“Jacques, please, I beg you. I must know if I’m right. You understand why, don’t you?”
“Yes.” He looked at her and then suddenly chuckled. “You’re a clever girl, Emilie. It’s a good story. And, indeed”—he nodded—“Constance named her one child after the baby girl she had left behind.”
“But”—Emilie stared at him for confirmation—“her daughter wasn’t Sophia’s child?”
“No, Emilie, it was not Constance who adopted Victoria. And even though, from the little I’ve seen of your new husband, I would not trust him, I can assure you he didn’t marry you because he believed he might be an illegitimate heir to the de la Martinières fortune.”
“Oh. Thank God!” Emilie felt near to tears. “Thank you, Jacques.”
“I’m happy at least to put your mind at rest on that score.” He sipped his coffee.
Emilie was immediately torn between relief that the story she’d conjured up was not true, and guilt that she had thought Sebastian capable of such a plot.
“Then, Jacques, please, will you tell me who Victoria is?”
Jacques paused, took another sip of his coffee, and looked at her. “I understand your eagerness to know. But, Emilie, it isn’t your life that will be turned upside down. It’s hers, and her family’s. If I decide to speak, it will be her I tell first, not you. Do you understand?”
Emilie understood that Jacques was telling her she was being selfish. Cowed, she bent her head and nodded. “I do. And I’m sorry.”
“There’s no need to apologize, Emilie. I can see why you wish to know.”
Jean walked into the kitchen and felt the tension. “My father has told you your story was wrong?”
“Yes.”
“You must be relieved, Emilie,” said Jean.
“I am, of course.” She stood up, feeling uncomfortable and embarrassed that these two men were blatantly aware of how fast she’d jumped to dishonorable conclusions about her husband. “I must leave,” she said, suddenly needing some time alone. She could sit at Nice airport for a couple of hours and think. “Excuse me.”
The two men gazed at her with sympathy in their eyes as she left the kitchen to collect her suitcase from her bedroom.
“She’s made a mistake by marrying that man, and she knows it,” whispered Jacques. “He may not be a de la Martinières by blood, but he’s after something.”
“I agree. But then she had just lost her mother, the last of her family. It’s hardly surprising she fell into the first pair of arms that came along. She was so vulnerable.”
“On the positive side, she’s had to grow up fast in the past year and is stronger. She’s learned many lessons.”
“Yes. She’s indeed even more special now.”
Jacques gazed at the pain in his son’s eyes. “I know how you feel about her. But she’s a clever girl, like her father, with good instincts. She’ll make the right decision and come home, where she belongs.”
“I wish I could be so sure.” Jean sighed.
“I am.”
Emilie appeared in the kitchen with her suitcase, looking strained and pale. “Thank you again for your hospitality, and I’m sure I’ll see you both soon.”
“As you know, there’s always a bed for you here with us,” said Jean, feeling her distress and trying to comfort her.
“Thank you.” Emilie put her suitcase down. “Jacques, I’m so sorry that I pressured you to tell me the identity of Sophia and Frederik’s baby. Of course it’s your decision. I promise I will never ask again.” She bent down to kiss him on both cheeks, and Jacques snatched at her hands before she could move away.
“Your father would have been proud of you. Trust in yourself, Emilie. And God bless, until we see you again.”
“I’ll be back very soon to check on the progress of the château. Goodbye, Jacques.”
She left the kitchen with Jean as he carried her suitcase out to the car.
“Keep in contact, Emilie,” he said as he slammed the trunk closed. “You know we’re always here for you.”
“I know”—she nodded—“and thank you for everything.”
31
On the drive to Nice airport, Emilie came to a decision. She couldn’t face going back to Yorkshire and waiting there alone until Sebastian came home. Instead, she would fly straight to London and go to his gallery to see him. And ask him to tell her the truth.
Standing at the ticket counter paying for her flight to Heathrow, Emilie pondered whether she should let Sebastian know she was coming. But maybe it would be better to surprise him. The flight arrived in London at half past two, plenty of time to get to his gallery before it closed. She’d tell him she’d missed him and wanted to see him straightaway.
