‘Captain Boyer, I suggest we retire somewhere a little more private.’
‘Monsieur Caron, you don’t seem to realise you and your colleague are interrupting my wedding celebrations. What I suggest is that you state your business as quickly as possible.’
‘As you wish,’ Caron said peevishly. ‘The matter concerns the will of the late Count d’Andoise. It was lost, you see, and had been for years, but when a rather fine Boule desk recently went up for auction, the document was discovered in the top right-hand drawer.’
‘I recall that desk,’ Brigitte said, having come to see what the disturbance was about. ‘It used to sit in Papa’s library.’
‘But how does this concern me?’ asked Philippe.
Monsieur Bardot spoke for the first time. ‘It concerns both you and your cousin. It seems the late count named his daughter’ — the man nodded in Brigitte’s direction — ‘and yourself as his sole heirs.’
Passing papers to Philippe, Caron announced, ‘The late count’s assets, including Château Charincourt, all the objects within it and the attached land now belong to you and your cousin equally.’
‘What?’
‘In addition,’ the notary continued, ‘as his closest male relative you will inherit his title. Accordingly, despite the fact France is, of course, a republic, you and Madame Boyer may, if you wish, be known as the Count and Countess d’Andoise.’
‘I can just imagine how that will go down around Parkes.’ Grace giggled.
‘Be that as it may, madame,’ Caron said primly, ‘there is one other matter we are obliged to bring to the attention of Captain Boyer and his cousin. Something of an irregular codicil has been attached to the will.’ He retrieved the appropriate document from Bardot. ‘It states that an item of great interest to a certain party lies hidden within Charincourt in a locked piece of furniture notable solely for its complete lack of distinction. A key has been provided, together with another for the château’s front door. I can tell you nothing more.’
Amid the general intake of breath, exclamations and shaking of heads, Grace clutched Philippe’s arm. ‘I have an idea,’ she said.
Throwing her satin train over one arm, Grace hitched up her dress and took off for the château, her veil billowing behind. Philippe, muttering about his adorable new wife’s impulsive nature, ran after her. Brigitte was next, then Marie-Helene, followed by a parade of mannequins, nuns in flapping habits, farmers with flying jackets and a posse of wildly excited Parisians. Grace opened Charincourt’s great front door and rushed towards the grand reception room. A moment later she was joined by Philippe and then everyone else who had followed him.
‘Stand back!’ she cried.
Grace went straight to the rickety armoire, noting as she did so that the lock she’d broken previously was still lying where it had fallen. Cautiously, she opened the two doors, then discovered to her relief that the former hideous inhabitants were not in evidence — presumably the rats had heard the commotion outside and scuttled away. Only the piles of gnawed newspapers remained.
‘I think whatever we’re looking for could be buried somewhere under all that,’ she said to Philippe.
‘Let me help.’ He began hurling armfuls of paper onto the dusty parquetry. But to Grace’s dismay, once the armoire had been emptied, there was nothing to be seen.
While their guests exchanged bemused glances, she murmured to him, ‘I have a horrible feeling I’ve just confirmed everything our French friends no doubt already think about the untamed nature of Australians. It looks like I’ve led everyone on a wild goose chase.’
‘I’m not so sure,’ Philippe said. ‘Sometimes these old armoires have secret compartments; during the war we occasionally used them to conceal messages — even guns. See if any of the panels feel different, whether they have any give.’
Concentrating hard, Grace ran her fingers around the interior. Finally, after several uncomfortably long minutes, she thought she detected a slight movement in the top left-hand corner. On an impulse, she pressed down firmly with one hand, then stared with delight as she saw a section of the rear panel slide smoothly away. There, on what had been a hidden shelf, lay an elongated parcel.
Everyone crowded closer. Grace and Philippe heaved the mysterious package onto the floor, knelt down and began undoing its oilskin cover. Next, amid a growing buzz of excitement, Grace removed a cylinder of cardboard, followed by a thin layer of soft chamois leather. All that remained was a roll of canvas.
