“Madame –”
“Diane, please!”
“Diane, I think you have misunderstood. Jean-Luc and I are workmates; we are not romantically involved.”
Diane gave a French shrug, head on the side and palms up. “Pourquoi pas? Why ever not? You’re a pretty girl and I hear you are intelligent. He is young and eligible. Perhaps you find him un peu difficile, non?”
Sylvie smiled diplomatically and did her best to stop herself from blushing. As usual, it didn’t work, and she put the back of her hands to her cheeks to cool them down.
“Now, now, Sylvie. I was only teasing. There’s no need to be embarrassed. As soon as Jean-Luc arrives with your bag, have a quick shower and make ready for dinner. I’ll be back in half an hour to take you in to meet Joyce, my son Raoul’s wife. She’s a little tired today as she was up all night with the baby.”
With a swirl of her long gored skirt of what could only be finely woven cashmere, she closed the door behind her leaving Sylvie to survey what would be her home for the next two weeks, deep in the heart of Aquitaine, dowry of Eleanor, Queen of England and wife of Henry II.
The room was of modest size with large French doors leading out onto a balcony running the length of the building. The walls were a fresh duck egg blue with cream moldings. Heavy drapes of a matching hue with golden tassels hung at the windows and at the head of the bed. Turning round she found a cherry vanity table and an armoire and in the other corner was a delicate escritoire and a comfortable padded chair. There were no flowers, just an abundant maidenhair fern in a brass pot on a stand. A door stood open to an en suite bathroom - no bath, just a shower but Sylvie was happy with that.
It was a lovely room and Sylvie had felt a great peace envelop her as she had stepped over the threshold. She was going to enjoy her time at Église St. Michel; she was sure. The only rub was that she and Jean-Luc would have to get along and present a united front of professional camaraderie. No stepping over that line again.
Diane was back promptly half an hour later to shepherd her along to meet Joyce, Raoul’s American wife. Sylvie knew little about her, only that she and Raoul had been married for less than a year and that she had only recently had her first baby, a boy called Roméo.
She needn’t have been apprehensive. Joyce welcomed her into her bedroom, a warm smile lighting up her deep emerald green eyes and a finger on her lips to warn Sylvie that the baby was sleeping at last. Joyce looked way younger than the forty Jean-Luc had mentioned. She had thick shoulder length chestnut hair and fine features to go with her stunning eyes. She was still carrying a bit of a baby bump. Sylvie saw that once that had gone, she would be lithe, but with curves in all the right places.
Joyce took her hand and led her over to the primrose yellow bassinette. Baby Roméo was fast asleep, swaddled in his cute little sleeping suit. He was still a little wrinkled as new babies are. He didn’t have much hair, merely a wisp of a dark curl on the top of his head. His little fists were clenched tightly and every now and then, he twitched as if in a boxing match.
“He’s going to be a little fighter, like his dad,” said Joyce. “He’s my miracle baby. I never thought I was going to be lucky enough to be a mother - to my own child that is. I was mother to my three young brothers but that is not the same as holding your own baby in your arms. It makes up for all the pain and the months of wallowing about like a whale.”
“You could never be a wallowing whale, Joyce; you have far too much grace,” said Sylvie meaning every word.
Joyce took her arm and led her out onto the enclosed balcony. “I can see we’re going to get on well,” she said. “A new mother can’t hear too many white lies of encouragement.”
They sat down on the comfortable wicker chairs. Joyce explained that she was from Connecticut, and Sylvie said Mississippi for her. The great distance between their two states didn’t hold them back and by the time Diane came to tell them dinner was ready, they were well on the way to being friends, despite the age difference. Joyce switched on the baby alarm and they all three walked down to the salon together.
A tall well-built hunk of a man was pouring out aperitifs. He looked up and smiled broadly when they entered. Joyce hurried over to him and he turned his cheek towards her for a kiss. He had to be Jean-Luc’s famous uncle, Raoul, and Sylvie could see from whom baby Roméo had inherited his dark hair. Introductions were made. Sylvie liked him immediately. He had Jean-Luc’s devastating dark blue eyes but he was easier; unlike Jean-Luc, he was charming and self-confident. Sylvie wondered if Jean-Luc would develop some of this charisma as he grew older and less moody; she hoped so.
