Quinn chuckled low, as if he’d expected such a reaction.
“Loudun. And this, Miss Ellie, is your first official tour.” He paused only to step around her, easing the door from her grip to close it behind her. “Welcome to the le marché nocturne—the night market.”
“Marché nocturne . . .” She turned semicircles in place, overwhelmed with the whimsy of it all. It was at once nostalgic and new, inviting and yet foreign—this eclectic mix of sights and smells and sounds that she never could have read about in a travel book.
“Come on with ya then.” He nudged her in the elbow and tipped his head to the street. “Let’s go feed that hunger for explorin’.”
Ellie had no idea what a night market could have to do with the story of her castle, but it didn’t matter. She fell into a wonderland of French life. Stalls of sweets offered heaven—pain au chocolat, crepes filled with hazelnut and chocolate spread, and artful stacks of macarons in crayon box hues.
Savories were not far off, which they sampled but didn’t buy, especially not after the filling estate house meal Ellie had just put back. The rich artisan flavors of local cuisine were in abundance: buckwheat galettes, fruits de mer—a hearty seafood stew—the intoxicating aroma of fresh bread and roasted chicken, oysters and escargot—which Quinn couldn’t convince her to try—pommes frites—the sister to American french fries—and of course, a treasure trove of local wines.
They came to a stall with a reclaimed wood counter stretched over dark toasted barrels. Ellie recognized the red logo and unmistakable vineyard label splashed over a cream banner: Domaine du Renard.
“So this is you!” Ellie exclaimed, delighted to see patrons lined up, making their expert choice from among Titus’s bottles of family wines.
“It is. Night markets are usually only durin’ the summer holidays, but they pick up again the weeks before Christmas. The Renard has always had a place here because this is the heart of the Loire Valley. If you were wantin’ a real story of the land, here it is. The food. The wine. The history and the people. Everythin’s right in front of ya. The market’s your best place to research—not a pile of crumblin’ rocks in the forest.”
“If that’s true . . .” She exhaled, her mind toying with the prospect. “Then you’re going to have to do some fine work to convince me.”
Quinn leaned into the stall, accepting a handshake from the young man behind the counter. They exchanged a greeting in French so fast, Ellie was proud she actually caught a few words.
“You always greet the merchant first,” he whispered, offering instruction. “In a shop or marketplace, it’s done out of politeness. But Marcel is the vintner—wine merchant for our vineyard, so we’re on a first-name basis. That makes it a mite informal, mind. In the States you’re used to a bit more levity than they’ll give you here. And I don’t care how bad your accent might be, you always say bonjour and never hello. It’d make ya the definition of a rude American to do the other way.”
“Got it.” Ellie smiled, greeted the seller with an expert “Bonjour” that even Quinn couldn’t find fault with, then ran her fingertips over the rows of shiny glass bottles. “So, if this is yours, your family’s story for generations, I should probably hear about it too. Teach me. What does Titus have?”
“What doesn’t he have is the question.” Quinn pointed to a crate of bottles in a vast selection. “We’ve got the vins rouges—the reds. Cabernet franc is a classic choice. But people come to this part of the Loire for the steady supply of vins blancs—you’ll recognize that as the whites. There’s a sparkling Chenin blanc—Saumur—made from the best grapes. And this is a Vouvray. We sell out of that label nearly every year.” He cocked an eyebrow like he was sharing a secret. “It’s a little fruit and a whole lotta sweet. Big with the tourists, mind. So you might like it.”
“Ah, but I’m not a tourist today, am I? I’m a local now. So keep up. What’s next?”
“Then you’ll be wantin’ to know about the Muscadet—the locals’ favorite. Always served ice cold.”
“And the Muscadet is a white too?”
He grinned. “Muscadet is the best of everythin’ here. It’s my grandfather’s signature. He’s known all over for it.”
Ellie ran a fingertip over the crisp white label. “L’Aveline?”
“Family name somewhere back there. That’s all I know. There’s somethin’ of a legend here in the town—story of a lady who came to marry a prince of the Loire Valley, but she disappeared into the woods before the marriage could take place. Never heard from again.”
