Well, there are all kinds of impediments, I suppose, Rosie thought, some worse than others.
She was pulled out of her reverie by the crack of thunder and flashes of lightning as a sudden storm erupted. Turning on the windscreen wipers, Rosie peered ahead, concentrating on the road. Everything else was forgotten as she coped with the heavy downpour, handling the car with adroitness on the motorway, which was growing slick with rain, and dangerous.
***
Stretching more than six hundred miles, from its source in the Cévennes to its estuary into the Atlantic just west of Nantes, the Loire is the longest river in France. Although part of its course runs through land now blighted by pylons and power stations—the French frequently refer to it as the fleuve nucléaire—there is a two-hundred-mile stretch that is still stunningly, breathtakingly beautiful.
This particular band of the Loire river runs from Orléans to Tours, and flows through a verdant landscape known as the Valley of Kings.
For it is here that the most magnificent of the famous three hundred châteaux of the Loire are located: Langeais, Amboise, Azay-le-Rideau, Clos Lucé, Chaumont, Chambord, Cheverny, Chinon and Chenonceau, to name only a few of them.
Even in winter, this section of the Loire is different from any other place in France, softer, gentler and infinitely lovely in all of its green peacefulness. At least, so it seemed to Rosie. It was her most favourite spot in the entire world, and only an hour and a half after leaving Paris she was about to enter the heart of it, the best part of it really, in her opinion.
As she glanced out of the car window, her face instantly lit up with pleasure. The rain had stopped ages ago, and the light was crystal-clear, the skies a delicate blue, filled with wintry sunshine, floating above the deeper blue of the flowing Loire whose sandbanks gleamed pale and silvery in the soft, serene air.
I’ll be home soon, she thought, her mood changing from happiness to spiralling excitement, an excitement that knew no bounds. Soon I’ll be where I truly belong. That place was Montfleurie, another great château of the Loire, the most magical of all of them to Rosalind Madigan.
Situated exactly in the centre of the long valley between Orléans and Tours, Montfleurie lies close to the legendary Chenonceaux, once the home of Henry II, his mistress Diane de Poitiers, his wife Catherine de Medici, their son Francis II, and his wife, Mary Stuart, the petite Reinette d’Écosse, as she was always called—the little Queen of Scotland.
Montfleurie began its life as a medieval castle, a fortress stronghold built by Fulk Nerra, Comte d’Anjou, the formidable eleventh-century warrior known as the Black Hawk, ruler of the area, founder of the Angevin line and the Plantagenet dynasty which subsequently came to the throne of England.
Twice destroyed by fire and twice rebuilt, the château changed hands innumerable times over a span of three hundred years. Finally, in the sixteenth century, it was bought by the powerful Comte de Montfleurie, who wished to expand his lands in the Loire. Also, its closeness to Chenonceaux was vitally important to him.
Philippe de Montfleurie, grand seigneur, magnate and landowner, held various ministerial positions in the government and was a popular courtier during the brief reign of Francis II and his consort, Mary Stuart. Closely allied to the young queen’s Guisard uncles, he was an influential figure, very much enmeshed in the politics of the day, and he never failed to profit from his political and royal connections.
It was in 1575 that the Comte laid the château’s present foundations, and eventually, over the years, created the great stone edifice which still soars upward on a hill overlooking the valley. He spared no cost and built his Renaissance pleasure palace on a scale of great extravagance. He is entirely responsible for the château as it stands today, for its great beauty inside and out, and the extraordinary furnishings throughout the impressive rooms.
Earlier, Rosie had left the motorway at the exit to Tours, and as she rounded the corner of the secondary road, which she had taken at Amboise, she slowed the car. Coming to a standstill, she sat for a moment, as she usually did when she had been away, enjoying her first sight of the château, savouring its ancient and impressive elegance, its timelessness, the sense of the past which it always invoked in her.
Sitting on an enchanting bend in the Cher river, a tributary of the Loire, Montfleurie was built of local Loire stone, a stone that slowly changes colour over the years until it becomes almost white. It rose up ahead, dominating the top of the hill in the same way that it had for centuries, its pale stone gleaming luminously in the bright afternoon sunlight, the clustering conical rooftops and spires of its cylindrical towers dark outlines against the azure sky.
