Читать книгу Tower Of Shadows - Сара Крейвен, Sara Craven - Страница 7

SABINE didn’t know what to expect. This had been her mother’s house, after all, and Isabelle had left it over twenty-two years ago, and not been back since.

She was half anticipating having to fight her way through a jungle of undergrowth to reach the front door. But she was totally mistaken. A neat flagged area confronted her, flanked by the wall of some storage building on one side and the length of the house on the other. There were narrow flowerbeds in need of weeding on both sides, and in the sheltered corner between the store and the wall a tall rose lifted imperious petals like flames.

Beyond the store, the garden opened out into an untidy sloping lawn, with trees and shrubs, and the flags narrowed to a terrace. Sabine saw that the arched motif had been repeated in the french windows all the way along the front of the house and the stout wooden entrance. The rooms seemed bare, she thought, peering in through the dusty panes. Directly in front of the door was a small ornamental pool, with a fountain, although, naturally, it wasn’t playing at the moment.

Once again Sabine had the curious sensation that time had stopped and run back.

But she was just being over-imaginative, she chided herself. Some kind soul had just been keeping the garden under reasonable control—that was all.

She tried the key in the lock. To her surprise, it turned easily, and she stepped inside. She found herself in a large square hall, with a pair of half-glazed doors ahead of her leading directly into the kitchen, and wooden double doors to her left, giving access to the rest of the house.

She tried these first. The room she entered ran the width of the house, with windows at both ends. She opened them and threw back the shutters, letting light flood in. The floor was tiled in a deep terracotta shade, but there was no furniture apart from a black enamelled stove standing in one corner on a raised hearth.

There were two doors in the far wall, and she opened each in turn. One was bare, but the other contained a range of old-fashioned fitted wardrobes, and a vast wooden bedstead, the head and footboards elaborately carved.

Sabine stared round her. The house smelt damp, of course, and there was a thin layer of dust everywhere, but there was none of the squalor and decay she had feared.

She went into the kitchen. A big scrubbed table stood in the middle of the room, and a vast dresser almost filled one wall. There was an old-fashioned sink under the window, and a new-looking electric cooker, with cupboards on both sides. A stable-type door led to the rear garden.

A further door led off to the right, with a tiled passage taking her to the bathroom, and another large square room at the end, which was probably the dining-room. From this a spiral staircase led upwards to a similar-sized room with windows on all sides, and Sabine realised she must be in the tower she’d noticed on the way in.

The tower and the rose, she thought as she descended cautiously. I can’t seem to get away from them.

She went slowly back to the kitchen. Only two sounds disturbed the silence—a fly buzzing desultorily against the window, and a tap dripping into the sink.

Well, at least that meant the water was turned on. She tried the light switch by the door, and discovered there was power too. That was odd, she thought, when the house was unoccupied. But it made it habitable, for which she was grateful. She would have hated it if she had to admit defeat, and crawl off to a hotel somewhere. She’d included a sleeping-bag in the luggage she’d brought with her, so she could manage.

She unloaded the car and carried everything in, dumping it all in the middle of the salon. Then she retrieved her map, plotted the route to Villereal, and made a list of what she wanted to buy.

Villereal was charming, and busy too, with its narrow streets and central square with a timbered-covered market. But exploration would have to wait. She had more pressing matters in hand. And the supermarket Jacques had mentioned was sited on the outskirts of town, she discovered.

Cleaning materials were the first priority, and enough china, cutlery and glassware for her own use. It was doubtful, she told herself wryly, whether she would be doing any entertaining.

After that, she could have fun. She wandered round the aisles, filling up her trolley with cheese, sliced ham and wedges of terrine, lingering over the huge butchery section, where the cuts of meat looked so different from those she was used to.

Finally she chose a plump boiling fowl, in deference to that great Gascon King of France, Henri Quatre, whose ambition it had been to see that all his subjects were well fed enough to have a chicken in their pot each week, and had made La Poule Au Pot a loved and traditional name for restaurants. Perhaps, she thought, her poule au pot, made as Maman had taught her, would make her feel less of an alien.

Her choice made, she went back for vegetables to accompany it, recklessly adding a demi-kilo of the huge firm-fleshed tomatoes, as well as nectarines, oranges and a punnet of strawberries to her collection. Her last purchase should have been bread—she picked a flat circular loaf rather than a baguette—but she succumbed to temptation and bought one of the plastic containers of the local vin ordinaire, amazingly cheap and good for its price, and several bottles of water too.

Driving back to the house through the small back-roads was more difficult than she’d anticipated, and she took a couple of wrong turnings. She could have cried with relief when at last she passed the war memorial with the crucifix and realised the next track led to the farm.

And the house no longer seemed to be on the defensive, she realised as she parked the car. The late afternoon sun lent a warmer, more welcoming glow to its washed stones, and that exterior wall wasn’t a barrier, but a promise of security. She thought, I’ve come home.

It took several journeys to unload her provisions from the boot. She put everything away in the kitchen cupboards, then went out to lock the car. It was probably unnecessary, she thought, but old habits died hard.

Then she saw him.

In fact, it was impossible to miss him. He was standing in the archway, hands on hips. Sabine halted, her hands balling into fists at her sides.

‘What do you want?’ Her voice rang with defiance.

‘That’s what I came to ask you.’ He strolled forward, and Sabine fought down a prickle of apprehension.

‘That’s close enough,’ she said sharply.

His brows rose mockingly. ‘Do I make you nervous?’

‘You make me angry.’

