Leap of Faith (10 page)

“Marie-Ange?” he said with a look of amazement.

“Are you friends?” the count said with a look of amusement.

“We were,” the caretaker answered as he held out a hand to shake Marie-Ange’s, “we played together as children. When did you come back?” he asked her with a look of wonder.

“Just now … today …” She looked apologetically at the new owner of the château. “I’m sorry. I just wanted to see it.”

“Did you live here?” the count asked, puzzled by this brief exchange.

“Yes. As a child. My parents … I … they died a long time ago, and I went to America to live with my great-aunt. I just drove down from Paris today.”

“So did I,” he smiled benignly at her, looking polite and well bred and pleasant as Alain waved at her and slipped away. The count was wearing a blue blazer and gray flannels, and his clothes looked impeccably cut and expensive. “Would you like to come inside and look around?” She hesitated for a long moment, not wanting to intrude further on him, but the offer was irresistible. And he could see in her eyes that she would love to. “I insist that you come inside. It’s getting cold out here. I’ll make a pot of tea, and you can wander.” Without a word, she followed him gratefully into the familiar kitchen. And as she did, she felt her lost world envelop her, and tears stung her eyes as she looked around her. “Has it changed much?” he asked her gently, unaware of the circumstances of her parents’ accident, but it was easy to see that this was an emotional moment for her. “Why don’t you walk around for a while, and when you come back, I’ll have your tea ready.” It was embarrassing to have barged in on him in this way, but he was so nice about it.

“It has hardly changed at all,” she said, with a look of tender amazement. In fact, the same table and chairs were there, where she had had breakfast and lunch every day with her parents and Robert. It was the same table Robert had passed the sugary canards under as they dripped coffee on the carpet. “Did you buy the château from my father’s estate?” she asked, as he took out the teapot and an antique silver strainer.

“No. I bought it from a man who had owned it for several years but never lived here. I think his wife was ill, or she didn’t like it. He sold it to me, and I have been planning to spend some time here and restore it. I haven’t owned it for long, and I’ve been too busy to pay much attention to it. But I’m hoping to get to work on it this winter, or at least next spring. It deserves to be as beautiful as it once was.” It looked undeniably tired and un tended.

“It doesn’t look as though it would take much work to do it,” Marie-Ange said to her host as he poured the tea through the strainer. The walls needed some paint, and the floors needed wax, but to her, it still looked wonderful and so precisely as she remembered. But he smiled at her assessment.

“I’m afraid the plumbing is in sad shape, and the electrical wires have all gone wrong. It needs a great deal of work you can’t even see. Believe me, it’s a big undertaking. And both the vineyards and the orchards need to be replanted … it needs a new roof. I’m afraid, Mademoiselle, that I have let your family home fall into sad disrepair,” he said apologetically with a smile that was filled with charm and wit and spirit. “By the way, I’m Bernard de Beauchamp.” He extended a hand to her, and they shook hands politely.

“Marie-Ange Hawkins.” As she said it, something clicked in his memory, and he remembered a story about a terrible accident that had claimed three lives and left a little girl an orphan. The man he’d bought it from had bought the château from her father’s estate, and told Bernard the story.

He shooed her off to the living room then, and heard her go upstairs to visit her old bedroom. And when she came back downstairs, he could see that she’d been crying and felt sorry for her.

“It must be hard for you to come back here,” he said, handing her the cup of tea he’d made for her. It was strong and dark and pungent and helped to restore her, as he invited her to sit at the familiar kitchen table.

“It’s harder than I thought,” she admitted to him, as she sat down, looking very young and very pretty. He was almost exactly twice her age. He had just turned forty.

“That’s to be expected,” he said solemnly. “I remember hearing about your parents, and about you,” he smiled at her, and there was nothing wicked or lascivious about him. He just looked like a nice man, and seemed like a sympathetic person. “I’ve had my own taste of that. I lost my wife and son ten years ago in a fire, in a house like this. I sold the château, and it took me a long time to get over it, if one ever does. That’s why I wanted to buy this one, because I longed to have a house like this again, but it has been hard for me. Perhaps that’s why it has taken me a while to do it. But it will be lovely when I get around to it.”

