Ellie had no idea what to say.
“That was when Laurent decided to come back from Paris. He had to, for me, don’t you see. Good of him, all things considered. But he has to go back now and then, to keep everything on track. We can’t expect him to stay here all the time.”
“It’s perfectly all right,” said Ellie. Though a hint of his intentions might have been polite.
“He’s a gambler, you know, like his father. Sometimes he has a run of luck, other times . . . well, let’s not dwell on the other times.”
Ellie shook her head.
“You make choices when you’re young and you spend the rest of your life paying for them,” continued Mme de Fayols, with the same hard look as the previous evening. She pointed at the note and the open book on the table. “That’s what this is all about. Don’t say I’m not being as helpful as I can be.”
It was odd thing to say. “Laurent told me the story of the doctor. I can see why you would want to preserve the garden in his memory.”
“There’s always a price to be paid.”
“Right. . . . I’m going to take these out with me, see whether there are any traces of the old landscaping.” Ellie shut the book, keen to escape.
“You do that,” said Madame. “Though you still don’t understand, do you?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Nothing. We have to watch out for the past. It can come back to bite us.”
“What do you mean?”
But the old woman only smiled.
The wisteria tunnel and the enclosed green spaces felt comfortably familiar as she wandered down to the memorial garden.
Four stone urns, which had not been there the previous day, stood one at each corner of the bassin. Were they the originals? She would have to check. Laurent must have asked the estate gardeners to get them out of storage or move them from another part of the garden. They were planted with lilies, the equivalent of house flowers arranged in vases—they wouldn’t take root. Why bother? What a waste, when the grounds were under reconstruction. Were they some kind of message to keep her thoughts on the primary purpose of the garden?
At the head of the pool a stone bench had appeared, too, quite possibly the one from the photograph. It had been broken at some stage and badly repaired. The stone serpent that had once coiled across the front edge was missing its head, and one end of the seat was cracked. It seemed solid enough, though, and useful too. She pulled her laptop and sketchbook out of her bag and sat down. Whether Laurent de Fayols was here or not, he was paying for a week’s consultation and would want to see something tangible for his money.
Staring into the green wall, it was easy to lose herself in an imagined version of the garden as it had once been. She drew quickly and scribbled notes on plants and light.
A movement across the pool caught her eye. From her seated position the water gleamed silver. But something had sent ripples across its surface. Curious, she got up and leaned forward, one foot on the stone rim of the bassin. From this angle the water was pewter grey. Her reflection was sharp and still.
The outline of a man slid up behind her.
Her heart seemed to jump out of her body. She spun round. “Yes? Who’s that?”
There was no one there.
Dizzy, she looked back at the reflection in the pool. She was alone. She went down on her knees, hands on the edge, to lean over the water. It was a serene glossy blackness. As she pulled herself away, the shadow of a bird swooped across.
Then she was shaking uncontrollably. She remained sitting on the ground, dazed by her body’s reaction. As her fright subsided and she consolidated logical explanations for what she had seemed to see, she was unable to shift the notion that the figure resembled the man who had slunk up behind her at the lighthouse. Stubbornly immune to logic, he took up position in her thoughts, each detail coming more clearly into focus: the assertive stance, the loose clothes, the stillness that somehow constituted a threat. But there was no one there—how could he have been a reflection behind her?
Her back prickled. Now that her imagination was working overtime, she could not shake the feeling of being watched. She let her eyes move from left to right. Apart from a creaking in the trees, all was quiet. She twisted her head slightly but saw no one. A shift of the light through the leaves raked light across the grass.
Unsettled, but cross with herself now, she tried to concentrate on the photographs. Under a magnifying glass she attempted to identify the plants Laurent had in mind for an apothecary’s garden.
A shadow fell.
This time the figure did not dematerialize. It was stout, with a well-tended stomach over which blue workman’s trousers were hitched. One of the estate workers, surely.
“Bonjour, monsieur.”
He wrestled with the possibility of ignoring the niceties, then ingrained politeness won out. “Bonjour, madame.”
“Have you come to show me the water source?” she asked, speaking slowly in English. “La source?”
“Non.”
He looked suspiciously at the photographs, her notes, and her breasts. “Pourquoi vous êtes ici?”
He launched into a tirade, much of which she could not understand. His accent was thick, and he snarled his way through his piece without looking her in the eye. But she got the gist. He and the other gardeners could not understand why she had been brought in. They could easily do what was required themselves. And Madame had never wanted the old garden restored; she enjoyed its savage dereliction.
His message delivered, he stomped off before she could begin to formulate a reply. Not an emissary sent by Laurent, then—but quite possibly by his mother.
As early as her conscience would allow in late afternoon, and with enough notes and sketches to justify her time, Ellie gathered her things. She was looking forward to finding another swimming cove, to getting back to the friendly ease of the Place d’Armes. She had almost reached the top of the terrace stairs when Jeanne came out to meet her.
“Madame would like you to dine with her this evening.”
Her mind blanked in search of an excuse.
“I’ll show you up to a room you can use to shower and change.”
