“Who takes care of the château and its domestic needs now?”
“Margaux Duvall, the housekeeper, who’s been here for over fifteen years. She comes in from the village every afternoon. Maman dismissed the other staff after my father died, and she stopped coming down to the house regularly each summer. I think she preferred to holiday on the yacht she rented.”
“Your mother certainly liked to spend money.”
Emilie put a cup of coffee down in front of Gerard. “On the things that mattered to her.”
“Which was not this château,” Emilie stated bluntly.
“No. From what I’ve seen of her finances so far, it seemed she preferred the delights of the house of Chanel.”
“Maman was fond of her haute couture, I know.” Emilie sat down opposite him with her coffee. “Even last year when she was so ill, she still attended the fashion shows.”
“Valérie was indeed quite a character—and famous too. Her passing engendered many column inches in our newspapers. Although it’s hardly surprising. The de la Martinièreses are one of the most noted families in France.”
“I know.” Emilie grimaced. “I saw the newspapers as well. Apparently I’m to inherit a fortune.”
“It’s true that your family were once fabulously rich. Unfortunately, Emilie, times have moved on. The noble name of your family still exists, but the fortune does not.”
“I thought as much.” Emilie was unsurprised.
“You may have been aware that your papa was not a businessman. He was an intellectual, an academic who had little interest in money. Even though many times I talked to him of investments, tried to persuade him to plan a little for the future, he was disinterested. Twenty years ago, it hardly mattered—there was plenty. But between your father’s lack of attention and your mother’s penchant for the finer things in life, the fortune has diminished substantially.” Gerard sighed. “I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings.”
“I was very much expecting this and it doesn’t matter to me. I simply wish to organize what I need to and return to my work in Paris.”
“I’m afraid, Emilie, that the situation is not as straightforward as that. As I said at the start, I’ve not yet had time to peruse the details, but what I can tell you is that the estate has creditors, many of them. And these creditors must be paid as soon as possible,” he explained. “Your mother managed to accrue an overdraft of almost twenty million francs against the Paris house. She had many other debts too, which will need to be paid off.”
“Twenty million francs?” Emilie was horrified. “How could this have happened?”
“Easily. As the funds ran out, Valérie did not temper her lifestyle accordingly. She has been living on borrowed money for many, many years now. Please, Emilie”—Gerard saw the expression in her eyes—“do not panic. These are debts that can easily be paid, not only with the sale of the Paris house itself, which I believe should raise around seventy million francs, but also its contents. For example, your mother’s magnificent collection of jewelery, which is held in a vault at her bank, and the many paintings and valuable objets d’art in the house. You are by no means poor, Emilie, believe me, but action must be taken swiftly to stop the rot and decisions for the future made.”
“I see,” Emilie answered slowly. “Forgive me, Gerard. I take after my father and have little interest or experience in managing finances.”
“I understand completely. Your parents have left you with a heavy burden that rests purely on your shoulders. Although”—Gerard raised his eyebrows—“it’s amazing how many relatives you suddenly seem to have acquired.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, you mustn’t worry, it’s usual for the vultures to descend at this time. I’ve had over twenty letters so far, from those who claim they are related in some way to the de la Martinièreses. Four hitherto unknown illegitimate brothers and sisters, apparently sired by your father out of wedlock, two cousins, an uncle, and a member of staff from your parents’ Paris household in the sixties, who swears she was promised by your mother to be the recipient of a Picasso on her death.” Gerard smiled. “It’s all to be expected, but, unfortunately, every claim must be investigated under French law.”
“You don’t think any of them are valid?” Emilie’s eyes were wide.
“I highly doubt it. And if it’s any comfort to you, this has happened with every well-publicized death I have ever dealt with.” He shrugged. “Leave it to me, and don’t worry. I would prefer you, Emilie, to concentrate your thoughts on what you wish to do with the château. As I said, your mother’s debts can easily be paid off with the sale of the Paris house and its contents. But that still leaves you with this magnificent property, which, from what I’ve seen so far, is in a bad state of repair. Whatever you decide, you will still be a wealthy woman, but do you want to sell this château or not?”
