Emilie de la Martinières was an enigma.
He had watched her at her mother’s funeral, and her face had betrayed nothing. Granted, she had become far more attractive in adulthood than she’d been as a child. Yet even now, downstairs, faced with the loss of her one remaining parent and the responsibility of terrible decisions, Gerard had not found her vulnerable. The existence she led in Paris could not be further removed from that of her ancestors. She lived an unremarkable life. Yet, everything about her parents and the history of her family
was
remarkable.
Gerard continued up the stairs, irritated by her muted responses. Something was missing . . . something about her was unreachable. And he had no idea how to find it.
• • •
As Emilie stood up and put the coffee cups in the sink, the kitchen door opened and Margaux, the château housekeeper, stepped through the door. Her face lit up as she saw Emilie.
“Mademoiselle Emilie!” Margaux moved to embrace her. “I didn’t know you were coming! You should have told me. I would have prepared everything for you.”
“I arrived from Paris late last night. It’s good to see you, Margaux.”
Margaux drew back and studied Emilie, sympathy in her eyes. “How are you?”
“I am . . . coping,” Emilie answered honestly, the sight of Margaux, who had cared for her when she was a young girl staying at the château in the summer, bringing a lump to her throat.
“You look skinny. Are you not eating?” Margaux appraised her.
“Of course I’m eating, Margaux! Besides, it’s unlikely that I’ll ever fade away.” Emilie smiled wanly, sweeping her hands down her body.
“You have a lovely shape—wait until you’re like me!” Margaux indicated her own plump figure and chuckled.
Emilie looked at the fading blue eyes and blond hair, now streaked with gray. She remembered Margaux fifteen years ago as a beautiful woman and felt further depressed at how time destroyed all in its ever-hungry path.
The kitchen door opened again. Through it appeared a young boy, slight of figure, with his mother’s huge blue eyes dominating his elfin face. He looked in surprise at Emilie and then turned to his mother nervously.
“Maman? Is it all right for me to be here?”
“Do you mind if Anton is here in the château with me while I work, Mademoiselle Emilie? It’s the Easter holidays and I don’t like to leave him at home by himself. He normally sits quietly with a book.”
“Of course it’s not a problem.” Emilie smiled at the young boy reassuringly. Margaux had lost her husband eight years ago in a car crash. Since then, she had struggled to bring up her son alone. “I think there’s just enough room here for all of us, don’t you?”
“Yes, Mademoiselle Emilie. Thank you,” Anton said gratefully, walking toward his mother.
“Gerard Flavier, our
notaire
, is upstairs. He’ll be staying overnight, Margaux,” Emilie added. “We’re going down to the vineyard to see Jean and Jacques.”
“Then I’ll prepare his bedroom while you’re gone. Should I get some food ready for your supper?”
“No, thank you, we’ll go up to the village to eat later.”
“There are some bills that have arrived for the house, mademoiselle. Should I give them to you?” Margaux asked, embarrassed.
“Yes, of course.” Emilie sighed. “There’s no one else to pay them.”
“No. I’m so sorry, mademoiselle. It’s hard for you to be left alone. I know so well how it feels.”
“Yes, thank you. I’ll see you later, Margaux.” Emilie nodded at mother and son and left the kitchen to find Gerard.
• • •
That afternoon, Emilie accompanied Gerard to the
cave
. The vineyard on the de la Martinières domaine was a small operation on twenty-five acres, producing twelve thousand bottles a year of the palest rosé, red, and white, mostly sold to local shops, restaurants, and hotels.
Inside, the
cave
was dark and cool, the smell of fermenting wine permeating the air from the huge Russian-oak barrels lined up along its sides.
Jean Benoit, the
cave
manager, stood up from behind his desk as they entered.
“Mademoiselle Emilie! It’s a pleasure to see you.” Jean kissed her warmly on both cheeks. “Papa, look who’s here!”
Jacques Benoit, now in his late eighties and stiff with rheumatism, but who still sat at a table in the
cave
every day, painstakingly wrapping each bottle of wine in purple tissue paper, looked up and smiled. “Mademoiselle Emilie, how are you?”