Her heart was beating that much faster and her excitement soared when, a few minutes later, she rolled over the drawbridge and into the interior courtyard at the front of the château. Even before she braked, the great oak door was wrenched open and Gaston, the house man, came running down the front steps.
As Rosie alighted from the car, he rushed forward to greet her, a wide smile on his face. ‘Madame de Montfleurie! Hello! Hello! It’s wonderful to see you!’ he exclaimed, extending his hand, grasping hers, shaking it with some vigour.
‘And it’s good to see you,’ Rosie answered, her smile as wide as his. ‘And great to be back here at last. You look well, Gaston… and how is Annie?’
‘Very well, Madame, and she will be happier now that you’ve arrived, bien sûr.’ He frowned, shook his head. ‘But you are early. Monsieur le comte did not expect you until five. I am sorry, he is not here. He is still out, at lunch—’
‘It’s perfectly all right,’ Rosie cut in. Out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of a small figure dressed in red running down the steps, coming towards her. Excusing herself, Rosie hurried forward and caught Lisette in her arms as the child flung herself against her body.
‘Tante Rosie! Tante Rosie! I thought you were never coming!’
Rosie hugged the five-year-old girl fiercely, loving her so very much. She stroked her head, then tilted the child’s chin, stared down into the bright little face upturned to hers.
‘I’ve missed you, ma petite,’ she murmured softly, and kissed Lisette on her cheek. ‘But now I’m here and we’re going to have a wonderful Christmas.’
‘I know, I know,’ Lisette cried excitedly.
Yvonne was hovering in the background, her own face wreathed in smiles. How she’s grown in the three months I’ve been away, Rosie thought, and grown up all of a sudden. Swiftly she took in the eighteen-year-old girl’s new look: the bright red hair upswept into curls on top of her head, the touch of pink lipstick on the vulnerable young mouth, the dusting of powder on the freckled face.
‘Hello, Yvonne darling,’ Rosie said, her eyes admiring as she walked towards her, holding Lisette by the hand. ‘And you look very smart. Did you make the dress yourself?’
Yvonne grabbed hold of Rosie’s arm and hugged her hard, then gave her a resounding kiss on each cheek. ‘I can’t believe you’ve finally come home, Rosie. It’s been so sad here without you, we all miss you when you’re away. And yes, I made the dress myself, and of course I copied it from one of yours.’
‘So I noticed,’ Rosie laughed, ‘and you’ve done a good job. I’ll make a dress designer of you yet.’
‘Oh, do you think so? That would be wonderful, my dream come true! But come on, let us go inside. Collie is waiting for you, she’s longing to see you. Why, Rosie, she’s just been counting the days.’
‘So have I. Let me get my bag, I won’t be a minute.’ Rosie strode back to the car and, after taking her canvas carry-all off the front seat, she turned to Gaston who was unloading her suitcases and packages out of the trunk. ‘Everything can go up to my room, thank you, Gaston.’
‘De rien, Madame de Montfleurie, de rien.’
Rosie caught up with Yvonne and Lisette, and the three of them went into the château together, Lisette chattering away non-stop. They were half way across the vast marble entrance hall
when Rosie happened to glance up.
At the top of the staircase, dressed in riding clothes, stood Guy de Montfleurie. He was watching them closely.
For a moment Rosie was paralysed, and she stood stock-still, unable to move, her heart sinking. The last person she had wanted to see at Montfleurie was among the first she had set eyes on.
He was down the stairs and standing in front of her before she had a chance to collect herself.
He stared at her.
She stared back at him, trying to keep her face neutral, displaying no emotion.
He said: ‘We didn’t expect you until late this afternoon or early evening, Rosalind.’
‘So Gaston said.’
Guy took a step closer, peering into her face. ‘And how are you, my dear?’
‘I’m well, thank you. And you?’
‘The same.’
There was a short pause during which neither of them spoke. Then he half smiled, and a brow lifted somewhat sardonically. ‘No wifely kiss then?’
Rosie was silent.
