“Morning, sleepyhead,” he commented cheerfully.
Emilie blushed self-consciously, wishing she’d changed out of her nightshirt, Sebastian’s fisherman’s jumper, and a pair of his thick socks. But then, she hadn’t been expecting company. “It’s only half past eight,” she said defensively as she switched on the kettle.
“I know, I’m only teasing. One of the unfortunate downsides to having a pair of numb sticks for legs is that they twitch and jerk involuntarily in the night, which means I don’t tend to get much sleep. I’ve also started to get strange tingling sensations in them, which might mean that some feeling is returning. The doctors say it’s a very good sign.”
“That’s wonderful news, surely?” Emilie leaned back against the sink and watched him. “What was the prognosis originally?”
“Oh, the usual,” said Alex airily. “That I’d damaged the nerves in my spinal column, that they couldn’t tell whether I’d ever regain any feeling in my legs, but that they thought probably not. Blah blah.”
“So they said there was a possibility you might walk again?”
“God no, they wouldn’t go that far. False hope from doctors is a suable offense these days, my dear.” Alex smiled. “But rather than being my normal obtuse self and not listening to anyone in the medical profession, I’ve been a good boy and worked hard at my physio sessions at the hospital and continued the exercises here at home.”
“So there’s a chance you might fully recover?”
“I’d doubt it, but where there’s life, there’s hope, and all that… . Now, as I’ve been slaving away since the dawn broke, I think I deserve a cup of coffee, don’t you?”
“Of course.” Emilie filled the French press with boiling water and took down two mugs from a cupboard.
“I’ve obviously left the top half of the wall for you to paint. My ladder climbing could be a spectator sport.” Alex laughed. “Sleep well?”
“Yes, I did, thank you. Alex?” she asked slowly as she waited for the coffee to brew.
“Yes, Em? May I call you that? It suits you. It’s softer, somehow.”
“If you wish. I was just thinking how different you were last night from the picture Sebastian paints of you.”
“I simply give my brother what he wants.” Alex shrugged.
“What on earth do you mean? How could Sebastian ‘want’ you to behave badly?”
“Your husband is a subject you know I’m loath to discuss.” Alex wagged a finger at her. “Especially covered in primrose paint at this hour of the morning.”
“But, for example, constantly giving your carers so much trouble that they walk out and leave you?” she persisted.
“Em …” Alex sighed. “We said we wouldn’t talk about this. All I will say is that, as I don’t actually want them, or get a hand in the choosing of them, I have to get rid of them somehow, don’t I? I mean, I’m physically unable to prevent Sebastian depositing them in my home. As I mentioned last night, I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself these days.”
“Are you absolutely sure you can manage alone?”
“Now, don’t start, please.” He raised his eyebrows. “Patronizing the paraplegic is not an attitude I deserve after my faultless performance in front of you last night.”
“Yes, but I’ve been left in charge, and I—”
“Em, nobody, and especially not you, is in charge of me. It may suit my brother to believe he is, but as you can see from the short time you’ve been here, I have a horrible habit of disrupting that illusion.”
“What I’m trying to say, Alex, is that if I don’t follow my husband’s instructions to provide you with a new full-time carer and something happened to you, he may never forgive me.”
“I give you my word, Em,” said Alex, serious at last. “Nothing will happen to me. Now, for God’s sake, stop fussing and do something useful like pour me that cup of coffee.”
• • •
An hour later, Alex muttered something about having some work to do and took himself off back to his flat. Emilie finished the top half of the wall, then dabbed carefully at the spots she’d missed. Standing by the sink washing the paint off her hands, she looked out the window and saw the faint green of the grass appearing from beneath the fast-melting ice. Having been incarcerated in the house for so many days, she thought she might take herself off for a walk and familiarize herself with the landscape around it.
The sun was shining as she let herself out the back door. She walked through what she was sure in the summer would be a pretty formal garden, then made her way through a gate and into an orchard. The ancient trees hung bare, looking for all the world as if they were dead, but the uncollected detritus of mulchy windfall frozen beneath them belied their current state.
