Page 2 of The French Wife

On the walls were oak shelves and cupboards, gathering dust, some with curtained fronts, the material moth-eaten and frayed.

It would be a shame to rip out these old cupboards. She ran a finger along the dusty surfaces, then opened a cupboard door and clapped her hand over her mouth when there was another scrabble of claws. The cupboard was filled with droppings. Emma shuddered. I hope they’re not rats…

She went back into the hall and ventured up the creaking wooden staircase. She had seen round the house before, of course, but that was with the estate agent, who’d ushered her through briskly, pointing out the advantages of every room and every feature as they went. It felt different now she was the owner and was alone there. She could take her time, examine the place at her leisure, enjoy the novelty that this beautiful old house and all the surrounding vineyards and farmland was actually hers.

She wandered around each of the four, square bedrooms. The two at the back of the house were the largest, and Emma had already chosen the one with a view over the overgrown vineyards for herself. From the floorplans the agent had prepared, she’d worked out it was big enough to put an en-suite bathroom in one of the corners.

She went to the window, put her hands on the sill and leaned out, drinking in the view of the rocky valley. Rows of neglected vines grew rampant in overgrown fields beside a wide, slow-flowing river, which wound through the valley towards St Marie-des-Champs, the little town nearby, nestled between rocky, forested hills on either side. How different this was from the view from the flat in London she’d rented for a few months until the financial settlement from her divorce came through. That had been a scene of constant movement: traffic crawling along a busy street, shops and cafés lining the pavement on the opposite side, people coming and going at all times of the day and night. She used to enjoy sitting in the window, people-watching. Here, there were no people, but in a strange way Emma knew she would find the view of the wild, craggy hills and the silent, ever-flowing river just as absorbing.

The two front bedrooms looked out over the courtyard. She crossed the creaking floorboards and stood at the door of the smallest one. The pale-blue wallpaper, with its motif of cupids and bows, was hanging down in ribbons; a damp patch on the ceiling showed that the roof had been leaking.

This must have once been a nursery.

As soon as she had that thought a lump rose in her throat. The pain of her own loss returned, almost overpowering her with the force of it. She felt heat in her eyes as the tears threatened.

Eliza would have loved this.

She took a deep breath and stopped the thought in its tracks, pushing the tears away. She’d promised herself she wouldn’t do this, that she needed to be strong. The loss of her beautiful three-year-old daughter from meningitis, although over two years before, sometimes felt as raw to Emma as it had on that fateful day when her world had fallen apart.

Perhaps, after all, it was too soon to have made such a promise to herself.

She went downstairs and out to the car to unpack. She’d brought a camp bed and a sleeping bag, as the removal men with her furniture and belongings wouldn’t be there until the next morning. The sunlight was fading as she dragged her bags indoors.

She put the camp stove, the kettle, milk and teabags, and some pastries she’d bought at her last stop in the kitchen. Luckily, she’d brought a tin for the food, to deter any rodents. Then she took her bedding and her suitcase up to the bedroom. She could have spent the night in a hotel or B & B, but it was high summer, and all the local places were full of holidaymakers. Besides, now she was there, she didn’t want to leave.

She returned to the car and took the urn containing her daughter’s ashes out from where it was stowed in the boot, and carried it into the house, where she placed it on the dresser in the kitchen. She’d never been parted from the urn throughout those terrible months, even taking it with her on her recent solo road trip around France. It had given her comfort. It had made her feel as if Eliza was with her, with her irresistible smile and infectious laugh, exploring the countryside as Emma drove ever further south, searching for someplace where she could finally stop running.

It was on that trip she’d stumbled upon this beautiful, neglected old farmstead, and had known instantly she would finally be able to rest there. It would be the new start she’d been looking for since Eliza’s tragic death.

‘I think we’re going to love it here, my darling girl,’ she said aloud, her words echoing in the empty room.

It was ten-thirty by the time she was ready to turn in for the night. She touched a kiss to the urn as she always did, and was just about to go upstairs when she realised she hadn’t locked the car. Although it felt safe here, buried in the depths of the countryside, habit told her she wouldn’t rest if she didn’t secure it.