He laughed. ‘What a shame. But no doubt I will survive your coldness. I always have.’ Laughing again, he stepped around her, sauntered across the hall, slapping his riding crop against his leather boot. At the door he stopped, swung around, called out, ‘I will see you later, my dear. I presume we will be dining together.’
Rosie sucked in her breath. ‘Where else would I be having dinner but here with your father and the girls,’ she exclaimed, somewhat impatiently for her, and, putting her arm around Lisette, she ushered the child up the staircase; Yvonne followed quickly on their heels.
As the three of them climbed the central staircase, Rosie glanced around at all the familiar things… the huge, ancient crystal chandelier dropping down from the ceiling, the seventeenth-century tapestries on the walls, the portraits of the de Montfleurie ancestors lining other walls, and she thought of Guy with some sadness. What a shame it was that he was not a different kind of man, the kind of man his father would have liked his only son to be, the kind of man who would have taken his responsibilities at Montfleurie seriously. But Guy was weak, ineffectual, selfish and a wastrel. He had bitterly disappointed his father. And he had disappointed her.
Eight years ago she had come to this great château as a young bride: his bride. She had been full of love and admiration for Guy de Montfleurie, the future count. But everything between them had deteriorated, so very quickly. They had become estranged within a few years of their marriage. Today she felt nothing for him except perhaps a touch of pity.
SIXTEEN
Rosie looked across at Collie, and said quietly, ‘I was so surprised to see Guy just now. I thought he was away.’
‘He was,’ Collie replied. ‘He showed up unexpectedly, and unannounced, this morning. Like the proverbial bad penny, I might add.’ There was a slight pause. ‘Maybe I shouldn’t say that,’ she sighed, ‘it is a little unkind, I think. After all, Guy is my brother, and I am fond of him. He can be the most aggravating person, though.’
‘I know, but he doesn’t mean to be, he just can’t help himself,’ Rosie murmured, giving her sister-in-law a loving smile, reaching out, taking her hand, squeezing it affectionately. The two women sat together in Collie’s upstairs study, enjoying a private chat now that the girls had left them alone.
Collie smiled back at Rosie, then she shook her head almost in bemusement, and said, ‘You always see the best in everyone… make excuses for everyone, but I’m afraid I cannot, and I certainly can’t excuse Guy. He’s impossible. The problem is that we’ve all spoiled him for years and years. My father, me, even Claude when he was alive, and my mother until the day she died. And you too, Rosie, since the very moment you met him with me in Paris, all those years ago. Guy has been over-indulged, you know. Always. And by everyone.’
‘What you say is true, Collie, but he really isn’t a bad person, is he?’ Not waiting for a response, Rosie said in a rush of words, ‘He’s like a little boy who’s never grown up. He wants instant gratification, his own way in everything. He has absolutely no sense of responsibility, or commitment to anything—’
‘Or anyone,’ Collie interjected, giving Rosie a very knowing, penetrating look.
‘Maybe the failure of our marriage is partially my fault,’ Rosie replied swiftly, honestly meaning this. ‘As my mother used to say, there are always two sides to every story.’
‘And mine used to say something to the effect that there’s her side, his side, and the truth,’ Collie shot back.
Rosie simply laughed, made no comment, not wanting to delve into her marriage, which had gone so wrong, and all of its inherent problems; certainly not at this particular moment.
Collie went on, ‘Anyway, I was not only referring to you when I said Guy couldn’t make a commitment. I was also thinking of Father. He really needs help with this place, and Guy… well… he doesn’t give a damn about Montfleurie, that’s perfectly obvious, isn’t it? The costs of running it are crippling, and the work is backbreaking for my father, even though he does have François Graingier to help him these days. And some extra money coming in at long last, because he finally took your advice and opened the château to the public. If only Guy would pull his weight even a little bit, things would be so much easier for Father, and for everyone else here. I don’t understand my brother.’
‘I know, darling, and he baffles me most of the time,’ Rosie admitted, adding quietly, ‘I really don’t profess to understand him either. And I certainly don’t understand his lack of interest in Montfleurie, when you consider that it’s his birthright, his heritage, and will one day be his…’ Rosie’s voice trailed off into silence, and she turned away, stared into the fire, her face growing reflective and just a little sad.
