The Lavender Garden (22 page)

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Back in the drawing room half an hour later, Emilie saw a car steering carefully down the drive and the woman she’d met in the kitchen stomping through the snow and stowing a suitcase in the trunk. The car performed a skidding eight-point turn and made its way precariously away from the house.

Emilie watched as the snow began to fall once more, filling the sky with a whirling dervish of thick flakes that built an even more impenetrable wall between her and the outside world. Her heart began to thud against her chest. The mad brother was now no more than a few feet away from her, and they were completely alone. What if the snow became so bad it was impossible for Sebastian to return? At three o’clock, the January sky was already darkening in preparation for dusk and then dark. . . . Emilie stood up, her raised heartbeat signaling its eagerness to move to all-out panic. She’d suffered many attacks in her late teens and, having conquered them, lived in permanent terror that one might strike again.

“Keep calm and breathe,” she told herself as she felt the unremitting waves rushing through her. She began to pant, knowing she was now out of control and it was too late for rational thinking.

Sinking onto a sofa, Emilie put her head between her legs. Her physical strength left her and garish colors assaulted her closed lids as she struggled for breath.

“Please,
mon Dieu
,
mon Dieu
 . . .”

“Can I help you?”

A deep male voice came from somewhere in the distance as her head spun and her hands and feet tingled wildly. She couldn’t look up—couldn’t waste the breath she needed to pant.

“I said, can I help you?”

The voice was nearer now, was almost next to her. Perhaps she could feel hot breath on her cheek, a hand grasping her own . . . she couldn’t answer.

“I’m presuming you’re Seb’s new French wife. Do you understand English?”

Emilie managed a nod.

“Okay. I’ll go and see if I can find you a bag to breathe into. Just carry on hyperventilating while I’m gone. At least it will mean you’re still alive.”

Emilie had no idea in her detached existence how long it was before a paper bag was placed over her mouth and nose and she was told by the same, calm voice to breathe in and out slowly. Whether this was part of a dream—or a nightmare—she didn’t care. The person seemed to know the right thing to do, and like a helpless child, she followed his instructions.

“Good girl, you’re doing really well. Just keep breathing in and out of the bag. There, it’s calming. It will stop soon, I promise.”

Eventually, the pounding of her heart began to return to a beat resembling normal, her hands and feet began to rejoin her body, and Emilie took the bag away from her mouth. Flopping back exhausted onto the sofa, eyes closed, she felt the relief of her body calming down.

Only after a few minutes of relishing that she had survived and it was over did her brain begin to question who her knight in shining armor could be. She forced one tired and twitching eyelid open and saw a man who was Sebastian, but not Sebastian. It was a Sebastian in Technicolor—eyes a more mesmeric brown, with flecks of
amber running through the irises, hair glinting with red-gold lights, a face containing a perfect nose, fuller, pinker lips, and cheekbones that stood out razor-sharp under the softness of his unblemished skin.

“I’m Alex. Pleased to meet you.”

Emilie immediately closed the eyelid she’d opened and sat very still, not confident that the sight of the mad brother sitting within centimeters of her wouldn’t set off a further panic attack.

A warm hand patted hers. “I understand you don’t want to waste your breath speaking to me at present. I know what you’ve just been through. I’ve had panic attacks countless times. What you need now is a good stiff drink.”

This man who spoke so gently to her did not match up to the image Sebastian had painted. The hand on hers was reassuring, not terrifying. She dared to open her eyes and study him properly.

“Hello.” He smiled and she saw his eyes were full of amusement.

“Hello,” she managed, her voice still recovering its strength.

“Shall we speak English or
preferez-vous Français
?”

“Français, merci.”
Her brain was still too fuzzy to start thinking in another language.

“D’accord.”

Emilie watched him studying her.

“You’re very pretty,” he commented in French. “My brother said you were. Far prettier with those big blue eyes of yours open though, it has to be said,” he continued in immaculate French. “Right, your final medicine.” Out of the side of his wheelchair, Alex produced a bottle of whiskey. “The harridan who just left didn’t think I knew where she kept her secret tipple. But I managed to rescue it from her suitcase when she was with you complaining about what a complete nightmare I was. Sebastian didn’t believe me, but she was a total drunkard—she knocked back a good bottle of this a day. Now”—Alex wheeled himself expertly over to a cabinet and opened it, displaying a dusty array of Edwardian glassware—“we’ll both have one, shall we? Never a good idea to drink alone.” He poured two healthy measures of whiskey into the glasses and, wedging them expertly between his thighs, steered his wheelchair back toward her.

