The Lavender Garden (28 page)

“Sorry, things are just very difficult at present, that’s all.”

“You mean, businesswise?”

“Yes. I’ve just discovered the bloody bank hasn’t been putting through my direct debits. And the chap I’d sourced in France who thought he might be able to lay his hands on a Picasso turned out to be a real chancer. He said he’d already had bids over seven million for it, and all I got was a couple of blurred photographs as proof. So, no, I’m not in the best of moods,” Sebastian grunted.

“You know I’ll help financially if you need me to. You just have to ask.” Emilie massaged his shoulders as he lay in bed, his back turned to her.

“Thanks, Emilie, but you understand how I feel about running to you every time I have a crisis.”

“Please, Sebastian, you helped me so much when I needed you. If you love someone, surely it doesn’t matter that you turn to them?”

“Maybe it’s different for girls.” Sebastian shrugged. “Anyway, I need to get some sleep.”

•  •  •

For the rest of the weekend, Sebastian was shut away in the study on his computer. Over supper in the evening, he barely talked to her, and there was no reaching for her in bed at night. On Sunday evening, she walked upstairs to the bedroom to find him packing his suitcase.

“Are you leaving?” she asked.

“Yes. I’m going to London tomorrow.”

“Then I’ll come with you.”

“I’d doubt the hovel I stay in would meet with your approval.”

“I don’t care about that,” she stated firmly.

“Well, maybe I do.”

“I could pay for us to stay in a hotel.”

“For the last time, I don’t want any more of your bloody money!”

Shocked, Emilie withdrew, feeling as if she had been slapped across the face. She lay in bed next to Sebastian, sleepless, wondering what to say or do and wishing she had someone to talk to.

Sebastian left for London the next morning, kissing her briefly on the cheek and saying he’d see her on Friday.

The day was miserable, wet, and rainy—echoing Emilie’s mood perfectly. The house smelled of damp and Emilie thanked God she was leaving midweek for a brighter light in France.

Walking into the library, remembering the book on fruit trees Alex had mentioned, Emilie searched through the shelves, but without success. Instead, finding an F. Scott Fitzgerald on the shelves, she took it into the drawing room and huddled by the fire.

Her mobile rang and she saw it was Alex’s number.

“Hello?”

“Hello,” he said. “You okay?”

“Yes, you?”

“I’m fine. Jo, the girl you got me, is very sweet. She doesn’t fuss around and gets on with her job. I like her. I wanted to say thank you.”

“I’m glad.”

There was a pause.

“Are you sure you’re okay, Emilie?”

“Yes.”

“All right then. Have a nice day.”

“Thank you.”

Emilie pressed the button to end the call, proud she hadn’t given away her distress. However much she desired some guidance on her husband’s sudden strange and unsettling behavior, Alex had made it clear he was not the person to discuss it with.

Twenty minutes later, however, there was a tap on the drawing-room door.

“Hello, Alex.” She sighed.

“Hello, Em. If I’m disturbing you, please tell me to bugger off. I
just deduced from the tone of your voice that all was not well. I’m simply checking, in a neighborly fashion, that you’re all right.”

“Thank you. And, yes, I am feeling a little down.”

“Thought so. Do you want to talk about it?”

“I . . . don’t know.” She could feel tears pricking at the back of her eyes.

“Sometimes it helps to talk, and I’ll gladly act as your very first therapist if you’d like; maintaining, of course, a neutral and unemotional role. That’ll make a change for me.” He smiled and Emilie knew he was trying to cheer her up. “I’m presuming it’s my brother who’s upset you. I only say that because he marched into my flat the other day without knocking—which really irritates me—and tore me off a strip for bothering you.”

“Oh! But I said nothing to him, Alex. Please believe me.”

“I’m sure you didn’t, but he just wanted to shout at me about something,” Alex replied affably.

“Yes. He was so tense at the weekend. I really don’t know what’s wrong with him.”

“Well, Em”—Alex gave a long sigh—“this is rather a difficult one. I could, of course, give you a rundown of your husband’s psyche and help you understand who you’ve married, but we’ve agreed it’s not right for me to do so. What I will say is that Sebastian has always been prone to sudden black moods. And I hope for your sake this one will pass soon.”