Standing at the edge of a grass tennis court, which hadn’t seen attention for many years, Emilie realized that the house was set snugly into a gentle valley of rolling hills. In the distance, she could just make out the dark shapes of higher peaks and crags on the horizon. Walking farther, she saw the house was surrounded by pasture, obviously inhabited by sheep from the frozen droppings under her feet. Standing atop a grassy hillock, Emilie decided thankfully that this was indeed a beautiful, if rather barren, part of the world.
Later that afternoon, she made some calls to France. It had been agreed with the architect and the builders that she would fly over in the next couple of weeks to meet them. And, most important, to oversee the contents of her father’s library’s being put into storage before the work began in earnest.
Over a cup of tea in the kitchen, Emilie debated whether she should return the favor and ask Alex in for supper that evening. She needed to get to the bottom of the puzzle of his relationship with her husband and the animosity between the two of them. And while Sebastian was absent, surely this was the perfect time to do it?
Knocking on the door to his flat, she found Alex tapping away on his computer in his immaculate study.
“Sorry to disturb you, but would you like to come to me for supper tonight? And help put the dresser back in place?”
“Lovely.” He nodded. “See you later.” He waved, obviously engrossed in whatever he was doing.
• • •
“You look pretty tonight,” said Alex admiringly as he wheeled himself into the kitchen later. “That turquoise jumper suits your skin tone.”
“Thank you,” said Emilie, brushing the compliment aside. “First of all, can we move the dresser back? Then I can clear the kitchen table so we can eat at it.”
“Leave it to me.”
Emilie watched as Alex hardly broke a sweat moving the dresser against the wall. Then he replaced the china into the lower cupboards as she returned it onto the higher shelves.
“There!” Emilie looked around the kitchen with pleasure. “Doesn’t it look better?”
“It’s a revelation. It almost makes me want to come in here.” Alex smiled. “You’re a real little homemaker, aren’t you, Em?”
“I simply can’t bear dreariness. I like warmth and brightness.”
“Having lived in the south of France for a lot of your life, I’m sure you do. Now, I’ve brought along another decent bottle of wine, as I happen to know that the cellar here is on its last dregs, so to speak. Oh, and I also brought this in for you to peruse.” Alex produced a small book from the side of his wheelchair and offered it to her. “I’m presuming they were written by a relative of yours, and I thought you might like to read them. I think they’re rather sweet, if naive.”
As Alex opened the wine, Emilie studied the aging, leatherbound notebook. Turning the first yellowing page, she glanced at the writing, which was in French, trying to decipher it.
“They’re poems,” said Alex, stating the obvious. “The writing is dreadful, isn’t it? It took me hours to work out what they said. Here are my typed versions.” Alex handed Emilie some sheets of paper. “They look as though they’ve been written by a five-year-old child, and, indeed, some of them were w
ritten when the poet was young. But the quality of the content as she grows older shows real talent. Have you seen the name at the bottom of the poems?”
“Sophia de la Martinières!” Emilie read, looking at Alex in confusion. “Where did you get this notebook?”
“Seb pulled out a book from the library a few weeks ago; something to do with French fruit, if I remember correctly. He said he’d found this notebook with it and gave me the poems to read and decipher. Do you know who Sophia de la Martinières was?”
“Yes, Sophia was my aunt, my father’s sister. He didn’t mention her very often, but I began to learn of her story last time I was in France. She was blind.”
“Ah.” Alex raised an eyebrow. “That explains the dreadful writing.”
“You say Sebastian found these with a book about French fruit?”
“That’s what he said, yes.”
“Jacques, who was telling me the story of your grandmother and Sophia during the war, told me Constance used a book of fruit to describe the shapes and textures to Sophia, so she could sketch them. And that Sophia wrote poetry. Maybe Constance brought both books back to England with her when she returned here after the war.”
