You might be surprised at this volte-face, given that I told you I was so determined to stay here. Sadly, the joint ownership of the house has brought nothing but pain. And although a reconciliation between Seb and me was my grandmother’s last wish, it hasn’t materialized. And I know it never will. So, for both our sakes, I have decided to finally agree to his demand that we sell Blackmoor Hall. One thing I may not have mentioned is the fact I know Seb has run up a huge overdraft secured against his share of the house. I presume the bank has been pressurizing him to repay it, which is why he needs to sell so much. He will, of course, be delighted when I tell him, and all in all, I think it’s time to sever past ties and move on.
Em, I should also say at this point (which I know may upset you, and is why I’ve said nothing so far) that I have paid for every penny of the renovations to my apartment in the east wing. And for the costs of all my general domestic needs. I received a large settlement through the courts from the insurance company of the driver who rendered me legless (HAH!). I say this because it’s important to me you know I haven’t been freeloading off my brother. You should also know I initially offered to use my settlement to renovate Blackmoor Hall. Only when I discovered Seb had mortgaged it to the hilt did I back off. Funnily enough, he hasn’t been my friend ever since.
Anyway, what do you think of my plan to move on? I’m only 80 percent decided, but I think it’s the right thing to do.
To be honest, Em, since you left, I’ve been horribly lonely. And now I’ve sold my children too, at rather a loose end. Of course, I may well consider adopting some more… .
If you have time, do reply with your thoughts—I was very happy to hear from you.
I miss you.
Alex XX
Emilie had no time to reply as both she and Anton were getting ready to leave for Margaux’s funeral. But even as she sat in the beautiful medieval church of Saint-Laurent in Gassin, with her hand tightly holding Anton’s, she thought of Alex’s e-mail.
I miss you.
After the service, many local residents came back to the cottage. The cave’s new vintage was tested and approved by the locals.
When the last mourner had left, she saw Anton standing alone, looking drained.
“Why not take yourself upstairs and start packing? We’ll be going home soon,” Emilie said gently.
Anton’s face brightened a little. “All right, I will.”
As she watched him trudge disconsolately up the stairs, Emilie was comforted that letting him move in with her after the funeral was the right decision. At least he’d have the newness of beginning afresh after the terrible ending today.
Jean appeared in the kitchen. “Emilie, my father’s asked you if you would join us in the garden while Anton is upstairs.”
“Of course.” She followed Jean outside.
Jacques was in the chair he’d sat in all afternoon. He’d been very much the host, and Emilie had seen how he loved his local community.
“Sit down, Emilie,” he said gravely. “I wish to speak to you. Jean, you stay too.” The note in his voice indicated he had something serious to discuss with her.
Jean poured them all a fresh glass of wine and then sat down next to Emilie.
“I have decided it’s the moment to tell you who Sophia’s child is. And when I tell you, I hope you will understand why I have waited until now to do so.” Jacques cleared his throat, which was tired and hoarse from all the talking he had done during the day.
“After Constance and I took Victoria to the convent orphanage and Constance left for England, I begged Édouard yet again to reconsider. However, he would not hear of it and, a few days later, left the château to return to Paris. I, however, was wracked with guilt. I knew Sophia de la Martinières’s child was lying, unloved and unwanted, only a few kilometers away.” Jacques shrugged his shoulders. “Try as I did to rationalize that war had left such terrible unwanted human detritus behind and that I was not responsible for Victoria, I could not forget her. I had grown to love her, you see. After two weeks of battling with myself, I decided to return to the orphanage to see if Victoria had already been adopted. If she had, then it was God’s will and I would not search for her. But, of course, she hadn’t been.” Jacques shook his head. “By then, Victoria was over four months old. The moment I walked into the nursery, her eyes lit up and she recognized me. She smiled … Emilie, she smiled at me.” Jacques put his head in his hands. “When she did that, I knew it was impossible for me to simply abandon her.”
Unable to continue, Jacques sat in silence as Jean put an arm around his father’s shoulder, trying to comfort him.
“So”—Jacques looked up suddenly—“I returned home and tried to think what I could do. Adopting her myself was an option, but not one I felt was right for the child. Men in those days didn’t have the first idea of how to care for a baby and Victoria needed the loving arms of a mother. I wracked my brains to try to think who would take her locally, so that at least, if I was unable to care for her, I could watch over her as she grew. Eventually, I came across such a woman. She had one child already—I knew her because, before the war, her husband had worked in the vineyard for me during the vendange. I went to visit her and discovered her husband had not yet returned home and she’d heard nothing from him. She and the child were desperate … starving, as so many were after the war. But she was a good woman and I could tell from the child she already had that she was a caring mother. I asked her whether she would be prepared to adopt another one. At first, of course, she refused, saying she could barely feed her own child’s mouth, as I knew she would. So then I offered her a sum of money. A significant sum of money”—Jacques nodded—“and she accepted.”
“Papa, how could you offer this?” asked Jean. “I know how poor you were after the war.”
