Beyond the Green Hills (25 page)

‘No, none at all, but the road was wet over large stretches. There was water actually lying by the roadside on the far side of Pescadoire.’

‘It rained here about seven, but only for a few minutes,’ said Madame Moreau. ‘Did you not have that up at Chirey?’ she went on, addressing her husband for the first time.

All conversation ceased as Gabrielle and the young man removed the soup and served fillets of trout, beautifully arranged on translucent china plates, rimmed with gold and decorated with the family crest.

‘Clare, you must forgive this boring conversation,’ said Madame, with an indulgent smile, when they had gone. ‘You have discovered that it is not only the English who talk about the weather.’

‘I have certainly discovered that rainfall in early September is a serious matter with the vendage so close at hand. I wondered if it might have begun already, at least on the south-facing slopes.’

‘You are quite right, Clare,’ said Monsieur Moreau, looking somewhat taken aback. ‘We would have begun by now had it
not been so very dry.’

‘So you do need the rain to swell the grapes, but you do not need thunderstorms to risk damaging them,’ she said, smiling at him. ‘It must be a very difficult time.’

‘Yes, it is,’ he said firmly. ‘With our table wines, there is no difficulty. We have a range of vineyards over a wide area. We can compensate and balance by careful blending. There is some satisfaction in producing a quality wine in very large quantities.
But at Chirey itself, we’ve always had ambition.’

‘Aiming for a great year?’

‘Precisely.’

‘I should have told you of Clare’s interest in winegrowing, father,’ Christian broke in quickly.

‘Indeed,’ said the older man. ‘But surely there is no winegrowing in Ireland,’ he said, smiling for the first time.

‘Sadly, no. At least not since the fifth century, when the climate was warmer than it is now,’ she replied. ‘No, my knowledge is all of the French industry. It began one morning near Avignon when I discovered the benefits of the large pieces of stone lying around looking untidy in a very well-ordered vineyard,’ she said, laughing. ‘From then on I listened as well as translated. What fascinates me is what affects the grapes, the small variations of soil, of site, even before you introduce the variables of rainfall and sunshine, and hazards like frost and thunderstorms. It surprises me great years can occur at all with so much to prevent them.’

‘We have had one or two since the war,’ said Charles Moreau, looking at her steadily. ‘But not here at Chirey. You are right. Success can be almost within one’s grasp and something goes wrong. It can even be as small a thing as a key workman being ill when the presses are being set up. You must come up to Chirey tomorrow and I will show you round.’

‘I should enjoy that very much,’ said Clare honestly, as Madame raised a warning hand to indicate that the servants had once again come into the room.

The meal was lengthy and the food very good. All three Moreaus now felt free to talk about the wine-making that was their consuming passion, about the history of their vineyards and the successes they had had over the years.

By the later stages of the meal, Clare felt steady enough to drink her wine. Served from unlabelled bottles, it had to be from one of their many vineyards. She hoped no one would ask her opinion on its quality for when she was as tired as she now felt, wine tasted merely pleasant or unpleasant. All subtlety was lost.

‘Come, Clare, let us leave these gentlemen to their speculations. You will have heard more than enough of the family’s preoccupations for one evening,’ said Madame Moreau. ‘Gabrielle will bring more coffee to the sitting room when you join us,’ she said, with a meaningful look at her husband.

The sitting room was on the opposite side of the baronial hall. Its heavy velvet curtains were already drawn, a small fire of logs glowed on the hearth of an enormous marble fireplace. A tray of coffee sat waiting on a low table.

‘Do come and sit beside me, my dear. This room echoes so when it is not full of people,’ she said, waving Clare to a white and
gold armchair close to the long settee where she had seated herself.

‘I’m afraid you’ve heard a great deal about the Moreau family tonight. I’m much more interested in hearing about your family. Christian is thoughtful in so many ways, but he has told us so little about you. Terribly selfish, keeping you all to himself. Now
do tell me, where did you learn to speak
French so beautifully?’

Clare smiled to herself and sipped her coffee. She was about to be interviewed for the position of lady wife to the heir apparent to the Moreau estates, the extent of which had taken her by surprise even after Robert’s wry comments. She’d reckoned this was going to happen sooner or later, but she’d hoped it might be later.

