The Lost Castle

by Kristy Cambron

  “Well, at least you tried. He’ll know that.”

  “Ah . . . I have my doubts. But then, I had to inherit my olagonin’ from someone, yeah? Seems logical it would be a stubborn old Frenchman.”

  Ellie stood on a smile, brushing her hands on her jeans.

  Though she hadn’t noticed when she’d come in, the cast of sunlight glittering against glass drew her attention to a host of bottles, beakers, and a cast-iron scale lined up on the potter’s table. She brushed her index finger along the edge of the tabletop’s aged and scarred wood, looking over the setup.

  “What’s all this?”

  “Titus’s workshop. Not used as much now, with the added hurdle of his eyesight. But he still has his way. His method for determinin’ when it’s time to harvest and what the wine should become from it. It’s why we all use baskets in the arbors instead of plastic bins, and old trucks instead of newer machinery. It took an hour of convincin’ to get him to agree to ice trucks now that I’m here this season. He’s just bound and determined that the wine demands the old ways.”

  “And you’d like to modernize things a bit?”

  He tipped his shoulders in a shrug, rising next to her. “Maybe. But what do I know? Only been here a few months, and at some point I expect I’ll be movin’ on again. What good would it do to force changes that won’t stick?”

  “So you never stay anywhere long enough to let roots grow, hmm?”

  “This place has enough of them without addin’ another hot-headed personality to the mix. Can you imagine bringin’ in the harvest each year with an Irishman and a Frenchman at the helm?” He shook his head. “That’s askin’ for another war if you ask me. His way’s a little more art and age than it is science, though Titus would swear on a stack of Bibles it’s how all wine is made. Better than that—he’d believe it.”

  “If you’ll be moving on soon”—she rolled up the sleeves of her button-down to the elbows—“then I guess you should teach me now.”

  He tipped an eyebrow. “You want to learn about wine-makin’, but from my grandfather’s view. Have I got that right?”

  “Well, you’re my tour guide, aren’t you? I put in a full day’s work. I think that entitles me to ask. You said no to the castle again, so this time, I want a tour of Titus’s mind.”

  Quinn laughed, a carefree chuckle that resounded from his chest. He wasn’t taken with humor; subdued was more his way. But in that moment, he’d given her a glimpse of the real man behind his grandfather’s shadow. If authentic, Ellie liked what she saw. It seemed the Irish drifter was willing to consider the roots of the past, that the art of Titus’s storied methods could hold some measure of validity, even if he hadn’t fully subscribed to them.

  “Alright. Close your eyes.”

  Ellie took a turn with showing him skepticism.

  “Humor me? Titus would say your hesitation is akin to disbelief. His passion for the land has no method that’s goin’ to make a lick of sense to ya. But this is how it’s done. So close ’em.”

  Ellie shed a playful sigh and obeyed, but not before she rolled her eyes for good measure. In the next breath the warmth of Quinn’s fingertips brushed against hers. She covered a hitch in her breathing at the surprise of it, as a small glass vial eased into her palm.

  He edged her fingertip over the rim, so she’d know where the glass ended.

  “Smell this. But don’t name it yet.”

  Ellie brought the bottle to her nose and drank in a breath, the obvious softness of vanilla filling her senses.

  “Good.” Quinn exchanged the bottle in her hand for a new one. “And this?”

  Its scent was deeper. Musky, almost. Rich and somehow familiar, but not enough that Ellie could name it outright. He seemed to expect it and moved on.

  “And the last one.”

  The scent was familiar, all right.

  It had drifted over her the moment she’d stepped from her car in the estate house circular drive. It was soft and lyrical, mild and inviting. Familiar and oh-so-French. The floral aroma was as wistful and romantic as the idea of a fairy-tale castle nestled in a deep wood. It was the perfume of France: lavender, mixed with an air of something fruity on its notes.

  “Right,” Quinn noted, and she heard the sound of a bottle’s uncorking and the glug glug of wine being poured into a glass.

