Her Own Rules/Dangerous to Know (35 page)

P
ART
T
WO

JACK
D
UTY

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTEEN

I
first come to the château d'Cose when I was seven years old. If a small boy of that age could fall in love with a house then
I
did.

In those days I did not understand why I loved it so much. All I knew was that I felt at home. Its vastness did not frighten me. Nor was I intimidated by its grandeur. I was at ease in the great rooms. Or roaming through the meadows and woods of the estate.

Deep in my soul, I knew that I
belonged
at the château. Forever. This was my place. I never wanted to leave. When I had to, I was sad for weeks afterward. I could not wait to return. We came back every summer. It was never long enough for me.

My father gave me the château and its lands just after he married Vivienne in 1980. I was stunned when he told me. I did not believe he meant to go through with it. I kept thinking he would back off at the last minute. To my surprise he did not.

Sebastian had grown bored with the château. He was no longer interested in the vineyards and the winery. But that was my father. He soon grew bored with things. And with wives.

After he and Vivienne split up, Luciana and I started to call him Henry behind his back. After Henry the Eighth who had six wives. The name quickly deteriorated into Hank.

Luciana and I had secret names for a lot of people when we were kids. Vivienne was VTG. This stood for Vivienne the Great. My father thought she was just that. So did I. But Luciana detested Vivienne. So VTG was a derogatory name to her. Never to me. I laughed up my sleeve.

My half sister also hated Vivienne's mother, Antoinette Delaney. I didn't. I loved her. I thought she was beautiful. Her hair was full of sunlight, her green eyes the same color as the emeralds my father constantly gave her. She had pale, pale skin. When she was angry it turned bright pink. In summer she got freckles on the bridge of her nose. I liked her freckles. They made her real, less ethereal.

Antoinette was always very kind to me. She loved me a lot. As much as she loved Vivienne. I knew this because she told me, told me I was like the son she had never had.

I wouldn't allow Luciana to give Antoinette a nickname. Not unless it was flattering. We never did agree on that. And so she was never called anything behind her back. She was only ever referred to as Antoinette.

But I had my own name for her. She was my Special Lady. And she was
exactly
that. Truly special. She worked wonders in my young life, turned it completely around. And she helped to make me feel whole.

Then she went and fell down the cellar steps at Laurel Creek Farm. She broke her neck and died.

I was twelve and it broke my heart. I'm not certain that I've ever recovered from her death. There has been a void in me since then. No one has been able to fill it.

My twelfth year was hell.

Antoinette died, and my father started to lecture me about Duty. It was my Duty to look after Luciana when he was away. It was my Duty to study hard. In order to go to Exeter and Yale. It was my Duty not to let the family down. It was my Duty to follow in his footsteps. My Duty to run Locke Industries and the Locke Foundation one day. And it was always Duty in a grand way. And with a capital D.

I was still only twelve when Cyrus joined the act.

Whenever we went to see him in Maine it was
Duty Duty Duty.
Not surprisingly, I began to hate that word. I determined that I would never do my Duty. Not ever. But of course I did. Like the Pavlov dog, I had been brainwashed. I submitted to their will. And I did their bidding. After a fashion.

The Inheritance, as I called the château in those days, was deeded to me when I was only sixteen and attending Exeter Preparatory School. It was merely a small part of my vast inheritance, my grandfather and father being billionaires.

I sometimes thought of the château as a consolation prize. My father had married Vivienne, the woman of my dreams. I had always planned on marrying her myself. Not unnaturally, I was devastated when they tied the knot.

I suspect Sebastian realized this. Hence the château. Of course, giving it to me when he did saved inheritance taxes as well.

Once the château was mine, I flew to France whenever Exeter broke for vacation. I was thrilled to be at d'Cose several times a year, instead of only in the summer months.

Sebastian and Vivienne were also there a lot in 1980 and 1981. They got on my nerves. They were forever billing and cooing. Luciana and I christened them the Lovebirds.

