The Lavender Garden (49 page)

“Of course not. I would welcome it,” Emilie said gratefully.

“Well, to put it simply, I think you’re missing the point. Whether Sebastian has an ulterior motive for marrying you or not, you’re extremely unhappy. And your husband’s character does not sound”—Jean shrugged—“solid.”

“But as Alex said, it may be that my husband’s bad behavior is confined to him.”

“I would say he’s being too kind. He doesn’t wish to compromise your relationship with your husband. This Alex sounds very sensible. Perhaps you have married the wrong brother?” Jean’s eyes twinkled.

“Alex is extremely clever, yes,” she agreed uncomfortably.

“Emilie, I understand.” Jean nodded, serious now. “You’ve married this man, you’ve made your choice, and you want it to work. Of course, the thing to do now is confront him with all your fears when you arrive home.”

“But he’ll lie, of course! He’ll protect himself.”

“Then surely,” Jean replied sadly, “you have just answered your own question? Emilie, if you feel you can never get the truth from your husband, then what hope do you have of a successful relationship?”

Emilie sat silently, knowing Jean was right. “We’ve been married such a short time, Jean. Surely I must continue to give us a chance? I can’t just give up!”

“No, I agree. Normally your heart does not rule your head, Emilie.
You were impulsive, for the first time in your life, but you mustn’t punish yourself for that. And it may still work out.
If
you can discover the truth from him.”

“I’ll feel better when I’ve spoken to your father.” She sighed. “The fact he’s so reluctant to tell us must indicate the revelation will impact on someone.”

“I promise to talk to Papa for you tomorrow. If you try to calm down.”

“You’re so close to your father.” She sighed wistfully. “It’s unusual and wonderful to see.”

“What’s unusual about wishing to put the person who brought you up and cared for you first, when they need you? Like you, Emilie,” Jean explained, “I was born late in my father’s life, and then my mother died when I was young. Perhaps it’s because I grew up with older parents that I learned the moral values of previous generations. Rather than our own, which it seems to me has lost a reliable compass.”

“It’s strange that both our fathers decided to marry late,” mused Emilie. “I wonder if that had anything to do with their experiences in the war?”

“Perhaps. They both witnessed the darker side of human nature. I’m sure it took many years to restore their faith and trust in love again. Now”—Jean yawned—“it’s late and time for bed.”

“Yes.”

They stood up and kissed good night.

“Thank you, Jean. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your advice. And I’m sorry for boring you with my problems.”

“Emilie, you did not bore me. We’re almost family,” Jean said gently.

“Yes, Jean, we are.”

•  •  •

Emilie was up early again the following morning, knowing she had only a few hours before she had to leave for Yorkshire.

Finally, Jacques arrived in the kitchen for breakfast. He nodded at Emilie as she passed him some coffee.

“How did you sleep?”

“I did not,” he said as he raised the cup to his lips.

“Have you seen Jean this morning?”

“I have. He came to see me earlier and has told me that you’ve managed to work out a reason why I’m reluctant to tell you who your cousin is.”

“Jacques, please, I beg you. I must know if I’m right. You understand why, don’t you?”

“Yes.” He looked at her and then suddenly chuckled. “You’re a clever girl, Emilie. It’s a good story. And, indeed”—he nodded—“Constance named her one child after the baby girl she had left behind.”

“But”—Emilie stared at him for confirmation—“her daughter wasn’t Sophia’s child?”

“No, Emilie, it was not Constance who adopted Victoria. And even though, from the little I’ve seen of your new husband, I would not trust him, I can assure you he didn’t marry you because he believed he might be an illegitimate heir to the de la Martinières fortune.”

“Oh. Thank God!” Emilie felt near to tears. “Thank you, Jacques.”

“I’m happy at least to put your mind at rest on that score.” He sipped his coffee.

Emilie was immediately torn between relief that the story she’d conjured up was not true, and guilt that she had thought Sebastian capable of such a plot.

“Then, Jacques, please, will you tell me who Victoria is?”

Jacques paused, took another sip of his coffee, and looked at her. “I understand your eagerness to know. But, Emilie, it isn’t your life that will be turned upside down. It’s hers, and her family’s. If I decide to speak, it will be her I tell first, not you. Do you understand?”