‘I used to listen to the radio when I was a little girl,’ she said, deciding on the direct approach.

‘But surely you studied in Paris?’

‘Only since I’ve been working there. Before that, I looked after two children at Deauville, au pair to the St Clair family during my long vacations in order to learn colloquial French.’

‘How charming. Deauville is delightful, isn’t it?’

Clare agreed that Deauville was delightful and remarkably unchanged since the turn of the century, according to one of
her friends. She thought Madame seemed distinctly taken aback at the mention of looking after children, but she smiled indulgently at the mention of Deauville, and nodded at the mention of the St Clairs.

‘You must forgive me making a personal comment, but I have been admiring that pretty little brooch of yours. Such a delightful choice with that dress. It looks as if it might have a story. Am I right?’ she asked archly.

‘Yes, you’re quite
right, but the story is still a mystery. It was given to me by an old lady to whom I spoke French. I’m almost sure it came from an
admirer while she was in Paris or Deauville with her chaperone, around the turn of the century, but she didn’t marry him.’

‘What an interesting story, Clare,’ she said, enthusiastically. ‘France seems to have been so much a part of your life, even when you lived in Ireland,’ she added, with a little laugh. ‘I find it hard not to think of you as a Frenchwoman, except for your hair. Your beautiful, dark, Irish curls,’ she said with a sweet smile. ‘So romantic. I’m sure Christian … Ah, here they are,’ she said, breaking off, as Charles and Christian came into the room. ‘Christian, darling, do ring for more coffee. She should have brought it by now.’

Clare ran a hand through her beautiful, dark, Irish curls and shivered, though the room was warm. She was back in Greece with Christian, lying in a shaded hotel room during siesta.

‘I love your hair,’ he had said, running his fingers through it. ‘So fine, and so dark. I wish there were more of it for me to stroke,’ he said, kissing her. ‘Why don’t you let it grow for me? Pin it up by day and let it down at night when we make love.’

She’d laughed and told him what hard work long hair was, how poor Louise spent hours in front of her mirror. At the time, she’d thought nothing of it. But Christian had come back to the subject of her hair, many, many times, coaxing her and teasing her with great persistence.

Now she knew why. With all the charm and skill in conversation his mother clearly prided herself upon, she had indicated unambiguously that French women of her class and standing simply did not
wear their hair in dark curls.

Despite her unease about Christian and the way he’d behaved since she arrived, Saturday turned out to be a very enjoyable day. After breakfast, Charles Moreau drove her to Chirey and gave her his promised tour of the wine presses and cellars of the château. When he’d answered all her questions, he handed her over to Christian, who drove her to the Gorges d’Anglais for a picnic lunch, followed by a lengthy tour of the Lot valley and the countryside around Cahors.

The day was hot, but freshened by a slight breeze, the roads almost empty of cars. Christian himself was relaxed and easy, once again the lively companion she was familiar with, as enthusiastic about mediaeval architecture and the unspoilt villages of his home territory as he’d been about the sights of Paris itself. He spread the landscape before her, driving from one viewpoint to another, stopping wherever there was a particularly interesting feature to be pointed out to her.

‘I will take you to a nightclub where we can dance till dawn. You will like that.’

The words came into her mind as they drove back through Puy l’Eveque. Today, she’d been so aware that Christian always
told
her what she would like. Until now, she’d simply not noticed, because she’d so enjoyed his company and so much of what they’d done together. Truly, she could say he’d swept her off her feet from that very first evening.

Her friends were delighted to see her so happy.
Robert had told her that being in love made her eyes shine. Yes, she
had
been happy. She
did
love him. So why did the thought of marrying him fill her with such misgiving?

‘Tomorrow, I will show you my favourite view. You will like it,’ he said, as they drove up the gravelled drive, past the green lawn where the sprinklers were hard at work.

‘I hope you aren’t tired,’ he said, a hint of unease in his voice. ‘My mother has invited some friends to meet you. Even I shall have to dress this evening,’ he said, as he opened her door, kissed her cheek, walked with her to the bottom of the stairs. ‘Eight o’clock on the terrace. Don’t be late,’ he went on, with a winning smile.

