Authors: Sara Craven
intervening time with Gaston. But Rohan had not put in so much
as a token appearance . It was almost as if he'd vanished into thin
air. Pride and hurt wouldn't allow her to ask where he was, and
Gaston had volunteered no information, so it had remained a
mystery.
To her shame, she'd postponed her departure to Bordeaux until the
last possible moment, hanging round Les Hiboux, hoping against
hope that he would come there to find her —to say a formal
goodbye at least, even if she could hope for nothing else, she'd
thought achingly.
Even at the airport itself she'd maintained a fantasy that he would
appear from nowhere, and prevent her, somehow, from getting on
the plane. It was pitiful and degrading, and she knew it, but she
couldn't help herself. She wanted — needed him so much, in spite
of everything, that it seemed as if her entire heart and soul were
crying out to him.
If he'd loved her—if he'd cared for her even marginally, he would
have been there, she had told herself, weeping inwardly, as her
flight was called. That he could let her go so easily was the final
damning proof that his interest in her had been prompted by solely
mercenary considerations.
It was the heiress of La Tour Monchauzet that he wanted, she
thought desolately. Well, she wished Antoinette joy of him.
Perhaps the other girl didn't mind being part of a deal over a
vineyard. Maybe having Rohan —being his wife—was enough for
her, and she didn't mind occupying some secondary place in his
affections.
I'd mind, Sabine acknowledged. I'd want all the love he had to
give.
Since her return to England, her existence had been little more
than a living nightmare. Rohan filled her mind, sleeping and
waking. Her spirit wept for him, while her body ached in
deprivation. It was as if she'd been given a glimpse of paradise,
and then had it barred to her forever.
She was a fool, and she knew it. Rohan had tried to exploit her
cynically for his own gain. But not even the acknowledgement of
that could make the pain of losing him go away.
She took the drink Gaston handed her with a brittle smile, and
sipped. He resumed his seat opposite her. 'You are enjoying your
life in England?'
'Very much.' She lifted her chin.
'I am glad.' He saw her sceptical look and lifted a hand. 'I mean it. I
want you to be happy, even if your happiness is not derived from
me, and the heritage I have offered you.'
She stared down at her glass. 'That was never possible—for all
kinds of reasons.'
He sighed. 'You are probably right. All my life I have tried to
manipulate people —bend them to my will. I have learned at last,
and bitterly, that I cannot do this.' He paused. 'But I still wish you
had accepted my invitation to stay here for the wedding, instead of
at a hotel.'
Sabine swallowed. 'It didn't seem right—in the circumstances.'
'I respect your scruples. And you go back to England —when?'
'Immediately after the wedding, I'm afraid. I can't afford to take
any more leave for a while.'
'But later, perhaps, in October at the time of the vintage. You
might return then? It is always a time of celebration. We give a big
party with food and dancing for the grape-pickers and the workers
on the estate. You'd enjoy it.'
Pain lanced through her, and her fingers clenched round her glass.
'I —I can't promise. I —I do have my living to earn.'
She heard the door behind her open, and every muscle tensed.
Gaston said urbanely, 'Ah, Ernestine, have you come to tell us that
our dinner is served?' He used a silver-topped cane to assist him to
the dining-room. 'We shall be dining tête-à-tête tonight,' he
announced, as Sabine's eyes flickered uncomprehendingly over the
two isolated covers laid on the massive dining table. 'Antoinette is
staying with friends in Paris at present.'
'And Rohan?' The question was totally involuntary. She could have
bitten her tongue out for asking it.
'Rohan?' Gaston repeated blandly. 'Why, Rohan has gone back to
the Haut-Medoc. He is at Arrancay with his grandfather.' He
waved her courteously to a chair. '
Bon appetit.'
The bedroom looked beautiful, Sabine thought the following
morning, as she stepped back to regard her handiwork.
The bed was crisply made up with the be-frilled white broderie
anglaise bed-linen which she'd brought specially from England as
her gift to Marie-Christine and Jacques. She'd put bowls of fresh
flowers everywhere, so that their cool scent filled the room. Later,
she would slip back somehow, and put some champagne on ice on
the table beside the bed.
Although the threat of having to meet Rohan had been removed,
the wedding was still going to be an ordeal for her, and she'd been
sorely tempted to plead sudden illness and stay away from the
actual ceremony and celebrations. It wouldn't have been a
downright lie either, she thought wretchedly. She was emotionally
raw and bleeding after all.
Dinner last night had been torture. Gaston had chatted lightly on
every topic under the sun, except the one that was consuming her.
She was almost sure this was quite deliberate. He had volunteered
no more details about Rohan's departure, and she couldn't allow
herself to ask. Stalemate.
She'd been so sure he would still be at La Tour Monchauzet — had
steeled herself to meet him again — which made his absence a
total anticlimax. She tried to feel thankful. Seeing Rohan, even
fleetingly in a crowd, would simply have caused her more pain,
especially at a wedding with all its attendant might-have-beens,
she told herself forcefully.
But that was nothing to the agony of never seeing him again, her
heart replied despairingly.
As she turned away, she caught a glimpse of herself in the
bedroom mirror, and paused to take a longer, critical look. She'd
been slender before. Now she was positively skinny, a fact which
the dark red silky dress with its cross-over bodice and wrap-around
skirt did little to conceal. A sleepless night had added to her pallor
and the haunted look in her eyes. She'd hoped the dress could give
her some colour. She'd chosen it for that reason —and because it
was the colour of wine. The '86 vintage, she thought.
