The Lavender Garden (8 page)

“Emilie,” Sebastian said gently, placing a hand on her shoulder. “You really have been under the most enormous pressure in the last two weeks. Grief and shock can affect you on all sorts of levels.” The hand on her shoulder began to move, massaging it. “Don’t be too hard on yourself. Thankfully, there’s no real harm done. Just take it as a warning for the future. Now, what’s your breakfast preference?”

“Baguette, croissant . . . I don’t mind.” She walked away from Sebastian to pour the coffee, then sat at the table silently, chewing through her breakfast and listening to Sebastian call the various alarm-system companies the locksmith had suggested.

“Okay,” he said, putting down the receiver and jotting a couple of things on a sheet of paper. “They’re all saying they can provide a suitable system for the house, but would need to come and survey it before they can give you a quote. Want to book them in for tomorrow?”

“Yes, thank you.” She looked up at him suddenly. “Why are you helping me?”

“What a strange question. I suppose it’s because I like you and I can see you’re having a hard time. Besides, I’m sure Grandmother Constance would expect nothing less of me for her friend Édouard’s daughter. Now, do you want to speak to the chap in Paris who’s been suggested to come and value the Matisse, or shall I?”

Emilie was feeling sick after a breakfast she hadn’t wanted. “Perhaps it’s best if you do it, as you can talk the language he’ll understand.”

“Right. I’d also suggest he value the other paintings in the château while he’s here. It’s never a bad idea to get two or three estimates anyway.”

“Yes. And then there’s the art in the Paris house, which I must also have valued.”

“When will you return to Paris?”

“Soon.” She sighed. “But you’re right, while I’m here it’s good to do as many things as I can. If I decide to keep the château, it will be only the beginning.”

“You think you might keep it?”

“Yes. Although if I can forget to lock the back door, perhaps it’s stupid of me to consider taking on a project which would be a challenge for anyone.”

“Well, just know I’ll be happy to do anything I can.”

“It’s very kind of you and I’m grateful.” Frou-Frou whined at the kitchen door to be let out. Emilie stood up and opened it for her. “Surely you must have your own life to lead?”

“I do, but as beautiful paintings happen to be my passion, it’s not exactly a hardship. Now, what about the library? Would you like me to investigate a good rare books’ expert to come and take a look at the collection?”

“No, thanks,” said Emilie quickly, her head spinning, “there’s no urgency as I’ll never sell the books. I must call Gerard, my
notaire
. He left me three messages yesterday afternoon, but I didn’t get back to him.”

“While you do that, I’m going to nip back to my
gîte
for a change of clothes and a shower. I’ll see you later. And don’t forget, the locksmith will be here any minute.”

“Thank you, Sebastian.”

•  •  •

Having shown the locksmith to the front door and left him to it, Emilie did at least manage to get a shiver of satisfaction as she called Gerard and told him she had things under control at the château. She arranged to meet him in Paris next week at her parents’ house, checked the locksmith’s progress, and walked into the library, needing to feel the calmness of its atmosphere. Wandering around the shelves, Emilie ruminated on what a huge job it would be to put the thousands of books into storage if she decided to either sell or renovate the château.

She noticed two of the books were standing proud of the others
on the shelf. She pulled them out and saw that they were books on the cultivation of trees. Pushing them neatly back into line, she walked into the kitchen as she heard Sebastian’s car approaching across the gravel.

He burst through the back door, panting. “Emilie! I tried to call you!” He ran a hand through his hair. “I’m afraid I just found your little dog lying on the side of the road. She’s very badly injured and we need to get her to a vet immediately. I’ve got her on the backseat of the car. Come on, let’s go.”

Horrified, Emilie ran out with Sebastian to the car, climbing in beside a bleeding and barely breathing Frou-Frou. Sebastian drove at speed, heading for the vet she’d told him had a practice in La Croix Valmer, ten minutes’ drive away. Tears dripped down Emilie’s cheeks as she stroked the lifeless Frou-Frou on her knee.

“I let her out this morning,” she sobbed, “then the locksmith arrived and I forgot to call her back in. She doesn’t usually stray, but maybe she was following your car . . . and once she was on the road, she’s blind and wouldn’t have been able to see anything coming. . . . Oh, God! How could I have forgotten!”