‘And you,’ he said, ‘make me curious. Tell me, Mademoiselle Riquard, what possessed you to come here?’

‘My name is Russell,’ she said tightly. ‘And my reasons are my own affair.’

‘Russell,’ he repeated slowly. ‘So, Isabelle found another fool to marry her in England. Your French is excellent, but that is where you come from—isn’t it?’

‘I’m not ashamed of it,’ she retorted, taut with anger over his reference to her mother. ‘Anyway, we’re all Europeans now—aren’t we?’ she mimicked his own phrasing.

‘And that’s why you’ve come—for international reasons?’ His tone was openly derisive. ‘I ask your pardon. I thought there might be some—personal motive.’

Sabine shrugged. ‘I admit I was—curious too.’

‘And has your curiosity been satisfied?’

‘Not by any means,’ she returned crisply.

He said quietly, ‘I am sorry to hear that.’ There was a pause. Then, ‘How much would it cost, mademoiselle, to buy that satisfaction?’

The heat of the windless afternoon lay on her like a blanket, but suddenly she felt deathly cold. She said huskily, ‘I—don’t understand.’

‘It is quite simple. I would like you to leave, preferably today, but by tomorrow at the latest. And I am willing to pay whatever price you ask—within reason.’

She gave a small uneven laugh. ‘Just like that? You must be completely mad.’

‘I am altogether sane, I assure you. And I hope you’ll give my offer serious consideration.’

‘It’s not worth considering,’ she said. ‘It’s an insult.’

‘You don’t yet know how much I am prepared to offer.’ He looked at her grimly. ‘Your presence here, mademoiselle, is intolerable. Surely you can see that.’

‘I see nothing of the kind, and I’ll leave when I’m ready,’ Sabine said grittily. She shrugged, feigning nonchalance. ‘Anyway, I may decide to stay. I’m a freelance. I can work anywhere, especially now.’

‘If this is a ploy to force up the price, you’ll be disappointed,’ he said harshly. ‘Contrary to what your mother may have told you, the de Rochefort family is no longer a well from which you can draw money like water.’

‘My mother never mentioned anything about your family,’ she denied hotly. ‘And, having met some of you now, I can’t honestly say I blame her. I’d have wanted to wipe you out—forget all about you, too.’ She paused. ‘And, for the record, I wouldn’t touch one centime of your rotten money.’

He shrugged. ‘Then I will have to try other methods.’

She stared at him. ‘What do you propose to do? Evict me from my mother’s house? You have no right.’

‘Legally, perhaps no,’ he said softly. ‘But the moral grounds are a different matter. Your mother, mademoiselle, left a trail of devastation behind her when she departed from our lives. I was only a boy of ten at the time, but it left its mark on me too. I do not propose to allow this to happen a second time—with you.’

‘You can do exactly as you please,’ she said thickly. ‘But I will not listen to any more of your rotten insinuations about my mother. I loved her, and when she died I felt as if every light in the world had dimmed.’

For a moment, he was granite-still. The he said icily, ‘You were not alone in that. My stepfather, whom I loved dearly also, had a complete breakdown when she left—when she abandoned him as she did.’ His face was bleak. ‘Presumably she never told you that either? No, I thought not.’ He shook his head. ‘If she never spoke of us, mademoiselle, believe me, it was through shame.’

‘I’ve heard enough,’ Sabine flung at him. ‘If Maman ran away, it was because she had good and sufficient reason.’ She took a deep breath. ‘You ordered me off your land a few hours ago. Now I’m telling you to go, and don’t come back. I am not for sale, not now, not ever.’

He took a step towards her, and she bent swiftly and snatched up a stone from the flowerbed beside her.

‘Go.’ Her voice rose. ‘I said get out of here.’

He raked her from head to foot with one long, contemptuous look, then turned on his heel, and strode away under the arch and out of sight.

The tension drained from her, and she sagged limply against the front doorpost. She realised she was still gripping the stone, and dropped it with a little horrified cry. What the hell had she thought she was going to do with it—throw it at him?

She couldn’t have. She wasn’t violent—or hysterical. She’d never behaved in her life as she’d just done, and she couldn’t understand or justify her reactions.

She wasn’t a total dummy where men were concerned. She was reasonably attractive, and outgoing, and normally she had little difficulty in establishing cordial relationships in both her working and social life. She’d always had boyfriends, although so far she hadn’t been tempted to engage in any serious commitment. Casual encounters that ended in bed had never been her scene, and in today’s sexual climate they were not simply tacky, but positively dangerous.

Usually, she met people halfway, and tried not to make snap judgements about them. She hoped they would make the same allowances for her.

But this man—this arrogant de Rochefort creature—galled her as no one had ever done before. It wasn’t just the terrible things he’d implied about Isabelle, although, God knew, they were bad enough. It was his totally unwarranted attitude to herself.

He seemed to have hated her on sight, yet he knew nothing about her, except that she bore a passing physical resemblance to Isabelle. And on such flimsy grounds she’d apparently been tried and sentenced. It was just assumed that she had some ulterior motive in coming here, and she wasn’t allowed to defend herself. The injustice of it numbed her.

The worst her mother could be charged with was running away. And was it any wonder she’d fled, if she’d been subjected to the same bullying and threats by an earlier generation of de Rocheforts? Sabine thought hotly. That—arrogant brute had implied that her mother had taken his family for a ride financially, yet, according to Ruth Russell, Isabelle had been pregnant and penniless, reduced to working as a mother’s help when Hugh met her. The two stories contradicted each other.