quiet voice.
He turned, but before he could speak Beavis had taken
his daughter in his arms. ‘Au revoir, cherie? he said, and for
the first time that day Claudine remembered that her father
wouldn’t be there when she returned from Biarritz. For a
moment she was unable to speak, dreading that her tongue
might betray her and announce to everyone present the
sudden terror that had seized her. Then, taking a breath,
she said goodbye to Beavis and turned to Francois. Behind
her she could hear someone crying - she guessed it was
Tante Celine, or perhaps Dissy.
Francois placed a hand under her arm, and without looking
back she walked with him down the steps of the chateau. It was
dark outside, but then the courtyard was flooded with light as
Jean-Paul pulled the switch. The black Citroen was there,
long and low and startlingly sinister. Francois opened the door
for her to get in. With her eyes fixed straight ahead, she passed
him and sat down in the deep leather seat. Then he closed the
door behind her, and seconds later he was sitting beside her,
starting the engine, easing it into gear. They moved slowly off
down the drive. Behind them their families were waving, but
neither of them turned back.
Beavis and Celine stood side by side, watching the tail:
lights until they disappeared from view.
‘Like a lamb to the slaughter,’ Celine murmured,
repeating the words Claudine herself had uttered on these
very steps the first time she had come to Lorvoire.
‘What was that, cherie? Beavis said, slipping an arm
around her.
She looked up into his handsome, smiling face. Then, as
her hand moved over his chest, smoothing the brilliant
white stiffness of his shirt, she remembered that there was
something she had to do, and linking an arm through his,
she started to lead him back into the party. ‘It’s nothing,’ she
said. ‘But I think we need something now to take our minds
off our precious girl, don’t you?’
Beavis’ answering smile was remote; both he and Celine
knew that it was unlikely either of them would be able to put
Claudine out of their minds for long. But they would have to try, for she was no longer only Beavis’ daughter and Celine’s niece. First and foremost, now, she was Francois’ wife.
The drive to Poitiers was long and silent. Francois kept his
eyes on the road ahead as in the darkness shadows and light
swept through the car. After they had been driving for about
an hour, Claudine rested her head against the back of the
seat and closed her eyes. She would never have expected to
be able to sleep at such a time, but she did for a while, and
when she woke she saw they were on the outskirts of a town.
Francois 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 Francois was well known to him.
‘Monsieur de Lorvoire,’ he said, shaking Francois 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 I looked at Francois, and wondered if he was even half as
I 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 I 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
Francois in a low voice, ‘This message arrived for you about
half an hour ago, monsieur.’
‘Thank you.’ Francois 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. Francois 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,
Francois moved his own and their fingers touched. Before
she could stop herself she had snatched her hand away - but
Francois 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,
Francois 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 Francois 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,’ Francois 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 Francois 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 Francois 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
Francois 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 Francois 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 that 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.