A Spell in Provence

by Marie Laval

  ‘So you’re the one responsible for the mess in the garden,’ Fabien said, the hard look in his eyes belying the casual tone of his voice.

  Laurent laughed.

  ‘You call it a mess, I call it a job well done. The artefacts we unearthed all point to the existence of a major Roman, and possibly protohistoric Gallic site – or rather, they did before they were stolen. I would like to extend the excavation site into the forest if you will give us the authorisation.’

  Fabien remained silent for a brief moment and when he did respond his voice was curt.

  ‘I’m afraid I must decline. Sometimes, things are lost for a reason. If there is anything to find in the forest, I’ll find it myself – or not. Right now though, Amy needs to go inside and get warm.’

  Patricia put her hand on Amy’s shoulder and gave a light squeeze.

  ‘Monsieur Coste is right. Come on, sweetie, I’ll help you.’

  Amy looked up at Fabien. ‘Thank you for your help. If you don’t mind waiting, I’ll return your coat as soon as I’ve put some decent clothes on.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Don’t worry about the coat. I’ll drop by this evening. You can give it back to me then.’

  He mounted his horse in one swift, fluid move, nodded to Amy, and rode out of the courtyard onto the main road.

  ‘Wow! What a hunk, I think I’m in love,’ Patricia exclaimed, squeezing her hands against her heart and rolling her eyes. ‘I wouldn’t mind if he rescued me from the woods.’

  ‘Well, your hunk just denied us access to the forest,’ Laurent said mournfully. ‘Now it’s going to take ages to apply for a compulsory order with the Prefect.’

  Amy slept until lunchtime. Her aches and pains may have subsided by the time she woke up, but her humiliation hadn’t. The second she opened her eyes, everything came back with sickening clarity: the hunters sniggering at her; the horrified look in Fabien Coste’s eyes as he covered her up with his coat and lifted her onto his horse. She pulled the covers over her head. What must he think of her? She’d never be able to see him again without feeling ashamed.

  She had never sleepwalked when she lived in England – not that she knew of anyway. The exhaustion and excitement of her new life in France and the shock of last night’s burglary must have triggered the episode. She swallowed hard. There had been that dream, too. The images, sensations and smells were still fresh in her mind, vivid and disturbingly real – the chamber, the men and women dressed in white robes, the man who had undressed and touched her, his sinister mask and breathless voice.

  No doubt Laurent’s stories of ancient rituals and Lily’s tales of goddesses and curses had preyed on her mind. She could only hope now that time would erase the dream from her memory.

  The bed felt like a protective cocoon. Resisting the temptation to fall asleep again, she got up, took a long, hot shower, dressed in a pair of black corduroys and a cream cable-knit sweater and went downstairs.

  She found Patricia in the kitchen, flicking through a history publication, a cup of steaming black coffee on the table in front of her.

  Patricia lifted her eyes from her magazine and smiled.

  ‘Hi! You’re up already. How are you now?’

  ‘Much better, but I still feel stupid, and ashamed.’

  Amy took out a cup and poured herself some coffee.

  ‘It was awful in the forest with all these hunters staring at me.’

  Patricia shrugged. ‘So what? You gave them something exciting to talk about.’

  Amy drank a sip of coffee and shuddered. ‘They thought I was drunk, or crazy. One of them even thought I was a hunt saboteur.’

  ‘Your saviour, Fabien Coste, didn’t seem to think you were crazy.’

  Patricia cast her a knowing look. ‘Quite the opposite in fact, he seemed very protective of you.’

  She sighed and leaned back on her chair. ‘I found him very handsome.’

  Amy blushed and she quickly drank a sip of coffee to hide her face, but it was too late.

  Patricia laughed. ‘It looks like I’m not the only one who fancies the handsome Duc de Coste.’

  Amy didn’t answer. Fabien had once again come to her rescue. Rarely before had she felt so safe and well-cared for than when she’d nestled in his arms to ride back to Bellefontaine.

  She put her cup down on the worktop. He may have been kind today, but she would do well to remember the night of the Ball when he had made a pass at her, then left her waiting on the terrace while he made love to Claudine.

  ‘Let’s have some lunch,’ she said to change the subject.

