‘Now the fun part.’ He shared the remaining wine between two tumblers, handing one to her. ‘I haven’t worked all night. There’s still an hour or more before the birds start singing.’ His voice became reflective; ‘I often forget the time, and the dawn chorus chases me to my bed.’
‘Sleep deprivation isn’t healthy, not long-term.’ She over-tipped her glass, flooding her throat as the notion of chasing Laurent to his bed took hold. After a twenty-hour day he must crash into sleep, his circadian rhythms all awry. No doubt he’d wake, ragged, at the blare of his alarm. Did he ever indulge in a lazy morning under the duvet? She raised her glass for another slug of wine.
‘No, no.’ Laurent touched her hand, slowing her down. ‘It’s a good vintage and I want your opinion.’ He picked up one of the capsules. ‘Some of these will go to the lab in Bergerac for final analysis before bottling. The rest go abroad to my distributors so they can taste and then buy. An Irish wine merchant rang a few days ago. One of their directors tasted Tour de Chemignac while he was on holiday nearby and he’s talking about ordering five hundred cases. Wine bars are springing up all over Dublin, did you know that?’
‘No, though there are plenty in Sheffield.’
‘So? Give me your thoughts.’
If she told him those, he’d probably blush, or run a mile. ‘The wine? I like it.’ It was every bit as intense as its colour promised. She put her nose over the rim, wanting to dissect its aromas. Wanting to impress Laurent with her sophistication and intuition. Unfortunately, her scientist’s brain was taking over. ‘I’m getting… Hang on…’ Could she risk saying, ‘phenylpropene compounds’? Exactly what she was picking up, though most people would experience them as clove and nutmeg. Come on, Shauna, let the poetry flow. ‘It’s like opening a spice cupboard at Christmas. I think I can taste vanilla.’ Laurent raised an eyebrow, sabotaging her confidence. ‘No – I don’t know. You tell me.’
He swirled his tumbler under his nose. ‘Seductively full-bodied, bright to the palate, with a long finish of smoke and, yes, vanilla. Spicy, as you say. That’s down to the compound eugenol.’
She knew that. Now she wished she’d said it.
‘There are hints of caramel and toffee…’
That would be Furfural and 5-Methylfurfural. Evidently, she and Laurent had studied the same food science modules.
Laurent drank from the glass, and rolled the liquid around his mouth before swallowing. ‘A back note of coconut, which is derived from oak lactones.’
‘From the casks?’
‘Not really.’ He surveyed the barrels, explaining, ‘French white oak, irreplaceable. They date from my grandfather’s time but they’re exhausted. I don’t mean they leak, they’re just neutral as far as flavour goes. So I use these.’ He produced a bundle of oak staves that resembled a dismantled window blind. ‘If you cannot bring the wine to the oak, you bring the oak to the wine. These slats go in the casks until the wine has the flavour and body I’m looking for.’
‘You love your work, don’t you?’
He didn’t answer straight away. ‘Love is too simple a word. I would do this even if I made no money from it. But love can tie you. It rubs sores in your flesh, so no, I would not say it is love. More, a life’s voyage. How do you feel about your work?’
‘Passionate. I could never imagine doing anything else.’
He frowned, as if her ready answer unsettled him. ‘I had a dog once,’ he said, looking towards the door. She followed his gaze, half expecting a four-legged ghost to amble in. ‘She was a Pyrenean Mountain Dog I called Saskia. She wasn’t much more than a puppy when I found her tied to a fallen log in the woods. The cord had cut into her flesh. She’d been there for days, I think. When I rescued her, she tried to climb into my arms. Now, that was love.’ He smiled, though sadly.
‘You kept her here?’
‘I kept her wherever I was. Nobody dared part us. She died aged ten, when I was twenty-one. I went to America after that.’
Suspecting he was talking of love in all its forms, she navigated the subject to safer waters. ‘When will you know if your Tour de Chemignac is ready to bottle?’
‘Tomorrow. But now, shall we go to bed?’
Her throat tightened. She couldn’t get a word out. Laurent waited, his expression guileless, his thick lashes intensifying the black radiance of his eyes. She needed to say something. ‘I don’t – I mean, I think I need to know you better.’
His brows pulled together as he considered her reply. He shook his head. ‘I meant, to our separate beds. I apologise. When I’m tired, I stumble over my English.’
