Love in Vogue (31 page)

‘Relax, darling,’ Philippe said, giving Claire a smile. ‘Everything will be fine. After all, my mother did invite us, and she doesn’t send out invitations lightly.’

‘I bet you asked for one.’

He laughed, pressing his foot on the accelerator. Claire had forgotten what a good driver he was, how calm and capable, notwithstanding the heavy traffic. People always seemed to give way when they saw Philippe in their mirrors.

‘Must we stay for the whole holiday?’ she asked.

‘Of course. I want to take you down to see Briteuil straight after Easter.’

‘But suppose your mother really doesn’t like us? I won’t be able to bear it, Philippe.’

‘Don’t be silly. She’ll adore you. And my brother will be there too, and he’s on our side.’

Claire fell silent, looking out at the brown, cheerless landscape. It was almost like January still; not a sign of spring. She and Isabelle began a game of counting red cars to pass the time, but it was over all too quickly. They came off the A6 just south of Beaune, and then sped down winding roads flanked by vineyards, through villages whose names were a roll-call of the very best of Burgundy. Isabelle pressed her nose to the window, wondering where this fairytale castle was. She knew what it would be like; all turrets and towers, with a wizard up in one of the chimneys and a princess who sometimes came out of a lake in the gardens.

And then they had arrived, and both Claire and her daughter gasped at the loveliness of the place. A perfect sixteenth-century château – without a moat, true – but as if from a fairytale nonetheless. Though large, it was symmetrical and pleasing to the eye, surrounded by gardens laid out in formal terraces and parterres. The lawns and lake were concealed at the rear of the building.

Yves came out to meet them on the magnificent horseshoe steps leading to the main entrance. Claire hung back a little nervously, but Philippe carried Isabelle up to his brother, smiling broadly.

‘Well, Yves, here they are – the two women in my life. Come on,’ he shouted back to Claire. ‘He’s won’t bite.’

She joined them, laughing, and was surprised by Yves’ resemblance to Philippe. He was even a little bit taller, looking fit and relaxed in corduroys and a polo.

‘Hello, Claire,’ he said, stepping forward and kissing her on both cheeks. ‘Welcome to Rochemort. Had a good journey?’

‘Say yes,’ interrupted Philippe, ‘it’s his car.’

She laughed again, and everything seemed easier. Yves wanted to kiss Isabelle, but she refused to look at him, her hands clutched tightly around her father’s neck. Claire took her from Philippe and tried to coax her into a smile, but Isabelle was suddenly shy and wouldn’t even speak.

Yves shrugged his shoulders. ‘We’d better go inside, or she’ll catch cold. I got Marie to make up a bed for her in your sitting-room. Is that all right?’

Claire wondered at which end of the long cold gallery that opened off at the top of a marble staircase she would be sleeping. It was vast. Philippe’s stories seemed to be borne out by the suits of armour they passed, and Isabelle began to look about excitedly. Claire found herself hoping she wouldn’t be relegated to a distant tower as an unwanted concubine.

‘This is the oldest part of the château,’ Philippe explained. ‘Uninhabited, but tourists like it. We live in the west wing, which is more modern – Louis Quinze, actually. Now, Isabelle, there’s the ghost – there! In the armour.’

She squealed in fright, then giggled. ‘Where’s the wizard?’

‘Cooking his dinner. He’ll come and see you later.’

Yves was bemused. He could never have imagined Philippe in this role, and yet he seemed quite at ease. He felt a sharp stab of envy. This was how it should have been for him and Yolande; yet here he was, playing host to his philandering brother, who hadn’t done anything to deserve such a lovely wife and daughter.

Claire was relieved to reach the west wing, hung with eighteenth century pictures and tapestries. Though stately, it was warm and clearly meant for habitation. A large golden Labrador bounded up to them as they passed into the corridor leading to their rooms.

‘This is Geraldine. She produces all our puppies,’ Yves said, rubbing her ears. ‘They’re getting quite big now. Perhaps Isabelle would like to see them later?’

‘Yes!’ came the enthusiastic answer.

‘Aren’t you going to say hello to Uncle Yves now?’ asked Philippe. ‘He’s my brother.’

