A Spell in Provence

by Marie Laval

  So the trip to Lourmarin hadn’t been a waste of time after all. She may not have found any inscriptions on the fountain, but she had something a lot more valuable. At last she knew what the fountain and the temple looked like …

  It was time to drive back to Bellefontaine. A Monsieur Dubois had booked five rooms for himself and his family for the night, and she could only hope they would decide to stay longer. She had no other bookings before Laurent on Sunday, and the balance of her bank account was getting dangerously low. Her savings were now almost completely gone, and bills were piling up.

  Monsieur Verdier had been most apologetic about the cancelled bookings, blaming them on yet another technical problem. He had also apologised for not warning Amy about Monsieur Garnier's inspection, and said he hadn't known about the inspection himself. He had however written to Monsieur Garnier to ask him to change the conclusion of his report, and had testified that Amy was a most competent and welcoming host who had been the victim of a shocking crime.

  She scanned the etchings into her computer and attached them to an email she sent to Laurent as soon as she got back, then ran upstairs to change into her old pink cotton shirt and faded jeans. When she was ready, she tidied up the house, put a bunch of fresh flowers in a vase in the five rooms Monsieur Dubois had booked, straightened up the towels in the en suites, baked a cake, and went outside to mow the lawn with the antique petrol-powered mower she had bought at a flea-market.

  It took determination and the best part of two hours to complete the task and by the end of the afternoon, her arms ached, her sweaty shirt clung to her body and her face and forearms were speckled with bits of grass. She switched off the engine and was about to go into the kitchen and pour herself a large glass of water when she heard a car pull up in the courtyard. Shortly afterwards someone knocked on the door. She breathed a sigh of relief. She was just in time to welcome her new guests.

  Fabien grabbed hold of the journals, pushed the door of the Ranger Rover shut, and looked up to see Amy appear on the doorway. Her cheeks were flushed. Her grass-stained shirt clung to her body and her tousled hair shone like spun gold in the sunlight. She looked so damned adorable his throat tightened and a rush of heat flashed through him. All he could do to stop himself from reaching out and pulling her to him was to tighten his grip on the diaries.

  ‘I brought Renaud Coste’s journals as promised,’ he said as he stepped nearer.

  ‘I hope it’s not a bad time. You look busy.’

  She smoothed her hair self-consciously and shook her head.

  ‘Not at all. I’ve been mowing the lawn. Actually, I’m glad you came. I was going to phone you. I have something incredible to show you.’

  He followed her inside, noticing the wooden chest against the cellar door. He didn’t remember it being there last time he had called.

  ‘Won’t this make it hard to open the cellar door?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s the idea,’ she replied, her shoulders lifting in a delicate shrug.

  She pointed to the open patio doors before he could ask her to explain.

  ‘Please take a seat outside, I won’t be long.’

  As soon as he stepped onto the terrace, Michka rushed to greet him. He made a fuss of her, ruffled her ears and stroked her soft coat while he waited for Amy.

  ‘I found this set of prints this morning in a bric-à-brac shop in Lourmarin,’ she said when she joined him on the terrace.

  She spread four etchings out on the garden table. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘That’s Manoir Coste and the old fountain.’

  He pointed to two of the prints.

  ‘And these look like …’

  ‘The Roman fountain and the temple,’ she finished, a glimmer of excitement in her eyes.

  ‘The statues are identical to the one I found in the garden.’

  She pointed to the statues that stood on either side of the temple entrance. He bent down to examine the prints closely. It was the first time he’d seen a representation of the temple his father and grandfather had searched so long for.

  ‘I think you may be right,’ he said at last. ‘Look at the signature in the far right corner. The prints are by the same artist – a Denis Piquot. And both are dated 1755. I wonder where they come from.’

  Amy said the shopkeeper had looked shifty when she enquired about their provenance.

  ‘He must have cut them out of an art book or a travel journal. Dealers make more money when they sell individual prints.’

