Sebastian noticed immediately. “Emilie, what’s wrong?”
“My mother wore those pearls almost every day of her life. I . . . excuse me.” Emilie stood up and headed for the exit, then went in search of the powder room. Slumping onto a closed toilet seat, she rested her head in her hands, feeling dizzy and sick, and surprised at the way the sight of the pearls had affected her. So far, disposing of her mother’s possessions had not touched her emotionally. There’d been little grieving; if anything, only a sense of relief that she was finally free of her past.
Emilie looked up at the carved oak of the toilet door. Had she judged Maman too harshly? After all, Valérie had never been physically cruel to her. That she had felt irrelevant to her mother’s world—an appendage at best, and nowhere near the center—did not mean that her mother was intrinsically bad. Valérie was the center of Valérie’s world, and there was simply no room for anyone else.
And . . . when Emilie had been so ill and the awful thing had happened to her at thirteen, it had not been out of cruelty. It had simply been because her mother had once more failed to notice.
Emilie stood up, left the cabinet, and splashed her face with water.
“She did the best that she could. You have to forgive her,” Emilie told her reflection in the mirror. “You have to move on.”
Taking a few deep breaths, Emilie left the powder room and found Sebastian hovering in the corridor outside.
“Are you all right?” he asked anxiously, taking her in his arms.
“Yes. I felt faint, but I’m better now.”
“Sweetheart, that would be enough to upset anyone,” he said, indicating the salesroom, “watching the vultures picking over the remnants of your mother’s life. Why don’t I take you out for lunch? There’s no reason for you to stay here and upset yourself further.”
“Yes, I’d like that,” Emilie replied gratefully.
A brisk January wind blew as Sebastian walked her along the Paris street to a restaurant he said he knew.
“It’s a bit rough-and-ready, but their bouillabaisse is superb, especially on a cold day like this.”
The two of them sat down at a rustic table, Emilie feeling chilled to the bone and grateful for the fire that burned in the grate next to them. Sebastian ordered the fish stew and took Emilie’s hands in his, rubbing them to warm her.
“The good news is that this process is nearly over and hopefully you can begin to concentrate on the future, not the past.”
“And I couldn’t have done it without you, Sebastian. Thank you, thank you so much for everything.” Emilie’s eyes glistened with tears.
“My pleasure, really,” he said firmly. “And maybe this is a salient moment to talk about
our
future.”
At his words, Emilie’s heart began to beat in her chest. Being so busy sorting out the past, she had simply lived from day-to-day in the present. Besides, she’d hardly dared to project into the future, having no real idea how Sebastian saw their relationship progressing and being too uncertain to ask. She sat quietly, waiting for him to continue.
“You know that my business is based in England, Emilie. And for the past few months while I’ve been here, I’ve done my best to run it, but I admit to having taken my eye off the ball.”
“Oh, that’s my fault,” Emilie interrupted guiltily. “You’ve done so much for me while your business has been suffering.”
“Well, it’s not that awful, but I certainly need to be thinking about getting back and concentrating on it more fully, in terms of time, headspace, and proximity.”
“I see . . .” Her voice tailed off as what Sebastian was hinting at sank in. He’d helped her through a difficult period of her life. Did he feel that the worst was over now and she didn’t need him anymore? Emilie’s stomach turned over.
All her thoughts must have betrayed themselves in her eyes, for Sebastian took her hand and kissed it. “Silly girl. I know what you’re thinking. Yes, I do have to return to England, certainly for now, but I’m not thinking of leaving you behind.”
“Then . . . what are you thinking?”
“That you would come with me, Emilie.”
“To England?”
“Yes, to England. Do you speak much English, by the way? I’ve no idea, given we’ve always spoken in French.”
“Of course.” She nodded. “My mother insisted I learn and I had some clients at the Paris practice that were English.”
“Good, that will help a lot. So maybe you could come with me, at least for a while. Your Paris apartment can easily be rented out, and you can come and sample the delights of beer and Yorkshire pudding with me.”
“But what about the château? Surely I should be there to oversee the work?”
“Well, once the renovations begin, the house will be a building site for the next few months. The whole place has got to be rewired and replumbed, let alone the reroofing. You can’t live there while the work is being carried out, especially not through the winter months. It simply won’t be habitable. You could stay at your Paris apartment and commute down to Gassin, but you can fly in to Nice almost as quickly from a British airport. And it would mean we could be together. If”—he looked at her—“that’s what you want.”
