The Lost Castle

by Kristy Cambron

  “Yes?” She leaned in, meeting his gaze. “You wish to tell me something, Master Robert, in the center of all this grand merriment?”

  He laughed, lightening at the tease in her voice. “Only that you may drop the pretense and call me simply Robert from now on. Please. I wish it. If you are fetching water and hanging linens at the winemaker’s cottage, I cannot have you address me in any other way.”

  “Cultivating gardens and also restoring your castle, don’t forget. I plan to begin work on those as soon as possible. But very well, Robert. I believe I can honor that request.”

  She curtsied, a low, courtly bow she’d practiced umpteen times for her mother’s edification. Somehow, it felt far statelier under the cover of night stars than it could have in the rooms of a grand palace.

  “You may call me Aveline. We hold no titles here.”

  “Aveline.” He rewarded her with a smile—the first genuine show of emotion he’d allowed himself. And it suited him enough that she didn’t feel scarred. Or royal. Or anything just then but herself. “Done.”

  “And that was all you wished to ask?”

  “The rest will keep for tonight.” Robert tucked the parchment in the pocket of his jacket, pulled his arms from the sleeves, and laid it on a nearby bench. He pushed up his shirtsleeve and held out his hand, palm to the night sky. “May I have this dance?”

  Aveline dropped the blossom on the ground as they walked to the grass-covered dance floor—more color in her world.

  SEVENTEEN

  PRESENT DAY

  LES TROIS-MOUTIERS

  LOIRE VALLEY, FRANCE

  The hum of machinery lulled Ellie from sleep long before the sun had awoken.

  She slipped out of bed, padding across the hardwood in bare feet, and parted the drapes to see the activity beneath the balcony.

  Even in the smoky dawn, she could see the unmistakable outline of Titus standing before a group of workers, cane in hand and a basket and leather strap cutting across his shoulders. They’d lined up along the arbors, at the ready to fill baskets with the lifeblood of the land. Trucks had been spaced out, their headlights illuminating the haze of fog mingling down the vineyard rows.

  Quinn was nowhere in sight, but it didn’t take a winemaker to tell Ellie what was happening. Or to irritate her enough to want to confront a certain Irishman about it. It was harvest day—the biggest day in the wine-making life cycle—and it appeared as though she’d been the one person on the estate left out of it.

  “If he thinks he’s excluding me from this . . .” Ellie sprinted across the room, yanked a pair of jeans from the bureau, and hustled to dress. “Quinn Foley has another thing coming.”

  Within minutes she’d pinned her hair back into a braided knot at her nape and tugged riding boots over her jeans. After a quick check on her daily update e-mails from Laine—seeing that while Grandma Vi hadn’t improved, at least nothing was worse—Ellie darted down the stairs and out the front doors, then slipped in among the group.

  If Quinn was reluctant to allow her to nose into the inner workings of the vineyard, she would have to convince him to change his mind. He’d kept her at a distance in the few days since the outing at the night market, passing her only at breakfast, a chance meeting on the road to Loudun, and once in the kitchen for an evening meal. Claiming business, he hadn’t offered another tour of anything, leaving Ellie to her own devices of research. She’d explored the nearby town of Loudun, and struggle though she might with the language, Ellie kept digging for any information she could find on the castle—or Lady Vi.

  Which amounted to little more than nothing at each turn.

  Ellie had stumbled upon a tucked-away café in the heart of town, with an attached patisserie and outdoor tables boasting a view of the town square. And to her delight, in a prominent location overlooking a fountain and small garden, she’d found a plaque written in French—and to cater to the many tourists who flowed through, the glorious addition of the English translation beneath it.

  It referenced the castle, commemorating the stand of the people when it had been sacked in July 1789. She’d pressed her palm to the weathered bronze, feeling the raised letters beneath her skin. It answered little, save for stirring her heart to wander back to the vineyard, to somehow make it past the gate and the blocked road leading to the castle.

  Maybe this was to be the first step.

  Ellie squared her shoulders and slipped in line next to Titus, determined.