“Yes, I was. But …” Jacques paused and gazed suddenly at Emilie, who could see he was agonizing over telling her. “Your father, Emilie, had given me something before he left for Paris, after Constance had returned to England. He’d pressed it into my hands, rather than using words. Perhaps it was his way of asking my forgiveness for refusing to accept Sophia’s child. So I contacted someone I knew who dealt in the black market, which thrived just after the war. I asked him to value what your father had given to me, to raise the money to pay for the kind woman I knew to adopt Victoria.”
“What was it my father gave you, Jacques?” asked Emilie softly.
“It was a book, a book he knew I’d loved. It was very old, and the plates in it were exquisite. I knew he’d managed to find the second volume to complete the set—you remember I told you, Emilie, that he sent it from Paris with Armand, the courier, to tell us of his safe escape? And that Édouard gave it to Constance to take to England?”
“Yes,” answered Emilie, with a glimmer of a smile on her face. “I know the book. It’s called The History of French Fruit.”
“You are correct, and I discovered my copy, volume one, was very rare and very old. I managed to sell it for enough to pay the woman to take Sophia’s baby into her home. Forgive me for what I did, Emilie. I should not have sold your father’s gift to me. But it bought his niece’s safety and her future.”
Emilie’s eyes were blurred with tears and she was almost too choked to speak. “Jacques, believe me,” she said eventually, “I think what you did with the book could not have been more perfect.”
“How much did the sale raise?” asked Jean.
“Ten thousand francs,” said Jacques. “Which, in those days, when so many were starving, was a fortune. I paid the woman a thousand francs immediately and told her she would receive another five hundred francs a year until the child reached sixteen. I couldn’t risk giving her the money all at once; I wanted to make sure she would earn it by taking care of the baby. The woman knew nothing of the child’s background. I made completely sure of that. She also asked me if she could rename Victoria after her own mother.”
“And you said yes, of course?” said Jean.
“I did. And, thank God, my choice was a success,” breathed Jacques. “In fact, when the girl was five, the woman refused to take money for her any longer. Her husband had returned and their circumstances had improved. She said she loved the child as her own and felt uncomfortable receiving recompense for her. I’m happy I chose the right woman. Emilie, your aunt’s child could not have found a more loving or happier home.”
“Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, and on behalf of my aunt and my father, for doing what you did. Jacques”—the question was now burning on Emilie’s tongue—“who is the child? What’s her name?”
“Her name is—”
Jacques swallowed hard and tried again.
“Her name was Margaux.”
35
All three of them sat silently, working through the ramifications of what Jacques had just revealed.
“Do you understand, Emilie,” said Jacques eventually, “why I was so concerned about revealing the baby’s identity? If I had done so, it would have thrown Margaux’s life into disarray. She had worked as a housekeeper at the château for over fifteen years. After your father died, the old château housekeeper, whom you may remember, retired. Margaux’s mother was by then a friend, and I recommended her daughter to Valérie, your mother.”
“I now understand why you’ve felt you could say nothing, Papa,” Jean said softly. “How would Margaux have reacted to knowing that she’d spent so long working for the de la Martinièreses, when in fact she was one of them?”
“Exactly. But, of course, now Margaux has left us, and Anton, like a homing pigeon, has landed on our doorstep and a relationship has blossomed between the two of you.” Jacques indicated Emilie. “So I had to tell you. The boy who is at present packing to return to your home with you is in fact your first cousin once removed.”
Emilie listened as Jean, analytical as ever, probed for more details. She understood now … understood why everything about Anton felt familiar … they shared the de la Martinières blood. Seeing Anton sitting on the floor that day, reading in the library, with his fine features and dark hair—no wonder a shiver had passed through her. Ironically, it was not his grandmother he took after, but his great-uncle, Édouard.
“Emilie,” continued Jacques, “I’ve decided I must pass the decision to you. It will be up to you whether you tell Anton of his heritage. Many would say it’s now irrelevant and would perhaps burden him. But Anton Duvall is the only other surviving de la Martinières.”
In the ensuing silence, Emilie listened to the birds preparing for sunset.
“Whether Anton was the son of my housekeeper or related to me by blood, the decision to offer him a home would have been one and the same,” she said eventually, leaning forward and patting the old man’s knee. “Jacques, I want to tell you two things. The first is that I can think of no better way of using my father’s gift to you than to buy his niece’s safety. And, second, I’m so very happy you have trusted me enough to tell me the truth. But you must also know that, to me, the fact that Anton is related to my family is merely an added bonus. It’s felt natural from the first time I met him.” She smiled. “Really, Jacques, you’ve made me very happy tonight. I hope at some point I can repay you.”
“Emilie, Emilie …” Jacques reached out his hands to her and she clasped them. “Maybe it’s fate, but undoubtedly Margaux’s death provided a sad resolution to my dilemma. Anton has a home and you will make a compassionate mother to him. Édouard lost his compassion sometime during the war, as many of my compatriots did. Don’t lose yours, will you?”
“No, I won’t. I swear,” Emilie said firmly.