She put the key to Les Hiboux under a stone on the terrace as
arranged, and drove to the
mairie.
The farms and houses around La
Tour Monchauzet had all festooned their fences, walls and hedges
with garlands of paper flowers in pastel colours. The road into
town was bright with them.
This, Gaston had told her last night, was a local custom which
indicated the popularity of the bride in the community. Marie-
Christine must be riding high in local esteem, Sabine thought as
she parked her car in the square, and walked up the steps to the
mairie
with the other guests.
Marie-Christine was beautiful in her billowing gown, and both she
and Jacques looked almost incandescent with happiness.
Sabine had expected the civil ceremony conducted by the mayor to
be a formal, rather bureaucratic business, but it was very much a
family affair, celebrated among neighbours who had known the
bride and groom since birth.
It was followed by a lunch party at a local restaurant where the
tables had been placed outside in the cobbled square. A superb
pate de foie gras
with truffles was served first, and the main course
was
confit de canard —
duck crisp and succulent from having been
preserved in its own fat. Then the entire party walked to the parish
church for the religious ceremony.
Sabine found Monique at her side. The older woman squeezed her
arm. 'It is good to see you again. But what has happened to you?'
She tutted. 'You need good food, wine and sunshine to put the
roses back into your face. And love, of course,' she added archly.
'We shall celebrate your wedding next, I suppose.'
Sabine forced a smile. 'That's —not very likely.'
'No?' Monique looked genuinely astonished. 'But I do not
understand. When Rohan left as he did, we thought—we all
assumed that he had gone to prepare your home together at
Arrancay.' She stopped, biting her lip. 'Clearly, we were all
mistaken. I am desolate.'
She sighed. 'But then, it is never prudent to settle the affairs of
others.'
'Now I don't understand,' Sabine said, after a startled silence. 'Are
you saying that Rohan has left La Tour Monchauzet for good —
gone back to Arrancay — to live?'
'But of course. That was his intention from the first. It is his
heritage, after all.'
'But I thought he wanted La Tour Monchauzet.'
Monique shrugged. 'It is a valuable property, and he was needed
there while
Monsieur le Baron
was infirm and Jacques was
learning to make wine,' she returned. 'But it cannot compare with
Arrancay. A truly great vineyard,' she added with a respectful nod.
'Rohan felt for a long time — a tug of loyalty between his
grandfather, and the de Rochefort family. They exerted much
pressure on him to persuade him to stay. But since this sudden,
amazing improvement in the
Baron's
health there was no reason
for him to remain.
'Rohan obviously felt he could make plans for his own future, at
last. Especially now that his grandfather is no longer as robust as
he once was, and needs him at Arrancay.'
She shot Sabine a swift, shrewd look. 'This is a small community,
you comprehend. There has been—much talk, naturally about the
—changes at the chateau.'
'Naturally,' Sabine agreed in a hollow tone, her mind whirling.
The church was old, dark and redolent of the incense of centuries.
Statues of unknown saints looked gravely down from their alcoves
as Jacques and Marie-Christine knelt reverently before the altar.
Sabine tried to concentrate on the intricacies of the unfamiliar
service, but all she could think of was Rohan. Rohan at Arrancay.
Rohan, contrary to everything she'd been led to believe, turning his
back on La Tour Monchauzet.
What could it all mean? she wondered frantically. Her father had
spoken sadly about his ultimate failure to manipulate people to his
own ends. Was it Rohan he had meant?
I was so ready to think the worst of him, she wailed inwardly. I
never gave him a chance to explain—to tell me his side of things.
We should have talked together— hammered the whole situation
out. Instead, I listened to Madame de Rochefort and Antoinette, of
all people. I was jealous and confused, so I let them twist me up
distort everything. What kind of love—what kind of trust was that?
And now he's gone, and I've lost him forever, just as I deserve.
When the ceremony was over, Sabine slipped away from the
congratulations and laughter, and the clicking cameras outside the
church, and drove back to Les Hiboux.
She needed desperately to be alone for a little while—to think. The
house seemed to put comforting arms around her, as she wandered
from room to room. But she couldn't bear to go back into the
bedroom, with all its bitter-sweet memories, so she left the ice
bucket with the champagne in the
salon.
He seemed to be in every room with her. She heard the murmur of
his voice, the whisper of the laughter they'd shared, experienced
again the warmth of his arms which had held her with such
tenderness and passion.
The urge to get in the car and drive to Arrancay, wherever that
was, tempted her almost overwhelmingly, but she suppressed it.
She had no reason, after all, to believe Rohan might welcome her
reappearance in his life.
She had dismissed him quite brutally, relegating him to the status
of a passing fancy, or less. She'd even told him to take La Tour
Monchauzet and Antoinette with it, she recalled, wincing.
Rohan was a proud man. How could he forgive or forget such a
slight? He'd probably dismissed her altogether by now as fickle,
shallow and all too easily swayed by other people. He had his own
life —the life he'd offered her. There was no place for her in that
life now.
She would sell Les Hiboux, she thought. When the wedding was
over, she would talk to Monique, place the transaction in her