“Talking of our current household,” said Emilie, “I’ve heard of a
gîte
which is available locally. It’s in the vineyard of the Bournasse family. I’ll go and see it tomorrow. From what Madame Bournasse said to me on the telephone, it sounds perfect.”
“You know there’s no rush for you to leave,” emphasized Jean.
“Yes, you’re very kind, but I should start to make plans too.”
After Jacques had retired to bed, Jean and Emilie cleared up the supper dishes.
“Has your father said any more about whether he’s prepared to reveal the identity of Sophia’s baby?” she asked.
“No, and I haven’t pushed him,” replied Jean firmly. “He’s so much better at the moment, and I don’t want to upset him.”
“He’s amazing. It’s ironic—at one point I thought it would be your father we would have to say good-bye to, but it seems as though it might be Margaux. She looked so terrible in the hospital this afternoon, Jean. And Anton is so brave.”
“He’s a special young man. Sadly, having lost his father so young, he’s very close to his mother. Tomorrow afternoon, Papa has asked to be driven to Nice to see Margaux alone. So if it’s convenient, can Anton stay with you?”
“Of course. He can come with me to see the
gîte
. I didn’t think it would be Jacques visiting a dying patient in the Nice hospital.” She sighed.
“My father’s a creaking gate, Emilie. He’ll probably outlive us all.”
• • •
It took Emilie and Anton less than a few seconds to decide that the
gîte
was the perfect temporary home for her to live in until the château was ready for occupation. Ten minutes’ walk from the château and set in the middle of glorious vines, it was prettily decorated in Provençal style, with a woodburner which would keep her warm when winter arrived later in the year.
“It has two spare bedrooms too,” exclaimed Anton as he wandered out of one of them. “Perhaps, Emilie, I could come and stay with you sometimes if Maman is . . . away for a long time.”
“Of course you can.” She smiled. “Whenever you wish. Now, are we agreed? Should I take it?”
“Yes! It even has an Internet connection here,” he replied eagerly.
After the price had been agreed with Madame Bournasse, Emilie took Anton for a celebration lunch at Le Pescadou in Gassin.
Anton sat with his head resting on his hand, staring out at the magnificent view from the hilltop setting. “I hope I don’t have to leave this village,” he said sadly. “I’ve lived here all my life and I’m happy here.”
“Why should you?” Emilie asked as the waiter delivered freshly baked pizzas for both of them.
Anton turned his huge blue eyes to her. “Because my mother is dying. And when she does, I might have to go and live with my aunt in Grasse.”
“Oh, Anton.” Emilie stretched out her hand and squeezed his forearm across the table. “Don’t give up hope, she may well get better.”
“No, she won’t. I’m not stupid, Emilie. It’s kind of you all to pretend, but I know the truth here.” Anton thumped his small chest. “I don’t really like my aunt or my cousins. They’re only interested in soccer and tease me that I like to read and study.”
“Please, try not to think about those things yet. And if the worst does happen”—Emilie acknowledged it was a possibility in front of him for the first time—“I’m sure there are other solutions.”
“I hope so,” he replied quietly.
• • •
A few days later, Emilie left the cottage and moved into her new home. Anton assisted her willingly. He had become her shadow, especially as Margaux, who had deteriorated further and wished to spare her son the pain of seeing her so ill, had suggested he take a break from visiting her every day at the hospital. She was so full of morphine, she was hardly conscious. They all knew now that it was simply a matter of time.
“Would you mind if I sometimes cycled down to see you here?” he asked as Emilie plugged in her laptop to check that the Internet worked.
“Of course not, Anton, you can visit me as often as you wish.” She smiled at him. “Now, how about we make some tea?”
• • •
Later that evening, when Anton had safely been deposited back at the cottage with Jean and Jacques, Emilie sat down in front of her computer and read her e-mails. She was dreading one from Sebastian, but there was none. Instead, she saw Alex’s name blinking in front of her.
