by Chloé Duval
It made me think of you.…
Gabrielle’s heart had begun to race.
So he thought of her.…
Laying the letter over her heart, she had released a deep sigh. She thought of him too. Always. Whatever she did, he was always at the back of her mind. She often recalled his kiss, both brief and intense, and she wondered…did he love her as much she loved him?
The first letter had been followed by a second a few days later, then a third, and a fourth. They reached the castle every three or four days, like a ray of sunshine in Gabrielle’s day. They often only held a few words, a handful of lines, a dried flower, a different one each time, always beautiful, but she needed no more.
Then a week had gone by without messages. Not a word, no news. Gabrielle had grown worried. No matter how she tried to rationalize, repeating to herself that there could be dozens of reasons for his abrupt silence, that he was a busy man, with an important job in his family’s company, she could not help but imagine the worst. What if something had befallen him? Or what if he regretted the kiss, the letters, everything that had happened between the two of them?
The days had crawled by, each one similar to the one before, and Gabrielle’s anxiety had risen. To avoid losing her mind, she had plunged headfirst into her work. From dawn to dusk, she drowned her thoughts, questions, doubts and hopes in paper and ink.
Of course, with such dedication on her part, she and Maurice had soon finished the inventory. Now there only remained to add the date of the auction, and the document would be ready to be sent to the printing press. Already Maurice had begun speaking of returning to Angers and the bookstore, their customers, their trade and books. He paged through Étienne’s reports with increased interest, planning visits to their patrons, drawing up his schedule. Gabrielle’s zeal had turned against her. The end loomed nearer than ever, and, caught between their impending departure and Thomas’s silence, her spirits were at an all-time low.
She put on a brave face, though, enough to fool the inhabitants of the castle. But not her father. The previous evening, as they put away the last books, she had released a sigh that spoke volumes as to her true state of mind. Maurice had immediately taken advantage of the opening.
“What is it, my darling?”
“Nothing, Papa. Nothing at all.”
Maurice had raised his eyebrows. “Gabrielle, I know you better than anyone. I can see something is amiss. You haven’t been yourself in days.”
“It’s nothing, Papa, it will pass. I just…I don’t think I want to leave. The castle, the books… I will miss all of this.”
Her father had gazed at her for a long while before he had replied. “Is it the castle you will miss? Or its lord?”
Gabrielle had been so taken aback she was momentarily struck speechless. She should have known her father would see right through her.
“You love him, don’t you?” Maurice had insisted.
She could only nod, a sad, resolute twist to her lips.
“Does he return your affection?”
Gabrielle had sighed.
“I believe so, but I do not know for certain,” she’d admitted. “I hope he does.”
“I see.”
Maurice had fallen silent for a few seconds, as though thinking of what to say and how to say it.
“You do know he is leaving for America.”
She’d nodded again without replying. She knew it only too well. Just as she knew that it would be wiser for her not to dream too big, in order to avoid disappointment. After all, he would be sailing across the ocean in a few weeks…leaving her behind. She should not forget that.
For once in her life, she should keep her feet firmly on the ground. Rein in her overactive imagination before it could run away with her. For once, she should…keep herself from dreaming.
“Be careful, my darling,” her father had warned her. “I would hate to see you suffer.”
“Don’t worry about me, Papa. I can take care of myself. And of you.” She had winked at him.
Maurice had smiled and sighed in nostalgia.
“I know. Time flies by so quickly! It seems to me that it was only yesterday that I healed your scratches with magic kisses, and today you have become a beautiful young woman, clever and talented, making her old father very proud indeed.”
“Thank you, Papa.”
Silence had reigned again for a time, troubled only by the rustling paper between Maurice’s hands as he gathered their notes.
“What about you?” Gabrielle had asked, glancing sideways at him.
“What about me?”
“Will you not miss the lovely Hélène?”
“Why do you think that?” he deflected, trying to look casual and busying himself with his papers.
“Don’t pretend, Papa. You may know me better than anyone else, but the reverse is true also. I’ve seen the way you look at her. You’re fond of her, aren’t you?”
He hadn’t replied, but the dreamy look on his face and his involuntary smile had been all the answer she needed.
“I don’t know,” he’d finally said. “A little, maybe.”
“‘A little’? ‘Very much,’ I think. And she is fond of you too.”
“Do you think so?”
“Papa! How can you not see it?”
“I don’t know. I am not that young anymore.”
“Neither is she, and I do not think she would be interested in a younger man.”
Maurice had glanced at her hesitantly.
“Do you…do you like her?” he had asked, almost timidly.
That was when Gabrielle had abruptly understood what held her father back from publicly courting Hélène. He needed to know that his beloved daughter, the light of his life, approved his choice, that she did not regard his feelings for the housekeeper as treason toward her mother.
He wanted her consent.
Touched, Gabrielle had risen and put her arms around her father, standing on tiptoe to kiss his balding head.
“You have my blessing, Papa,” she had murmured.