“And that folklore is supposed to dissuade me from going into the woods, hmm? Subtle.”
“Take what you like from it. But you’ll see the name and hear the story all over the markets. It goes back somewhere around the time of Napoleon himself. So Titus won’t hear of changin’ it. Not for anythin’. Says lightnin’ would strike him down if he dared try.”
“Good.” She laughed, somehow picturing Titus saying exactly that in French words she wouldn’t need to translate. The idea fit in any language. “Not good about the lightning strike, of course, but for the name it is. Because it’s perfect. I don’t know how, but . . . L’Aveline. It just fits this place. If it’s part of the history of the land—your family’s land—you shouldn’t consider ever changing it.”
The glow of the twinkling lights and market goods lured them back to the wanderlust of the rows and they walked on, Quinn hushed unless she asked a question, and Ellie battling not to chatter on with them. They passed jewelry booths. Leather goods. More sweets. Freshly baked breads. No produce or butchered goods though, as Quinn said those were reserved for the morning markets. The ones for the weekly shop. But there were Christmas ornaments and whatnots for the tourists, and the splash of colorful cut flowers for the locals. Carved wind chimes hung in a booth, magically stealing the breeze and turning into a woodwind melody.
It felt like hours they walked, Ellie awestruck and Quinn, hands in his jeans pockets, putting up with her every exclamation. It wasn’t until the sellers began packing up their wares that he checked his watch.
“It’s late.”
Ellie looked around, noticing, too, that the lights were growing dim and the size of the crowds had dwindled to a crawl. “Yes. When did that happen?”
He looked down on her, offering the rarity of a genuine smile. “Somewhere between one patisserie stall and the twentieth?”
“Now pain au chocolat might be the one French phrase that I actually do know by heart. And I’m convinced it’s a glorious one. If we got lost in the pastry section of this place”—she popped the last bit of a chocolate croissant in her mouth and crumpled the brown paper—“then that’s a memory I will forever cherish. And I thank you for treating.”
“Call it payback for scarin’ you off the castle grounds today.”
“Ah, but that was just today,” she quipped, keen to remind him that she couldn’t be bribed into forgetting. Ellie tossed the paper into a nearby wastebasket, American basketball style. “We’ll see who wins tomorrow.”
“Win or lose, you do realize you’re walkin’ away from a night market with nothin’ but a bit of buttered dough in your stomach.”
“Am I? I don’t guess I did. Must mean I’m content with my lot in life.”
Ellie had to admit, it seemed a crime to travel all the way to the Loire and walk away without a single memento of her first tour through the markets. Laine probably would have seen fit to kick some shopping sense into her. And Grandma Vi surely would have disapproved. What lady traveled to France and didn’t buy anything?
“We can’t have it.”
“Can’t have what?”
Before she could stop him, Quinn trotted over to the nearest booth. He leaned in, respectful in greeting the seller, just as he’d said one should do. He chatted with a kerchief-clad woman, her eyes bright and aged hands helpful as she showed off the goods she still had spread out upon the table.
He said something that made the w
oman peek over his shoulder, settling her gaze on Ellie. The woman winked back at him and with careful fingertips sailed her hands over the table until she settled on a selection. After wrapping the item in a brown paper parcel, she went to add twine and he stilled her hand. Then to Ellie’s great surprise, he leaned in, whispered something, and kissed her cheek.
The entire exchange left Ellie breathless.
Curious at what he’d said, the obvious charm he could turn on to win over an old shopkeeper in ten seconds flat, and whatever it was that had sent the woman’s gaze drifting in her direction . . . Ellie felt the telltale burn of a blush tinge her cheeks. It was unexpected and entirely out of character. Enough that she turned away from the glow of lights and settled her uneasy footsteps on the slow advance to the truck, the darkness hanging over the row of trees along the avenue.
Quinn trotted back to catch up with her seconds into her flight. He held out the parcel and a respectful nod as part of the package. “Here. For you.”