Collie did not respond. She leaned back against the faded dark-green brocade of the Louis XVI sofa and closed her eyes, feeling exhausted all of a sudden. And silently she condemned her brother for his behaviour. Over the past few years he had become worse than ever, had grown more selfish and self-indulgent, headstrong and impulsive. She wondered what his life was all about, and how he actually spent his time when he was away. She knew some of the things he did: he devoted weeks to those quasi-religious men in India and the Far East—his gurus, he called them—and was forever trotting off to meditate with them in some godforsaken ashram on a mountain top. She thought of them as charlatans who had taken his money, and still continued to take what little bit he had left. And when he came down from his mountain perch he hung around Hong Kong and other parts of the Far East for months on end. It was odd, the fascination the Orient held for him; what was even odder was his ridiculous behaviour towards Rosie. It was unforgivable; she could never forgive him.
‘Why did you marry Guy?’ Collie blurted out, surprising herself with her words, sitting up with a jerk, staring at Rosie.
Rosie gazed back at her and blinked, startled by the sudden question, for a moment rendered speechless. Then she said slowly, ‘I was in love with him… I admired him… and I suppose he swept me off my feet.’ She hesitated briefly, and then continued in a very low tone, ‘You know how captivating your brother is when he wants to be… effortlessly charming, warm, amusing, flirtatious. I guess he sort of… overpowered me, or perhaps overwhelmed me is a better way of saying it.’ There were other reasons why she had married him, and Rosie was well aware of them, but she had no wish to elucidate further.
‘Yes, he is all of those things,’ Collie agreed, ‘and certainly women always did find him quite irresistible, even when he was very young—sixteen or seventeen. My God, all those conquests before you! Well, I suppose he was not so selfish, or so strange, when you married him.’ Collie looked Rosie right in the eye, and exclaimed, ‘Why don’t you divorce him?’
‘I don’t know.’ Rosie laughed, a trifle self-consciously, and then asked with a small frown, ‘Are you trying to get rid of me? Throw me out of the family?’
‘Oh Rosie, no! Never!’ Collie cried, her eyes widening
in horror at the mere idea of such a thing. She moved closer to Rosie on the sofa, caught hold of her, hugged her. ‘How can you say such a terrible thing? Or even think it. I love you. We all love you. And I am entirely on your side. Guy is a fool.’
Collie drew away, and peered into her sister-in-law’s face, her feelings of affection, loyalty and devotion transparent in her light-blue eyes, in the tender expression on her small, piquante face. ‘When you’ve gone away, Montfleurie is like a morgue, it really is, darling. Father is terribly affected by your absence, we all are. It’s as if the sunshine has gone out of our lives. You’re such an important part of our lives, Rosie, and a very special member of the family, the sister I never had, another daughter to Father. Surely you must know that?’
‘Yes, I do, I suppose. And I feel the same way about you, Collie, and I love all of you… you’re my family, too, and Montfleurie is my home. Why, my life just wouldn’t be the same without you, and I couldn’t bear it if I didn’t live here part of the time.’
Rosie shook her head, gave Collie a faint smile. ‘But look here, don’t let’s talk about Guy any more. He’s a law unto himself, as you well know, and in any case, he isn’t here very often these days, so we don’t see very much of him, do we?’
Collie nodded her agreement, leaned back against the sofa again, gazed at the burning logs in the fireplace for a few seconds, wishing her brother had not come back at this particular time of year. Lately, and for some odd, unfathomable reason, he seemed to blame her and Rosie for all of his problems, and she hoped and prayed he wasn’t going to put a damper on Christmas, with his demands and impatience and bad temper. Yvonne and Lisette were so looking forward to the holidays.
Almost as if she had read Collie’s mind, Rosie said, ‘Let’s try to make Christmas work for the girls.’
‘I was thinking exactly that!’ Collie exclaimed. ‘And of course we must.’
Now wanting to change the subject entirely, and move on, Rosie confided, ‘When I arrived earlier this afternoon, I couldn’t help thinking how grown up Yvonne looked. And all of a sudden.’