The Lavender Garden (5 page)

“Well, I can hardly say the same of my mum, or Victoria as she insisted we call her,” said Sebastian. “I can’t even remember her. She gave birth to my brother and me at a hippie commune in the States. When I was three and my brother two, she arrived with us in England and dumped us both on my grandparents in Yorkshire. A few weeks later she took off again, leaving us behind. And she hasn’t been seen or heard of since.”

“Oh, Sebastian!” Emilie responded, shocked. “You don’t even know if your mother is still alive?”

“No, but our grandmother more than made up for it. Because we were so young when we were left with her, to all intents and purposes Constance
was
our mother. And I can honestly say that if my real mother ever appeared in a crowded room in front of me, I wouldn’t be able to spot her.”

“You were lucky to have your grandmother, but it’s still very sad for you. And you don’t even know who your father is?”

“No. Or, in fact, whether my brother and I share the same one. We’re certainly very different. Anyway . . .” Sebastian stared into the distance.

“Did you know your grandfather?”

“He died when I was five. He was a fine man, but he’d been out in North Africa during the war and the injuries he sustained there made him very frail. My grandparents were devoted to each other. So my
poor old granny not only lost her adored husband, but her daughter too. I think having us grandsons kept her going, actually. She was the most amazing woman, still drystone-walling at the age of seventy-eight and hale and hearty until a week before she fell ill. I’m not sure they make them like her anymore,” he mused, a timbre of sadness entering his voice. “Sorry,” he said suddenly, “I’m talking too much.”

“Not at all. It’s comforting for me to know there are other people who have grown up in difficult circumstances. Sometimes”—Emilie sighed—“I think that having too much of a past is just as bad as having none at all.”

“I totally agree.” Sebastian nodded, then grinned. “Dearie me, if other people heard this conversation, they might think we were a couple of spoilt, privileged kids feeling sorry for ourselves. Let’s face it, neither of us are on the streets, are we?”

“No. And of course it’s what people would think. Especially of me. Why should they not? They don’t see what lies beneath. Look”—she pointed—“the château is just down there.”

Sebastian gazed into the distance at the elegant, pale-pink building nestling in the valley beneath them. He let out a whistle. “It’s absolutely beautiful, and just how my grandmother described it to me. And rather a contrast to our family home on the bleak moors of Yorkshire. Although the rawness of the surroundings make Blackmoor Hall spectacular in a different way.”

Emilie turned into the long drive that led to the château, then steered along the side of the house to park at the back. She pulled the car to a halt and they climbed out.

“Are you sure you have time to show me around?” Sebastian looked at her. “I can always come back another day.”

“No, it’s fine.” Emilie walked with Frou-Frou toward the château and Sebastian followed her through the lobby and into the kitchen.

She took Sebastian from room to room, watching as he paused continually, studying the paintings, the furniture, and the vast collection of objets d’art that lay dusty and unvalued on the tops of mantelpieces, bureaus, and tables. She led him into the morning room, and straightaway, Sebastian walked over to examine a painting.

“This reminds me of
Luxe, Calme et Volupté
, which Matisse painted in 1904 when he was staying in Saint-Tropez. The stippled effect is
similar.” Sebastian traced his fingers just above the oil. “Although this is a pure landscape of rocks and sea, without the figures.”

“Luxury, Peace and Pleasure,”
Emilie repeated in English. “I remember my father reading me Baudelaire’s poem.”

“Yes.” Sebastian turned, his eyes bright with enthusiasm that she knew it. “Matisse took
‘L’Invitation au voyage’
as his inspiration for the painting. It now hangs in the Musée National d’Art Moderne in Paris.” He turned his attention back to the painting in front of him. “It isn’t signed from what I can see, unless the name’s hidden under the frame. But it may be that this was some form of a practice run for the actual painting itself. Especially given that Matisse was in Saint-Tropez at the time when his style was so similar to this. And that’s a stone’s throw away from here, isn’t it?”

“My father knew Matisse in Paris. Apparently he used to come to the salons Papa gave for the creative intelligentsia in the city. I know he liked Matisse very much and spoke of him often, but I don’t know if he ever came down to the château.”

