by Marie Laval
A SPELL IN PROVENCE
Marie Laval
After losing her job in England, Amy Carter uses her redundancy payment to start a new life in France, turning Bellefontaine, an overgrown Provençal farmhouse, into a successful hotel. Though she has big plans for her new home, none of them involves falling in love — least of all with Fabien Coste, the handsome but arrogant owner of the nearby château.
As romance blossoms in the beautiful Provençal countryside, disturbing events at the farmhouse hint at a dark mystery — a destructive, centuries-old attachment between the ladies of Bellefontaine and the ducs de Coste. As Amy struggles to unravel the mystery, she begins to wonder if it may not just be her heart at risk, but her life too.
‘a mes soleils’
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter One
Amy turned the radio off and drove through the bastide’s rusty gates and into the cobblestone courtyard. The car hiccupped to a halt, files and books that were piled up high on the passenger seat crashed to the floor but she hardly noticed.
Bellefontaine, at last.
Forgotten were the long drive from Manchester and her aching neck and back. She was home. She flung the door open, sprung out of the car, and stood in front of the old house as church bells chimed the angelus in a nearby village and echoed in the quiet evening. With its stone walls glowing like pure gold in the winter sunset, its freshly painted lavender shutters, and the windows reflecting the red ball of the sun setting behind dark hills on the other side of the valley, Bellefontaine was even more beautiful than she remembered.
She took a long, deep breath and smiled. The invigorating scent of pine from the nearby forest mixed with rich fragrances of earth, grasses and wild herbs. It may be late February, but here in Provence there was already a hint of spring.
A soft, cool breeze lifted strands of hair around her face. She pushed back the blonde tips that tickled her face, opened the car boot, and shook her head in dismay. Where to start? Like the passenger seats, the boot was filled with bags, suitcases and boxes. It was a wonder she’d managed to fit in so much, and an even greater wonder her old Clio hadn’t broken down on the way.
She pulled out the crate closest to her. Piled high with crockery, and with a bottle of champagne wedged on top, it was so heavy all she could do was toddle across the courtyard, stopping every few feet to catch her breath. She had almost reached the front door when a reddish brown dog appeared from nowhere and charged towards her, barking furiously. She only just managed to keep hold of the box.
‘Where do you come from? Go home and leave me alone.’
The dog ignored her and ran in circles around her. Of course! It was a French dog. She repeated her instructions in French, with no more success.
A loud whistle cut through the barking, the dog stopped dead in its tracks, drew its ears back, and ran away with a yelp. Amy started towards the front door again, but her foot caught a loose cobble. This time she could do nothing to stop the box slipping from her grasp and crashing to the ground.
‘Damn!’
Standing among a pile of broken crockery, she watched the bottle of expensive champagne she’d bought to celebrate her new life roll towards the front door. The bottle came to rest with a loud clank against a terracotta planter.
‘Tout va bien, Mademoiselle?’
She swung round with a gasp and squinted into the light. The dark figure of a man wearing what looked like an old jacket and a pair of jeans tucked into boots stood near the gates against the dying sunset. He was so tall and his shoulders so broad that he cast a huge shadow onto the cobbles.
Although the sun prevented her from seeing his face, she could make out that he carried a rifle and that a bag hung across his chest. Next to him, the silly dog who had caused her to trip whimpered and wagged its tail.
A hunter. She pursed her lips in distaste. She had been warned that the surrounding hills, and especially the forest around Bellefontaine, were popular hunting grounds.
‘Oui, ça va,’ she replied in a cold voice.
‘Vous êtes sûre? Vous n’êtes pas blessée?’
She darted an angry glance in his direction. Of course she was sure she wasn’t injured.
‘I’m fine,’ she replied, ‘but that’s no thanks to you, or your dog. I suggest you keep it under control in future.’
It was unfair to blame the dog for the mess of broken crockery, since she had tripped on the cobbles all on her own, but she didn’t care. She had no sympathy for anyone who wandered the countryside to shoot defenceless animals.
‘And by the way,’ she added, ‘hunting isn’t allowed at Bellefontaine. If you trespass on my land again I shall have to call the gendarmes and have you removed.’
Undeterred, the man gave his dog a command in a low voice and walked across the courtyard in a few long strides, his boots making crunching noises as he stepped on the debris littering the ground.
‘You must be Mademoiselle Carter,’ he said in English with just a trace of a French accent.
He bowed his head. ‘Fabien Coste, enchanté.’
Her breath caught in her throat. Her face felt like it had caught fire.
‘Fabien Coste, from Manoir Coste?’ She tilted her chin to look at him, taking in his tall, muscular frame, his faded jeans, patched up jacket, and green woolly jumper which matched the colour of his eyes.
‘That’s right.’
Fabien Coste … She recognised him now, even though she’d only ever seen him in glossy magazines, looking like a film star in a black dining suit, and surrounded with politicians and celebrities who came from all over the world to the family chateau he had converted into a luxury hotel.
