The Lost Castle

by Kristy Cambron

Ellie shifted her Fiat to park at the end of the circular drive. She peered through the windshield, taking in the scene before her. When the online description of the vineyard inn had noted an estate house, it wasn’t kidding. If this Quinn Foley thought she’d be in the way of the harvest in this three-story pile of weathered stone and glass, he was a shade out of touch with reality.

  It was more romantic than a cottage, a little larger than a house. Actually, a lot larger. Enough to swallow up Marquette’s town hall without extraordinary effort. Still, size didn’t detract from its endearing qualities. Dormers boasted old-fashioned charm. Heavy wood doors couldn’t hide under a round stone archway: a give-away of the structure’s rustic attachment to the land. Oversized lantern sconces hung on either side of the entry, their gas flames still flickering through the last shadows of morning.

  Quinn obviously didn’t see the surroundings the same way Ellie did. The amour of a French provincial scene may have captured her, but it failed to cool his heels. He stormed across the wide drive, quickstepping it to get to the front entrance.

  The spell broken, Ellie scrambled to gather up her purse and phone. No way was she losing this argument because she wasn’t present in the middle of it. If there was any defending of her corner to be done, it would be from inside the estate too. She sucked in a deep breath and hurried off in pursuit.

  Ivy stretched up the estate house walls, mingling fresh and green against stories of stone and leaded glass. Ground-floor windows stood open behind a row of weathered wood shutters, inviting crisp morning air to drift in freely. And as if in partnership with one another, the aroma of cooking food floated back out, offering an intoxicating bonjour to road-weary travelers.

  The unmistakable aroma of freshly baked bread . . . sizzling bacon too? Even the luxurious hint of wine managed to perfume the hilltop air. And French press coffee . . . Ellie closed her eyes, drinking in the richness. She pulled herself out of the stupor when she blinked. Seconds later, Quinn pushed the front doors at the center and disappeared inside. She followed, awkwardly so, turning the corner into his world.

  Sunlight streamed in, high timbered ceilings awash in gold.

  Quinn ignored a parlor—the epitome of quiet country charm—stalking through without hesitation. But Ellie did pause, slowing up to prevent her ballet flats from clip-clopping against the slate entry and around an iron-spindled staircase that wound up the opposite wall and stretched out in a lavish bell curve before her. A span of windows lined the back wall, sun and earth and sky unobstructed by drapes. A stone veranda stretched over arbor rows trekking down the hill, painting a maze of greens and autumn golds.

  Cream walls . . . wainscoting . . . antique furniture trimmed in grommets and deep espresso woods . . . Ellie could have imagined it all long before setting foot inside. But it was the unexpected that arrested her—an oversized hearth, distressed through white paint and generations of unobstructed sunlight, and the rather remarkable painting of a woman in eighteenth-century dress commanding notice over the mantel.

  Ellie stood, exhaling low. “So this is what HGTV looks like in France.”

  She’d have lingered, but Quinn swept through a brick archway down the hall.

  Music—a light instrumental melody—drifted from somewhere in its depths. And suddenly, laughter.

  Ellie kept walking, slowly for a few steps, listening to the mix of melody and the idyllic notes of the French language being tossed back and forth. A woman’s laughter became joy drifting out from the back of the hall.

  One second it hadn’t been there and in the next, it simply became . . . a home.

  It reminded Ellie that while generous in size, the estate house was not an unfeeling manor. Storied maybe, and oh-so-French, but not at all haughty. And somehow, it didn’t seek to greet her as a stranger. Just the sounds of easy conversation, laughter that made it feel like she’d walked through those halls before, and incredible views of the vineyards with a quiet presence the modern world couldn’t seem to touch.

  It felt an intrusion to step uninvited into a family’s private moments, so Ellie hung back, hovering in the shadows of the kitchen’s arched stone doorway.

  The lightness in the room fizzled as Quinn marched in, directing his attention to an aged man with thinned gray hair, olive skin, and a rather remarkable presence, perched at the head of a farmhouse table. His shoulders were haloed in sunlight and strings of herbs and lavender sprigs that had been tied up on a wooden rack behind, their colors drying in the sun.