The Lovebirds were preoccupied with the pile of rubble Sebastian had bought for her in Lourmarin. They were transforming it into a house. Eventually it was finished and they called it
Vieux Moulin.
I thought it was an imprudent waste of money But I said nothing. It was none of my business. And, after all, I now owned the château. The house of my dreams, if not the girl.

I never did understand the attraction that heap of old stones held for Sebastian. An old mill, for God's sake. But then I never did understand my father. Now it was too late. He had been dead and buried for five months.

When I graduated from Exeter at the age of eighteen I went to Yale. Just as I was supposed to. Doing my Duty I was following in the footsteps of those other Lockes who had gone before me. The first was my great-great-grandfather, Ian Lyon Locke. I would probably be the last, since I had no son.

I considered Yale to be a nuisance. It was preventing me from getting on with my life. All I wanted was to live at my château in Aix-en-Provence. I had been learning about my vineyards and my winery from Olivier Marchand, who had run everything for years. First for Sebastian. And then for me. It was my whole existence.

At twenty-two I became master of my own fate.

After graduating from Yale, I moved to the château permanently, where I worked alongside Olivier. I was passionately consumed by the land. My land.

I was also passionately in love.

When I was twenty-three I married her.

Everyone thought she was eminently suitable. She was, when it came to pedigree. Eleanor Jarvis Talbot had the right lineage. She was Boston Old Money. Except that they didn't have any. Not anymore. This didn't matter to me. I had more than enough for both of us. Millions. In trust from my mother.

Eleanor was a lovely pale blonde. Tall and willowy. And highly over-sexed. I slept with her on our first date and continued to do so all through the last year I was at Yale.

Her cool, refined looks belied her sizzling nature. She was hot. Perhaps this was part of the attraction. She looked like a lady, behaved like a whore. When I was with her I was forever turned on just thinking about what we would do later. Actually, all we ever did was screw. Day and night, whenever we could. I was in seventh heaven, as they say. I couldn't believe my luck.

The family thought she was Miss Right. So did I. We were confused. Eleanor turned out to be Miss Wrong. From the very beginning the marriage floundered. Maybe it was partly my fault for not making her understand how much the château, the winery, and the running of the estate meant to me.

We honeymooned in Morocco. I will never know what that country is really like. Not unless I make a return visit. I spent all of my time in bed. On top of Eleanor. Gazing down into her limpid gray-blue eyes. Or lying on my back. Staring up at hotel ceilings as she mounted me enthusiastically. She liked to do that. The dominant position appealed to her. “Let me fuck you,” she would say and she did. Over and over and over again.

Then we came home to the château. And things changed. They had to change. I had a real life at the château. I had work to do. It was my Duty. But I cherished my Duty in this particular instance. I was bound to the land and the winery.

The endless screwing had to lessen. But it didn't stop entirely. Unfortunately, Eleanor was like a rabbit. She was inordinately miffed when she couldn't get it all the time. Whenever she felt like it. She said I didn't love her. I believed I did. But she wore me out. I was exhausted. I needed a rest from all that unimaginative mindless fucking. I soon realized I had very little to say to her. Almost nothing at all.

This aside, she had no idea how to run a great château. Being a chatelaine meant nothing to her. Nor was she interested in learning how to be one. Her curiosity about what I did all day was nil. Her involvement in my working life was nonexistent. Then, after a year of marriage, another problem developed. She became fixated on my father. She couldn't stop talking about him. His presence seemed to ignite her. She became overly animated, abnormally effervescent, almost raucous. In his absence, a despondency set in. She sulked. Threw tantrums.

Eleanor still wanted to screw me endlessly. But my interest in her was waning with rapidity. Her preoccupation with Sebastian sent a message loud and clear. I knew she really wanted to screw my father instead of me. Or as well as me. Whichever. This knowledge proved disastrous for our sex life. It rendered me impotent.

We divorced.

It was costly. But worth it.

And fortunately despite our sexual marathons, there were no children from this regrettable union.

A glutton for punishment, I married my second wife when I was twenty-six.

