The Lavender Garden (25 page)

“Do you believe you could do without a carer?”

“Emilie, look at me.” Alex flung out his arms. “I’m sitting in my well-ordered flat, cooking you supper.
Alone
. I’ve told Sebastian this time and again, but he refuses to listen.”

“Well, perhaps he cares about you and doesn’t want any harm to come to you.”

Alex sighed. “I think we should make a pact now not to discuss my brother or his motives. It’s best for all concerned if the whole subject remains off-limits.”

“Surely you can hardly criticize him? It’s obvious he’s spent a lot of money making you very comfortable in here, when he himself lives in a house that urgently needs some money spending on it.”

Alex gave a snort of laughter. “Yes, well, as I said, it’s best we steer clear of the subject of my brother. Now, why don’t you sit down and I’ll serve up?”

•  •  •

It was eleven thirty before Emilie said good night to Alex and pushed open the door that would take her back into her cold, dreary side of the house, exaggerated by the brightness and modernity of Alex’s quarters. As she climbed the stairs to bed, she felt as though she’d fallen back like Alice through the looking glass.

The heating in the main house had gone off hours before, and the bedroom was freezing. Emilie undressed as fast as she could and dived under the blankets. She didn’t feel sleepy at all, just exhilarated by having watched the workings of what was obviously a brilliant mind.

As the superb Rhône wine had calmed and relaxed her, the two of them had chatted about Paris, where Alex had spent two years, and their favorite French authors. They had moved on to music and science, and Emilie had listened in awe to Alex’s vast and labyrinthine cultural knowledge.

When she’d expressed her admiration, Alex had shrugged nonchalantly. “One of the advantages to being completely penniless in capital cities as often as I used to be was that the best places to go to keep warm and while away the day were museums, art galleries, and libraries. I also have one of those irritating photographic memories.” He’d smiled at her when she’d questioned his amazing recall. “I’m like an elephant and forget nothing. And that’s a warning for you in the future, Emilie.”

She also remembered sitting at the kitchen table opposite Alex as they’d eaten, and then later, as he’d deftly maneuvered himself onto the sofa from the wheelchair, looking as normal as any man would, apart from the odd angle his legs fell at from the knee. She’d realized then how tall he was and commented on it. Alex had confirmed he was indeed six foot three, which had been an enormous bonus since his disablement, as his extra inches gave him more “reaching” capacity.

Alex was, Emilie admitted to herself, an attractive man. And, technically, far more handsome than his brother. With his looks, undeniable charisma, and intellect, Emilie dreaded to think how many female hearts he’d broken before his accident. Alex’s innate masculinity had not been affected by his paralyzed legs. He was no victim, that was for sure.

Emilie tried to equate Sebastian’s damning description of his brother with the articulate, grown-up man she had just spent the evening with. And then thought of the first time she’d met him, when he’d calmly and efficiently helped her through a panic attack.

So . . . which was the
real
Alex Carruthers?

As she became drowsy, Emilie’s last thought was what it must have been like for her husband, growing up with a younger brother who, like Frederik in Jacques’s story, must have surpassed him on every possible level.

E
milie was surprised to see Alex down in the kitchen when she arrived to switch on the kettle the next morning. He had already rollered the bottom half of the wall behind the dresser.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” he commented cheerfully.

Emilie blushed self-consciously, wishing she’d changed out of her nightshirt, Sebastian’s fisherman’s jumper, and a pair of his thick socks. But then, she hadn’t been expecting company. “It’s only half past eight,” she said defensively as she switched on the kettle.

“I know, I’m only teasing. One of the unfortunate downsides to having a pair of numb sticks for legs is that they twitch and jerk involuntarily in the night, which means I don’t tend to get much sleep. I’ve also started to get strange tingling sensations in them, which might mean that some feeling is returning. The doctors say it’s a very good sign.”

“That’s wonderful news, surely?” Emilie leaned back against the sink and watched him. “What was the prognosis originally?”

“Oh, the usual,” said Alex airily. “That I’d damaged the nerves in my spinal column, that they couldn’t tell whether I’d ever regain any feeling in my legs, but that they thought probably not. Blah blah.”

“So they said there was a possibility you might walk again?”

