“No. We must all do what we can to help him,” she sighed.
“He’s very attached to you, Emilie,” Jean said quietly.
“And I to him. Certainly for a time I could take him, but . . .”
“I understand.” Jean nodded.
Feeling uncomfortable, Emilie stood up. “I’ll go to him.”
As she walked away from the cottage and toward the vineyards, Emilie asked herself what the
but
had been when she’d spoken to Jean just now. She was a rich single woman, with an enormous house, and, currently, the time to offer to a bereaved young boy. Not only that, but a boy she had become increasingly fond of in the past few weeks. It was unlikely now that she’d marry again. And, of course, she would never have children of her own.
Emilie realized then what the
but
had been: she was frightened, scared of the responsibility of a dependent, someone who would need her, whom she would have to put first at every turn. The polar opposite of how her mother had been with her.
Would she be the same kind of mother?
Emilie was terrified she would be.
“That boy needs me, he needs
me
. . . .”
Was she up to the task?
Of course she was, she comforted herself. She was like her father—everyone said so. And Édouard had often told her the joy of being needed far outweighed needing.
Emilie realized suddenly that if Anton wanted to stay with her, it was
she
who would be honored, not him.
She walked in among the vines, searching for him. Eventually she saw him, staring disconsolately at the château in the distance, his thin frame wracked with sorrow. A sudden wave of maternal love washed over her, and Emilie’s decision was made. She went toward him, her arms outstretched.
He heard her footsteps and turned, trying to wipe away his tears.
“Anton, I’m so, so sorry.” She wrapped her arms around him, and after a few moments, he took courage and did the same to her. They stood together, holding each other as the tears fell down both their cheeks.
When his shoulders had stopped heaving, she wiped both their faces with the edge of her cardigan.
“There’s so little I can say to you, Anton. I know how much you loved her.”
“Jacques said to me this morning that death is a part of life. And I know that somehow I must try and accept it, but I’m not sure I can yet.”
“Jacques is very wise. Anton, perhaps this isn’t the time to talk of it, but if it would suit you, at least for a while, perhaps you could come and stay at my
gîte
and keep me company? It’s quite lonely there. I could do with a man around the place.”
He looked up at her, amazement in his eyes. “Are you sure?”
“Very sure. Will you think about it?”
“Emilie, I don’t need to think about it! I promise I won’t be a bother, and I can help you . . . do things,” Anton offered pathetically.
“Yes, you could. We’re both orphans, aren’t we?”
“Yes, but . . . I may like it too much, and never want to leave. . . .”
“Well, the good news is”—Emilie smiled down at him, then pulled him to her again as she stroked his hair—“you might not have to.”
From:[email protected]
Tuesday 5th
Dearest Em,
It was a relief to hear from you, not that I thought You Know Who would start charging over to France waving a pistol and demanding
my
treasured book back—part of his psyche is that he’s a coward. And you might be glad to know he is still yet to return here, so I live in Mona Lisa Towers waiting for his old banger to charge up the drive. My bet is, he’s cut his losses and has declared undying love to Bella. (Sorry.) Anyway, as you can imagine, it’s pretty lonely here—it comes to something when you have to admit you’re even missing the odd shower of abuse from your brother. And on that note, the tension of waiting for him to reappear has confirmed in my mind the plan I talked of in my last e-mail. I mentioned “my children” were flourishing—in fact, so much so that I sold them to the highest bidder for a dowry of some considerable size. (DON’T TELL YOUR ALMOST EX-HUSBAND THIS, OBVIOUSLY!) But ’tis a fair sum, enough to keep me in foie gras for the rest of my life. And also buy somewhere for myself that’s a little less isolated and allows me to consort occasionally with my fellow human beings. I’m currently perusing some details of ground-floor flats in the center of York, which is a very beautiful city with an awfully nice cathedral.