  ‘Then I’ll do an internet search to locate Denis Piquot’s books,’ Amy suggested. ‘I’m curious to find out who he was and why he drew pictures of your chateau, the fountain, and the temple.’

  She glanced at the two leather-bound volumes on the table.

  ‘Are these the diaries you were looking for the other day?’

  He nodded.

  ‘They are. Do you have time to read a few pages now or shall I come back another day?’

  She leaned closer, tormenting him with the warm scent of her skin.

  ‘Oh no, please do read.’

  They sat down and he opened one of the diaries.

  ‘Very well. I’ll start in 1813, when Renaud decided to destroy the temple.

  “15 March 1813 . Father Chabot came here this morning. Madame Lignac, the baker’s wife, claimed she had seen Magali Bruni lead a ghostly procession through the woods last night. She estimated that there were over a dozen men and women, all clad in long white robes, holding lanterns, and chanting the devil’s song as they walked to the temple.

  The curé crossed himself several times as he talked. ‘The temple must be taken down, stone by stone,' he urged, 'and the Brunis must be sent away without delay.’

  How can I argue with these ignorant, superstitious fools? I know the rumours surrounding the Bruni family. People were always suspicious of them, just because they keep themselves to themselves.

  In the end, however, I had no choice but to agree to demolish the temple and so I asked my estate manager to gather around fifteen of our strongest men and ask them to bring any tools they could find. An hour later, there were more than thirty of us heading into the woods as men came en force from the village, eager to destroy the temple once and for all. On my signal the men started pulling the building down, knocking the pillars to the ground, wrecking the statues and the stonework. We saw the entry to an underground passage which a few men called ‘the gaping mouth of hell’ and which I ordered to be blocked.

  Unfortunately, the men's frenzy of destruction did not stop at the temple. They turned to the fountain and I regret to write that it too, was brought down. Yet I thought it better for them to take their anger out onto old statues rather than the Brunis. When there was nothing left but ruins, I sent everybody home and promised to deal with the Brunis myself. ”’

  Fabien interrupted his reading and looked at Amy. ‘This is where things get … interesting.

  “16 March 1813 . I met my love tonight. How can I believe those who claim that she is some kind of evil witch? I have done what I could to protect her but she is no longer safe in Bonnieux, so I gave her some money and persuaded her to leave for Lyon with her brute of a husband. She will come back when people have calmed down in a few months’ time. I am not sure, however, that I can survive without her until then. ”’

  ‘So Renaud and Magali Bruni were lovers, just like your grandfather Philippe and Rosalie!’

  Amy exclaimed. Immediately her eyes opened wide, her cheeks flushed a deep pink, and she bit her lip.

  ‘I’m sorry, this was rude of me. I didn’t mean to repeat gossip,’

  Fabien smiled tightly.

  ‘It’s all right. I already knew about my grandfather and Rosalie Bruni. Their liaison was common knowledge in my family. I must say, however, that I was taken aback by the revelation that Renaud and Magali were lovers too. It’s rather odd – almost as if there is a connection between Manoir Coste and Bellefontaine, isn’t it?’

  He looked
away, towards the cedar forest which in the late afternoon light was filled with shadows.

  A connection. A spell binding his ancestors to the ladies of Bellefontaine. He may not believe in magic, but Renaud wrote about Magali as if he was infatuated and she had cast a charm on him. His grandfather Philippe had been just as obsessed with Rosalie. He thought of the letters he had found in his father’s old papers a few months back which revealed the secret of another, altogether closer and more upsetting connection between his family and the ladies of Bellefontaine … Nobody, however, was likely to find out about that. He’d make sure of it.

  And what about him? Wasn’t he becoming just as obsessed with Amy?

  Focusing on Renaud’s diary, he flicked through the thin pages.

  ‘There are no further mentions of Magali, the temple, or any “evil” incident for a few months. Until this.

  “28 August 1813 . Summer storms have caused havoc in the fields and orchards. As I walked the dogs yesterday, I was once more drawn to Bellefontaine, so forlorn and desolate without my love.

