“I see.” Emilie knew she had reached her limit and could take no more. She needed to bring this cozy tête-à-tête to a conclusion. “Then perhaps I can help your journey toward independence. I would very much like to commission you, Bella. So you must put me in touch with Sebastian and we can arrange the price. Will you be seeing him soon?”
“He’s got some meeting with a possible client early this evening, but he’ll be home later tonight. If you write down your number, I’ll tell him to give you a call. I know he’s leaving tomorrow evening to go back to the ghastly pile he inherited in Yorkshire. And the wife.” Bella rolled her eyes conspiratorially. “Anyway, it suits me—I get my weekends all to myself. I’ll find you some paper so you can write down your number.”
“Okay.”
“Would you mind if we kept Jonathan Maxwell and the gallery out of it? Technically, as he introduced us, he may well expect some commission. I won’t mention you turned up here if you don’t, and it means we can offer you a better price.”
“Of course.” Emilie nodded as Bella went to the kitchen and rummaged for a piece of scrap paper in a drawer.
“Here.” Bella handed it to her.
Emilie paused, then carefully wrote down her full name, number, and address in France. She placed it on the table. Then she rose. “It’s been … interesting to meet you, Bella. I wish you good luck with your future. I’m sure you will be very successful. You are a talented woman.”
“Thank you.” Bella accompanied Emilie to the door. “It’s been a pleasure to meet you too. I really hope we’ll meet again soon.”
“Yes.” On a whim, Emilie put her hand on Bella’s forearm. “I think you are a good person, Bella. Take care.”
With that, Emilie turned and walked out of the apartment.
32
It was almost midnight when Emilie arrived at Blackmoor Hall. She’d taken a taxi from York station—the Land Rover was still at the airport and Sebastian could go and retrieve it if he wished. It was no longer her concern.
She was glad Alex’s light was still shining from his corner of the building—she’d be leaving early the next morning and she wanted to say goodbye to him.
Walking through the house, she knocked on the door of his apartment.
“Come in, Em,” he called. “You’re late home. Did you miss your flight?”
Alex was sitting on the sofa, reading a book.
“No. I’ve been to London.”
Alex took in Emilie’s wide eyes and drawn features. “What’s happened?” he asked in concern.
“I came to tell you that I’m leaving for France tomorrow. Sebastian and I will be getting a divorce as soon as I can arrange it.”
“Right,” Alex said with a sigh. “Any particular reason?”
“I visited his long-term lover in London today. And saw my husband’s current sleeping arrangements for myself.”
“I see. Shall I get the brandy?”
“No, I will.”
Emilie marched into the kitchen and returned with the bottle and two glasses. “Did you know of her?” she asked as she poured the brandy and handed him a glass.
“Yes.”
“And were you aware Sebastian was still carrying on his affair with her after he married me?”
“I suspected it when he started to disappear off to London so frequently and didn’t take you with him, but I wasn’t sure.”
“And you didn’t think to tell me, Alex? I thought we were friends!” she cried.
“Emilie, please, that’s unfair!” He was shaken at her vehemence. “Sebastian was painting me as a total liability, who lied and cheated and would do anything to sully his name. Do you really think you’d have believed me if I had?”
“No.” Emilie took a large sip of the brandy. “You’re right, I wouldn’t have done. Sorry.” She put her fingers to her forehead. “It’s been a stressful day.”
“The mistress of understatement.” Alex smiled wryly. “Does Sebastian know that you’ve paid a call to his girlfriend?”
“I haven’t switched on my mobile since I left London, so I have no idea.” She shrugged.
“Did you tell Bella who you are?”
Emilie stared at Alex. The fact that he knew Bella’s name, that she’d obviously been such a big part of Sebastian’s life, threatened to break her hard-won calm. “No. I said I wanted to commission her, so she asked me to write down my full name, address, and telephone number. So I did. She promised to give it to Sebastian when he arrived … ‘home.’ ”
Whatever reaction she had been expecting from Alex, it was not his throwing back his head and roaring with laughter.