You might be surprised at this volte-face, given that I told you I was so determined to stay here. Sadly, the joint ownership of the house has brought nothing but pain. And although a reconciliation between Seb and me was my grandmother’s last wish, it hasn’t materialized. And I know it never will. So, for both our sakes, I have decided to finally agree to his demand that we sell Blackmoor Hall. One thing I may not have mentioned is the fact I know Seb has run up a huge overdraft secured against his share of the house. I presume the bank has been pressurizing him to repay it, which is why he needs to sell so much. He will, of course, be delighted when I tell him, and all in all, I think it’s time to sever past ties and move on.
Em, I should also say at this point (which I know may upset you, and is why I’ve said nothing so far) that I have paid for every penny of the renovations to my apartment in the east wing.
And
for the costs of all my general domestic needs. I received a large settlement through the courts from the insurance company of the driver who rendered me legless (HAH!). I say this because it’s important to me you know I haven’t been freeloading off my brother. You should also know I initially offered to use my settlement to renovate Blackmoor Hall. Only when I discovered Seb had mortgaged it to the hilt did I back off. Funnily enough, he hasn’t been my friend ever since.
Anyway, what do you think of my plan to move on? I’m only 80 percent decided, but I think it’s the right thing to do.
To be honest, Em, since you left, I’ve been horribly lonely. And now I’ve sold my children too, at rather a loose end. Of course, I may well consider adopting some more. . . .
If you have time, do reply with your thoughts—I was very happy to hear from you.
I miss you.
Alex XX
Emilie had no time to reply as both she and Anton were getting ready to leave for Margaux’s funeral. But even as she sat in the beautiful medieval church of Saint-Laurent in Gassin, with her hand tightly holding Anton’s, she thought of Alex’s e-mail.
I miss you.
After the service, many local residents came back to the cottage. The
cave
’s new vintage was tested and approved by the locals.
When the last mourner had left, she saw Anton standing alone, looking drained.
“Why not take yourself upstairs and start packing? We’ll be going home soon,” Emilie said gently.
Anton’s face brightened a little. “All right, I will.”
As she watched him trudge disconsolately up the stairs, Emilie was comforted that letting him move in with her after the funeral was the right decision. At least he’d have the newness of beginning afresh after the terrible ending today.
Jean appeared in the kitchen. “Emilie, my father’s asked you if you would join us in the garden while Anton is upstairs.”
“Of course.” She followed Jean outside.
Jacques was in the chair he’d sat in all afternoon. He’d been very much the host, and Emilie had seen how he loved his local community.
“Sit down, Emilie,” he said gravely. “I wish to speak to you. Jean, you stay too.” The note in his voice indicated he had something serious to discuss with her.
Jean poured them all a fresh glass of wine and then sat down next to Emilie.
“I have decided it’s the moment to tell you who Sophia’s child is. And when I tell you, I hope you will understand why I have waited until now to do so.” Jacques cleared his throat, which was tired and hoarse from all the talking he had done during the day.
“After Constance and I took Victoria to the convent orphanage and Constance left for England, I begged Édouard yet again to reconsider. However, he would not hear of it and, a few days later, left the château to return to Paris. I, however, was wracked with guilt. I knew Sophia de la Martinières’s child was lying, unloved and unwanted, only a few kilometers away.” Jacques shrugged his shoulders. “Try as I did to rationalize that war had left such terrible unwanted human detritus behind and that I was not responsible for Victoria, I could not forget her. I had grown to love her, you see. After two weeks of battling with myself, I decided to return to the orphanage to see if Victoria had already been adopted. If she had, then it was God’s will and I would not search for her. But, of course, she hadn’t been.” Jacques shook his head. “By then, Victoria was over four months old. The moment I walked into the nursery, her eyes lit up and she recognized me. She smiled . . . Emilie, she smiled at me.” Jacques put his head in his hands. “When she did that, I knew it was impossible for me to simply abandon her.”
Unable to continue, Jacques sat in silence as Jean put an arm around his father’s shoulder, trying to comfort him.
