The Lavender Garden (52 page)

“Yes.” Emilie’s thoughts moved back to when she’d first met Sebastian. And the random books on fruit trees that she’d noticed standing proud in the library after the suspected burglary. He’d been searching from the start.

“Anyway”—she shook her head, aghast at Sebastian’s duplicity and her own naïveté—“the good news is, as far as we know, he’s failed to find it. I’ll look for it when the library is back in place and finished after the renovations. And at least I know the truth, at last. Now I must move on.”

“Emilie, you’re a seriously amazing woman,” Alex said with genuine admiration.

“No.” Emilie gave a sigh that turned into a yawn. “I’m nothing of the sort. Just a pragmatist at heart, swept away by false love. I took the leap to trust for the first time in my life and it went wrong. Besides . . . there are things about me that Sebastian doesn’t know.”

Alex watched her silently as Emilie decided whether to continue.

“For example,” she said, when she finally spoke, “I didn’t tell him before we married that we couldn’t have children. Or, at least,
I
couldn’t.”

“Right,” Alex replied calmly. “Did Seb ever ask you whether you could?”

“No. But that doesn’t mean to say that I shouldn’t have told him, morally, does it? I knew I should tell him, but revisiting the time when it happened . . .” Emilie struggled to explain. “I couldn’t go there.”

“I see. Then do you mind me asking how you know this? Listen, if it’s too painful to recount, please don’t worry.”

Emilie poured herself another brandy to give her courage, knowing she
had
to let it out. “When I was thirteen,” she began, feeling her heart rate increasing at the thought of speaking the words, “I became very sick. My father was at the château and I was at home in Paris with my mother. She was very busy socializing, and one of our maids told her how ill I seemed, and that she should call the doctor. She took a quick look at me in bed, pressed her hand to my forehead, and said she was sure I would be fine in the morning. Then she left for a dinner. Anyway”—Emilie took a further sip of her brandy—“within the next few days I deteriorated. Finally, my mother did send for a doctor, an old friend of hers, who diagnosed food poisoning. He gave me some tablets and left. A day after that, I was unconscious. My mother was elsewhere, so it was the maid who called an ambulance to take me to the hospital. I was diagnosed with pelvic inflammatory disease. To be fair, it was very rare for someone of my age to contract it, so I’m not surprised the doctor didn’t pick it up. Sadly, it’s easy to cure in the early stages of the illness, but fatally damaging to the area beyond a certain point. Subsequently”—Emilie sighed—“I was told I was never able to have children.”

“Oh, Em, how awful for you.” Alex looked at her with sympathy in his eyes.

“Alex”—Emilie stared at him, shocked at her sudden honesty—“you’re the first person I have ever told this to. I’ve never been able to speak the words out loud. I—” Her shoulders began to shake and she put her head into her hands and started to sob.

“Em, Emilie . . . Oh, sweetheart . . . I’m so, so sorry.”

An arm came around her on the sofa and pulled her to him. She settled into the warmth of Alex’s chest and continued to cry. He said nothing, just stroked her hair gently as the sobs turned to hiccups and her nose streamed.

“Whatever was wrong with me, how could my mother have ignored how ill I was? Why didn’t she
see
!”

“Em, I don’t know, I really don’t. I’m so sorry.”

A hanky was pressed silently into her hands.

“I’m sorry,” she snuffled, “this isn’t like me.”

“Of course it’s
like
you,” he said softly. “The pain is part of you, and it’s okay to talk about it, it really is. It helps to let it out, honestly it does.”

“When I was younger and I was told I wouldn’t have babies, I tried to think it wouldn’t matter much. But it does, Alex!” she cried. “It matters more as every year passes and I realize that the one thing I believe we’re put on this earth for, that makes us humans have a point, I cannot fulfill!”

“Are you absolutely sure it’s the case?” he asked gently.

“If you’re asking me if the miracles that occur these days with infertile women are possible for me, then the answer is categorically no,” she said firmly. “I can’t produce eggs, nor do I have a womb that’s healthy enough to carry another woman’s eggs.”

“You could always adopt.”

“Yes, I could.” Emilie blew her nose. “You’re right.”