  “Titus?” Quinn didn’t bother to soften his direct tone. “Qu’as-tu fait?”

  I wish I could remember what that means.

  Sitting in a waxed canvas jacket and work pants, a simple white oxford unbuttoned at the collar, and uneven rolls at the cuffs, he sipped on a half glass of wine and took his time fiddling with the folds of a newspaper. Permanent laugh lines edged his eyes, painting him as one who favored amusement instead of irritation.

  Two women stood off behind, looking alike—startled but familiar. They both wore silver-gray chignons at their napes, one in a dress in varying shades of blues, rust, and cream, the other in crisp ironed chambray. Homemade aprons draped down to protect their fronts from flour. They halted in kneading dough on the butcher block of a long center island, their smiles lost and eyes turned wide when Quinn barged into the room.

  How Ellie wished she had her seventh-grade French textbook now.

  The French began flying so fast that she was able to pick up only one or two words out of every twenty. There was difficulté—she recognized that in Quinn’s explanation of the situation, or her. And he’d taken particular effort to emphasize the word. Maybe she was causing that for him. She also heard d’argent—“money.” And Américaine. That one she was sure of, just as she was about the way Quinn said it, like it wasn’t meant to be anything near a compliment.

  Based on the conversation they’d had on the road, Ellie could guess what Quinn was saying. How this tourist insisted she had a reservation and how she’d already paid out the duration of a two-, maybe three-week stay—much to his very apparent chagrin. No doubt he was petitioning the old man to get out his checkbook and fix the error so they could get her out from underfoot as quickly as possible.

  Titus responded, calm and controlled, shrugging off his grandson with an assured wave of his hand. “Tu t’inquiètes trop.”

  “I do not worry too much. This is serious. If you’d only listen to reason . . .” He seemed frustrated, rambling in English when Titus didn’t appear to follow. So perhaps the old man spoke only the colloquial French of the Loire Valley? “I can’t help ya if you refuse to let me. It’s not why I came all this way, to be countermanded at every pass.” Quinn added a soft rebuttal in French after that—whatever it was, whispered under his breath—and suddenly, the air in the room turned cold.

  Gazes shifted to her.

  The women stilled, their chattering long having died away, leaving the music drifting alone in the background. The old man noticed her for the first time too. He squinted at the doorway, looking with great care. And to add insult to the injury of not being wanted at the place she’d expected to be welcomed as a guest, the old man’s countenance visibly hardened when he settled his gaze on her.

  Quinn turned to look at her too, and though he seemed a bit sorry about it all, he still peered back with determination set in his unshaved jawline.

  Ellie had never wished she could melt into the floor so badly in her life.

  Forget the photo. Cast out the idea of finding the castle. Certainly abandon the feeling of empowerment that came with traveling across an ocean to find an untold story. She actually toyed with the idea of ending it all right there, but let it go just as quickly because of one thing: the image of her grandmother standing at a window. Alone. Waiting. Waiting for who, Ellie needed to know. And something told her this valley might hold the answer. Maybe even the gentleman before her could know something about the answers she sought.

  If she must sacr
ifice a little pride to uncover truth, then so be it.

  “Hello . . .”

  You’re in France, Ellie.

  She shook her head. “Uh, bonjour . . .” Half waving from the doorway, she stepped into the light. “I’m Ellison Carver—Ellie, from the United States. Michigan actually. I don’t know if you’re following a word I’m saying, but I have a reservation . . . to stay. Here at this estate.”

  One of the women—the seeming older of the two—flitted a glance over to Titus. He didn’t return it, just kept his countenance solid and his gaze unwavering, offering no indication of where his thoughts might be.

  It seemed like a good idea to hold up her phone, thinking of the e-mail she couldn’t load. Ellie did but lowered it just as quickly, lest they think she was some sort of foreign phone salesman. Without Wi-Fi she couldn’t access her e-mail anyway, so it would probably only work to confuse matters further.

  “I made a reservation last week, to stay here for a few weeks. Your grandson found me a bit turned around out on the road and was kind enough to help me find the estate house.” She tilted her head back toward the hall and the French country house view of the path they’d walked from the entryway. “It’s beautiful, by the way. Um . . . C’est belle, I think. Une belle maison.”