“I really don’t think I should,” Emilie said as Alex handed her one of the glasses.

“Why not? You can say with complete honesty this is for medicinal purposes only. Come on, seriously, it’s my turn to play nurse for a change, and this will help, promise.”

“No, thank you.” Emilie shook her head, not wishing to encourage him.

“Well, I won’t if you won’t.” Alex placed his glass firmly on the table. “Right, it’s bloody freezing in here, and if I can’t warm you up with a dram of whiskey, at least I can get the fire going again.”

Emilie sat and watched as Alex stoked the fire, too mesmerized to help.

“So where’s Seb?” he asked. “Gone out to beg poor old Mrs. Erskine to come back for the umpteenth time?”

“Yes, he said he would visit her while he was in the village buying some food.”

“Doubt he’s going to find much in the shop. All the locals will have seen the snow coming and gone into siege mode, clearing the shelves. It’s their most profitable moment of the year, when even the ancient tins of butter beans get snapped up. We’ll be lucky if they’ve even got those this evening. This has really set in,” Alex added, looking at the still-falling snow. “I rather like it, actually. Do you?”

As the whole weight of his penetrating gaze fell upon her, Emilie tried to remember what Sebastian had said about Alex’s ability to charm and convince. “Not really, I haven’t been warm since I arrived.”

“I’d doubt you have. The oil tank’s been empty for weeks now. Luckily, I have a secret stash of electric heaters, which at least keep my blood circulating. Don’t tell Seb, mind you, they’d be confiscated forthwith. Anyway, apart from the fact that we live in an English version of an igloo, I do like the snow. But then”—Alex sighed—“I like anything that breaks the boring monotony of the norm. And this weather is dramatic.”

“Yes,” agreed Emilie feebly.

Alex eyed the two whiskeys sitting on the table. “I think we should both drink this down. It seems a shame to waste it.”

“Really, no.” Emilie shook her head.

“Oh”—Alex raised his eyebrows—“I suppose Seb’s mentioned my rampant alcoholism and drug dependency?”

“He mentioned it, yes,” she said honestly.

“It’s true that I had a drug problem in days of yore,” Alex agreed companionably, “but I’ve never been an alcoholic. However, that doesn’t mean to say I don’t like a drink. We all do. I mean, you are French; you must have been drinking wine from the cradle, surely?”

“Of course.”

“So, how come you married my brother?”

“I . . .” Emilie was nonplussed by his directness. “I fell in love. It
is
the reason most people marry.”

“That’s as good a reason as any.” Alex nodded. “Well, I suppose I should say welcome to the family.”

The door to the drawing room opened. Sebastian stood there, his hair dripping with melting snow.

Guiltily, Emilie jumped up to greet him. “Hello, I’m so glad you’re back safely.”

“We didn’t hear you come up the drive,” put in Alex.

Sebastian was scowling, his eyes pinned to the two glasses of whiskey on the table.

“No, that’s because I had to leave the car at the end of it and walk through the snowdrifts with two bloody great bags of shopping. Have you been drinking?” he accused Alex.

“No. Although I admit I did try and persuade your new wife that she should knock one back as she wasn’t feeling very well,” Alex said equably.

“That just about sums you up,” said Sebastian, raising his eyebrows. He turned to Emilie, looking angry, not sympathetic. “Are you feeling all right?”

“I am fine now, thank you,” she replied nervously.

“I told you, Alex, that you were not to enter this house,” Sebastian said, turning on his brother.

“Well, as I was explaining to Emilie here, my carer has walked out on me, so I was just coming to tell you.”

“What! Oh, for God’s sake, what have you done this time?” Sebastian expostulated.

“I threw one of her disgusting cups of coffee at a wall. She was so drunk that she’d put salt instead of sugar in it. And she thought I was aiming for her.”

“Well, you’ve really done it now, Alex.” Sebastian was furious. “Mrs. Erskine has finally refused point-blank to come back, and I don’t blame her. And as for that poor woman who’s just left . . . I’m not surprised she’s gone too, the way you behave. Where the hell I’m meant to find an immediate replacement to come out in this weather, I really don’t know.”