Her face caught fire. ‘I really didn’t think you meant it.’ But she had. ‘I mean, I was a bit shocked because I haven’t – I mean, I don’t…’ Oh help, this is digging a mine-shaft. ‘What I mean is, I don’t—’
‘Want to. Very wise. Go out ahead of me and I’ll turn off the lights.’
They walked side by side back towards the château, she with her hands pressed to her flanks, he with his clasped behind his back. We’re doing a cracking impression of the Queen and Prince Philip, she thought. Dawn had brought streaks of pale pink to the eastern skyline, while to the west, above the forest, stars still pricked the purple-dark. Shauna stopped, frowned. Was that a shimmering among the trees? It looked like torchlight, only dampened. Almost like the memory of light. Laurent saw it too. He checked his stride but said nothing. In the courtyard, he murmured, ‘Sleep well, Shauna,’ and they went their separate ways.
The remainder of the week introduced Shauna to her new timetable, and Laurent’s warnings resounded as she got the measure of the children’s routine. After a hastily eaten breakfast, Olive and Nico would grab bulging sports bags and they’d all squeeze into the estate’s runaround, a fuel-efficient Renault Clio. First call, a tennis academy outside Garzenac where the children took tuition and played in a competitive league. That gave Shauna three hours to herself, and she could either drive back to Chemignac or hang around. Anxious to avoid Laurent, having catastrophically misunderstood his invitation to bed, she spent the first few days visiting Garzenac’s church, its ruined castle, wine museum and the chi-chi gallery next door where the art prices were stratospheric.
She found the spot in the churchyard where her mobile phone worked and had a short, broken conversation with her mother and an equally broken and giggly one with Grace. Ultra-cautious of the heat, she drank copious water and far too much coffee, as well as indulging in a local speciality – sticky walnut cake. Even so, those three hours hung heavy.
On day four, Friday, she came across an internet café in a backstreet and gave a ‘Yay!’ of delight. Here was a neat solution. She could hire a couple of hours’ online time each day, writing up her notes with the aroma of fresh-ground arabica tickling her nostrils. Monty, the café’s British-born owner, was friendly, giving Shauna to understand that she was welcome to make the place her office. Judging by the empty tables, trade was slow.
That night, Shauna charged up her laptop and next day, Saturday, claimed a blue-painted table and chair in the corner for her own. She began transcribing the handwritten notes she’d made two summers ago as a volunteer goose-girl and all-round labourer on the Welsh farm. While Olive and Nico practised their killer shots on the lower side of town, she worked undisturbed, breaking off for coffee and cake and to check her emails. She responded to a message from an East Midlands lettings agency as to whether she was still looking to rent a home. ‘My plans have changed,’ she typed. ‘The job I was moving for fell through. Please take me off your mailing list.’
She scrolled down several days’ worth of emails without finding anything from Mike Ladriss. Her professor had gone silent, it seemed. Quite likely, he’d had time to digest her angry reproaches at their last meeting. She took a breath and wrote an apology, giving him Clos de Chemignac’s fax number, which Isabelle had written down for her. ‘Can’t check my emails every day, so for a quicker response, fax me on this number. Assuming you want
to, of course. I’m still in the job market. Any efforts on my behalf will be appreciated. Kindest regards, Shauna.’ She deleted ‘kindest’ and wrote ‘warmest’.
After a salad lunch, she packed up her laptop and hurried off to collect the children, driving them back almost as far as Chemignac where she dropped them off at a riding centre within the forest. Watching them walk through the centre’s immaculate white gates, she felt a stab of envy. She’d been a capable rider as a girl and missed the magical afternoons she’d spent hacking out with her dad through Ecclesall Woods on the outskirts of Sheffield, on heavy-footed horses borrowed from country friends. Muck-splattered and laughing, they’d race each other, leaping puddles and fallen trees. Tim Vincent had been an instinctive horseman – not a lesson in his life – and she’d learned through copying him. No denying it, her childhood was a universe away from Olive and Nico’s. Happy and uncomplicated. Until her father’s death anyway. For her, none of the stress of league tables and striving for medals; but then, she’d never had her eye on Olympic glory.
