Loves Choices

‘I’m sorry, Hope, I didn’t realise you hadn’t heard me.’ It was the first time he had apologised to her, and Hope sensed that it was genuinely meant. ‘I did knock,’ he continued, ‘but you obviously didn’t hear me. They have brought our dinner—come and sit down.’

For the first time Hope noticed that he, too, had changed. His darkly formal suit had given way to a thin silk shirt that made her disturbingly aware of the male body beneath it, with dark, thigh-hugging pants moulding his legs.

When they were both seated, the Comte indicated the trolley and smiled, asking Hope if she would like to serve them or if she would prefer him to do it.

This, at least, was an area in which she was proficient, Hope thought, approaching the trolley. All the girls at the convent were taught how to be perfect hostesses, and even with the Comte’s eyes on her, she managed to serve their soup dexterously and properly.

‘It seems to me that your convent teaches the more old-fashioned virtues; the womanly arts rather than commercial ones,’ the Comte murmured when Hope removed the soup bowls and served the main course, a rich chicken paella.

‘Many of the pupils come from the Latin American countries,’ Hope told him. ‘Their parents normally arrange their marriages for them, and as they are invariably wealthy and socially prominent, it is important that they are able to conduct themselves properly.’

‘But you are the exception to the rule?’ the Comte prodded. ‘No marriage has been arranged for you?’

Hope’s revolted expression gave her away. ‘So what are your plans for your life? Do you expect to act as your father’s hostess?’

Hope did have some hazy idea that this was what might happen to her. Her own feeling was that, having placed her in the convent, her father had turned his mind to other matters. As an English girl, the thought of an arranged marriage was totally abhorrent to her, and she had often wished rebelliously that her father had allowed her to have a more normal upbringing. Perhaps now she would be able to persuade him to let her go to college, to gain some commercial skills.

‘What do you do, Comte?’ Hope questioned politely, remembering the Sisters’ lectures on conversation. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth and Hope hated him for laughing at her.

‘That is very good, mon petit,’ he mocked, watching her fingers tighten on her knife and fork. ‘But it is customary to show a little more enthusiasm. Your stilted enquiry reminds me of a child reciting its lessons. However, I shall answer you, since conversation, like any other skill, only comes with practice.’

For some reason his words made Hope remember how he had kissed her. Was that another field in which he found her lamentably lacking? What did it matter if he did? she asked herself crossly.

‘As I have already told you, my mother was Russian. My father’s family owned vineyards near Beaune. Some of the wines we produce are what is known as Premier Cru.’ He saw Hope’s expression and smiled. ‘Ah, so the Sisters have taught you something about the world, mon petit?’

‘I know of the great vintages, the classifications for wine.’

‘So! You will understand then when I tell you that Serivace wines are Premier Cru wines. This was so in my grandfather’s time, as it is during mine. I have other estates, near Nice, which I visit during the summer; during the winter I stay in Paris where I have an apartment. I am considered a moderately wealthy man, not perhaps wealthy enough to merit one of the docile doves of your convent as a bride, mon petit, but certainly no pauper.’

‘You aren’t married, then?’

When he shook his head, Hope asked hesitantly, ‘Do you have any family?’

Was it her imagination or did he pause fractionally before answering? Whatever the case, there was certainly no trace of hesitation in his voice when he responded firmly, ‘None. One day I shall marry—I owe it to my name to ensure that there will be someone to follow me, but that day has not arrived yet.

‘It is a tradition in our family that the men do not marry early. My father was forty when he married my mother.’ Just for a moment, with the lamplight casting shadows along the high cheekbones, he looked sinister and withdrawn, more Russian than French, and Hope’s heart beat fiercely as she acknowledged that no matter how sophisticated he appeared, somewhere inside that sleekly suave covering was hidden all the ruthless passion of his Russian ancestry. ‘What is the matter, ma jolie?’

Hope hadn’t realised that he was watching her, studying the pensive thoughtfulness of her eyes and the vulnerability of her mouth.

‘Nothing—I was just wondering about my father,’ she told him huskily. ‘It is so long since I have seen him.’

