The Lavender Garden (6 page)

Emilie didn’t really know what love was composed of—a mixture of physical attraction, a meeting of minds . . . a
fascination
, perhaps. But she knew she’d never fallen in love. Besides, who would ever love
her
?

That night, Emilie tossed and turned, feeling her mind might burst with the decisions she must make and the responsibility she couldn’t
shirk. But, more than that, her sleep was disturbed by the picture in her mind’s eye of Sebastian.

Even for the short time he’d been in the château, she’d felt a security in his presence. He seemed capable, solid, and . . . yes, he was very attractive. When his hand had touched hers for an instant in the library, she hadn’t flinched as she normally did when somebody invaded her personal space.

Emilie chastised herself. How sad and lonely she must be that a man she’d met by chance for no longer than a couple of hours had affected her like this. Besides, why on earth would a man as seemingly accomplished and handsome as Sebastian look at her twice? He was out of her league, and the chances were she’d never come across him again. Unless, of course, she called the number on the card he’d given her and asked for his help with valuing of the Matisse. . . .

Emilie shook her head grimly, knowing she’d never gather the courage to do that.

It was a road to nowhere. She’d decided years ago that life was best lived alone. Then no one could hurt her or let her down again. And with that thought lodged firmly in her brain, Emilie finally drifted off to sleep.

D
ue to her disturbed night, Emilie woke late the next morning and over coffee wrote down a never-ending list of things “to do.” Then she started a fresh sheet of paper with the questions she needed to ask of herself. At the beginning of this process, all she’d wanted was to sell both houses as quickly as possible, sort out the complexities of her family estate, and return to her safe life in Paris. But now . . .

Emilie rubbed her nose with the pencil and stared around the kitchen for guidance. The house in Paris she would sell—it did not hold good memories for her. However, the past few days had altered her thoughts about the château. Not only was it the original family “seat”—built by Comte Louis de la Martinières in 1750—but it had an atmosphere she’d always loved. It calmed her, reminded her of happy days here with her father.

Should she consider keeping it?

Emilie stood up and wandered about the kitchen, mulling the thought over in her mind. Wasn’t it ridiculous, not to mention obscene, for one single woman to maintain a home on such a scale?

Obviously her mother hadn’t thought so, but then the social set Valérie mixed with were in a rare league of their own. Emilie had stepped out of that league years before and knew how ordinary people lived. Yet the thought of being able to live here, amid its peace and tranquillity, was appealing to her more and more. Having felt like an outsider to her family all her life, ironically she felt for the first time that she’d arrived home. It shocked her how much she suddenly wanted to stay here.

Emilie sat back down at the kitchen table and continued the list of questions she would need to ask Gerard. If she could restore the château to its former glory, it would not only be for her own benefit, for surely it was a part of French history too? She would be performing a
service to the nation. With this thought comforting her, she picked up her mobile and dialed Gerard’s number.

After a long conversation with him, Emilie looked at the notes she had made. Gerard had reiterated that there would easily be enough to restore the château. The one thing he’d made clear was the lack of actual hard cash—anything she wished to do would have to be funded by what was sold in the immediate future.

He had seemed taken aback at her sudden change of heart. “Emilie, it’s certainly commendable that you wish to maintain your family’s heritage, but restoring a house of that size is an enormous undertaking. I would go as far as to say a full-time job for the next two years. And it will be all down to you. You’re alone.”

Emilie had almost expected him to add “and a woman,” but thankfully he had refrained. Gerard was probably wondering how much of the work would land on his own shoulders, as it was patently obvious to him she couldn’t cope by herself. Irritated by his condescension, but aware she’d done little to alter his attitude otherwise, Emilie pulled her laptop out of its pouch and switched it on. Then, chuckling to herself for expecting an Internet signal in a house that probably hadn’t been rewired since the 1940s, she drove with Frou-Frou up to Gassin village. Climbing the steep hill, she asked Damien, the friendly proprietor of Le Pescadou Brasserie, whether she could log on to their Internet access.