“I—”
“Well, why don’t you think about it?” Sebastian interjected. “Obviously, from my point of view, it would be a hell of a lot easier to have you in situ in England rather than me flying back here all the time. But really, Emilie, it’s up to you. And I’d understand if you decide to stay put here in France.”
“But . . .” Emilie didn’t know quite how to voice the words. Did he want her move to England to be permanent? Or was it simply until the château was renovated?
“Emilie,” Sebastian sighed, watching her, “I can read you like a book. What I’m suggesting is less a practical scenario and much more of an emotional one. I love you. I want to be with you for the rest of my life. Where and how that life takes place are all questions we can answer together in the fullness of time. But I would like to ask you one more question . . .”
Emilie watched as Sebastian felt inside his jacket pocket and produced a box. He opened it to reveal a small sapphire ring. “I want to ask you if you’ll marry me.”
“What?”
“Please don’t look so horrified,” said Sebastian, rolling his eyes. “This is meant to be a romantic moment and you’re meant to respond accordingly.”
“I’m sorry, I’m just shocked, that’s all. I didn’t expect it.” Emilie’s eyes filled with sudden tears. “Are you sure?” she asked as she looked at him.
“Honestly!” Sebastian sighed. “Of course I’m sure! Asking a woman to marry me and producing a ring is not the kind of thing I do every day, you know.”
“But we hardly know each other.”
“Emilie, we’ve lived in each other’s pockets for the past nine months. We’ve worked, slept, eaten, and talked together. Although”—Sebastian’s eyes darkened—“if you feel uncertain about me, then of course I’d understand.”
“No! No.” Emilie tried to pull herself together from the shock. “Sebastian, you’re wonderful and I . . . love you. If you really do mean this, then . . . yes.”
“Are you sure?” The ring still hovered in Sebastian’s fingers.
“I am.”
“Then I,” said Sebastian, placing the ring on Emilie’s finger, “am a very happy man.”
Emilie looked down at the ring. “It’s beautiful,” she breathed.
“It was my grandmother’s engagement ring. I think it’s rather lovely too, but undoubtedly far less extravagant than the rocks your mother favored. And, by the way, I wouldn’t be at all insulted if you wished to keep your maiden name.” He took a sip of wine. “You are the last of the de la Martinièreses, after all.”
Emilie had never contemplated this thought. “I really don’t know,” she said, the gravity of what had just happened sinking in and turning slowly to amazement and delight.
“Of course you don’t,” Sebastian comforted her as their fish stew arrived. “I’m sorry if I’m bombarding you, I’ve just been planning this for rather a long time. So, any thoughts of where and when you’d like to tie the knot?”
“Not yet, but somewhere in France, if you wouldn’t mind,” she added hastily, “and very small.”
“Yes, that was what I thought you’d say. And how about when?”
Emilie shrugged. “I don’t have a preference, do you?”
“The sooner the better, in my book. I was thinking how wonderful it would be to arrive back in England with my new wife in tow. And if you’d prefer France and something very quiet, how about in a couple of weeks right here in Paris?”
• • •
A few days later, Emilie arrived at the château to oversee the furniture being put into storage. After her marriage and subsequent move to Yorkshire, she would return to organize the library being packed away before the renovations began. Sebastian had flown home to England to retrieve his birth certificate to complete the documentation needed for them to be married in France.
She’d managed to rent out her Paris apartment for six months, then gritted her teeth to call Leon, her boss at the vets’ practice, to tell him that she would not be returning after all.
“We’ll be very sorry to lose you,” Leon had said. “And your patients will miss you too. If you ever want to return, please let me know. Good luck with the marriage and the new life in England. I’m so glad you’ve found happiness—you deserve it, Emilie.”
Emilie was aware that the few friends she’d told about her decision to throw everything up and follow her heart to England had been surprised.
“It’s very out of character for you to make such a rash decision,” Sabrina, her friend from university, had commented. “Hope I get to come to the wedding, so I can finally meet the knight in shining armor who’s whisking you off with him.”
“We’re not having anyone, just Sebastian and me and our witnesses. I prefer it that way.”