“God no, they wouldn’t go that far. False hope from doctors is a suable offense these days, my dear.” Alex smiled. “But rather than being my normal obtuse self and not listening to anyone in the medical profession, I’ve been a good boy and worked hard at my physio sessions at the hospital and continued the exercises here at home.”

“So there’s a chance you might fully recover?”

“I’d doubt it, but where there’s life, there’s hope, and all that. . . . Now, as I’ve been slaving away since the dawn broke, I think I deserve a cup of coffee, don’t you?”

“Of course.” Emilie filled the French press with boiling water and took down two mugs from a cupboard.

“I’ve obviously left the top half of the wall for you to paint. My ladder climbing could be a spectator sport.” Alex laughed. “Sleep well?”

“Yes, I did, thank you. Alex?” she asked slowly as she waited for the coffee to brew.

“Yes, Em? May I call you that? It suits you. It’s softer, somehow.”

“If you wish. I was just thinking how different you were last night from the picture Sebastian paints of you.”

“I simply give my brother what he wants.” Alex shrugged.

“What on earth do you mean? How could Sebastian ‘want’ you to behave badly?”

“Your husband is a subject you know I’m loath to discuss.” Alex wagged a finger at her. “Especially covered in primrose paint at this hour of the morning.”

“But, for example, constantly giving your carers so much trouble that they walk out and leave you?” she persisted.

“Em . . .” Alex sighed. “We said we wouldn’t talk about this. All I will say is that, as I don’t actually want them, or get a hand in the choosing of them, I have to get rid of them somehow, don’t I? I mean, I’m physically unable to prevent Sebastian depositing them in my home. As I mentioned last night, I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself these days.”

“Are you absolutely sure you can manage alone?”

“Now, don’t start, please.” He raised his eyebrows. “Patronizing the paraplegic is not an attitude I deserve after my faultless performance in front of you last night.”

“Yes, but I’ve been left in charge, and I—”

“Em, nobody, and especially not you, is
in charge
of me. It may suit my brother to believe he is, but as you can see from the short time you’ve been here, I have a horrible habit of disrupting that illusion.”

“What I’m trying to say, Alex, is that if I don’t follow my husband’s instructions to provide you with a new full-time carer and something happened to you, he may never forgive me.”

“I give you my word, Em,” said Alex, serious at last. “Nothing will happen to me. Now, for God’s sake, stop fussing and do something useful like pour me that cup of coffee.”

•  •  •

An hour later, Alex muttered something about having some work to do and took himself off back to his flat. Emilie finished the top half of the wall, then dabbed carefully at the spots she’d missed. Standing by the sink washing the paint off her hands, she looked out the window and saw the faint green of the grass appearing from beneath the fast-melting ice. Having been incarcerated in the house for so many days, she thought she might take herself off for a walk and familiarize herself with the landscape around it.

The sun was shining as she let herself out the back door. She walked through what she was sure in the summer would be a pretty formal garden, then made her way through a gate and into an orchard. The ancient trees hung bare, looking for all the world as if they were dead, but the uncollected detritus of mulchy windfall frozen beneath them belied their current state.

Standing at the edge of a grass tennis court, which hadn’t seen attention for many years, Emilie realized that the house was set snugly into a gentle valley of rolling hills. In the distance, she could just make out the dark shapes of higher peaks and crags on the horizon. Walking farther, she saw the house was surrounded by pasture, obviously inhabited by sheep from the frozen droppings under her feet. Standing atop a grassy hillock, Emilie decided thankfully that this was indeed a beautiful, if rather barren, part of the world.

Later that afternoon, she made some calls to France. It had been agreed with the architect and the builders that she would fly over in the next couple of weeks to meet them. And, most important, to oversee the contents of her father’s library’s being put into storage before the work began in earnest.

Over a cup of tea in the kitchen, Emilie debated whether she should return the favor and ask Alex in for supper that evening. She needed to get to the bottom of the puzzle of his relationship with her husband and the animosity between the two of them. And while Sebastian was absent, surely this was the perfect time to do it?

Knocking on the door to his flat, she found Alex tapping away on his computer in his immaculate study.

“Sorry to disturb you, but would you like to come to me for supper tonight? And help put the dresser back in place?”