‘Of course I won’t be late,’ she replied, turning away quickly and running lightly upstairs.

She shut the heavy door firmly behind her, threw her handbag on the smooth, pink silk bedspread that covered the enormous four-poster and dropped into a settee.

‘It’s your own fault, Clare. You weren’t paying attention,’ she said aloud. ‘The signs were all there, you just didn’t choose to see them.’

She went to the window and stood looking down the length of the back garden. For some unknown reason, she thought of Mrs McGregor’s garden in Belfast, that tiny strip of green beyond the back yard and the dustbins. She could see herself standing by the window in the gloomy kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil. Waiting for life to begin.

The Moreau garden ran a long way from the
house, till it ended abruptly below a stand of tall poplars that shut out the sky. The sprinklers were hard at work here as well, hazy rainbows shimmering wherever the sunlight fell at the appropriate angle on the rain of their arcing jets.

She stared at the rainbows, entranced by their delicate colour. Suddenly, the water jets sagged, the rainbows disappeared. A gardener appeared, disconnected the green hoses, collected up the metal fountains, walked back and forth, his arms full of equipment, then reappeared with a broom made of long twigs. He brushed the grass gently where the sprinklers had stood. By the time drinks were served on the terrace, the grass would be dry and perfect, unmarked by any sign of human activity.

‘You have enjoyed the evening?’ Christian said, slipping into the empty seat beside her, as the first guests rose to say their goodbyes.

‘Yes, I have. I particularly like Monsieur Le Maire. I’ve learnt so much about the surrounding villages. Quite a few things you didn’t tell me,’ she added steadily.

‘Oh, I shall tell you much more, when we have more time,’ he said, looking at her meaningfully. ‘Mother has suggested you come to church with us in the morning,’ he went on, looking pleased with himself. ‘I’m sure you won’t mind. It is rather boring, but it pleases them.’

Clare cast her eye round the sitting room and saw there were people well within hearing distance.

‘I would come, of course. But you didn’t tell me
we would be going to church,’ she said, smoothing the sharpness from her voice. ‘I haven’t a hat, or even a suitable scarf.’

‘I’m sure we can solve that problem,’ he said, getting to his feet immediately.

She watched him cross the room, wait his moment, then bend down and whisper in his mother’s ear. She nodded and smiled. Aware that both mother and son were looking towards her, Clare glanced away, and studied the detail of a large, allegorical painting close to her.

It was being arranged. Suitable headgear would be provided. Hardly a felt hat with an upturned brim and bead elastic under the chin like she’d worn for Sunday School in
Armagh, before her parents died, or a straw hat, like any of those Auntie Polly had sent from Toronto. Certainly not a beret like she and Jessie had worn as schoolgirls. Berets, she was sure, were only worn by work people.

The small church in the nearby village was much older than the church on The Mall in Armagh. Built when the French Protestants had been given protection by the Crown, it was remote enough to have survived the destruction that followed the change of heart of 1685. A solid stone building, a strong mediaeval influence in its pillars and lancet windows, it had a familiar bareness, wooden box pews and a musty smell.

They arrived just before the service began, walked two by two down the narrow central aisle to the family pew just below the pulpit. Every eye was
turned towards them, a fact that Madame Moreau appeared to relish and Charles Moreau studiously ignored.

Clare found herself sitting rigid, oppressed by the setting, the smell of damp and the familiar torrent of words. Reading, prayers, sermon, all seemed to merge into one homogenous deluge. It didn’t help that the
theme for the day was Original Sin.

Surely, she thought, if you tell people how sinful they are, you only reinforce their weakness and if you
are
born sinful what can you do about it? She’d always thought it a counsel of despair. When Granda Hamilton had taken her to the Quaker meeting, at least they’d had peace and quiet. And when the people rose to speak they didn’t say the same things over and over again.

‘Do you take this man to be your wedded husband?’

If she were to marry Christian, they’d stand over there, only feet away from the family pew. The front rows would be filled with the great and the good, the back with the workers from the nearest vineyards, probably a large part of this present congregation. She would wear a simple but stunning creation from Paris. Gerard St Clair would give her away. Louise would be her bridesmaid.