“So do I.” Emilie was desperate to ask Alex more, but it would be compromising him, and besides, she would feel disloyal to Sebastian. “The weather here doesn’t help. I’m very happy I’m off to France on Wednesday.”

“Lucky old you. That will cheer you up, I’m sure. Perhaps you may be able to find out more about Sophia, and her poems.”

“I’ll certainly ask Jacques if he’ll tell me more of the story.”

“I’d love to see the library at the château you’ve talked of.” Alex smiled. “Books are my passion, especially old ones.”

“And I must see them all packed up and put into storage before the renovations begin. I’m dreading it. But it’s for a good cause.”

“And I’m sure your father would be proud of you, Em. It’s sad that
the great de la Martinières name will disappear—in fact,
has
disappeared, when you married my brother.”

“Oh, no. I intend to keep it. Sebastian and I discussed it and we agreed I should.”

“But if you two have a child, it will be a ‘Carruthers,’ won’t it?”

“I’m sure that’s a very long way off,” Emilie said abruptly, and changed the subject. “While I’m gone, do you want Jo to sleep in the house? She said she was happy to do so occasionally when I interviewed her.”

“No, it’s really not necessary, and she’s given me her phone number already in case of disaster. You can trust me, Em, you know you can. I really am self-sufficient.”

“It’s sad you never go out, Alex. Do you miss it?”

“Sometimes I get cabin fever, yes. But when the weather gets better, I can at least take a tour around what’s left of our beautiful gardens. And don’t say anything to Sebastian, but I’ve been looking into buying a customized car.”

“That’s a very good idea. And when I come back from France, maybe we can get your wheelchair in the trunk of the Land Rover and go out somewhere. Would you like that?”

“I’d love it.” Alex gave a big grin of pleasure. “Oh, for a real pint in a pub.”

“Then that’s a promise,” agreed Emilie, vaguely wondering why Sebastian hadn’t done this himself before now. But, given the tension that lay between them, the last thing he’d probably want was to face his brother over a table at the pub.

“Now then, I’ll be getting back.” Alex unlocked the brakes on his wheelchair. “I have to tend to my ever-growing family of oil shares. Have a good time in France, Em. I’ll be interested to hear any titbits of information you pick up about my granny. Adieu and bon voyage.”

With a small wave, Alex left the room.

•  •  •

Emilie had called the local taxi company Sebastian had recommended and arrived at Leeds Bradford airport with a tinge of excitement. As the plane took off and flew over the gray, industrial heartlands of
northern England and headed south to France, Emilie only wished she’d been able to contact Sebastian before she’d left. But his mobile was permanently on voice mail, and, as yet, he hadn’t responded to any of her messages.

Alex’s mention of his brother’s mood swings were all she could find to comfort her. Yet she had still lain awake into the small hours, her stomach churning with fear that something was wrong. The abrupt U-turn from loving, supportive husband to a man who would not even answer her calls was a lot to reconcile.

The weak March sun was shining as the plane landed at Nice. Emilie collected her rental car and set off for what she was fast beginning to feel was the nearest thing she had to a home, the familiar territory calming and comforting her.

At the château, all was a hive of activity. A vast truck stood sentinel outside.

A flushed-looking Margaux greeted her with a hug on the doorstep. “Madame, I’m so happy to see you.”

“And you,” said Emilie, returning the hug.

“I’ve done what I can to answer the questions, but I do not know everything.” Margaux looked harassed. “They have started on the library.”

“What?! They were told not to start without me!”

“Well, that’s my fault, madame. They arrived three hours ago and I did not wish to see them idle.”

“Never mind,” said Emilie quickly, stifling her irritation. “I’m here now.”

“Can I offer you a drink after your long journey?”

“Yes, tea please. Can you bring it into the library for me?”

“Of course, madame.”

Emilie walked along the passage to find the library shelves already half-empty. The air was thick with the dust of centuries past.

“Hello,” she said to the four or five workers busily stacking the books into watertight crates. “I’m Emilie de la Martinières.”

“A pleasure, madame.” A thickly set man stood up and held out his rough palm to greet her. “As you can see, we’re making good progress. It’s quite a collection you have here. Some of these books are very old.”

