“Hardly famous. Almost no one remembers him now.”
It was very easy to talk about it with Gabriel. He was a good listener and had an easy warm manner that somehow encouraged her.
“I looked him up. Pierre Louÿs wrote slightly risqué, slightly anti-Catholic, slightly lesbian verse.”
“Slightly lesbian?” Gabriel laughed. “Was he actually a woman pretending to be a man, like George Elliot and George Sand?”
“Oh no, he was definitely a man. Quite handsome with a tremendously romantic handlebar moustache. Even more romantically, he was a Chevalier de la Légion d'honneur.”
“No wonder your mother had a crush on him.”
They talked as they cycled. This was one of her favourite routes usually, especially in spring when leaves and blossoms turned the orchard into a cloud of green, white, and pink. Now, as they came to the end of the leafless apple trees and back onto the lane, she’d finished her recitation of facts about Pierre Louÿs. “That’s all I know.”
No sound came from behind her.
She turned to check in case she’d put him to sleep and made him fall off his bike. But no, there he was pedalling calmly behind her on the grass verge, looking thoughtful.
“More information than you ever needed to know about some obscure French poet.
He gave her a speculative look. “I’m guessing you know a lot about him because people keep asking you why you’re named Pierre.”
Either he was clairvoyant, or she was very transparent.
Nine
When they found Hedge, he seemed to have already heard of Gabriel and welcomed him with an unfriendly grunt closer to a snarl than a hello.
“How are you, Hedge,” Pierre greeted him. “This is…” She paused wondering if she should introduce him as Emmet or Gabriel. But Hedge spoke before she could.
“You’re that fella with that Nicole Barber.”
Pierre’s heart fell. There was no mistaking the hostility in the old man’s voice. What had he heard about Nicole? Whatever it was, Hedge was clearly not in the mood to talk to them about any festivals.
“What can I do you for?” Hedge addressed himself to Pierre alone.
“Can I have a jar of your honey on the comb, please.”
Wordlessly, he reached behind him and picked a jar off the shelf. Normally he went into a long explanation about the provenance of each type. Not today.
She tried to draw him out. “Is this heather or gorse?”
He didn’t answer, just wrapped the jar in pages of old newspaper and handed it to her. The only sign of his usual friendliness was a casual wave when she reached for her wallet to pay him. “No charge.” Then he shuffled off into the back of his shop and ignored them.
She exchanged a look with Gabriel and, shrugging, stuffed the honey into her bag. “See you around, Hedge,” she called as they walked out of the shop.
Gabriel followed her silently. She didn’t know what to say. Part of her felt bad for him; he’d come with her because she’d made the excursion sound important and fun, not to be forced to hear a virtual stranger be rude about his girlfriend.
They walked through the small cobblestone alleys until they came to the village square. Eileen from the dairy shop was outside arranging a display of cheeses on the table outside her window. She waved to them cheerfully.
Glad of the friendly welcome, Pierre headed that way.
“I’ve some more of that Stilton you like. I just sent some to the Hall.” Eileen smiled warmly as she fished a handkerchief from her apron pocket to wipe her hand before extending it to Gabriel. “Sorry about the cheesy smell.”
“Hello.” He shook the woman’s hand. “It smells delicious.”
Was it Pierre’s imagination or did he sound a little wary, less like his open, effusive self?
“I wanted to find out about the festival. I thought someone told me there was going to be something soon.”
