.
'Then there's no reason to run away, is there?' he said coolly.
She hesitated, searching for an excuse to leave. He reached for a cigar from a small smoking table and held it up. 'Do you mind?'
She shook her head, and watched him as he lowered his eyes to the flame of the lighter. In the stylish evening clothes, with the candlelight flickering across the handsome face, he seemed suddenly the embodiment of everything in her life that had always been out of reach. How could she have imagined his feelings were more than transitory infatuation? He loved beauty. His grandmother had said so, and she could see evidence of it all round her. With his looks and his heritage he could choose a wife from among the beauties of Europe, a woman from his own familiar world, of impeccable lineage, able to run his home and bear hi
s children. She herself had no place here—as wife or mistress. And she had been a fool, a naive idiot to listen to Lottie. Whatever had been between them was over. And all she felt now was embarrassment that she was here at all, an intruder pushing herself unasked into his life.
Max looked up and caught her eyes on him.
'Why are you here, Sophie?' he asked quietly.
Blindly she turned away. Behind her she heard him move and the next instant he was barring her way, his back to the closed door. She stood still, her head lowered away from him.
'Well?' he demanded softly. 'Do I get an answer?'
'I accepted your grandmother's invitation for a short visit,' she said steadily. 'But I realise now it was a mistake. It would be best if I leave.'
'No.' He reached out to clasp her wrist, his fingers tight on her skin.
'Please. You're hurting me!' He was so close she could hear his breathing and see the flash of anger in his eyes. As she watched, the black of his pupils seemed to enlarge and she looked away from the intensity of his stare. Her legs felt weak and she began to tremble.
Abruptly he released her wrist and reached for her, bending his head to kiss her, a bruising, demanding kiss that opened her lips and thrust savagely into her mouth as he pulled her into the powerful strength of his body. Her head tipped back under the pressure and his lips moved to her throat, swift kisses burning her skin. His hands raked down her back into her waist, his fingers hot and hard through the silk of her dress.
His mouth returned to her face, moving softly along her jaw and up to her eyelids, light caresses that left her aching for more. She was blindingly aware of the desire she was arousing in him and responded instinctively, her arms reaching up to his neck, her lips against the roughness of his jaw. He moved his head to crush her lips under his in a kiss of possession that drained the air from her lungs, his hands reaching down to pull her hard against him, the heated muscles of his body scorching through the barrier of their clothes.
Winter Sunlight Page 11