From:[email protected]
Dearest Em,
I hope this letter finds you well. And that France is proving a balm to your poor, battered soul. I hope you don’t mind me writing, but I thought I would bring you up-to-date on what happened after you left. If nothing else, you might find it amusing.
Sebastian arrived back home a few hours after you’d fled the house, huffing and puffing about there being some terrible mistake. (I was tempted to mention not only his lover’s verbal confession, but the sight of his clothes strewn around the bedroom he shared with her, may have had something to do with rousing your suspicions, but you’ll be happy to hear I managed to restrain myself—just.) He
asked me where you were. I, of course, feigned ignorance yet again, but mentioned I thought I’d heard you leave early that morning. He muttered something about being sure you’d be back once you’d calmed down, and then he left to go back into the main house. All was quiet for a few hours, then suddenly I heard a yell and the sound of feet marching along the corridor toward me.
Mentally donning my bulletproof vest, as I guessed what was coming, my brother stormed in and demanded to know who had been into his safe and stolen his book.
“What book is that, Brother dearest?” I ask.
“The one I asked you if I could borrow ages ago,” he replies.
“Oh,” say I, “you mean
my
book? But I thought you’d said that you’d mislaid it? To be truthful, Seb,” I continue, “I’d forgotten all about it.” I frown at him. “So, you did know where it was then, all this time?”
Oh, Emilie, the look on his face was priceless. He’d been caught out in one of his own lies!
He then began (I kid you not) to ransack my flat, accusing me of taking the book. Which, considering it was mine in the first place, I felt was a downright cheek. Then, after he’d searched through every single nook and cranny—poor Jo the cleaner was very upset about the mess he made—he tried another tack.
“Look, Alex,” he said, in that irritatingly earnest way he has when he’s trying to pull a fast one. “I was going to tell you as soon as I’d made absolutely certain, but I discovered recently that that book of yours is actually extremely valuable.”
“Really?” I say. “Goodness, what a surprise!”
“
Yes
, in fact, it’s extremely valuable indeed.”
“Well, aren’t I the lucky one! How much?” I ask.
“Around half a million pounds,” he says. (HAH!) So, if I would happen to have it in my possession, could I keep it safe, because—and at this point he leans closer to appear more confidential—there’s a chance that he might know how to turn that half a million into one million!!
“Goodness!” I say again. “How could that be?”
He then goes on to explain that there’s another volume of the book and he’s been doing some research on its location. He’s very close to tracking it down, and if he does, the two volumes together will be worth a lot of money. So if he can source the other volume,
perhaps it’s possible for both of us, as the good, honest, caring, sharing brothers we are, to put the two together and then split the winnings?
I do an awful lot of serious nodding and listening intently until I say, “That all sounds wonderful, Seb. There’s only one little problem. I don’t have the book. I haven’t stolen back my own property and I have absolutely no idea where it is. So,” I ask (goading him a little), “
who
could have taken it . . .?”
We both sit and think deeply for a while. I watch him, and as the penny finally drops, I look at him as though I’ve reached the same sad conclusion.
“Emilie.”
“It must have been her,” I agree.
He then stands up and paces manically around the room, questioning how on earth she could have found out about it. And that, in fact, if she had “stolen” it from us, then he—he corrected himself immediately—
I
should contact the police at once.
I then pointed out that if it
was
you, it would be pretty difficult to prove, considering the book bore your father’s signature on the inside cover.
This really stymied him, until he turned suddenly with a look of relief on his face. “But of course, Alex, you received a letter from our grandmother saying she was bequeathing it to you.”
Now, what’s interesting about this, dearest Em, is that I, to my knowledge, have never shown my brother the letter my granny’s solicitor handed to me after I returned home.
“What letter?” I ask him. “I can’t remember any letter.”
“The letter you told me said that Granny had left the book to you,” he says.
“Ah, yes,” I say, scratching my head in vague remembrance, “I think I remember tearing it up.”
At this point, the angst on my brother’s face is almost comical. He shoots me a look—no, I would call it a death stare—and slams back out of my flat.