“So”—Jacques looked up suddenly—“I returned home and tried to think what I could do. Adopting her myself was an option, but not one I felt was right for the child. Men in those days didn’t have the first idea of how to care for a baby and Victoria needed the loving arms
of a mother. I wracked my brains to try to think who would take her locally, so that at least, if I was unable to care for her, I could watch over her as she grew. Eventually, I came across such a woman. She had one child already—I knew her because, before the war, her husband had worked in the vineyard for me during the
vendange
. I went to visit her and discovered her husband had not yet returned home and she’d heard nothing from him. She and the child were desperate . . . starving, as so many were after the war. But she was a good woman and I could tell from the child she already had that she was a caring mother. I asked her whether she would be prepared to adopt another one. At first, of course, she refused, saying she could barely feed her own child’s mouth, as I knew she would. So then I offered her a sum of money. A significant sum of money”—Jacques nodded—“and she accepted.”
“Papa, how could you offer this?” asked Jean. “I know how poor you were after the war.”
“Yes, I was. But . . .” Jacques paused and gazed suddenly at Emilie, who could see he was agonizing over telling her. “Your father, Emilie, had given me something before he left for Paris, after Constance had returned to England. He’d pressed it into my hands, rather than using words. Perhaps it was his way of asking my forgiveness for refusing to accept Sophia’s child. So I contacted someone I knew who dealt in the black market, which thrived just after the war. I asked him to value what your father had given to me, to raise the money to pay for the kind woman I knew to adopt Victoria.”
“What was it my father gave you, Jacques?” asked Emilie softly.
“It was a book, a book he knew I’d loved. It was very old, and the plates in it were exquisite. I knew he’d managed to find the second volume to complete the set—you remember I told you, Emilie, that he sent it from Paris with Armand, the courier, to tell us of his safe escape? And that Édouard gave it to Constance to take to England?”
“Yes,” answered Emilie, with a glimmer of a smile on her face. “I know the book. It’s called
The History of French Fruit
.”
“You are correct, and I discovered my copy, volume one, was very rare and very old. I managed to sell it for enough to pay the woman to take Sophia’s baby into her home. Forgive me for what I did, Emilie. I should not have sold your father’s gift to me. But it bought his niece’s safety and her future.”
Emilie’s eyes were blurred with tears and she was almost too choked to speak. “Jacques, believe me,” she said eventually, “I think what you did with the book could not have been more perfect.”
“How much did the sale raise?” asked Jean.
“Ten thousand francs,” said Jacques. “Which, in those days, when so many were starving, was a fortune. I paid the woman a thousand francs immediately and told her she would receive another five hundred francs a year until the child reached sixteen. I couldn’t risk giving her the money all at once; I wanted to make sure she would earn it by taking care of the baby. The woman knew nothing of the child’s background. I made completely sure of that. She also asked me if she could rename Victoria after her own mother.”
“And you said yes, of course?” said Jean.
“I did. And, thank God, my choice was a success,” breathed Jacques. “In fact, when the girl was five, the woman refused to take money for her any longer. Her husband had returned and their circumstances had improved. She said she loved the child as her own and felt uncomfortable receiving recompense for her. I’m happy I chose the right woman. Emilie, your aunt’s child could not have found a more loving or happier home.”
“Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, and on behalf of my aunt and my father, for doing what you did. Jacques”—the question was now burning on Emilie’s tongue—“who is the child? What’s her name?”
“Her name is—”
Jacques swallowed hard and tried again.
“Her name was Margaux.”
A
ll three of them sat silently, working through the ramifications of what Jacques had just revealed.
“Do you understand, Emilie,” said Jacques eventually, “why I was so concerned about revealing the baby’s identity? If I had done so, it would have thrown Margaux’s life into disarray. She had worked as a housekeeper at the château for over fifteen years. After your father died, the old château housekeeper, whom you may remember, retired. Margaux’s mother was by then a friend, and I recommended her daughter to Valérie, your mother.”
“I now understand why you’ve felt you could say nothing, Papa,” Jean said softly. “How would Margaux have reacted to knowing that she’d spent so long working for the de la Martinièreses, when in fact she was one of them?”
“Exactly. But, of course, now Margaux has left us, and Anton, like a homing pigeon, has landed on our doorstep and a relationship has blossomed between the two of you.” Jacques indicated Emilie. “So I had to tell you. The boy who is at present packing to return to your home with you is in fact your first cousin once removed.”