As Emilie boarded the plane, although still confused about her husband’s behavior, she felt better. At least she was being proactive, doing something to try to close the chasm that had opened up between them. She needed to confront him about his relationship with Alex and find out the real reason he was disinclined to have his wife by his side in London.
• • •
After landing at Heathrow, Emilie climbed into a taxi and gave the driver the address of Sebastian’s gallery on the Fulham Road. Having a sudden attack of cold feet that she was arriving unannounced, Emilie took out her mobile and tried Sebastian. A mechanical voice told her his mobile was switched off.
Twenty minutes later, she arrived in front of Arté. Paying the driver, Emilie lugged her suitcase out of the taxi and perused the windows. The art was modern, as Sebastian had described, and the gallery was extremely smart. Pushing the door open, a bell tinkled and an attractive, willowy blonde came forward to greet her.
“Hello, madam, just browsing?”
“Is the owner here?” Emilie asked, abrupt from nerves.
“Yes, he’s in the office at the back. Can I help you with anything?”
“No, thank you. Please could you tell him that Emilie de la Martinières is here to see him?”
“Of course, madam.”
The girl walked through a door at the back of the shop, and Emilie browsed the canvases on display. A few seconds later, an elegant, middle-aged man appeared from the door at the back of the gallery.
“Madam de la Martinières, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I heard of the sale of your Matisse last year. Can I help you with anything?”
“I …” Emilie was confused. “Are you the owner?”
“Yes, I’m Jonathan Maxwell.” He held out his hand and she shook it weakly. He eyed her with interest. “You seem surprised. Is there a problem?”
“Maybe I have the wrong address,” she stuttered. “I thought Sebastian Carruthers was the owner of this gallery?”
“Sebastian? No.” Jonathan chuckled. “What stories has he been telling you? Sebastian is an agent who has a couple of artists whose work I display here occasionally. I’ve not seen him for a while, though. I think he’s been concentrating more on his sourcing of French artists for his clients. Didn’t he discover your unsigned Matisse?”
“Yes, he did.” Emilie felt at least comforted that something Sebastian had told her was actually true.
“Nice work if you can get it. I’m presuming it’s Sebastian you want to speak to?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll go and get his telephone number for you,” Jonathan offered. “I’ve got it on file.”
“Thank you. You wouldn’t by any chance have the address of his office as well, would you?”
“I’d say ‘office’ was rather an exaggeration. He works out of the apartment he shares with his girlfriend, Bella. She’s one of his artists.” Jonathan pointed to a large, vivid canvas, filled with extravagant red poppies. “I have the address; it’s where I send Bella’s checks when I sell a painting of hers. It’s probably better to call him first and make an appointment.”
Emilie’s legs were buckling under her, but she couldn’t give in now.
“If you have the address, I’ll take it anyway,” she said
brightly. “I like … Bella’s work very much. Perhaps she has others I could see.”
“Her studio is in her flat. She’s in one of those wharf developments by Tower Bridge. Hardly a garret in Paris, lucky girl …” Jonathan shared a glance with Emilie. “Let me get you the address.”
Aware that she was a few seconds away from having a panic attack, Emilie took a number of deep, slow breaths as she waited for him to return.
“There you are.” Jonathan handed her the address and telephone number he’d scribbled on an envelope. “As I say, probably best to call first to make sure they’re in.”
“Of course. Thank you for your help.”
“No problem. Here’s my card too.” Jonathan produced one from his shirt pocket. “If there’s anything in the future I can help you with, I’d be delighted to. Goodbye, Madame de la Martinières.”
“Goodbye.” Emilie turned to leave.
“Oh, and if you do see young Sebastian, you can say from me I’ll be having words with him about telling you he owned this gallery.” Jonathan raised his eyebrows, smiling. “He’s a nice chap, but he can be a little frugal with the truth.”
“Yes, thank you.”