She was sincere. She truly loved Hélène, and she knew she would make her father happy without ever trying to replace Héloïse in her husband’s or her daughter’s hearts. Yes, Gabrielle’s heart ached a little at the thought of her father rebuilding a life with another woman, but her mother was no longer here. After so many years, Maurice deserved to find happiness again. Héloïse would have wished that for him. And so did Gabrielle.
That was one of the reasons she had decided to throw this impromptu ball—a grand word for what she had planned. She wanted to give her father a chance to reach out to Hélène before it was too late.
One of them at least should have a chance at happiness.
* * * *
Still the music filled the vast ballroom, and Gabrielle spun and twirled, eyes closed, gliding across the marble floor between her imaginary partner’s arms, dreaming he was at her side, calming her doubts and quieting her fears, drying her tears.
And suddenly, a very real hand grasped hers and spun her around, pulling her toward a body whose scent was very familiar. A second, slightly possessive hand slid over her waist to the small of her back.
Gabrielle’s eyes flew open as her heart raced. She hardly dared to hope. With a gasp of surprise, she met a silvery gray gaze that she knew better than anything in the world.
Relief filled her entirely, and she threw her arms around Thomas’s neck, heart bursting with joy.
He was back.
At last.
Chapter 23
Alexandra
Chandeniers-sur-Vienne
Present day
With the exception of a couple of details, the castle of Ferté-Chandeniers in 1899 was exactly as I had pictured it from Gabrielle’s descriptions—sumptuous.
I examined th
e few yellowed photographs in the museum Éric had told me about with no little awe. There were only six—the rest had probably been lost or destroyed over the past century. They all featured a different room of the castle. From left to right, the visitors of the museum could admire a long gallery lined with mirrors, and a vast ballroom with a checkered marble floor and wonderfully sculpted columns. Then came a picture of a study filled with dark-colored furniture, decorated with armor from all over the world and scimitars hung over the imposing mantelpiece. A dining room adorned with painting and wall hangings, as well as a magnificent crystal chandelier was next. The following picture depicted an endless gallery of portraits featuring proud-looking men with a distinct family resemblance. I could only suppose they were the various barons de Saint-Armand.
And the last picture of the collection was of the library.
The library.
The one that had brought Gabrielle and her father to the castle. The one that had been witness to so many discussions, confessions, intimate moments. It was a room built lengthwise, pierced with high windows hung with heavy velvet curtains. The walls and columns were lined with bookshelves two stories high.
Gabrielle had compared it to Captain Nemo’s in her diary, but it came closer to the one in Beauty and the Beast.
I admired the picture. It was one thing to read about it in my ancestor’s diary, and quite another to see it “for real.” I was almost…moved.
Impulsively I took out my singed photo of Gabrielle, the one that had sparked all of my research, and compared it to the one on the wall. The shelves were identical. So was the large oak desk. Even the love seat was the same.
There was no doubt about it, her picture had been taken here. And if her journal could be believed, by the same photographer, Arnaud Colin.
I put the picture away and gazed back at the photographs on the wall, letting my mind wander, picturing Gabrielle and Thomas (in my mind’s eye, he was a mix of Gerard Butler, Channing Tatum and Captain Harlock) sitting in the library talking, or standing in the portrait gallery gazing at the only picture of Thomas’s mother. From there, my thoughts leapt toward the revelations Thomas had made to Gabrielle, and suddenly something occurred to me. I hadn’t thought of it until now, but if Thomas was not really the heir of Victor Leroy de Saint-Armand, then neither was I a descendant of the Saint-Armand family.
I lingered on the thought for a moment. I didn’t have any blue blood, despite what I had thought for a time. My ancestors were ordinary folk, with ordinary lives. Did that change anything for me?
Absolutely not. After all, before I’d come here, I’d had no idea that Thomas had owned a castle, or that he was—officially, at least—a noble. So yes, I’d been proud for a time of my elevated origins. Who wouldn’t be? It isn’t every day a random American finds herself descended from French aristocrats. But reading Thomas’s account of Victor, I could only rally to his opinion. I would much rather be nobody than be related to such a man.
I thought of what I had told Éric shortly after my arrival. That knowing where I came from was key to knowing who I was. I now realized how mistaken I had been. I was now far more aware of my roots, knowing what I did of Gabrielle and her life’s story; but contrary to my earlier belief, I was nowhere near knowing myself, and even less where I was bound for.
To tell the truth, I was more lost than ever, both in real life and inside my mind.
Yes, I had learned a lot about myself during this time, and I had changed, that much was for sure. The Alexandra of today was clearly not the same as the one who had found the photo, but it wasn’t uncovering my ancestors’ identity that had wrought that change. It was everything else. It was the fact that I had found a project to pour all my energy into. It was that I had done everything in my power to come here. It was my wish to save the castle at all costs.
This jaunt had upended my life and my every certainty. Or perhaps it wasn’t just the adventure that had turned me inside out, I thought as Éric’s azure gaze came to mind.