  I was most surprised to see that the shutters were open and that there was a horse and carriage in the courtyard. At last, she was back from Lyon. I could hear women’s voices inside. I knocked on the door and she came out, looking even more beautiful than I remembered. I would have taken her in my arms there and then were it not for the maid who I could see in the kitchens.

  She explained that she'd had enough of Lyon, but that her husband would stay there for some time, having been appointed master stonemason to build a new church. My heart leapt at the news and I left after promising to visit very soon.”’

  ‘Gaston Bruni was a stone mason?’ Amy cried out. ‘I wonder if he was the one who rebuilt the fountains around Bonnieux. Please carry on …’

  Fabien nodded.

  “‘That night, as a mighty thunderstorm shook the whole hillside I went back to Bellefontaine, and my love and I made up for all our months apart. She is the most fiery creature I ever possessed. She burns my whole being. She burns my soul … ”’

  Fabien’s voice turned a little hoarse as he read the last lines and the melodramatic passion in Renaud’s last words echoed around.

  He cleared his throat, turned a couple of pages. ‘Anyway … I'll carry on.

  “31 August 1813 . The thunderstorm was devastating. Some people in Bonnieux saw a sign that God was angry that Magali Bruni had returned to Bellefontaine. ’”

  He glanced up.

  ‘There are several entries after that about estate business here, a few mentions of Gaston Bruni visiting his wife at Bellefontaine every so often.

  “30 October 1813 . My love is with child. She says it will be a girl. This time, when I talked to her about leaving Bellefontaine, she agreed. For the safety of the baby, she said. She left today for Lyon, where she will stay with her husband until the baby is born. Is the child mine? ”

  ‘Magali came back a few months later,’ Fabien said.

  “25 May 1814 . She has returned, with her husband and with the child. It is as she has predicted, a girl. She is named Béatrice.”

  ‘The two lovers seem to carry on pretty much as before Béatrice’s birth, until this:

  “15 July 1814. I was blind. I was tricked by an enchantress. I saw them together tonight at Bellefontaine through the half-closed shutters.

  They betrayed me, made a fool of me, she and that scoundrel who lives under my roof. Did he know that Magali was mine? Did he seek to spite me by seducing her? Is it his revenge for having to remain in my household as my servant and not being able to inherit the estate and the title? I cannot help but wonder how long they have been deceiving me and whose child Béatrice really is. ’”

  ‘Who is he talking about?’ Amy interrupted.

  ‘His cousin, Arsène Coste, I think. According to my family charter, even though both branches of the Coste family have the right to live on the estate, the title can only belong to one bloodline – mine. I looked up old family papers. Arsène was about the same age as Renaud. He must be the one who was having an affair with Magali Bruni.’

  Amy frowned.

  ‘Is Frédéric related to Arsène Coste by any chance?’

  ‘Yes. That’s Fred’s side of the family.’

  He had no intention of talking about Fred right now. He’d given him an ultimatum after his outburst at the cocktail party. Sort yourself out or leave. And above all keep away from Amy Carter. Never before had he had to struggle so hard to stop himself from smashing his fist into a man’s face. Fred must have seen the hard resolve in his eyes and heard the threat in his voice, because for the first time in ten years, he’d actually apologised for his behaviour.

  ‘What happened to Renaud after he found out Magali was unfaithful to him?’ Amy asked, breaking the brooding silence.

  Fabien turned a few pages.

  ‘After wallowing in self-pity for months, he finally married in November 1814. He joined Napoleon’s army in May 1815, and was killed at Waterloo only a few weeks before the birth of his son … that’s how the legend of the curse was born, I suppose. Anyway, something happened a few weeks before he left that changed his mind radically about Magali and that cult local people accused her of leading. He doesn't say what he saw but it scared him so much he decided to have the cedar forest planted.

  “10 May 1815. I have decided to cover the hill with a cedar forest, hide this infamy and make sure it is lost forever … destroying the temple was not enough. The goddess’ worshipers have other ways of going underground to carry out their wicked acts. This time, I do believe the villagers’ claims about evil doings in the woods for I have witnessed myself the awful truth. Magali will be judged by God. May she be tormented for eternity. ’”

  Fabien’s words died in the quiet evening.