“I’m well, thank you, Jacques. And you?”
“Ah, no longer up to hunting the wild boar your papa and I used to catch on the hills.” He chuckled. “But I still manage to find myself breathing each sunrise.”
Emilie felt a surge of pleasure at both the warmth of their greeting and their familiarity. Her father had been great friends with Jacques, and Emilie had often cycled off to the nearby beach at Gigaro for a swim with Jean, who, being eight years older than her, had seemed very grown-up. Emilie had sometimes fantasized that he was her older brother. Jean had always been so protective and kind toward her. He had lost his mother, Francesca, when he was young, and Jacques had done his best to bring him up alone.
Both father and son, and their ancestors before them, had grown up in the small cottage attached to the
cave.
Jean now managed the vineyard, taking over from his father once Jacques was satisfied Jean had learned his special methods of mixing, then fermenting, the grapes from the vines that surrounded them.
Emilie realized that Gerard was hovering behind them, looking uncomfortable. Pulling herself from her reverie, she said, “This is Gerard Flavier, our family
notaire
.”
“I believe we’ve met before, monsieur, many years ago,” said Jacques, holding out a trembling hand to him.
“Yes, and I still taste the subtlety of the wine you make here when I’m back in Paris,” remarked Gerard, smiling.
“You are most kind, monsieur,” said Jacques, “but I believe my son is even more of an artist when it comes to producing the perfect Provençal rosé.”
“I presume, Monsieur Flavier, that you’re here to check the financial facts and figures of our
cave
, rather than the quality of our produce?” Jean was looking uneasy.
“I would certainly like some idea of whether the business is financially productive for my analysis. I’m afraid that Mademoiselle Emilie must make some decisions.”
“Well,” said Emilie, “I think I’m of little use here for now, so I’ll take a walk through the vineyards.” She nodded at the three men and immediately left the
cave.
As she walked outside, she realized her own discomfort was heightened because the decisions she must make would endanger the Benoit family’s livelihood. Their way of life had remained unchanged for hundreds of years. She could tell that Jean, in particular, was concerned, understanding the ramifications if she did sell. A new owner might install a manager of his own, and Jean and Jacques would be forced to leave their home. She could hardly imagine such a change, for the Benoits seemed to grow out of the very soil she was standing on.
The sun was already on its descent as Emilie walked over the stony ground between the rows of fragile vines. In the following few weeks, they would grow like weeds to produce the fat, sweet fruit that would be picked in the
vendange
of late summer to produce next year’s vintage.
She turned to look at the château, three hundred meters in the distance, and sighed despairingly. Its pale, blush-covered walls, the shutters painted a traditional light blue, and framed by tall cypress trees on either side, melted into the softness of the approaching sunset. Simply
yet elegantly designed to fit in with its rural surroundings, the house reflected perfectly the understated yet noble lineage both of them had been born from.
And we are all that is left . . .
Emilie felt a sudden tenderness for the building. It had been orphaned too. Recognized, but ignored in terms of its basic needs, yet maintaining an air of graceful dignity under duress—she felt an odd camaraderie with it.
“How can I give you what you need?” she whispered to the château. “I have a life elsewhere, I . . .” Emilie sighed and then heard her name being called.
Gerard was walking toward her. He came to stand next to her and followed her eyes toward the château.
“It is beautiful, isn’t it?” he said.
“Yes, it is. But I have no idea what I should do with it.”
“Why don’t we walk back and I’ll give you my thoughts on the matter, which may or may not be of help to you.”
“Thank you.”
• • •
Twenty minutes later, as the sun made its final departure behind the hill that accommodated the medieval village of Gassin, Emilie sat with Gerard and listened to what he had to say.
“The vineyard is underproducing what it could, in terms of both yield and profit. There has been an international surge in sales of rosé in the past few years. It’s no longer thought of as the poor relation to its white and red sister and brother. Jean is expecting, as long as the weather conditions remain stable in the next few weeks, to produce a bumper crop. The point is, Emilie, the
cave
has always been run very much as a hobby by the de la Martinièreses.”