“I’m sorry, but I have nothing to change into. All I have are the clothes I’m wearing.”
“Follow me, please.”
They ascended a wide stone staircase. Along a dark corridor, Jeanne opened a door and went ahead to unclasp the shutters. As light came in, Ellie saw that a familiar bag had been placed at the foot of the bed.
“What on earth?”
“Madame asked me to arrange for your luggage to be brought from the hotel. She felt it would be easier if you stayed here for the remainder of your visit.”
“But—”
“The de Fayols know everyone on the island. It was very easily arranged.”
Ellie shook her head, knowing that she was beaten.
“Dinner is served at eight. Madame will receive you on the terrace at seven thirty for an apéro.”
The furniture in the room Jeanne had prepared was dark and heavy: a large wooden wardrobe and a matching chest of drawers, both ornately carved. A massive headboard, also carved to depict some complex scene, loomed over the bed, a small double, raised high off the floor. She tried it with a hand. It felt surprisingly soft. Her spirits rallied slightly.
First, though, she would leave a message for Sarah, to tell her—to tell someone—where she was.
She dug into her shoulder bag for her mobile. Then scrambled around deeper inside. It was not in her bag.
Heart pounding, she tried to think. Had she put the phone in her bag that morning? Yes, she remembered checking for it. Had she left the bag somewhere at any time? No, surely it had been with her all the time she was at the domaine. Had she put it down in the village where some opportunist thief had dipped into it?
Her travel bags were there on the floor. But they seemed deflated. She ripped the zip open and saw that half her clothes were missing. S
at back on her heels, head spinning. Then she got up and opened the wardrobe. Her few dresses and clean trousers were inside on padded silk hangers.
In a bathroom across the corridor skulked a huge roll-top bath and a tiled shower. The latter boasted a complicated arrangement of levers and taps that had not been updated for many years. Steam hissed into the room. She reached towards the taps with one outstretched arm, prepared to pull back if the temperature was scalding. But the vapour was freezing cold. Chilled and puzzled, she fiddled with the controls to no effect. In the end she stripped and ducked briefly under the cold stream of water, shivering as she washed quickly.
She was shown into a side room draped in heavy fabric. A pair of ruby glass urns held lighted candles. Reclining on a chaise longue like an ancient odalisque, Mme de Fayols put a finger to a decanter that rested on a mat of fine crochet work.
At this gesture, Jeanne moved forward and poured a purple tincture into a heavy, etched glass, then passed it to Ellie.
“Eau-de-vie—flavoured with myrtle,” said the old woman. “Try it!” She watched intently as Ellie raised the glass to her lips. “Myrtle from the garden. I steep the berries with honey in the local firewater, but the secret ingredient is the flower, added for the final day. Such a pretty white flower it is, drowned in purple for just one day.”
The liqueur tasted of stewed plums. Not unpleasant, but very strong. It went to Ellie’s head after the first sip.
Jeanne moved forward with an oil lamp, casting light over cabinets and ornate display cases full of curiosities. Heavy Chinese antiques, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, stood awkwardly with delicate glass vases and chunks of whalebone engraved with maritime pictures.
The old lady followed Ellie’s glances around the room. “The de Fayols family has lived here for three generations,” she said. “The doctor was a great collector and traveller. Not only artefacts. Botanical specimens too. Did Laurent tell you there was once an apothecary garden here?”
“Yes, he did. You speak excellent English, madame.”
Each time they had spoken, Mme de Fayols’s command of the language had become more fluent.
She gave an unladylike snort of laughter at the compliment. “I’m not French—I’m British. Or I was, a very long time ago. Just as well you didn’t say anything vile to Laurent, all the time thinking I couldn’t understand, or had gone deaf or lost my marbles.”
“I wouldn’t have,” mumbled Ellie.
“No, I don’t suppose you would.” Some private amusement seemed to surge into her lizard eyes.
Now Ellie’s ear was attuned to her accent, it seemed less foreign and more of an earlier era. The short vowels of aristocratic speech, rarely heard these days except in old British films and newsreels. “Orf,” she said, for off. “Said,” for sad. It was there, though barely more than an echo.
“Laurent is a very good son. He has had a commendable career in the civil service. Took his degree in sciences politiques at the Sorbonne in Paris, followed by one of the great admin schools so beloved of the French of a certain bureaucratic bent. His first wife divorced him, and his second wife is much younger, an arts administrator. Why would she want to give up Paris for a tiny speck of land off the coast? Fine for holidays but not much else. She is serious about her career, and more importantly for a woman, she is taken seriously.
“But when Laurent retired, he felt a pull to the island. And by then I could no longer live here alone.”
This was not quite the story she had told that morning. Then again, the old lady seemed more compos mentis now. Perhaps she had taken some medication that had restored her balance. “How did you—”
“How did I end up here? That’s a very long story.”
Ellie settled, expecting to have to listen for a while, but Jeanne stepped forward.
“Yes, you can get me the telephone now,” said Madame.