“I only mention it as it’s something that’s crossed my mind. As it happens, I’m infertile too. I won’t go into detail,” Alex added with a half smile, “but although the ‘equipment’ works perfectly well, due to the accident the shots won’t fire. I would have loved kids too. Honestly”—he gave an ironic chuckle—“we’re a pair, aren’t we?”

“Yes.” Emilie lay in his arms silently, feeling so comforted she didn’t want to move. She sat up and turned to him. “Before I go, which isn’t long now, I want to apologize for ever doubting you. You’re the best and bravest person I’ve ever met.”

“Please, my dearest Em. I think that’s the brandy talking. I’m nothing of the sort.”

“Yes, you are.” She looked up at him suddenly. “The only thing I’ll be sorry to leave behind in England is you.”

“Goodness! Stop it. You’ll have me blushing.” Alex smiled down at her and stroked her cheek. “Well, if we’re paying each other compliments, and as we’re unlikely to see each other again, I want to tell you that if life had been different, well . . .” He gave a long sigh. “I’ll miss you, Em. I really will. Now, you’d better be off; it’s almost three in the morning. Don’t forget the book, and please let me know if you come across volume one. I’ll write down my e-mail address for you. I’d like to keep in touch.”

“What will you say to Sebastian?” Emilie asked, now concerned for Alex.

“If he mentions the book—
my
book—has gone missing, it will only be the story he’s told me for the past two years.” Alex shrugged and grinned. “What can he say? His own lie has become the truth. The book
has
disappeared.”

“But what if he thinks you’ve taken it? And makes your life even more difficult?”

“Oh, Em, please don’t worry about me. You have enough to think about at the moment. I can look after myself, promise.” Alex smiled at her. “Now, off you go.”

She stood up and took the book, the file, and the printed pages from the table. “I can never thank you enough, Alex. Please take care.” She bent down to kiss him on both cheeks. On a whim, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and hugged him tightly.
“Bonsoir, mon ami.”

“Adieu, mon amour,”
Alex whispered as he watched her leave.

W
hen she entered her bedroom, Emilie did not bother trying to sleep; she’d only be on edge expecting Sebastian to arrive at any minute. So, calling a taxi as the dawn rose, she threw what she could into a suitcase then sat on the end of the bed, debating whether to leave her husband a note. Deciding against it, she instead wrote one to Alex, included her e-mail address, and slipped it under his door.

As the taxi bore Emilie away from the house for the last time, her one regret and concern was for Alex; Sebastian would likely take his anger out yet again on his brother. But what could she do?

Later that morning, as the plane slipped smoothly up into the sky, carrying her away from the terrible mistake she had made, Emilie closed her eyes and blanked out her mind. When she arrived in Nice, she checked into a hotel near the airport, sank onto the bed, and slept.

She awoke as dusk was falling, feeling dreadful—weak, shaky, and with a thumping headache from too much brandy the night before. She ordered a hamburger from room service, realizing she hadn’t eaten since the croissant yesterday morning. Forcing the food down, Emilie lay back down on the bed, pondering that she was currently homeless. Her apartment in Paris was rented out until the end of June, and the château, undergoing renovation, was not an option.

Emilie decided she’d stay where she was for the night, then head down to Gassin in the morning. She was sure Jean wouldn’t mind putting her up for another few days until she thought about where to go next. Perhaps she could rent a gîte nearby—at least then she’d be on-site to oversee the renovations.

Emilie stopped herself. It was too soon to think about future plans.

She wondered if Sebastian had arrived back in Yorkshire yet. She knew she must grit her teeth and make contact with Gerard as soon as possible and ask him for the name of a good divorce lawyer. At least
she’d not been married long enough to begin to change any documentation, and the two of them had shared nothing official between them. Emilie thought of the beautiful diamond Sebastian had bought Bella, just after she’d given him a check for £20,000, and the Porsche she’d never even seen, and felt physically sick.

She wished she could share Alex’s calm and accepting attitude toward his brother, but as he’d said once, it was good to get angry, it helped you heal. And at least while she felt angry there was no hurt, although she realized that might come later. She was surprised she currently felt so little; after all, the passion she’d felt for Sebastian at the start of their relationship had been overwhelming. It had bowled her over. But perhaps it had never really been “love,” in the way that Constance had described to Sophia long ago in Paris. At least, not the enduring kind that was quieter, yet steadfast, and took you through the trials of life together.