“Yes, I realize that.” Emilie agreed.
“Jean—whom I was extremely impressed with, by the way—said no investment funds have been provided for the vineyard since your father died sixteen years ago. It was, of course, originally established to provide the château itself with a homegrown supply of wine. In its heyday, when your ancestors were entertaining here in the old, grand style, much of the wine would have been consumed by them and their
guests. Now, of course, everything’s different, yet the vineyard is still running as it did a hundred years ago.”
Gerard looked at Emilie for a reaction, but received none, so he continued.
“What the
cave
needs is an injection of cash to fulfill its potential. Jean tells me, for example, that there’s enough land to double the size of the vineyards. It also needs some modern equipment to be brought up-to-date and produce, Jean believes, a healthy profit. The question is, whether you wish to carry the vineyard and the château into the future. They are both renovation projects and would take up much of your time.”
Emilie listened to the stillness. Not a breath of wind blew. The calm atmosphere wrapped a warm shawl of tranquillity around her. For the first time since her mother had died, Emilie felt at peace. And, therefore, disinclined to come to a conclusion.
“Thank you for your help so far, Gerard. But I don’t think it’s possible to give you an answer right away. If you’d asked me two weeks ago, I would have categorically told you my inclination was to sell. But now . . .”
“I understand.” Gerard nodded. “I can’t advise you emotionally, Emilie, only financially. Perhaps it would be a comfort for you to know that, when you sell the Paris house, its contents, and your mother’s jewelry, I believe it would not only cover the cost of restoring the château but also leave you with a large income for the rest of your life. And, of course, there is the library here. Your papa may not have spent his energies on the fabric of either of his homes, but his legacy is housed inside. He built on what was already a fine collection of rare books. Having glanced earlier at the ledgers he kept, he seems to have doubled it. Antiquarian books are not my field of expertise, but I can only imagine the collection is very valuable.”
“I would never part with it,” replied Emilie firmly, surprising herself with her sudden defensiveness. “It was my father’s life’s work. I spent many hours here in the library with him as a child.”
“Of course, and there’s no reason why you should. Although, if you decide not to keep the château, you may have to find somewhere larger than your Paris apartment to house the collection.” Gerard smiled wryly. “Now, I must eat. Will you accompany me to the village
for supper? I leave early tomorrow, and I must, with your permission, investigate the contents of your father’s desk to acquire any further financial papers.”
“Of course.”
“First, I must make a couple of calls,” he added apologetically, “but I’ll see you down here in half an hour.”
Emilie watched Gerard as he left the table and walked into the house. She felt awkward in his company, even though he had been present throughout her life. She had treated him then as any child would a distant adult. Now, with a third party no longer present, having a direct conversation with him was a new and uncomfortable experience.
As she wandered inside, Emilie realized she felt patronized, although she understood that Gerard was merely trying to help. But, sometimes, she saw in his eyes what she could only read as resentment. Perhaps he felt—and who could blame him—that she was not in any way accomplished enough to receive the mantle of the last surviving de la Martinières, with all its weight of history. Emilie was painfully aware that she had none of the glamour of her predecessors. Born into an extraordinary family, her only wish was to appear ordinary.
E
milie heard Gerard’s car making its way along the drive and away from the château early the next morning. She lay in the narrow bed she had slept in since childhood, the room’s windows facing northwest so there was little early-morning sun. Of course, she mused, there was no reason why she could not now inhabit any one of the vast and beautiful bedrooms at the front of the house, with their huge windows facing out over the garden and the vineyards.
Frou-Frou, who had whined so much last night that Emilie had relented and let her in to sleep on her bed, barked at the door to signal it was time for her morning ablutions.
Downstairs in the kitchen, Emilie made herself some coffee, then wandered along the passage to the library. The high-ceilinged room, which her father had always kept shrouded from light to protect the books, smelled comfortingly fusty and familiar. Placing her coffee on her father’s worn, leather-topped desk, she walked to a window and drew back one of the shutters. A million dust motes left their hiding places at the sudden and unusual breeze and danced frenziedly in the soft shafts of light.