• • •
As dusk fell over the château, the books were all on the truck and ready to leave.
“Madame de la Martinières, I must ask you to sign these forms. They’re to say that you have checked over the contents and agreed that there are 24,307 books. Your husband suggested insurance cover of twenty-one million francs when he spoke to me last week,” said Giles.
“Really?” Emilie raised an eyebrow. “Is that not excessive?”
“It’s a very impressive collection, madame. And if I were you, when it’s returned, I would have a rare-books specialist come and value it properly. These days, old books can be worth a small fortune.”
“Yes, of course.” Sebastian had advised the same, but she’d never valued the collection financially before, only emotionally. “Thank you for your help and advice.”
Emilie watched the truck drive off into the night, then went back to the kitchen to eat the braised oxtail that Margaux had left for her. In front of her were the contents of her father’s desk, which she had hastily piled into two black garbage bags when the desk had been taken into storage a few weeks before. As she ate, Emilie reached into one of the bags and took out a random clutch of its contents. There were many letters, a mixture of social and business correspondence, dating back to the sixties. Also, a collection of photographs of her parents in Paris and here in the château garden, enjoying social occasions.
There were many of Emilie as a baby too, a child and then a gawky teenager, with her heavy fringe and plump, hormonal body. Losing track of time, she plowed through everything, comforted by this intimate
selection of the remnants from her father’s life. It brought him closer, and she wept as she read some of the love letters her mother had sent to him.
From these, there was no doubt Valérie had loved her husband, and for that, at least, Emilie was grateful. She wiped her nose on the back of her hand, feeling both moved and ironically happier that some of her pain was slowly being erased as she understood more of the past.
She realized also, in retrospect, that closing herself off from her family and its history had only hindered her present and her future. Of course, some things could never be forgiven . . . but, at least, if she understood
why
they had happened, then maybe she could finally free herself.
Glancing at her watch, Emilie saw it was past midnight. She checked her voice mail to see if Sebastian had called her. She had left him a voice mail earlier to say she’d arrived in France.
An electronic voice told her she had no new messages. Emilie sighed as she left the warmth of the range for the chill of the bedroom, glad she’d remembered to pack her trusty hot-water bottle.
Lying in bed, she felt the usual surge of adrenaline at the thought of Sebastian’s coldness at the weekend and his subsequent non-communication, but refused to submit to it. If, for some reason, Sebastian had ceased to love her, she would cope. After all, her childhood had taught her how to be alone.
T
he following morning was hectic as Emilie greeted the architect and the foreman. After they’d wandered around the house discussing the renovations in detail, Emilie swallowed hard when she saw the revised estimate, but the architect assured her the work was worth every centime in comparison to what the value of the château would be once it was restored.
“I’m sure we’ll be in touch on many occasions in the next few months,” said Adrien, the foreman. “And you must understand that the château will look very forlorn when you next see it—and it will be a very long time before your beautiful house returns to its full glory.”
Eventually, when everyone had left, Emilie closed the front door and took a slow wander around inside. Feeling both silly and sentimental as she did so, she assured the rooms that the transformation they were about to go through was for their own good.
She had called Jean earlier and he had offered her supper at the cottage, as well as a bed. Wandering back into the scullery where she had stowed her suitcase and the two black garbage bags, she pulled out the last unread pile of papers and photographs. Picking up a yellowing envelope, she opened it. Inside was a photograph of a young Édouard—probably in his twenties—standing on a beach, his arm protectively around the shoulder of a beautiful, fair-haired girl. Emilie recognized her from the portrait in her father’s Paris study. It was his sister, Sophia. Another piece of paper was also in the envelope, torn from a notebook. . . . Emilie unfolded it and saw the familiar, uneven, childish writing.
Mon Frère . . .
“My brother,” Emilie whispered to herself, then did her best to decipher the appalling writing. It was a eulogy to Édouard and was signed, as the other poems she had read, by Sophia de la Martinières,
âge 14
.