  ‘I wonder what he saw.’

  Amy’s deep blue eyes were deadly serious, sad even. Her hair shone like a halo around her face. As she leaned forward to gather the prints, her arm brushed against his. His throat went dry, his blood pumped hard. The hell with being patient and waiting for the right time. The need to touch her, kiss her, was too strong.

  He put his hand on hers, turned it over. She gasped but didn’t pull away.

  ‘What is it between the ladies of Bellefontaine and the lords of Manoir Coste?’ he asked in a low voice.

  ‘And why do the men in my family always seem to fall for the women who live here?’

  They locked eyes.

  ‘Laurent claims that there is some kind of enchantment between Manoir Coste and the bastide,’ she replied. ‘It goes like this. “The spell flows with the spring, binding hearts together until death tears them apart.” It was written in Latin on one of the stones he found in the garden.’

  ‘I don’t usually believe in spells,’ he said.

  And yet right now he was held captive by the power of her deep blue eyes.

  Slowly, his fingers stroked the inside of her wrist, the palm of her small hand. She looked at him, and parted her lips. He felt her whole body shiver under his touch.

  Suddenly, she yanked her hand out of his grasp, pushed her chair back and rose to her feet.

  ‘You'd better go,’ she said in a breathless, panicked voice. ‘I am expecting new guests any minute. I need to tidy up and get changed.’

  Fabien took one long, deep breath, then another. It didn’t help much. It would take a lot more to keep his body under control.

  His voice was a little raw when he spoke next.

  ‘Would you like to keep the journals a few days?’

  She nodded, serious.

  ‘Yes, thank you. I’d better show you out.’

  She was already rushing down the terrace steps and into the courtyard where his car was parked. It looked like she couldn’t wait to be rid of him.

  He drove back to Manoir Coste too fast, anger, desire and frustration seething inside him. He must have read too much into the way she blushed and always seemed flustered around him. The new lady of Bel
lefontaine had made it very clear she wasn’t interested. He should stop behaving like a love-struck idiot and making a fool of himself.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Amy peeled her shirt and jeans off, stepped into the shower, and turned the water on. As she washed bits of grass out of her hair and let the hot water soothe the ache from her shoulders and back, the same questions swirled endlessly in her mind. Was Fabien genuinely attracted to her or did she just see what she wanted to see? How could she love a man who had no sense of honour? A man who was prepared to cheat on his girlfriend, his almost fiancée, if the rumours were true – love him so much she lost all sense of self and was reduced to a weak and helpless creature every time he was near? She could pity Chris as she clung to her cheat of a boyfriend and refused to face the truth. She was just as pathetic as her sister. That served her right for being so judgemental and self-righteous where Chris and Toby were concerned.

  She put on a white cotton summer dress with tiny pearl buttons at the front, slipped her feet into sandals, and ruffled her hair dry. There, she thought as she glanced at her reflection in the mirror: she may not compete with Claudine’s designer clothes but she was a little more presentable for the arrival of her new guests … whenever that may be.

  A couple of hours later, she started to wonder if the Dubois family would ever arrive. She had no way to get in touch with them because the booking had come through the Tourist Office and the office was now closed for the night. What if they had an accident, or what if they’d changed their minds and no longer needed rooms?

  The phone rang, and she answered straight away. It wasn't the Dubois but Adèle.

  ‘I wanted to let you know that Paul came back this morning.’

  Amy was relieved.

  ‘Where was he?’

  ‘The gendarmes found him yesterday evening, blind drunk in his van, which he’d parked in a quiet spot on the hill,’ Adèle explained. ‘He spent the night in a cell and the gendarmes drove him home today.’

  ‘Poor Adèle, I’m so sorry. Did he explain why he got himself into such a state?’

  ‘No, he locked himself in the spare room and won’t speak to me.’