  “Bonjour, Titus,” she whispered, to let him know she was there.

  “Ellie.” She caught the warmth of a smile soften Titus’s profile, and he nodded approval. Quietly. His stance laden with patience and pride as truck engines stirred and workers gathered in the arbor rows around them. It didn’t take a broken conversation for him to know why she was there. He simply slipped the basket from his shoulders and, feeling on air, met her palms with the coolness of the leather strap.

  “Le panier.” He lifted her hand and placed it over the basket’s weaving.

  “Le panier,” she repeated with a nod.

  Though he wouldn’t see it, Ellie wanted him to know she was ready.

  She slipped on the strap, adjusting it crosswise over her shoulders like it had been on him, and added, “Bien,” so he would know she was good and ready to get to work.

  After reaching inside the basket, he placed gloves in one of her hands, adding, “Les gants,” and shears, “Les cisailles,” in the other. She whispered a soft “oui” in understanding each time, wrapping the tools in her grip.

  There would have been more to ask—which grapes to select, how to cut and handle them, and what to do with the harvest once her basket was full—but she hadn’t the words to say. Not in French, anyway. Ellie figured she’d just watch. Mimic. And learn.

  Titus moved off, a sated smile still evident upon his lips. His cane hovered over the field grass, searching for obstacles as he walked toward the sound of trucks and people, and supplies to replenish the ones he’d given to her.

  His was the role that, despite blindness, had him once again standing before his army—the people who would take passion for the vines and turn it into something real. He appeared thoroughly enlivened by it, and to be honest, Ellie couldn’t blame him. She, too, was taken by the bustling sounds, the crisp edge to the morning air, and the swell of anticipation sweeping in with the impending harvest.

  It was exhilarating to feel included, to know they’d be outside when the sun began to spread its first golden-orange fingers over the horizon. To hear the rumble of ice machines and trucks, ready to receive the mass of grapes and keep them cool in their beds.

  “What’s all this?”

  Ellie turned. Quinn had picked her out of the line and taken up the space Titus had vacated. She shrugged, keeping her attention focused on the prep of workers around them, as if the activity was normal and she quite prepared to move along with it.

  “I’m here to help.”

  “To help, are ya?” He tipped an eyebrow and crossed his arms over his chest. “Have you any idea how hard this work is?”

  “Trying to scare me off?”

  “No. Not a wit. Just bein’ truthful. You’ll stoop for long minutes at a time. Bendin’ and reachin’. Carry loads of grapes for hours without rest. And you’re late, so you missed out on breakfast completely. You mean to work with the rest, all without a stitch of food in your stomach?”

  Ellie wrung out her arms, willing her muscles to awaken. If her pride was to be saved, they’d have to sustain her through the day, and be quick about it.

  “I stopped by the kitchen. Already had a pain au chocolat while walking down here. And I thank you for your concern, Quinn, but I’ll be fine. In fact, I’ve already paid you, and this is the tour I want today. A tour of your vineyard. As my guide, do you honestly mean to deny a willing—and paying—volunteer? If you can give me one good reason, I’ll go straight back upstairs.”

  Quinn accepted the challenge with a curt nod. “Spi
ders.”

  Ellie had to cover a sharp intake of breath. Even felt the vapor of a chill spread down her arms at the mere mention of the word, which she had to shrug off.

  “Doesn’t bother me.”

  “What about if they become your new best friends? Crawl up your arms when you swipe their webs, and drop down on your head when you sit on the ground to cut the low fruit. You can’t be tellin’ me that doesn’t concern you even a little bit. Vendangeurs are more than pickers hired to cut grapes for wine-makin’. They contend with spiders and mosquitos, snails, lizards, and even birds tearing up the arbor rows. The scrapin’ out of rotted grape heads, staining your hands and arms, ruinin’ your clothes even before fruit can go in the bin. You’ll freeze all mornin’ and be blazin’ hot by the time we call it quits at midday. And don’t think that’s gettin’ away with anythin’. You’ll still be knackered for the rest of the week after one day of the harvest.”