Emilie left the gallery and looked down with shaking hands at the address Jonathan had given her. Before she could rationalize what she was doing, she hailed a passing taxi, gave the address to the driver, and climbed inside. As the taxi set off, she began to pant at the thought of where she was headed. She took out a paper bag from the front of her suitcase, containing a half-eaten croissant from Nice airport, and began surreptitiously blowing into it.
“You all right, love?” asked the driver.
“Oui—yes, thank you.”
“My son used to have panic attacks,” he said, glancing at her in the mirror. “Just breathe deeply, love, and you’ll be all right.”
“Thank you.” The kindness of a stranger brought tears to her eyes.
“Something upset you, has it?”
“Yes,” said Emilie, the tears of shock and despair stinging her face.
“There we go.” The driver passed a box of tissues through the window to her. “Never mind, I’m sure it will all come out in the wash, whatever it is. Lovely-looking girl like you … life can’t be too bad, eh?”
• • •
Forty agonizing minutes later, the driver pulled into a narrow cobbled lane between two tall buildings.
“These used to be where they stored the tea when it was shipped in from India. Never thought they’d end up as desirable homes—these cost millions now, they do. I’m afraid that’s thirty-six quid, love,” the driver added.
Emilie paid him and staggered out with her suitcase, her heart still thumping in her chest. She walked to the entrance and saw each apartment had an intercom button. Double-checking her piece of paper and gathering every ounce of strength she had left, she pressed the buzzer for number nine.
“Hello?”
“Hello, is that Bella Roseman-Boyd?”
“Yes?”
“I’ve come from the Arté gallery in Fulham. Jonathan sent me as I was interested in seeing more of your work,” Emilie lied as smoothly as she could.
“Really? I wonder why he didn’t call to warn me. I wasn’t expecting anyone.”
“No, I said I’d come immediately … because I am leaving to go back to France tomorrow and I wanted to see your work before I did. Please, you can contact him if you wish. He would tell you it is the truth.”
In the pause that followed, Emilie only hoped what she’d said was enough to gain her entry.
“You’d better come up, then.”
The buzzer sounded and the door opened. Emilie took the large, gated lift up to the third floor, walked out into a corridor, and saw that the door to number nine was already ajar. Garnering her courage, Emilie knocked on it.
“Come in, I’m just trying to clean the paint off me,” called a voice.
Emilie stepped inside the vast loft, the huge windows giving a panoramic vista of the Thames. One end of the room was obviously where Bella painted, the rest of it divided into an area with sofas and a kitchen.
“Hello.” A strikingly beautiful girl with jet-black hair emerged from a door. The paint splatters on her skintight, faded jeans and T-shirt did nothing to detract from her sylphlike figure. “Sorry, your name is?”
“My name is Emilie. Are you alone or am I interrupting you?” She needed to know immediately if Sebastian was actually there.
“No, I’m alone,” Bella confirmed. “Well, Emilie, it’s very good of you to come out all this way to see my work. I’d offer you some tea, but I’m pretty sure I’ve run out of milk. And to be frank, I haven’t got much to show you, either. I’ve been getting quite a lot of private commissions recently.” She smiled, showing a perfect set of white teeth.
“Who is your agent?” Emilie inquired politely.
“Sebastian Carruthers, but I’m sure you won’t have heard of him. Anyway, come and have a look at what I’ve got.”
“Before I do, may I use your bathroom?”
“Of course, it’s just along the corridor on the right.”
“Thank you.”
Emilie walked out of the room and along the corridor as instructed. The three doors were all ajar. The first one housed a large, unmade double bed. Emilie gasped in horror as she saw Sebastian’s suitcase sitting on a chair, his favorite pink shirt in a heap on the floor, entangled with discarded feminine underwear.
Moving along the corridor, she saw the next room was used for storage, with books, paintings, a vacuum cleaner, and a rail of clothes taking up its limited space. There was certainly no room for a bed in this “boxroom,” Emilie thought grimly. Staggering slightly, she entered the bathroom, closed the door behind her, and locked it. On the shelf over the sink sat Sebastian’s toilet bag, containing his shaving kit and aftershave. His blue toothbrush was abandoned on the basin.