“Mademoiselle de la Martinières, of course you may,” he said, leading her into the small office at the back of the restaurant. “I apologize for not being here to greet you before, but I’ve been away in Paris. Everyone in the village was sad to hear of your
maman
’s passing. Like your family, mine has been in the village for many hundreds of years. Will you sell the château now she is gone?”

Emilie knew this was the question Damien wanted the answer to. His bar and restaurant were the high altar of village gossip.

“I really don’t know at the moment. I have many things to look into.”

“Of course. I hope you don’t decide to sell, but if you do, I know many a developer who would be willing to pay a fortune to turn your beautiful château into a hotel. I’ve had many inquiries here over the years.” Out the window, Damien indicated the château far below in the valley, its graying terra cotta rooftops glinting in the sunshine.

“As I said, Damien, I still have to make up my mind.”

“Well, mademoiselle, if there’s anything you need, please call us. We were all very fond of your father here. He was a good man. After the war, we in the village were so poor. The comte helped to push the government for proper roads to be built up to us here on the hill and encourage the tourists to visit from Saint-Tropez. My family opened this restaurant in the 1950s, and the village began to grow prosperous. Your father also promoted the planting of vineyards to grow the grapes for the wonderful wine we now make here.” Damien swept his arms across the vine-covered valley below them. “When I was a child, all we had around us was farmland, fields of corn and grazing cows. Now our Provençal rosé is world famous.”

“It’s comforting to hear my father helped the area he loved.”

“The de la Martinièreses are part of Gassin, mademoiselle. I hope you will decide to stay here with us.”

Damien continued to fuss around her, bringing her a jug of water, bread, and a
plat au fromage
. Once Emilie had connected her laptop successfully, Damien left her alone. She checked her e-mails, then took out Sebastian’s card and looked up his gallery on the Internet.

Arté was on the Fulham Road in London and mainly dealt in modern paintings. Emilie was comforted to see it existed. Making up her mind, she dialed Sebastian’s number. His voice mail answered, so she left her number and a short message, asking him to contact her about their conversation yesterday.

When she’d finished, Emilie thanked Damien for the use of the Internet and lunch, then drove back to the château. She felt energized, more motivated than she had in years. If she decided to renovate the house, she would almost certainly have to give up her veterinary career in Paris and move down here to oversee the project. Perhaps this was just what she needed—and, ironically, the last thing she would have considered a few days ago. It would give new purpose to her life.

However, her excitement gave way to fear as she drew nearer to the house and saw a police car sitting outside. Hastily bringing her car to a halt, Emilie grabbed Frou-Frou and climbed out. She stepped into the hall to find Margaux talking to the gendarme.

“Mademoiselle Emilie”—Margaux’s eyes were wide with shock—“I
believe we’ve had a break-in. I arrived here as usual at two and the front door was wide-open. Oh, Mademoiselle, I’m so very sorry.”

With a sinking feeling in her stomach, Emilie realized that in her excitement over her decision to renovate the château, she hadn’t locked the back door before she’d driven up to the village.

“Margaux, this is not your fault. I think I left the back door open. Has anything been taken?” Emilie thought of the potentially valuable painting in the morning room.

“I have looked carefully in every room and I can’t find a thing missing. But perhaps you can look too.”

“Often these kinds of crimes are opportunist,” offered the gendarme. “There are many Gypsies who see what they believe is a deserted house, break in, and are simply looking for jewelry or cash.”

“Well, they won’t have found any of that here,” Emilie replied grimly.

“Mademoiselle Emilie, do you by any chance have the front-door key in your possession?” asked Margaux. “It seems to be missing. I wondered if you had placed it somewhere safe for extra security, rather than it standing as it normally does in the lock.”

“No, I haven’t.” Emilie surveyed the oversized, empty keyhole, looking bare without its rusting mate inserted into it. She blinked, trying to remember if the key had been in the lock this morning. But it was not the kind of detail she would have noticed on her way to the kitchen through the hall.

“If the key cannot be found, it’s important that you call a locksmith who can fit a new one immediately,” said the gendarme. “You will not be able to lock the door, and it’s possible that the thieves have taken it with them and are preparing to return at a later date.”