Diane explained that the rest of the family would not be arriving until Christmas Eve as they had work commitments and could only take off the Christmas week. It looked as if Sylvie and Jean-Luc were going to be thrown together more than Sylvie had expected, but then Raoul said he was counting on Jean-Luc to shadow him as he worked on and about the estate. He needed someone to know what was what until his son was old enough to take over.
“God forbid,” Diane exclaimed. “With that, let’s go into dinner.”
16 : Meeting the Family
The week passed pleasantly for Sylvie. She didn’t see much of Jean-Luc except in the evenings when they played pool with Raoul and Joyce, or visited the local bar. With other people around, they didn’t have to be alone together for any uncomfortably long periods. Sylvie spent her days talking with Joyce or helping Diane and her cleaners in the kitchen. In addition to the family arriving for Christmas, they would be holding a party on New Year’s Eve, la Saint-Sylvestre. All this meant a busy time preparing food and decorations.
At last, it was Christmas Eve and the house filled up with Jean-Luc’s brother and his two sisters and their current partners. They all arrived in time for lunch, trooped up to their rooms with their bags and then congregated in the large family kitchen for aperitifs.
Alexandre or Sasha, as the family called him, Jean-Luc’s older brother by four years, was tall like all the men in the family with the du Lamond jet-black hair but he wore it cropped short and brushed up in the same style as his uncle Raoul. He didn’t have the du Lamond deep blue eyes, however; his eyes were hazel. His girlfriend, Avril, a petite young Parisian with fairytale golden tresses clung to his arm at all times and gazed up at him in total adoration.
The two twins, Martine and Louise, one a blond and one a redhead, took after their Breton mother in coloring but they had the du Lamond height with model-length legs. When they discovered that they were almost the same age as Sylvie, give or take a couple of months, they promised to look after her and show her around in exchange for hearing everything about life in Mississippi for twenty-somethings. Their boyfriends Marc and Johann already knew Jean-Luc.
They were all good fun although they teased Sylvie about her terrible Canadian French accent until Raoul called a halt.
“The next person to say anything derogatory about Sylvie’s bizarre accent will have to pay a forfeit,” he warned, thumping a large terra cotta pot on the sideboard.
“Forfeit! Forfeit!” called out Martine and Louise clutching onto Raoul’s arms and refusing to let him go until he had put some coins in the pot for saying Sylvie’s accent was bizarre.
Joyce took Sylvie’s hand and led her to the table. “What’s all the fuss about? Sounds perfectly all right to me. At least Sylvie can speak French. I’ve been struggling to learn French verbs for nine months now. Having a baby was cake in comparison.”
“Thanks for the support, Joyce. But, don’t worry; I’ll get them all back when they speak English.”
Everyone took a seat with Joyce sitting next to Sylvie to lend her some support, five on each side of the old oaken table with Diane at the head.
Sylvie was unprepared for the exuberance of a French family meal. Everyone talked at once with much Gallic gesturing and waving of silverware. Wine was poured, bread was broken and the food eaten with industrious enjoyment.
Joyce noticed S
ylvie staring about her as if she had walked into a school playground. “Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it. It wasn’t quite as bad for me as I have three brothers and a football team of nephews and nieces. Do you have any brothers and sisters, Sylvie?”
“I’m an only child and my father died from a heart attack when I was eight.”
Diane had been monitoring the conversation between the two Americans and she interrupted, “You and Jean-Luc have something important in common then, Sylvie. Jean-Luc was only six when my son, Jacques, and his wife, Sophie, were killed in a car accident.”
“He’s told me a little about that. About how you and his grandfather took the four children in and brought them up. And about how much he loves this place and the happy childhood he had.”
“He told you he had a happy childhood, did he? I’m pleased to hear that. It was always difficult to tell. He was a moody, rather withdrawn little boy. I think it all hit him much harder than the other three children. The girls were only one year old and so my husband Bruno and I were like their parents and Sacha was ten and a little more able to cope with the tragedy, I think.
