The House (29 page)

“New howner,” the young driver said, pointing. “Fix hup!” She nodded. A new owner had apparently just bought it. “Rich man! Wine! Very good!” They smiled at each other. The new owner had made his fortune in wine.

Sarah got out and looked around, curious about the outbuildings and the property. There were orchards and vineyards, a huge stable, but no sign of horses. It must have been beautiful in Lilli's day, Sarah suspected. Lilli had a knack for winding up in amazing houses, Sarah thought with a smile, and finding men who spoiled her. She wondered as she looked at the château if Lilli had been happy here, if she missed her children, or Alexandre, or her home in San Francisco. This was so different and so far from home for her. And although she had none herself, Sarah couldn't imagine leaving one's children. Her heart went out to Mimi, as the thought crossed her mind.

None of the workers paid any attention to Sarah, and she wandered for nearly an hour, exploring the property. She was curious to look into the château itself, but she didn't dare, so she stood outside and looked up at it. There was a man standing at a window, looking down at her, and she wondered if they were going to ask her to leave. He appeared on the front steps a few minutes later and walked toward her with a quizzical look on his face. He was a tall man with silver hair, wearing a sweater, jeans, and workboots. But he didn't look like the other workmen. There was an air of authority about him, and as he approached, she saw that he was wearing a heavy, expensive gold watch on his wrist.

“Puis-je vous aider, mademoiselle?”
he asked politely. He had been watching her for a while. She looked harmless, but he wondered if she was a reporter. Tourists rarely turned up here. Because of him, the press sometimes did.

“I'm sorry.” She put her hands out with a shy smile.
“Je ne parle pas français.”
It was all she knew, to tell him she didn't speak French. “American,” she said, and he nodded.

“May I help you, mademoiselle?” he asked again, this time in English. He was curious about who she was. “Are you looking for someone?” His English was accented but flawless.

“No.” She shook her head. “I just wanted to see the château. It's beautiful. My great-grandmother lived here, a long time ago.”

“Was she French?” He looked intrigued. He was a very striking man in his early fifties. He looked rugged, handsome, and smart. He was examining Sarah in intricate detail.

“No. She was American, married to a marquis. The Marquis de Mailliard. Her name was Lilli.” She said it as though offering him credentials, and he smiled at her, as though to offer her safe passage.

“My great-grandmother lived here, too,” he said, still smiling at her. “And my grandmother, and my mother. They worked here. My grandmother probably worked for yours.”

“She was my great-grandmother actually,” Sarah reminded him, and he nodded. “I'm sorry to intrude. I just wanted to see where she lived.”

“Not many people come here,” he said, studying Sarah. She looked like a young girl, in her jeans and running shoes with a sweater over her shoulders, and her long hair in a braid. “The château has been boarded up for sixty years,” he told her. “I bought it last year. It was in terrible condition. It's been untouched since the war. We're doing an enormous amount of work. I just moved in.”

Sarah nodded and smiled. “I just bought her house in San Francisco. It's an enormous house, though not as big as this. It's been uninhabited since 1930, except for a few rooms in the attic. Her husband, my great-grandfather, sold it when she left, after the Crash of 1929. I'm restoring it, and I'm moving in when I go home.”

“Your great-grandmother must have liked big houses, mademoiselle, and the men who gave them to her.” She nodded. That was Lilli. “We have much in common, we are doing the same work, on both her houses, it appears.” Sarah laughed when he said it, and so did he. “I hope she appreciates it. Would you like to come inside and look around?” He was very hospitable. Sarah hesitated, and then nodded. She was dying to see it, and to tell Mimi about it afterward, and Jeff, and her mother. Now she could say she had.

“I'll only stay a few minutes. I don't want to be a nuisance. My grandmother said she came here years ago, but it was all boarded up, as you said. Why has no one lived here for so long?”

“There were no heirs. The last marquis had no children. Someone bought it after the war, but they died very soon after, and it became a big battle with their family. They fought over it for twenty years, and never lived here. In time, they just left it, the people who had wanted it were gone, the others didn't want to live here. It has been for sale for many years, but no one was foolish enough to buy it until me.” He laughed and greeted the workmen as they walked in.