  Before she could even ask the question, he answered, “Don’t open. Not yet.” Ellie felt his hands find hers again, replacing the vial of lavender scent with the bell of a wineglass. “Smell first. And then sip.”

  Ellie tipped the glass, bringing the layers of scents to her nose, and the dark smoothness of the wine to her lips. Never had she expected that the scents could have fused into taste, becoming the richness of the land on her tongue.

  “Keep ’em closed.”

  She heard the opening of a door—rollers squeaking and the flip of a light switch or two—but didn’t look. After a moment of the odd sounds, Quinn gently instructed, “Now, open.”

  Ellie opened her eyes to find that the rest of the barn, and an added warehouse space behind, had been illuminated with the storied past of the Vivay family legacy lined up in neat barreled rows. Wine barrels soared behind them, stacked five high, and she couldn’t count how long, taking her breath away with their uniform beauty. The air was tinged with fermented grape and berry, sweet vanilla, and the woodsy smell of the other scent she still couldn’t name.

  Electric lights glowed against the aged stone walls of the barn, and the metal of the newer warehouse addition behind. Stainless-steel tables and machinery contrasted with the vintage feel of the potter’s table. The concrete floor—a more modern update to the vineyard—had been swept clean. A vintage radio was tucked on a corner shelf, rounded on top and missing a dial on the front. It probably hadn’t been used in decades, but Ellie couldn’t help but wonder if its sound hadn’t once filled the rafters of this place. Had some couple, maybe Titus and his wife, danced in the center of the room?

  “You’ve smelled the earth. Tasted the harvest. And delved into the murky spots of my grandfather’s methods. So what does it tell you? As Titus would say, what did the Master craft from His land?”

  “Vanilla, to start. That was easy.”

  “Mmm-hmm. And?”

  “Lavender? But I thought it didn’t grow around here.”

  “That’s right. But he swears the wind carries the scent up from the south. It’s still French, even if it’s not Loire Valley. What else?”

  “Fruit. A tartness. Tangy?” She tasted again. “Raspberry, maybe. Or a different variety of grape I know absolutely nothing about? One of the sweet varieties of dessert wine those American tourists buy up at le marché nocturne each year.”

  “Très bien. For a novice, I’m quite impressed.”

  Ellie set her glass down, drawn to the rows of barrels. She walked over, curious, peering down the remarkable length of a row. “So, the second vial. What was it?”

  Quinn followed, hands in his jeans pockets. “That would be hickory. The trees are all over Fox Grove. Titus has the barrels specially toasted with it, to give an edge of flavor that can only be found here. On this land.” He ran his index finger over the burned marking on the barrel. “See? We stamp the barrels here and ship all over. To wineries in the States. Throughout Europe. Even Australia and South Africa, so their wine will have a bit of authentic France in it too.”

  Ellie ran her hand over the stamp, as if she could feel the legacy burn beneath her fingertips.

  “Titus says the land is a witness of the generations who have come before. That it stands resolute. It’s the same yesterday. Today. And who knows what tomorrow will look like. He likens it to God’s influence over creation. That He’s immovable. Steady. Watching from a distance, yet ever involved. A bit like your lost castle, hmm?”

  Something changed in the air when Ellie looked up.

  The sweetness of vanilla and wine still lingered, but Quinn’s words kindled something between them in a way
she hadn’t expected. He stood nearby, his hand on the barrel, fingertips hovering dangerously close to hers. With her eyes open this time, she stared back at the ease in his. Considering his words. And a free hand, with no vials to take up space.

  While she didn’t move, he did. Sliding his fingertips down the arc of the rim until the warmth of his touch seared her skin, brushing over her thumb.

  Quinn’s gaze drifted up to the scarf that still held ebony waves back from her face. “Why did you wear that?” He’d chosen to murmur the words.

  Soft and open, they were meant in kindness, without an ounce of teasing or reproach. Quinn simply wanted to know why. And heaven help her, but Ellie couldn’t bear to tell him.

  With the small of her back fused to the wine barrel behind, Ellie fought the urge to fall into step with him and edge closer. But what good would it do to form an attachment that wouldn’t last beyond a few weeks of the harvest? Quinn had said it himself—drifters moved on. They didn’t plant roots. And they certainly didn’t take interest in those who did.