‘And you fear that you will meet as strangers?’ he asked perceptively. ‘Do not. I am sure you are all that your papa hopes you will be—and more,’ he added almost beneath his breath, ‘much, much more,’ leaving Hope to puzzle over what he had said as she picked at her vanilla dessert and watched him eat cheese and biscuits, fascinated against her will by the lean masculine fingers; the taut planes of his shadowed face.

‘It is time you were in bed,’ he announced eventually. ‘You are falling asleep in your seat. Such a baby still—would you like me to carry you to bed and kiss you goodnight?’ He caught the tiny fluttering movement of rejection she made and laughed softly. ‘How very confusing it is, isn’t it, little one? The good Sisters tell you one thing and your body tells you another.’ He stood up and came round to stand beside her, bending to take her in his arms as though she weighed no more than a child, carrying her to her bed, her face pressed into the curve of his shoulder, her senses absorbing the scent and feel of him as he pulled back the covers and placed her carefully on the bed. He folded the covers back over her, the lean fingers of one hand resting briefly on the pale flesh of her shoulder before they were withdrawn and he was gone.

After the door had closed behind him, Hope didn’t know whether it was relief or disappointment that touched her body so achingly. But surely it must be relief? She couldn’t have wanted him to kiss her again!

‘If you are now ready, I suggest we continue our journey.’ They had breakfasted on soft, warm rolls and fresh apricot jam, and Hope felt as though she could never eat another thing. Today she was wearing a pleated skirt with a toning blouson top in soft green silk. Her hair had retained its new style and she had found it easier to apply her new make-up than she had anticipated, any nervous trembling of her fingers surely more due to the thought of coming face to face with the Comte again rather than anything else.

In the event she need not have worried, the half-frightening, taunting man she remembered from the evening had been banished and in his place was a smiling, almost avuncular man she couldn’t recognise at all.

They drove all through the morning, the tapes the Comte inserted into the machine on the dashboard obviating the need for any conversation, allowing Hope to concentrate on the scenery, lulled by the music.

At lunchtime the Comte pulled off the main road and drove into a small, French market town, parking the car on the forecourt of what he told her had once been a famous coaching inn.

The building was old, wreathed in wisteria, heavy racemes of violet-purple flowers hanging from its branches. The owner led them to their table himself, hovering solicitously to proffer advice on the menu. At first Hope supposed this was because the Comte was known to him, but when he had disappeared to greet some other diners, the Comte explained to her that lunch was often the main meal of the day in French households and that this particular auberge had a particularly good reputation.

‘Since we are travelling again this afternoon and cannot drowse off the effects of a heavy meal, I suggest we confine ourselves to three courses,’ he added with a humorous smile. ‘Would you like me to choose for you?’

Shaking her head, Hope reached for the menu. The Sisters had taught their pupils well, and when she had made her choice and conveyed it to the waiter in correct and fluent French she had the gratification of knowing she had not let them down.

The food was everything Hope had expected it would be and she had not made the mistake of ordering anything too rich or heavy. Meals at the convent were always light, but carefully balanced, and Hope found that she had automatically chosen with the same careful precision. When she shook her head over a sweet the Comte raised his eyebrows a little. Hope had been surprised to see that he too was equally selective and that his plate, while it held more food than hers, showed a healthy regard for the nutritional value of food rather than simply its taste.

‘You surprise me, mon petit,’ he commented when the waiter had withdrawn. ‘I thought a sweet tooth was the prerogative of the very young.’

‘Ice-cream and sticky cakes, monsieur?’ Hope queried with a smile, shaking her head as she explained the lectures all the students were given by the convent’s dietician.

‘So, what you are saying is that we are what we eat?’ he asked when she had finished. ‘That is true to a large extent, but one must make allowances for other … desires. One is not simply a machine functioning on fuel, one must allow for the needs of the senses.’

‘You didn’t drink any wine with your meal,’ Hope pointed out. ‘Nor did you have any rich sauces.’