“Jean-Luc adored my husband and followed him everywhere like a little pet dog. It hit him hard when Bruno died only seven years after his own parents had apparently abandoned him.”
Joyce leaned across Sylvie to put her hand on Diane’s arm. “Diane, don’t worry so much about Jean-Luc. He’s a fine young man and one day he will find a mate who will shake him out of his doldrums and rival his wolves for his attention and affection. It’s not your fault his fiancée chose the brighter career opportunities in the UK.”
Diane patted Joyce’s hand. “Merci, chérie. I do get anxious about him. He is such a sweet guy under all that gruffness. I just want him to be happy.”
Sylvie sat back in her chair with her chin down. Her chest tightened as she shrank into herself, willing herself to disappear. She felt like an eavesdropper. Little did they know that she knew Jean-Luc well, in the full sense of the old biblical use of the word. She had slept with him, they had made love, had sex, however you wanted to put it. They had been as physically close as two people could possibly be; she knew every dip and mound of his body, every crevice, every secret place, and he knew hers.
The dreaded blush crept up her neck and tinged her ears bright red.
“Are you all right, Sylvie?” asked Joyce suddenly noticing that she and Diane had been ignoring their guest and talking over the top of her. “You look a little flushed. Is it too hot in here for you?”
Without waiting for an answer, Diane called out, “Raoul, open the door and let some fresh air in for a moment. It’s a bit stuffy in here and Sylvie is feeling faint.”
Jean-Luc glanced across at her, breaking off from a vigorous discussion with Raoul, to shout across the table, “Ça va, Sylvie? Are you all right?”
When she said she was fine, he went on to ask, “By the way, are you a Catholic?”
Sylvie was nonplussed for a moment especially as a natural lull fell in the conversation and everyone looked at her. She touched her fingers to her throat while she tried to work out the reason behind the question.
Seeing her disorientation, Jean-Luc laughed, “Oh I’m sorry. That was a bit abrupt. Nothing sinister, I assure you. I just wondered if you were going to come to the midnight Mass with us … in the local village church.”
Sylvie let out her breath. She hadn’t even realized that she had been holding it in. “Oh, that’s all. It was a strange question out of the blue like that. Yes, I’m Catholic but sadly, a lapsed one. The last time I went to church was –”
Her stomach crimped up and everything went icy cold. She was surrounded by faces, faces watching her. She was back in St. Xavier’s. She wanted to stand up; she was crushing her beautiful wedding dress, but she couldn’t move. Her eyes flicked round the group, searching for Lisa but she wasn’t there.
Warm hands were patting her cheeks and others rubbing her hands. “Put your head down on your knees, Sylvie,” a soft voice commanded as her head was pushed down.
“Raoul, pass me that jacket, will you,” called out another feminine voice and she felt the garment being wrapped around her shoulders.
“Here,” a familiar male voice broke through her bewilderment. She sat up quickly. It was Jean-Luc, he was holding out a glass of … cognac? For her to drink?
“Sip it slowly,” said Joyce, crouching down beside Sylvie and putting her arm around her to support her, while Jean-Luc held the glass to her lips.
She took a few sips.
“Now take some deep breaths, chérie,” she heard Diane say.
“Regardez!” called out a deep masculine voice. Raoul? “She’s getting some color back in her cheeks.”
“How you feeling now, chérie?” asked Diane softly. “Ça va mieux? Better?”
“What happened?” asked Sylvie looking up at all the anxious faces crowded round her.
“You seemed to come over all faint,” Joyce answered. “You must be tired and probably overwhelmed by this boisterous family.”
As Sylvie replied, “Yes, I suppose so,” she noticed Jean-Luc watching her, his eyes narrowed in concentration. Of course, he knew what had upset her; she had told him about David. Please don’t say anything, please!
He must have understood her reluctance to have her story told. He put the glass down on the table and gestured for everyone to stand back. “I’m taking Sylvie upstairs to her room. She needs to rest quietly for a while.”