She took hold of the exposed corners; Philippe grasped the two he found coiled inside. Then the pair stood up and, facing one another, each took a couple of steps back so that the roll unfurled.
‘Blessed Mother of God.’ Mother Francis Xavier made the sign of the cross.
The abbess had only just arrived, arm in arm with Madame Guérin. Now, she stared in shock and disbelief.
‘It’s the Rembrandt,’ she said. ‘Our own Sainte Jeanne.’
Having complained of feeling temporarily faint, Mother Francis Xavier accepted a glass of the baron’s excellent champagne. ‘My dear Grace,’ she observed as shadows crept across the lawn, ‘the nature of the mind, or should I say, soul of a human being, rarely surprises me.’
The abbess took a cautious sip of her drink. ‘Yet,’ she continued, ‘the note enclosed with the painting made it clear that the count was solely responsible for its removal. Not only that, he acknowledged it was owned by the abbey and that he had personally hidden it from the Nazis for safekeeping.’
Slowly she shook her head. ‘May God have mercy on my soul,’ she said in a tone of regret. ‘I did not believe the Count d’Andoise was capable of such goodness.’
‘Well, I’m just pleased for Brigitte,’ said Grace. ‘At least now she knows her father performed one noble act. And, of course, I’m thrilled that Rembrandt’s Sainte Jeanne has been returned to its proper home.’
‘The sisters are saying it’s one of God’s miracles,’ the abbess observed.
‘And what do you think?’
‘That He continues to move in mysterious ways.’
Grace was considering this enigmatic response when she felt a hand on her shoulder.
‘Would you mind, Mother Francis Xavier, if I stole my bride away?’ Philippe asked.
As he led her towards the dance floor, Grace reflected, ‘This inheritance — there’s so much to think about.’
‘True, although I have something a little more immediate on my mind.’ Philippe gazed into Grace’s eyes. ‘All day, the only thing I have wanted to do is to take my desirable wife in my arms. Remember our first waltz, at the Count de Beaumont’s? That was interrupted by our little charade and now we have been disturbed yet again. Do you think there is any chance we will be left alone this time?’
‘I believe we will,’ Grace murmured as Philippe, holding her close, began to sweep her around the floor. ‘This time, the stars are aligned.’
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
Paris, February 1951
The salon was crammed with women wearing couture suits and witty hats together with expressions of rapturous approval. As Grace paused, her face luminous beneath a glittering chandelier, she basked in the applause.
This was the moment that meant the most to all Dior’s mannequins. For only after the completion of the new collection’s first show were they able to ascertain whether they had done justice to le patron’s vision.
Wearing a dramatic black velvet sheath with faux-diamond earrings, Grace executed an effortless turn, before gliding back to the cabine with the other models.
‘Won’t you miss all this, darling?’ Marie-Hélène said as she slipped out of a red lace cocktail frock. ‘You were so thrilled when Madame Raymonde asked you to return.’
‘That’s true.’ Grace handed her own ensemble to a waiting dresser. ‘It’s just that so much has changed.’
‘Mais oui! If I had a husband as unusually attractive as yours and an adorable baby, even I might consider leaving.’
Grace smiled. ‘The fact is, girls, I don’t think I’m going to have much choice.’
‘But surely Philippe won’t prevent you from working.’ Marie-Hélène picked up a brush. ‘I know men, and he’s just not that type.’
‘Oh, it’s not Philippe I’m worried about. It’s Madame Carré. She’s a demon for measuring one’s waistline.’
Two weeks later, having been toasted with champagne by the mannequins in the cabine under the supervision of Tutu and a doleful Ferdinand, Grace left the maison. She walked out of the famous front door dressed in the atelier’s parting gift, an immensely flattering forest-green coat with a mink collar and cuffs.
As Grace felt the late winter sunshine warm her face, she took a deep breath and looked back. To her surprise, in front of the stone walls stood a line of smiling seamstresses. Madame Carré pushed forward the youngest among them, who shyly presented Grace with a bunch of delicate lilies of the valley.