Isabelle stared at Yves for some seconds, then smiled and proffered her cheek for a kiss. But that wasn’t enough. He took her in his arms and hugged her, smiling shyly at Claire, who suddenly felt sorry for him. There was something in his manner, a sadness that matched the ancient grandeur of the château, and she knew he was very unhappy. Yves left them outside their rooms, telling them that lunch would be ready in half an hour. Claire felt the butterflies start in her stomach. She would have to meet Philippe’s mother – the formidable baroness.

‘So you’ll be sharing my bed,’ he said, opening the doors. ‘I wondered about that. Isabelle will be in here. Let’s see what he’s done for her. Good heavens, Marie’s brought the whole nursery in here! Never mind, she’ll be very comfortable. Now, we’d better hurry. The bathroom’s just the other side. Then there’s Yves’ room. Maman is at the other end, so she doesn’t have to walk too far to the stairs. We came the long way round, as you might have noticed. There’s a much quicker way in from the back.’

Claire sat down on the bed and looked around, while Philippe lifted Isabelle up to get a view through the window. It was a lovely room; spacious, but cosy and inviting, with period Louis Quinze furniture and a romantic scene by Watteau over the fireplace. The sitting-room converted for Isabelle must obviously have been a dressing-room originally – suitable for a lady, with its lilac colour scheme. Claire began to breathe more comfortably. She had already jumped the first hurdle. She was accepted in his ancestral home as the mother of his child and his future wife. And she loved him to distraction.

‘Well, Yves, what’s she like?’ asked Marie-Christine when he appeared in the drawing-room.

‘Good looking, well-mannered, and very chic.’

‘I see.’

It was neither approval nor disapproval. Yves wondered if his brother had done the right thing by bringing them here so soon. His mother was still very hurt that Philippe had kept the affair secret for so long. Geraldine wandered in and stretched out on the carpet at his feet.

‘So the marriage is definite?’ she asked at length.

‘Yes. They seem very happy. I’m sure it’s right – for both of them.’

She looked at him sadly. ‘I’d hoped to be welcoming
your
fiancée, not his.’

‘Please don’t go into all that again. I’m glad it’s over.’

‘But …’ Then she stopped. His expression was too intense. ‘So it’s
still
Yolande?’

She sighed, gazing past him. It was hopeless. Yolande would never come back now. He would just stay here, mouldering away with regrets and what might have been. Philippe was right; she needed to get herself mobile again, then she wouldn’t be so dependent and Yves could get out more and find someone new. Gabrielle had been a mistake, but he could have said so before. She only wanted to see him happy, not force him into something he didn’t want. Was he afraid of her? Her confidence as a mother had been severely dented in recent months. She realised that only now was she beginning to understand her sons, when for years she thought she knew them both inside out.

Claire and Philippe each held one of Isabelle’s hands as she dawdled her way past the family portraits in the corridor leading to the drawing-room. She seemed delighted with everything, though a little disappointed that the wizard hadn’t yet materialised. Philippe told her to be a good girl because she was going to meet her grandmother who was a sick lady and couldn’t walk very well. Isabelle didn’t pay attention. She marched boldly into the room and headed straight for Yves and Geraldine, two familiar beings in vast, unfamiliar surroundings. Her parents waited out of sight behind the open doors.

‘Come to me, Isabelle,’ said Yves, opening his arms. She wasn’t afraid of him now, though drew back a little when Geraldine bounded up and wanted to play. Yves sat Isabelle on his lap, watching his mother’s wary face. He worried that she hadn’t asked about her granddaughter. What if she rejected her? How could she fail to love this beautiful, cuddly little girl, who looked very much as she must have looked at the same age?

Marie-Christine stared at Isabelle’s black hair as she leaned down to pat Geraldine, then caught the deep blue eyes and that full, firm mouth. It could have been the daughter she had always wanted but never had. She smiled, indicating a seat beside her on the sofa. Isabelle slid out of Yves’ arms and ran across to her.

‘Do
you
know where the wizard is?’

‘That depends. We have rather a lot of wizards here.’

She raised her voice for the last sentence. Philippe gave Claire a smile, and they went in. Marie-Christine looked round briefly, then turned back to Isabelle to explain that the wizard was having his dinner, and would doubtless come out of his hiding-place in the kitchen when he had finished.

‘But Papa says he lives in the chimney!’

‘He does sometimes. He lives everywhere. You’ve got to watch for him.’

‘Oooh – are you scared?’