Realizing her fingers were numb with the dense cold of the empty house, Emilie returned to her chair by the range and sat down. This poem illustrated like nothing else could the adoration the young Sophia had felt for her brother. So why had Édouard never talked of her? What had happened between them to render his sadness and silence? Given the obvious affection shown in the photograph between brother and sister, Emilie knew there must be a reason.
Stowing the poem and photograph in her handbag, she picked up the garbage bags and her suitcase and closed the door on the château for the last time. As she was steering the car along the gravel drive to Jean’s cottage, her mobile rang suddenly. Seeing it was Sebastian, she brought the car to a sharp halt and answered the phone.
“Where have you been? I’ve been worried out of my mind!” she almost shouted down the phone, a mixture of anxiety and emotion fueling her anger.
“Darling, I’m so, so sorry. I left my mobile charger in Yorkshire and the battery ran out on Tuesday morning.”
“Sebastian, that’s no excuse! Surely there are other phones in the world you could have used to contact me on?” Emilie was unable to control herself.
“I did! I called Blackmoor Hall on Tuesday night, but nobody answered and since then you’ve been in France.”
“Then why didn’t you leave a message on my mobile?” she demanded.
“Emilie, please! Let me explain. It’s really very simple. The only place I had your mobile number recorded was
on
my mobile and the battery was flat, remember? So I didn’t
have
your number until I arrived back home in Yorkshire this afternoon and charged my phone.”
“Couldn’t you have called Gerard? He has it.” Emilie was still shaking with anger.
“His number was also stored on my useless mobile. Please, Emilie”—Sebastian sounded weary—“I’m truly sorry. And before you ask, yes, I did go in search of a replacement charger in London, but my mobile is such an old model that none of the local shops supply it anymore. And I really didn’t have time to go further afield. Anyway, it’s what you might call an unfortunate series of events. And there
simply isn’t anything more I can say, other than it’s taught me how valuable an old-fashioned paper address book is. Besides, what other reason could there be for me not making contact?”
The sense of his words cut through any further frustrated and fearful outpourings Emilie might have uttered. As Sebastian said, what other reason could there be?
“You have no idea how worried I’ve been. Especially as over the weekend you seemed so . . . odd. I even began to wonder whether you’d left me.” Anger abating, Emilie was close to tears now.
This comment elicited a gentle chuckle. “Left you? Emilie, I only married you a few weeks ago. What on earth do you think I am? Yes, admittedly, I was very low last weekend. But everyone gets down from time to time, don’t they?”
“I suppose so, yes.” Emilie bit her lip, feeling wrong-footed and guilty for jumping to conclusions.
“Has that brother of mine been getting to you? Planting seeds in your head that have begun to take root? Yup”—Emilie almost heard him nodding to himself—“I bet that’s it.”
“No, Sebastian, Alex never says a word against you, I promise.”
“Don’t lie, Emilie, I know what he’s like.” Sebastian’s voice had a sudden harshness to it.
“He has said nothing,” Emilie underlined, not wanting to get drawn into an argument during the first conversation they’d had in four days. “You say you’re at home in Yorkshire now?”
“Yes, I am. How are things going over there?”
“The books have left the château and it’s now awaiting its face-lift.”
“Well, I’m sorry I couldn’t be there to help you. Things have been incredibly busy here.”
“Well, that’s good, isn’t it?” Emilie said quietly.
“Yes, not as good as they could be, but . . . when are you coming home?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Then I shall make you something lovely for supper to welcome you and to try and make up for the debacle of my mobile. I’m sorry, Emilie, but really, it wasn’t my fault. And I did try and get hold of you on Tuesday night, I promise.”
“Well, let’s just forget it, shall we?”
“Yes. And if there’s anything I can do from here to help you, just let me know.”
“Thank you, but everything is under control so far.”
“Okay, sweetheart, please keep in touch.”
“And
you
!” Emilie managed a weak smile. “See you tomorrow.”
She sat staring into space for a while, wondering if she believed him. Her father always used to say that the simplest reasons tended to account for the most dramatic circumstances, and she hoped she too could take that view. But the four-day silence
had
planted seeds of doubt in her mind.