“Well, like so many other artists and writers, Matisse spent the Second World War years down here in the south, out of harm’s way. Matisse is my absolute passion.” Sebastian was quivering with excitement. “May I remove it from the wall to see if there’s any dedication on the back? Often pictures would be given by artists to generous benefactors. Such as your father, perhaps.”

“Yes, of course.” Emilie went to stand next to Sebastian as he tentatively gripped the frame and lifted it carefully from the wall, revealing a square of darker wallpaper behind it. He turned the painting around to study the back with Emilie, but there was nothing to be seen.

“Never mind, it’s not the end of the world,” Sebastian reassured her. “If Matisse had signed it, it would simply be a less complex process to prove that it is his work.”

“You really think it is?”

“With the provenance you’ve just described, and the trademark stippling, which Matisse was experimenting with around the period he painted
Luxe, Calme et Volupté
, I’d say there’s every chance it is. Obviously, it would have to go to the experts for authentication.”

“And if it
is
a Matisse, how valuable would it be?”

“Given there’s no signature, I wouldn’t be experienced enough to
judge. Matisse was extremely prolific and lived a very long life. Would you want to sell the painting?”

“That, again, is another query to put on my list.” Emilie gave an exhausted shrug.

“Well,” Sebastian said as he hung the painting carefully back in its rightful place, “I certainly have some contacts who’d be able to establish its authenticity, but I’m sure your
notaire
will wish to use his own. Thank you, though, for showing it to me, and the rest of this wonderful château.”

“My pleasure,” said Emilie, leading him out of the morning room.

“You know”—Sebastian scratched his head as they stood in the entrance hall—“I’m sure my grandmother mentioned the amazing collection of rare books that she’d once seen here, or am I imagining things?”

“No.” Emilie realized she’d managed to overlook the library on her tour. “It’s just along here. I’ll show you.”

“Thank you, as long as you have time.”

“I do.”

Sebastian was suitably awed on entering the library. “My goodness,” he said as he made his way slowly around the shelves, “this is a simply outstanding collection. God knows how many books there are in here—do you know? Fifteen, twenty thousand?”

“I really have no idea.”

“Are they cataloged? In any kind of order?”

“They’re in the order my father chose to put them, and his father before that. The collection was begun over two hundred years ago. The newer acquisitions are cataloged, yes.” Emilie indicated the leather ledgers sitting on her father’s desk.

Sebastian opened one, turned the pages, and saw the hundreds of entries made in Édouard’s immaculate handwriting. “I know this isn’t any of my business, Emilie, but really, this is an extraordinary collection. I can see from this that your father purchased many rare first editions, not to mention the books already here. This must be one of the finest collections of rare books in France. They should be professionally cataloged on a database.”

Emilie sat down in her father’s leather armchair, feeling overwhelmed. “My God,” she murmured, “there seems to be more and
more to do. I’m realizing that organizing my parents’ affairs is going to be a full-time job.”

“A worthwhile one, surely?” Sebastian said encouragingly.

“But I have another life, a life that I like. That is quiet and”—Emilie wanted to say “safe,” but knew that sounded strange—“organized.”

Sebastian strolled over to her, then knelt down next to her, leaning his arm on her chair for support. “I do understand, Emilie. And if you want to return to that life, then you must simply find people you trust to sort all this out for you.”

“Who
can
I trust?” she asked the air.

“Well, you mentioned your
notaire
, for a start. Maybe you could place everything in his hands?”

“But . . .” Tears pricked the back of her eyes. “Surely I owe it to my family and its history? I cannot simply run away.”

“Emilie,” Sebastian said gently, “it’s very early days, of course you’re feeling overwhelmed. Your mother has only been gone for a couple of weeks. You’re still in shock, still grieving. Why not give yourself some time to make the right decisions?” He patted her hand, then stood up. “I must be off, but you have my card, and it goes without saying I’d be happy to help you in any way I can. This château is manna from heaven for me, especially the paintings, of course.” He smiled. “Anyway, I’m almost certainly going to stay in Gassin for a while, so if you decide you’d like me to set about the process of having the possible Matisse authenticated, just call me on the mobile number on my card.”