‘The fact that I am driving precludes me from enjoying a good wine as it should be enjoyed, and as to my food—’ He looked at her, and Hope found herself trembling a little beneath the look in his eyes. ‘Make no mistake, mon petit, no matter how nutritious or excellent the food, were it not attractively served, and presented, as tempting to the palate as to the eyes, I should not touch it. We are given our senses so that we may enjoy our environment through them whether it be the sense of taste, or the sense of touch.’ As he spoke his eyes rested on her body and Hope felt almost as though he had touched her. What would it be like to be made love to by a man like him, Hope wondered, so startled by the way the thought had crept unbidden into her mind that she wasn’t aware of the way her eyes mirrored her thoughts, or of how she was observed by the man seated opposite her.

It was late afternoon before they entered what the Comte told her was the Burgundy region of France. His own estate lay to the north-east, he added. The scenery of the Côte-d’Or as they drove through made Hope catch her breath, her eyes rounding in awe, forgetting her tiredness as she saw the vineyards, interspersed with tantalising glimpses of châteaux and weathered farmhouses, with the word clos constantly appearing on signboards. It referred to enclosed vineyards, the Comte explained to her; vineyards which had once belonged to large convents or monasteries, and which still retained their enclosing walls.

‘Are your vineyards like that?’ Hope asked him, suddenly curious to know more about his home.

‘No. The Serivace lands are too extensive to be enclosed, although there is one small clos not far from the … house.’

He didn’t seem disposed to talk any more, and Hope lapsed into silence, tension knotting her stomach, although she was at a loss to understand why.

At last they turned off the main road, taking a narrow, badly tarmacked track, barely wide enough for the Ferrari, and open to acres of vines on either side.

‘The Serivace vines,’ the Comte told her laconically, adding, ‘Serivace is one of the largest vineyards in the area. The ancestor of mine who first settled here said he would own land in every direction from his home as far as the eye could see. Despite the many vicissitudes the family has passed through, that still holds true today.’ He paused and pointed out a long, low collection of buildings in the distance. ‘That is our bottling plant, Jules Duval, my manager, lives there with his family. There are many small growers in the locality who also make use of the plant.’

A large copse suddenly loomed up ahead of them, so alien in the vine-covered countryside that it took Hope completely by surprise. The sun, which had been sulking behind dull cloud, suddenly broke through, glinting on something behind the trees, and then they were among them, and the Comte was telling her that many of the trees were rare and valuable specimens, planted by one of his ancestors to provide parkland, ‘in the English fashion’. Beyond the belt of trees were formal gardens, and at the end of the drive … Hope’s eyes rounded as she saw the lake with the château rising from it, a fairy-tale in spun white resting on the silver water like a mirage. An ancient, wooden ‘drawbridge’ spanned the lake at its narrowest part, the Ferrari wheels reverberating noisily as they crossed it, driving under the stone archway and through into the courtyard beyond, the Ferrari coming to rest beside an arched and studded wooden door.

‘It’s … it’s like something out of a fairy-tale,’ she stammered, bemused by the total unexpectedness of her surroundings. A ‘house’ the Comte had said and she, foolishly, had expected a large and rambling farmhouse, not this airy turreted château with its peaceful lake and formal parterred gardens.

‘Sleeping Beauty, perhaps?’ the Comte suggested, unfastening his seat-belt and opening his door. ‘Rest assured there is no captive princess here, mon petit,’ he told her dryly, adding, ‘Come, I shall collect our cases later.’ He saw her confusion and smiled. ‘You were perhaps expecting an army of retainers.’ He shook his head. ‘Those days are gone. The château consists mainly of unused rooms. I have a small suite in the main building, which is maintained by Pierre my … general factotum, I suppose is the best description. A word of warning, by the way, before you meet him. He worked for my father and was badly injured in the same car explosion which killed my parents. My father had a minor post in the government at the time of the Algerian troubles. A bomb was thrown into the car. He and my mother were killed outright, but Pierre who was driving was thrown free. However, he was badly burned, and since the accident he has never spoken. He has also lost the ability to hear.’

‘Oh, poor man!’ The shocked exclamation left Hope’s lips before she could silence it. The Comte glanced at her sardonically as he helped her from the car. ‘You would do well not to let Pierre become aware of such sentiments. He is not a man who cares for … pity … I was fourteen when it happened,’ he added, as though anticipating her next question. ‘At an age to feel very bitter, but, as all things must, it passed, and of course I had …’

‘Pierre?’ Hope offered, torn by compassion for the pain she had glimpsed in his eyes.

