“With curiosity. It’s perfectly obvious he wants to get to know you better. Do you like him?”
“Of course, otherwise I wouldn’t have accepted his invitation to go to the Loire with him.”
“He is a very talented architect. But you know that from the examples of his work he showed you at his office yesterday. We’ve been lucky to get him for this job. And as I said, he’s very eligible, which is most important.”
“The way you spoke, you must know his house,” Meredith murmured, changing the subject.
“Yes, Alain and I have been there a couple of times. In the summer . . . never at this time of year. But it’s a lovely old place. Between Talcy and Menars.”
“Where’s that in relation to our inn?”
“It’s higher up, just up beyond Blois, closer to Orléans than Cormeron. Do you remember that time Alain and I took you to Chambord?”
Meredith nodded.
“Well, Chambord is in a direct line to Talcy across the river Loire.”
“I think I know where you mean. What kind of house is it?”
“Big . . . Clos-Talcy has been in his family for hundreds of years. It’s been well looked after, kept in good repair. I think Luc goes there most weekends; it’s only a few hours drive, closer to Paris than Cormeron.”
“I’m glad I brought some country clothes,” Meredith said, now suddenly wondering what she had let herself in for this weekend.
“Oh you don’t have to worry, I think he lives quite casually,” Agnes remarked, and handed her a swatch of fabric. “Do you like this?”
Meredith examined it and nodded. “You know I love red toile de Jouy. It would work well with black furniture or black accessories.”
“Luc really was looking at you in that certain way, chérie,” Agnes remarked, eyeing Meredith. “I’m not inventing that.”
“I believe you,” Meredith answered, and began to laugh, amused by Agnes and her romantic notions.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Her first sight of Clos-Talcy was of a double image—the house itself and its reflection in the large ornamental lake in front of it.
“Oh how beautiful!” Meredith cried when Luc de Montboucher walked her around the bend in the driveway and directed her attention across the lake, pointing out the house in the distance.
“I wanted you to see it from here, not from the car,” he said. “This view surprises everyone, and I must explain to you that it’s one of my own special favorites . . . it’s the reflection, of course, that intrigues me.”
“What a perfect house in a perfect setting,” Meredith murmured, almost to herself. She stood next to Luc, surveying the great château with interest. It was built of pink brick and pale stone, topped with a roof of dark gray slate. There were a number of tall, slender chimneys rising up from the roof, and she counted thirty-eight windows and five dormers.
The many tall trees surrounding the château were reflected in the lake, along with the facade of the house itself. To Meredith, there was a marvelous symmetry to the two in combination. Certainly it was the loveliest initial view of any house she had ever seen.
Turning to Luc, she asked, “How old is the château?”
“It was built in the early seventeenth century, and the gardens were designed about fifty years later by Le Nôtre, the famous landscape artist of the time.”
Taking hold of her arm, he continued. “But come, let us go back to the car. Later, after lunch, I’ll drive you around the park, and we can go for a walk in the gardens if you would like. I must warn you, though, they are rather bereft looking at this time of year.”
“Oh I don’t mind that; in fact, I like gardens in winter. Very often they’re interesting, different naturally, but still eye-catching.” She gave a wry little laugh. “Well, some of them, anyway.”
“I happen to like winter gardens myself,” Luc remarked, opening the car door, helping her in, then going around to the other side.
Starting the car, he drove up the majestic avenue lined with plane trees, continuing. “Fortunately, we haven’t had much snow here this year, so we’ll be able to have a pleasant stroll later in the day”
Meredith nodded and turned her head, glancing out of the car window. She saw another lake, this one smaller than the first, and it prompted her suddenly to confide, “I’ve always been drawn to houses that are on water, or very near it, although I’ve no idea why.”
