Emilie sat down on the window seat and studied the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. She had no idea how many books the library contained. Her father had spent most of his latter years cataloging and adding to the collection. She stood up and walked slowly around the sides of the room, the books, sentinel and stoic, stretching up to four times her height. She felt as if they were surveying her—their new mistress—and wondering what fate would befall them.
Emilie remembered sitting with her father and playing the Alphabet Game, which entailed her choosing two letters from the alphabet of any combination. When she had chosen them, her father would move around the library searching for an author whose book held
those initials. Only rarely had he failed to produce a book from the two letters Emilie had given him. Even when she tried to be clever with
X
’s and
Z
’s, her father would manage to procure a fading, battered copy of Chinese philosophy, or a slim anthology by a long-forgotten Russian poet.
Though she’d watched Édouard do this for years, Emilie now wished she’d paid more attention to the eclectic methods her father had of cataloging and filing the books. As she glanced at the shelves, she knew it was not as simple as alphabetical order. On the shelf in front of her, the books ranged from Dickens to Plato to Guy de Maupassant.
She also knew the collection was so extensive that any cataloging her father had completed in the ledgers stacked on the desk would barely have scratched the surface. Even though
he
had known where to place his hands on a book almost immediately, Édouard had taken the skill and secret with him to his grave.
“If I’m to sell this house, what would I do with you?” she whispered to the books.
They gazed back at her silently; thousands of forlorn children who knew their future lay in her hands. Emilie shook herself from her reverie of the past. She could not let emotion sway her. If she decided to sell the château, then the books must be found another home. Closing the shutter and returning the books to their shrouded slumber, she left the library.
• • •
Emilie spent the rest of the morning exploring the endless nooks and crannies of the château, suddenly appreciating a wonderful two-hundred-year-old frieze that adorned the ceiling in the magnificent drawing room, the elegant but now shabby French furniture, and the many paintings that hung on every wall.
At lunchtime, Emilie made her way into the kitchen to pour herself a glass of water. She drank it thirstily, realizing she felt breathless and exhilarated, as if she’d woken up from a bad dream. The beauty she’d seen so clearly for the first time this morning had been around her for the whole of her life, yet she had never thought to appreciate it or give it credence. And now, rather than seeing her inheritance and her family
lineage as a rope around her neck from which she wished to be free, she was experiencing the first traces of excitement.
This wonderful house, with its wealth of exquisite objects, was
hers.
Feeling suddenly hungry, Emilie rooted around in the fridge and the kitchen cupboards, but to no avail. Taking Frou-Frou under her arm, she put the little dog in the car next to her and drove toward Gassin. Having parked the car, she walked up the ancient steep steps through the village to the hilltop boulevard that housed the bars and restaurants and took a table at the edge of the terrace to admire the spectacular coastal view below her. Ordering a small jug of rosé and a house salad, she basked in the strong lunchtime sun, thoughts circling in no particular order around her head.
“Excuse me, mademoiselle, but are you Emilie de la Martinières?”
Shading her eyes from the strong sunlight, Emilie looked up at the man standing by her table.
“Yes?” She looked askance at him.
“Then I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.” The man held out his hand. “My name is Sebastian Carruthers.”
Emilie reached out a tentative hand to his in return. “Do I know you?”
“No, you don’t.”
Emilie noticed he spoke excellent French, but with an English accent. “Then may I ask how you know me?” she said, imperious out of nerves.
“It’s a long story, and one I would like to share with you at some point. Are you expecting company?” he asked, indicating the empty chair opposite her.
“I . . . no.” Emilie shook her head.
“Then may I sit down and explain?”
Before Emilie had a chance to demur, Sebastian had pulled out the chair opposite her. Without the sunlight blinding her eyes, she studied him and saw that he was probably of a similar age to her, his good-quality, casual clothes worn easily on a slim body. He had a smattering of freckles across his nose, chestnut hair, and attractive brown eyes.
“I’m sorry to hear of your mother’s death,” he offered.
“Thank you.” Emilie took a sip of her wine and then, her ingrained good manners surfacing, said, “Can I offer you a glass of rosé?”