Ellie halted her steps, stopping to look back at the woman in the stall. She’d watched them walk away and now, seeing the exchange, offered a nod back to Quinn.
“Did you know her?”
“Seems I do now.” Quinn brushed it off with a shrug and a tempered smile. “Go ahead. Open it up.”
Ellie obeyed, taking a deep breath and opening the parcel, brown paper crackling against the fresh folds. She swallowed hard, praying that surprise wouldn’t dare show on her face. Buried in the center of the folds was a pool of fabric: ivory pin dots set against a deep wine-red.
“They call it the L’Aveline print—dyed right here in the Loire.” Quinn unfurled the satin scarf and, without warning, slipped it around her neck. He didn’t give her a chance to breathe, let alone conjure a response. He just backed off, nearly in the same heartbeat, turning away as if the exchange was commonplace for him.
“Every tourist has to go home with somethin’. So now you can’t say we’re all mean watchdogs, yeah?”
Ellie fumbled through a quick nod and “thank you” as he smiled, holding her door.
She climbed into the truck and waited, still not knowing what to say, the sentiment having humbled her to silence. What was worse, she very much doubted a wine-colored swath of French satin had affected him in any manner close to how it had her.
To him, Ellie was a chancer—a tourist looking after her own agenda. But there was so much more she couldn’t say. Even then, as Quinn fired up the engine and lumbered the old truck away from the market lights, she couldn’t bear to tell the truth. Not about Grandma Vi. Definitely not about herself.
How would she have admitted it was the first time a man other than her father had bought her a gift as if they knew the real Ellie? Something so blasé for him had forced its way into becoming a moment of sudden tenderness—a reminder that she could take the scarf home, but she would soon have little home to return to.
The castle was forgotten again. Instead, Ellie couldn’t help but wonder how hours of wandering through a street market had flown by like they were mere moments in time, and yet the silence of a short drive could ache like an eternity.
FIFTEEN
MAY 12, 1941
KNIGHTSBRIDGE SW1
LONDON, ENGLAND
“They told me I could find you here.”
Vi stepped over a pile of broken bricks, leveling her footing on a length of busted sidewalk.
She’d sought Andrew out, knowing her brother would be at the Alexandra Hotel as soon as the bombing reports came in. He stood on the sidewalk, hands buried deep in his trouser pockets, numb from staring at the bombed-out shell of his hotel.
The pungent odor of broken sewer lines and coal gas hung on the air. As did smoke. The heavy, bomb-blasted smell she could now recognize as cordite. The hotel walls jutted out in the hub of it, an eerie brick skeleton where the foyer had once greeted guests with convenience and grandeur. It was flattened, along with the spiral staircase and the central lift area, the floor having collapsed down on the basement some time ago. Rescue workers were busy cutting through the upper floors to free as many trapped as they could.
“Look at it.” Andrew shook his head, glancing around as bricks were picked through. Piled. Walls teetering against gravity. Smoke rising. As men toiled and— Vi shuddered, seeing a blanket-covered stretcher being loaded in a hospital wagon. “I never thought I’d live to see the day.”
“Oh, Andrew. How can this have happened?”
“They told me to wait here. To keep people calm as they come out. But I look around, ready to beg for something to do. Anything, so I don’t have to stand here like a clod while our guests are carried out under sheets.”
Appearing so much her older brother, Andrew turned to her, showing how life had taken the four years he had on her and run them over in lines upon his brow. The Cambridge chap she’d always known to sport a smile was washed over in seriousness then, his pinstripe oxford, white suspenders, and suit trousers blackened with soot, his face marred with that plus exhaustion. The casual laugh lines she’d always loved about him were gone—faded into worry around his eyes.
He’d gone to war. Already seen soldiers die before him. A bullet had taken its time, searing the mechanics of his arm with irreparable nerve damage, the slight shaking and loss of feeling that meant he could never again be a man in uniform. So he’d come back to London. Back to more death at home.
“You really shouldn’t be here, Vi. It’s not safe.”
“I had to see if you were alright.”
He tipped his shoulders in a defeated shrug. “I’m the hotel manager who lived. How can I be anything else but alright?”
