“Papa,” Jean said as he saw his father’s exhausted expression, “I think that’s enough now. Emilie can ask you more questions in the morning. Come.” He offered his father his arm.
Jacques stood, then turned to Emilie in afterthought. “Édouard sacrificed everything for his country. He was a true Frenchman and you have every reason to be proud of him. But the war changed us all, Emilie, it changed us all.”
Emilie sat pensively staring into the fire as Jean took his father upstairs.
“How are you?” asked Jean, when he came back down.
“I’m shocked at the horror of the story. It’s a lot to take in.”
“Yes. And all of this happened only fifty-five years ago.” He sighed. “It’s hard to believe.”
“Your father knows where Sophia and Frederik’s baby is, Jean, I’m sure of it.”
“Perhaps, but if he does, then he’ll have his own reasons for not telling you. And if he wishes to continue keeping her whereabouts a secret, you must respect that.”
“I know. But the past is the past, and let us hope we’ve all learned lessons from it. The world has moved on now.”
“I agree, but for my father, and many others of his age, who lived through that terrible time, it isn’t so easy. We’re the younger generation and can look back on it logically as it becomes history, but those who suffered because of it cannot be quite so unemotional and detached. Now”—Jean patted Emilie’s hand—“I think it’s time for us to follow my father upstairs.”
• • •
Surprisingly, Emilie slept the moment her head touched the pillow, but she was awake early the following morning. Pulling on her clothes, she walked down the drive to the château, wanting to have some peace there before the building work began for the day. Pushing open the door to the walled garden, Emilie walked across the lawn and stood in front of the small wooden cross, which Jacques had told her Frederik had erected for Falk on his return after the war. She had always presumed it had been the grave of a family pet. The thought that underneath the soil right in front of her lay Falk’s remains made her shudder. It was hard to conceive that in this beautiful spot so much hatred and violence had taken place.
Emilie wished Sebastian
and
Alex had been with her to hear the story of their courageous grandmother, who had won no plaudits for her actions and had not even chosen to share them with her family. She had been a remarkable woman, unsung like so many during that time. And her two grandsons, one of them eaten up with jealousy for the other . . . The irony of her newly discovered family past was not lost on her present circumstances. And neither could it have been lost on Constance.
Being an only child, sibling rivalry was not something Emilie had ever encountered. But hearing the story last night, she’d truly understood its strength.
Shaking her head suddenly as if to clear it, only able to cope with one complex scenario at a time, Emilie walked back across the lawn.
She thought of the dreadful cellar she and Sebastian had found that first afternoon, where Sophia had been a virtual prisoner, given birth, and then died. The physical and emotional pain her aunt must have suffered brought tears to her eyes, but yet again reinforced her sense of how lucky
she
was. As she left the château and walked back down the drive, Anton, Margaux’s son, came cycling toward her on his bicycle. He halted and gave her a shy smile.
“How are you, Anton?” she asked him.
“I’m well, thank you, madame. Maman said I was to bring this back to you.” Anton reached into his basket and handed her the book she had lent him. “Thank you for letting me borrow it. I enjoyed it very much.”
“I’m impressed that you read it so quickly. It took me months.”
“I read very fast, sometimes right into the night. I love books”—he shrugged—“although now I’ve read almost everything suitable in the local library.”
“Then when the château library is back in place, you must come down and choose some more. I doubt you will ever run out in there,” she said with a smile.
“Thank you, madame,” he replied gratefully.
“How is your mother?”
“She sends you her regards. If there’s anything you need, she asks you to call her. I think she’ll be happier when all is back to normal.”
“Yes, we all will be. Good-bye, Anton.”
“Good-bye, Madame Emilie.”
Emilie arrived back at the cottage and made herself some coffee. Wandering through to the
cave
, she saw Jacques was in his usual position at his table, wrapping the bottles, as Jean worked away at his desk. So as not to disturb them, she took her coffee out into the garden. She didn’t want to push Jacques to tell her if he did know where the adopted child had ended up, but she was desperate to know. And Frederik, the father of the baby and muse of Sophia’s beautiful love poems—Jacques said he thought he was still alive. . . .
