The Lavender Garden (2 page)

Emilie felt the sudden weight of centuries of ancestors upon her shoulders, and the sadness of a great and noble lineage reduced to one unmarried and childless thirty-year-old woman. The family had borne the ravages of hundreds of years of brutality, but the First and Second World Wars had seen only her father survive.

At least there would be none of the usual scrapping over the inheritance. Due to an outdated Napoleonic law, all brothers and sisters directly inherited their parents’ property equally. Many was the family who had been brought to near ruin by one child who refused to agree to sell. Sadly, in this case,
les héritiers en ligne directe
amounted simply to her.

Emilie sighed. Sell she might have to, but those were thoughts for another day. Now it was time to say good-bye.

“Rest in peace, Maman.” She placed a light kiss on top of the graying forehead, then crossed herself. Rising wearily from the chair, Emilie left the room, closing the door firmly behind her.

Two Weeks Later

E
milie took her café au lait and croissant out through the kitchen door and into the lavender-filled courtyard at the back of the house. The château faced due south, so this spot was the best place to catch the morning sun. It was a beautiful, balmy spring day, mild enough to be outside in a T-shirt.

On the afternoon of her mother’s funeral in Paris forty-eight hours ago, the rain had relentlessly fallen as Valérie was interred. At the wake afterward—held at the Ritz per Valérie’s request—Emilie had accepted condolences from the great and the good. The women, mostly of a similar age to her mother, were all in black and had reminded Emilie of a coven of elderly crows. A variety of ancient hats disguised their thinning hair as they’d tottered around sipping champagne, bodies emaciated by age, makeup plastered masklike to their sagging skin.

In their heyday, they had been regarded as the most beautiful and powerful women in Paris. Yet the circle of life had moved them on, and they’d been replaced by a whole new raft of young movers and shakers. Each of the women was simply waiting to die, Emilie had thought, feeling maudlin as she’d left the Ritz and hailed a taxi to take her home to her apartment. Utterly miserable, she had drunk far more wine than usual and woken the next morning with a hangover.

But at least the worst was over, Emilie comforted herself, as she took a sip of her coffee. In the past two weeks, there’d been little time to concentrate on anything other than the funeral arrangements. She’d known that she owed her mother at least the kind of send-off that Valérie herself would have organized perfectly. Emilie had found herself agonizing over whether to provide cupcakes or petits fours with the coffee, and if the creamy, overblown roses her mother had
so loved were dramatic enough for the table decorations. Valérie had taken these kinds of subtle decisions every week, and Emilie had a newfound, grudging respect for the ease with which Valérie had handled them.

And now—Emilie turned her face up toward the sun and basked in its comforting warmth—she must think about the future.

Gerard Flavier, the family
notaire
, who looked after the de la Martinières legal and property affairs, was on his way from Paris to meet her here at the château. Until he divulged where the estate stood financially, there wasn’t much point in making plans. Emilie had taken a month’s leave from work to deal with what she knew would be a complex and time-consuming process. She wished she had siblings to share the burden with; legalities and finances were not her strong point. The responsibility terrified her.

Emilie felt the softness of fur against her bare ankle, glanced down, and saw Frou-Frou, her mother’s last remaining Chihuahua, gazing up at her mournfully. She picked up the elderly dog and sat her on her knee, stroking her ears.

“It seems there is only you and me left, Frou,” she murmured. “So we’ll have to look after each other, won’t we?”

The earnest expression in Frou-Frou’s half-blind eyes made Emilie smile. She had no idea how she was to care for the dog in the future. Even though she dreamed of one day surrounding herself with animals, her tiny apartment in the Marais Quarter and the long hours she worked were not conducive to looking after a dog who had been brought up in the emotional and physical lap of luxury.

Yet animals and the care of them were her day job. Emilie lived for her vulnerable clients, none of whom could express to her how they felt or where it hurt.

“It is sad that my daughter seems to prefer the company of animals to human beings. . . .”

The words epitomized Valérie’s feelings toward the way Emilie lived her life. When she had originally announced she wished to go to university and take a degree in veterinary science, Valérie had shaped her lips into a moue of distaste. “I cannot understand why you would wish to spend your life cutting open poor little animals and gazing at their insides.”