  She wouldn’t waste one minute more thinking about Fabien Coste or his deep green eyes. Instead she would concentrate on what was needed – buying a new computer and phoning the gendarmes to check on the progress of the investigation.

  Straight after lunch Amy and Patricia went to buy a new laptop and Amy checked her emails as soon as she got it set up.

  ‘It looks like I have a booking for a week, starting next Monday,’ she said. ‘A newlywed couple from London is planning to tour the Luberon.’

  Patricia gave her a hug.

  ‘That’s excellent news. I’m sure they’ll love it here.’

  It was late afternoon when Laurent and Ben returned from their survey of the forest. They offered to stay until the following morning, but Amy shook her head.

  ‘I know you have a million things to do at the museum. I’ll be fine. Really.’

  She managed to keep a brave smile on her face until the three archaeologists piled up in their van with tools, bags and equipment and waved goodbye, but the moment they had disappeared in the distance, silence and emptiness seemed to engulf her, and tears filled her eyes.

  For the first time since moving into Bellefontaine, Amy looked around her with a heavy heart. What if she walked out into the forest at night again, set the house on fire, or even tried to drive her car and ended up causing an accident? Who would be there to keep her safe – to keep Bellefontaine safe? There would from now on always be a gnawing doubt in her mind that she couldn’t trust herself…

  She put the radio on in the kitchen for company, and took out a mixing bowl, flour and yeast. There was nothing like baking to keep worries at bay, she thought as she twisted her hair into a rough plait, fastened the ties of her apron, and started making a tomato and basil loaf. By the time she had kneaded the dough into a velvety smooth lump, her arms and hands ached but she was singing along to the radio.

  The roaring of an engine in the courtyard startled her. She turned the radio down and opened the front door just in time to see Fabien Coste get out of his Range Rover, holding what looked like a bundle in a blanket against his chest.

  ‘You look a lot better.’

  'I feel a lot better,' Amy agreed, forcing a smile to hide her embarrassment. Not only the man had seen her practically naked, but she had fallen asleep in his arms as they rode back through the forest.

  She looked down. 'What do you have here?'

  The blanket in his arms wriggled and the white and ginger head of a Poitevin puppy peeped out.

  Fabien smiled.

  ‘This is Michka,’ he said.

  ‘She’s yours – if you’ll have her. I have far too many pups at Manoir Coste and you’d do me a great favour if you took her in.’

  ‘You mean, you’re giving her to me?’

  ‘You did say you were thinking of getting a dog, didn’t you?’

  Amy took the little animal from him. Michka was adorable, her eyes a milk chocolate brown and her silky smooth coat a mix of white and ginger.

  ‘She’ll be a good guard dog in a few months. In the meantime, she’ll keep you company when you’re alone.’

  Amy held the dog to her chest, ruffling her soft fur, and smiled. This was one of the nicest things anyone had ever done for her.

  ‘Thank you. I promise I’ll look after her.’

  ‘Hang on, I brought her things.’

  He came back from the car
with a wicker basket and a plastic bag.

  ‘Here you have a lead, bowl, some food, her favourite toys and her veterinary record.’

  He took everything into the hall.

  ‘Goodbye then, little one.’

  He tickled the puppy’s head, laughed as she yelped and licked his fingers. For a minute he looked young and carefree, and Amy felt a yearning so strong it took her breath away. If only she could nestle in his arms once again, if only she could trace the outline of his face with her fingers and …

  The dog wriggling in her arms brought her back to reality. She took a step back.

  ‘Do call me if there’s anything troubling you, Amy. I mean it.’

  ‘I will, I promise. Wait! You mustn’t forget your jacket, it’s in the hall.’

  With one hand she unhooked his black riding jacket from the coat rack and handed it to him. Their fingers touched, giving her a jolt.

  She stood in the hall for a long while after he left. No man had ever affected her so much. She’d had a few boyfriends before, of course, but even when she tried hard to please them, her body remained frustratingly cool, her heart remote, and her senses unresponsive. She'd always believed that Chris was right. She was a cold, lonely old maid at heart and didn’t possess an ounce of sensuality.