  “Whatever that means . . .” Ellie drew in a deep breath, willing courage to ignore what he was telling her and pretend spiders making liberal contact with her skin didn’t pose a host of gruesome concerns in the pit of her stomach. “Tell you what. I’ll trade you for it—an honest day’s work in the vineyards for one glance at the castle. More than six hours of spider-infused hard labor for thirty seconds of face time with a pile of old stones. And you’ll never find a better offer in your life.”

  She thrust her hand out, ready to shake on it. Quinn ignored it, leaving her palm hanging on air.

  “You know it’s not my decision to make, Ellie.”

  “How do I? I’m still not certain who the owner is. Could be you. Or Titus over there? Why don’t I just get out my translator app and ask him? Either way, at least I’ll be making some progress, which is more than I can say for the last few days.”

  There. She’d said it. It’s what she’d been thinking all along. He’d been ardent in avoiding her, and she hadn’t a clue as to why.

  “I can’t go tourin’ until the work’s done, Ellie.”

  “Good. Me neither.”

  It had been a whim to tuck the scarf Quinn had gifted her into her pocket, and glad she was of it now. It gave her just the right amount of moxie to stand defiant before him. She dropped her tools back in the basket, then pulled out the scarf and covered her hair with a wide band across the top, tying it over the knot of hair at her nape.

  “If you and your grandfather can do it, then so can I.” Ellie slipped her hands in each glove and fused them to her hips, every inch of her petite frame standing up to his much taller inquisition. “Just point me in the right direction and I’ll get to work.”

  Quinn said nothing else right away, instead just looked at her like he was mulling something over.

  Good. He sees I’m serious.

  It didn’t surprise her. It had been much the same since she’d arrived: Quinn gave an ultimatum, she defied it, he gave in. Ellie was just as certain she’d won when he started to walk away. But he stopped at his truck bed, pulled something from the back, and waltzed back in her direction, a slow smile building on his face.

  “If that’s what ya want, Miss Ellie, then we’ll work you right into the ground.” Quinn placed a folded brown-paper parcel in one of her hands and offered a thermos to the other. “Here ya go. Another one of your pain au chocolat and some extra coffee. After six hours of what this vineyard has in store for ya, you’re goin’ to need it. And by then you’ll be whistlin’ a different tune.”

  By the end of the harvest day, Ellie wasn’t whistling anything.

  Aching shoulders, a screaming back, and a touch of sunburned skin, however, made enough noise to draw more attention than she wanted. Ellie stood at the end of the arbor rows, taking mental snapshots of the scene as she pulled the work gloves from her hands.

  It was exhilarating in a way, to feel exhausted but happy and satisfied in the work they’d accomplished. It was a surprise to learn that just like dining around a feast table, she didn’t need to speak the language to be a part of what was happening there. The people, Titus and Quinn included, took pride in laboring together. Cutting and carrying to one end. Carefully loading and letting the full- to-brimming trucks lumber off to the winery, to start the hopeful process of producing the year’s wines.

  She’d even caught Quinn’s glance a time or two, glad to show him that she’d filled her basket and gone for another. He’d tipped his head in a congenial nod, smiling in agreement that she’d won another battle in his eyes.

  Funny how Ellie could spend years moving from college straight into lackluster office jobs and never feel the same as she did after a single day spent in the sun. It made her long for something real, to feel new roots grow—maybe in a reimagined place. A place that had passion in the soil. Like the vineyard. Or the castle. It made her more determined than ever to carve out a life for herself, and for what past story might enliven the time Grandma Vi had left.

  The sound of shoes crunching the dried field grass caused her to turn. And surprisingly, she found the man of the hour himself. His unquenchable thirst for the land she, too, was beginning to understand.

  “Bonjour, Titus.”

  He’d run his hand along the row of vines, using his palm to see the path to her. She reached out, offering her arm when he came to the end.

  “So you have spent an entire day with my vines.” He stepped out with her, taking a chance with careful steps. “What did they tell you?”

