by Karen Abbott
He gestured to Georges and Marie. “We had a family conference, to decide what to do. If the relationship were proved to be true … fair enough. But if not …” His words hung in the air, as he spread his arms. “This is our family home. It supports us three and Virginie and Luc and our many employees. We wanted to be sure that you really are Pierre’s granddaughter
before we said anything to you about it.”
Christi nodded.
“Well, yes. I can see that. What did you do? Send someone to follow me around?”
She shivered at the thought.
“No. You were over here by then. We had decided straight away that it might best to see what you were like for ourselves. But we also employed someone to do some searches of records, your birth certificate, and your parents’ marriage certificate.”
“Couldn’t you have done that earlier, such as at the end of the War?”
Georges butted in, with Jean-Claude translating. “It was a chaotic time. The war still continued, even after our island had been liberated. Our father, Pierre’s younger brother Charles married Francine, your grandmother’s friend ... but then went to fight on the mainland, where he was injured. It was months later before he came home. Yves, Jean-Claude’s father was already born by that time and our mother had the farm to run. Father’s health improved and then I was born. Life was hard. This place was simply a working farm in those days—every day a busy day!”
He spread his hands in a helpless gesture and Marie took over the story.
“My mother-in-law used to tell me how she kept writing to her friend Angèlique ... that was your grandmother’s name during the war when she was in the Resistance ... she had to pretend to be French, you see, because of the German soldiers—but she received no reply. It was ten years later, when Georges and Ives were young boys, before she got the chance to go to England to try to find her friend—but the street she had lived in had been bombed and was being rebuilt. No-one knew where the families had been relocated. Belle-mère tried to find Angèlique’s parents ... I forget their name.”
“Barclay,” Christi supplied, “but my grandmother had died by then. She had changed her name to Sinclair ... and my mother was brought up by her grandparents.”
“It was hopeless,” Georges commented. “Maman came home no nearer to finding her friend, nor her God-daughter . Even in official records, people were still just recorded as ‘missing’ or ‘location unknown’.”
Jean-Claude spoke again. “Our lawyers tried again when grandfather died—but we didn’t have a sound starting point—a woman, possibly called Angela St. Clare and a baby girl called Fleur. There was no trace of either. We knew that Angela could have remarried but had no way of finding out. At one point, we thought we had found Angela’s parents—but the papers came back saying that there was no connection. I now think that they were your great grandparents. Maybe they just wanted to sever all connections with the family who seemingly had brought such heartache to their daughter. So the farm was divided between my father and Uncle Georges—but, we always knew that a question mark hung over it.”
Christi listened intently, avidly grasping the details. It was all so incredible to her, overwhelming, in fact. From hardly knowing anything about her grandparents, she suddenly had all of this. It filled a void—but created another, in the sadness and tragic events of so long ago. She knew she would want to hear it all over again. Maybe there were more family photographs? But before all of that …
“So, what did Virginie mean? As my grandfather’s only surviving descendant, do I inherit, what, a third of …” She spread her hands. “… of all this?”
Her face portrayed her amazement at the thought.
“Or are Virginie and Luc counted in?”
Jean-Claude laughed dryly.
“No. And not a third either. French inheritance laws are a little different than in England. The eldest doesn’t get all, as in the nobility—neither can anyone be disinherited. If it is a working industry that provides the living for the family, as this does, then the family inherits in equal proportions.”
Christi was puzzled. “So? You, Georges and me!”
Jean-Claude shook his head.
“No, you are forgetting. You and I are a different generation from Georges. The inheritance was split between your grandfather and mine. You inherit all of Pierre’s share. Georges and I share our grandfather Charles’s portion. You own fifty per cent!”
Chapter Eight
Christi could only stare at him.
She felt she was dreaming. This couldn’t be real. She slowly turned to look at the three others. They returned her gaze, their faces serious, waiting for a response.
Jean-Claude broke the silence. “So, now you know. The question is, what are you going to do about it?”
Christi shook her head. “What do you mean?”
Georges and Jean-Claude exchanged glances but it was Jean-Claude who spoke. “As I said earlier, it’s our livelihood. You now own a half of it. We could offer to buy you out—but we haven’t got the money. As yet, we are putting so much back into the mobile home project that we only just manage to live off the remainder.”
Christi listened in consternation. One thing was clear—her fortune was their misfortune. She took a deep breath.
“I can see how …” She searched for the word but lapsed into English. “…concerned you are. But I need time to think.” She shook her head again, still very much bemused by it all. “Can we leave it for now?”
Jean-Claude translated her response to Georges and Marie. They nodded sombrely. They understood.
The morning passed in a blur for Christi. She worked hard, alongside Jean-Claude, Georges and three other men but she was lost in a dream-world. Soon after noon, they halted work and went to their various homes for some food and a rest.
Marie bustled about the kitchen, making sure that Christi helped herself to some food, though in reality she hardly felt like eating. In spite of the uncomfortable silence, Christi was grateful that they left her and her thoughts to herself.