Emilie understood that Jacques was telling her she was being selfish. Cowed, she bent her head and nodded. “I do. And I’m sorry.”

“There’s no need to apologize, Emilie. I can see why you wish to know.”

Jean walked into the kitchen and felt the tension. “My father has told you your story was wrong?”

“Yes.”

“You must be relieved, Emilie,” said Jean.

“I am, of course.” She stood up, feeling uncomfortable and embarrassed that these two men were blatantly aware of how fast she’d jumped to dishonorable conclusions about her husband. “I must
leave,” she said, suddenly needing some time alone. She could sit at Nice airport for a couple of hours and think. “Excuse me.”

The two men gazed at her with sympathy in their eyes as she left the kitchen to collect her suitcase from her bedroom.

“She’s made a mistake by marrying that man, and she knows it,” whispered Jacques. “He may not be a de la Martinières by blood, but he’s after something.”

“I agree. But then she had just lost her mother, the last of her family. It’s hardly surprising she fell into the first pair of arms that came along. She was so vulnerable.”

“On the positive side, she’s had to grow up fast in the past year and is stronger. She’s learned many lessons.”

“Yes. She’s indeed even more special now.”

Jacques gazed at the pain in his son’s eyes. “I know how you feel about her. But she’s a clever girl, like her father, with good instincts. She’ll make the right decision and come home, where she belongs.”

“I wish I could be so sure.” Jean sighed.

“I am.”

Emilie appeared in the kitchen with her suitcase, looking strained and pale. “Thank you again for your hospitality, and I’m sure I’ll see you both soon.”

“As you know, there’s always a bed for you here with us,” said Jean, feeling her distress and trying to comfort her.

“Thank you.” Emilie put her suitcase down. “Jacques, I’m so sorry that I pressured you to tell me the identity of Sophia and Frederik’s baby. Of course it’s your decision. I promise I will never ask again.” She bent down to kiss him on both cheeks, and Jacques snatched at her hands before she could move away.

“Your father would have been proud of you. Trust in yourself, Emilie. And God bless, until we see you again.”

“I’ll be back very soon to check on the progress of the château. Good-bye, Jacques.”

She left the kitchen with Jean as he carried her suitcase out to the car.

“Keep in contact, Emilie,” he said as he slammed the trunk closed. “You know we’re always here for you.”

“I know”—she nodded—“and thank you for everything.”

O
n the drive to Nice airport, Emilie came to a decision. She couldn’t face going back to Yorkshire and waiting there alone until Sebastian came home. Instead, she would fly straight to London and go to his gallery to see him. And ask him to tell her the truth.

Standing at the ticket counter paying for her flight to Heathrow, Emilie pondered whether she should let Sebastian know she was coming. But maybe it would be better to surprise him. The flight arrived in London at half past two, plenty of time to get to his gallery before it closed. She’d tell him she’d missed him and wanted to see him straightaway.

As Emilie boarded the plane, although still confused about her husband’s behavior, she felt better. At least she was being proactive,
doing
something to try to close the chasm that had opened up between them. She needed to confront him about his relationship with Alex and find out the real reason he was disinclined to have his wife by his side in London.

•  •  •

After landing at Heathrow, Emilie climbed into a taxi and gave the driver the address of Sebastian’s gallery on the Fulham Road. Having a sudden attack of cold feet that she was arriving unannounced, Emilie took out her mobile and tried Sebastian. A mechanical voice told her his mobile was switched off.

Twenty minutes later, she arrived in front of Arté. Paying the driver, Emilie lugged her suitcase out of the taxi and perused the windows. The art was modern, as Sebastian had described, and the gallery was extremely smart. Pushing the door open, a bell tinkled and an attractive, willowy blonde came forward to greet her.

“Hello, madam, just browsing?”

“Is the owner here?” Emilie asked, abrupt from nerves.

“Yes, he’s in the office at the back. Can I help you with anything?”

“No, thank you. Please could you tell him that Emilie de la Martinières is here to see him?”

“Of course, madam.”

The girl walked through a door at the back of the shop, and Emilie browsed the canvases on display. A few seconds later, an elegant, middle-aged man appeared from the door at the back of the gallery.

“Madam de la Martinières, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I heard of the sale of your Matisse last year. Can I help you with anything?”