“Life is too short for hatred and bigotry. When you find something good, seize it with both hands.” Jacques gave her a weak smile.
“I will. I promise.”
“Are we ready to go?”
All three turned to see Anton standing there, a small suitcase in his hand. He looked bewildered as he registered the obvious emotion hanging in the air.
“It would be better if we arrived at our home before dark, Emilie,” he said quietly.
“Yes.” Emilie stood up and offered Anton her hand. “We’ll go before the light fades.”
• • •
Once Anton was settled in his new room and in bed, Emilie, rather than feeling exhausted, felt elated. She would decide another time whether and when she would tell Anton about his past. The most important thing for now was that he felt loved and wanted. Because he was such a bright boy, if she told him immediately that he was related to her, Anton might assume this was the only reason she was prepared to take him in. She wanted to let the bond and the trust grow stronger and deeper before she told him anything further.
Switching on her computer, she reread the e-mail message from Alex. Then stood up, so full of nervous energy, she couldn’t sit still.
“I miss you too,” she told her laptop as she paced around the sitting room. “A lot,” she added, just for good measure. “In fact, more than a lot.”
She stopped suddenly in her tracks; was she being ridiculous?
Perhaps. Any relationship she’d so far forged with Alex had been under difficult circumstances, to say the least. But the odd feeling that entered her tummy when she thought of him—the one that had been there for so long now she couldn’t remember it not being there—wasn’t disappearing.
More pacing … of course, it might be a total disaster—but why not? Nothing was forever, as she had realized so painfully in the past few months. Life could turn on the switch of a coin. So what harm could it do? If she had learned one thing from both her past and her present, it was that life did not provide second chances. It asked you, begged you, to go out and grab what was on offer, to recognize the good and try to discard the bad. Just as Jacques had implored her to do earlier …
Emilie yawned suddenly, then flopped onto the sofa like a rag doll. She would think about it tomorrow, and in the cold light of morning, if she still felt the same, then she would write the e-mail. With that, she heaved herself from the sofa and went off to bed.
To:[email protected]
From:[email protected]
Thursday
Dear Alex,
Thank you for your e-mail. I thought I would write firstly and tell you I know what happened to volume one of the book. Suffice to say it’s no longer in the de la Martinièreses’ possession, but it’s a long story, which I would have to tell you in person. All I can say is that the book went to buy the safety of a member of my family, and I can’t think of a more fitting use of it and its worth. It also pleases me that Sebastian’s search was pointless from the start, and that the money from the sale of the book went to a far higher cause than his greed.
Secondly, I seem to have adopted a child. He is a twelve-year-old boy called Anton, and again, it’s another very long and complicated story. Thirdly, given your indecision over your future, I wondered whether it would be at all helpful for you to have some space and time to think about it. My gîte is small, but all on one floor and has a spare bedroom. And although there are not many human beings around us, only grapes, I hope that Anton and I might suffice for company.
Let me know if you can come. We can be three orphans together! I miss you too.
E xxx
To:[email protected]
From:[email protected]
Dearest Em,
Thanks for the invitation. Will arrive next Monday at Nice Airport at 1340 hours. If it’s not possible to collect me (and my wheelchair!), please let me know. Otherwise, looking forward to it immensely and, of course, meeting Anton.
A xxxx
PS Thank God I don’t have to miss you any longer, just look forward to seeing you.
The Life Inside Me
Blindly striving to protect you,
Knowing that you live in me.
Forged from love, a soul so perfect.
You will be all you can be.
I must give my body to y
ou,
New life grows and thrives inside.
One day we will live in freedom
Never more be forced to hide.
You must know the love that made you
Shining like the brightest sun.
I will tell you of your father,
Don’t be frightened, little one.
I can’t see the force that made you,
Or the hearts that beat in time.
Yet I feel you, so I see you
Inside me now, O child of mine.
Sophia de la Martinières
May 1944
EPILOGUE
One Year Later
Emilie unlocked the front door of the château and swung it wide-open. Anton helped push Alex’s wheelchair over the threshold and into an echoing entrance hall, empty apart from a ladder one of the decorators had left against a wall for applying the final coat.
“Wow,” said Anton, looking up above him to the ceiling, “I think it’s got bigger in here.”
“It’s the fresh white color after seeing weeks of plaster.” Emilie looked down at the floor and nodded in approval. “They’ve done a very good job of restoring the marble. I would have hated to lose it.”
“Yes,” said Alex, following her gaze. Then he glanced toward the stairs. “I’m a little concerned that one of those ghastly chair systems to hoist me up there might not look quite in keeping with all this elegance.”
“That’s why you’re here.” Emilie winked at Anton. “Shall we show him?”
“Yes!” Anton’s eyes danced with excitement. “Follow me.”
Leading Alex along the echoing corridors, the rooms still in disarray—it would be another few months before the inside works were finally completed—Anton took them to the back of the house and into the lobby next to the kitchen. Angling Alex’s chair in front of a door, he pressed a button on a panel, and the door slid open smoothly.
The Lavender Garden Page 43