They followed the doctor and Luc steeled himself for the worst as he asked, ‘I-Is she going to be all right?’
‘Don’t worry, my friend. She is made of strong stuff. This generation won’t go down without a fight.’ He led Luc along the corridor, their shoes squeaking on the shiny surface of the floor. Around them staff in blue scrubs, their name badges swinging on lanyards, worked with efficient calm, wheeling machines, conversing in even tones and bringing a sense of the everyday. For them this was all part of the job. It soothed his antsy nerves, as did Hattie’s steady presence beside him. Marthe was in good hands and so was he.
They stopped outside a small bay with curtains drawn and the doctor pulled back the patterned fabric. Marthe lay on a bed in a hospital gown, stickers on her chest and a clip on her finger linked to a monitor.
‘Here she is. You can stay for a minute but then she needs rest. We’ll probably keep her in for a day or so to run a few tests to double-check everything is as it should be.’
Relief coursed like a hot flood through him. ‘So she’s okay?’
‘Don’t talk about me as if I’m not here,’ Marthe’s querulous voice reprimanded him. It immediately reminded him of being a young boy again.
‘Nothing serious. A panic attack, which always looks alarming and for the patient it often feels like a heart attack or they’re dying. But –’ he gave Marthe a reproving look ‘– you’re going to be fine. Outlive all of us.’
‘Don’t talk nonsense,’ said Marthe, sharp as ever. Her beady eyes alighted on Hattie, and she gave a nod of approval.
‘You’ll be transferred up to a ward for the night. A porter will be along soon.’
The doctor sensibly beat a dignified retreat.
‘Nice to see you, Hattie. You did a beautiful job in the orchard. Everyone was very impressed. And that English girl, she can cook.’
‘Thank you,’ said Hattie. ‘How—’
‘How are you feeling?’ asked Luc, steering Hattie to the plastic chair beside the bed and putting the champagne on the bedside table, while he perched on the edge.
Worry made him gentle, treating her with unusual care, even though he knew she wouldn’t appreciate it.
‘Foolish,’ snapped Marthe. ‘Fainting in front of all those people, spoiling Yvette and Bertrand’s big day. And it’s all your fault.’
Hattie shot him an amused look.
Luc rolled his eyes. ‘You are feeling better.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with me. You heard the doctor. A silly panic attack. Even though he looks about twelve he does appear to talk some sense.
Luc didn’t say anything. He couldn’t. The overwhelming relief didn’t leave room for much else and he knew Marthe wouldn’t thank him for weeping all over her.
Hattie’s reassuring smile made him feel better, especially when she leaned forward and took his hand again. Two together was so much better than one.
‘Why couldn’t you leave well alone?’ She glared at him. ‘Now you’ve gone and raked up history that was best buried. Although I suppose at my age they won’t put me in prison. It’s not going to do much for the family name.’ She narrowed her eyes for a second, a glint of satisfaction shining. ‘It’s really going to piss your father off.’
Luc stared at her trying to make sense of what she was saying.
‘So you knew about the fourth cellar?’
She nodded, her face pale. ‘Of course I knew.’ She turned to Hattie. ‘I suppose you’d better hear this too. Find out what you’re taking on.’ She turned back to Luc. ‘Who do you think supervised building the doorway to the damn thing and had the shelves erected?’ She scrutinised his face, a question in her eyes. He had a feeling she was screwing up her courage.
After a lengthy pause, she finally asked, ‘Did you find anything else?’ Her quiet, penitent voice was at odds with her previous sharpness.
‘No, just champagne.’
Her face collapsed, wrinkle upon wrinkle, like an accordion. ‘Nothing? No one?’
‘No one?’
She pressed her lips together and winced, her shrewd eyes suddenly determined. ‘A body?’
Hattie let out a little gasp, her eyes widening as she and Luc shared surprised expressions.