Giles, as he introduced himself, explained how they were numbering each container to the appropriate shelf, which had also been numbered. “So it will be possible to return the books to their original place.”

“Good,” said Emilie, feeling comforted they seemed at least organized and competent and were handling the books carefully. Her eyes moved through the chaos and she started as she saw Margaux’s son, Anton, sitting on the floor engrossed in a book, despite the hubbub around him.

“Hello, Anton,” she said as she reached him.

Startled, the boy looked up at her. His eyes betrayed a hint of fear.

“Madame de la Martinières, I am sorry, my mother sent me to help, but I found this and opened it and . . .”

Emilie glanced down at the book. It was an old copy of
Les Misérables
by Victor Hugo, a book she herself had read out of this library when she was younger. Emilie smiled as Anton stood up, reminding her of Gavroche, the young boy from the slums of Paris in the story.

“Please, carry on.” Emilie laid a hand on his shoulder and gently sat him back down. “You like reading?”

“Oh, yes, very much. And I like it in here . . .” He indicated the library. “If my mother brings me with her when she’s working, I come and look at the books. But I’ve never touched them before, madame, I promise,” he added hurriedly.

“Well, I think you should keep that one and finish it at home. I’m sure you’ll take care of it.”

“Really?” Anton’s face lit up. “I would love to. Thank you, madame.”

“Please, call me Emilie.”

“Anton! You haven’t been causing trouble in here, have you?”

Margaux had brought Emilie’s tea into the library and her eyes were full of concern.

“No, of course he hasn’t.” Emilie took the tea from Margaux. “He’s like me and my papa: a bookworm. And obviously a very bright boy.” She smiled. “He has chosen
Les Misérables
—a challenge for any adult, let alone a child.”

“Yes!” Margaux’s eyes shone with pride. “He is top of his class and hopes to go on to study literature at a great university. How long are you staying, madame? All that’s left in the rest of the house is the
furniture from the bedroom you normally sleep in. Jean and Jacques have offered you a room at their cottage, as you know.”

“Yes, but I’ll sleep here tonight. The bed and the armoire in my room are worthless and can be thrown on a skip later. Then I’ll move down to the cottage for the night tomorrow. You’ve been wonderful, Margaux, thank you,” Emilie said gratefully as they walked out of the library and entered the deserted kitchen.

“I’ve left you some plates, knives, and forks, and, of course, a kettle,” Margaux explained. “And they haven’t taken the refrigerator—it’s very old and perhaps you will wish to replace it anyway?”

The enormity of the project Emilie had undertaken suddenly began to dawn on her. So far, cocooned behind Sebastian’s secure and protective shield, it had seemed manageable.

“I’m sure we’ll replace it. The architect is meeting me here tomorrow morning, along with the project manager who will oversee the building work.”

“How long do you think the process will take, madame?”

Emilie noticed Margaux looked exhausted today. “I have no idea. A year maybe? Eighteen months?”

“I see. It’s just that . . . sorry, madame, but I presume I must look for some other employment? After all, there will be nothing to take care of here.”

“Margaux,” said Emilie, realizing guiltily she should have spoken to her weeks ago, “you’ve worked for our family for over fifteen years, and of course I will pay you your normal wages while the château undergoes renovation. You can still keep an eye on the builders and the house for me while I’m away in England and let me know if there are any problems.”

“Madame, that’s very kind of you, and of course I will,” replied Margaux, obviously relieved. “If I could take nothing, I would, but you know that I’m not rich. And I save everything for Anton’s future education.” Margaux’s eyes were suddenly haunted. “I worry sometimes what would happen if I wasn’t here.”

“But you
are
here, Margaux,” Emilie comforted with a smile. “Don’t feel guilty, please. I’m sure you will more than make up for the time you’re not working now once the château is finished and the dust must be cleaned away.”

“Well, I think it’s a beautiful thing you’re doing, and your parents would be very proud of you.” Tears suddenly filled Margaux’s eyes. “The house will be safe for France and the future generations that you and your husband will produce. Now, I’ve left you some supper and I must go home with Anton and make ours.”

“Of course. I’ll see you before I leave and pay your wages. And thank you again for everything.”

Margaux left the kitchen and Emilie stood alone for a while in its vast, echoing space, then set off back to the library to do what she could to help.