Emilie stared into the distance and sighed heavily. “To be honest, Gerard, I wish the whole thing would go away. That someone else could make the decision. And what about the vineyards here? Is the cave producing any profit?”
“Again, that’s something I must investigate for you. If you decide to sell the château, the wine business can be included as a going concern.”
“Sell the château …” Emilie repeated Gerard’s words. Hearing them spoken out loud underlined the enormity of the responsibilities she had to face. “This house has been in our family for two hundred and fifty years. And now it’s down to me to make the decision. And the truth is”—she sighed—“I have no idea what to do for the best.”
“I’m sure you don’t. As I said earlier, it’s difficult that you are all alone.” Gerard shook his head in sympathy. “What can I say? We cannot always choose the situation we find ourselves in. I’ll try to help you as much as I can, Emilie, I know it’s what your father would have wanted from me under these circumstances. Now, I’ll go and freshen up, and then maybe later we should take a walk down to the vineyard and speak to the manager there?”
“Okay,” Emilie replied wearily. “I’ve opened the shutters in the bedroom to the left of the main staircase. It has one of the best views in the house. Would you like me to show you?”
“No, thank you. I’ve stayed here many times before, as you know. I can find my own way.”
Gerard rose, nodded at Emilie, and walked out of the kitchen to climb the main staircase to his bedroom. He paused halfway up, staring at the dusty, faded face of a de la Martinières ancestor. So many of the noble French families, and the history attached to them, were dying out, leaving a barely visible line in the sand to mark their passing. He wondered how the great Giles de la Martinières in the portrait—warrior, nobleman, and, some said, lover of Marie Antoinette—would feel if he could see the future of his lineage resting on the slight shoulders of one young woman. And a woman who had always struck Gerard as odd.
During his many visits to the de la Martinières households in the past, Gerard had beheld a plain child, whose self-containment did not allow her to respond to affection from him or others. A child who seemed removed, distant, almost surly in her reticence to his friendly approaches. As a notaire, Gerard felt his profession not only encompassed the technical work on columns of figures, but also the ability to read the emotions of his clients.
Emilie de la Martinières was an enigma.
He had watched her at her mother’s funeral, and her face had betrayed nothing. Granted, she had become far more attractive in adulthood than she’d been as a child. Yet even now, downstairs, faced with the loss of her one remaining parent and the responsibility of terrible decisions, Gerard had not found her vulnerable. The existence she led in Paris could not be further removed from that of her ancestors. She lived an unremarkable life. Yet, everything about her parents and the history of her family was remarkable.
Gerard continued up the stairs, irritated by her muted responses. Something was missing … something about her was unreachable. And he had no idea how to find it.
• • •
As Emilie stood up and put the coffee cups in the sink, the kitchen door opened and Margaux, the château housekeeper, stepped through the door. Her face lit up as she saw Emilie.
“Mademoiselle Emilie!” Margaux moved to embrace her. “I didn’t know you were coming! You should have told me. I would have prepared everything for you.”
“I arrived from Paris late last night. It’s good to see you, Margaux.”
Margaux drew back and studied Emilie, sympathy in her eyes. “How are you?”
“I am … coping,” Emilie answered honestly, the sight of Margaux, who had cared for her when she was a young girl staying at the château in the summer, bringing a lump to her throat.
“You look skinny. Are you not eating?” Margaux appraised her.
“Of course I’m eating, Margaux! Besides, it’s unlikely that I’ll ever fade away.” Emilie smiled wanly, sweeping her hands down her body.
“You have a lovely shape—wait until you’re like me!” Margaux indicated her own plump figure and chuckled.
Emilie looked at the fading blue eyes and blond hair, now streaked with gray. She remembered Margaux fifteen years ago as a beautiful woman and felt further depressed at how time destroyed all in its ever-hungry path.
The kitchen door opened again. Through it appeared a young boy, slight of figure, with his mother’s huge blue eyes dominating his elfin face. He looked in surprise at Emilie and then turned to his mother nervously.