“What a sweet story.”
“Yes. Do you know where the book on fruit trees is? I’d love to see it.”
“I haven’t seen the book since Seb brought it down from the shelf in the library,” said Alex, suddenly guarded. “Mind you, I’m incapable of checking the top shelves, so it might be there.”
“I’ll look for it, and if I can’t find it, I’ll ask Sebastian when he’s home.” Emilie turned her attention back to the poems. “These are beautiful. Sophia wrote her age at the bottom of this one.” Emilie indicated the signature. “She was only nine when she composed it. It’s about what she wishes she could see. I …” Emilie shook her head, almost moved to tears. “It’s so sad.”
“I especially like this one.” Alex leafed through the pages until he found it. “ ‘The Light Behind the Window.’ It has an elegance in its simplicity and I like the rhyming structure. Em, can you tell me what you know about my grandmother’s time in France? I’d be fascinated to hear.”
As she cooked the risotto, Emilie related the story Jacques had told her of Constance. Alex listened intently, asking her questions if he didn’t follow something.
“And that’s as far in the story as I got,” she said as she served the risotto. “It’s a coincidence that, all these years on, your family and mine are again connected.”
“Yes,” Alex agreed, picking up his fork, “truly amazing.”
Emilie eyed him, hearing the hint of irony in his voice. “What do you mean by that? If you’re thinking Sebastian had a motive for coming in search of my family, then you’re wrong. It was pure coincidence we happened to meet in Gassin when he was down in the Var on business. He recognized me from the newspapers. And he told me at our first meeting of the family connection.”
“Good. Then there isn’t a problem, is there?”
“No. There isn’t,” stated Emilie firmly.
“Right, let’s move on, shall we?” Alex suggested.
After that, the evening had been nowhere near as relaxed as the night before. A tension had hung in the air. Alex had left after he’d eaten, and Emilie took a cup of cocoa up the stairs with her.
There was no reason to doubt her husband’s motives, Emilie thought as she climbed into bed and sat upright against the pillows, nursing the cocoa. However they had originally met, they’d fallen in love and subsequently married.
She lay in bed, reading through Sophia’s poems, written so sweetly and honestly, wondering again why her father had never talked of his younger sister. She’d only initially discovered Sophia’s existence by chance when, as a child, she’d noticed a painting on the wall of her father’s study in Paris. It had been of a beautiful young woman, golden hair flowing down her back, turquoise eyes smiling as she stroked the Persian cat resting on her knee.
“Who is that, Papa?” she’d asked.
There’d been a long pause before he’d answered. “That was my sister, your aunt Sophia, Emilie,” Édouard had finally replied.
“She’s very beautiful.”
“Yes, she was.”
“She’s dead?”
“Yes.”
“How did she die, Papa?”
“I do not wish to talk of it, Emilie.” And then Édouard’s face had closed.
And perhaps at that moment, as Emilie thought back across the years, she had glimpsed tears in his eyes.
• • •
The following morning, taking her courage in both hands, Emilie had braved the drive into Moulton and stocked up on provisions for the coming weekend. Sebastian was arriving in York on the nine o’clock train that evening and had said he’d be with her by ten. Emilie went into her husband’s arms when he arrived home, feeling glad to see him.
“How have you been?” he asked.
“I’ve been fine.” She pulled him toward the kitchen. “Do you like it?”
Sebastian looked around the newly painted room. “Yes, what a difference,” he said admiringly. “How on earth did you move that dresser by yourself?”
“Alex helped me.”
“Alex?” Sebastian’s face darkened. “What was he doing in the house? He’s not been bothering you, has he?”
“No. He’s behaved perfectly well. I have many things to tell you, but we can talk about them tomorrow. Are you hungry? I made some soup earlier and bought some bread.”
“Lovely.” Sebastian sat down. “And a glass of wine, if we have any.”
“We do.” Emilie proffered the half-empty bottle that Alex had brought in the night before and poured Sebastian a glass.
