Bridget said, “Mrs. Delaney’s had an accident. Her horse threw her. Jack says Mr. Locke wants a damp facecloth.”
“He wants you to go,” I said, tugging at Aldred’s sleeve. “He needs a man to help. Not a child. That’s what he said.”
Aldred stared at me for a moment, frowning, but made no comment. He turned and raced out of the kitchen. Bridget followed him. I ran out of the house after them.
“I’m afraid to move her,” I heard my father say to Aldred as I staggered up to them a few moments later. “That could be dangerous. Something might be broken.”
“Here, Mr. Locke, let’s put this damp cloth on her face,” Bridget said. “It’ll revive her. Yes, she’s sure to come around in a few minutes.”
“Thank you, Bridget,” Sebastian said, taking the cloth from her. He placed it on Antoinette’s forehead.
Aldred and my father spoke softly together. I couldn’t hear them. I knew they didn’t want me to know what they were saying.
She was dead. And they didn’t want to tell me. I began to cry again. I pressed my balled fists to my streaming eyes.
“Stop that at once, Jack!” Sebastian said sharply, in a harsh tone. “Don’t be such a big baby.”
“She’s dead,” I said and began to sob.
“No, she’s not,” Sebastian snapped. “She’s just unconscious.”
“I don’t believe you,” I wailed.
“It’s all right, Jack,” Antoinette murmured, finally opening her eyes at last, looking straight at me. And only at me. “Don’t cry, my darling. It was just a little tumble. Really, I’m fine, angel.”
I was so relieved I sat down hard on the grass.
“Where do you hurt, Antoinette?” my father asked, searching her face. “Can you straighten out your legs?”
“I think so,” Antoinette said and did so as she spoke.
“Are you in any kind of pain, Mrs. Delaney?” Aldred asked.
“None whatsoever. I just feel rather shaken up, that’s all.”
“Let’s get you upright, darling,” Sebastian said. “Do you think you can sit?” he asked, looking at her in concern.
“I’m sure I can. Help me, please, Sebastian, would you?”
He did so. Once she was upright, she moved her head from side to side, stretched out her arms somewhat tentatively. Then she stretched her legs again.
“I’m sure there’s nothing broken. I’m not really hurt, perhaps just a bit bruised,” Antoinette remarked with a light laugh. “Although as I say that I think I might have sprained my ankle. I suddenly feel a twinge or two, can you help me to my feet, Sebastian?”
A moment later my beloved Antoinette, my Special Lady, was standing in front of me. She was alive. Not dead. My tears ceased instantly when she looked down at me, rumpled my hair, and smiled. “You see, Jack darling, I’m as good as new.”
However, she had sprained her ankle. At least she said it felt funny So my father lifted her in his arms and carried her all the way back to the farm.
He took her up to her bedroom and came out after a few minutes. Bridget was sent in to help her undress. Later Doctor Simpson came to examine Antoinette’s ankle. “Just to be sure it’s not broken,” my father told Luce and me. “And also to be sure she hasn’t hurt herself in any other way.”
After supper I went to Antoinette’s room and tapped on the door. My father opened it. He refused to let me in to say good night to her. “Antoinette’s resting,” he said. “You can see her tomorrow, Jack.” Without another word he closed the door in my face.
I slumped down on the floor next to the grandfather clock in the corner of the upstairs hall. I would wait until he left. Wait until he went to bed. Then I could creep in to kiss her cheek, to say good night.
I must have fallen asleep in the darkened hall. It was the sounds that woke me. The groaning. The moaning. And then the strangled cry. A split second later I heard Antoinette’s voice. “Oh God! Oh God!” she exclaimed. There was a little cry again. “Don’t—” The rest of her sentence was muffled.
I scrambled to my feet, ran across the hall. I burst into her bedroom. It was dim, shadowy. But I could see my father in the light from the bedside lamp. He was naked. He was on top of Antoinette. Holding her face in his hands. He was hurting her. I knew it.
