‘Lavigne?’ the woman smiled. ‘Yes, I remember the family. They grew roses, just outside the village.’
‘Did you ever meet the daughter? Evelina?’ Blake asked.
‘They had three daughters, and one of them came home to keep growing the roses. She made perfume from them.’
Blake’s breath caught and she glanced at Henri, who raised his eyebrows in reply. She was closer than she’d ever been to discovering the truth about Evelina.
‘Did you ever meet her?’ Blake asked. ‘Or her sisters?’
‘I knew them to say hello, but not well. All I know is that she was gone for many, many years, and then suddenly, after her parents had both passed away, she came home.’
‘When you say home,’ Henri asked, ‘you are meaning home to Provins, or that she returned to a specific house?’
‘To the rose gardens,’ the woman said with a sigh, as if Henri wasn’t listening properly. ‘The family owned the rose gardens, the ones that were donated to the village. It’s why half the people come here, to see them. You don’t know about the roses?’
Blake couldn’t believe it; they had come to the right town, and they’d managed to discover another piece of Evelina’s past.
‘These rose gardens, we can visit them?’ Blake asked. ‘They’re open to the public?’
She nodded. ‘Everyone can visit the gardens.’
‘Thank you,’ Blake said. ‘Thank you so much.’
‘Merci!’ Henri called, as they turned to go and sit at a nearby empty table.
Their coffees arrived soon after they were seated, and Blake blinked back at Henri, hardly able to believe their luck. But she realised that she needed to do more than just write about what had transpired—she needed photos, as well.
‘Would you ask her one more thing?’ Blake said to Henri. ‘I would love a photo with her, showing where we are.’
‘Of course,’ He stood and went straight over to the woman, and Blake watched as he asked her, smiling and touching her shoulder as she nodded. He had clearly flirted his way into receiving a yes, but she didn’t care how he’d got her permission, so long as he had it.
Blake gave him her phone and stood beside the woman, grinning as he took the photo.
‘Merci, merci,’ she said, as the old woman just laughed and walked away, as if she found it all highly amusing.
‘Drink that coffee fast, Blake,’ Henri said once they were sitting again. ‘We have rose gardens to visit.’
‘We certainly do.’
‘And then we have a room to explore,’ he said. ‘Although I wish we’d been able to stay in a hotel rather than a B&B.’
Blake laughed at him and drank her coffee, so pleased he’d decided to come with her. She would have visited Provins on her own, but exploring with Henri was so much more interesting. She couldn’t bear the thought of continuing this journey without him, especially after the wonderful night they’d shared.
Less than forty minutes later, Blake and Henri were standing at the entrance to the rose gardens. There was a small stall out front selling bouquets, but they walked straight past, pausing only to collect the map to work out where to go from there.
There was a house that had clearly been restored, which she imagined Evelina might have lived in growing up, but it was the hectares of grounds that were truly eye-catching. Something fluttered inside of her as she looked around at the endless stretches of roses—from pergolas and statues covered in the climbing flowers to the large beds of uniform colours—and wondered if her great-grandmother might have stood there one day and looked out at the roses, just as she was now.
‘We need to find someone to ask,’ Henri said. ‘I mean, surely there are tour guides or something?’
She trailed after him, trying to take it all in, when she spotted a plaque beneath a beautiful white rose.
‘Henri,’ she said, grabbing his hand and yanking him back. ‘Can you read this for me?’
He dropped to his haunches and brushed his hand across the plaque to remove a sprinkling of dirt that was covering the brass. She crouched down, too, and stared at the words.
Pour ma fille.
‘For my daughter,’ Henri said. ‘It says, for my daughter.’