  Ellie had so little left to anchor her, she was holding on to life with a death grip. It was far different from how easily Quinn seemed to let go of anything that could seek to hold him. But in that breath, all that held her was his hand upon hers.

  “Wasn’t I supposed to wear it?” She swallowed hard. “I thought it was a gift.”

  He nodded, green eyes locked on hers. “To take home—yeah, it was. But you’re still here.”

  Ellie left her hand under his and kept her feet iced in place. “I couldn’t see taking it home, shutting it in a drawer, only getting it out when I wanted to remember.” A light tip of the shoulders, the bearing of truth, and she whispered, “We live where we live, Quinn. And I have to live in the moment. Now is all I’ve got.”

  He cleared his head of the edge of a barrel overhead, his whisper close now and so warm she could feel it pinging off the skin of her collarbone.

  “Why are you here, Ellie? The truth.”

  “I thought I was here to see the castle. To uncover a story.”

  It was so like him to shake his head. To almost read her thoughts. To determine when she was posturing and challenge her in the face of it.

  “I didn’t ask about the castle. I want to know why you’re standin’”—he pointed at the tips of her boots as his shoe nudged them—“right here. Why did you come lookin’ for me?”

  “It was something Titus said in the arbors. He wanted to help. To open the castle again. And he said that if I asked you something, honestly, that you’d help too. He made me promise I would.”

  Quinn leaned down until his forehead was close enough to graze hers.

  “So ask me.”

  Even with the hope of the castle and the secrets it held, the fear of breaking their closeness in that instant—it shocked her that his nearness could matter more.

  “What would Juliette want you to do?”

  The muscle in Quinn’s jaw tensed. He eased back, leaving a cold void between them, and an empty place where his hand had been.

  “Quinn, I’m sorry.” Ellie took a deep breath, shaken as he edged away. “Did I say something that—?”

  He turned his back on her, stalking to the potter’s table to clear the remains of the tasting. “Let me guess, Titus told you I’d crack if you mentioned her? That I’d finally bend the rules if I thought it’s somethin’ that she’d want?”

  “He didn’t tell me a thing, except to say it. And he said it was time . . . that it had been too long and it was somehow your choice whether to let me in or not.”

  Quinn brushed by her, carrying wineglasses to an industrial sink in the corner. He blasted the water from the faucet, rinsing, still facing away.

  “You think I own that castle?”

  Ellie shook her head. The questions were flying too swiftly, her heart beating too fast.

  “I know you don’t. I went to the l’hôtel de ville. It wasn’t easy to step into the courthouse and sift through public land records written entirely in French . . . but no. Your name wasn’t listed.”

  “And let me guess—my grandfather’s was. He’s been playin’ us both for fools?”

  “No. I don’t think so. He owns the surrounding land, but the castle’s island, surrounded by the moat—no. That plot is missing from the public record.” Ellie swallowed hard, knowing what it could break between them if he answered what she needed to ask. “I don’t understand any of this. Who is Juliette? The way you’re reacting, she must be . . . Was she your wife or—”

  “She was my mother.” He stopped, shut off the water, stared down into the depths of the old copper sink. “Titus’s youngest daughter. From his second marriage—my grandmother.”

  “Juliette was your mother?”

  It made sense. Quinn’s pain masked as the apathy of a free-fall attitude. But the shoulders that had turned against her weren’t free. They were drooped, ever so slightly. And burdened, despite what he wanted the world to see.

  “What happened to her?”

  “What do you think happened, Ellie? She died. Cancer. Eight years ago in a horrific battle that I’ll spare you the details of. My grandfather may own this land, but he does not own me. I choose where I live, and for how long. It’s been the way of it since I was old enough to know how this world works. And openin’ the castle is not my decision to make. If someone wants their privacy, whoever they are, I mean to honor it. I honor it because it’s what I want too—the privacy to choose my own life.”

  “Quinn, I promise. If I’d known . . .”