“Stop it! Stop it!” I screamed. I flew at him, grabbed hold of his leg.
My father was strong, very athletic. He moved swiftly. Jumping off the bed he grabbed hold of me, lifted me up, and carried me across the floor. As he marched out of the room with me I looked back. Antoinette was covering her naked body with the sheet.
She saw me staring and blew me a kiss. “Go to bed, darling, that’s a good boy,” she said and smiled at me lovingly “Sweet dreams.”
I cried myself to sleep. I was just a little boy. Only eight. And so I couldn’t help her. I couldn’t protect her from my father. He was back in her room hurting her. I couldn’t do anything about it.
The next morning Antoinette was present at breakfast as she usually was. It seemed to me that she had never looked so beautiful. She was quiet. Lost in her thoughts. Whenever I looked at her she smiled at me in that special way she had. My father glowered at me over the rim of his coffee cup. I waited for him to chastise me about my behavior the night before but he did not. He didn’t even mention it.
Later when we were alone, Antoinette gave me lots of hugs. And she kissed the top of my head and told me I was the best boy in the whole world, her boy, and that she loved me very much. She asked me to help her cut flowers for the vases, and we went out to the garden and spent the morning together.
I blinked several times and took a deep breath as Catherine came cantering up to the fence.
“Are you all right?” she asked, leaning forward, peering at me over Black Jack’s head.
“Yes. Why?”
“You look a bit strange, that’s all.”
“I’m okay.” I bent down, retrieved the bottle of wine from the grass. I regretted that I had dropped it so clumsily.
“Olivier has produced a remarkable wine,” I confided. “Possibly a great one. The weather was excellent in 1986. The grapes were good. I wanted you to taste it. But I’ve probably ruined it. Dropping the bottle the way I did.”
“Let’s try it anyway,” she answered. She gave me a wide smile, saluted, and added as she rode off, “See you in a couple of minutes.”
I walked up to the château, my mind still focused on Antoinette and Sebastian. I had not thought of that awful incident since it happened. It had lain dormant for twenty-two years. But now that I had finally remembered it I understood everything. Understood that this was when I had first begun to hate my father.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
A week later I got the shock of my life.
After my usual morning walk through the woods, I returned to the château. In the kitchen I found Simone, my housekeeper. She was preparing the breakfast tray for Catherine and myself. After exchanging a few words with her I carried the tray to the library.
Since the advent of Catherine in my life, I always ate breakfast there these days. I didn’t mind. It was a pleasant room overlooking the woods. Catherine loved it. She invariably worked on her book at the big library table under the window.
Catherine had not come down yet. I poured myself a café au lait, took a warm croissant out of the basket, spread butter and homemade strawberry jam on it.
I was munching on the croissant when Catherine came in, apologizing as she did.
“Sorry I’m late. Oh good, I see you’ve started,” she said, joining me in front of the fire. Sitting down on the sofa opposite, she poured coffee for herself.
After a moment, she went on, “Did you have a good walk, darling?”
“Yes.”
“What’s it like out today?”
“Sunny. As you can see. Not as mild as yesterday. But a nice day. For a good gallop.”
“Oh I don’t think I’ll go riding,” she responded. “I don’t th
ink riding would be good for the baby, do you?” Putting the cup down, she looked at me.
“Baby! What baby?”
“Our baby, Jack.” She tossed back her flowing red hair and beamed at me. “I was going to tell you tonight, tell you properly over dinner. It just popped out now. I’ve suspected I was pregnant for the past week. And the doctor in Aix-en-Provence confirmed it yesterday.”
I sat frozen in the chair, gaping at her.
At last I managed in a strangled voice, “You’re having a baby?” I was not only shocked but incredulous.
All smiles, she nodded. “Yes. Isn’t it wonderful?”
I was speechless. Words failed me.
She went on quickly, “I never realized I would feel this way, not that I ever thought much about children. I didn’t care whether I had a child or not. But now that I am pregnant I’m just thrilled to bits. Terribly excited. It’s really wonderful news, isn’t—” Her voice faltered and abruptly she stopped. She stared hard at me. After a moment she said, “You don’t think it’s good news, do you?”