  Until now …

  Every time she was with Fabien Coste, it was like standing on top of a cliff and being pulled closer to the edge by an irresistible force, with no fear or regard for the dangers that lay ahead. For the first time she understood that desperate desire to touch and be touched, to kiss and be kissed that she’d thought she would never experience.

  Chapter Eight

  ‘Bellefontaine’s sleepwalking beauty sabotages hunt!’ by Armelle Capitelli.

  ‘Amy Carter, Bellefontaine’s new English landlady, was found wandering scantily clad in the cedar forest early on Friday morning by Monsieur Fabien Coste as he led one his famous boar hunts.

  Mademoiselle Carter, who is known locally for her strong anti-hunting feelings, claimed she was sleepwalking in the forest when she inadvertently wandered into the path of the hunt. Monsieur le Duc had to take the distressed lady home, thereby abandoning for the first time ever the lead of the Bonnieux hunt, and causing thirty-five riders to return to Manoir Coste disgruntled and empty-handed after hours of chasing after an elusive boar.

  Could this be an unusual, and successful, attempt at sabotaging the hunt? We will have to wait until the next hunt of the season, scheduled for Thursday 7th April, to see if any more sleepwalking beauties appear on the hillside … ’

  Amy threw the copy of the Journal du Luberon newspaper across the kitchen table.

  How could they print such rubbish? Even a local gazette should have standards. Someone must have overheard what she’d said in the butcher’s shop and reported it to the journalist. The last thing she wanted was to spark a campaign against hunting and attract hunt saboteurs and anti-animal cruelty activists to the village.

  ‘Good morning, Amy.’

  A brown-haired young woman, very pale and with dark circles under her hazel eyes, peeped into the kitchen.

  ‘Good morning, Eva. Are you feeling any better today?’

  ‘No, I’m tired, again. I kept Justin awake most of the night.’ Eva sighed. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me. It’s been four nights now I’ve had these horrid nightmares and I can’t sleep …’

  ‘You should have breakfast outside,’ Amy suggested. ‘The sunshine, the blue sky, and the fresh air will do you good.’

  ‘Good idea. I love your garden.’

  Eva bent down to scratch Michka’s back. The dog wagged its tail in response.

  ‘And I love your dog, it’s just so cute.’

  Amy smiled. She too had grown fond of her puppy. In the space of a few days, the little dog had become an integral part of Bellefontaine and of her life. She had decided to throw a thank you dinner party for Fabien on Saturday evening and had even invited Claudine - she felt she had to - as well as her friends the Michons, and her English guests Eva and Justin Barlow.

  She set a coffee pot and a cup on a tray, together with warm homemade crusty bread and a pot of raspberry jam and took it outside.

  ‘Where are you off to today?’

  ‘Aix-en-Provence,’ Eva said. ‘I want to see the Cézanne exhibition, visit the old town, and do a bit of shopping. We’ll eat there tonight, I think, so don’t wait for us.’

  A tall and lanky man walked out onto the terrace and let out a loud yawn.

  ‘Blimey, that sun is bright. I need my shades.’

  Eva glanced up and chuckled.

  ‘Poor darling, you look frightful.’

  ‘I feel it too. I need coffee, and lots of it.’

  He sunk into the chair, combed his hair with his fingers and rubbed his stubbly cheeks.

  ‘Coffee coming right away!’

  Amy prepared another tray and left the exhausted newlyweds to enjoy their breakfast and the garden, already fragrant with scents of rosemary, thyme, and basil.

  The postman’s moped backfired loudly in the courtyard as it did every morning, making Michka growl and bark. Would she have any new bookings today? Amy wondered as she went to the letterbox. She didn’t have any bookings, only a couple of bills that she put down without opening them. Bad news could wait …

  As soon as the Barlows left for Aix, she took Michka for a walk into the forest. It was empty and quiet. The pine needles crunched under her feet, releasing their invigorating scent. She let the dog off the lead, and it leapt ahead, sniffing the ground and running in and out of the trees.

  Twenty minutes of brisk walking later, Amy was deep into the forest and Michka was nowhere to be seen. She called, clapped her hands and whistled, but the puppy didn’t come back, too busy chasing after rabbits or birds. Amy left the path and cut through the undergrowth, following the barking that echoed among the trees.