He drew her chair out, picked her up in his arms and strode out of the kitchen before anyone could say a word. When he reached her room, he laid her gently on the bed, took off her shoes and covered her up with the duvet. Drawing the drapes he told her he would be back to check on her in a couple of hours, meanwhile she should rest.
“Thank you Jean-Luc,” she whispered. “Thank you for not saying anything about David. I know your family’s kind but I couldn’t have stood for the questions and the sympathy.”
Jean-Luc bent down and kissed her lightly on the forehead. “That’s all right, Sylvie. We’re a team, remember” and with that he withdrew from the room, closing the door softly behind him.
Sylvie pulled a pillow out from under her head and hugged it tightly. She closed her eyes and thought of her private place, the place she went to whenever life became too much and she needed some time out away from reality. She conjured up her mother’s garden and sat down on the lawn with her dog Lobo beside her, letting the scent of the roses and the sound of the birdsong soothe her.
“Well?” said everyone when Jean-Luc returned to the kitchen.
“Don’t know,” he replied, feigning ignorance of the cause of Sylvie’s sudden indisposition. “She hasn’t been herself since we found an eleven-strong pack of wolves dead and dying from poison.”
They all wanted to hear the story. Diane said she had known an old man in the village when she was a child who used to tell the tale of the last time a wolf had been shot in the district around Pomerol.
“But that must have been in the 1950’s and the last wolf was killed in France in the 1920’s, according to official sources,” said Jean-Luc.
Diane answered, “I know what I know, Jean-Luc. Maybe it was a story his father told him. Anyway, feelings are mixed about the return of the wolves. I don’t know what people round here will say when the wolves reach this far. There isn’t much natural prey for them here, just dairy cows and steers for beef.”
“Then I don’t suppose they will migrate to this region. It’s not as if we are being overrun by wolves; there are only two hundred and fifty in the whole of France.”
“You have to stop the wolf killers, Jean-Luc,” said Sacha. “If they carry on at the same rate, there’ll be no wolves left again soon. I love the idea of wolves making a comeback and I am depending on you little brother,” he said clapping Jean-Luc on the shoulder and making him choke on his cheese.
Soon the younger generation had left the table for a long siesta
, Diane reminding them that the Christmas Eve dinner would start at seven o’clock. Joyce bowed out of the clearing up saying she had to feed Roméo. Raoul was left to load the dishwasher, ready for the family feast that evening.
Sylvie woke to a silent house. She was surprised to find that she had been asleep for nearly two hours and it was almost dark outside. She dressed quickly and crept downstairs to see if she could make herself a cup of tea before the rest of the family woke up from their siesta. She found Solomon and Sheba dozing in their baskets by the wood stove and the table still in a state of disarray although someone had cleared the dirty plates. She filled the kettle, placed it on the hob and then turned her hand to tidying up.
She was sitting with a mug of hot tea in her hand when Diane appeared.
“What a wonderful surprise,” she said when she saw how clean and tidy the kitchen was. “Merci, chérie. You must be feeling better, no?”
“Yes, thank you, Diane. Can I help with anything else?”
“You can help me lay the table in the dining room for tonight’s dinner. Has Jean-Luc warned you about le Reveillon?”
“Tonight?”
“We have our Christmas dinner tonight before we go to the midnight Mass. Some people have it after the mass, but I find that too late. I think you’ll enjoy le Reveillon and now that you know how noisy we can be, you’ll feel more at home.”
Raoul came in with a flourish saying that he needed Jean-Luc to help him with the wine. Seeing he wasn’t there, he dashed out into the hall and called up the stairs. Jean-Luc came flying down asking if anyone had seen Sylvie.
“She’s in the kitchen helping Diane,” Raoul answered. “You don’t need to worry about her, she’s fine. I want you to come and help me fetch the bottles out of the cellar and open them to let them breathe. We should have done it at lunchtime but we were all too busy eating and catching up.”
Diane came out into the hall and told Raoul she needed Jean-Luc for a moment. She sent him upstairs to fetch Sacha, Martine and Louise to help her with the oysters as the cleaners had been sent home after lunch.
Waking the Wolf (Coup de Foudre) Page 12