“No, I certainly don’t. It’s horrendous. A baby was never part of our plan.”
“But Jack—”
“You were supposed to be taking care of yourself. You said you were using a diaphragm,” I rasped. I glared at her. “What happened? Did you suddenly stop?”
“Of course I didn’t!” she cried. She was irate. “Something must have gone wrong.”
“Merde!”
“It can, you know.”
“It shouldn’t have, though. Marriage was never part of our deal. I told you I would never get married again.”
“Who wants to get married?” she shot back angrily. “Not I, Jack. I’ve always told you that. I cherish my independence. And this is not about marriage. It’s about a baby. Our child. Unexpectedly, I find myself pregnant, and I’m pleased about it. . . I’m looking forward to having the baby.”
“You can’t have it! Do you understand me? You can’t have it!”
“Are you trying to tell me I should have an abortion?” she demanded. Her face had gone deathly white.
“You’ve no alternative!” I snapped.
“Oh but I do. I can have the baby.”
“I don’t want it, Catherine.”
“I do, Jack. And I have no intentions of terminating my pregnancy. I thought you’d be as happy as I am.”
“Happy! Don’t be such a fool! This is a disaster.”
“It needn’t be. We don’t have to get married, darling,” she began in a softer voice. “We can live together, just as we have been doing these past few months. And we can bring up our baby together, here at the château. It’s a wonderful place to raise a child, Jack. And honestly, matrimony doesn’t have to figure in it, not at all.”
“No way! Absolutely no way!”
“A lot of people do it, Jack. They—”
“I’m not a lot of people. I don’t want this child. Don’t you understand that? I’m not interested in this baby,” I spluttered.
“I’m going to have it, whatever you say. You can’t stop me,” Catherine said, her voice hardening. There was a sudden change in her. She had acquired a defiance that brought a tautness to her face, and her body had stiffened. Her resoluteness took my breath away.
“If you have this baby we can’t be together,” I threatened. “It’s the end of our relationship.”
“That’s fine by me!” she cried and jumped up. Her eyes blazed in her white face. “I will not get rid of my baby. And if you don’t want to live with me and bring it up, then I’ll live alone. I’ll have the baby and bring it up myself. I don’t need you. Or your bloody money, Jack Locke! I have enough of my own. And I’m quite self-sufficient. In every way!”
“So be it,” I said coldly, also standing.
She glared at me, her fury apparent.
I stared her down.
Neither of us spoke.
“I’d better leave,” she exclaimed in a curt, clipped tone. “I can be packed in half an hour, an hour at the most. Please be kind enough to order a cab for me. To take me to Marseilles. There are plenty of planes to London daily. I don’t want to hang around here for longer than is necessary.”
“Consider it done!” I answered angrily. I was rasping again. My voice sounded harsh to me.
Catherine walked across the room. She turned at the door. In a voice that dripped ice, she said, “You’re afraid to be a father. You’re afraid because you believe you can’t love a child. And all because your father couldn’t love you.”
I opened my mouth. No words came out.
She threw me one last pitying look. Swinging on her heels she left, slamming the door behind her.
The chandelier rattled.
Then there was silence.
I was completely alone.
I did as she asked and ordered a car for her. Then I went to my office in the winery. I had work to do. But I also wanted to avoid Catherine. I didn’t want to say good-bye. I didn’t want to see her again. Not ever. Not as long as I lived.
Anger was fulminating inside me. I tried to shake it off. Work was the answer. I sat poring over the papers that had arrived by courier from Locke Industries in New York yesterday. Concentration eluded me. I pushed them away from me, sat back in my chair, and closed my eyes.
Endeavoring to calm myself, I made an effort to focus on my business affairs. I was not particularly successful. Emotions were crowding in, getting in the way.