I met Jacqueline de Brossard in Aix-en-Provence. She was the daughter of a minor baron and lived in a nearby château. What attracted me to her initially was her familiarity with château life. And her knowledge of the land. Plus her gorgeous body. Her looks were plain. However, her splendid French chic and great style more than compensated for this inadequacy.

Jacqueline de Brossard appeared to be the perfect mate. Ideally suited to me. We shared similar tastes. In most things. We were compatible. Nevertheless, our marriage scarcely outlasted the year. She had two all-consuming interests in her life. Spending my money was one of them. Infidelity the other. My second wife apparently did not wish to bed my father. As far as I knew. Merely every other man that crossed her path.

We divorced.

I vowed never to marry again.

I was now living in sin.

My paramour was an Englishwoman. Her name was Catherine Smythe. She was educated. Brainy. A bit of an intellectual. Fifty years ago she would have been termed a bluestocking. Catherine was an Oxford graduate. An historian of some repute. She had taught history, written about it, lectured on it.

I thought she was outrageously good-looking. Red-haired, green-eyed, pale-complexioned.

There were moments when Catherine reminded me of my Special Lady. Like the Special Lady's daughter Vivienne, Catherine was older than me. By five years. That didn't matter. I've always preferred older women.

Catherine and I met in Paris in August of 1994. She was staying with an English journalist friend of mine, Dick Vickery. I assumed they were romantically involved. My assumption was incorrect. They were just good friends.

She and I became more than just good friends in a matter of days. I liked brainy women. They stimulated me. Turned me on. Catherine was much better than a mindless screw. She was the ultimate.

She came to stay with me for Christmas. It was then I asked her to move in with me. She agreed. We saw the old year out together, greeted the new one in. Drinking champagne on the chateau's ramparts. Toasting each other. Getting drunk together.

It seemed to me that 1995 held wonderful prospects. Especially with Catherine on the premises. Indefinitely.

“I can't promise you marriage,” I'd said to her over Christmas.

“Marriage!” she had cried indignantly. “Who's interested in marriage? Certainly not I. I've no desire to be legally bound to any man, present company included. I love my independence. I don't aim to lose it.”

So that was that.

I had met my match.

Seven months after our first encounter this clever woman still fascinated me. Apparently I still fascinated her.

I moved away from the trees. Striding out, I headed for the château looming up in the distance, a great mass of stone.

It gleamed palely on this February morning. Watery sunlight glanced off its many windows. The gray-tiled rooftops and turrets were dark smudges against the hazy blue sky.

I paused, looked toward the château across sweeping green lawns, a formal garden and, just beyond the garden, the wide stone terrace of the château.

It was the perfect spot from which to view the eighteenth-century edifice at any time of day. This morning it looked spectacular in the soft light, with the mist rising off the lawns.

I was filled with satisfaction, knowing it was mine.

I glanced at my watch. It was almost nine o'clock. Time for breakfast with Catherine.

 

I found her in the library. She had been working there since seven.

“Aren't you a love,” she said, looking up as I came in. “Bringing me breakfast, no less. Spoiling me.”

“Your turn tomorrow.” I put the large wooden tray on the coffee table in front of the fire and sat down.

She joined me a moment later. We sat drinking large cups of café au lait and eating warm, freshly baked croissants spread with butter and homemade raspberry jam.

“Jack, these are lethal.”

“You say that every day.”

“Three minutes on the lips, six months on the hips,” she muttered, shaking her head. “I simply must go on a diet tomorrow.”

“I like you the way you are.”

“I'm getting fat, living here with you, Jack.”

“Want to leave?”

“No, of course not, you fool,” she replied swiftly, affectionately, laughing as she spoke. “This place is compelling.”

“I thought it was me.”

“It is. You
and
the château. Jack, I've come across something really fascinating, in one of the old books I found. I think I know where the name Château d'Cose might have come from.”

I pricked up my ears. Leaned forward. I was suddenly more alert. The origin of the château's name had always baffled Sebastian. Olivier Marchand had been unable to throw any light on it. Neither had any of the old-timers who had worked here for years. Documentation barely existed. It was a mystery.