‘Pierre?’ The glance he shot her was sharply piercing. ‘Oh, yes, I had Pierre.’ He crossed the courtyard, leaving Hope to follow, and pushed open the heavy door. Standing inside it, surveying the vastness of the hall, Hope shivered, wondering if the chill was the effect of so much marble. It covered the floor in a black and white lozenge design echoed by the stairs, supported gracefully by marble columns, with polished mahogany doors set at pairing intervals along the walls.

‘This way.’ The Comte touched her arm, indicating one of the doors. ‘This central part of the château is all that we use now. This is the library. Later I shall show you the remainder of the rooms.

The library was heavily panelled with an enormous marble fireplace and a carpet which Hope suspected was Aubusson, the colours faded to muted creams, pinks and greens. Pale green velvet curtains hung at the windows, a large partners’ desk placed where it would obtain maximum benefit from the daylight.

‘This room doubles as my office,’ the Comte explained. ‘It’s where I keep all the vineyard records and data, but I shall now show you the rest and then Pierre can prepare dinner for us.’

Hope’s thoughts as the Comte showed her from room to room were that the as yet unseen Pierre must have his work cut out looking after such huge apartments, but the Comte told her that they received help from the village when it was needed. ‘After the vintage comes the time when we entertain the buyers, and then the château comes into its own. You look tired,’ he added. ‘I’ll take you to your room.’

The marble stairs struck a chill through the thin soles of her sandals, the last rays of sunlight turning the chandelier hanging from the ceiling into prisms of rainbow light, almost dazzling her in their brilliance. The landing was galleried, the walls covered in soft pale green silk, and Hope wondered who had chosen the décor which was obviously fairly recent, and who acted as the Comte’s hostess when he entertained his buyers. He indicated one of the doors off the landing, thrusting it open for her, watching her face as she stepped through it and started into the room.

It was huge, almost dwarfing the Empire-style bed with its tented silk hangings, the fabric drawn back to reveal the intricate pleating and the gold and enamel rose set in the ceiling which supported it. A chaise longue covered in the same cream and rose brocade was placed at the foot of the bed, with two Bergère chairs in front of the fire, and the delicate white and gold Empire furniture made Hope catch her breath in awe.

‘The bathroom and dressing room are through here,’ the Comte told her, indicating another door. ‘I’ll leave you to freshen up while I go and find Pierre. He’ll bring your cases up for you.’

When he had gone Hope wandered over to the window. It was already growing dark outside and she could just about make out the shimmer that was the lake below her window—perhaps originally it had been the château moat—and beyond it the formal parterred gardens, before the ring of trees closed round the landscape obliterating everything else.

While she was investigating the bathroom, Hope heard the bedroom door open and then close again and guessed it must be Pierre with her cases and boxes. The bathroom was obviously a modern addition and rather breathtaking. The walls, floor and sanitary ware were all made from creamy white marble, the huge bath sunk into the floor, and one entire wall mirrored. Hope wasn’t entirely sure that she cared for it. It rather reminded her of something she had once seen in a film the nuns had taken them to see in Seville.

The dressing room which she had to pass through to reach the bathroom was lined with wardrobes and cupboards, all of which were mirrored, and thinking that she could hardly expect Pierre to unpack for her, Hope returned to her cases and started to remove the clothes she would need for the morning. She didn’t plan to change for dinner—she would simply wash and re-do her make-up.

Just when would her father arrive? She quelled a feeling of disappointment that he hadn’t been there to meet them, but then she had guessed that this would be the case, for if he hadn’t been busy, surely he wouldn’t have sent the Comte to collect her. Rather like an unwanted parcel, she thought wryly as she stripped off her suit and returned to the bathroom to wash.