She swallowed hard. The man was probably the one business contact she needed to cultivate for her new venture, and she had just threatened him with the gendarmes!
So there she was, the new lady of Bellefontaine …
Fabien looked down at the small, slim woman who barely reached up to his shoulders. Her long, light blonde hair shone like white gold in the dying sunlight. With her deep blue eyes, flushed cheeks and rosebud lips, she wasn’t what he’d expected. Not at all. She looked young and fragile, and he didn’t know whether it was a good thing or not.
No, he decided, hardening his stare. It had to be a good thing. She probably wouldn’t stick around for very long, and Bellefontaine would once again fall into disrepair and lie abandoned and forgotten – the way it should. He’d never liked the place when it was empty and neglected, he liked it even less now it stood all spruced up.
A gust of wind blew the woman’s fine blonde hair around her face. A strand flew across her cheek, touching her lips. Without thinking he lifted his hand to brush it aside, yearning suddenly to find out if it felt as soft and silky as it looked. He caught himself just in time, and gestured to the broken plates and glasses instead.
‘I a
m sorry my dog frightened you. I will of course refund you fully for the damage it caused.’
Her cheeks flushed a deeper pink, she shook her head.
‘Oh no, it wasn’t really your dog’s fault. I tripped. The crate was too big and I couldn’t see where I was going.’
That she wasn’t taking him up on his offer surprised him. He didn’t know many people who would turn away the chance of getting money out of him.
‘I do hope you have more crockery or you’ll have nothing to eat your supper from tonight.’
She smiled, a genuine, sunny smile this time.
‘I may not have any plates but I still have champagne to celebrate my first evening at Bellefontaine. It has to be a good omen that the bottle didn’t smash along with all the rest, don’t you think?’
‘Indeed.’
He bent down to pick the bottle up and frowned as he read the gold label. Deutz Brut. She looked young and rather candid but she knew her champagne.
‘It’ll be dark soon, let me help you clear this mess and carry your things inside,’ he offered, suddenly reluctant to leave her. Never mind that he was expected back at Manoir Coste for an evening function and that he’d taken far too much time off work already for a walk in the forest to clear his head.
He noticed the uneasy glance she cast towards his rifle and the bag where he’d shoved the dead rabbits he’d lifted from the poachers’ traps, and remembered her earlier comment about hunters not being welcome at Bellefontaine.
‘I’ll leave those out here for now.’
He slipped the bag off his shoulder and leaned the rifle against the wall of the house.
She was about to refuse his help when the sun slid behind the hills and blue grey shadows filled the courtyard. She felt the sudden chill in the air and shivered.
‘All right then. That’s very kind of you. I’ll get the keys.’
‘If I may say so, the logical way to proceed would have been to open the door before you carried your boxes out of the car.’
‘Well, yes, I suppose you are right. I didn’t think …’
She turned round and pulled her key out of her jeans pocket. She slipped it into the lock with a tremor of excitement and pushed the door open onto the dark hallway. The house smelled of paint, detergent, and lemon wood polish, but most of all it smelled of old stones baked by centuries of sunshine and of the nearby cedar forest. It was wonderful. It was the smell of her new home.
She hadn’t been inside the house since Paul Michon completed the renovation works. Her heartbeat quickened and she let out a gasp of delight as she switched on the light and took in the hall’s terracotta walls and the smooth, shiny dark oak stair banister that ran to the first floor. All she wanted was to swirl across the red floor tiles and dance her way into the kitchen, but Fabien Coste was behind her, so she didn’t.
‘I’ll check that everything is in order if you don’t mind,’ she said as she strode in.
With its almond green units, solid oak worktops, and old-fashioned wood-burning stove, the kitchen was warm and welcoming – and exactly what she’d hoped for. In the adjoining utility her brand new fridge, freezer, and washing machine were plugged in and whirred quietly.
She glanced into the lounge. Its bare stone walls and wooden ceiling beams, and the large fireplace gave it a warm, rustic feel, complemented by the old leather sofa and matching armchairs and the oak dresser she had found at a local brocante market. Leading on from the lounge was a formal dining room and a small study, empty for now.
Eager to explore the whole house, she retraced her steps back into the hallway and ran upstairs. There too Paul had worked wonders. Painted in shades of ochre, yellow and terracotta, every one of the seven en-suite bedrooms had an authentic Provençal look. Bellefontaine was almost ready, she smiled. All it needed now was the final touches. And paying guests, of course.
Fabien Coste waited in the kitchen, hands in his jeans pockets. He turned round, eyebrows arched inquisitively, when she came back down.
‘Is everything all right?’
‘It’s more than all right. It’s beautiful! Paul Michon did a wonderful job. Do you know him by any chance?’
A half-smile stretched his lips. ‘I know most people around here.’
Of course, she sighed. He was the Duc de Coste, the lord of the manor. He must know everybody.
‘Shall we make a start?’ he asked, making his way back to the car. ‘I’m sure you are eager to get settled before your staff arrives.’