“This is very good,” he said approvingly. “Surely you didn’t get this in the local store?”
“No, Alex brought it in. So”—Emilie moved on quickly, determined not to spend the rest of the evening talking of his brother—“how was London?”
“Well, as I told you on the phone, things are a mess, but I’m getting there. I spent most of today renewing contacts with the clients on my database. It looks like I might have to go to France next week, actually. The client who took me there when I first met you is still interested, and I think I may have sourced a Picasso for him in a château near Menton.”
“That isn’t far from Gassin,” said Emilie eagerly. “Perhaps I could come with you?”
“A nice idea, but not worth it, as it’ll be a flying visit. Besides, I thought you said you were going over yourself to France in a week or so?”
“I am. I just miss it.” She sighed.
“I’m sure you do.” Sebastian reached for her hand. “It’s hardly been the most auspicious start to your sojourn in England. I promise you, darling, when the spring comes, this whole place lights up. And I must say, it’s rather lovely to have you here to come home to. This soup is delicious. It’s going to be a dry weekend, apparently, so I thought we’d go out tomorrow and I can show you a few of the local beauty spots.”
“I’d like that.” Emilie smiled. “It’s strange being here without you.”
“I know, and living here in England is a big change for you. But as I said a few days ago, it’s only for a few months—a year at most—before we can make some more firm plans about where we’ll settle. And I would have thought that, after the past few weeks, it might be rather nice for you to simply have a break and look after your new husband.”
“If he’s here …”
“Emilie.” Sebastian sighed, a note of irritation in his voice. “I’ve said I’ll do my best, but I’m afraid we’re both going to have to put up with less than ideal circumstances while I get my business back on track.”
Emilie berated herself for being selfish. “Of course—and maybe after my success here in the kitchen, I could think about painting some of the other rooms to brighten them? Like our bedroom, perhaps?”
“Feel free, anything that cheers the old place u
p is fine by me. I warn you, once you start, you won’t be able to stop, but it’s lovely that you want to make the effort. Now, I’m exhausted. Shall we go to bed?”
“Why don’t you take yourself upstairs for a bath and I’ll tidy up down here?”
“Thanks.” Sebastian stood up. “It really has been a hard few days.”
Emilie heard Sebastian mount the stairs and then the sound of the ancient pipes groaning as he ran the taps. She immediately left the kitchen and walked along the corridor to Alex’s flat, feeling guilty she had not yet told her husband his brother was alone without a carer, but not ready to face the trauma of his knowing. She knocked on the door and a voice called from inside, “Who is it?”
“Emilie. Can I come in?”
“The door’s not locked.”
Alex was sitting in a chair by the fire, reading. He smiled at her as she came in. “Hello.”
“Hello. I just came to check that you were okay.”
“No, as you can see, I’m blind drunk and about to die by choking on my own vomit,” he quipped. “I presume you’ve told Seb I’m without a minder?”
“No, not yet. He’s very tired and I didn’t want to stress him. I’ll suggest to him tomorrow that you’re not in need of full-time care. And if he does still insist you must have someone to look after you, I’ll say you’re capable enough to have someone come in part-time to help domestically. After all, it will save him money.”
“Em, I …” Alex raised an eyebrow at this comment then shook his head. “Nothing. Thank you for batting on my team. It makes a change around here.”
“Yes, but much of it will be down to you to prove to Sebastian that you need little more than domestic support.”
“Of course, and admittedly, I’m not too handy at scrubbing floors or making beds. It’s normally me who ends up inside the duvet.” Alex smiled. “But I promise I’ll try to be a good boy. Anyway, I appreciate your help. Good night.”
“Good night.”
• • •
Emilie broached the Alex subject as she sat with Sebastian in a cozy pub high up on the moors the following day. Sebastian’s face was thunderous as Emilie informed him of the latest carer’s departure, but she added quickly that, in her opinion, Alex was capable of doing much more for himself and they should give him a chance.
The Lavender Garden Page 20