I was angry. And hurt. I felt betrayed by Catherine. She had let me down by getting pregnant. It was irresponsible on her part. We’d had more than one conversation about birth control. She knew my feelings about children. I’d never wanted any when I was married. So why would I want them out of wedlock?
Suddenly her last words echoed in my mind. Had she spoken the truth? Did I really believe that I couldn’t love a child because my father had never loved me? I had no answer for myself. How could I have an answer to an unanswerable question?
Catherine had said I was irrational about my father. But this was not the case. I was very rational when it came to Sebastian. I knew where my feelings of antipathy sprang from. My childhood. He had never tried to help me when I was growing up. Never ventured to teach me anything. He had never made an effort to be a real father. Like other boys’ fathers did. He had always left me to my own devices. Left me with Luciana and Vivienne. We had never indulged in any masculine pursuits. Or exchanged confidences. All he had ever talked about was my duty. And he had never loved me.
At least Catherine hadn’t tried to convince me I was wrong about that. Instead she had given me a psychological explanation. Disassociation. That is what she had called it. She said it sprang from lack of bonding in the first years of a child’s life. She ascribed Sebastian’s inability to love to this condition. It made sense. His mother had died in childbirth. He had never bonded with Cyrus. He had said as much once. I knew he had hated my grandfather.
But I didn’t suffer from disassociation. I had known mother love for two years. Those crucial years of a child’s life. Then Christa had come along. She had been there to love me. And after Christa went away there was my Special Lady Antoinette Delaney.
I sighed under my breath. Catherine might be right about my father. But she was totally wrong about me. Wasn’t she?
Oh what the hell did it matter what she thought or said or did. She was out of my life. Or would be within the space of the next hour. It was regrettable really. I had cared about her. We had been good together. Built a good relationship. She had gone and ruined it. But then women usually did. In my life at least.
CHAPTER TWENTY
“Good God, where did you spring from?” I exclaimed. I stared at the door, startled to see my unexpected visitor. Her sudden arrival was a mixed blessing. Part of me was glad. The other part mad.
“New York,” Vivienne said, laughing. She stepped into my office and closed the door behind her. “I got back to Vieux Moulin yesterday. I was going to phone you,
but then I decided to surprise you instead.”
“You succeeded.” I got up, went to hug her. We strolled across the floor together. She sat down in the chair next to my desk and went on, “You do look busy. All those papers. Oh, dear, I do hope I haven’t interrupted you.”
“It’s okay, Viv. I’d just about finished anyway. I’ve been hard at it all day. Locke Industries can be very demanding at times. Even long distance.” I glanced at my watch. “It’s almost five. I might as well pack it in now. Let’s go and have a drink.”
“It’s a bit early, isn’t it?” she demurred.
“Not necessarily. Depending on how you look at it. Here in Aix it’s five. But in Rome it’s already six. The cocktail hour. Anyway, I’m not offering you any old drink. But a very special one. So you can make an exception. Start drinking early for once. I want you to taste our new wine. Created by Olivier. In 1986. It’s just matured. Come on, kid. Let’s go down to the cave.”
“I’d love to,” Vivienne agreed, suddenly enthusiastic. She followed me out of the office.
Within minutes we were standing in the wine-tasting corner of the red wine maturation cellar. I ushered Vivienne to a chair. Then I took a bottle of the vintage 1986 red out of a wine rack and showed it to her.
“It was good weather that summer and fall. If you remember, Viv,” I explained. “And the wine is excellent. It’s aged well. Olivier mixed three different grapes. It has a wonderful taste. Very soft on the palette.”
“I can’t wait to try it,” she replied and smiled up at me. “Go on then, open it. Let me taste your triumph.”
“Olivier’s triumph,” I said.
I felt her eyes on me as I handled the bottle. I did so carefully. Slowly. I followed the steps taught to me by Olivier years ago.
Once I had poured a glass for each of us, I raised mine. “Here’s to you, Viv.”
“And you, Jack.”
She took a sip and then another. After a moment she nodded. “It’s wonderful. Like velvet on the tongue. And there’s just the right hint of violets. Congratulations.”