“…but no,” he went on, “they do not come down for breakfast today. Madame Whitaker, she has the headache since yesterday afternoon—the migraine. She stays in bed today. And Monsieur Whitaker, he went out very early.”
It was still only nine o’clock, and Simon looked with interest at the empty corner table where the Whitakers liked to sit. “By himself?”
Thierry admitted that he didn’t know. “But then, I do not always pay attention. I think that he is gone to hear the Mass somewhere.”
“I’m surprised you haven’t gone to Mass yourself,” Paul said. “You could use a confession, my friend.”
Thierry merely grinned and raised his shoulders in a carefree shrug. “But I must work on Sundays,” he excused himself. “Who else would serve your breakfasts?”
Which was probably just as well. Judging by the shadows beneath his dark eyes and the rather wickedly rumpled look he was sporting after what had obviously been a wild Saturday night, I decided Thierry’s soul was very likely past redemption.
“He’s superhuman,” Simon said, with grudging admiration, as Thierry left us to attend an older couple seated by the window. “He wore us out completely last night, at the disco. You should have been there, Emily.”
I pulled a face. “I’m much too old for discos.”
Paul stopped pouring his second cup of coffee long enough to roll his eyes. “Oh, right. What are you, thirty?”
“Twenty-eight.”
“Positively ancient,” he said drily. “They’ll be fitting you for false teeth next, I guess.”
“Besides,” Simon added, “age is no excuse. Neil’s come out with us a couple of times, and he’s forty-something. He dances pretty good for an old guy.”
“Pretty well,” Paul corrected him, automatically.
“Whatever.” Simon grimaced. “Remind me to get some aspirin later.”
“I’ve got some,” I offered, reaching for my handbag. “Somewhere, that is. I don’t know why I carry all this, I can never find anything.” Rifling through the overstuffed bag, I started to remove things, one by one, piling them beside my empty plate. My bulging wallet, sunglasses, two pens, a packet of tissues, a crinkled tourist map of Chinon, a square of thick paper with printing on it…
“Hey,” said Simon, pouncing on the latter. “What’s this? You’ve been holding out on us.”
I glanced up. “What? Oh, it’s just an invitation.”
“Yeah, right.” Simon flipped the card around to show his brother. “To the Clos des Cloches.”
Paul whistled, impressed. “Who’d you have to kill to get that?”
“No one.” I smiled. “They just gave it to me. Aha!” I found the aspirin at last, and handed the bottle to Simon.
He took it absently, tapping the edge of the card with one finger. “The Clos des Cloches is where that tunnel leads, from the château.”
Paul caught my eye. “Oh, here we go.”
“No, no,” said Simon, “I was only thinking that it might be kind of neat to get inside, you know. To find out what the tunnel looks like at that end.”
“I would think it looks a lot like a wine cellar,” was Paul’s dry comment. “And they probably would have noticed by now if Queen Isabelle’s jewel box was lying around.”
“Not if she buried it.”
“You are not,” Paul said firmly, “going to dig up the poor guy’s wine cellar.”
Simon ignored him and rocked back in his chair, deep in thought. “I wonder if there’s any place in town that rents out metal detectors.”
Paul looked at me. “I told you this would happen.”
I laughed. “I don’t mind, honestly. And Simon, if you want to use the invitation—”
“Oh, no, it’s yours, I wouldn’t steal it from you. But,” he added, with a grin, “there’s nothing here that says you can’t bring guests.”
He was quite right. The card wasn’t even addressed to a specific person. A small, mischievous thought began to glimmer at the back of my mind. Armand Valcourt had flung a challenge down last night—he expected me to come. I didn’t doubt that he was used to having women swoon in all directions when he smiled. He was probably sitting up there now, waiting for me to ring him, and feeling smug about the whole affair. And I knew just the way to wipe that smug look off his face. “All right. I’ll ring the Clos des Cloches and arrange a tour for the three of us. For today, if you like.”
“But no metal detectors,” Paul instructed, turning knowing eyes on his brother. “And no shovels.”
Simon promised nothing. “This morning would be good,” he said. “We don’t have anything planned for this morning.”