“Oh! Brilliant, Em! Just brilliant! Sorry”—he wiped the tears from his eyes—“Inappropriate reaction. My God, that was a masterstroke. And so typically you: low-key, subtle, elegant … beautiful. Just beautiful,” he added admiringly. “Can you imagine Seb’s face when Bella hands him that piece of paper with your name and number on it?”
“Alex”—Emilie sighed—“I don’t care what he thinks. I simply want to leave this house as soon as I can and go home.”
Alex’s expression changed. “Yes, of course you do,” he said soberly. “Look, can you understand that I’ve been between a rock and a hard place from the moment you arrived? I was obviously hoping that Seb really had found someone he loved.”
“Well, if he can love anybody other than himself, it’s Bella. She’s beautiful and very talented. If it wasn’t for the fact that she was my husband’s lover, I would seriously consider commissioning her.” Emilie managed her first, albeit grim, smile of the day. “Have you met her?”
“Yes. Before you married him, she’d sometimes come here at weekends.” Alex studied her. “My God, Em, you’re amazing. How are you able to deal with this?”
“It’s very simple.” She shrugged. “Sebastian is not the person I fell in love with any longer. The feelings I originally had for him in France have died.”
“Then I salute you, even if I can’t totally believe you. You are … incredible. And I could happily strangle Seb with my own bare hands that he’s let you go.”
“Thank you,” she said, not looking at him. “I have one question to ask you before I leave.”
“And that is?”
“Why did your brother marry me? What is it, Alex, he wanted from me that he couldn’t already get from Bella, who told me she is also from a wealthy family?” Emilie shook her head. “I just can’t understand.”
“Well, Em …” Alex sighed. “The answer, as always in these dilemmas, is right under your nose. And you’ve already seen it.”
“Have I?”
“Yes, but you almost certainly wouldn’t have noticed.”
“Just now”—Emilie squinted—“I can see my nose, but there’s nothing beneath it except my knees.”
“Quite. The question is, do you really want me to tell you?”
“Of course! Tomorrow I leave for France. My marriage is over.”
“All right.” Alex nodded slowly. “But it’s ‘gloves off’ from now on.”
“That’s fine with me.” Emilie nodded in agreement.
“Okay. Come with me and I’ll show you.”
• • •
“Right.” Alex switched on the light to the small study where Sebastian worked when he was at home. Alex went to a bookcase, felt under a certain book, and produced a key. He turned his wheelchair around and unlocked the drawer of the desk on which Sebastian’s computer sat. He pulled out a file and handed it to Emilie.
“Exhibit A. Don’t look at it until I’ve collected all the evidence.” Alex positioned himself behind Sebastian’s computer and switched it on. He typed in a password and the computer gave him access.
“How can you know what his password is?”
“If you live with the fact that someone is intent on making your life as difficult as possible, you make it your job to know these things. Especially if you have as little to occupy you as I do.” He continued to type. �
�Besides, I can read my brother like a book. It didn’t take a genius to work it out.”
“Is it Matisse, by any chance?” guessed Emilie.
“No shit, Sherlock.” Alex grinned at her. “The thing with Seb is that he makes little or no attempt to hide his tracks, believing so totally in his consummate skills as a liar if he has to explain himself. Now”—Alex reached down to pull some pages off the printer and handed them to her—“Exhibit B. Just one more thing.” He pointed to an oil painting of his grandmother that hung on the wall—“Could you remove that for me?”
Emilie did so, revealing a small safe behind it.
“Right, unless he’s changed the combination, which I doubt, it’s my grandmother’s date of birth.” Alex stretched for the dial on the front of the safe and twisted it carefully. “I just hope Seb hasn’t removed what I want to show you since I last looked.” Alex reached inside the safe. He ferreted around its interior and then, with a sigh of relief, produced a padded envelope and a smaller, plain, white one. “Exhibits C and D.” He closed the safe and motioned to Emilie to rehang the picture. “I suggest we return to my quarters, just in case the man himself is racing up the motorway from London as we speak to save his marriage, or rather, to save himself. It’s also a damned sight warmer.”