Isabelle scrambled up onto the sofa, anxious to hear more. Marie-Christine talked about the wizard, stroking her granddaughter’s hair, enjoying her alertness and wide-eyed interest. She gave Philippe a look which more or less admitted that she’d been conquered, and both he and Yves breathed a sigh of relief.

Claire hung back, her fingers interlocked with Philippe’s, conscious that his mother had so far ignored her. She had never doubted that Isabelle would be accepted, but she remained unsure of her own welcome with this very elegant woman, who though clearly in pain, retained more than the vestiges of good looks and an integrity of manner that was unmistakable. It was Isabelle who precipitated their introduction by deciding to sit on her grandmother’s lap. Marie-Christine winced as the girl began to climb onto her knees, and Claire rushed over to remove her.

‘Isabelle, darling, why don’t you sit here with me?’ She sat on the sofa next to the baroness, nervous and embarrassed. ‘I’m terribly sorry, madame. Philippe warned her, but she doesn’t understand.’

‘That’s all right. I’d love to hold her, but with this arthritis – perhaps when I’ve had my operation, it will be easier.’

Marie-Christine smiled reassuringly. Her keen eyes took in a great deal; Claire’s nervousness, her delicacy, and a sweetness of personality that came through even in these difficult circumstances. She knew they were going to be friends.

‘Congratulations, Claire. You have a lovely daughter.’ She turned to her son. ‘You don’t really deserve it, Philippe, but I give you permission to hold the wedding here. We could do with a party. Now, let’s get the kissing over, and then we can eat. Isabelle looks rather hungry – don’t you,
ma chérie
?

Lunch was a protracted affair, taken in formal splendour in the panelled dining room, and Marie-Christine went out of her way to be kind. Yves was subdued, but the others kept the conversation flowing. Claire had obviously scored a hit with his mother, and when a silence threatened to descend, Isabelle soon created fresh talk with her insatiable enquiries about ghosts, wizards, and princesses. He loved to look at her, but he felt out of it, and after the meal he was sent off to show his niece the dogs and the gardens while Claire and Philippe had a private conversation with Marie-Christine. When he returned, a sleepy Isabelle in his arms, they had arranged everything; the wedding, a visit to that château Philippe was planning to buy, and accommodation for his mother in Claire’s house at Versailles when she went to consult Dr Kamekian in Paris. Their collective happiness was overpowering, and feeling miserable, he excused himself from an evening of intolerable cheerfulness by claiming he had urgent work to do.

That night Claire revelled in a new sense of freedom with Philippe. He really was hers now; no need for any more lies. She was in a fair way to being in love with everything connected with the name Rochemort – except Yves. At first he’d been so friendly, then she’d felt an impenetrable wall of ice around him.

‘Philippe, is something wrong with your brother? Or maybe it’s me. I just feel that he doesn’t want me here.’

He stirred in the bed, pulling her close in his arms and kissing her. ‘Of course he does! But the poor guy’s got a broken heart, and seeing us planning a wedding probably didn’t help.’

‘Really?’ She raised herself in his arms, interested.

‘He was engaged to Yolande Marchand, and she jilted him. I don’t know if he’ll ever get over it.’

‘Yolande Marchand! The model?’

‘The very same. We’ve known her from the cradle. Her family home is just the other side of St Xavier. Yves adores her. He always did.’

It was too intriguing a tale not to be told, and it rather suited their romantic surroundings. Claire was sympathetic, and resolved to be extra attentive to Yves the following day. She thought he was like a chivalrous lovelorn knight from medieval days. He would look just right in one of those suits of armour with a lady’s favour on his arm. The fairytale atmosphere was becoming infectious.

Chapter Seventeen

‘Toinette, what’s this party for?’ demanded Corinne, sitting by her dressing-table at the Avenue Foch. ‘You’ve been in a mysterious mood all week.’

Toinette leaned against the door of Corinne’s room, smiling. The rest of the apartment was alive with activity, Francoise to-ing and fro-ing with temporary catering staff to the dining room.

‘To celebrate my divorce.’

‘You’re joking!’

‘It sounds unbelievable after all this time, doesn’t it? I had no idea one could be divorced so quickly. But I saw my husband a fortnight ago, and he’d already got proceedings well under way. We’ve been separated for so long that I ought to be free very soon.’

Corinne was stunned. Toinette had tried to divorce her husband years before, but had met with so many threats and outrageous demands that she’d abandoned the idea. What a difference it would have made to her father. He had always wanted to marry Toinette.