Keys to the Castle (23 page)

Ash, who had been gazing distractedly out the misty window, stopped with his Scotch halfway to his lips. “Mother, you didn't.”

“No, of course not.” She sipped her own whiskey complacently. “I merely wished to see if you were paying attention.”

He gave her a weak, apologetic smile. “Your pardon. I suppose I have been rather inattentive.”

“You're a horrid guest,” she informed him. “I really wish you wouldn't come at all if you can't manage to do better.”

He made a visible effort to focus. “I've some good news. I think we may soon be signing on the Dejonge family.”

His mother, who was top-notch when it came to all things business, raised an eyebrow. “Now, that is impressive. Your father tried to collect them in 1973.”

“They've always been very peculiar about keeping all of their associations in-country. And of course they can dictate whatever terms they wish since they've held a monopoly on the South African diamond trade for over a hundred years. However . . .” He allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction into the Scotch. “I've good reason to believe all that is about to change.”

“You'll be a part of history, then, my dear. It all must be terribly exciting for you.”

“It is, rather.”

But he did not seem particularly excited, and soon fell into a brooding silence again.

“You look tired, Ash,” his mother observed, after a time.

He admitted, “I haven't been sleeping, to tell the truth.”

“You should take more exercise.”

“Perhaps.”

“A bit of fresh air wouldn't hurt.”

“No doubt.” His brow furrowed briefly as he gazed into his Scotch. “Mother, do you happen to remember when I was a boy—perhaps on holiday—an occasion when we had an outing in a meadow by a river, and children tossed a red ball back and forth. There was a woman with a big hat . . . could it have been you?”

“Good heavens!” She gave him an astonished look. “I never wear hats, look hideous in them. And how should I recall what color ball your schoolmates might have tossed some forty years ago?”

“Good God,” he said softly. “Has it been that long?” He sipped his drink. “Ah well, never mind. It was just a foolishness that crossed my mind the other day.”

She held his gaze for a moment, and then returned to her drink.

“I've heard from your sister Margaret.”

“Indeed. How is she doing?”

“They've another one the way.”

“Good Lord.” His tone was absent. “How many does that make? Seven?”

“Four.”

“Perhaps I'll pop in to see her when I'm in Scotland next.”

“Well, I do certainly hope you're more entertaining by then than you are now.”

“Mother,” Ash said abruptly, “you know those Americans, the Bostarts, don't you? They bought that ruin outside of Lyon a few years back.”

“I believe so, yes. He was in bonds, or something boring like that, wasn't he?”

“I saw them at a party when I was in France last month. They inquired after you.”

“Did they? How lovely. I shall have to send a note. It's been some time.”

“When you do, I wonder if you might suggest they call on Sara sometime. It must be difficult for her, all alone in a strange country. She'd enjoy a visit from her fellow countrymen.”

His mother noted, with great interest but without comment, that, in the past hour they had sat together this was no less than the seventh time he had brought up the subject of Daniel's widow.

She said, “I understood you to say she had the child with her. An odd arrangement, that.”

He frowned a little. “There's nothing odd about it. It was very generous of her.”

“To be sure,” his mother murmured, sipping her whiskey.

“At any rate, I'd like to think she isn't simply pining away out there.”

“Very likely she's far too busy to pine, my dear, with a five-year-old to take care of and that monstrous place on her hands. What on earth does she intend to do with it, anyway?”

Ash tossed back the remainder of his Scotch. “I don't know.”

“I would sell, if I were she.”

“So would I.” Ash set down his empty glass with a rather impolite clack against the marble-topped side table.

“No one can afford those old places anymore except the Saudis.”

“Yes, I know. Mother, if you would just . . .”

“Don't worry.” His mother gave a dismissing wave of her hand. “I'll make certain your little American isn't wanting for company while she's in France. I'm really quite good at this sort of thing, you know.”

He smiled, and for the first time it seemed genuine. “Yes, actually, you are.” He stood and crossed to her chair. “Now I must rush. I've a dinner tonight.” He bent and kissed her cheek. “I love you, Mother.”

“What a very peculiar thing to say.” She pretended to shrug him off, trying to hide her pleasure with a scowl. “You might demonstrate it by visiting more often—and by being far better company when you do.”

He merely grinned at her and blew her a kiss from the doorway on his way out.

When he was gone, she took up pen and paper. But she wrote, not to the Bostarts, but to Rondelais. Having given the matter some thought, she had decided that there was nothing much going on in the country this time of year and that she was curious, all in all, as to what type of woman could so befuddle her son as to cause him to visit his mother in the middle of the week for no reason at all.

And there was really no better way to find out than to investigate the matter in person.

For the first couple of days after Ash left, Sara was horrified by what she had done. She had taken responsibility for a child whose language she didn't even speak. She had virtually moved to a foreign country with no preparation, no background, and only one change of clean underwear left. She still used the currency converter and couldn't recognize coins. And inside the belly of this vast, ancient structure all alone on the hill she and Alyssa were as tiny, and as defense-less, as baby robins in a nest.

She didn't answer Ash's voice mails because she didn't want him to hear in her voice how uncertain she was, and she didn't want him rushing back in to fix things. He had left her with an ache in her core so profound it felt as though vital organs had been ripped out, and she did not want to be around him now. It took all of the strength she had to focus on Alyssa, keeping her clean and safe and well fed and entertained and making certain that the little girl never guessed the person she depended on for all of those things was, in fact, scared to death.