“Emilie, Emilie, try and keep calm. The vet may be able to save her,” Sebastian said, doing his best to comfort her.

One look at the vet’s grave face was enough to tell Emilie what her professional eye already knew.

“I’m very sorry, mademoiselle, but she has sustained serious internal injuries. We could try operating, but she is old and very weak. Perhaps it’s simply best for us to help her pass away comfortably. It’s what you would advise a client of yours, is it not?” he suggested gently.

“Yes.” Emilie nodded miserably. “Of course.”

Twenty minutes later, having kissed Frou-Frou a last good-bye as the vet injected her and her small body gave a final twitch of surrender, a devastated Emilie emerged and walked shakily up the steps from the practice, holding on to Sebastian’s arm for support.

“My mother adored her and I promised I would take care of her and—”

“Come on, sweetheart, let’s get you home,” Sebastian said as he led her toward the car.

Emilie, catatonic with guilt and emotion, sat next to him as he
drove. They walked through the kitchen door and she sat down at the table, resting her head on her forearms in despair.

“I can’t even take care of one small dog! I’m hopeless, just as my mother always told me! I can’t get anything right, nothing. And I’m the last in the line of such a great noble family! So many heroes, including my father, and look at me—I’m useless!”

As all the pain of her mother’s disappointment in her poured out, Emilie sobbed like a child, her head buried in her own arms for comfort.

When she eventually looked up, she saw Sebastian was sitting quietly at the table, watching her.

“Please,” she exclaimed, immediately embarrassed at her outburst, “forgive me, I’m . . . a mess! And I always have been,” she choked out.

Sebastian stood up slowly, walked around the table, then bent down on his haunches and offered her a handkerchief to wipe her dripping nose. “Emilie, I
promise you, the picture that you have of yourself, which is obviously taken from your mother’s point of view, is completely inaccurate. For what it’s worth”—he smiled as he moved a lock of hair away from her face and tucked it behind her ear—“having only just met you, I think that you’re a brave, strong, and intelligent woman. Not to mention beautiful.”

“Beautiful!” Emilie looked at him with ridicule in her eyes. “Really, Sebastian, I appreciate your trying to make me feel better, but barefaced lies only patronize me. I am not ‘beautiful’!”

“And I suppose that too is something your mother told you?”

“Yes, but it’s true,” she said with force.

“Well, forgive me for voicing my own opinion, but I thought it the day I first set eyes on you. And as for being a ‘failure,’ well, I’ve never heard such rot in my life. From what I’ve seen so far, you’ve handled what would have sent other people into total despair with amazing strength. And you’ve done it virtually alone. Emilie, listen to me,” Sebastian pleaded. “Whatever your mother’s attitude toward you was, you really must not see yourself through her eyes. Because, my darling, she was wrong. Very wrong. And now she’s gone and it’s your turn. She can’t hurt you anymore, she really can’t. Come here.”

Sebastian reached for her and pulled her into his arms. He held her tightly against him, and she continued to sob into his shoulder. “I promise you, everything’s going to be fine. And I’m here if you need me to be.”

She looked up. “But you hardly know me! How can you say all these things?”

“Well”—Sebastian chuckled—“I suppose it’s been a pretty dramatic couple of days. And I’m sure that if I’d met you in Paris and we’d just gone out for a few dinners, I wouldn’t feel as qualified to have an opinion. But adversity can sometimes reap positive rewards. Barriers that normally take weeks are broken through much faster. And I think I understand you. And I’d like to spend lots more time with you if you’d let me.” He pushed her shoulders away from him and tipped her chin up so she was looking directly at him. “Emilie, I know this is all happening very fast, and you’re scared and frightened, so the last thing I want to do is to push you. And I won’t, I promise. But I must admit that, just at this moment, I’d like to kiss you.”

Emilie looked at him and gave a small smile. “Kiss
me
?”

“Yes. Is that so shocking?” Sebastian mocked her gently. “But don’t worry, I’m not going to pounce on you. I just wanted to be honest.”

“Thank you.” Emilie stared at him and came to her own decision. She reached her head forward and tentatively touched his lips with her own. “Thank you, Sebastian, for everything. You’ve been so kind, I . . .”

