Keys to the Castle (12 page)

“Rich American women,” Sara said dully, staring at him. He should have denied it, but he didn't. And she saw in his eyes that, if he could have, he would have. She felt that fist in her stomach again.

“I made an assumption,” he said simply. “I should not have done so. But whatever I may have implied has nothing to do with Daniel's motives toward you. I shouldn't wish you to think—”

She said shortly, “Your assumption was wrong.” Repressed emotion made her voice tight and her skin hot. She could feel her teeth grinding together between utterances. “I'm not a rich American. I live in my sister's basement. The only resources I have are what's left of my settlement package from Martin and Indlebright and a retirement plan that's lost half its value over the past two years and that I can't touch for another ten years anyway. Maybe that was enough to make me attractive to Daniel but it's not enough to finance the restoration of a four-hundred-year-old castle, and I don't need you to tell me that.”

By now her eyes were blazing and her voice was a cold reflection of the ice that was slowly seeping through her body—her fingertips, her toes, her lips. She closed her fists, digging her nails into her palms, simply so that she felt something. “What I do need you to tell me,” she said, struggling to keep her teeth from chattering, “is exactly how much in U.S. dollars it would cost me to claim my so-called inheritance. That's all.”

In a moment he replied stiffly, “You would owe the French government approximately forty-seven thousand dollars at property transfer. There would be an additional habitation tax payable at the end of the year, should you choose to reside here.”

“Thank you.” The pain that radiated from the cut of her nails on her palms was like the burn of dry ice, darting up her arms. “I believe you said Mr. Winkle had prepared a report with the details of my options on the property.”

“Of course.” He lifted his arm as though to usher her back to the house. “I'll be happy to go over that with you.”

“Mr. Lindeman,” she said coldly, stepping away from the potential of his touch. “I have a master's degree in business. I do not need you to go over anything with me. Just have one of your staff”—she practically bit out the word—“bring me the report. I'm sure you have phone calls to return.”

He looked at her for a long moment, expressionless. And then he gave her a polite, distant nod of his head. “I'll drop the papers by your room,” he said.

Sara did not see Ash the remainder of the morning. When she returned to her room, she found her bed made, her worn nightshirt whisked away, the champagne and fruit from the night before removed, and the flowers freshened. And an important-looking blue folder with the words Lindeman and Lindeman inscribed in gold was centered on the Louis Quatorze table that was arranged before the fireplace. Sara took it downstairs to the terrace.

She tried to concentrate on the estimable Mr. Winkle's work. She went upstairs twice, once for sunglasses and once for a calculator from her purse. A smiling woman in a gray uniform brought her a tall, chilled glass of something that tasted like citrus and sunshine. She read the report without comprehending a word. Her mind drifted over and over the past year of her life with Daniel, and she felt like a commuter who, having traveled the same route to work for years, suddenly finds the landscape has been altered. It was familiar, but strange. She knew the road, but the terrain was different. She thought she would feel better if she could cry, but she was too wrung out inside for tears.

She made herself concentrate on the report. Appraisals, inventories, investment scenarios. She ran the figures: taxes, maintenance, transfer costs. By the time she was finished she hated Daniel, and Château Rondelais, and the entire family Orsay as far back as they were documented. And she loved them all with an equal ferocity. This magnificent place, brought to ruin through carelessness and neglect. Her own sad, lonely life, brought to ruin by a foolish middle-aged fantasy. Now,
that
was something to cry about. But she couldn't.

I have no more tears left for you, Daniel
, she thought wearily, leaning her head back and closing her eyes.
I think it's really over.

Ash came onto the terrace in the early afternoon. She saw his shadow, out of the corner of her half-closed eyes, before she saw him. He said, “You should get a sun hat. You're getting burned.”

Sara glanced at the pinkening skin on her arms, and felt the flush on her face for the first time. “The sun feels nice,” she said, and it was the best she could do by way of an apology for the way she had treated him earlier. “It's been a long winter.”

He extended his hand to her. “Come along, then,” he said briskly. “We're going on a picnic.”

She turned her head slowly to look at him from behind her dark glasses, but she did not get up, and she did not take his hand. “Why?”

“Because,” he replied, “you are much too beautiful to look so sad, and I'm much too charming to dine alone.”

He coaxed her with a gentle smile. “You don't have to talk to me,” he said. “You don't even have to eat anything. But you do have to stop sitting all alone, thinking about the past. I really can't bear any more.” He turned his gaze toward the house behind them. “My window overlooks the terrace.”

She thought about him, standing at his window and watching her throughout the morning. She put her hand in his and let him pull her to her feet.

He took her in a rowboat on the moat with a wicker basket between them. The sky was reflected a brilliant blue in the water and the sun glinted off his hair like gold. She could see the muscles of his shoulders and chest work beneath his shirt as he maneuvered the oars, edging the boat out of its mooring. Had she been wearing a filmy white dress with a ribboned hat instead of jeans that were almost a size too big for her, it would have been the picture of a perfect romantic fantasy—until Ash, having positioned the boat in the direction he wished it to go, politely handed her an oar. “It's just like paddling a canoe, my dear,” he said.

That made her laugh, which she suspected he had intended, and after a few false starts they developed an easy rhythm, dipping their oars in and out, gliding the boat across the water. They saw swans, and sailed beneath the shimmering fronds of a weeping willow that dipped its branches into the water. “Walt Disney couldn't have done better,” Sara murmured, and Ash smiled his agreement.

They brought the boat to rest in a stand of rushes where the bank sloped gently upward to a small knoll. She could see the château in the background, not so far away, but partially obscured by a stand of trees. It was very quiet here, and cool.