“It was lovely when I lived here,” Marie-Ange smiled gratefully at him for his kindness. “My mother always had it filled with flowers.”

“And what were you like then?” he smiled gently at her.

“I spent all my time climbing trees and picking fruit in the orchards.” They both laughed at the image she painted for him.

“Well, you’ve certainly grown up since then,” he said, seeming pleased to be sharing a cup of tea with her. It was lonely for him there, for the reasons he had just explained to her, and he enjoyed her company. She had been a pleasant surprise for him when he got there. “I’m going to be here for a month this time. I want to work on the plans for the remodeling with the local builder. You’ll have to come and visit me again, if you have time. Will you be staying here long?” he asked with curiosity, and she looked uncertain.

“I’m not sure yet. I just arrived from the States two days ago, and all I knew I wanted to do was come here. I want to go to Paris, and see about taking classes at the Sorbonne.”

“Have you moved back to France yet?”

“I don’t know,” she said honestly, “I haven’t decided. My father left …” She caught herself on the words. It would have been indelicate to mention the trust her father had left her. “I have an opportunity to do what I want now, and I have to make some decisions about it.”

“That’s a good spot to be in,” he said, as he refilled her cup of tea and they went on talking. “Where are you staying, Miss Hawkins?”

“I don’t know that yet either,” she said, laughing and realizing she must have sounded very young and foolish to him. He seemed so grown-up and sophisticated. “And please call me Marie-Ange.”

“I would be delighted to do so.” His manners were impeccable, his charm impossible to ignore, his looks impressive. “I just had a very strange idea, and perhaps you will think me mad for suggesting it, but perhaps you would like it. If you haven’t made any other arrangements yet, I was wondering if you might like to stay here, Marie-Ange. You don’t know me at all, but you can lock all the doors in your wing, if you like. I actually sleep in the guest room because I like it better. I find it sunnier and more cheerful. But the entire master suite can be sealed off quite effectively, and you would be safe from me, if you’re worried about it. But it might mean something to you to stay here.” She sat and stared at him, overwhelmed by the offer, and unable to believe that things like that happened. And she wasn’t in the least afraid of him. He was so well brought up and so polite that she knew she had nothing to fear from him. And all she wanted was to stay here and steep herself in the past and the memories she had missed for half her lifetime.

“It would be incredibly rude of me to stay here, wouldn’t it?” she asked him cautiously, afraid to take advantage of his kindness, but dying to stay there.

“Not if I invite you, and I did. I meant it. I wouldn’t have offered it if I didn’t want you to stay here. I can’t imagine you’d be much trouble.” He smiled at her in a fatherly way, and without letting herself think about it further, she accepted, and promised to leave for Paris the next day. “Stay as long as you like,” he assured her. “I told you, I’ll be here for a month, on holiday, and the place gets rather dreary when I’m alone.” She wanted to offer to pay for her room, but she was afraid to insult him. He was obviously prosperous, and what’s more, he was a count. She didn’t want to offend him by treating the château like a hotel. “What shall we do for dinner, by the way? Do you have plans, or should I whip something up? I’m not a great cook, but I can come up with something edible. I have some groceries in my car.”

“I don’t expect you to feed me as well.” She looked embarrassed to be that much of a burden on him. She had no sense of how pleased he was to have her around. “I could cook for you, if you like,” she offered shyly. She had cooked for her Aunt Carole every night. The meals had been plain, but her aunt had never complained about them.

“Do you know how to cook?” He looked amused at the thought.

“In America, I had to cook for my great-aunt.”

“Rather like Cinderella?” he teased as his green eyes danced in amusement.

“A bit like that,” Marie-Ange said, taking her empty cup to the all-too-familiar sink. Even standing there brought back countless memories of Sophie. And once more she thought of Sophie’s letters and what she’d learned about them that day.

“I will cook for you,” he promised her. But in the end, they both settled for pate, the fresh baguette he had bought, and some brie. And he brought out an excellent bottle of red wine, which she declined.