“Oh I understand that feeling very well,” Luc replied, giving her a swift look, then immediately swinging his eyes back to the road. “I have the same attraction myself. There’s something wonderful about water in the middle of a land mass, and it enhances natural surroundings as well as any buildings that might be nearby. We have a lot of water here in Talcy. Aside from the ornamental lake, there’s the smaller one you just noticed, plus a fish pond near the orchard, a stream that runs through the woods, a waterfall, and innumerable fountains.” He began to chuckle. “I had an ancestor who was obviously extremely fond of those . . . we’ve got over a dozen of them in the park, and some are quite magnificent, even if I do say so myself. You’ll find you’re never very far from running water at Talcy.”
Meredith smiled. “That’s nice . . . you know, Luc, all of my inns are near water too, except for Montfort-L’Amaury. That’s the only thing I wasn’t happy about when I first saw the manor earlier this week.”
“If you wish, I could create a lake or a pond at the new inn,” Luc volunteered. “It’s not so difficult to do, and there is a fair amount of land attached to the manor house. What do you think?”
“That might be rather nice. I’ll talk to Agnes, and perhaps you could give me some idea of the cost.”
“Mais certainment . . . of course. Ah, here we are, Meredith, we’ve arrived at the house at last.”
Luc had driven into a large cobbled courtyard and parked; it was apparently the front entrance to the château. Wide steps led to a huge double door made of dark wood embellished with iron ornamentation. Before they had even alighted, a middle-aged man in his shirtsleeves, wearing a black waistcoat and a green-striped apron, had come out of the house. He ran down the steps, a broad smile ringing his cheerful face.
“Bonjour, Vincent!” Luc called as he climbed out of the car and hurried to assist Meredith.
“Bonjour, Monsieur,” the man responded.
Luc and Meredith walked toward him. He shook Luc’s hand.
Luc said, “Meredith, this is Vincent Marchand, who, with his good lady, Mathilde, runs this place. Vincent, this is Mrs. Stratton.”
“Madame,” the man said, inclining his head reverentially.
Meredith smiled at him. “I’m pleased to meet you, Vincent,” she said, stretching out her hand.
Shaking it vigorously, he responded, “Grand plaisir, Madame.” With a nod he hurried to the trunk of the car and took out the luggage. Grasping several bags, he followed them up the front steps.
Luc led her into a vast entrance hall that was almost cavernous, with soaring stone walls and a stoneflagged floor. The pale-colored limestone walls were hung with two Gobelin tapestries, and a bronze and crystal chandelier floated down on chains from the high ceiling. The only piece of furniture was a long, ornately carved and gilded console upon which stood two large stone urns filled with dried flowers; a huge gilded mirror hung above the console, and there was a stone statue of a knight in armor in one corner.
Luc said, “Let me take your coat,” and after she had shrugged out of it he carried the sheepskin over to a cupboard built into one of the walls.
A split second later, a door at the end of the hall flew open and a tall, plumpish woman came hurrying toward them on fast-moving, nimble feet.
“Monsieur!” she exclaimed, beaming at Luc before flashing Meredith a glance filled with undisguised curiosity.
Luc kissed her on both cheeks. “Bonjour, Mathilde. I would like to introduce Mrs. Stratton. As I told you on the phone, she’s my guest for the weekend.”
Nodding, smiling,
Mathilde stepped forward. The two women shook hands, and Mathilde said, “I will show you to your room, Madame.” Glancing at Luc, she continued quickly. “As you suggested, Monsieur, I have given Mrs. Stratton the room of your grandmother.”
Luc guided Meredith toward the staircase, saying, “I do hope you like your room, it was my grandmother’s favorite. I’m sure you will . . . it overlooks water . . . the ornamental lake, actually, which was your first glimpse of Talcy. It was a lucky choice on my part, I think.”
“Yes, it was, and I’m sure I’ll love it.”
Mathilde led the way upstairs, followed by Meredith and Luc, with Vincent bringing up the rear, carrying Meredith’s two suitcases.
Mathilde marched them down a long corridor, thickly carpeted and lined with windows; the walls were hung with many paintings. Meredith sneaked a look at them as they hurried by, realized they were family portraits, probably of minor members of the family, since they were relegated to this corridor.
“Voila!” Mathilde suddenly cried, flinging open a door. “Here is the room of Grand-mère Rose de Montboucher. Whom everybody loved.”