Ash tied off the boat and she handed the picnic basket to him, and he helped her onto dry ground. He didn't release her hand until they had climbed a few steps up the slope; she wasn't sure why.

“I wanted you to see this place,” he said. “It's the ruins of the old chapel. There was fire at the turn of the century, and since then the stones have started to tumble whenever there's a strong wind. But it's almost more interesting this way. And the view is magnificent.”

They crested the hill just before her breath started to become labored from the climb, and she saw the four stone columns that marked the corners of the building, the walls—three with gaping holes, and one that had collapsed altogether—that soared toward the sky. The roof they had once supported was gone, and fallen stones littered the ground. There was something magnificent about coming upon this place, so stoic despite its collapse, all alone on the knoll. Once again, she started to think in terms of centuries, instead of months. She thought that might have been why Ash had brought her here.

She picked her way around the rubble to enter the building. Where the back wall had been there was now an open view of wide valleys and a small village below. She could see chimneys, rooftops, and colorful storefronts. Far in the distance, too far to be called neighbors, really, was the façade of another château, its gleaming white shape barely visible on the hillside.

A large stone slab, possibly a door lintel, or perhaps even an altar, had fallen in such a way as to form a bench between the collapsed back wall and another boulder-sized stone. Ash placed the basket on it and stood close behind her. “There's something else I wanted you to see,” he said.

She turned and he was taking his mobile phone from his pocket. She found the anachronism particularly exasperating in this ancient, once-holy place, and she said, “Oh for heaven's sake, can't you—”

“It's an e-mail from Daniel,” he said. “It took me a while to find it.” The phone gave a muted beep and a blue light emanated from the screen. He turned it toward her.

Sara wanted to refuse. The very mention of Daniel's name had made her throat go tight again. She wanted to turn away, to walk away. Instead she reached helplessly for the mobile, and read what was on the screen there.

She read it three times, and with each reading, she felt a little bit of her hurt, and confusion, seep away. Finally, she pushed a button and watched the screen go blank. She returned the phone to Ash. “Thank you,” she said.

“He loved you, Sara,” he said, quietly.

“I know he did, in his way.” She looked at him. “And I loved him. In my way.” But it was only make-believe. She knew that now more clearly than she had before. She turned back to the view of the village, and stood there, lost in her thoughts, until Ash came back to her and placed a glass of wine in her hand. She had not heard him unpack the picnic basket, or open the bottle, and she accepted the glass with a little surprise. He sat on the half-fallen wall near her, his forearm resting on an upraised knee, and sipped his own wine, gazing out over the valley in silent contentment. She liked that he didn't speak. It was good to simply be there, and listen to the quiet, and not feel any demands from his companionship.

She was the one who broke the silence at last, turning to look at him. “You said you didn't come here often. To Rondelais, I mean. But you know it so well, it's almost as though you grew up here, instead of Daniel.”

He lifted a shoulder in a small shrug. “I did, in a way. Daniel, a French boy in an English school, didn't have so many friends growing up, and it was my job to sort of look after him. By way of repayment, I suppose, his parents always insisted he bring me home with him for holidays, and I can't say I objected. It's a fascinating place for young boys to roam, and for older boys . . .” He smiled a little into his wine. “To meet the most interesting sort of society. Daniel's parents were not always on premises, you see, and, well . . .” He gave another shrug and let her imagine, from the twinkle in his eyes, the rest.

“Boys will be boys?” she suggested.

“Ah,” he said, his eyes still dancing with mischievous memories, “I see you know us well.”

She was curious. “What do you mean, it was your job to look after Daniel?”

He took a sip of wine, and some of the mirth left his expression. “The Orsays were clients of my father's, and of my grandfather's. It's one of those traditions, handed down through the ages, a bit of cultivated helplessness on the part of the French aristocracy, a rather heavy reliance on their sturdy British solicitors. I inherited Daniel. I was part of the tradition.”

“That sounds a little cynical.”

“Don't misunderstand,” Ash said. “I was fond of Daniel. If I was his best friend, he was also mine for most of our youth. But our relationship was . . .” He seemed to search for the word. “Complicated.”

He frowned then, and reached into his pocket for his phone. “Dreadfully sorry,” he murmured, glancing at the screen. “It's my office. Do you mind?”

Without waiting for a reply, he walked away, and Sara, trying not to show her annoyance, turned back to the view and deliberately blocked out the sound of his voice.

“At any rate,” he said, returning to her casually when he had finished his phone call, and resuming the conversation as though it had never been interrupted, “I have grown to think of the old place as something of a second home after all these years. Something to do with my enjoyment of history, I should suppose. It fascinates me to think of all the centuries these stones have seen, the deaths, the births, the bloodshed, the intrigue. Did you know, for example, that by one account Robespierre actually blessed a marriage in this very chapel? Completely unsubstantiated, unfortunately, but there's very good evidence for it having actually happened.”

Sara turned to look at him as he resumed his seat on the bench, but her fascination turned to irritation when she saw that, as he spoke, he was also tapping out a text message on his phone. She waited until he was finished to inquire, “Do you mind if I ask you something?”

He pocketed the phone and looked up at her. “Not at all.”

“What are you so afraid of?”

He looked surprised, as well he might. “Why, offhand, I can't think of a thing.” He picked up his glass and added thoughtfully, “Unless, of course, you want to include the obvious. My mother springs to mind. And my secretary, Mrs. Harrison, can be quite fearsome at times. Why do you ask?”