“I . . .” Emilie was confused. “Are you the owner?”

“Yes, I’m Jonathan Maxwell.” He held out his hand and she shook it weakly. He eyed her with interest. “You seem surprised. Is there a problem?”

“Maybe I have the wrong address,” she stuttered. “I thought Sebastian Carruthers was the owner of this gallery?”

“Sebastian? No.” Jonathan chuckled. “What stories has he been telling you? Sebastian is an agent who has a couple of artists whose work I display here occasionally. I’ve not seen him for a while, though. I think he’s been concentrating more on his sourcing of French artists for his clients. Didn’t he discover your unsigned Matisse?”

“Yes, he did.” Emilie felt at least comforted that
something
Sebastian had told her was actually true.

“Nice work if you can get it. I’m presuming it’s Sebastian you want to speak to?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll go and get his telephone number for you,” Jonathan offered. “I’ve got it on file.”

“Thank you. You wouldn’t by any chance have the address of his office as well, would you?”

“I’d say ‘office’ was rather an exaggeration. He works out of the apartment he shares with his girlfriend, Bella. She’s one of his artists.” Jonathan pointed to a large, vivid canvas, filled with extravagant red poppies. “I have the address; it’s where I send Bella’s checks when I sell a painting of hers. It’s probably better to call him first and make an appointment.”

Emilie’s legs were buckling under her, but she couldn’t give in now.

“If you have the address, I’ll take it anyway,” she said brightly. “I like . . . Bella’s work very much. Perhaps she has others I could see.”

“Her studio is in her flat. She’s in one of those wharf developments by Tower Bridge. Hardly a garret in Paris, lucky girl . . .” Jonathan shared a glance with Emilie. “Let me get you the address.”

Aware that she was a few seconds away from having a panic attack, Emilie took a number of deep, slow breaths as she waited for him to return.

“There you are.” Jonathan handed her the address and telephone number he’d scribbled on an envelope. “As I say, probably best to call first to make sure they’re in.”

“Of course. Thank you for your help.”

“No problem. Here’s my card too.” Jonathan produced one from his shirt pocket. “If there’s anything in the future I can help you with, I’d be delighted to. Good-bye, Madame de la Martinières.”

“Good-bye.” Emilie turned to leave.

“Oh, and if you do see young Sebastian, you can say from me I’ll be having words with him about telling you he owned this gallery.” Jonathan raised his eyebrows, smiling. “He’s a nice chap, but he can be a little frugal with the truth.”

“Yes, thank you.”

Emilie left the gallery and looked down with shaking hands at the address Jonathan had given her. Before she could rationalize what she was doing, she hailed a passing taxi, gave the address to the driver, and climbed inside. As the taxi set off, she began to pant at the thought of where she was headed. She took out a paper bag from the front of her suitcase, containing a half-eaten croissant from Nice airport, and began surreptitiously blowing into it.

“You all right, love?” asked the driver.

“
Oui
—yes, thank you.”

“My son used to have panic attacks,” he said, glancing at her in the mirror. “Just breathe deeply, love, and you’ll be all right.”

“Thank you.” The kindness of a stranger brought tears to her eyes.

“Something upset you, has it?”

“Yes,” said Emilie, the tears of shock and despair stinging her face.

“There we go.” The driver passed a box of tissues through the window to her. “Never mind, I’m sure it will all come out in the wash, whatever it is. Lovely-looking girl like you . . . life can’t be too bad, eh?”

•  •  •

Forty agonizing minutes later, the driver pulled into a narrow cobbled lane between two tall buildings.

“These used to be where they stored the tea when it was shipped in from India. Never thought they’d end up as desirable homes—these cost millions now, they do. I’m afraid that’s thirty-six quid, love,” the driver added.

Emilie paid him and staggered out with her suitcase, her heart still thumping in her chest. She walked to the entrance and saw each apartment had an intercom button. Double-checking her piece of paper and gathering every ounce of strength she had left, she pressed the buzzer for number nine.

“Hello?”

“Hello, is that Bella Roseman-Boyd?”

“Yes?”

“I’ve come from the Arté gallery in Fulham. Jonathan sent me as I was interested in seeing more of your work,” Emilie lied as smoothly as she could.