the
jumble of towers and turrets with their high pointed roofs topped
with blue-grey tiles had an endearing and slightly eccentric charm.
Sabine had half expected to be taken round to some tradesman's
entrance, but Marie-Christine led the way to the main door,
chattering nineteen to the dozen, clearly relieved that her mission
was almost accomplished. She was probably glad that the
inquisition was over too, Sabine thought drily.
Some parts of the house had been closed off, for economic
reasons, she was told. Madame de Rochefort and Antoinette both
had suites on the first floor, while the Baron occupied rooms at
ground level. She didn't volunteer any information about where
Rohan Saint Yves slept.
One of the main rooms, and the most beautiful, the grand chamber,
was used solely for vineyard business these days. All the
entertaining was done there, and there were regular wine-tastings
for customers.
'May I see it?' Sabine asked.
'Another day, perhaps,' Marie-Christine said non-committally. 'We
must not keep Madame waiting.'
After the radiance of the sunlit walls, the interior of the chateau
was frankly a disappointment. The entrance hall, although large
and square, was panelled in some dark wood, which made it
gloomy, and the ancestral portraits which stared disapprovingly
down on Sabine as she mounted the stairs did nothing to lighten
the atmosphere.
To reach Madame de Rochefort's suite, they had to traverse a
series of other rooms, most of them shuttered to exclude the sun.
The furniture seemed very grand, and totally impersonal, as if the
rooms were never used, except as a passage to somewhere else.
Sabine couldn't imagine anyone lounging in those chairs, or
throwing a book or a magazine down on one of the tables.
This place is like a labyrinth, she thought with a sudden shiver, as
yet another door opened in front of her. Just like last night's bad
dream. She had the sensation that if she looked over her shoulder
she would find Rohan Saint Yves watching her from the shadows.
. . Her hand lifted and touched the medallion at her breast, as if
warding off an evil spirit.
They stepped out into a corridor, richly carpeted in Turkey red.
'This is madame's part of the house.' Marie-Christine lowered her
voice. 'She has carpet everywhere because she said the noise of the
servants' shoes on the polished floors made her head ache.' She
rolled her eyes, then sobered, tapping respectfully on the double
doors at the end of the passage.
'Come in.' The answering voice was clear, controlled and
authoritative, giving no sign of yesterday's weakness.
Marie-Christine turned her friendly grin on Sabine. 'Courage ,' she
whispered. 'You're on your own now.' And pushed her gently but
firmly into the room.
The royal summons had clearly brought Sabine to the throne room
of the palace, she thought drily, as she halted inside the door. The
far end of the room was built on a higher level than the rest, and
was reached by a single step. And there, seated by a window in a
big winged chair, shaded by peach silk curtains, was Heloise de
Rochefort.
She was not a tall woman, but the classic smoothness of her grey
hair, immaculately dressed, gave her an air of distinction. To
Sabine, used to Aunt Ruth's dab of power and smudge of lipstick,
the Baronne's maquillage made her appear as if she was wearing
an exquisite but remote mask, spoiled only by the small piece of
sticking plaster on her forehead. Her eyes were deep-set and cold,
and her dress in matching blue emphasised an impression of chilly
reserve. She wore an antique brooch on one shoulder, and her
hands, discreetly beringed, were folded in her lap, and one wrist
had been bandaged.
'Miss Russell,' she said almost musingly in English. 'Please take a
seat.' She indicated a brocaded chair placed opposite to hers, and at
an angle.
Sabine obeyed, folding her hands in her lap with equal composure.
She had the oddest impression that she was
jumble of towers and turrets with their high pointed roofs topped
with blue-grey tiles had an endearing and slightly eccentric charm.
Sabine had half expected to be taken round to some tradesman's
entrance, but Marie-Christine led the way to the main door,
chattering nineteen to the dozen, clearly relieved that her mission
was almost accomplished. She was probably glad that the
inquisition was over too, Sabine thought drily.
Some parts of the house had been closed off, for economic
reasons, she was told. Madame de Rochefort and Antoinette both
had suites on the first floor, while the Baron occupied rooms at
ground level. She didn't volunteer any information about where
Rohan Saint Yves slept.
One of the main rooms, and the most beautiful, the grand chamber,
was used solely for vineyard business these days. All the
entertaining was done there, and there were regular wine-tastings
for customers.
'May I see it?' Sabine asked.
'Another day, perhaps,' Marie-Christine said non-committally. 'We
must not keep Madame waiting.'
After the radiance of the sunlit walls, the interior of the chateau
was frankly a disappointment. The entrance hall, although large
and square, was panelled in some dark wood, which made it
gloomy, and the ancestral portraits which stared disapprovingly
down on Sabine as she mounted the stairs did nothing to lighten
the atmosphere.
To reach Madame de Rochefort's suite, they had to traverse a
series of other rooms, most of them shuttered to exclude the sun.
The furniture seemed very grand, and totally impersonal, as if the
rooms were never used, except as a passage to somewhere else.
Sabine couldn't imagine anyone lounging in those chairs, or
throwing a book or a magazine down on one of the tables.
This place is like a labyrinth, she thought with a sudden shiver, as
yet another door opened in front of her. Just like last night's bad
dream. She had the sensation that if she looked over her shoulder
she would find Rohan Saint Yves watching her from the shadows.
. . Her hand lifted and touched the medallion at her breast, as if
warding off an evil spirit.
They stepped out into a corridor, richly carpeted in Turkey red.
'This is madame's part of the house.' Marie-Christine lowered her
voice. 'She has carpet everywhere because she said the noise of the
servants' shoes on the polished floors made her head ache.' She
rolled her eyes, then sobered, tapping respectfully on the double
doors at the end of the passage.
'Come in.' The answering voice was clear, controlled and
authoritative, giving no sign of yesterday's weakness.
Marie-Christine turned her friendly grin on Sabine. 'Courage ,' she
whispered. 'You're on your own now.' And pushed her gently but
firmly into the room.
The royal summons had clearly brought Sabine to the throne room
of the palace, she thought drily, as she halted inside the door. The
far end of the room was built on a higher level than the rest, and
was reached by a single step. And there, seated by a window in a
big winged chair, shaded by peach silk curtains, was Heloise de
Rochefort.
She was not a tall woman, but the classic smoothness of her grey
hair, immaculately dressed, gave her an air of distinction. To
Sabine, used to Aunt Ruth's dab of power and smudge of lipstick,
the Baronne's maquillage made her appear as if she was wearing
an exquisite but remote mask, spoiled only by the small piece of
sticking plaster on her forehead. Her eyes were deep-set and cold,
and her dress in matching blue emphasised an impression of chilly
reserve. She wore an antique brooch on one shoulder, and her
hands, discreetly beringed, were folded in her lap, and one wrist
had been bandaged.
'Miss Russell,' she said almost musingly in English. 'Please take a
seat.' She indicated a brocaded chair placed opposite to hers, and at
an angle.
Sabine obeyed, folding her hands in her lap with equal composure.
She had the oddest impression that she was
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