But she soon learned that necessity trumps fear every time, and if she had made a horrible mistake by staying here—and by volunteering to care for Alyssa—it was definitely too late to regret the decision now. There was no time to be baffled by language, currency, or train schedules when Alyssa needed clothes and other necessities. There was no time to feel sorry for herself when every waking moment was spent making sure Alyssa didn't tumble down the stairs or fall into the moat or paint herself, from head to toe, in mud. Her entire conscious being was consumed with all things five-year-old, and it was exhausting. For the most part Alyssa was a happy, energetic, and sweetly affectionate child. But she knew how to throw a tantrum when she was thwarted, and a child's endless stream of “Why?” and “What's that?” took on an entirely new dimension when the answers had to be given in two languages.

Most nights, if she managed to get Alyssa bathed and into bed by eight, Sara was dozing by eight thirty. But sometimes, with her back aching from lifting Alyssa and her muscles sore from dragging furniture from one room to the next, her thoughts racing with things she had to get done before Alyssa awoke the next day, she would sneak down to the terrace and sit with a glass of wine she was almost too tired to sip, watching the sun set over the layered greens and purples of the valley. That was when she missed Ash. She missed his crisp British accent and his lazy humor. She missed the thoughtful blue of his eyes and the way he held himself, with such easy, elegant confidence. She missed the way he looked at her when she was talking, completely absorbed in what she had to say. She missed the way he could be such an unexpected smart-ass, and make her laugh. But mostly she missed the fantasy he had created for her here, that sense of living in a timeless fairy tale where all things were possible and nothing bad ever happened. And she hated that the fantasy was gone forever.

At first she had been furious with him. Furious that he dared to play games with her over something this important, furious that he thought he could win, furious that, just when she had started to relax her guard around him again, he had shown his true colors. But most of all she was furious, hurt, and deeply disappointed that Michele had been right about him. That he was so predictable.

And that he was not, after all, Prince Charming.

After dissecting in minute detail the forty-eight pages of settlement documents she had insisted that Mr. Winkle fax to her immediately, the logical businesswoman in Sara was forced to admit that the compromise he offered was a good one, and if she tried to fight him, she would only be hurting herself, and, by default, Alyssa. Until the question of Alyssa's parentage was resolved, neither one of them would have full legal rights to the property, and by continuing to pay the taxes, Ash had forestalled a potential financial crisis for her. And for himself, of course, he had kept the door open to a potential financial windfall in the future.

The truth was that he had acted in the only way that, being Ash, he could act. So after a few days of fuming every time she thought about him, she stopped being angry at him. It was just too much hard work, and she needed every ounce of energy she had to keep up with Alyssa. She stopped being angry. But she didn't stop being disappointed.

And sometimes, late at night when she was too tired to even sleep, or when she sat on the terrace and ached with loneliness for what might have been, she would take a deeply secret and guilty pleasure in playing back his messages on her phone, just to hear the sound of his voice. The way her name,
Sara
, rolled off his tongue with all soft vowels and a resonant
r
. His drawled
my dear
, and the crisp consonants of his impatience. She remembered the way he had kissed Alyssa's hair and swung her up into his arms, and how stricken he had looked when he had come for her that day, realizing Michele had abandoned her, and how desperately he had embraced the little girl then. She thought about how Alyssa adored him, and then persuaded herself that it could not have been very hard for him to win a five-year-old's heart; after all, look how easily he had captured her own.

She thought about the way he had kissed her, that one unguarded night that seemed like a lifetime ago, and when she did a flush started in her core and spread outward through her skin until her fingertips were hot and her chest ached. Until she could taste him.

The emotions left her feeling foolish and confused. She was barely a year widowed. Even though Daniel had betrayed her with his secrets and his lies, even though the marriage she thought she had had never really existed, it felt wrong, somehow, to have been so quickly drawn into another man's charm. It was wrong, it was foolish . . . but she missed Ash. And she took comfort in the sound of his voice, even if it was only a recorded playback.

When Sara discovered that Marie—the plump, cheerful woman who came up from the village every morning to clean their rooms and do their laundry and leave the refrigerator filled with scrumptious covered dishes and the cupboard filled with homemade jams and sweet soft breads—had a granddaughter close to Alyssa's age, life at Rondelais improved dramatically. At least four mornings a week Marie brought her granddaughter to play with Alyssa, and the two girls became fast friends. A huge burden was lifted from Sara's shoulders just knowing that Alyssa was not lonely, and that she was doing the kinds of things a five-year-old should do—even if she did live in a castle.

On fair days, Sara worked in the gardens—trying to bring the lavender and rosemary under control, trimming back the wild shrubs, sorting out what remained of the kitchen garden—while the girls raced and tumbled across the lawn nearby. Or they would bring their baby dolls and coloring books inside and Sara would set them up in one of the mostly empty upstairs rooms that she had designated as a playroom, and while they were immersed in their world of make-believe, she would return to one of her projects.

It all started when Sara decided to move out of the elegant blue and gold suite and into one of the hotel-type rooms where less damage could be done by sticky little fingers and muddy shoes, because, even with her choice of rooms in which to sleep and with an entire castle in which to play, Alyssa always ended up in Sara's room. Sara hated the new room, which reminded her of sleeping in a conference center, and Alyssa pouted over the loss of the “princess room,” as she called it. Who had ever had the idea of painting real wood panels—four-hundred-year-old wood panels—such an ugly shade of taupe? And covering marble floors with Berber carpeting?