  Maybe that was enough of an explanation so he’d honor her booking. After all, it was a business transaction. He couldn’t just cancel at the last minute, could he? Tell her to leave and go back to the little town when she’d already paid in full? Ellie would have to give him a piece of her mind if he did, and that wasn’t how she preferred to kick off her research.

  Titus said nothing. Maybe he didn’t need to. Just exhaled low and with effort pushed his chair back from the table. He stood and reached a hand for a carved wooden cane braced against the tabletop. He leaned on it with one hand and picked up his goblet in the other, swallowing the last long bit of wine in the glass. Then he crossed the room, taking slow, measured steps, stopping only when he stood toe to toe with his grandson.

  Quinn responded, holding his arm out to his grandfather. Titus felt for it, settling knotted fingertips on his forearm, and gripped tight.

  “Oh . . .” Ellie exhaled, realization swift to flood over.

  The old man was blind, or close to it. He’d looked in the direction of where she stood, not because he could see her, but because of what Quinn had said. And perhaps for the sound of her voice.

  It opened a vault of questions.

  He raised his chin, whispering swift, almost inaudible words up to his grandson. They were final, apparently, because he stared squarely into Quinn’s face when he said them, a lack of sight unable to diminish his authority. He punctuated his words with a stern finger point to the floor.

  To Ellie’s surprise, Quinn sighed and added, “D’accord”—a one-word concession.

  Whatever disagreement had existed ended with the patriarch’s victory.

  Titus turned toward the hall. He paused to offer a gentle nod to Ellie, then made his way out of the room. She watched his fingertips tracing the wainscoting down the length of the hall, until his shadow disappeared.

  The great Titus Vivay may have faded somewhere into the span of the estate house, but he’d left quite an impression in his wake. Ellie wasn’t sure what to make of it. He didn’t appear unkind, just resolute—despite advanced age and weathered body. If he was the head of the family, business or otherwise, he’d certainly mastered the role well, down to the way he silenced opposition with a few whispered words.

  “I’m sorry about that,” Quinn offered on a sigh. He rubbed a hand to the back of his neck. “My grandfather can be . . . rigid at times.”

  Ellie peered into the depths of the hall. “What did he say?”

  “In so many words, that we’re to honor your reservation.”

  “You are?” A smile swept over Ellie’s lips she couldn’t contain. There were but a few words spoken, but Titus had sided with her. That was a victory even if she hadn’t earned it herself.

  “Thank you. I mean, I hope it’s not an imposition if I stay, but I am grateful. And I would have liked to thank your grandfather for that. Will he be back soon?”

  Quinn shook his head and braced his hands at his sides. “Not for a while. I’ll be drivin’ him to town. Always goes first thing. We’ll be back when the men disperse, so he can spend the rest of the morning with his vines.”

  His vines.

  It was an odd perspective—like the rows of grapes were more than just plants. Like they had a soul somehow, and the family patriarch was the only one who understood them at that level.

  Quinn shot a glance over his shoulder, apparently only just realizing they still had an audience.

  He slipped behind the kitchen island and whispered something to the women, then dusted a peck to each of their cheeks. They drank in the attention, flitting like mother hens over a chick—a very tall, handsome one.

  Titus may not have been under Quinn’s spell, but the women sure appeared to be.

  Quinn walked back to Ellie’s side, offering a polite smile. “They said since you’re stayin’ on, I should take your bags up to your room. It’s the door at the top of the stairs. Suite at the end of the hall. Do you have your keys?”

  Ellie dug the rental car keys out of the bottom of her purse, then dropped them in his outstretched palm. “Here.”

  “Good. Then just . . . make yourself at home.”

  “Wait, you’re leaving me here?” Ellie stared back, dumbfounded. Did he actually expect her to converse with two women who didn’t speak a syllable of English? “But I don’t speak French. How am I supposed to talk to them?”

  “Don’t worry about that. These two speak the language of food. I just hope you’re hungry.” He leaned in, adding with a whisper, “They’ll have you fluent before you know what happened to ya.”