Indulgently, I checked my watch. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Paul had been right about Simon, I thought—once he set his mind to something, he was rather like a great shaggy dog with a bone. When I would have dawdled an extra minute over my coffee cup, he pushed and prodded me up the stairs instead. He would probably have followed me right to my room, to see that I dialed the telephone properly, if he hadn’t been distracted by the sudden, shocking oath that greeted us on the first floor landing.
“Careful, Neil,” Paul called out. “It’s Sunday.”
“I don’t bloody care,” Neil’s voice came back, and then his head came round the open door to his room. “Do any of you know anything about hi-fis?”
Forty-something? I thought, looking at his longish hair and unlined face. I’d not believe it. He looked half that age this morning. Something had clearly irritated him—his mouth was set in a thin, tight line, his dark eyes narrow with impatience.
“Stereos, you mean?” Simon asked. “What kind of stereos?”
“The kind that don’t bloody work.”
Paul couldn’t keep the smile from showing. “Yeah, I have a little experience with those. Want me to take a look?”
“Please.” Neil relaxed a little in response, pushing the door wider to let the boys in. Catching my eye, he flashed a brilliant smile. “I don’t bite, honestly.”
I hung back, and was relieved when Simon boldly came to the rescue. “She has to make a phone call.” One couldn’t argue with that tone of voice, I thought, and with a tiny shrug that absolved me from blame, I turned my back on Neil and continued up the stairs.
The man at the Clos des Cloches picked up the phone on the second ring. It wasn’t Armand Valcourt. The older man, perhaps—François. At any rate, his voice was kind. Yes, he assured me, it was possible to take a tour that morning. Would ten-thirty be agreeable? That gave them nearly an hour to prepare. And for one? For three. That threw him for a moment, and he asked again, just to be sure.
“Three,” I repeated, and thanked him. Replacing the receiver, I sat back and waited for Simon and Paul to come upstairs.
The minutes stretched.
Finally I crossed to my door and opened it a crack, listening. They were still one floor down, in Neil’s room—I could just hear the murmur of voices. I was about to close my door again when I remembered what Paul had called me, yesterday: Mäusele. Little Mouse. I’m not afraid of anything, I told myself stoutly. Convinced of that, I stepped into the corridor and headed downstairs.
The door to Neil’s room was wide open, as he’d left it, and I could see the three of them inside, clustered round what looked like a chest of drawers.
“Well, that’s not it,” Paul was saying, his own voice losing patience. He shifted and I saw that he was frowning at a great gleaming metal hi-fi system. It was truly a monster—all dials and wires and separate components. Neil rummaged among the wires, pulled out a red connecting line and plugged it in somewhere else.
“What about that?” he checked.
Simon slotted a cassette tape into the machine and pushed a button. Nothing happened. “Nope. I hate to say it, Neil, but I think you’re out of luck.”
I hadn’t made a sound, but Neil looked up and over his shoulder, his eyes seeking mine unerringly. “Hullo,” he said. “I don’t suppose that you…”
“Sorry.” I shook my head. “I’m hopeless with electronics.”
Simon grinned. “Well, you can’t do any worse than the three of us.”
Neil’s mouth curved wryly, and he dropped the wires, admitting defeat. “Come in,” he invited me. “Don’t be shy.”
I came a few steps into the room, keeping the door to my back. It was a larger room than my own, with a soaring ceiling and cool shadows dancing on the papered walls. It was quiet, like him, and it smelled of him—of soap and freshly-ironed cotton and the faintly woodsy scent of aftershave. I concentrated fiercely on the window facing on the fountain square. His window, too, was more beautiful than mine. It was a door, really: arched glass panels that touched the floor, swinging inward on their hinges so that one could walk straight out into the narrow balcony beyond. The rustling branches of the acacia trees seemed near enough to touch.
Neil followed my gaze, understanding. “Nice, isn’t it?”
“And you’ll notice,” Simon pointed out, “that Neil doesn’t have any stupid curtains blocking his view.”
Neil smiled at that. “Yes, well, I’m afraid I had Thierry take them down. It improves the acoustics when I practice.”
