‘By the way.’ He paused in the doorway. ‘I think I could show you how to have fun.’
Luc drove down the lane from the château in his open-topped vintage Alpine sports car, the breeze raking his hair, and passed Hattie leisurely pedalling along. Guilt made an unwelcome bid for his attention. While he was tucking into bread and cheese with the others last night, he hadn’t so much as given poor Hattie a second thought or even wondered what she might do for food. He should have remembered that there was unlikely to be much in the cupboards because Solange still wasn’t up to speed and she hadn’t been expecting either of them. Given she must have been starving, Hattie had taken it with surprisingly good grace. He couldn’t imagine Celeste, his ex, putting up with treatment like that. She’d have raised merry hell and certainly wouldn’t have been happy to go off on a bicycle to do her own shopping.
Hattie looked as if she were thoroughly enjoying herself, her head bobbing about taking in the view. Despite himself he smiled at the picture she made and the memory of her appalling French. He put his hand up and waved as he passed and watched her in his rear-view mirror.
He was still smiling to himself when he pulled up outside the residential home on the outskirts of Hautvillers. Pushing thoughts of the Englishwoman aside, he tucked the bottle of brandy in his inside pocket and strode through the doors to reception. The nurse at the front desk had been there several years and immediately recognised him and waved him through.
‘She’s on the terrace,’ she said, pointing through the restaurant area to the wide balcony that overlooked the valley. Overgrown with vines that needed a good trim, it provided a lovely shady spot in the afternoon. He half-laughed to himself; he was surprised that his great-aunt hadn’t taken to pruning them herself.
Marthe’s tall, spare frame was tucked into her wheelchair with a big blue blanket which brought out the blue of her still bird-bright eyes.
‘About time too. Did you bring my brandy?’ she asked.
‘I did. How are you?’
‘I’m the same as I was the last time you were here. Old, irritated and bored.’
‘You once told me only boring people got bored.’
Her mouth wrinkled in displeasure. ‘I’ve changed my mind and at my age I’m allowed to. I’m surrounded by boring people and now you’re here.’ She huffed out an exasperated sigh.
‘I’ll endeavour to be more interesting,’ said Luc slapping a hand over his chest as if wounded by her words.
‘You can try,’ said Marthe and then her face relaxed into a mischievous grin. ‘It’s good to see you. How are you? And how is that hopeless mother of yours? And your father.’ She shook her head in familiar disapproval.
‘The same,’ said Luc, catching her eye, his mouth turning down. Only with Marthe could he be honest about his feelings. She’d known him since he was seven, the first time they’d dumped him on her, a spoilt, indulged yet neglected young boy.
Marthe leaned forward with her good arm and patted him on the knee. ‘Good job you’ve got me then, isn’t it?’
‘It is,’ he agreed solemnly but they both knew she was speaking the truth. Since he’d been to stay with her all those years ago, she’d been the constant in his life. The person he could rely on to be there. His parents, easily bored, never liked to stay put anywhere too long. Before he was seven it had been much easier to leave him with au pairs but he’d lost count of the number of times he’d woken up to find they’d left without any notice. It was only later he realised they’d been dismissed by his mother because his father had paid them too much attention.
‘You said you had news. Please tell me you’re not marrying one of those Parisienne girls.’
‘I have no plans to get married.’ His parents’ example of marriage was enough to put anyone off. He wanted someone he could rely on who wouldn’t want to go flying off at short notice or disappear overnight.
‘I didn’t say I didn’t want you to get married, just that I wanted you to find a nice girl, perhaps from around here. You know Yvette is getting married. Thank goodness.’
‘Yes and I’m pleased for her.’ And rather relieved.
‘You would never have suited, despite what she thought. Bernard is a good man, placid. He’ll put up with her volcano of a temperament.’
‘God help him.’
‘He’ll need more than divine intervention. So what is this news of yours? Is this another one of your flying visits?’ she asked tartly.
Luc smiled as he looked at her, knowing her sharp words hid her feelings. She’d become a surrogate mother to him – not that she’d ever admit to tenderness for him.
‘Actually, no. I’m staying for a while.’ He’d wanted to tell her in person. ‘I have finally persuaded my father to let me take over the château and produce wine.’
He was pleased to see her mouth drop open and then her eyes light up, a slight sheen of tears in them. ‘Oh my boy. A Brémont back at the château making St Martin champagne.’ This was a rare show of emotion, which was quickly staunched when she asked, ‘You will be making champagne, won’t you?’ Although Luc knew it wasn’t so much a question as a command.
‘But of course,’ he said, smiling at her.
‘Hmph,’ she sniffed. ‘That is very good news.’ She paused before adding. ‘I hope you’re not going to get all modern and innovative and reinvent all the old ways.’
‘Not all of them,’ he said equably. ‘But I’d like to try some new things.’ He knew Marthe, while a stickler for quality, was not one to follow tradition for tradition’s sake. ‘But I’d like to discuss my ideas with you and Alphonse.’
Her mouth tightened. ‘What sort of ideas? There’s too much throwing out of systems and processes that have worked perfectly well for hundreds of years. This area has been making the best wine in the world for decades. There is no need to change things.’