She found a patch of shade, intending to re-read the notes she’d just transcribed. Frustratingly, her laptop battery was running low and it closed down on her after a couple of minutes. So, locking it away in the Renault’s trunk, she set off towards a track that she glimpsed through the trees, which seemed to follow the course of a river. Lush summer leaves filtered the heat from the air, and the sadness provoked by memories of her dad mellowed into wistfulness. He’d have loved this walk – come to think of it, he might once have strolled through this forest with Shauna’s mother. Young lovers, sipping at the prospect of a life together. You’ll fall in love with Chemignac.
‘All right, Mum,’ she acknowledged. ‘It is beautiful here, but I won’t be losing my heart.’
She stopped at a fork in the path. Which way? Straight on would be safest. Or she could take the stone bridge that spanned the little river, heading into the verdant heart of the forest. ‘“Stay on the path at all times”,’ Shauna quoted, mindful of Little Red Riding Hood and the dangers of dark woods. Though she was unlikely to encounter wolves. Wild boar were the more probable danger. For all that, she veered towards the bridge. There was a man standing on it, staring down into the water. A man she recognised. ‘Laurent, what are you doing here?’
Though he made no answer, she kept going. She knew the profile, the dark grazing of sideburn hair, the resolute jaw. Only when she was a few paces from the bridge did she hesitate. The clothes were wrong. This man wore a wool-weave jacket typical of a farmer or huntsman and serviceable blue trousers. Every tractor driver and field worker she’d seen since arriving in the region wore trousers or overalls of a similar shade. Bleus de travail, they were called. Literally ‘work blues’. The heavy combination was so unlike Laurent’s casual style… He must be sweating! She called to him again but he moved off, taking the path up the slope with easy strides.
He kept effortlessly ahead of her, a charcoal-sketch slipping between the trees. He lured her on, pausing just often enough to make her believe she could reach him. Breaking into scout’s pace – half walk, half run – she ploughed on, panting, ‘Fine. I’ll play your game. Just don’t drag me into the depths of the forest and disappear.’
The track was narrowing, now a pathway only in the most generous interpretation, and it was getting steep. Her footwear – loafers and ankle socks – was inadequate against stones and low-growing bramble. Several times, she stumbled. Laurent had melted away and Shauna dropped to a walk, thoroughly pissed off with him. She turned this way and that, imagining he was hiding nearby.
As her ears absorbed the rustling of leaves and birdsong, she wondered how far she was now from habitation, from phone signal. A crunching sound warned her that something was advancing on her, scuffling through the dry undergrowth. She prepared for Laurent to leap at her shouting, ‘Fooled you!’ Or maybe she was about to meet her first wild boar… Were you meant to freeze, or drop? Her captive breath burst out in laughter as a male blackbird hopped from under the skirts of a myrtle bush. How could something so small be so noisy? All it had been doing was pecking for grubs in the leaf mould. But perhaps it hadn’t really been that loud. Fear was fiction’s greatest muse, she reminded herself. ‘Where are you, Laurent?’
No answer. She peered up, searching for the sun through the leaf canopy to establish the approximate time. She’d left her phone in the car and wasn’t wearing a watch. The kids would be coming to the end of their lesson shortly and they still had one last appointment to get to before the day’s marathon was done. Giving up on Laurent, she picked her way back down the slope, skidding to a stop as she saw something she’d missed on her way up.
It was a cave, partly obscured by saplings, and it yawned from the base of a sandstone outcrop. Its mouth was just high enough for her to pass through without dipping her head. As she stepped into its sandy interior, she thought she saw a shoe print. Too late to be sure; she’d stepped right on it. ‘Laurent?’ she called again. Maybe he wanted to show her something he’d found. Cave paintings maybe. This region was a cradle of Neolithic culture and remnants of Stone Age habitation had been found just a few kilometres from here. Or maybe he wanted to show her the living quarters of some rare lizards or bats. Most girls wouldn’t be thrilled by that, but then, she wasn’t most girls. The atmosphere buzzed with suppressed secrets, the dense dark suggesting hidden clefts and fissures. A torch would have been useful. ‘I know you’re here!’ No echo, so clearly, this was no deep cavern. If Laurent were somewhere ahead, he’d be hearing her perfectly. ‘I’m going to count to three, then leave.’
She’d reached ‘two’ when a gust from the cave’s innards made her stagger and shield her eyes. A dust-devil of fine sand enveloped her.
