“I'll think about it,” was the best she could come up.
“No!” Vilette scolded, then smiled again. “Do not think! Just do!” Those sharp eyes narrowed.
“But I think you are not here to bring me chocolate pastry. You have questions, like the other one who came here.”
Questions, that had to wait until the pastries had been set out on thin china plates with cups of steaming black coffee, and Celine Gerard had left them alone once more.
“You are like her,” Vilette commented, taking a bite of pastry. “The other one—with all your questions. She was also a friend?”
Kris nodded. “We worked together.”
Vilette nodded. “There was an accident. My daughter-in-law spoke of it.” She shook her head.
“So very sad. I liked your friend very much, a strong woman. There was so much more to talk about.”
The fire hissed faintly at the hearth. James placed more wood on it as rain washed the garden room windows. It was like a cocoon, the cold, watery world outside, the warm glow of the fire inside.
“You were interviewed for a magazine article several years ago,” Kris began with what Diana Jodion had told them, hoping she would remember. “When restoration work was done at the abbey at Mont St. Michel.”
Vilette nodded. “There are many stories.” She gave her a look. “Some people do not believe them.” She smiled faintly. “The wanderings of the mind of a foolish old woman, eh?”
She made a gesture, a thin index finger laid alongside her nose. “But I know what is true. What do you want to know?”
Kris took out the photograph Cate had sent her and handed it to her.
“Tell me about the tapestry.”
Vilette studied the photograph for a long time, a faint smile on her lips.
“To tell you about the tapestry I must tell you what I told your friend about my ancestor, Isabel Raveneau, as my grandmother told it to me, and her grandmother told it to her.
“Historians always think that something must be written—written proof for it to be true. But long before stories were written down, they were handed down from one generation to the next—stories that perhaps hold more truth.”
She settled back into her chair and smoothed the lap robe about her.
Whom was Kris seeing now? A descendant of Isabel Raveneau, or the actress playing some part in a story of her own imagination?
“She was called Isa by her father, the Duke of Montfort, a very wealthy and powerful man,” she began.
“There were two daughters. Isa was the oldest, strong-willed, independent with a mind of her own, unusual for a young girl of that time. She was his favorite and perhaps much like the son he had always hoped for.
“She was well educated by private tutors,” she continued. “And the Duke took her with him on his travels, for he had many estates and holdings in both Normandy and Britain. But to tell you about her, I must also tell you about him.” She looked over at James.
“There is cognac in the cabinet,” she angled her head toward a fine old wood cabinet across the room.
“James.” She repeated his name with a look that lingered on him.
“Chocolate and cognac. You must pour it. My hands shake and I would not want to spill it.”
He opened the cabinet and found the decanter, along with a half-dozen small tumblers. His expression was doubtful at the wisdom of the cognac, a dark brow angling up.
Vilette laughed. “You are like him, and the same name—James,” she said with a knowing look.
“Always looking out for others—the protector, guardian, young James of Montfort.”
“You said there were no sons,” Kris reminded her.
“No true sons, but a bastard born to a father who could not acknowledge him, and a debt paid with the favor by another, the Duke of Montfort, who took him in spite of his bastard birth. And from the moment the Duke brought young James into the family, their lives were all changed.” Vilette motioned to James to pour the cognac.