An old set appeared, its long cord snaking back to the landline socket. The housekeeper dialled the number.
“Laurent . . . the girl is here.”
She handed the receiver to Ellie.
“Hello?”
“Ah, my dear, I offer my apologies. I have been called away on business. Could not be helped, I’m afraid.”
“I see.”
Now she understood the excellence of his English, too.
“Promise me you will wait until my return. I’m sure you will be comfortable at the Domaine.”
“How long will you be?”
“Not long, only a day or so. But we must discuss the plans before you leave. It’s never right if it’s not done face-to-face with the drawings, is it?”
“That’s true,” Ellie conceded.
“So that’s settled then.”
“Well, it’s—”
“Excellent. I will see you in a couple of days.”
The line cut dead, without a good-bye.
Ellie handed it back to Jeanne, who was hovering, expressionless.
Dinner was a desolate affair, served at one end of a long table in a room that felt empty.
A chicken dish was served, but only to Ellie. Mme de Fayols refused a dinner plate for herself, then accepted the positioning of a side plate in front of her, and a sniff at the fricassee in the serving bowl, but waved it away.
“I don’t enjoy eating anymore,” said Madame. “But you go ahead.” She smiled, either oblivious to Ellie’s discomfort or enjoying her small social cruelties. Were they deliberate, or a natural result of being a very old lady in triple isolation: on a private estate, on an island, long adrift from her native land?
Though she was hungry, Ellie tried to eat as if she too disdained the practice.
Mme de Fayols sipped at a glass of white wine. “You seem very young. You do realise that to create a garden is to work with time, don’t you? It’s possible for you to understand nature and growth and change and all the . . . science business—but those who make gardens to last must understand the past and see into the future.”
Ellie restrained herself from offering the retort she would have liked. “What was it like when you first arrived here?”
“It was a wild place.”
“I’m trying to imagine how it was . . . the formal gardens overgrown? The citrus and olive groves and a lot of scrub, like the garrigue land?”
“Much of it had fallen back into garrigue, yes. But the structure of the formal gardens was well established before the war. The hedges were strong. Then there was the apothecary garden, of course, thanks to the doctor. He began that during the war, I believe, when there was no likelihood of receiving any medical supplies. There was a kitchen garden, naturally.”
“And it was you and your husband who first made the memorial garden?”
The old lady nodded. “What do you think of it?”
“It’s . . . intriguing.”
“It has a life of its own, our garden.”
Ellie nodded, trying to indicate that she understood while chewing on a sliver of chicken. Moths butted at the glass of the full-length window, closed to the night garden.
“Oh, you really don’t know what I mean. This garden that reflects the misfortunes of others, it pulls you in. It has a hold. It doesn’t let you go, even if you have to get away.”
“I’m not sure—” Was she referring to Laurent and his sudden departure?
“The greatest shock is to discover that the person you love is not what he seems. As more evidence emerges, it’s hard to see him in the same way. And whatever the circumstances, it’s always the small things that give us away.”
Ellie swallowed. Perhaps she wasn’t supposed to understand. Mme de Fayols seemed to take pleasure in wrong-footing her.
Her hostess plucked at the slack of her shawl, pulling it tighter around her as if she were cold.
“I think you know all about that, don’t you, Miss Brooke?”
Ellie was saved from having to find a response as Jeanne reappeared with a tray, set it down carefully, and left the room without a word.
“A cup of tea, Miss Brooke?”
“Actually, that’s exactly what I’d like. Yes, please.”
“Good dark tea. It’s the one thing that reminds me of home.”
The only sound was the tea being poured from a porcelain pot. Ellie’s thoughts drifted off.
“It’s haunted, you know.”
“I’m sorry?”
“It’s haunted.”
“What is?”
“The garden. It was where he was shot. Executed.”
“He?”
“The good doctor. Did Laurent not explain?”
“No, he didn’t tell me that.”
“Tell me, did you feel anything in the garden—any change in temperature, any sense of being watched?”
“The temperature is always very pleasant. It would be inside those high hedges, even in summer.”
“You didn’t answer the important part.”
Ellie looked her in the eye. “No. Well, apart from . . . there was someone this afternoon.”
“Yes?”
“A man. I took him to be one of the estate staff. He said he was a gardener and that he could have done the work without any help from me. Or words to that effect.”
“Substantial chap, in peasant’s blue?”
“That’s the one.”
Falteringly, Madame took out a cigarette from a spring-loaded case and fumbled with a slim lighter. The cigarette wobbled wetly on her bottom lip until, after a struggle, it was lit and a thin stream of smoke exhaled.
“That’s Picolet. He wouldn’t manage the work. Well past it these days.”
That was rich, coming from a woman of her advanced years.
Madame took another puff in a stagy gesture that might once have been alluring. “No, I don’t mean Picolet.” Exhalation of smoke with a tidal rasp. “You are either peculiarly unobservant or you are a liar, Miss Brooke. You know exactly what I mean.”
“I’m not sure I do.”
“Do you ever sense spirits around you in certain places?”
The Sea Garden Page 5