By mid-afternoon she was alone in the office, attempting to work through the mountain of work. Although she was glad of the silence, it was difficult to keep her thoughts on the work in hand. She owned half of all this! It was too much to take in at one go! Her thoughts churned round and round in her mind.
Soon after four o’clock. Jean-Claude joined her in the office. “Are you all right?” he asked, looking concerned at her quiet manner.
Christi forced a smile. “Yes, but I am still trying to think through all the implications of it—and I haven’t a clue about all the legal side. I think I need a lawyer.” She shrugged helplessly. “I’ve never needed a lawyer before. How do I go about it?”
Jean-Claude nodded. “That’s fair enough. I will get you one; that is, if you trust me to work on your behalf?”
She wasn’t sure if he was teasing her. Did she trust him? Her heart told her yes; her mind only told her maybe. He … they … had all been sitting on top of this bombshell. Would they really have told her? She would never know.
Her heart was beating so fast that it was difficult to make a rational decision.
“Y … yes, I trust you.” The words were out before she had decided what to say.
“You don’t sound too sure.”
“I am overwhelmed by it all. I don’t know what to think. I can understand you checking me out—but I don’t know when … or what … you would have told me if Virginie hadn’t made the decision for you.”
“Yes. She did none of us a favour there. Maybe we should have told you when you found the photograph? We knew, really. Apart from the colour of your hair, you look so like our great-grandmother. We were just waiting for confirmation.”
He studied her face, his expression serious. Her breath caught in her throat. Was it genuine concern for her? Jean-Claude stroked his chin thoughtfully.
“Look, you have had quite a big shock, and no time to relax to think about it. Why
don’t you stop work for now and have some time to yourself? All of this …” He indicated the paperwork and the computer. “… will still be here tomorrow.”
He smiled down at her with open candour and Christi was tempted. He wasn’t pressurising her into making too hasty a decision.
“Thank you. I would appreciate that. I think I would like to walk by the shore. It’s so peaceful there.”
“Would you like me to take you there?”
“No. Thank you for offering. I’ll go on one of the bicycles.”
“Good, and I tell you what. Instead of our Friday night out with the ‘gang’, why don’t you come out to dine with me? It will be quieter for you and I might be able to help clarify your thoughts on any problems you have.”
Christi hesitated, recalling Virginie’s taunt, ‘Jean-Claude only wants you for your share of the estate!’ Was that true? … But, up to now, Jean-Claude hadn’t exactly acted as if he wanted her at all, did he? Did he have so little caring for her that he had wanted to first make sure she really was who she claimed to be, before making a move towards her? If that were so, then she needed to find out, and she wouldn’t be able to do that by refusing his invitation, would she? She nodded. “Yes, I would like that. Thank you.”
“Bien. Then I will see you later. Aim for eight o’clock. I will book a table.”
As soon as he had gone, Christi tidied up. She borrowed a bicycle and rode to the coast by the citadel, which gave the town its name. She sat for a while on the raised ground by its ruinous ramparts, overlooking the sea.
A breeze was blowing, rustling the leaves at the tops of the trees—but down at ground-level it was calm and warm. Sea-birds called and swooped after morsels of food. She watched two holidaymakers sauntering arm-in-arm, perfectly relaxed with each other. The girl looked up and laughed at something the young man had said. She wished she and Jean-Claude had such a relationship. How would she ever know his motives, now that Virginie had sowed the seeds of doubt?
She remounted her bicycle and rode along the edge of the beach, keeping just inside the line of the trees that bordered the shore, still tormenting herself. Would Jean-Claude marry her for her shares? Did passion for the land rule his heart? She wanted to hope not. She wanted him to love her.
When at length she returned to the farm, angry voices attracted her attention. It was Georges and Virginie. It didn’t take much intuition to guess what Georges was saying to his daughter.
As Georges turned away, Virginie caught sight of Christi and stormed over to her. “I suppose you’re happy now! Thanks for landing me in it!”
Christi flinched at her rudeness. “I did as you suggested, Virginie. I asked Jean-Claude what it was all about. Did you expect anything different?”
“You could have left me out of it!”
Christi sighed. “Don’t be silly, Virginie. How would I have explained my sudden knowledge of it all?”
Virginie tossed her head defiantly. “You are ruining our family,” she cried. “We’ll probably have to sell the farm. We’ll have no home, and it’s all your fault.”
She whirled around and rushed away, leaving Christi staring after her.
Was that what would happen? She didn’t want that. It wasn’t fair. The St. Clare family had lived here for a few hundred years, she had been told. They had developed the land and now were building a business. Even though they had known that there might be a chance of another claimant, they had faithfully ploughed their lives and money into the venture. Oh, dear. Her coming here was having far-reaching consequences she hadn’t imagined.
She was in a subdued mood when she accompanied Jean-Claude to his car in the early evening. The sun was still shining and, although it had lost most of its heat, the air was very pleasant.