“You are funny, Emilie.” Sabrina had sighed in disappointment. “I was expecting a big party. Oh well, keep in touch and good luck.”
As Emilie walked toward the château, Margaux was there to greet her at the front door, visibly flustered by the removal men lugging Louis XIV armoires and fragile gilt mirrors out past her to the moving van.
“I’ve asked them to take care, but they’ve already damaged a corner on a valuable chest of drawers,” Margaux huffed as she put a cup of coffee in front of Emilie in the kitchen.
“Of course we must expect some breakage.” Emilie shrugged. “Margaux, I have something to tell you.” Smiling, she held out her hand to indicate her engagement ring. “I’m getting married.”
“Married?” Surprise registered on Margaux’s face. “Who to?”
“Sebastian, of course.”
“Of course.” Margaux nodded. “But, mademoiselle, it’s so fast. You’ve only known him for a few months. Are you sure?”
“Yes. I love him, Margaux, and he’s been so good to me.”
“Yes, he has.” Margaux came to Emilie and kissed her on both cheeks. “Then I’m delighted for you. It’s good you will have someone to take care of you.”
“Thank you.”
“Now, you must excuse me. We have a dust explosion taking place upstairs as the furniture is moved out. I will see you later, mademoiselle.”
After lunch, realizing she could do little to help with the removal and feeling she’d prefer not to see the operation anyway, Emilie wandered down to the cottage to see Jean and Jacques and tell them the news of her marriage. As she walked the short distance to the vineyard, she knew she must also reassure them that she would not lose interest in either the
cave
or the château renovation program once she began her new life far away.
Jean insisted on breaking out a bottle of champagne one of his vintner friends had given him. “I needed an excuse to open it,” he said, smiling as they walked into the warm sitting room where Jacques was dozing in the chair by the fire. “Papa, Emilie has good news! She’s going to be married.”
Jacques opened one eye and gazed dazedly at Emilie.
“Did you hear that, Papa? Emilie is getting married.” Under his breath, Jean added to Emilie, “He’s had another bout of bad bronchitis. It always hits him in the winter.”
“Yes.” Jacques opened his other eye. “Who to?”
“The young Englishman we’ve met when Emilie has brought him down here to the vineyard. His name is Sebastian . . . ?” Jean looked to her for a surname.
“Carruthers,” finished Emilie. “He comes from a county called Yorkshire, in England. I’ll be moving there after I marry. Just for a while,
during the renovations here, but I’ll be back often,” she added firmly.
“ ‘Carruthers,’ you say?” Jacques’s expression was suddenly alert. “Yorkshire?”
“Yes, Papa,” Jean confirmed.
Jacques shook his head as if to clear it. “I’m sure it’s coincidence, but I knew a Carruthers from Yorkshire many, many years ago.”
“Really, Papa, how?” asked Jean.
“Constance Carruthers was here with me during the war,” said Jacques.
“That was his grandmother’s name! And Sebastian told me she was over here in France at that time.” Feeling a tingle of excitement running through her, Emilie added, “I’m wearing her engagement ring.” She held out her hand to Jacques, who studied it intently.
“Yes, that is her ring.” Jacques stared up at Emilie, a mixture of shock and emotion registering in his eyes. “You are to marry Constance’s grandson?”
“Yes.”
“My God!” Jacques fumbled for a hanky in his trouser pocket. “I can hardly believe it. Constance . . .”
“You knew her well, Papa?” Jean was as surprised as Emilie.
“Very well. She lived with me here in the cottage for many months. She was”—Jacques swallowed with effort—“a compassionate and brave woman. Is she still alive?” His teary blue eyes burned with a flicker of hope.
“I’m afraid not, no. She died about two years ago,” said Emilie. “Jacques, how did Constance Carruthers end up living here with you? Can you tell me?”
For a long time Jacques stared into the distance, then closed his eyes, deep in thought.
“Papa, some champagne?” encouraged Jean, passing his father a glass.
Jacques took it with a shaking hand and sipped it, obviously gathering his thoughts. “How did you meet this man, Constance’s grandson, Emilie?”
“Constance told Sebastian just before she died about her time here in Occupied France. He tracked down the château owned by our family
and came to find out more,” Emilie explained. “But, like me, he knows very little about why she was here. We would both love to know what happened.”