“That would be very kind.” Sebastian signaled for the waiter and caught his attention. A glass was placed in front of Sebastian, and Emilie poured the wine into it from the jug.
“How did you hear of my mother’s death?”
“It’s hardly a secret in France, is it?” Sebastian’s eyes filled with empathy. “She was rather well-known. May I offer my condolences? It must be a difficult time for you.”
“Yes, it is,” she replied stiffly. “So, you’re English?”
“You guessed!” Sebastian rolled his eyes in mock horror. “And I’ve worked so hard to lose my accent. Yes, I am, for my sins. But I spent a year in Paris studying fine art. And I admit to being a fully paid-up Francophile.”
“I see,” murmured Emilie. “But . . .”
“Yes, that still doesn’t explain how I knew you were Emilie de la Martinières. Well now”—Sebastian raised his eyes mysteriously—“the connection between you and me goes back into the deep and distant past.”
“Are you a relation?” Emilie was suddenly reminded of the warning Gerard had given her only yesterday.
“No, most definitely not,” he said with a smile, “but my grandmother was half-French. I discovered recently that she worked closely with Édouard de la Martinières, who I believe was your father, during the Second World War.”
“I see.” Emilie knew almost nothing about her father’s past. Only that he had never discussed it. And she was still nervous of what this Englishman wanted from her. “I know little about that time of my father’s life.”
“I didn’t know much either until my grandmother told me, just before she died, that she was over here during the Occupation. She also said what a brave man Édouard was.”
This revelation brought a sudden lump to Emilie’s throat. “I didn’t know . . . You must understand that I was born when my father was sixty, more than twenty years after the war ended.”
“Right,” said Sebastian, nodding.
“Besides”—Emilie took a healthy gulp of wine—“he was not the kind of man to ever boast about his triumphs.”
“Well, Constance, my grandmother, certainly seemed to hold him
in high esteem. She also told me about the beautiful château in Gassin that she’d stayed in while she was in France. The house is very close to this village, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” Emilie’s salad arrived. “Will you eat?” she asked, again out of politeness.
“If you’re happy to have my company, yes.”
“Of course.”
Sebastian ordered and the waiter retreated.
“So, what brings you to Gassin?” Emilie queried.
“That’s a very good question. After my course in fine art in Paris, I went on to make the art business my career. I show from a small gallery in London, but spend much of my time searching for the rare paintings that my wealthy clients desire. I came to France to try to persuade the owner of a Chagall to sell it to me. The chap lives up in Grasse, which, as you know, isn’t far from here. I happened to read in the newspaper about your mother, and that prodded my memory of my grandmother’s association with your family. So I thought I’d stop off and take a look for myself at the château I’d heard so much about. This really is the most beautiful village.”
“Yes, it is,” she answered, nonplussed by this strange conversation.
“So, Emilie, do you live at the château?”
“No,” she replied, uncomfortable with his direct line of questioning. “I currently live in Paris.”
“Where I have many friends,” Sebastian enthused. “One day, I hope to spend more time in France, but for now I’m still establishing my reputation in the UK. Not being able to get my hands on the Chagall for my client is very disappointing. It would have been my first negotiation in the big league.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you. I’ll get over it. You wouldn’t have any priceless paintings which you wanted to shift hanging around in that château of yours, would you?” Sebastian’s eyes were full of humor.
“I’m not sure,” she replied truthfully. “Valuing the art in the château is on my list of things to do.”
“I’m sure you’ll be using one of the top Paris experts to authenticate and value the collection. But if you needed a knowledgeable and very much on-the-spot eye to guide you in the interim, I would be
happy to oblige.” As Sebastian’s
croque-monsieur
arrived, he drew out his wallet and passed Emilie a card. “Promise I’m kosher,” he emphasized. “I can provide references from my clients if necessary.”
“It’s very kind of you, but our family
notaire
is dealing with all that kind of thing.” Emilie could hear the hauteur in her voice.
“Of course.” He poured them both some more rosé and tackled his
croque-monsieur.
“So,” he said, swiftly changing the subject, “what do you do with yourself in Paris?”