Alex switched off the computer and the printer, and they left the study. Back in the apartment, Alex asked Emilie to place the four exhibits he’d handed her in a line on the coffee table. “Okay, Em.” He glanced at her sympathetically, searching her face. “This is likely to be upsetting, I’m afraid.”
“I am past being ‘upset,’ Alex. I simply want to know the reasons why.”
“Right then. Take a look at the first file.”
Emilie opened the file and saw her own face and that of her mother staring out from the pages. They were photocopies of all the articles in various French newspapers detailing the death of her mother. And announcing that Emilie was the lone heiress.
“Next, open the envelope we took out of the safe and remove its contents. Be careful, it’s very, very old.”
Emilie slid her hand inside the envelope and retrieved a book. She glanced at the title in awe. “It’s The History of French Fruit. I heard from Jacques yesterday that my father gave it to Constance as a keepsake when she left the château to return here. It’s the book you said you couldn’t find from the library here.”
“Yes. Now, very, very carefully open the cover and read what’s on the first page.”
“ ‘Édouard de la Martinières,’ ” she read, “ ‘1943.’ So?”
“Hang on a tick, I need to get something else to show you.” He wheeled himself out of the sitting room and returned shortly, handing her an envelope. “Inside you’ll find a letter written to me by my grandmother. She lodged it with her solicitor just before she died. I doubt she trusted Seb to hand it over to me. What’s new?” He sighed.
Emilie began to read.
Blackmoor Hall, 20th March 1996
Dear Alex,
I am writing this in the hope that one day you will return home to Blackmoor Hall, although I accept now it may not be in my lifetime. My dearest grandson, I want you to know I now understand why you felt you had to go away, and firstly I want to offer my most heartfelt apologies for not seeing or reacting more to what was happening to you. I fear I let you down and didn’t protect you when you needed me to. But it was hard to believe that your brother, whom I also love dearly, could be so methodical in his destruction of you.
I do hope, dear boy, that you can forgive me for ever doubting you. So many times I, too, was duped by your brother, whose intelligence was not in the same stratum as yours, but whose quick wit and capacity for deception and lies equals it in its magnificence. And perhaps I, as your grandmother and then in the role of your mother, felt guilty that from the first moment I set eyes on you, I loved you more than him. You, so adorable, angelic and loving, and your poor brother so much less appealing on every possible level.
There is a poem I read once—by Larkin—which talks of wishing his newborn godchild to be “ordinary”—blessed with enough of each gift, but never too much or too little. I understand now exactly what he meant. For your gifts, Alex, have been your downfall. I digress, forgive me.
Now, Alex, I have obviously been praying that you will return before I die. Because I must decide what to do with my beloved Blackmoor Hall. As you know, it has been in your grandfather’s family for over 150 years. As I’m unaware of your whereabouts, or how much money it will take to restore the house, I am uncertain of what to do. So, my dearest boy, I have decided that I must leave it jointly to the two of you, hoping that the mutual ownership will reunite you. I know it is the faint wish of a dying and optimistic old woman, and perhaps it will prove to have the opposite effect. I can only pray it won’t prove a burden for either of you. If it does, please sell it with my blessing.
I am also leaving you a book—I know how you value old editions—which is of sentimental rather than monetary value to me. I was given this by a friend of mine a long time ago in wartime France. Also in this envelope is a book of poems written by his sister, Sophia, of whom I was extremely fond. If you wish to, the owner’s name in the front of the book is enough to help you find out more about what happened to your grandmother in France during the war. I chose to keep it secret in my lifetime, but it’s an interesting story, and perhaps it will make you think better of the woman who did all she could to care for you, but made some fatal mistakes. The book and the poems are where they’ve always been—on the third shelf to the left in the library. You can retrieve them if you wish.