“Lovely.” He nodded. “See you later.” He waved, obviously engrossed in whatever he was doing.

•  •  •

“You look pretty tonight,” said Alex admiringly as he wheeled himself into the kitchen later. “That turquoise jumper suits your skin tone.”

“Thank you,” said Emilie, brushing the compliment aside. “First of all, can we move the dresser back? Then I can clear the kitchen table so we can eat at it.”

“Leave it to me.”

Emilie watched as Alex hardly broke a sweat moving the dresser against the wall. Then he replaced the china into the lower cupboards as she returned it onto the higher shelves.

“There!” Emilie looked around the kitchen with pleasure. “Doesn’t it look better?”

“It’s a revelation. It almost makes me want to come in here.” Alex smiled. “You’re a real little homemaker, aren’t you, Em?”

“I simply can’t bear dreariness. I like warmth and brightness.”

“Having lived in the south of France for a lot of your life, I’m sure you do. Now, I’ve brought along another decent bottle of wine, as I happen to know that the cellar here is on its last dregs, so to speak. Oh, and I also brought this in for you to peruse.” Alex produced a small book from the side of his wheelchair and offered it to her. “I’m presuming they were written by a relative of yours, and I thought you might like to read them. I think they’re rather sweet, if naive.”

As Alex opened the wine, Emilie studied the aging, leatherbound notebook. Turning the first yellowing page, she glanced at the writing, which was in French, trying to decipher it.

“They’re poems,” said Alex, stating the obvious. “The writing is dreadful, isn’t it? It took me hours to work out what they said. Here are my typed versions.” Alex handed Emilie some sheets of paper. “They look as though they’ve been written by a five-year-old child, and, indeed, some of them were written when the poet was young. But the quality of the content as she grows older shows real talent. Have you seen the name at the bottom of the poems?”

“Sophia de la Martinières!” Emilie read, looking at Alex in confusion. “Where did you get this notebook?”

“Seb pulled out a book from the library a few weeks ago; something to do with French fruit, if I remember correctly. He said he’d found this notebook with it and gave me the poems to read and decipher. Do you know who Sophia de la Martinières was?”

“Yes, Sophia was my aunt, my father’s sister. He didn’t mention her very often, but I began to learn of her story last time I was in France. She was blind.”

“Ah.” Alex raised an eyebrow. “That explains the dreadful writing.”

“You say Sebastian found these with a book about French fruit?”

“That’s what he said, yes.”

“Jacques, who was telling me the story of your grandmother and Sophia during the war, told me Constance used a book of fruit to describe the shapes and textures to Sophia, so she could sketch them. And that Sophia wrote poetry. Maybe Constance brought both books back to England with her when she returned here after the war.”

“What a sweet story.”

“Yes. Do you know where the book on fruit trees is? I’d love to see it.”

“I haven’t seen the book since Seb brought it down from the shelf in the library,” said Alex, suddenly guarded. “Mind you, I’m incapable of checking the top shelves, so it might be there.”

“I’ll look for it, and if I can’t find it, I’ll ask Sebastian when he’s home.” Emilie turned her attention back to the poems. “These are beautiful. Sophia wrote her age at the bottom of this one.” Emilie indicated the signature. “She was only nine when she composed it. It’s about what she wishes she could see. I . . .” Emilie shook her head, almost moved to tears. “It’s so sad.”

“I especially like this one.” Alex leafed through the pages until he found it. “ ‘The Light Behind the Window.’ It has an elegance in its simplicity and I like the rhyming structure. Em, can you tell me what you know about my grandmother’s time in France? I’d be fascinated to hear.”

As she cooked the risotto, Emilie related the story Jacques had told her of Constance. Alex listened intently, asking her questions if he didn’t follow something.

“And that’s as far in the story as I got,” she said as she served the risotto. “It’s a coincidence that, all these years on, your family and mine are again connected.”

“Yes,” Alex agreed, picking up his fork, “truly amazing.”

Emilie eyed him, hearing the hint of irony in his voice. “What do you mean by that? If you’re thinking Sebastian had a motive for coming in search of my family, then you’re wrong. It was pure coincidence we happened to meet in Gassin when he was down in the Var on business. He recognized me from the newspapers. And he told me at our first meeting of the family connection.”