And even though Alex had said nothing negative or inflammatory about his brother, he had purposely avoided being drawn into a conversation on the subject. Put bluntly, Emilie felt there was far more to say about her husband than Alex was telling her. Turning the car engine back on, she drove the last hundred meters down
to the cottage and parked outside.
She left her belongings in the trunk and tried the door to the
cave
first, knowing Jean often worked until late. And sure enough, there he was, sitting at his table, surrounded by his ledgers.
Jean’s warm, brown eyes crinkled as he broke into a smile. “Emilie! Welcome.” He stood up, walked around the table, and kissed her on both cheeks. “It’s a pleasure to have you here. Your room is ready and we’ve made some supper for you. You must be exhausted.”
“It’s kind of you to have me, Jean. Where’s Jacques?” Emilie peered into the gloom of the
cave
to the large bench at the back where Jacques was usually a permanent fixture, wrapping the bottles.
“I’ve sent Papa into the cottage to light the fires. It’s cold tonight, especially in here, and I don’t want him to catch a chill. As you know, he hasn’t been well this winter. But then, he’s getting very old.” Jean sighed and Emilie noticed the worry in his eyes. “So, everything is ready at the château?”
“Yes, it will be a new dawn.” Emilie nodded.
“Well, I can’t tell you how happy Papa and I are that the château will stay in the de la Martinières family. You’ve not only saved our livelihood, but the home my father and I love so much. I truly think it might have finished Papa if he’d had to leave. Now, let’s go through to the cottage, sit by the fire and have a glass of wine. This year’s rosé is particularly good. Last season’s weather conditions were perfect. In fact, I will know soon whether we have won a medal for the rosé in the forthcoming Vignerons awards. It will be the first time for this vineyard and I have high hopes.”
Emilie helped Jean switch off the lights in the
cave
, then they walked along the short passage that led to the cottage. As Jean opened the door into the kitchen, a delicious smell of cooking permeated the air.
“Come through to the sitting room, where I’m sure my father will already have uncorked the wine for us,” said Jean.
Jacques was again dozing in his chair by the fire. Even Emilie, who had grown up thinking of Jean’s father as ancient, noticed his deterioration. She turned to Jean. “Shall we go into the kitchen and let him sleep?” she whispered.
“No need”—he grinned—“he’s as deaf as a post these days. Sit down, Emilie.” Jean gestured to a chair and picked up the open bottle of wine from the table. “Try some of this.”
Emilie took the glass he handed her, swilled the gorgeous pale pink liquid inside around its edges, and enjoyed its rich, pungent bouquet.
“It smells wonderful, Jean.”
“I added more Syrah grape than usual, and I think the mix is good.”
Emilie took a sip and smiled in pleasure. “It’s lovely.”
“Of course, there’s a lot of competition here locally, with huge investment in the latest technology being employed. But I’ll do my best to keep up.” Jean shrugged. “Now, enough of business, we can talk about that later. How’s England? And married life?”
Never had the strange, tense, cold atmosphere of Blackmoor Hall seemed so far away than from the familiarity of sitting comfortably with Jean in his cozy cottage.
“It’s fine, although it’s taking me time to get used to England. And Sebastian hasn’t been around very much due to his work,” she replied honestly.
“I know he travels often. Only last week I saw a car I didn’t know coming down the drive toward the château one evening. So, in my unofficial capacity as security guard when Margaux leaves for the day, I went to investigate when I didn’t see it return. It was your husband.”
“Really? Sebastian was here last week?” Emilie did her best to disguise her shock and not let it show on her face.
“Yes. You didn’t know?” Jean gazed at her thoughtfully for a moment.
“I knew he was in France, so perhaps he found himself nearby and decided to check on the château,” she equivocated quickly.
“Yes, I’m sure. I’m afraid I startled him when I arrived at the house. He was in the library, surrounded by piles of books.”
“Oh! Well, he was obviously trying to help me by beginning to pack them,” said Emilie, relief flooding through her.
“He was here for two days, although I didn’t see him after the first time as I didn’t want to disturb him. He is your husband after all and therefore has a right to be at the château whenever he chooses.”