Tower of Shadows by Sara Craven Read Free Book Online Page B

appointment.

CHAPTER FOUR
    As SABINE emerged from the bedroom, she found Marie-Christine
    standing in the empty salon, staring round her.
    'The furnishings are a bit sparse at the moment,' Sabine said
    lightly. 'I hope to go shopping tomorrow.'
    'But there is no need,' Marie-Christine protested. 'There is plenty of
    furniture belonging to the house. After M'sieur Fabien died, my
    aunt arranged for it to be stored, because a house that is left empty
    can sometimes attract thieves, you understand. She's been in Paris
    on business for two days, but she'll be back this evening, so you
    can speak to her about it.'
    Sabine was totally lost. 'Who was Monsieur Fabien?' she enquired,
    as they went out to the car.
    Marie-Christine's lively face sobered. 'He was the Baron's
    brother—his twin, but younger by just a half-hour, and so different
    —in looks, temperament — everything. He was the true vigneron,'
    she added, sighing. 'He loved the land, and understood the grape.'
    She paused. 'Monsieur Gaston concerned himself with other
    things.'
    'Monsieur Gaston being the Baron, I take it.' Sabine also hesitated
    for a moment. 'So, where does — Monsieur Rohan —' she
    stumbled over the name a little '-fit in?'
    'Monsieur Fabien married a Madame Saint Yves, who was a
    widow with a little boy,' Marie-Christine explained readily. 'She
    was having another baby, but something went wrong—apparently,
    she was never strong—and she and the child both died.' She shook
    her head. 'It was a terrible thing—a great tragedy. Monsieur Rohan
    stayed with Monsieur Fabien and was brought up as his own son
    —at first anyway.'
    Sabine stared ahead of her through the windscreen. Fabien de
    Rochefort, she thought. Rohan's stepfather, who had loved and lost
    her mother, had a name, if not a face.
    Maybe I know now who my real father was, she thought. But the
    swift excitement bubbling inside her was mingled inevitably with
    sadness, because it was all too late. He was lost to her too.
    She asked colourlessly, 'When did Monsieur Fabien die? How long
    ago?'
    Marie-Christine considered. 'It must be over a year and a half—
    nearly two years. Time goes so fast,' she added apologetically.
    'Why was the house only emptied then?'
    'Because he had been living there.'
    'Even though the house belonged to my mother?' Sabine queried,
    her heart thumping. She tried to sound casual. 'I suppose he was
    some kind of tenant.'
    'My aunt will be able to explain better, perhaps.' Marie-Christine
    was clearly embarrassed. 'It is none of my affair and, besides, it
    was all a long time ago.'
    'I'm sorry to ask so many questions,' Sabine said, after another
    pause. 'But apart from the fact that my mother obviously lived here
    at some time I know nothing at all.'
    Marie-Christine bit her lip as they turned on to the road leading up
    to the chateau. 'Well, I wish I could be more help, but all I've heard
    are rumours —a lot of confused stories. It wouldn't be fair to
    repeat them,' she added firmly.
    'I suppose not,' Sabine said wistfully. She paused again, then tried
    a new tack. 'So, apart from the Baron and Madame de Rochefort,
    who else lives at the chateau?'
    'Well, Rohan lives there —for the time being, anyway. And
    Antoinette, of course.'
    'Oh.' Sabine digested that. 'Is —is she —Rohan's wife?'
    Marie-Christine laughed. 'Not yet, but it is expected. It would be a
    very suitable marriage. She's Madame Heloise's niece, and very
    beautiful. Her parents were killed in an accident when she was
    very young, and she has been brought up at the chateau, almost as
    the daughter of the house. The Baron and his wife have no
    children of their own,' she added.
    'I see,' was all Sabine could think of in reply.
    She never forgot her first proper view of the chateau. It was much
    smaller than she'd imagined, just a country house, she thought,
    which had been added to in a haphazard way over the centuries.
    The stones glowed like warm apricots in the afternoon sun, and