Sebastian had arrived with the mistral and swept her away. But had she ever been confident enough to truly be herself with him? She realized now that she’d spent the vast majority of the past year on edge, trying to do everything to please him, her gratefulness for his presence in her life overwhelming what was right. At so many moments she should have confronted him, been stronger, but Sebastian had held all the cards from the start. They’d always done as
he
wished, and she had followed, ready to bend, equivocate, and believe anything he’d told her.

No, Emilie thought, that wasn’t love.

Switching on the television to dull the silence of the room, Emilie wondered if it had been the brandy that had made her tell Alex what her mother had done—or not done—when she was younger.

It felt surreal now; all those years of burying the result of her mother’s lack of interest and care. She had allowed the inner bitterness to grow and, like bindweed, strangle her good thoughts, her heart, and her trust in other people. Yet, in the past few weeks, Alex had shown her there was no point in hating or looking back. The only person who suffered was yourself.

Dear Alex . . . how wise and kind he was. Emilie remembered the feeling of being in his arms as she’d wept. She’d felt comforted and comfortable. And why had she been able to tell
him
, when she’d never been able to say the words to her husband?

But, Emilie reprimanded herself before she went further, the English episode had closed. She must try to forgive, forget, and move on.

•  •  •

“Emilie! Long time no see.” Jean smiled up at her sympathetically when she walked into the
cave
.

“I just couldn’t keep away,” she replied with irony in her voice, then noticed that another pair of bright eyes was gazing at her from the bench where Jacques usually sat. “Hello, Anton.” She smiled at the boy. “You’re helping out here, are you? Earning some extra centimes to buy books?”

“Anton is staying with us for the next few days, while his maman is in the hospital.”

“Margaux? I didn’t know she was sick. Is she all right?” Emilie frowned.

“Yes, we’re sure she’ll be fine.” Jean shot her a warning glance. “But, in the meantime, I’m teaching Anton all about wine. Papa’s sitting in the garden. Why don’t you go out and see him? I’ll join you in a while.”

Jacques was looking far less weary than he’d seemed two days ago. He smiled and reached out his gnarled hand to her. “I thought you might be back quite soon. I won’t ask why, Emilie, but I will always listen.”

“Thank you, Jacques.” She sat down at the small table next to him. “Tell me, what’s wrong with Margaux?”

Jacques looked nervous. “Is the boy still in the
cave
with Jean?”

“Yes.”

“Then, Emilie, the truth is, she’s very ill. It was only last week she complained of a pain in her stomach and back, although she has almost certainly known she was unwell for much longer. She went to the doctor on the day you left and he sent her straight to the hospital. The boy doesn’t know, but they’ve discovered she has ovarian cancer and it’s very advanced. They operate today, but”—Jacques shrugged—“the prognosis is not good.”

“No, Jacques!” Emilie cried in despair. “Not Margaux! She was like a mother to me when I came down here after my father died.”

“Yes, she’s a very good woman, and we must not give up hope yet.”

“I’ll go and see her in the hospital in the next few days,” Emilie promised.

“Margaux would like that. So, what about you, Emilie?” Jacques eyed her. “What are your plans?”

“Right at this moment, I have no idea.” Emilie shook her head sadly.

•  •  •

In the next few days, Emilie slept, ate, went to see how the château was progressing, and drove Anton to Nice to see his mother. The operation had not been a success and Margaux was very ill. As Emilie left Anton at her bedside, her heart went out to mother and child—both trying so hard to be brave for each other.

After Anton had gone to bed—he was sleeping temporarily on a mattress in the tiny downstairs study—the three of them talked of what would happen to Anton if his mother did not recover.

“His father is dead, so what about other relatives?” asked Jean.

“I think there’s an aunt in Grasse,” said Jacques. “Perhaps we should contact her.”

“Yes,” said Jean gravely, “but I’m the boy’s godfather. Perhaps we should think of offering him a home here with us?”

“We could, temporarily, but a young boy needs a woman,” said Jacques. “It’s a house full of men here.”

“Well, Anton is almost thirteen and I am sure he will have thoughts of his own,” replied Jean.