‘What staff?’
He grabbed a couple of large boxes from the car boot and started back inside. ‘Your housekeeper, receptionist, and cleaner, a cook perhaps … You are opening a hotel, aren’t you, so you need staff.’
She laughed, pulled her duffel bag out of the boot and ran to keep up with him. He was already piling the boxes on top of one another in the hallway.
‘I don’t have any staff, I plan to run the place on my own.’
He turned to look down at her.
‘Really? Then you must be very experienced. What kind of hotel did you manage back in England?’
‘I didn’t – I mean, I’ve never managed a hotel before. I worked in a bank, as a translator, until I was made redundant a few months ago.’
‘So you have no experience at all?’
The glint in his green eyes make her cheeks heat up again.
‘No, but I can cook and I’m good at organising things. I’m sure I’ll be just fine.’
The way he stared at her made her nervous and she felt compelled to carry on.
‘I fell in love with Bellefontaine on holiday last summer. I can’t explain it but I knew straight away this was the place for me. I just had to buy it. Turning it into a guesthouse was the best way for me to earn a living.’
He shook his head and strode outside again to take more boxes out of the car.
‘Running a hotel is hard work, Mademoiselle Carter. You’ll soon find out that there is more to it than giving the walls a fresh lick of paint and putting a sign above the front door. It requires constant attention to detail, a great deal of time and commitment, and good business sense. You also need to find a niche for your hotel, something that makes it unique.’
His haughty tone of voice were like a slap in the face. Who did he think he was to talk to her as if she was stupid?
‘Oh but I do have some idea about the hospitality business, Monsieur,’ she said, her cheeks no longer burning with embarrassment but with anger, ‘and I know exactly what will make Bellefontaine unique, as you say – apart from its great location and the fact it’s a wonderful old house.’
He arched his eyebrows,.
‘And what would that be?’
‘I’m going to provide a friendly, welcoming and relaxing environment and offer homemade organic food.’
Her words tumbled out, and she took a deep breath, annoyed that she was letting the arrogant, patronising man fluster her so much.
‘I will dig a vegetable patch, grow fruit in the garden, make my own jam – everybody says I make the best raspberry jam …’
He stacked up the last of the boxes in the kitchen and turned to look at her, a smile at the corner of his lips.
‘This all sounds rather naive, bohemian even. Homemade jam is very nice, but what you really need is a unique profile, a business plan, and turnover projections for the next three years.’
Heavens, the man was arrogant. Born the heir to a vast estate, he probably never had to work very hard at anything in his life and had an army of servants at his disposal to carry out his orders, do his business plan and his turnover projections!
‘What I have or don’t have is none of your business, Monsieur Coste,’ she said, lifting her chin. ‘I may be bohemian and an amateur, but if I want to establish a hippy commune where everybody frolics around naked, then it’s my prerogative. I do own the place after all.’
She was so angry she stammered the last words.
His lips twitched, his green eyes tw
inkled. ‘Now that would definitely spice things up around here.’
Sobering up, he added, ‘I’m sorry if I upset you. It wasn’t my intention. The thing is, a lot of British couples and families have opened guesthouses in the area these past few years. All of them had romantic and totally unrealistic expectations about life in Provence, and the running of a hotel.’
He didn’t add ‘just like you’, but she thought he probably wanted to.
He paused. ‘And all failed after a couple of seasons, put their house back on the market, and went home.’
It was as if a gloomy shadow entered the kitchen. She shivered and crossed her arms on her chest.
‘Well, this is my home now and I won’t fail,’ she said with more assurance than she felt.
He didn’t reply. Instead, he glanced towards the window and said, ‘I’d better sweep up the courtyard before it gets dark.’
‘No, thanks. I’ll do it myself.’
Right now, she wanted him to leave. Never mind the mess of broken pots outside, she didn’t need any more lectures about her naive outlook on life and lack of experience, or gloomy predictions about her chances – or not – of success. She’d heard enough of that these past few months from so-called friends, and from her sister Chris, back in Manchester.
Annoyance flashed in his eyes.
‘I insist.’ Even though his voice was pleasant, there was a steely edge to it. The man clearly didn’t like being contradicted. Without giving her time to protest, he walked into the utility, came back with a tall, bristly broom, a dustpan, and a bin bag, and walked out.
No, she thought as she heard the scraping of the brush against the cobbles and the clanking of broken pots being emptied into the bin liner, the man could not be used to people standing up to him. She heard a muffled curse in French and smiled. He could not be used to sweeping up either.
She unpacked the few groceries she had brought, dug a couple of mugs out of a box, as well as soup bowls and some cutlery.
‘I left the rubbish bag outside,’ he said when he returned.
He combed back a lock of dark hair, and looked straight at her. Her heart made that annoying flip once again and thumped harder as his green eyes held her in their gaze. Fabien Coste might be haughty and patronising, he was also the most attractive man she’d ever met.