She went outside into the warm night air, where cigales trilled from the bushes behind the barns, and owls hooted in the surrounding woods. She pointed the key towards the car and clicked the remote control, hearing the clunk and whirr of the lock. As she turned to go back inside, she happened to glance through the gateway. To her surprise, a dark figure crossed the drive beyond the gateposts, hurrying, head down, and moved towards the woods. Emma stared into the darkness, wondering if she’d imagined it, her heart racing.

‘Hey!’ she called, striding after the stranger. And, when there was no answer, ‘Hello? Can I help you?’ She hurried through the gates and the scrubby track towards the trees, stumbling and tripping on clumps of grass, swearing under her breath.

When she reached the edge of the trees she stopped and listened. Apart from the whirr of the insects and the occasional call of an owl, the whole valley was blanketed in silence. Whoever it was had disappeared into the forest and wasn’t coming back.

Perhaps it was perfectly innocent, someone taking a shortcut from a nearby farm to St Marie-des-Champs over the fields? She had no way of knowing. She turned and walked back to the house, her heartbeat slowing gradually. But as she went inside, she locked and bolted the door firmly, then she went around closing all the shutters she’d so gladly thrown open a few hours beforehand. And as she went upstairs and undressed beside the camp bed in her new bedroom, a chill went through her despite the clammy night. She had the uneasy feeling she wasn’t going to sleep well, despite her exhaustion.

TWO

When Emma blinked awake early the next morning, for a few seconds she had no idea where she was. The room was dark, apart from a few shafts of intense sunlight filtering through the gaps between the shutters. Propping herself up on her elbows, she stared around, perturbed, expecting to hear the rumble of buses and the blaring of horns and sirens from the London rush hour in full swing outside her window. Instead, all she could hear was the twittering of so many birds. And then she remembered.

Her spirits rising, she got out of bed and rushed to the window to push back the shutters, putting her hands on the sill and leaning out as she had the previous evening. It was then she recalled the strange figure from the night before, hurrying into the woods, head down. A shudder went through her, but it didn’t last long; everything felt different this morning. It was such a beautiful day.

It was only seven o’clock, and the river valley beneath the farm was filled with a soft, rolling mist that was already being burnt off by the heat of the sun. Emma drank in the beauty, taking deep breaths of the clear, warm air that held so much promise. She checked her watch; the removal men were due at eight o’clock and she needed to get dressed.

Somehow, there was running water in the antiquated bathroom along the passage, and it spluttered out of the coppery tap. Although Emma let it run for several minutes, it retained an unhealthy brown tinge and was freezing cold, but it was better than nothing. After a quick wash, she pulled on yesterday’s jeans and T-shirt, then went down to the kitchen to brew tea on the little gas stove and eat the remaining pain aux raisin from the day before.

The removal men arrived just after eight. She heard the rumble of the lorry bumping down the track and went out to show them where to park. It was a delicate operation easing the lorry gently between the gateposts, with much shouting and swearing, while Emma directed them with hand signals. She was surprised how pleased she was to see the two Londoners, Andy and Burt, and hear about their journey and the places they’d stayed en route. It was the first proper conversation she’d had with anyone since she’d left London herself, and it brought home to her once again how alone she was.

She brought the men tea and biscuits at regular intervals while they carried in her boxes and the few pieces of furniture, and put them down where she directed. Most of the furniture was from her rented flat in Islington, but some was from her former home in Hampstead. The men had taken the lorry up to the house after they’d left her flat, and Jack – her ex-husband – had supervised the loading of a few precious items they’d agreed she could take: a couple of paintings, a chaise longue, a pair of armchairs and a few other small pieces with sentimental value. She resisted the urge to ask how Jack had been towards the men. She suspected he might have been rather short and grumpy.

It took the men less than two hours to finish emptying the lorry, and in a short while the place was looking a little more like home, although the drawing room was now full of boxes.

‘Well, we’d best be off then,’ Andy said when they were done, wiping the dust from his hands. ‘We’re booked into a motel just south of Paris tonight. And that’s an eight-hour drive from here.’