“And feared,” Luc added, winking at Meredith. “She was quite a terror at times. But also very, very beautiful.”
Noticing her glancing around, Luc explained: “This is the sitting room, the bedroom and bathroom are through that door over there. But to continue, my grandmother fell in love with this suite of rooms when my grandfather brought her to Talcy for the first time. And she made them hers. And that’s a portrait of her, by the way. The one hanging over the mantelpiece.”
Meredith followed his gaze.
Her eyes settled on the painting of an extraordinarily lovely young woman. Red-gold curls framed a piquant face set on a long white neck. Her eyes were bright blue under arched auburn eyebrows, and her wide mouth had a generosity about it.
Walking over to the fire, Meredith gazed up at the portrait with great interest. The artist had captured something of the woman’s personality . . . there was an inherent warmth in the smile, and happiness dwelt in that face as well. Rose de Montboucher wore a dress of palest pink chiffon with a softly draped collar and a string of pearls, and Meredith decided the portrait had been painted in the 1920s.
“Your grandmother was absolutely gorgeous, no two ways about it,” she said, looking over her shoulder at him. “I think she was probably a bit mischievous, there’s a certain glint in those rather remarkable eyes and in her infectious smile.”
Luc nodded. “Quite an accurate assessment of her. I believe she had a lot of mischief in her, as well as a special kind of joie de vivre. It was a true gaiety that people found irresistible. I knew her as a much older woman than she is in that portrait, but even then I felt she was up to something, and all the time. Up to no good, my father always said. He was her firstborn and her favorite of her four children. I recall that she had a good sense of humor and was a marvelous raconteur. I think she must have kissed the Blarney Stone.”
“Was she Irish?”
“She was. My grandfather met her in Dublin. At a ball. He had gone there to shoot.”
Mathilde bustled in from the bedroom with Vincent in her wake. “Would you like to have help with your unpacking, Madame Stratton? I will send Jasmine to assist you.”
Meredith shook her head. “Thank you, Mathilde, but I can manage.”
The housekeeper nodded, gave her a quick smile, glanced at Luc, and inclined her head, then flew out of the room. Vincent hurried after her, endeavoring to keep pace.
“He’s her shadow,” Luc murmured in a low voice, once they were alone. “They’re both the salt of the earth, and have worked at Talcy all of their lives, and their parents before them. They have two daughters, Jasmine and Philippine, and a son Jean-Pierre, who all work here at the château. I’ll leave you now, Meredith, so that you can freshen up. Are you quite sure you wouldn’t like Jasmine to come upstairs and help you with your clothes?”
“No, really, I’m fine, thanks.”
Luc pushed his jacket sleeve away from his watch, peered at it. “Ah, it’s only just a little after twelve. Let us meet, then, in the library, in an hour, shall we say? Does that give you enough time?”
“Of course.”
He half smiled, turned on his heel, and headed toward the door.
Meredith said, “Luc, where is the library?”
He swung around, grinning, and answered apologetically, “So sorry, I forgot you don’t know the house. The library is the middle room of the enfilade . . . that’s the series of rooms which adjoin each other, off the entrance hall on the right-hand side. We’ll have a drink in there before lunch.”
“Yes, that’ll be nice.”
The door closed softly behind him. Meredith turned back to the portrait of his grandmother; she studied it again for a moment or two.
“Irish eyes are smiling,” Meredith murmured aloud, thinking of the famous old ballad. And indeed Rose de Montboucher’s eyes were full of laughter, and it was very much an Irish face, of course. It couldn’t be anything else. Stepping back, Meredith stared at the portrait for a second longer, her head held on one side. Her eyes narrowed slightly; she squinted at the picture. Rose de Montboucher reminds me of someone, she thought, but she had no idea who that was. Rose’s grandson perhaps. No, not Luc. He was dark haired with dark brown eyes. A woman with red-gold hair and clear blue eyes . . . this image and a tiny fragment of a memory leapt into her mind, but it was fleeting, disappearing before she could grasp it properly. Shaking her head, she gave the portrait a last glance and went into the adjoining bedroom.