“I work as a vet in a large practice in the Marais Quarter. The money is not very good, but I love it.”
“Really?” Sebastian raised an eyebrow. “I’m surprised. I’d have thought, coming from the family you do, that you’d be involved in something very glamorous, if you even needed to work at all.”
“Yes, that’s what everyone assumes . . . I’m sorry, but I really must go.” Emilie signaled hurriedly for the bill.
“I do apologize, Emilie, that sounded trite,” Sebastian said immediately. “What I meant to say is, good on you! I really didn’t mean to insult you.”
An urge to get away from this man and his persistent questions suddenly assailed her. Emilie reached for her bag, took some francs out of her purse and put them on the table. “It was nice to meet you,” she said as she picked up Frou-Frou and walked smartly away from the table. She descended the steep stone steps toward her car as hurriedly as she could, feeling ridiculously shaken and tearful.
“Emilie! Please, wait!”
Taking no notice of the voice behind her, she continued walking down the steps determinedly until Sebastian caught up with her.
“Look,” he said, panting, “I’m really sorry if I offended you. I seem to have a knack of doing that.” Sebastian kept pace with her as she continued walking. “If it’s any consolation, I was born with endless baggage too. Including a crumbling mansion on the Yorkshire moors that I’m meant to somehow restore and save, when there’s not a bean to pay for it.”
They’d reached the car and Emilie had no choice but to stand still. “Then why don’t you sell it?”
“Because it’s part of my heritage and”—he shrugged—“it’s complicated.
Anyway, I’m not throwing you a sob story, just trying to explain that I know how it is to be defined by your past. I’m there too.”
Emilie searched silently for the car key in her bag.
“I’m not trying to compete with you,” Sebastian continued, “merely trying to say I empathize.”
“Thank you.” She’d found her car key. “I must go now.”
“Am I forgiven?”
She turned and looked at him, despairing of her own sensitivity, yet unable to control it. “I just . . .” She stared out across the verdant landscape below her, trying to find the words to explain. “I want to be judged for myself.”
“I understand, I really do. Look, I’m not going to hold you up anymore, but it was a pleasure to meet you.” Sebastian held out his hand. “Good luck with it all.”
“Thank you. Good-bye.” Emilie unlocked her car and released an irritated Frou-Frou onto the passenger seat. She climbed inside, started the engine, and drove off slowly down the hill, trying to understand why she had reacted so violently. Perhaps, used as she was to the formal French protocol of a first meeting, Sebastian’s openness had startled her. But, Emilie told herself, he had simply tried to be friendly. It was
she
who had the problem. Sebastian had pressed her most sensitive button and she’d reacted accordingly. Emilie watched him strolling down the hill a few meters ahead of her and felt guilty and embarrassed.
She was thirty years old, Emilie chastised herself. The de la Martinières estate was hers to do with as she wished. Perhaps it was time she began to behave like an adult, not a temperamental child.
As she drew the car adjacent with Sebastian, taking a deep breath, she wound down the window.
“As you’ve come all the way here to see the château, Sebastian, it would be disappointing if you didn’t fulfill your goal. Why don’t you let me drive you there?”
“If you’re sure . . .” Sebastian’s expression echoed the surprise in his voice. “I mean, of course I’d love to see it, especially with someone who knows the house intimately.”
“Then, please, climb in.” She leaned over and unlocked the passenger door for him.
“Thank you,” he said as he closed it behind him, and they set off once more down the hill. “I feel dreadful for upsetting you. Are you sure I’m forgiven?”
“Sebastian,” she sighed, “it’s not you who’s at fault, it’s me. Any mention of my family in that context is what I think a psychologist would call a trigger. And I must learn to deal with it.”
“Well, we all have plenty of those, especially when we’ve had successful, powerful relatives who’ve gone before us.”
“My mother was certainly a strong character. There’s a space in many people’s lives now she has passed away. As you said, it’s a lot to live up to. And I’ve always known I couldn’t.”
Emilie wondered whether the two glasses of wine at lunch had loosened her tongue. But suddenly she didn’t feel uncomfortable telling him this. It thrilled and unnerved her at the same time.