“You hear that?” Simon asked his brother. “Thierry took them down. Favoritism,” he pronounced. “That’s what it is. Though I don’t imagine Thierry’ll be too happy when he finds out you busted his stereo.”
“Probably not, but I’m sure he’ll find me another. I’d just as soon have a smaller one, anyway,” he confessed. “This one’s rather too powerful for my needs. Can’t set the volume higher than three, or it makes your ears bleed.”
“That’s your age showing, old man,” Simon teased.
I looked from the jumble of cassette tapes on top of the hi-fi to the sleek violin case propped on a corner chair. “Do you tape your practice sessions, then?” I asked Neil.
“Lord, no, I spend enough time listening to myself. No, my orchestra in Austria is learning a new piece,” he explained, “by a young composer—very strange stuff, very difficult. And with a newly written piece I find a tape more helpful than just looking at the score. Actually,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, “this is the second system I’ve ruined. I brought my own portable one with me, but it barely lasted two days.”
“Maybe someone’s trying to tell you something,” Paul suggested, tongue in cheek.
“Maybe. But if it keeps up, it’ll drive me to drink.”
“Hey!” Simon suddenly remembered his treasure hunt. He turned to face me, hopeful. “Did you get through to the Clos des Cloches?”
“Yes.”
Something chased across Neil’s face, some flicker of emotion that was gone before I could identify it. “The Clos des Cloches?” he echoed, lightly. “Why were you ringing there?”
Simon answered for me. “They gave Emily an invitation for a tour and wine-tasting. So we’re all going.” Cheerfully, he looked in my direction. “Was this morning OK for them?”
“Yes. Ten-thirty.”
Paul glanced at his watch. “God, that’s only half an hour from now. We’d better get a move on.”
Neil folded his arms across his chest and looked down at me, his eyes faintly searching. “They gave you an invitation?”
I nodded. “I met the owner, you see, quite by accident, and—”
Simon cut me off. “You met the owner? Really? Great! Then you can ask him for me.”
Neil pulled his eyes from mine, eyebrows lifting. “Ask him what?”
“If I can see his cellar.” I was watching Simon’s face when the next thought struck him, and my heart sank, because there wasn’t a thing I could do to prevent it. “Hey,” he said brightly, turning to Neil, “why don’t you come with us? You know the guy, too, don’t you?”
Startled, I glanced up at Neil, and he met my eyes with a curious smile. “Yes, I know him,” he said, sliding his gaze to Simon. “And thanks. I’d be delighted to join your tour.”
***
Armand Valcourt didn’t look especially delighted when he met us at the gate. He hid it well, but I caught the hard line of his smile as he returned Neil’s handshake.
“It’s been a long time,” Armand said.
“Yes.”
“Martine told me you were back. I was surprised you did not come earlier, to the house. You are avoiding us, perhaps?”
“Not at all.” A curious tension grew and stretched between the two men, like a tightly strung wire, until the air around us fairly hummed with silent friction. It felt, I thought, almost like hate…
Paul must have felt it, too. Ever the peacemaker, he took a step forward and introduced himself, and the moment of unspoken combat passed.
Armand shook Simon’s hand next, then mine, his dark eyes knowing. “So,” he said, in French, “you decided to use your invitation, after all. And you have brought your friends. How… nice.”
I smiled up at him, innocent. “Did I mention, Monsieur, that my friend Paul can speak the most beautiful French?”
“Can he?” The dark eyes laughed, left mine, and looked at Paul. “Can he, indeed?” He let go of my hand, and took a step backwards. He looked different again by daylight. The working man’s outfit of chinos and sweater suited him rather well, I thought.
Simon nudged me. “Ask him.”
Armand arched an eyebrow, intrigued. “Yes? You have a question, Mademoiselle?”
Again I smiled. “More of a request, actually. Simon here was hoping to see your wine cellar.”
“Ah.” He looked from me to Simon, and back again. “Naturally, the cellars are included in the tour, but at the end, yes? For the tasting. We must follow the process in its proper order, beginning, I think, with the vines.”
