Out of all of it, the loss of Merry Vance's friendship was her only regret. The two women saw each
other, of course.
Edward was close to Merry's father; the duke and he shared a number of political interests. As a result, Monmouth's invitations were among the few the couple accepted. Merry always welcomed
Florence
warmly but
Florence
could tell her spirits were not what they'd been. She suspected Merry wasn't quite over her infatuation with the earl.
Her husband broke into her thoughts by stroking the curve of her cheek. "Something wrong?" he asked with the gentleness he reserved for those he loved.
She shook her head. "Just wondering if Merry Vance will be happy with that fellow her father seems to be grooming up to marry her."
"Why wouldn't she be?
Solid man.
They've known each other from the cradle. Plus, his positions on finance are impeccable."
She stifled a smile at this recipe for romance.
"Here's the turn," her husband said, pointing to the bell-towered church that marked it. He tugged at his collar, a sure sign that he was nervous.
Florence
patted his thigh, but knew there was little she could do
to soothe him. Three years was a long time to go without seeing one's brother.
A short avenue of plane trees led to Freddie and Nigel's villa. The house was charming: soft gray stone with ash blue shutters and a roof of red clay tiles. White jasmine trailed from the windows, and the path to the door was paved with ocher brick. Everything was beautiful, but slightly unkempt, as if the people who lived here wanted the humblest visitor to feel at home.
The driver, a big, red-faced Frenchman, climbed down from the box and began untying their luggage. Since Fredi still slept,
Florence
handed her to Edward to carry out. Her long-awaited uncle bounded around the corner of the house just as Edward was lifting the knocker. Freddie was obviously dressed
for gardening, in muddy boots and trousers and a simple peasant shirt. His skin was rosy brown, his hair bleached nearly blond. He'd gained weight since leaving
England
and it suited him immensely. He was solid now—no boyish rake but a man with his feet planted firmly on the ground. He grinned and covered his mouth when he saw his niece curled in sleep on her father's shoulder. Her ruffled pink dress, once quite fetching, was a hopeless mass of wrinkles from the ride.
"Oh, look at the little princess," he whispered.
"Wait till she wakes up," Edward warned.
Freddie merely laughed and gathered the sleeping bundle into his arms. "You made good time,"
he whispered over his shoulder. "We weren't expecting you until tonight."
"The princess wakes at dawn," Edward said. "Her subjects have no option but to follow."
Freddie grinned and swept his arm before him. "Welcome to Chateau Burbrooke."
His garden was a bower of daffodils and roses, with an ancient tinkling fountain and a table Nigel was frantically trying to cover with a cloth. Piles of clippings attested to Freddie's attempt to tidy up. More promising were two bottles of wine left cooling in a bucket of water. In the course of their journey,
Florence
was certain she'd swallowed half the dust of
France
.
"Oh, hell," said Nigel. "I mean, welcome to our home. How nice you could come straight back before you'd even seen your rooms."
The look he shot Freddie made it obvious this was not the sequence on which they'd agreed.
"Oops," said Freddie with a sheepishness so endearing
Florence
had to grin.
"Here," she said, reaching for the other edge of the cloth. "Let me help. I take it we're having a picnic lunch?"
"Yes," said Nigel. "That is, I'd planned a nice dinner but, well, at the moment we have bread and fruit
and a wonderful foie gras they sell at a shop in town."
"Perfect," she said. "We very much like picnics and Fredi adores pate."
"Like a pig in truffles," Edward muttered.
"Oh." Nigel looked looked slightly alarmed. "I hope I have enough."
"Don't worry," said Edward. "We won't wake the little beast till we've had ours."
This unparentlike declaration seemed to startle Nigel but also to calm him. Before he could assure
Florence
he could manage on his own, she followed him into the cool dark house, keeping up a friendly chatter that rather amazed her. She'd come a long way since her tongue-tied arrival in
London
. As they progressed through the hall, she gathered an impression of old polished wood and big simple furniture—
a bachelor house, designed for comfort and ease. She knew just by walking through it that they'd all
enjoy their stay.
By the time they emerged with the food, the brothers had their heads together over the table, where Freddie was sketching something on the back of a crumpled envelope. Like a trusting puppy, Frederica was curled in sleep on Edward's coat in a patch of sun.
"
It's
ten acres," Freddie was saying, "along the river. We had to replant where parts of the vineyard had grown bare, and some drainage needed relaying, but the soil is good and the rootstock is still productive. Right now, we're selling most of our harvest to Chateau Roudelle but we're thinking that, with the help
of a local widow, we could develop a little label of our own."
"We're reeling her in," Nigel said with a laugh as boyish as Freddie's. "We've convinced her to take us under her wing. Teach the bumbling
Anglais
how to save their poor, neglected vines."
The ensuing merriment woke Frederica. Rubbing her eyes, she tottered over to the table and announced that she was hungry.
"Lord," said Edward. "Here comes the bottomless pit."
Despite his words, the facility with which he fixed his daughter a plate of precisely what she liked was a wonder to behold.
"Mm," she
said,
mouth full of bread and goose liver. "Fwance is good."
"I'll drink to that," said Freddie, and pulled one of the cooling bottles from the bucket by his feet. The dark green glass bore a handwritten label that said "Burbrooke-West, 1875
Bordeaux
."
Florence
clapped her hands. "It's yours?
Oh, Freddie, how marvelous!"
"Merely a
vin ordinaire,"
he said with a deprecating grin. "Most of our plants are young. The widow insists, however, that you can taste the shadow of future greatness."
He poured with great skill for a bumbling
Anglais,
tilting the bottle gently so that its contents would not
be disturbed on the journey to the small tapered glasses.
"The interesting thing about grapes," he said, continuing this pretty
ritual,
"is that they thrive on struggle. The soil here is almost entirely
gravel
for several meters down. Water runs straight through it, along with the minerals the plants need to grow. So the roots"—he finished the last glass with a flourishing twist—"must dig deep if they want to drink. This makes the vine strong and the grapes sweet. Only through hardship can you get a true
grand vin."
With a teasing smile, he handed the glasses around, none more than half full, and Fredi's a good deal
less. The two-year-old clutched it in chubby hands, as intently as if she held the
holy grail
. Edward made a sound of concern at this, but
Florence
shook her head. "Don't worry," she said. "Knowing our little sprout, most of it will end up on her dress."
"We should have a toast," Nigel said, his eyes shy but aglow.
'To ... to family, because the richest
grapes grow closest to the root."
"To family," Edward agreed, clinking rims with his brother. Then he turned to Nigel.
"And to love, because that is the best vintage of all."
To a one, the men turned red, though Edward did his best to cover it with a frown.
'To love,"
Florence
seconded, loudly, before they could start shuffling their feet.
With a clearing of throats, the toast rang out. The cool new wine was tart and fruity, a burst of sunshine on tbe tongue. They smiled at each other as they swallowed and everyone there, even Frederica, knew that life was very sweet.