An idea formed in her mind, which she expounded to Jean and Jacques over lunch.
“Why not?” agreed Jean. “Papa, what do you think about Emilie going to Switzerland to meet Frederik?”
“I don’t know.” Jacques looked uncomfortable.
“But surely it can do no harm, Papa?” asked Jean. “If Emilie gave Frederik the poems, at least he would have a physical memory of Sophia’s undying love for him? It might comfort him.”
“Would you give me the address, Jacques?”
“I’ll see if I can find it, Emilie.” Jacques was still reticent. “He may not be alive now, of course.”
“I know, but at least I could write to him and find out.”
“Will you tell him that I lied about the death of his baby girl all those years ago?” Jacques asked tentatively.
Emilie looked to Jean uncertainly for advice.
“Papa, if Frederik is the man you say he is, he will understand why you kept his daughter’s birth a secret from him. You were protecting the child.”
“And accept I denied his right to know his daughter for the whole of his life?” muttered Jacques.
“Yes, if that’s what it took. Papa, if you do know who and where she is, I think the time has come to tell. Emilie has a right to know. It’s her family, after all.”
“No!” Jacques shook his head. “Jean, you don’t understand. . . . You don’t understand. I—”
“Jacques”—Emilie put a hand on his arm—“please don’t upset yourself. If you feel so strongly that you can’t, I’m sure you have your reasons. Just answer me one question: tell me you know where she is.”
Jacques paused, the agony of indecision on his face.
“Yes! I know!” he admitted finally. “There! I’ve told you. I’ve broken the promise I made to myself all those years ago.” He shook his head despairingly.
“Papa, it
was
years ago,” said Jean. “No one will judge Sophia’s daughter now. You won’t be putting her in any danger.”
“Stop! Enough!” Jacques slammed his fist down on the table, then heaved himself to his feet and grabbed his walking stick. “You don’t understand—I must think, I must think.”
Jean and Emilie watched him stagger as fast as he could out of the cottage.
“We shouldn’t have pressured him, Jean,” said Emilie guiltily. “He’s very upset.”
“Well, perhaps it may be good for him to unburden the secret. He’s carried it alone for long enough. Now, I must continue working. Can you keep yourself amused for the afternoon?”
“Of course. You go back to the
cave
and I’ll take care of things in here.”
When Jean had left, Emilie cleared away the lunch and washed up, then took out her mobile phone. She saw a number of missed calls from Sebastian, but it was her turn to be disinclined to call back. The story last night had affected her on many levels, and her distaste for Sebastian’s abuse of his brother was growing, not dwindling.
Needing some fresh air, Emilie took a walk through the vines, her head spinning in confusion. Then a thought hit her and she came to an abrupt halt, trying to process it. . . .
Jacques had said how devastated Constance had been about having to relinquish the baby she’d cared for since her birth. Emilie completely understood the rationale of why Constance hadn’t taken Victoria home to England with her. In the days before genetic tests, there would always have been a doubt in her husband’s mind, no matter how many times Constance had reassured him that Victoria wasn’t her child.
Victoria . . .
Emilie sat down abruptly in the middle of the vines. But what if Constance
had
told her husband about the baby in the orphanage when she’d arrived back in Yorkshire? And what if Lawrence, seeing his wife’s distress, had agreed that they must go back to France and adopt her themselves?
She was sure that Sebastian had once mentioned his mother’s name . . . Emilie searched her mind to recall it, but unable to do so, she took her mobile from her jeans pocket and hesitated over which brother to call for confirmation.
Trying her husband first, she received his voice mail. So she then rang Alex on his mobile. He answered immediately.
“Alex? It’s Emilie.”
“Emilie! Great to hear from you, how are you?”
“Well, thank you.” Emilie came straight to the point. “Alex, what was your mother’s Christian name?”
“Victoria. Why?”
A shocked Emilie put a hand to her mouth. “I . . . it’s a long story, Alex. I promise I’ll explain when I see you. Thank you so much, goodbye.”
Emilie pressed a button to end the call and sat in the vines trying to take in the new information.
Victoria was Sebastian and Alex’s mother.