The minute she entered it, a smile settled on Meredith’s face. It was charming, welcoming, with a fire burning brightly in the grate and the silk-shaded lamps turned on. The room was decorated in a mélange of grays and soft grayish-blues. The walls were covered with silver-gray moire silk, the flowing, bouffant draperies at the three tall windows were of silver-gray taffeta, and the large fourposter was hung with the same taffeta that looked as if it had been hand-embroidered. On closer inspection, Meredith realized that the pink, red, and yellow roses and trailing green vines had been hand-painted on the gray silk. There were several chairs and a love seat covered in pearl-gray cut velvet arranged around the fire, and in a corner stood an unusual antique dressing table made entirely of Venetian mirror.
Fascinated, Meredith walked slowly around the bedroom, looking at everything closely, admiring its style and elegance, nodding to herself as her glance lighted on a particular painting or an object of art. Certain things in the room were worn, even a little shabby, but the overall ambiance was one of old world elegance, luxury, and a bygone age. It also had a restful feeling, as did the adjoining sitting room, which was decorated in a mixture of grayish pinks, smokey blues and greens, all taken from the colors of the Aubusson rug on the floor.
Moving across the bedroom, Meredith finally came to a standstill in front of the Venetian dressing table. Silver brushes with Rose de Montboucher’s initials were lined up on the mirrored surface, and there was a collection of crystal perfume bottles, silver-topped powder bowls, and rouge pots grouped together.
To one side of them stood a silver-framed photograph of a darkly handsome man in evening dress. Meredith bent down, stared at it, and for a split second she thought it was a picture of Luc. Then she realized it was not he; the evening suit bespoke the 1920s. It was obviously his grandfather, Rose’s husband. That’s who Luc must resemble, she decided. His grandfather . . . he’s the spitting image of him.
After unpacking her two suitcases, Meredith picked up her toilet bag and went into the bathroom. Immediately she came to a standstill, taken aback by its size and by the fire burning merrily in the white marble hearth.
The bathroom was enormous, with a soaring window draped with white lace curtains, an old-fashioned tub on feet, and bell pulls dangling over it to ring for the maids. She wondered whether they still worked but refrained from pulling one, just in case they did.
CHAPTER
TWELVE
Downstairs in his office at the rear of the château, Luc de Montboucher sat at his drawing table, a series of blueprints spread out in front of him.
The plans had been done by a colleague in his architectural firm, and Luc had fully intended to go over them before lunch, hoping to give his approval. But so far he had paid scant attention to the blueprints.
His mind was not on work. It was focused on Meredith Stratton.
From the moment he had met her on Wednesday morning, at the manor house in Montfort-L’Amaury he had been intrigued by her; he was very taken with her, in point of fact. Being an architect and a designer, he was an extremely visual man, and so it was her looks that had initially attracted him to her. He liked her height, her blondness and fair skin, those smoky-green eyes that told him so much about her.
She was a good looking woman with a great deal of personal style. He experienced a jolt of genuine pleasure whenever his eyes rested on her. He also appreciated her self-confidence and composure, found them reassuring. Skittishness in women invariably made him nervous.
Luc had realized within the first couple of hours of being in her company that she was businesslike, practical, professional, organized, and decisive, and, not unnaturally, these traits appealed to his love of order.
He couldn’t abide chaotic women who dragged trouble in their wakes, who lived in perpetual mess and created mess in other lives. Also, he found Meredith’s energy and effervescent personality most appealing; they buoyed him up, gave him a sense of élan, the like of which he had not experienced in a long time.
What a pity she lives so far away in New York, he thought, tapping his pencil on the drawing table. But it was not so far away that it made a relationship impossible. There was, after all, a supersonic flight. He could be in Manhattan in three and a half hours, four at the most, on the Concorde. He had made the trip from Paris to New York only three weeks earlier, to visit a client. It had been easy.
Luc wanted, had the need to know Meredith Stratton better. Much better. Intimately. He found liked women, admired and respected them, and he wanted a wife. Certainly he did not relish the idea of living alone for the rest of his life.
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