  The jolt of words—his words, spoken in perfect English—stunned Ellie to gaping.

  “Don’t be so surprised.” He patted her arm, her silence alerting him to it. “I never said I could not speak English. I merely prefer Français.”

  “Does Quinn know?”

  “Of course. But he knows I prefer it too. And between us, he could use some work on his accent. But do not tell him I told you that, or he’ll take away my newspapers.”

  She bit her bottom lip on a laugh. “It’ll be our secret.”

  They stood, their backs basking in the sunlight, but their faces turned to the cool afternoon shadows of the grove.

  “So, what did the land say to you today?”

  It was a lovely thought; spoken like a true wine master. Ellie drew in a deep breath, absorbing the majesty of the view around them. “That it’s rich. Full of life. And boasts a harvest that just seems otherworldly somehow.” Ellie noticed the electric fencing cutting a clear path along its border and sighed. “And then, despite how beautiful everything is, I remember that I’m no closer to finding what I’ve been looking for than the day I stepped off a plane.”

  “And what is it you came to find?”

  She swallowed hard.

  Was this the moment? Perhaps Titus was the owner. Or it seemed he may be counted on as an ally. He’d asked and now waited patiently as she chased her thoughts in circles, looking for an answer that would suit them both.

  “Truth.”

  “Hmm.” He paused, with the clear evidence of compassion etched on his face. “But if the truth you find isn’t the one you were seeking? What then?”

  Ellie had to admit—she hadn’t considered that.

  Whatever secrets her grandmother had been keeping about the castle, they might change everything. They could alter the way she viewed the woman who had raised her, and that, when her foundation was already wobbly, left her near terrified.

  “I suppose I’ll have to accept it, whatever it is. But that comes back to the castle. There’s a story there. Waiting for me. I can feel it. I can’t explain why; it’s just there in the silence. And I guess the question now is, what am I willing to risk in order to find out?”

  Ellie shook her head, feeling his grandfatherly wisdom enough to graze the side of her cheek against his shoulder. “Does that make any sense at all?”

  “More than you know, petite fille. Many have come before you, asking to find the same thing.”

  “I know they have. I think that’s what’s scared me more than anything. Did others just give
up? Or each time, did they find some truth they didn’t expect, then run when it was staring them back in the face? It’s like the fox in the grove. They’re swift animals who run away from risk just as fast as they can. I keep wondering—is there some terrible secret the castle doesn’t want known? And if I find it, will I be sorry? Maybe I’ll want to run too.”

  His laugh was storied—deep and robust, like an aged wine. The reaction as if her question was familiar and the answer given too many times before. “No, dear Ellie. It is nothing like that. Maybe they didn’t need the story like you do.”

  “Then why? Why is it hiding from the world?”

  Titus lifted his face, his gaze moving around as if he still had sight, reliving the generations of memories that existed only in his mind. He raised a hand and pointed out in front of them.

  “The woods always have the same feel. The same smells and sounds. They never go away once they’re burned in our memory. I may not set eyes on the grove any longer, but it is still with me. I see the road to the castle in my dreams . . . blossoms, rain showers in the spring . . . the vines alive in summer . . . fallen leaves and harvest in autumn . . . snow piled from heavenly storehouses every winter. It is the constancy of God, in His time and in the very heartbeat of the land, by which our stories will live on. That is where roots grow deepest. Do you understand?”

  “I think so. I’m beginning to, anyway. But I still wonder what Fox Grove looks like from the inside. But you know. You’ve walked that road.”

  “Yes.” He paused, as if something had moved him to remembrance. “Many times.”

  She held her breath. “And the castle?”

  “Of course. Since I was a boy, and all of my life until I lost the use of my eyes. I still see the stones. The castle sleeps in my memory too.”

  Ellie turned to him, knowing he couldn’t possibly see the longing she knew covered her face. But she was prepared to try, easing her heart out into the open, praying he’d hear it in her voice. Enough that it would touch a place in his heart.