  It was then that the room broke free from tension.

  Joy eased back into the space of brick and rustic wood, of baking bread and crisp morning air as Quinn introduced his grandmother, Helene, and Auntie Claire—his grandfather’s sister. They were the vineyards’ accomplished cooks and, no matter the barrier of grumpy menfolk or languages spoken, appeared to be gracious hostesses.

  They flitted and fussed over Ellie, whisking her into the depths of the kitchen, drawing her from the doorway with a tug of the hand. She picked up on the words for beautiful when Helene patted flour from her hands and took Ellie’s face in her palms, kissing her on either cheek.

  Auntie Claire wasted no time in pulling out a chair at the breakfast table and ushered her down in it, telling her she needed to Mangez! Mangez! and then mounding a plate with croissants and pain au chocolat, yoghurt, and fresh fruit.

  Ellie was lavished with attention. Truly, the women were light in an already-golden place. Why, every storied estate should lay claim to wise cooks, with freshly baked bread and flour-dotted aprons in its innermost soul. Two weeks or twenty—she could get used to the flavor of life in this place, so much so that Ellie had almost forgotten why she’d swept into the house in the first place.

  “Mr. Foley?”

  Quinn stopped short of scooting out the door and turned back to her. “Yes, Miss Carver?”

  “What was it that he said? Your grandfather, before he left the room?”

  “Without gettin’ into too much detail, that you paid for a tour guide and you’re going to get one.”

  “Who?”

  He sighed, tossing the car keys in his palm. “Me.”

  NINE

  APRIL 16, 1941

  ROYAL EMPIRE SOCIETY

  25 NORTHUMBERLAND AVENUE

  LONDON, ENGLAND

  Plane engines cut the night sky, the roaring dying off in the direction of Whitehall Road.

  Vi slowed her trek down the hallway, pausing in a quiet commons alcove just outside the dining hall doors. She hugged the stack of books in her arms, drawing them tighter to her chest, as her gaze drifted up to the tiles above her head. The ce
iling lamp stirred on its chain, just a shiver, as if an invisible breeze had been let in the office and chose that instant to sweep overhead.

  Another bomb blast.

  That one had been close. Too close for anything near to comfort in the days and long, bomb-riddled nights they’d endured since September.

  Vi slammed her eyes shut.

  Thinking. Waiting. Nibbling on her bottom lip. The muscles in her shoulders tensed and fell lax again, pulsing in time with her heartbeat. She tried praying, words falling from her lips in a feeble attempt to advocate for the poor souls who might be in harm’s way. But even they felt jumbled—stirred by the blast their building had felt down to its bones.

  She found the wall, leaned her shoulders against it. She’d stay here for a moment or two only. Surely that would be long enough for the planes to pass by and leave them be. But the Luftwaffe was aiming to cut the beating heart out of their fair city. If aircraft were headed for Whitehall, that meant bombs could rain down over Trafalgar Square, the houses of Parliament, and Scotland Yard . . . all within a short trolley ride of the hall in which she stood.

  As if on cue, lamps wavered in a haunting line down the hall. The bottoms of hefty porcelain domes jostled like tea bells strung out on a clothesline. Vi gripped the wooden chair rail at her back, felt the wall vibrate against her palm. Was it the building’s trembling she felt or her own?

  “Viola Hart. There you are! I’ve been searching high and low.”

  Vi turned, half expecting to find an air-raid warden barreling down the hall instead of Carole, one of the other secretaries in the library wing. She had a similar scolding in her tone though and wind in the rolled curls of her chestnut hair as she hotfooted round the corner.

  She halted near where Vi stood in her tucked-away alcove. “Did you feel that?” Carole’s gaze, too, drifted up. Specks of dust—from where, who knew?—floated from the ceiling in tiny clouds. “Another close one.”

  “Too close, I’d say.”

  “Books rattled from the shelves. Nearly scared the wits out of us back in the library. So you’d better get your stompers a moving, doll. I came to fetch you. If this keeps up, we’ll have to be more than a charitable library organization for the empire; we may well turn into newsmakers ourselves. We’re headed for Charing Cross Station to wait it out.”