“Yes, of course.” Emilie’s earlier vision of a secure paradise was fast evaporating as her heart beat unsteadily in her chest.

Margaux looked at her watch. “I apologize, Mademoiselle Emilie, but I must go home. Anton is alone at our house. Am I free to leave?” she asked the gendarme.

“Yes. If I need any further information, I’ll be in contact.”

“Thank you.” Margaux turned to Emilie. “Mademoiselle, I’m worried about you being here by yourself. Perhaps it would be better to move out to a hotel for the next couple of nights?”

“Don’t worry, Margaux, I’ll contact a locksmith and I can always lock my bedroom door, for tonight, anyway.”

“Well, please call me if you’re at all concerned. And remember to secure the back door in future.” With a harassed wave, Margaux scurried off to collect her bicycle.

“Please search the château in case your housekeeper or myself have missed something.” The gendarme pulled a pad out of his top pocket and scribbled down a number. “Contact me if you discover anything has been stolen and we’ll take the matter further. Otherwise”—he sighed—“there’s not much more I can do.”

“Thank you for coming,” said Emilie, feeling guilty for her stupidity. “As I said, it is my fault.”

“It’s no problem, but I would suggest that you tighten security here as soon as you can and—as this château is so often empty—invest in an alarm system.” The gendarme nodded at her and walked toward his car through the open front door.

As soon as he’d left, Emilie mounted the stairs to begin checking nothing had been taken. Halfway up, she noticed a car snaking down the drive toward the house and saw it disappear around the back. Heart beating, Emilie scurried into the kitchen to lock it against unknown intruders. But it was Sebastian’s face peering through the glass pane. Emilie unbolted the door and reopened it.

“Hello!” Sebastian looked at her questioningly. “Are you sure you want me to come in?”

“Yes. Sorry, I’ve just had a break-in and didn’t recognize your car.”

“Oh, God, Emilie, how awful!” He stepped over the threshold. “Did they take anything?”

“Margaux thinks not, but I was just going upstairs to check.”

“Do you want me to help you?”

“I . . .” Her legs suddenly turned to jelly and she sat down abruptly on a kitchen chair.

“Emilie, you’re very pale. Look, before you go dashing off round the house, why don’t you let me make you the Englishman’s version of the ‘cure-all’—a nice cup of tea? You’ve had a shock. Sit where you are, calm down and I’ll put the kettle on.”

“Thank you,” she said, feeling dazed and shaky as Frou-Frou
whined for a cuddle. She pulled the dog up onto her knee and stroked her, the motion comforting her.

“How did they get in?”

“We think through the back door, but they left through the front and the key is missing. I must get a locksmith out as soon as possible to replace it.”

“Do you have a telephone directory here?” Sebastian put down a mug on the table in front of her. “While you drink your tea, I could contact a locksmith for you.” He pulled out his mobile phone.

“Yes, in the drawer over there.” Emilie indicated a large dresser. “Really, Sebastian, this is not your problem. I’ll sort it out . . .”

But Sebastian had already opened the drawer and pulled out the directory.

“Right,” he said after a few minutes of browsing the numbers. “There are three listed in Saint-Tropez and one in La Croix Valmer. Why don’t I call them now and see who’s available?” He picked up the receiver and dialed the first number. “Hello, yes, I’m calling from Château de la Martinières and I was just wondering if . . .”

Emilie didn’t listen to the conversation, simply sipped her tea and basked gratefully in the comfort of someone else taking charge.

“Right,” Sebastian said as he ended the call, “unfortunately the locksmith can’t come out until first thing tomorrow. But he told me he’s used to replacing old locks on doors around here.” Sebastian glanced at her. “You seem to have a little more color. Before the light fades, are you up to double-checking the house? You really should. I’ll come with you if you like.”

“Surely, Sebastian, you must have other things to do?” Emilie entreated. “I don’t wish to hold you up.”

“Don’t be silly. An English gentleman would never abandon a damsel in distress.” He offered his hand to help her up from the chair. “Come on, let’s get this over with.”

“Thank you. I’m concerned they’re still here, hiding somewhere.” Emilie bit her lip. “Margaux didn’t see the intruders leave.”