Half an hour later, her hair brushed and her make-up fresh, she opened the bedroom door and walked across the landing. Her shoes seemed to clatter loudly on the marble stairs. As she reached the hall a door underneath the stairs opened and a man walked through. Hope guessed immediately that he must be Pierre. His face bore several livid scars, his dark hair streaked with grey, but there was more curiosity than embarrassment in the look he gave her, and trying not to feel too self-conscious, Hope said warmly:

‘You must be Pierre. I am Hope Stanford and …’ Her voice faded away as she remembered that the Comte had told her that Pierre had been rendered both deaf and dumb by the bomb blast and, suddenly feeling awkward, she was relieved to see the Comte coming downstairs.

Unlike her, he had changed and her eyes widened a little as she took in the thick silk shirt and tightly-fitting dark trousers. Gold cuff-links glittered at his wrists, and she was suddenly and overpoweringly aware of him—not as her father’s friend, but as a man. Her heart started to thud with heavy, suffocating strokes, her body turned to marble, as stiff and unresponsive as the stairs, as she stared at him, barely noticing the signs he made to Pierre, or the comprehension burning to life in the servant’s dark eyes as he turned back to the door.

‘Dinner is almost ready. You need not look like that,’ he assured her, obviously misunderstanding the reason for her shocked expression. ‘Pierre is an excellent chef.’ He opened the door that Hope vaguely remembered belonged to the dining room, her eyes dazzled by the sea of polished wood and glittering glass and silver that swam before her, mentally contrasting the magnificence of the château to the refectory at the convent.

Two courses were served and eaten in silence, Hope merely sipping the wine the Comte had poured for her. She refused any sweet, watching instead while the Comte helped himself to some cheese—a local cheese called Chaource, he told her, offering her some. Again Hope shook her head. The long journey had tired her, her mind exhausted by so many new impressions.

A portrait on the wall behind the Comte caught her eye and she studied it. It looked relatively modern and depicted a dark-haired woman, proud and faintly arrogant so that Hope sensed a wildness beneath the conventionally elegant mask.

‘Is that … was that your mother?’ she asked hesitantly.

The Comte turned his head and studied the portrait for a while in silence, his voice harsh as he said, ‘No. My sister, Tanya. She is dead now, she committed suicide.’

For a moment Hope thought she must have misheard him, the words seemed to hover between them, and Hope looked again at the portrait. What could have driven a woman as beautiful and proud as she was to take her own life? She hadn’t realised she had spoken the words out loud until the Comte said bitterly, ‘A man, of course, mon petit; a man, and the shame of knowing herself discarded.’

Hope shivered, unable to tear her eyes from the portrait. ‘It happened six months ago,’ the Comte continued. ‘I was in Paris at the time, Tanya was in the Caribbean with her lover. I suspect she had hoped that in the end he would marry her, but I knew he never would. I had warned her, but she would not listen. In the end, she preferred to take her life rather than face his dismissal of her.’

‘Had he … had he fallen in love with someone else?’ Hope asked huskily, hardly knowing why she asked the question.

The Comte’s mouth tightened. ‘Hardly. No. Tanya was simply a diversion who no longer fitted into his plans, and so she had to go. She, poor girl, went on deluding herself up to the last that he genuinely cared for her. However, her death will be avenged. He shall not be allowed to shame our family unpunished.’ He said the words so quietly that Hope barely caught them.

‘Tanya,’ she pronounced wonderingly. ‘It is surely a Russian name?’

‘As is my own,’ the Comte confirmed. ‘My mother insisted upon it. She could not hand down to her children her own birthright—she was a Princess; Princess Tatiana Vassiliky—but she gave us her family names. Mine is Alexei, after her father.’

It was his Russian blood that demanded reparation for what had happened to his sister, Hope guessed intuitively, sensing as she had done before the savagery and pride that lay so close to the surface of his French sophistication—a sophistication which was barely more than a cloak.

‘Tanya’s lover?’ she pressed, scarcely knowing why she asked the question and yet somehow compelled to do so.

‘I think you can guess,’ the Comte said slowly, forcing her to meet his eyes and holding her gaze as he stood up and came to stand beside her. ‘Your father was Tanya’s lover, Hope,’ he told her softly, so softly that for a moment she didn’t sense the danger surrounding her.

‘My father?’ She stared up at him in bewilderment. ‘My father … but … You and he are friends … Why did you come for me when … ?’