‘With our best wishes, Countess,’ the girl said.
Grace gazed up, past the curling fronds of black wrought iron. She tried to peer through the mullioned windows but, as on the day when she’d first arrived, it was impossible to discern what lay inside.
No, there was a movement. A hand emerged; a curtain was pulled back. Grace had tears in her eyes when she saw a portly figure wearing a white smock appear on the balcony. Christian Dior was waving goodbye.
March
A modest yellow flame, having flickered briefly, now sputtered. Grace picked up more wood and tried to build up the fire.
Of late, the weather in Paris had changed from unseasonal mildness to something much wilder. Wrapping a sweater around her shoulders, she gazed distractedly at the wind-whipped Seine. As she watched the river churn beneath an onslaught of steel-coloured rain, it seemed to her that the tumult outside merely echoed her own disquiet.
Serena, who’d been playing with coloured blocks on the floor, began to pull at Grace’s hand while looking longingly at the door. It must be the Australian in her, Grace thought. We both hate being cooped up inside.
She began helping Serena place one block on top of the other — the child liked nothing better than to send a stack flying — but her thoughts were far away.
It was ironic that here she was in Paris, the very place she’d always longed to be, with a life that, after so many difficulties, was more like the conclusion of a fairy tale than reality, and yet all she could think of was going back to Brookfield. In fact, right at this moment, what she most wanted was to leap onto a fast horse and go galloping down to the creek beneath a cloudless cobalt sky.
Grace bit her lip. The awful weather might be making her restless, but it wasn’t the source of her turmoil. Eventually, the rain would stop, whereas she would continue to be haunted by the same question that for nearly two years she had asked herself again and again. Who was Serena’s father?
Grace had sworn she would never keep such fundamental knowledge from a child of her own, wouldn’t dream of allowing her offspring to live a lie as she had been forced to do. Yet how could she tell Serena, at some time in the future, that Jack might be her father? And if she did go ahead, how would Philippe feel about it? Betrayed, most likely.
On the other hand, perhaps Jack had the right to know that Serena could be his daughter.
‘What a mess,’ Grace said under her breath. Recently, she’d heard from Charlotte that she and Jack now had a little boy. Their baby and Serena could well be brother and sister — one complication seemed to spring up after another.
Grace rubbed her temples. Her tale hadn’t finished at all; one final page was yet to be written.
She gave her daughter a red ball and watched as, with a push from a gleeful Serena, it rolled away. Just for a moment, as the sphere spun round and round, it seemed to Grace that the noise of the storm outside had subsided. Instead, she thought she could hear the rustle of gum leaves and a familiar voice whispering that it was time she returned to her land.
At the sound of the front door being slammed, Grace looked up to see her bedraggled husband dripping water on the floor.
‘Il pleut des cordes!’ he said, pushing a lock of wet hair out of his eyes. ‘No, you have a much better way of putting it. It is raining dogs and cats.’
‘Nearly right, darling. Anyway, throw your things over the bathtub before everything gets saturated. And while you do that, I’ll fetch something to warm you up.’
Philippe walked back in, rubbing a towel over his head, then drank some of the Armagnac Grace handed to him.
‘That’s better.’ He smiled, and picked up Serena. Throwing her into the air, he caught her in his arms amid gurgles of pleasure. After a few minutes, she began yawning. ‘Ah, mon petit ange,’ he said as he cuddled her. ‘It’s time for bed.’
‘I’ll take her,’ Grace offered.
‘No, it’s special for me,’ Philippe said.
When he reappeared in the sitting room, it was with a warm smile. ‘I now intend to devote my full attention to my daughter’s maman,’ he said. With that, he pulled Grace onto the sofa and gave her a long, lingering kiss.
‘Mmm, delicious,’ Grace murmured. ‘How was your day?’
‘Quite good, actually. I rather like being on secondment to the detective squad of the Paris Police. It’s much easier to track down jewel thieves than it is to unearth spies. They’re less, ah . . .’