The inside of the château was vast and somewhat gloomy. There were enormously high ceilings, and a grand staircase leading to the upper floors. There were long hallways where Sarah could imagine ancestral portraits. Now there were rugs rolled up against the walls. There were sconces made for candles, and as they walked farther in, the tall windows let in sunlight. She thought the house in San Francisco was prettier and brighter, but it was also infinitely smaller. There was a cavernous feel to this that Sarah somehow found sad. This was a whole different life. She wondered again if Lilli had been happy here in her life as a marquise. It was such a different life.

The new owner of the château walked her upstairs, and showed her the enormous ancestral bedrooms, and several libraries still filled with books. There was a drawing room with a fireplace that a tall man could stand up in, and her host proved it to her, and then as an afterthought, he held out his hand to her.

“I'm sorry to be so rude. I'm Pierre Pettit.” He shook her hand, and she introduced herself to him. “Not the Marquis de Mailliard,” he teased. “You are the great-granddaughter of a marquise, I am the great-grandson of a peasant, and the grandson of a cook. My mother was a maid here as a young girl. I bought the place because my family worked here as long as there were Mailliards here. Originally, they were serfs. I thought it was time to put a Pettit in the château, since there are no Mailliards left. Peasants are of stronger stock, and eventually they rule the world.” He laughed as he said it. “I am very happy to know you, Sarah Anderson. Would you like a glass of wine?” She hesitated, and he led her into an enormous kitchen that was still a relic of the past. They hadn't renovated it yet. The stove was at least eighty years old, and looked a lot like the one she had just thrown out.

Sarah didn't know it, but Pierre Pettit was one of the most important wine merchants in France. He exported wine all over the world, particularly to the States, but to other countries as well. He took a bottle off a rack, and she was stunned when she saw the name and vintage. He was opening a bottle of Château Margaux 1968.

“That's the year I was born,” she said with a shy smile, accepting a glass of it from him.

“It should breathe for a little while,” he apologized, and then took her to see the rest of the château. They were back in the ancient kitchen half an hour later. It was a once beautiful but now dreary place. He had explained his plans for it to her as they walked around, and asked her questions about her house. She had told him what she was doing, how much she loved it, and she told him Lilli's story, which he found intriguing, too. “It's amazing that she left her children, don't you think? I don't have any myself, but I can't imagine a woman doing that. Does your grandmother hate her for it?”

“She never talks about her, but I don't think so. She doesn't know much about her, she was six when her mother left.”

“She must have broken her husband's heart,” he said sympathetically.

“I think she did. He died about fifteen years later, but after losing his fortune and his wife, my grandmother says he more or less became a recluse, and eventually died of grief.”

Pierre Pettit shook his head as he sipped his wine. “Women do things like that,” he said, looking at Sarah. “They can be heartless creatures. That's why I never married. And it's so much more entertaining to have one's heart broken by many than by just one.” He laughed after he said it, and so did Sarah. He didn't look like he had a broken heart to her, but rather as though he had done the heart breaking, and enjoyed every minute of it. He was a very attractive man, with a lot of charisma, and was obviously very clever in business. He was spending a fortune restoring the château.

“You know, there is someone I think you would like to meet,” he said, looking pensive. “My grandmother. She was the cook when your great-grandmother lived here. She's ninety-three years old and very frail. She can't walk now, but she remembers everything in minute detail. Her memory is still excellent. Would you like to meet her?”

“Yes, I would.” Sarah's eyes lit up at the prospect.

“She lives about half an hour from here. Shall I take you?” he asked, setting down his glass, and smiling at her.

“Would it be too much trouble? I have a driver, if you give us directions.”

“Don't be silly. I have nothing to do here. I live in Paris. I just came down for a few days to check on their progress.” According to what he had told Sarah, completion was still two years away. He'd been working on it for a year. “I'll drive you there myself. I enjoy seeing her, and she always scolds me that I don't come often enough. You've given me a good excuse. She doesn't speak English. I will translate for you.”

He strode purposefully across the hallway, and down the main stairs, with Sarah following him, excited to have met him and to have the opportunity to meet a woman who had known Lilli. She hoped his grandmother's memory was as good as he said. She wanted to be able to go home to Mimi with something about her mother. It was like a gift she wanted to bring back, and she was grateful to Pierre Pettit for his help.