“Maman? Is it all right for me to be here?”
“Do you mind if Anton is here in the château with me while I work, Mademoiselle Emilie? It’s the Easter holidays and I don’t like to leave him at home by himself. He normally sits quietly with a book.”
“Of course it’s not a problem.” Emilie smiled at the young boy reassuringly. Margaux had lost her husband eight years ago in a car crash. Since then, she had struggled to bring up her son alone. “I think there’s just enough room here for all of us, don’t you?”
“Yes, Mademoiselle Emilie. Thank you,” Anton said gratefully, walking toward his mother.
“Gerard Flavier, our notaire, is upstairs. He’ll be staying overnight, Margaux,” Emilie added. “We’re going down to the vineyard to see Jean and Jacques.”
“Then I’ll prepare his bedroom while you’re gone. Should I get some food ready for your supper?”
“No, thank you, we’ll go up to the village to eat later.”
“There are some bills that have arrived for the house, mademoiselle. Should I give them to you?” Margaux asked, embarrassed.
“Yes, of course.” Emilie sighed. “There’s no one else to pay them.”
“No. I’m so sorry, mademoiselle. It’s hard for you to be left alone. I know so well how it feels.”
“Yes, thank you. I’ll see you later, Margaux.” Emilie nodded at mother and son and left the kitchen to find Gerard.
• • •
That afternoon, Emilie accompanied Gerard to the cave. The vineyard on the de la Martinières domaine was a small operation on twenty-five acres, producing twelve thousand bottles a year of the palest rosé, red, and white, mostly sold to local shops, restaurants, and hotels.
Inside, the cave was dark and cool, the smell of fermenting wine permeating the air from the huge Russian-oak barrels lined up along its sides.
Jean Benoit, the cave manager, stood up from behind his desk as they entered.
“Mademoiselle Emilie! It’s a pleasure to see you.” Jean kissed her warmly on both cheeks. “Papa, look who’s here!”
Jacques Benoit, now in his late eighties and stiff with rheumatism, but who still sat at a table in the cave every day, painstakingly wrapping each bottle of wine in purple tissue paper, looked up and smiled. “Mademoiselle Emilie, how are you?”
“I’m well, thank you, Jacques. And you?”
“Ah, no longer up to hunting the wild boar your papa and I used to catch on the hills.” He chuckled. “But I still manage to find myself breathing each sunrise.”
Emilie felt a surge of pleasure at both the warmth of their greeting and their familiarity. Her father had been great friends with Jacques, and Emilie had often cycled off to the nearby beach at Gigaro for a swim with Jean, who, being eight years older than her, had seemed very grown-up. Emilie had sometimes fantasized that he was her older brother. Jean had always been so protective and kind toward her. He had lost his mother, Francesca, when he was young, and Jacques had done his best to bring him up alone.
Both father and son, and their ancestors before them, had grown up in the small cottage attached to the cave. Jean now managed the vineyard, taking over from his father once Jacques was satisfied Jean had learned his special methods of mixing, then fermenting, the grapes from the vines that surrounded them.
Emilie realized that Gerard was hovering behind them, looking uncomfortable. Pulling herself from her reverie, she said, “This is Gerard Flavier, our family notaire.”
“I believe we’ve met before, monsieur, many years ago,” said Jacques, holding out a trembling hand to him.
“Yes, and I still taste the subtlety of the wine you make here when I’m back in Paris,” remarked Gerard, smiling.
“You are most kind, monsieur,” said Jacques, “but I believe my son is even more of an artist when it comes to producing the perfect Provençal rosé.”
“I presume, Monsieur Flavier, that you’re here to check the financial facts and figures of our cave, rather than the quality of our produce?” Jean was looking uneasy.
“I would certainly like some idea of whether the business is financially productive for my analysis. I’m afraid that Mademoiselle Emilie must make some decisions.”
“Well,” said Emilie, “I think I’m of little use here for now, so I’ll take a walk through the vineyards.” She nodded at the three men and immediately left the cave.