‘Two-faced?’ As Grace said the words, she felt jolted by a disconcerting resonance.
‘Exactly. But what about you? Now that I can see you properly, you seem a little preoccupied. Are you quite well, chérie? That illness you had in the mornings hasn’t returned?’
‘No, nothing like that,’ Grace reassured him.
‘What then?’
She sighed. ‘I miss home. Brookfield, I mean.’
‘I see.’
‘And I’ve been thinking . . .’
‘Oui?’
‘I’ve been thinking how much it would mean to Olive if I took Serena on a visit to Australia. I know Mum can’t wait to show her off to her friends.’
‘Is that the only reason you want to go?’ he asked.
‘Look out of the window!’ She laughed. ‘Seriously though, you’re right. There is something else. I have loose ends that need tying up — you know how complicated my past has been.’
Philippe frowned. ‘And when might this trip take place?’
‘Well, if I left for Australia in a week, I could stay with my mother for a bit and still be in Paris in plenty of time for this next little one’s birth.’
‘I would miss you horribly.’
‘Oh God, I’d miss you too,’ she said, reaching up her hand to stroke her husband’s handsome face. ‘But I’m convinced it’s something I have to do.’
‘Then I have no time to lose.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I need to show you how much I love you as often as I can before you leave.’
Philippe took the sweater from Grace’s shoulders and began to undo her blouse. He kissed her over and over, as if determined to memorise her taste and the feel of her lips on his own.
‘I don’t want to rush you.’ Grace smiled. ‘But just in case we’re interrupted, I think I should take off your clothes.’ Soon both were naked, wrapped in each other’s arms in front of the flickering flames.
‘Remember the first time we made love?’ Philippe said, caressing Grace’s swelling breasts and the slight mound of her stomach. ‘I didn’t think you could be more irresistible, but the way you look now — God, I can’t believe how much I want you.’
They made love with a sweet intensity, their intimate knowledge of each other’s desires heightening their pleasure. Like a pair of perfectly matched dancers, they moved to the same inner rhythm until, together, they reached a passionate
crescendo.
As they lay still, their entwined bodies bathed by the fire’s golden light, Philippe said, ‘There is only one thing I must ask you to promise.’
‘Yes?’
‘When these loose ends, as you call them, have been dealt with — come back to me.’
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
Sydney, April 1951
The Hotel Australia was exactly as Grace remembered. The same gleaming foyer replete with marble and mirrors, the same exhilaration as new guests swept in and others departed.
‘Welcome back, Mrs Boyer — or do you prefer Countess these days?’ the manager said, shaking hands. ‘I still remember the very first time you stayed with us, although back then I worked at reception and you were a Miss Woods.’
‘As time passes, I imagine it becomes increasingly difficult to keep track of who exactly is who,’ Grace said breezily. ‘So let’s keep things simple,’ she added with a smile. ‘I’m more than happy to be Mrs Boyer, you know.’
Sinking into one of her suite’s luxurious armchairs, Grace was struck once more by the reassuring familiarity of her surroundings: the swagged curtains, the plush upholstery, the watercolours on the wall — all still there.
A knock interrupted her musing.
‘That will be room service. I hope they don’t wake Serena,’ Olive said, hurrying towards the door.
When they were sitting at a small table, drinking tea and eating curls of buttered brown bread wrapped around spears of tinned asparagus, Grace noticed her mother’s uneasy expression. ‘Is something wrong, Mum?’
Olive retrieved a handkerchief from her pocket and began twisting it in her fingers. ‘I wasn’t sure when I should tell you, especially considering your pregnancy,’ she said, ‘but I suppose now is as good a time as any.’
Grace reached across the table and touched her mother’s hand. ‘You’re not . . . not ill, are you?’
‘This isn’t to do with me,’ her mother said.
‘Who then?’
‘It’s Jack.’ Olive folded her handkerchief into a neat square. ‘Gracie, there isn’t an easy way to say this. He’s been killed.’
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