Which meant that—Emilie worked it out as fast as she could—she was currently married to her first cousin, once removed. . . .
“Nooo!” she howled into the still air. She lay down flat, resting her head against the hard, stony soil and tried to think rationally.
What if Constance, near her death, had told Sebastian that his mother, Victoria, had been adopted? And was, in fact, a blood member of the de la Martinières family? Constance had also mentioned the book on French fruit and the poems, written by Sophia—perhaps
his
grandmother—to him. Had Constance done this as proof to help the two brothers make their claim?
Sebastian could subsequently have investigated and discovered who the de la Martinièreses were. And when he’d read of her own mother’s death, he’d thought he might be in line to inherit something.
But, as Jean had mentioned, establishing his right as an illegitimate heir would be a long and drawn-out legal battle. How much easier and more convenient to marry the natural heiress? And, at some point, persuade her to move the château and bank account into both of their names?
Emilie shuddered, more at her cold, analytical pragmatism than Sebastian’s possible duplicity. It all fitted so well, but there was no proof she was right. Besides, could Sebastian have knowingly married his own cousin?
Emilie lay there, wondering at her own naïveté. Even if there was another explanation and she was conjuring up some Machiavellian scenario of which Sebastian was perfectly innocent, what on earth had possessed her to go ahead and marry him, knowing as little about him as she had?
Maybe, she sighed, it had been as simple as that he had shown her affection and support when she’d been so vulnerable. And the Sebastian she’d known in France could not have been more loving, tender, or supportive. But had that simply been an act to seduce her?
Emilie sat up. “Oh, God, oh, God . . .” She shook her head despairingly. Even if she was wrong about Sebastian’s motives, she was dreadfully unhappy. And she no longer trusted her husband at all.
Feeling drained, exhausted, and shaken, Emilie picked herself up and began to walk back to the cottage. There was only one way to find out. She must beg Jacques to tell her if she was right.
“Where have you been, Emilie? It’s almost dark.” A concerned Jean was in the kitchen cooking supper.
“I needed to go out and think.”
“You look very pale, Emilie.” Jean studied her with concern.
“I must speak to your father as soon as possible.”
“Here, drink this.” Jean passed her a glass of wine. “I’m afraid my father has taken himself up to his room and has asked that he not be disturbed. He doesn’t want to see you tonight, Emilie. Please, you must understand how hard this is for him. You’re asking him to release a secret kept for over fifty years. He needs time to think about it. You’ll simply have to be patient.”
“But you don’t understand . . . I
must
know before I return home. I must!”
Jean could see and feel her tension and distress. “Why, Emilie? How can what Papa has to tell you have any relevance to your current life?”
“Because . . . because it
does
. . . Oh, Jean, please would you ask him if I could see him?” she begged.
“Emilie, try and calm yourself. You and I have known each other for many years. Perhaps you could trust me enough to tell me what it is that’s upset you? Come, let us sit down.” Jean led her into the sitting room and pushed her gently into the chair.
“Oh, Jean.” Emilie buried her head in her hands. “Perhaps I really am going mad.”
“I doubt it.” He smiled. “You’ve always been the sanest woman I’ve ever known. So, I’m listening.”
Emilie took a deep breath and began from the first moment she’d encountered Sebastian in Gassin. She told the full story of their courtship and of her husband’s recent bizarre behavior with her. Then of his relationship with his brother and the strange atmosphere in Yorkshire. Finally, when a bowl of good rabbit stew had been pushed in
front of her and she had gulped it down, still talking, she told Jean of her suspicion that Victoria was Alex and Sebastian’s mother.
“What if Sebastian married me because he thought it was an easy route to what he believes is rightfully his anyway?”
“Emilie, slow down. We have no hard facts, apart from a Christian name, to think that any of this is true.”
“So am I mad to believe this of my husband?” Emilie asked sadly.
“Well, I think we know that Sebastian didn’t arrive here out of coincidence, despite telling you he was in the area on other business. You say he mentioned the connection his grandmother had to your family immediately. And, yes, I agree his mother being named Victoria makes your story a plausible possibility. However, whether or not there is a blood tie . . . do you mind if I speak the truth?”