One person had changed everything. A single person full of sarcasm, with a dog and a too-rare smile and piercing eyes that seemed to see right through me. Someone who managed to make me feel like the person I had always wanted to be with a single glance, whose simple presence made me feel at peace with myself. Someone who seemed to turn my heart, my head and my every sense upside down. Someone who attracted me like a magnet, in new and primal ways.
God…
I sighed.
And here I was thinking of him again.
I hadn’t stopped in three days.
Since Angers, the restaurant and the balloon ride.
Since I had lost all control.
It had been an insidious, sly process. A feeling that had sneakily made itself at home in my chest. First a dream, a mindless drawing sketched out with a distracted hand. Then a feeling of loss in a corner of my heart, diffuse, vague but very real, growing each day. And the impression that my entire body was reaching for him, that my heart went crazy every time I caught a glimpse of him.
And see him I did. I couldn’t miss him, in fact. I had never seen him around as much as I had since I’d decided to distance myself. He was everywhere. I saw him in town when I went for a walk. I saw him at Marine’s inn repairing the tap or having coffee with her. At the cemetery where I had left flowers on Adaline’s grave, that I had found since I was there last. On the path along the river, running with Max.
He was in my thoughts, my dreams, my life, every day, all the time, without fail. And despite my efforts to cut our conversations short, pretend I had a thousand things to do to avoid his company, doing everything I could to kill this fledgling, forbidden attraction, I couldn’t stop my heart from beating faster when he was near, my knees from going weak or my body from being irresistibly attracted to him.
I was becoming crazy. Literally.
And I felt terribly guilty because of Spencer.
I loved Spencer, I truly did.
So even if a single glance from Spencer had never set me ablaze the way Éric’s did, that was no reason to betray him. He deserved better. I had promised him my heart and my hand, and I had to reassert control over myself. I had tried calling him, hoping that hearing his voice would rekindle my feelings for him and help me sort out my emotions. But he had never been available, and his answering machine was no longer enough.
I absolutely had to erase Éric from my mind, to stop thinking of the way he looked at me, of how I had felt in his arms, of the sound of his voice.…
Oh, hell!
I stifled an annoyed sigh and shook my head to clear it of these dangerous thoughts. Rummaging in my handbag, I pulled out my sketchbook, determined to busy my mind and hands. I opened it and flipped through it in search of a blank page, slowing as I stared at the last few days’ drawings. They were all of the same person.
Oh.
I hadn’t realized I’d drawn so many. I’d sketched everything of his, his face, his sharp blue eyes, his square jaw, his smile, his messy hair, his hands, his silhouette…his ass.
Oopsie…
My face turned bright red as I lingered over the last picture. I was ashamed of it, but I had drawn his muscled ass, clad in the ripped jeans he was wearing when I’d visited him last Saturday.
I turned the page over quickly, trying to limit the damage, and started copying the photos of the castle faster than light. I was so absorbed I only realized I was no longer alone when a voice rose next to me.
“You must be Alexandra Dawson.”
I looked up to meet a pair of hazel eyes on a smiling face. Both seemed strangely familiar, though I could not recall where and when I had seen their owner before.
I smiled.
“I am. How did you know?”
He shrugged.
“Chandeniers is a small town, and I know everyone.”
“And you are?”
>
“Bruno Lepic,” he introduced himself, offering his hand to shake. “I’m the mayor and also, as it happens, the curator for this little museum.”
“A pleasure.”
My memory suddenly spiked.
“You were coming out of Marine’s inn last Friday as I arrived, weren’t you? That’s where I saw you.”
“Yes, that was me.”
“You had a little boy with you.”
“My son.”
“I knew your face was familiar! Has anyone ever told you you look like Tom Hiddleston?”
“A couple of times,” he admitted, chuckling embarrassedly. “I see you’re admiring our castle,” he added, nodding toward the photographs.
I followed his gaze, returning to the pictures I was reproducing.
“I was. It really was magnificent. It’s a shame it’s in such a state. When you see the way it used to be…”
“Tell me about it,” he agreed. “We do all we can to maintain the grounds and ruins in the hope that we can restore it one day, but I don’t need to tell you it’s a thankless task. And every day that goes by, it breaks down a little more. One day the damage will be irreversible, and it will be too late.”
I shook my head. “That’s really sad. I’m trying to think of solutions, but I’ve had no luck so far. Not for lack of trying.”
“I was told you have some historical documents about the castle?”
Gossip travels fast around here.
“I do. Thanks to Mr. Lagnel’s research, I found a diary belonging to one of my ancestors that lived for a time in the castle, at the turn of the century. Around the time these pictures were taken. I could give you the name of the photographer if you’re interested.”
“Yes, I am.”
He explained that he’d been interested in the castle’s history for many years now, and that he’d helped Marc Lagnel with his research on several occasions.
“Anything you can tell me could turn out to be very useful for my own research,” he concluded.
“Then let’s strike a deal—your information against mine.”