  The forest was different here: the trees no longer cedars but oaks, their trunks twisted and gnarled. Arrows of sunlight shot through the thick canopy and bathed the ground in dappled green and gold. A clear stream snaked between mossy rocks. It was like stepping into a forgotten world, an oasis inside the cedar forest. Could this be the ancient wood and the sacred spring Laurent had referred to? If so, the ruined fountain and the lost temple couldn’t be far away.

  She caught a glimpse of Michka’s ginger and white coat. The puppy was tearing at a piece of white fabric which was caught on a branch.

  ‘What are you doing, you silly dog?’

  Amy pulled the fabric loose. It felt like linen and gave off a very faint scent. Her throat tightened, her hand started shaking. She knew that scent. It brought back memories of a dark, enclosed space lit by candles that flickered and cast shadows on rocky walls, of sounds of ancient chanting, but most of all it brought back feelings of terror and helplessness. The fabric slipped out of her fingers.

  She drew in a long breath and stared at the white linen on the ground. This was silly. She’d had a bad dream, the product of an overactive imagination, inflamed by Laurent’s tales of ancient cults and dead civilizations. That piece of fabric had nothing to do with it.

  Yet she couldn’t help but cast uneasy glances around, as if robed silhouettes were about to appear amongst the trees. She should leave. Bending down, she clipped Michka’s lead on and urged the dog on to the path and back to Bellefontaine.

  She spent the rest of the day baking shortbread biscuits, sticking labels she had designed on to miniature jars filled with homemade jam, and checking through her publicity material for the fair Monsieur Verdier recommended she attend the following day. By the time she loaded everything into the car, the sun was slipping behind the hills, mauve shadows were gathering around the bastide and she had almost forgotten about her incursion into the ancient woodland.

  As Eva and Justin were eating in Aix-en-Provence, she warmed a pan of tomato and basil soup she ate with some bread and cheese in the kitchen. Afterwards she settle
d down on the sofa with a book about the history of Lubéron. Michka stretched out at her feet and started snoring.

  She flicked through pages of photos and drawings, hoping to find depictions of Bona Dea, of her darker, more wicked twin sister Fauna, or other Gallic earth mothers. Nothing looked remotely like her statue – Bellefontaine’s La Bonne Dame.

  Where was it now? Capitaine Ferri believed it had probably already been sold on the black market. In fact, he was pessimistic about the chances of recovering any of the stolen items.

  Her mobile phone ringing drew her back to reality. She looked at the number displayed on the small screen and let out a resigned sigh before taking the call.

  ‘Hi, Chris.’

  Amy’s voice was tired and strained but as usual her sister didn’t notice and launched into a torrent of recrimination against her boyfriend Toby. For the next ten minutes, Amy only spoke to punctuate her sister’s monologue with occasional ‘really?’, ‘he didn’t,’ or ‘that’s terrible.’ She really didn’t care for Toby and there was much more she wanted to say, but she knew from experience she’d be wasting her time. Chris was madly in love with Toby – or so she claimed – and not ready to acknowledge that her handsome boyfriend cheated on her with women he met in the Manchester nightclub where he worked as a bouncer.

  When Chris finally ran out of steam, Amy asked about Peter. As always when she thought about her seven-year-old nephew, guilt and sorrow tightened her throat. She missed the quiet, serious little boy, and often felt like she’d abandoned him by moving to France.

  ‘Why don’t you two come over for the Easter holidays?’ she suggested. ‘I’d love to see him – well, both of you – and I’m sure it would do you good to be away from Manchester.’

  And from cheating Toby, she finished silently.

  Chris promised to think about it. As an afterthought she asked Amy how she was doing. Amy made a joke about sleepwalking in the woods and being rescued by the lord of the manor, and actually succeeded in making her sister laugh for once.

  She didn’t say anything about the horrible first night she had spent at Bellefontaine or about Eva Barlow’s nightmares. Nor did she mention her vandalised car or the burglary. It wasn’t so much that she didn’t want to worry Chris, more that she didn’t want to hear her say that buying Bellefontaine had been a terrible mistake and she should come home.