She set the table for him, and they chatted for a long time.

He was from Paris, and had lived in England briefly as a child, and then come back to France. And after they had talked for a while, he said that his little boy had been four years old when he died in the fire. He said he thought he would never recover from it, and he hadn’t in some ways. He had never remarried, and admitted that he led a solitary life. But he didn’t seem like a morose sort of man, and he made Marie-Ange laugh much of the time.

They left each other at ten o’clock, after he had made sure that there were clean sheets on the bed in the master suite. He made no overtures to her, did nothing inappropriate, wished her a good night, and disappeared to the guest suite on the opposite side of the house.

But it was harder than she thought sleeping in her parents’ bed, and thinking about them, and to get there, she had walked past her own room, and Robert’s. Her head and heart were full of them all through the night.

Leap of Faith

Chapter 8

When Marie-Ange came down for breakfast the next day, after making her bed, she looked tired.

“How did you sleep?” he asked with a look of concern. He was drinking cafe au lait, and reading the paper Alain had bought him in town.

“Oh … I have a lot of memories here, I guess,” she said thoughtfully, thinking that she shouldn’t disturb him more than she had, and that she could get breakfast in town.

“I was afraid of that. I thought about it last night,” he said, as he poured her a huge cup of cafe au lait. “These things take time.”

“It’s been ten years,” she said, sipping the coffee, and thinking of Robert’s clandestine canards.

“But you’ve never come back here,” he said sensibly. “That is bound to be hard. Would you like to go for a walk in the woods today, or visit the farm?”

“No, you’re very kind,” she smiled, “I should drive back to Paris today.” There was no point staying here anymore. She had had one night to touch her memories, but it was his house now, and time for her to move on.

“Do you have appointments in Paris?” he asked comfortably. “Or do you simply feel you ought to go?”

She smiled as she nodded, as he silently admired her long blond hair, but she saw nothing frightening in his eyes. The idea that she had spent a night alone in the house with him would have shocked most people, she knew, but it had been so chaste, and so harmless, and so polite.

“I think you ought to have time to enjoy your house, without a stranger camping out in your master suite,” she said with serious eyes as she looked at him. “You’ve been very kind, Monsieur le Comte, but I have no right to be here anymore.”

“You have every right to be here, as my guest. In fact, if you have the time, I would love your advice, and the benefit of your memory, to tell me exactly how the house was before. Do you have time for that?” In fact, she had nothing but time on her hands, and she couldn’t believe his enormous kindness to her, in inviting her to stay on.

“Are you sure?” she asked him honestly.

“Very sure. And I would much prefer it if you called me Bernard.”

Before lunch, they took a walk in the fields, and she told him precisely how everything had been, as they walked all the way to the farm, and then he called Alain to pick them up, so he didn’t wear her out walking back.

She went into town to buy groceries and bought several excellent bottles of wine for him, to thank him for his incredible hospitality. And this time, when she suggested she cook dinner for them, he offered to take her out. That night he took her to a cozy bistro nearby, which hadn’t been there ten years before, and they had a very good time. He had a thousand tales to tell, and an easy way of speaking to her, as though they were old friends. He was a very charming, amusing, intelligent man.

They parted company outside her parents’ room again, and this time, when she climbed into bed, she fell asleep at once. And the next day, when she got up, she told him a little more strenuously that she thought she should move on.

“I must have done something to offend you then,” he said, pretending to look wounded, and then smiled. “I told you, I would be so grateful for your help if you’d stay, Marie-Ange.” It was crazy. She had literally moved into the house with him, a complete stranger who had landed on him. And in spite of her embarrassment, which he dispelled easily, he didn’t seem to mind.

“But won’t you stay through next weekend?” he asked pleasantly. “I’m giving a dinner party, and I would love to introduce you to some friends. They’d be fascinated by what you know of Marmouton. One of them is the architect who is going to draw up my remodeling plans. I’d appreciate it so much if you’d stay. In fact, I don’t know why you’re leaving at all. There’s no need for you to rush back to Paris. You said yourself you have time.”