Emilie sat down on the toilet seat, brutally trying to push away emotion and think logically what she should do from here. Even though her instinct was to leave the apartment instantly and run, she knew she must use this moment to glean as much information from the horse’s mouth as she possibly could. Confronting Sebastian later would only result in the usual veil of lies and deceit. Standing up and flushing the unused toilet, she turned and walked back out of the bathroom and into the sitting room.
“Look,” Bella called, “the sun’s past the yardarm, I’m out of milk for tea and gagging for a glass of wine. Will you join me?”
“Okay, thank you.”
“Feel free to wander down to the studio and take a look at the paintings,” Bella said as she walked toward the kitchen.
Emilie did so and, despite herself, saw that Bella was an extremely accomplished artist. The paintings had a life and vibrancy that couldn’t be taught.
“Come and sit down for a bit.” Bella patted the comfortable leather sofa. “I’ve been painting all day, so it’s nice to take the weight off my feet for a while. What do you think?” She indicated the current painting on her easel, a lively splash of huge purple irises. “Obviously, as the artist, I’m massively critical and full of self-doubt, but I think it’s going rather well.”
“I love it,” said Emilie genuinely, sitting down.
“I’m afraid you can’t have it as it’s a commission for some city guy Sebastian met. But I could certainly paint you one similar if you wished. Not for the next three months, mind you, I’m fully booked.”
“I would definitely be interested. What do you charge?”
“Oh, Sebastian deals with all that, you’d have to speak to him.” Bella waved the question away airily. “I think it’s normally between five and twenty thousand, depending on the size of the canvas.”
“It’s a shame you must pay someone to do that for you when I’m sitting here right now and we could agree a price.”
“I know.” Bella nodded. “Agents are all vultures, feeding off the talent of us artists, but at least it�
��s sort of ‘in the family’ in my case. Which helps.”
“Sorry, it is my bad English.” Emilie forced a smile. “You mean Sebastian is a relative of yours?”
“Not a relative, exactly. More—how would you say it in French?—mon amour.”
“Ah yes.” Emilie faked remembrance. “I believe Monsieur Jonathan said he was your boyfriend.”
“Well, I wouldn’t go that far.” Bella chuckled. “But Seb and I have had one of those ‘things’ for years. We met ages ago when he came to view my final show at St. Martins. He stays with me when he’s in town. It’s very relaxed. More wine?”
“Why not?” Emilie watched as Bella poured a trickle into her glass and filled up her own.
“Between you and me,” Bella confided, “he’s recently married and I’d presumed our comfortable arrangement would be at an end. But it seems it isn’t. Anyway, I’m digressing.” Bella took another gulp of her wine.
“Do you not mind that he is married?” Emilie asked, feigning interest.
“To be honest, my motto is that life’s too short to chain one person to another. Seb and I have a relationship that works very well. It suits us both. He knows I have other lovers too.” Bella shrugged. “And I’m not really the jealous type. Mind you, I am surprised he married. I haven’t really asked him the details. I mean, I don’t even know his wife’s name because that’s not our style, but I gather she’s quite wealthy. He turned up here a couple of weeks after he’d tied the knot with her and gave me a beautiful Cartier diamond necklace.” Bella’s hand went instinctively to touch the exquisite solitaire placed around her swanlike neck. “He also found a Matisse in his wife’s house, for which he earned a serious commission when he sold it. He bought himself a new Porsche out of the proceeds, which he loves cruising around London in. Bless him.” Bella sighed. “He’s been in debt ever since I knew him. He’s absolutely useless with money—whatever he has, he spends—but he’s always got by somehow.”
“So you’re not dependent on him financially?”
“God, no”—Bella rolled her eyes—“now that would be a disaster! If anything, it’s the other way round, actually. I’m lucky enough to have parents who are wealthy enough to support me and my ambition of becoming a successful artist. Which, as I’m sure you know, is bloody hard. However, just in the last few months I’ve been able to tell them that I’m making enough through my painting not to need their monthly check. That was a real moment of triumph, as you can imagine.” Bella smiled.
The Lavender Garden Page 39