He took her face in his hands and kissed her back, then broke away suddenly, checking himself. “Look,” he said, taking her fingers and entwining them with his, “please tell me if you’re comfortable with this. I don’t want you to think I’m taking advantage of you in any way. You’re confused, I’m sure you can’t possibly know how you feel just now, and—”

“Sebastian, it’s okay.” It was Emilie’s turn to comfort him. “I know exactly what I’m doing. I’m a big girl, as you said. So, please, don’t worry.”

“Well then, I won’t,” he replied softly.

As Sebastian drew her back into his arms, Emilie felt the pain being slowly washed away by his tenderness. And surrendered to it.

Paris

January 1999—Nine Months Later

E
milie sat at the back of the auction room watching the gaggle of effortlessly chic Parisian women raising delicately manicured hands to bid for an exquisite canary-diamond necklace and matching earrings. She glanced down at the catalog on which she’d scribbled figures in the margin and realized that, by her reckoning, the sale had so far raised almost twelve million francs.

Over the next few weeks, apart from a few paintings and choice pieces of furniture that she had decided to keep and eventually ship down to the château, the entire contents of the Paris house would be auctioned too. The house itself was already sold, and its new owners would be taking up residence shortly.

She felt a slight pressure on her left hand and turned. “Are you okay?” Sebastian whispered.

She nodded, grateful for his empathy as she watched her mother’s precious jewelry collection go under the hammer. The money raised would pay off a big chunk of the overdraft Valérie had accrued, leaving Emilie the funds from the sale of the Paris house to finally begin renovations on the château. And the Matisse had been authenticated, thanks to Sebastian’s help. He’d immediately found a private client for it and had proudly handed her a check for five million francs.

“Such a shame Matisse didn’t sign the canvas. It would have been worth at least triple that amount,” he’d said, sighing.

Emilie glanced sideways at Sebastian, who was watching with amused interest the feverish bidding for the necklace and earrings. She often found herself staring at him in wonder and amazement that he’d walked into her life and changed it so irrevocably.

He had saved her. Everything was different now; she felt a little as though she’d woken up from a long and painful dream and stepped out into the sun. Reluctant in the first few weeks to believe in his feelings for her, frightened that at any minute he might disappear and leave her, his unwavering warmth had eventually broken down all her barriers. And now, nine months on, she was basking in his love, blossoming like a wilted flower suddenly given water. She no longer looked in the mirror and saw a reflection full of hopelessness; now she could see that her eyes sparkled and her skin glowed with a new luminescence . . . some days Emilie even thought she might be considered pretty.

Not only that, but Sebastian had been wonderful in helping her organize the enormous job of sorting out the de la Martinières estate. Even though they’d spent time apart, with Sebastian having to commute between France and his business in England, he’d joined her as much as he could to support her through the valuing, and emptying, of the Paris house. Then through the rigmarole of surveyors, architects, and builders who came to the château to help Emilie form a picture of exactly what was needed to restore it and provide an idea of costs.

Emilie knew she was becoming more and more reliant on Sebastian, not only emotionally but in coping with her practical, financial maze. It wasn’t that she couldn’t deal with the endless paperwork sent through from Gerard, and his suggestions of how to invest the money once it materialized; but rather that, like her father, she simply wasn’t interested. As long as she had enough to complete the renovations on the château and some future funds to live on, where and how the money was looked after was irrelevant. Emilie was far too happy to care.

As she heard the bidding topping the 1.2 million francs that was expected for the necklace and earrings, Emilie swore to herself that once the Paris house was out of her possession she’d sit down and go through the financial details with Sebastian. It was important she remain in control, she knew, but Sebastian was far better at all that kind of thing than she was. She’d learned to trust him implicitly. So far, he had never let her down.

The gavel smashed onto the auctioneer’s rostrum. Sebastian smiled at her. “Wow, three hundred thousand francs more than we’d anticipated.
Congratulations, sweetheart.” He kissed her affectionately on the cheek.

“Thank you.” Then she saw the auctioneer showing a simple string of creamy pearls and matching earrings and a sudden taste of bile came to Emilie’s throat. She bent her head, unable to watch.