He turned to lead us along a narrow, straight-edged path, cool in the shadow of the high stone wall that bounded the vineyard. Simon, impatient as always, kept close behind Armand, and Paul ambled along behind. Neil fell into step beside me, matching his pace to mine.
We walked in silence to begin with, but then my own awareness of him made the silence uncomfortable, and I tried to think of something neutral to talk about. “You’ve been here before, then?” I asked.
“Yes. I knew his wife.”
I bent my head hurriedly. “Oh, I see.” So much for neutral, I told myself.
“Brigitte, her name was,” he went on, in a mild tone. “We had mutual friends in Vienna. I knew both the sisters, Brigitte and Martine.”
Curiosity pricked me then, and against my better judgment I asked: “And were they very much alike?”
I felt the glancing touch of his eyes on my downturned face. “That’s right, you’ve met Martine, haven’t you? Yes, Brigitte was very like her to look at, but as far as personality…” He smiled a little, thinking back. “Brigitte was wild. Unpredictable. She met Armand and married him, all in one weekend. Destiny, she called it. She believed in destiny.” He spoke the word almost as if he believed it, too. He cast a quick glance up the ridge toward the white house, remembering. “She used to hold these huge dinner parties,” he told me, “all artists and writers and poor musicians like myself, and she’d fill us full of food and wine and set us talking. Bright minds and brilliant conversation, that’s what Brigitte wanted. Like Madame Pompadour.”
Still looking down at the path, I stole a sideways look at the denim-clad legs striding evenly beside mine, and the beautiful, long-fingered hands, and I thought I knew exactly what Brigitte Valcourt had wanted from Neil Grantham. The sudden stab of feeling rather shocked me. I hadn’t felt jealous in years. Aloud I said: “It must have been fun.”
“It was. Brigitte brought us all together, Christian and myself and… oh, there was a gang of us, i
n those days. I don’t know what happened to most of them. When Brigitte died the group just fell apart, stopped meeting.”
I kicked a pebble on the dirt path. “How did she die?”
“Heart failure.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
“It happens. She’d been in and out of hospital since giving birth to Lucie—she used to make a new will nearly every week, I think,” he said, with a brief smile. “I don’t think any of us was particularly surprised.”
Armand was still walking briskly alongside the wall, several paces ahead of us. He turned his head to say something to Simon, and glanced idly back at Neil and me, his expression unreadable.
The corners of Neil’s mouth tugged upwards. “We never did get on, Armand and I. It’s not your fault.”
I flashed a quick look up at him. “I don’t see that I have anything to do with it.”
“Don’t you?” He slanted a kind smile down at me. I struggled for a response, but before I could collect my thoughts, the others ahead of us stopped walking, and I had to step smartly to avoid running over Paul. The vineyard tour was about to begin.
Chapter 12
…past a hundred doors
To one deep chamber shut from sound,
Armand had led us to a spot halfway along the imposing wall, where the rows of stunted vines began their orderly climb to the crest of the hill. The noise of the passing traffic was muted here, a muffled humming on the far side of the wall, and nothing more. There was only the deep green hill, and the great sundrenched sky with its speckling of cotton wool clouds, and at our backs, the ever-watchful presence of Château Chinon. The modern world seemed but a distant dream.
“Of course,” Armand was saying to Simon, “you know that it was an American, like yourself, who nearly ruined the wine-making in France?”
“We’re Canadians.”
“But that is the same thing, surely?”
Paul stepped in once again to keep the peace, his calm voice riding smoothly over Simon’s ruffled feathers. “What did the American do?”
“He ate our vines,” Armand replied, then to our puzzled faces he explained how the tiny phylloxera beetle, nearly a century and a half ago, had crossed the wide Atlantic aboard the newly-invented steamship, and landed like a conqueror upon the shores of France. In the 1860s, Armand told us, that one microscopic pest, undetected, had ravaged vineyard after vineyard, bringing the noblest of estates near to ruin. The French wine industry had very nearly collapsed, until it was discovered that by grafting French vine stalks onto American roots—immune by nature to phylloxera—the devastator could be held at bay.