Fishing boats were tied up at the quayside and a few men were still working on them, unloading filled crates and reloading empty ones. Christi lingered to watch them for a few minutes, listening to Jean-Claude’s explanations of what they were doing.
At length, he twined his fingers into Christi’s and suggested that they moved on to the restaurant. She was thrilled at his touch. Did he mean it?
It was a dream night-out—a candle-lit dinner in the quay-side restaurant; quiet music filtering through the sound-system; a gorgeous waiter giving ardent attention; excellent food and intoxicating local wine; and a handsome escort. What more could a girl want?
Just for it to be real, she answered herself.
There were canapés to start—small pieces of toast with a selection of toppings, one of which was ‘les escargots’, snails, ugh!
“Go on. You are part-French! Prove it!” Jean-Claude challenged with a laugh.
Christi glared at him.
“I will—if you will!”
Jean-Claude grinned. He selected one, waggled it in front of her and popped it into his mouth, making a show of enjoyment as he chewed it. His eyes danced with laughter. “See!”
Hmm! Christi still felt very dubious about it but she wasn’t going to back down! She picked one up and slowly placed it into her mouth. A few quick chews and she swallowed it, grimacing as she did so. There! If she didn’t think about what it was, it wasn’t that bad!
Jean-Claude laughed. He leaned forward and whispered, “Just between the two of us, they aren’t my favourite choice, either. And I promise, you will enjoy the rest of the meal.”
She did, too. The oysters for their starter were from their own stock and the main course of langoustines looked so delightful with delicately arranged vegetables that it looked almost too pretty to eat. A sorbet, followed by a light crème brulé and small cups of thick dark coffee completed the meal. Combined with the two glasses of wine that she had drunk, Christi felt deliciously well-fed and slightly light-headed.
At length, Jean-Claude suggested that it was time to leave. Christi agreed with a smile. “It has been a lovely evening,” she thanked him, grateful that they had kept away from the subject of her inheritance.
“The pleasure is mine,” he assured her. “Come on. Let’s go for a short stroll.”
They walked along the quay and up towards the jagged ruins of the old defensive citadel. The light was poorer now, but it was breathtaking all the same. Christi let out a sigh. “It is so beautiful.”
Jean-Claude was silent. When Christi looked towards him, he was staring out to sea, his face troubled. Their companionship throughout the evening had been so easygoing that it felt so natural to touch his arm. As he turned towards her, her hands rose to draw his head down and she lifted up her face to him to be kissed.
With a desperate movement, he pulled her close. His lips were soft, yet firm and she responded willingly to their pressure. Her lips parted slightly and she felt the tip of his tongue search into the warmth of her mouth. The tip of her tongue met his and ripples of excitement and desire began to run through her body.
As his mouth grew more demanding, she felt her senses reeling away. A quiet moan, deep in her throat, seemed to encourage Jean-Claude to pull her closer to him. Her body burned with fire wherever it made contact with his.
What did it matter who the shares belonged to? She knew that she loved this man so deeply, she would give her life to him, never mind her property! A molten fire threatened to erupt within her. Her head said, “Stop now, whilst you can.” But her heart refused to listen.
It was Jean-Claude who pulled back. His hands still cupped her face. His voice was husky. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to kiss you. Besides … it can never be.”
The words chilled her heart. “What do you mean?” she whispered.
“You and I … we can never marry … and I would not take you as a lover!”
Christi felt the blood drain from her face. “Why not?” she gulped. “Do … do you not think you could learn to love me?”
“Learn to love you, dear girl? Why, I …! But, no. That would be unfair.” He set his mouth grimly. “This was a mistake. I shouldn’t have brought you here. Come. I will take you back ho
me.”
Utterly mortified, Christi followed him as he strode back to his car. Perversely, the thought that he wouldn’t even take her as a lover, hurt more than the fact he felt he couldn’t marry her, even though she held traditional views on such things.
They travelled home in complete silence and as soon as Jean-Claude stopped the car and pulled on the brake, Christi leapt out and fled upstairs to the sanctity of her bedroom. Not wanting to risk coming face to face with anyone, she removed her make-up with lotion and quickly flung herself down on her bed. She didn’t dare let the sobs that threatened to erupt burst out, in case anyone heard. Silent tears streamed down her cheeks and into her pillow.
She would have to leave. She couldn’t face seeing Jean-Claude day after day, knowing that he didn’t love her and never would. It would be unbearable.
Neither could she face being responsible for the St. Clares having to sell their home and livelihood. She would get a lawyer and make arrangements to give them equally her share of the estate and then she would go, leaving them to continue as they had before her arrival—but, this time, with no threat of her coming to disrupt their lives.
When she awoke the next day, she steeled herself to face up to her decision. Not looking forward to speaking to Jean-Claude, she decided to write him a letter, so that if she felt she couldn’t go through with it, she could simply put it into his hands and leave him to read it privately. She had already made a fool of herself. Heavens, she had practically begged him to love her! Her cheeks burned at the mere thought.