“Look, Seb, I’m not completely incapable, as you know,” Alex shot back. “I can feed, clothe, wash myself, and wipe my own backside. I can even manage to haul myself in and out of bed at night. I’ve told you countless times I don’t need a full-time carer any longer, just someone to help me domestically.”

“You know that’s not true,” countered Sebastian angrily.

“Oh, yes, it is. Honestly.” Alex raised his eyebrows and turned to Emilie. “He treats me like a two-year-old. I mean”—Alex indicated the wheelchair—“I’m hardly going to get into much trouble in this, now am I?”

Emilie felt like an onlooker at a boxing match. She remained silent, unable to add anything to the conversation.

“You seem to do a bloody good job of it, actually,” countered Sebastian. “Anyway, now you’ll be put to the test, certainly in the next few days. Because there’s no way I’m going to be able to find someone.”

“That’s fine by me, really. I’ve told you it’s a waste of money, but you won’t listen. Well, I’ll leave you two to it.” He maneuvered his wheelchair to the door and grasped it. Pausing, he turned back and smiled at Emilie. “A pleasure to meet you, and welcome to Blackmoor Hall.”

The door closed behind him and silence descended on the drawing room. Sebastian reached for one of the glasses of whiskey, picked it up, and drained it in one gulp. “I’m so sorry about that, Emilie. You must be wondering what on earth I’ve brought you to. He’s a nightmare and I’m simply at the end of my tether.”

“Of course you are. And please don’t worry about me. I’ll do what I can to help.”

“That’s kind of you, but just now I’m all out of ideas. Do you want this?” He indicated the other whiskey glass.

“No, thank you.”

Sebastian picked up the second glass and drained that too. “I think
you and I should have a very honest talk, Emilie, because I’m really feeling as if I’ve married you under false pretenses. Everything here is a bloody mess. And if you decide you want to call it quits and ship out, I certainly wouldn’t hold it against you.” He sank down onto the sofa next to her and took her hand in his. “I’m so sorry, I really am.”

“Sebastian, I’m beginning to understand that your life is not as straightforward as I’d believed, but I married you because I loved you. I’m your wife now and I share your problems, whatever they are.”

“You haven’t heard the half of it,” groaned Sebastian.

“Then tell me.”

“Okay, here goes.” He sighed. “On top of the Alex situation, the bald truth is that I’m stony broke. There wasn’t a lot left in the pot when Granny died, but I’d hoped that as my business grew, I could at least afford to start to renovate this house. And then, of course, Alex had the accident two years ago, and the cost of caring for him has simply eaten its way through my income. I’ve taken out a mortgage against the house, of course, but I can barely make the repayments on it, and certainly the bank won’t give me any more. I’m now at the point where the reason the oil tank hasn’t been filled so far this winter is that I don’t have the money to pay for it. So it looks as though I’m going to have to sell Blackmoor Hall. That is, if Alex will agree. Half of it’s his, after all, and he’s adamant he doesn’t want to leave.”

“Sebastian,” Emilie finally ventured, “I understand how painful it can be to sell off the family home. But it sounds to me as if you must, that you have no other choice. And neither does Alex.”

“You’re right, of course. But—and this is the point—just before I met you, my business was really starting to flourish. I made some good decisions, and things were very much going in the right direction. Anyway, I suppose all I’ve said is irrelevant. I’m talking about Point B, but I’m currently at Point A. And how I get from one to the other is the big question. And however much I want to”—he shrugged—“I just don’t think I can hold on to this house. What I do with our current next-door neighbor is another story. He’ll fight tooth and nail to stay here, and we jointly own the house. As you can imagine, the alternative accommodation for someone in Alex’s situation is limited.”

“But you wouldn’t abandon him, would you?”

“Of course not, Emilie!” Sebastian’s temper flared suddenly. “What
do you take me for? As you’ve already seen, I take my responsibilities very seriously.”

“Yes,” Emilie replied quickly. “I didn’t mean that. I was simply wondering where he would go if you did sell.”

“Well, I reckon the proceeds he’d gain from this house would pay for many years of quality care at a suitable establishment. However much he denies it, Alex needs full-time supervision and—”