Other than that, I am leaving you half of what I have left, the grand sum of £50,000. I can only pray that one day, dear Alex, you will return home and can forgive me. However flawed, I had to love Sebastian too. Do you see?
Your loving grandmother, Constance X
Emilie wiped her eyes, the stress of such a long and traumatic day finally getting the better of her. “It’s a beautiful letter.”
“Yes, it is,” said Alex. “You know, Em, I did write at least three or four letters home when I was abroad, giving Granny my address in Italy. I can only believe that Sebastian got to the postman here first. He recognized my writing and snaffled the letters, which allowed Granny to think I hadn’t bothered to let her know where I was. In other words”—Alex sighed—“that I didn’t care about her.”
“That wouldn’t surprise me at all now. He’s an arch-manipulator. Thank you for letting me read the letter. But what relevance does this have to the other things you’ve shown me?”
“Please pick up the last file.”
Emilie did so, her eyes widening as she read the contents. She looked up at Alex for confirmation.
“You can see that Granny was certainly wrong in one respect: the book she left me was not just of ‘sentimental’ value.”
“Yes.” She nodded.
“Of course, when I eventually got her letter, then went to search for the book in the library when I came home from hospital after the accident, I made the fatal mistake of telling Seb what I was looking for and where to find it. I couldn’t reach it, you see, it was on the third shelf up.” Alex shrugged. “When Seb retrieved it for me, I showed the book to him willingly. At the time, I was eager to try and forge a relationship with him, so when he asked if he could borrow the book for a few days to read it, I agreed. After that, every time I asked him for it, he’d say he would return it, but of course he didn’t. And knowing Seb as I do, I suspected something was up. I looked the book up on the Internet, like he obviously had, and knew that if he hadn’t sold it already, it would be tucked away in his safe. And there it was.” Alex shook his head sadly.
“But why hasn’t he sold it already? And if you knew it was so valuable, why haven’t you reclaimed it?”
“Em, maybe you haven’t glanced fully at the detail on the sheet I printed up. I was convinced that Seb wouldn’t sell it. The one thing I know about my brother is that he’
s greedy. He’d never be prepared to settle for what he had already when he knew the main prize was possibly on offer. Read out what it says to me. From the beginning.”
Emilie was beyond exhaustion, but she did her best to concentrate on the words.
RARE BOOKS ARCHIVE
The History of French Fruit
By Christophe Pierre Beaumont. 1756. 2 Volumes. Arguably the finest and rarest book on fruit. With illustrations of fifteen different species of fruit trees. The work was inspired by an earlier Duchamel publication, Anatomie de la Poire, published in the 1730s. Illustrations by Guillaume Jean Gardinier and François Joseph Fortier. Beaumont’s intention was to promote the virtue and nutritional value of fruit-bearing trees. Fifteen different genera of fruit and a number of their different species are described in the work: almonds, apricots, a barberry, cherries, quinces, figs, strawberries, gooseberries, apples, a mulberry, pears, peaches, plums, grapes, and raspberries. Each colored plate illustrates the plant’s seed, foliage, blossom, fruit, and sometimes cross sections of the species.
Provenance: Both volumes believed to reside in a private collection in Gassin, France.
Value: Approximately £5 million.
Emilie finished reading and looked up at Alex. “I still don’t understand.”
“Right then, I’ll spell it out for you. I contacted a rare-book seller of my acquaintance in London, as I presume Sebastian had already done. He told me that, separately, the two volumes were probably worth around half a million pounds each. But, together, five times that. Do you understand now, Emilie?”
Finally, the penny dropped. “Sebastian was looking for the first volume in my father’s library,” she stated flatly.
“Yes.”
Emilie was silent for a while, processing the information. “Now, at last, it all makes sense. That was why Sebastian was in France a few weeks ago. My friend Jean, who runs the vineyard on the domaine, found him in the library searching through the shelves. No wonder he came back to Yorkshire in such a bad temper that weekend. He obviously hadn’t found the first volume.”
The Lavender Garden Page 40