At this point I decide that a mad Seb is a dangerous Seb. Or even more dangerous than usual. I took steps, dearest Em, which sound vaguely disproportionate considering this e-mail is regarding a lost book, and called a locksmith. That afternoon, he duly arrived and battened
down my hatches. I’m now incarcerated in the kind of state-of-the-art security that would normally only be found surrounding the
Mona Lisa
. I have an intercom on both the external door and the internal one, plus a variety of locks and padlocks on the doors themselves. It sounds dramatic, but I at least want to be able to rest in my bed safely at night.
Interestingly, that afternoon, Seb left the house. This was good in one sense as it allowed the installation of my security systems to continue uninterrupted, but the bad news is (a) they haven’t so far been tested and I’m feeling like a fool for wasting my money, and (b) I’m concerned he will make his way across to you in France.
Dearest Em, I have no idea what your circumstances are or where you’re living, and I’m probably overexaggerating due to my concern for you, but does he know where your library is stored? I wouldn’t put it past him to try to search it again. And as I believe he organized the storage, and he’s your husband, he would have full access to it if he so wished. Also, if he does turn up in France to see you, please don’t see him alone, will you?
I’m probably being alarmist—we both know Sebastian’s not violent, except in the days when he was, with
me
, that is—but I want to tell you to be on your guard. It’s an awful lot of money we’re talking about, after all.
And now . . . all these shenanigans with my brother have caused me—especially imprisoned as I am at present—to think of the best way forward for myself. Perhaps it was hearing you reread the letter from my grandmother that did it, but I’ve come to some important conclusions. At some point soon, I’d be happy to share those with you, but they are not for now. You have enough to be thinking about. By the way, I officially “bequeath” in writing the book back to you—please, if you manage to find volume one, do as you wish with both of them. I can assure you I don’t need the money—luckily enough, the new “children” I adopted are all behaving exceptionally well just now.
I’m hoping you’ll respond to this e-mail, firstly because I want to know you’ve received it and have been pre-warned about Seb, but secondly because I’d love to hear from you.
The house is very quiet without you.
With best regards and love,
Alex x
Having read the e-mail, a horrified Emilie picked up her mobile and made two immediate calls. One to the storage company, leaving a message informing them she was getting divorced and under no circumstances was her husband to have access to any of the possessions from the château, especially not the library. And secondly to Jean, requesting that if Sebastian did turn up, he was to say he hadn’t seen her.
“I think I knew that already, Emilie,” Jean had sagely replied.
Then Emilie began an e-mail back to Alex. She thanked him profusely for his warning, apologized for her late reply, and said there had been no sightings of Sebastian so far. She said she hoped to hear all about his plans for the future and signed off with a return kiss.
It was dark now. Emilie poured herself a glass of wine and paced around the
gîte
, feeling restless.
Alex might be worried about her, but in return, she was concerned about him.
More than concerned . . .
Emilie retired to bed straight after supper. The new mattress, which was so much softer than the old horsehair ones she’d been used to sleeping on, did not help her to relax.
What if Sebastian had returned to Blackmoor Hall and managed to batter his way through the security and into Alex’s flat?
No. She stopped herself. Alex was simply her ex-husband’s brother and she was not responsible for him.
But . . . Emilie got up and paced around the small bedroom; it was more than that. She missed him.
And
was just as concerned about him as he seemed to be about her.
Emilie stopped pacing suddenly, remembering Jean’s words.
Perhaps you have married the wrong brother.
She was tired and overemotional. And imagining feelings that weren’t there.
Emilie took herself back to bed and determinedly closed her eyes.
J
ean called her two days later.
“I’m afraid I have bad news. Margaux died in the early hours of this morning. I’m not sure what to say to Anton. He’s been very brave, but . . .”
“I’ll come immediately,” said Emilie.
• • •
“Anton has taken himself off for a walk alone in the vines,” said Jean, when Emilie arrived at the cottage.
“Did you tell him?”
“Yes, and he took the news calmly. I’ve called the aunt in Grasse, who has said she’ll take him in, but Anton isn’t happy at the thought.”