“Maman, that’s the process, not the reason. I love animals, I want to help them,” she had answered defensively.

“If you must have a career, then why not think about fashion? I have a friend at
Marie Claire
magazine who I’m sure could find you a little job. Of course, when you marry, you will not wish to continue working. You will become a wife and that will be your life.”

Although Emilie did not blame Valérie for being stuck in her time warp, she couldn’t help wishing her mother had taken some pride in her daughter’s achievements. She’d come out of university top of her year and immediately been taken on as a trainee vet by a well-known Paris practice.

“Maybe Maman was right, Frou,” she said with a sigh, “maybe I do prefer animals to people.”

Emilie heard the crunch of gravel under tires, put Frou-Frou on the ground, and walked around to the front of the house to greet Gerard.

“Emilie, how are you?” Gerard Flavier kissed her on both cheeks.

“I’m all right, thank you,” Emilie replied. “How was your journey?”

“I took a plane to Nice and then hired a car to bring me down here.” Gerard walked past her through the front door and stood in the vast hall, the closed shutters shrouding it in shadow. “I was happy to escape from Paris and visit one of my favorite places in France. Spring in the Var is always exquisite.”

“I thought it was better we meet here at the château. My parents’ papers are in the desk in the library, and I presumed you would need access to them.”

“Yes.” Gerard walked across the worn marble-tiled floor and surveyed a damp patch on the ceiling above them. “The château is in need of some tender loving care, is it not?” He sighed. “It’s aging, like us all.”

“Shall we go through to the kitchen? I have some coffee ready.”

“That’s just what I need,” said Gerard with a smile as he followed her along the corridor that led to the back of the house.

“Please, sit down,” she said, indicating a chair at the long oak table and walking over to the range to reboil some water.

“There aren’t many luxuries in here, are there?” said Gerard, studying the sparsely furnished, utilitarian space.

“No. But then, this was only used by the servants to provide food for our family and their guests. I’d doubt my mother ever put her hands in the sink.”

“Who takes care of the château and its domestic needs now?”

“Margaux Duvall, the housekeeper, who’s been here for over fifteen years. She comes in from the village every afternoon. Maman dismissed the other staff after my father died, and she stopped coming down to the house regularly each summer. I think she preferred to holiday on the yacht she rented.”

“Your mother certainly liked to spend money.”

Emilie put a cup of coffee down in front of Gerard. “On the things that mattered to her.”

“Which was not this château,” Emilie stated bluntly.

“No. From what I’ve seen of her finances so far, it seemed she preferred the delights of the house of Chanel.”

“Maman was fond of her haute couture, I know.” Emilie sat down opposite him with her coffee. “Even last year when she was so ill, she still attended the fashion shows.”

“Valérie was indeed quite a character—and famous too. Her passing engendered many column inches in our newspapers. Although it’s hardly surprising. The de la Martinièreses are one of the most noted families in France.”

“I know.” Emilie grimaced. “I saw the newspapers as well. Apparently I’m to inherit a fortune.”

“It’s true that your family were once fabulously rich. Unfortunately, Emilie, times have moved on. The noble name of your family still exists, but the fortune does not.”

“I thought as much.” Emilie was unsurprised.

“You may have been aware that your papa was not a businessman. He was an intellectual, an academic who had little interest in money. Even though many times I talked to him of investments, tried to persuade him to plan a little for the future, he was disinterested. Twenty years ago, it hardly mattered—there was plenty. But between your father’s lack of attention and your mother’s penchant for the finer things in life, the fortune has diminished substantially.” Gerard sighed. “I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings.”

“I was very much expecting this and it doesn’t matter to me. I simply wish to organize what I need to and return to my work in Paris.”

“I’m afraid, Emilie, that the situation is not as straightforward as that. As I said at the start, I’ve not yet had time to peruse the details, but what I can tell you is that the estate has creditors, many of them. And these creditors must be paid as soon as possible,” he explained. “Your mother managed to accrue an overdraft of almost twenty million francs against the Paris house. She had many other debts too, which will need to be paid off.”

