“Of course you do. Well, you will feel quite at home then.”
They walked across the hall dominated by a sweeping stone staircase and a giant fireplace full of neatly cut logs piled one on top of the other. On the mantelpiece were ancient bottles of wine lined up on display. The floor was of big square flag-stones that shone, except along the middle where they were worn away by centuries of treading feet. Antoinette took them through to the drawing room, a grand red salon with high ceilings and long crimson curtains framing French doors that opened onto a wide terrace, surrounded by a stone balustrade. Faded tapestries of hunting scenes hung on the walls, flanked by gilded portraits of the family ancestors. Ava ran her eyes over them, seeking out any similarities with Jean-Paul. A maid entered the room and Antoinette asked her to bring a tray of drinks to the terrace. “And where is my son, Françoise?” she added. Ava’s stomach flipped and she grew anxious that she wouldn’t be able to hide her feelings.
“He is out,” she replied.
Antoinette sighed. “And Henri?” Françoise shrugged. “Well, go and find him and tell him our guests have arrived. I said they would be here by noon.”
“Yes, madame,” said Françoise obediently and left the room.
“Come, let us sit on the terrace. It is warm there in the sun. Françoise will bring us some wine.” She opened the French doors wide and stepped outside. The dogs followed her, trotting off to sniff the borders and cock their legs against the balustrade. Below, the gardens stretched out to an old wall covered in climbing roses and pink bougainvillea, where ancient trees watched over the grounds and, beyond, the domed roof of a dovecote silhouetted against the sky. Ava could see at once why the château was so special to Jean-Paul and why he did what his father asked of him in order not to lose it.
“Ah, my friends, you have arrived!” exclaimed Henri, approaching the terrace from around the side of the house. His voice was loud and booming, like a trombone. “You should have sent Françoise to find me,” he added to his wife.
“I did,” she replied coolly. He embraced Phillip with the warmth of an old friend and kissed Ava’s hand as his son had done. He smiled broadly, dark eyes appraising her beneath a thick head of rich brown curls. Ava remembered Jean-Paul telling her that he had a mistress in Paris. It didn’t surprise her. He was devilishly handsome, like his son. “Where’s the wine? Françoise!” he bellowed. Françoise appeared almost at once, struggling beneath the weight of a large tray heavy with bottles and glasses as well as a jug of iced water. Henri made no move to help her. “Good! We were in danger of dying of thirst,” he said in English so that the maid couldn’t understand. He sat down and pulled out a cigar. “So, Phillip, my friend, how is the book?”
Antoinette turned to Ava. “Would you like to see the dovecote? Jean-Paul tells me you have one in your garden.”
“I would love to. Is that its dome over there?”
“Yes.”
“It’s far more magnificent than ours.”
“Jean-Paul says you have the most beautiful estate.”
“I wish he were there now. Everything is bursting into flower—and the smells, it’s never smelled more delicious.”
“Come, I need to talk with you.”
Ava followed her down the wide steps to the garden, leaving the men talking and drinking on the terrace. Once again she felt the blood rushing through her veins with panic. Had Jean-Paul told his mother that he was in love with her? Was she going to warn her off? Say he needed to marry a young woman from his own country and have a son to inherit as he would do? She began to feel nauseous and rubbed her forehead in agitation. The sun was very hot, in spite of the cool breeze, and the twittering birds were drowned by her own pulse thumping in her ears.
“May I speak with you plainly?” Antoinette asked as they walked across the lawn towards an iron gate built into the wall.
“Of course,” Ava replied.
“It’s about Jean-Paul.” Antoinette glanced across at her. “He is my only child, you know, and I love him deeply.”
“I know, he’s told me a lot about you.”
“I’m sure. The trouble is that he has a terrible relationship with his father. Henri is insensitive to his needs. Jean-Paul is a talented artist but Henri does not like him to paint. He writes beautiful poetry but Henri thinks nothing of poetry. Henri had an uncle who wasted his life painting unremarkable paintings. He does not want Jean-Paul to waste his life like him. It’s not just the painting. Jean-Paul spent months in Paris doing nothing but dating inappropriate girls, which was a good thing on one hand—Henri was afraid he was homosexual—but on the other hand it is no life for a young man who will one day inherit an estate such as this. Henri wants him to help run the vineyard here, but he was never interested, until now.”