As she walked outside, she realized her own discomfort was heightened because the decisions she must make would endanger the Benoit family’s livelihood. Their way of life had remained unchanged for hundreds of years. She could tell that Jean, in particular, was concerned, understanding the ramifications if she did sell. A new owner might install a manager of his own, and Jean and Jacques would be forced to leave their home. She could hardly imagine such a change, for the Benoits seemed to grow out of the very soil she was standing on.
The sun was already on its descent as Emilie walked over the stony ground between the rows of fragile vines. In the following few weeks, they would grow like weeds to produce the fat, sweet fruit that would be picked in the vendange of late summer to produce next year’s vintage.
She turned to look at the château, three hundred meters in the distance, and sighed despairingly. Its pale, blush-covered walls, the shutters painted a traditional light blue, and framed by tall cypress trees on either side, melted into the softness of the approaching sunset. Simply yet elegantly designed to fit in with its rural surroundings, the house reflected perfectly the understated yet noble lineage both of them had been born from.
And we are all that is left …
Emilie felt a sudden tenderness for the building. It had been orphaned too. Recognized, but ignored in terms of its basic needs, yet maintaining an air of graceful dignity under duress—she felt an odd camaraderie with it.
“How can I give you what you need?” she whispered to the château. “I have a life elsewhere, I …” Emilie sighed and then heard her name being called.
Gerard was walking toward her. He came to stand next to her and followed her eyes toward the château.
“It is beautiful, isn’t it?” he said.
“Yes, it is. But I have no idea what I should do with it.”
“Why don’t we walk back and I’ll give you my thoughts on the matter, which may or may not be of help to you.”
“Thank you.”
• • •
Twenty minutes later, as the sun made its final departure behind the hill that accommodated the medieval
village of Gassin, Emilie sat with Gerard and listened to what he had to say.
“The vineyard is underproducing what it could, in terms of both yield and profit. There has been an international surge in sales of rosé in the past few years. It’s no longer thought of as the poor relation to its white and red sister and brother. Jean is expecting, as long as the weather conditions remain stable in the next few weeks, to produce a bumper crop. The point is, Emilie, the cave has always been run very much as a hobby by the de la Martinièreses.”
“Yes, I realize that.” Emilie agreed.
“Jean—whom I was extremely impressed with, by the way—said no investment funds have been provided for the vineyard since your father died sixteen years ago. It was, of course, originally established to provide the château itself with a homegrown supply of wine. In its heyday, when your ancestors were entertaining here in the old, grand style, much of the wine would have been consumed by them and their guests. Now, of course, everything’s different, yet the vineyard is still running as it did a hundred years ago.”
Gerard looked at Emilie for a reaction, but received none, so he continued.
“What the cave needs is an injection of cash to fulfill its potential. Jean tells me, for example, that there’s enough land to double the size of the vineyards. It also needs some modern equipment to be brought up-to-date and produce, Jean believes, a healthy profit. The question is, whether you wish to carry the vineyard and the château into the future. They are both renovation projects and would take up much of your time.”
Emilie listened to the stillness. Not a breath of wind blew. The calm atmosphere wrapped a warm shawl of tranquillity around her. For the first time since her mother had died, Emilie felt at peace. And, therefore, disinclined to come to a conclusion.
“Thank you for your help so far, Gerard. But I don’t think it’s possible to give you an answer right away. If you’d asked me two weeks ago, I would have categorically told you my inclination was to sell. But now …”
“I understand.” Gerard nodded. “I can’t advise you emotionally, Emilie, only financially. Perhaps it would be a comfort for you to know that, when you sell the Paris house, its contents, and your mother’s jewelry, I believe it would not only cover the cost of restoring the château but also leave you with a large income for the rest of your life. And, of course, there is the library here. Your papa may not have spent his energies on the fabric of either of his homes, but his legacy is housed inside. He built on what was already a fine collection of rare books. Having glanced earlier at the ledgers he kept, he seems to have doubled it. Antiquarian books are not my field of expertise, but I can only imagine the collection is very valuable.”
The Lavender Garden Page 2