“Twenty million francs?” Emilie was horrified. “How could this have happened?”

“Easily. As the funds ran out, Valérie did not temper her lifestyle accordingly. She has been living on borrowed money for many, many years now. Please, Emilie”—Gerard saw the expression in her eyes—“do not panic. These are debts that can easily be paid, not only with the sale of the Paris house itself, which I believe should raise around seventy million francs, but also its contents. For example, your mother’s magnificent collection of jewelery, which is held in a vault at her bank, and the many paintings and valuable objets d’art in the house. You are by no means poor, Emilie, believe me, but action must be taken swiftly to stop the rot and decisions for the future made.”

“I see,” Emilie answered slowly. “Forgive me, Gerard. I take after my father and have little interest or experience in managing finances.”

“I understand completely. Your parents have left you with a heavy burden that rests purely on your shoulders. Although”—Gerard raised his eyebrows—“it’s amazing how many relatives you suddenly seem to have acquired.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, you mustn’t worry, it’s usual for the vultures to descend at this time. I’ve had over twenty letters so far, from those who claim they are related in some way to the de la Martinièreses. Four hitherto unknown illegitimate brothers and sisters, apparently sired by your father out of wedlock, two cousins, an uncle, and a member of staff from your parents’ Paris household in the sixties, who swears she was promised by your mother to be the recipient of a Picasso on her death.” Gerard smiled. “It’s all to be expected, but, unfortunately, every claim must be investigated under French law.”

“You don’t think any of them are valid?” Emilie’s eyes were wide.

“I highly doubt it. And if it’s any comfort to you, this has happened with every well-publicized death I have ever dealt with.” He shrugged. “Leave it to me, and don’t worry. I would prefer you, Emilie, to concentrate your thoughts on what you wish to do with the château. As I said, your mother’s debts can easily be paid off with the sale of the Paris house and its contents. But that still leaves you with this magnificent property, which, from what I’ve seen so far, is in a bad state of repair. Whatever you decide, you will still be a wealthy woman, but do you want to sell this château or not?”

Emilie stared into the distance and sighed heavily. “To be honest, Gerard, I wish the whole thing would go away. That someone else could make the decision. And what about the vineyards here? Is the
cave
producing any profit?”

“Again, that’s something I must investigate for you. If you decide to sell the château, the wine business can be included as a going concern.”

“Sell the château . . .” Emilie repeated Gerard’s words. Hearing them spoken out loud underlined the enormity of the responsibilities she had to face. “This house has been in our family for two hundred and fifty years. And now it’s down to me to make the decision. And the truth is”—she sighed—“I have no idea what to do for the best.”

“I’m sure you don’t. As I said earlier, it’s difficult that you are all alone.” Gerard shook his head in sympathy. “What can I say? We cannot always choose the situation we find ourselves in. I’ll try to help you as much as I can, Emilie, I know it’s what your father would have wanted from me under these circumstances. Now, I’ll go and freshen up, and then maybe later we should take a walk down to the vineyard and speak to the manager there?”

“Okay,” Emilie replied wearily. “I’ve opened the shutters in the bedroom to the left of the main staircase. It has one of the best views in the house. Would you like me to show you?”

“No, thank you. I’ve stayed here many times before, as you know. I can find my own way.”

Gerard rose, nodded at Emilie, and walked out of the kitchen to climb the main staircase to his bedroom. He paused halfway up, staring at the dusty, faded face of a de la Martinières ancestor. So many
of the noble French families, and the history attached to them, were dying out, leaving a barely visible line in the sand to mark their passing. He wondered how the great Giles de la Martinières in the portrait—warrior, nobleman, and, some said, lover of Marie Antoinette—would feel if he could see the future of his lineage resting on the slight shoulders of one young woman. And a woman who had always struck Gerard as odd.

During his many visits to the de la Martinières households in the past, Gerard had beheld a plain child, whose self-containment did not allow her to respond to affection from him or others. A child who seemed removed, distant, almost surly in her reticence to his friendly approaches. As a
notaire
, Gerard felt his profession not only encompassed the technical work on columns of figures, but also the ability to read the emotions of his clients.