taking part in a play,
for which she knew neither her lines, nor the stage directions.
Madame turned her head slightly. 'Antoinette, my dear, you
haven't met this young lady, who is paying a short visit from
England.'
When the leading lady's on stage, you don't notice the rest of the
cast, Sabine thought wryly, the wording of madame's introduction
not lost on her, as a young woman got up from a sofa in another
part of the room, and came forward with open reluctance.
She was taller than Sabine, and older too. Her thick dark hair fell
in a waving mass to her shoulders, and she had a short, straight
nose, a mouth that was full-lipped to the point of petulance, and
almond-shaped brown eyes, currently studying Sabine without
friendliness. She wore a pale yellow dress cut to emphasise
shapely legs and the thrust of her rounded breasts. Altogether, she
had the kind of gloss normally associated with models and film
stars, and it seemed oddly out of place here in her aunt's elegant
sitting-room.
Her fingers barely touched Sabine's in greeting, but one swift
head-to-toe appraisal absorbed everything she had on, and
dismissed it. The de Rochefort clan, as a whole, had a pretty strong
line in contempt, Sabine decided, not letting her own polite smile
slip by one iota.
So, this was the girl Rohan Saint Yves was planning to marry. His
scowl wedded to her sulks, eh? Well, they were welcome to each
other.
Antoinette turned and addressed .the older woman in her own
language. 'Tante Heloise —is it really necessary that we do this —
that we receive this person?'
'Entirely necessary,' Madame returned imperturbably. 'And I
should warn you, Antoinette, that Miss Russell understands our
language perfectly — and speaks it too.'
She didn't need to be warned, Sabine thought drily, as Antoinette
flushed angrily.
'Now ring the bell, ma chere, for Ernestine to bring us some tea,
then you may leave us. I wish to speak privately with Miss
Russell.' She smiled. 'But how can I be so formal with Isabelle's
child? What is your name, my dear?'
'Sabine, madame.'
She saw the upright figure stiffen suddenly, and the hands clench
together in her lap.
Then, 'What insolence!' Antoinette exclaimed shrilly. 'That is a de
Rochefort family name. She had no right.' Her intervention
snapped the sudden tension in the room, as if a wire had been cut.
The Baronne's rose-tinted lips twisted slightly. 'Calm yourself, my
child. We do not have a monopoly in names —or very much else
these days,' she added, almost as an aside. 'And Sabine has not
been used as a de Rochefort name for several generations. Now
ring for tea, as I requested you, please.'
Antoinette looked mutinous, but she obeyed, leaving the room
with something of a flounce.
'So,' Madame de Rochefort said, when they were alone. 'Now we
can talk comfortably.'
Can we? Sabine wondered. She said levelly, 'I hope you've
recovered from your unfortunate accident, madame.'
The Baronne gave a silvery laugh. 'Oh, do not remind me of my
own stupidity, I beg you. I am so ashamed. But for a moment, you
understand, I thought I had seen a ghost.' She nodded slowly. 'Yes,
you are Isabelle's daughter without mistake.'
'Is that the reason you invited me here — to a house where I'm
clearly not welcome — to have another look at me?'
'No, of course not,' the Baronne returned peevishly. 'I wished to
express my regrets for my nephew's— hasty reaction. Such a dear
boy. So devoted to our family's interests.'
She paused. 'I was sorry to hear that your mother is dead.'
'Thank you,' Sabine said quietly.
'Tell me—was she content in England? Your father—was he a
good husband to her?'
'They—seemed very happy,' Sabine returned neutrally.
'She grew up here, of course. Her father, Hercule, was our maitre
de chai, responsible for making our wine, as Rohan is now. But no
doubt she told you this?'
'No, madame .' Sabine shook her head. 'My mother never
mentioned her
for which she knew neither her lines, nor the stage directions.
Madame turned her head slightly. 'Antoinette, my dear, you
haven't met this young lady, who is paying a short visit from
England.'
When the leading lady's on stage, you don't notice the rest of the
cast, Sabine thought wryly, the wording of madame's introduction
not lost on her, as a young woman got up from a sofa in another
part of the room, and came forward with open reluctance.
She was taller than Sabine, and older too. Her thick dark hair fell
in a waving mass to her shoulders, and she had a short, straight
nose, a mouth that was full-lipped to the point of petulance, and
almond-shaped brown eyes, currently studying Sabine without
friendliness. She wore a pale yellow dress cut to emphasise
shapely legs and the thrust of her rounded breasts. Altogether, she
had the kind of gloss normally associated with models and film
stars, and it seemed oddly out of place here in her aunt's elegant
sitting-room.
Her fingers barely touched Sabine's in greeting, but one swift
head-to-toe appraisal absorbed everything she had on, and
dismissed it. The de Rochefort clan, as a whole, had a pretty strong
line in contempt, Sabine decided, not letting her own polite smile
slip by one iota.
So, this was the girl Rohan Saint Yves was planning to marry. His
scowl wedded to her sulks, eh? Well, they were welcome to each
other.
Antoinette turned and addressed .the older woman in her own
language. 'Tante Heloise —is it really necessary that we do this —
that we receive this person?'
'Entirely necessary,' Madame returned imperturbably. 'And I
should warn you, Antoinette, that Miss Russell understands our
language perfectly — and speaks it too.'
She didn't need to be warned, Sabine thought drily, as Antoinette
flushed angrily.
'Now ring the bell, ma chere, for Ernestine to bring us some tea,
then you may leave us. I wish to speak privately with Miss
Russell.' She smiled. 'But how can I be so formal with Isabelle's
child? What is your name, my dear?'
'Sabine, madame.'
She saw the upright figure stiffen suddenly, and the hands clench
together in her lap.
Then, 'What insolence!' Antoinette exclaimed shrilly. 'That is a de
Rochefort family name. She had no right.' Her intervention
snapped the sudden tension in the room, as if a wire had been cut.
The Baronne's rose-tinted lips twisted slightly. 'Calm yourself, my
child. We do not have a monopoly in names —or very much else
these days,' she added, almost as an aside. 'And Sabine has not
been used as a de Rochefort name for several generations. Now
ring for tea, as I requested you, please.'
Antoinette looked mutinous, but she obeyed, leaving the room
with something of a flounce.
'So,' Madame de Rochefort said, when they were alone. 'Now we
can talk comfortably.'
Can we? Sabine wondered. She said levelly, 'I hope you've
recovered from your unfortunate accident, madame.'
The Baronne gave a silvery laugh. 'Oh, do not remind me of my
own stupidity, I beg you. I am so ashamed. But for a moment, you
understand, I thought I had seen a ghost.' She nodded slowly. 'Yes,
you are Isabelle's daughter without mistake.'
'Is that the reason you invited me here — to a house where I'm
clearly not welcome — to have another look at me?'
'No, of course not,' the Baronne returned peevishly. 'I wished to
express my regrets for my nephew's— hasty reaction. Such a dear
boy. So devoted to our family's interests.'
She paused. 'I was sorry to hear that your mother is dead.'
'Thank you,' Sabine said quietly.
'Tell me—was she content in England? Your father—was he a
good husband to her?'
'They—seemed very happy,' Sabine returned neutrally.
'She grew up here, of course. Her father, Hercule, was our maitre
de chai, responsible for making our wine, as Rohan is now. But no
doubt she told you this?'
'No, madame .' Sabine shook her head. 'My mother never
mentioned her
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