“Thank you,” said Emilie, checking that she still had his card in her jeans pocket.

“I’d also be happy to find out the names of the best rare-books and antique-furniture dealers through my contacts in Paris. At the very least, whatever you decide to do with the château, it’s probably a good idea to know the value of what you own. Presumably your parents must have had some form of insurance?”

“I have no idea.” She shrugged, inwardly doubting it knowing her father and making a mental note to ask Gerard. “I appreciate your advice,” she said gratefully as she stood up. She gave Sebastian a weak smile as she led him through the house to the back door and out toward her car. “I’m sorry I seem . . . emotional. It’s unlike me. Perhaps,
another time, we can talk about what your grandmother told you of my father during the war.”

“I’d like that—and please don’t apologize,” he added as they climbed into the car. “You’re not only bereaved, but it seems you’ve been left with one hell of a task on your hands.”

“I will cope. I must,” said Emilie, starting the engine and setting off down the drive.

“And I’m sure you will. As I said, if there’s anything I can do to help, you know how to contact me.”

“Thank you.”

“My
gîte
is just to the left down there”—Sebastian indicated a turning—“so if you drop me here, I can walk the rest of the way. It’s such a beautiful afternoon.”

“Okay.” She brought the car to a halt. “Thank you again.”

“Take care, Emilie,” he said as he climbed out. Then, with a wave of his hand, Sebastian ambled off down the road.

Emilie reversed the car and drove back to the château. Unsettled, she walked aimlessly from room to room, feeling the sharp emptiness of the lack of human presence.

As night fell and the temperature dropped, Emilie sequestered herself in the kitchen by the range, eating the cassoulet Margaux had left for her. Her appetite had deserted her and Frou-Frou happily reaped the benefit.

After supper, she bolted the back door and turned the key in the lock. Taking herself upstairs, she ran a slow stream of tepid water into the ancient, lime-scale-covered bath. She lay in it, musing morbidly how it fitted her length exactly, making it a perfect prototype for her coffin. Climbing out of the bath, she toweled herself dry, then, unusually, let the towel drop to the floor in front of the full-length mirror.

With effort, Emilie forced herself to survey her naked body. She’d always regarded it as a piece of substandard equipment, given out at random in the genetic lottery. Stocky as a child, in her teenage years she’d become plump. Despite her mother’s pleas to eat healthily and less, somewhere around seventeen Emilie had given up the endless round of cucumber and melon diets prescribed, covered her imperfect torso in loose-fitting and comfortable clothes, and let nature take its course.

At the same time, she had also refused to attend further parties, designed to introduce her to the crème de la crème of young men and women her age.
Le Rallye
was organized by a group of mothers to make sure their progeny would meet suitable friends and possible future partners of similar class. The competition to be part of an elite
rallye
for the most socially aware French teenagers was intense. Valérie, with her de la Martinières name, could attract anyone whom she wished to become a member of her own group. She had despaired when Emilie had announced she would no longer be a part of the cocktail parties in grand private homes that formed the heart of the event.

“How can you turn your back on your birthright?” Valérie had asked, outraged.

“I hate them, Maman. I am more than a surname and a bank account. I’m sorry, but no more.”

As Emilie looked in the mirror at her full breasts, rounded hips, and shapely legs, she realized she must have lost weight in the last few weeks. What she saw, even to her critical eye, surprised her. Although her bone structure would never allow her to be sylphlike, she was not, by any stretch of the imagination, fat.

Before she began, as she inevitably would, to pick fault, Emilie removed herself from her reflection, donned her nightshirt, and climbed into bed. Switching off the light and listening to the perfect silence around her, she wondered what had prompted her uncharacteristic naked revelation.

It had been six years since she’d last had what could loosely be termed a boyfriend. Olivier, an attractive new vet at her Paris practice, had not lasted much longer than a few weeks. She hadn’t even particularly liked him, but at least a warm body beside her at night, someone to talk to occasionally over dinner, had eased the loneliness of her existence. Olivier had eventually disappeared, she knew, through lack of effort on her part.