  “You wouldn’t have said anythin’. I know.” He turned on a sigh, arms crossed over his chest, and leaned against the sink. “And the goose chase makes sense now. Titus didn’t have me come lookin’ for shears. His agenda’s a little more basic. He wanted me to find that.”

  “What?”

  Quinn darted a glance to the corner of the barn, to stacks of wood lined against a tarp-covered crescent—the perfect shape of a boat.

  “You said you lost your parents, so I won’t pretend that you don’t know how this feels. If you can tell me I’m wrong, I’ll drag that thing out, and though I may regret it, I’ll use it to take you in.”

  “Tell you you’re wrong about what?”

  “Ellie, I see a woman before me who thinks a story will save her. But in the end, whatever the story is, it won’t be enough to make you happy. Are you willin’ to risk gettin’ hurt to find that out?”

  Ellie’s heart beat faster, flip-flopping in her chest for a second time. “I think I already have.”

  His nod was curt, and final. “Fine. Midnight, at the back of the arbors. Along the grove. It’s our only way past the cameras.” He shoved his hands in his pockets—aloof and distant—back to where they’d started. “Can you swim?”

  She nodded. “Like a fish.”

  “Well, let’s hope we don’t have to test your skill.” He tapped the toe of his boot against the corner of the tarp that just tipped the floor. “And do me a favor? Leave the scarf at home.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  DECEMBER 11, 1943

  LA ROCHE-GUYON

  GIVERNY, FRANCE

  How a British linguist with enough espionage training to fit in a thimble was expected to infiltrate one of Hitler’s highest-ranking command centers, Vi hadn’t a clue.

  They didn’t know who she was—that much she had confidence in. Had they known, she’d have received a bullet to the head the moment SS guards had escorted her out onto the Paris street, instead of being loaded into the backseat of a waiting vehicle.

  Andrew’s contact at Baker Street did find her skills an asset. In fact, Garrick Moran remembered her. He said Vi was just innocent but also wicked-smart enough to be useful overseas. After a brief course in how to use a microfilm camera, she’d been sent to France. It took some time to procure travel papers and get assimilated to life in occupied Paris. She’d worked in a newspaper office, keeping a keen eye on who came in and out through the fleur shop
on the ground floor. Sunflower or lavender bouquets didn’t enter and exit nearly as often as unnamed visitors.

  But on that day, she’d been singled out from the other secretaries. Without explanation Vi had been escorted past the fragrance of flora in the quaint street-facing shop and loaded into an automobile that ushered her deeper into the Nazi stronghold of northern France.

  Dusk had fallen into night on the drive from Paris to Giverny.

  The world outside the car windows was layered in shadows—silver-gray from a recent ice storm, and the glow of a full moon peeking through the clouds. She recognized remnants of the Paris migration from 1939, lining the roads in ice-covered graveyards of metal and wood, shining like glass beasts guarding the road.

  Vi battled the angst that grew with each kilometer they traveled, keeping gloved hands still in her lap. Were her driver to glance in the rearview, he’d see none of it. To him and anyone else she might meet on the road, her demeanor would read stark.

  A lady never fidgeted, unless of course it was on the inside.

  Her will would remain steadfast and orderly; whatever was brewing behind the Nazis’ plans for her, Vi would be faultless in assisting them. She would be as French as they thought. A secretary whose forged papers said she was of German descent on her mother’s side, and therefore could be trusted to translate simple missives coming in over the newswire. That’s what they were to think, anyway. And that’s what she’d show them—or, heaven help her, die trying.

  Their car was waved through a heavily fortified gate without the slightest impediment, then slowed to a stop. A tidal wave of panic threatened Vi once she recognized the building before her, one she’d only seen in photos.

  God in heaven . . .

  One moment she’d been a humble secretary, an undercover agent looking for any meager scraps of intelligence she could relay back to the war department in London. But in the next breath, she’d been taken straight into the eye of the storm and deposited on the front doorstep of the Château de La Roche-Guyon—French headquarters for Field Marshal Erwin Rommel himself.