He left her in the courtyard and told her he'd be back in a moment. He reappeared five minutes later, driving a black Rolls convertible. It was a very handsome car. Pierre Pettit treated himself very well. His ancestors may have been serfs, but he was obviously a very rich man.

Sarah got in beside him, after explaining to her driver that the gentleman would take her back to the hotel. She tried to pay him, but he said it would be on her bill. And a moment later, she and Pierre sped off. He chatted easily with her on the way, asking her about her work and life in San Francisco. She said she was an attorney, and he asked if she was married. She said she wasn't.

“You're still young,” he said, smiling. “You will marry one day.” He said it almost smugly, and she rose to the challenge instantly. She liked him, and he'd been very nice to her. She was enjoying the ride through the countryside in his Rolls. It would have been hard not to. It was a perfect April day, and she was in France, driving around in a Rolls-Royce with a very handsome man who owned a large château. It was all very surreal.

“Why do you think I'll marry? You didn't. Why should I?”

“Ahhh… you're one of those, are you? An independent woman. Why do you not wish to marry?” He enjoyed sparring with her, and he obviously liked women. And she suspected they loved him.

“I don't need to be married. I'm happy the way I am,” Sarah said easily.

“No, you're not,” he said smugly. “An hour ago you were alone in an old Renault with no one to talk to. You are traveling in France alone. Now you're in a Rolls-Royce, talking to me, and laughing, and seeing pretty things. Isn't it better like this?”

“I didn't marry you,” Sarah said pointedly. “We're much better off like this. Both of us. Don't you think?”

He laughed at her answer. He liked it. And he liked her. She was bright, and quick. “Perhaps you're right. And children? You don't want children?” She shook her head, looking at him. “Why not? Most people seem to enjoy their children a lot.”

“I work hard. I don't think I'd be a good mother. I don't have enough time to give them.” It was a comfortable excuse.

“Perhaps you work too hard,” he suggested. He sounded like Stanley for a minute. But this man was very different. He was all about pleasure and life and fun, not just work. He had learned secrets to life that Stanley never had.

“Perhaps,” she answered. “Do you? You must have worked very hard to have all this.” He hadn't inherited it, he had worked for it, and he laughed as he answered.

“Sometimes I work too hard. And sometimes I play too hard. I like doing both, at different times. You have to work hard in order to play hard. I have a wonderful boat I keep in the South. A yacht. Do you like boats?”

“I haven't been on one in a long time.” Not since college, when she had sailed with friends in Martha's Vineyard, but she was sure the boats she'd been on were nothing like his.

They reached his grandmother's house a few minutes later. It was a small, neat cottage with a fence around it, beautifully maintained, with rosebushes in front, and a tiny vineyard behind it. He got out and opened the car door politely for Sarah. It was a remarkable experience being with him. She felt as though she were in a movie. The movie was her life for the moment. And she was starring in it. She was a long way from San Francisco.

He rang the bell and opened the door, and a woman hurried toward them, wiping her hands on her apron. She spoke to Pierre, and pointed to someone in the back garden. She was his grandmother's caretaker. Pierre led Sarah out through the back of the small house. It was filled with lovely antiques, and had bright pretty curtains at the windows. The house was small, but he took care of his grandmother well. She was sitting in a wheelchair in the garden looking out at the vineyards and the countryside beyond. She had lived in this part of the world all her life, and he had bought her the cottage many years before. To her, it was a palace. Her eyes lit up when she saw him.

“Bonjour, Pierre!”
she exclaimed with delight, and then smiled at Sarah. She looked pleased to see her, she enjoyed visitors and especially her grandson. He was the joy of her life, and she was very proud of him. It showed.

“Bonjour, Mamie.”
He introduced Sarah to her, and explained why she had come. His grandmother responded with a look of interest, many exclamations, and she nodded her head several times at Sarah, as though to welcome her. As she and Pierre chatted animatedly, the caretaker reappeared with cookies and lemonade, which she poured for them, and set the pitcher down on a nearby table, in case they wanted more. The cookies were delicious.