Vi hated to see the weight of guilt come down so heavily. She went to him, braced her hands on his shoulders in a supportive half hug from behind. “It’s not your fault. None of this. How could anyone know where the bombs would land? Dreadful reports are coming in from all over the city. Even Westminster Abbey has been hit. I heard that on the bus to come here. The Abbey walls still stand, but plaster and debris crashed through the roof. Imagine—in a house of God.”
Vi shook her head. After nearly nine months of raids, you’d think they’d be used to it. Horribly used to the sight before them. “How is Mae?”
He nodded weakly. “She’s fine. The kids, fine. We lost all the windows at the back of the house and the garden’s unrecognizable now, but we’re the fortunate ones. More than the poor souls here and over on Carlisle Street . . .” His voice trailed off. His gaze remained fixed on the piles of tumbled brick before them. “You?”
“Fine. No worse for wear. I spent last night in the Anderson shelter behind our building. My flat was untouched, but others sustained some damage. A couple in the neighboring building are gone completely. No serious injuries though. There’s solace in that.”
She straightened her shoulders on principle; the Luftwaffe wouldn’t receive even the compliment of her sorrow.
“And that?” He pointed to the long scratch that stretched from the outside of her left hand and wrapped around the inside of her wrist, the one that had been stitched up after the Royal Empire Society bombing blast weeks before.
“Oh. It’s nothing. All healed up now.” Vi twisted her hand in the air. “See? Brilliant.”
Andrew nodded like he accepted her answer, even though she knew he didn’t. Not really. He’d met her at the hospital the night of the RES bombing and since had remained a typical and most protective older brother.
He stared up, the smoldering hotel ruins coughing up gray smoke as the fire wagons’ water hoses doused and sizzled the fire that remained. Vi joined him, using her palm to block out the sun, staring up at the span of smoke-stained sky where the upper floors of the hotel had been just a night before. The fire brigade continued bustling around them, with soot-darkened clothes and weary bodies, only stopping to chug tea and ration-approved sugarless cakes from a makeshift food table that had been set up on the street corner.
“I know this is the worst
possible outcome, Andrew. But I’m here because of this.” She tilted her head to the carnage.
He looked back at her, questions in his eyes. “I don’t understand.”
“I’ve had enough. Enough of watching our countrymen die in front of our eyes. Enough of Hitler thinking he’s beaten us.”
“He will never beat us.”
“That I believe is true. In fact, it’s why I’ve come to find you this morning. If there’s anything I can do to add to the fight, I’m ready to do it.” She leaned in, dropped her voice low, and stared him flat in the eyes. “I want the address.”
“It is not the time to discuss this.” He shook his head. “Go home, Vi.”
“It’s never the time, is it? But I see what is happening plain as you do. And I’m here. Now. Ready to do something about it. You cannot deny me this.”
“You’re the one who’s always spouted ideals of pacifism, like Mum and Dad. You cannot speak peace and war in the same breath. And Mae would never forgive me if I let her best friend from university come closer to death than you already have. My own sister. And what would I tell William and Pippa?”
“You won’t tell them anything, except that their auntie Vi loves them very much.”
Andrew stooped for a crumpled bit of paper on the sidewalk—an early summer issue of Vogue, the bathing beauty’s legs and image of a red beach ball singed to black in the cover’s corner. He took it in hand and stood. Rolled it.
He tapped it against his leg, ignoring her.
“I won’t be shut out of this war, Andrew. Either you give me the address to the Special Operations Executive, or I’ll find it on my own. But my way will simply take longer.”
“You’re not even supposed to know what the SOE is, let alone where it is.” He rolled his eyes in her direction.
“I can guess what you’re thinking. But I’m not being naive about this. Andrew, I’m experienced with languages. Proficient, some professors say. Gifted with words, another one said. I’d never thought of it like that until now. Surely that can be of some skill somewhere. A desk in the war office. Translating German transmissions that come in from behind enemy lines. Writing letters. Filing memos. I don’t care what it is—I just want to do something.”
The Lost Castle Page 17