Chapter Five
What passed through her felt like air filtered through ice. She turned and ran for the exit, her shoes filling with sand as she stumbled into daylight and pelted down the slope. Her body seemed to split apart as she ran, her consciousness separating from her physical self. Mind clear, body numb, a bizarre and terrifying feeling. Clanging through her mind, the conviction – ‘They’ve got me!’ A metallic sound filled her skull followed by a scream that was not from her own throat. She tripped and fell, sharp stones bedding in her palms which became quickly bloody. ‘Laurent, Laurent, help me!’ An appeal broadcast in fragments because she was shuddering, short-breathing. The only way she could describe what she’d run through was death.
‘Shauna? What the hell? What have you done to yourself?’
The hands on her shoulders felt real, as did the smell of olive soap and horse sweat as somebody crouched beside her and supported her. She rested the side of her face against a forearm, making out the shape of a thorn tattoo, and thought – People died here. Running. Panicking. Head over heels in their own blood. ‘I – I found a cave.’
Her voice was dry powder. There was sand in her eyes.
‘What sort of cave?’
‘Dark…’ She made a feint of pointing. ‘Up there.’
He helped her up and wiped the grit from her cheeks with the front of his shirt, which he’d freed from his belt. She grabbed the fabric. ‘You’ve changed your clothes,’ she accused. He was wearing boot-cut Wranglers, rubbed pale inside the thigh, and his shirt was white poplin cotton, yet just minutes ago, he’d been dressed like a farmer. She wouldn’t have mistaken those thigh-moulding Wranglers for baggy work trousers, not even in the uncertain light of the woods. And what about the jacket? She asked what he’d done with it.
Laurent looked mystified. ‘It’s far too hot for a jacket. These are my riding clothes.’ Two horses, white as cloud, stood a short distance down the path, shaking their heads nervously. Rachel sat astride the smaller horse, holding the reins of a strapping male animal that Laurent had presumably just dismounted from.
‘Is she putting it on?’ Rachel’s lip curled as she waited for Laurent to step away from Shauna. ‘She spends more time on the floor than on her feet.’
‘You should feel her heart pounding,’ Laurent threw back.
‘I’ll take your word for it. You’re practically taking her pulse with your tummy button.’
‘Take the horses back to the yard.’ Laurent spoke impatiently. ‘I’ll help Shauna.’ When Rachel cocked a disobliging eyebrow, Laurent’s tone gained an edge. ‘If you can’t ride one and lead the other, just tie Héron’s reins to a branch.’
‘Laurent, darling, I can ride and lead with my eyes closed. I’ve won prizes for driving four-in-hand; I could probably give Charlton Heston in a chariot a run for his money. You walk Goldilocks home if you want. Bye-bye.’ For all her boasting, it took Rachel a minute or more to turn the horses and get them walking calmly away, two abreast. Even as they went, they snorted and shied, their ears laid flat as if something in the air spooked them.
Only when Rachel was gone did Laurent speak again, and this time his voice carried an undertow of excitement. ‘I’ve always known there was a cave in this part of the wood. For years I’ve been trying to find it.’
‘You changed your clothes,’ Shauna insisted stubbornly. ‘You weren’t on horseback before.’
‘Before what? I worked until lunchtime in the chai, then checked the Semillon vines. Rachel suggested a hack through the woods. The horse you saw her on has been misbehaving lately. Sometimes it helps to bring a timid one out in company with a well-behaved companion.’
‘You were wearing old, blue trousers. I followed you from the car park by the riding school. Where I parked the Clio.’
He shook his head. ‘You cannot have followed me. Rachel and I rode from Chemignac, over the meadows. We came that way.’ He jerked his thumb, presumably indicating the direction of the château. ‘I heard you shouting my name, and we left the main path to find you.’
‘I saw you on a bridge. You were wearing a tweed coat and I followed you.’
‘I’ve never worn tweed in my life!’ Accepting that she wasn’t going to back down, he examined the palms of her hands, where traces of sand were mixed with blood. He brushed them gently with the pads of his fingers and painstakingly picked the remaining pieces of grit from her skin. ‘Can you show me that cave? Do you feel able?’
A Gown of Thorns: A Gripping Novel of Romance, Intrigue and the Secrets of a Vintage Parisian Dress Page 4
