Page 55 of The French Wife

She felt the colour rise to her cheeks. ‘Thank you, you do too,’ she said quickly.

They both laughed a little nervously.

‘Are you ready for this?’ he asked. Earlier, he’d brought the wine bottles up from the cellar and had opened a couple to allow them to breathe.

‘I’m not sure,’ she said. ‘I hope they’re safe to drink.’

‘If they have corked or taste bad, we can just spit it out.’

Emma checked the pot was simmering in the oven then went over to the table, which she’d set for two. Gaston brought the wine bottles from the counter and poured out a small amount into two glasses.

They sat down opposite each other and looked at the wine in the glasses. It was a brick-red, almost-brown colour.

‘Here goes,’ Gaston said, and raised his glass. ‘Chin-chin.’

‘To Le Châtaignier,’ Emma said.

Then, having sniffed the aroma of the wine, they both took a sip.

Emma let the wine linger in her mouth while she savoured the taste. It was earthy, far mellower than she expected. Feeling brave, she swallowed it down.

‘It’s actually quite good,’ she said, surprised.

‘It is,’ Gaston agreed. ‘Far better than I was expecting.’

‘Shall we taste the other one?’ she asked. ‘Then decide which to have with our food?’

‘Good idea. Now I’ve opened them both, we’ll have to finish them. This one is from 1942.’

He poured the second wine and once again, they both held the glasses under their noses to sample the aroma before taking a sip. This one was fruitier than the first, fuller bodied, but still with that silky-smooth taste.

‘That’s also very good,’ she said. ‘Bruno Garnier must have been excellent at making wine for it to have lasted this long. Why don’t we have that one with our dessert?’ she suggested.

‘Sounds good to me,’ Gaston said.

Emma brought the cassoulet to the table and dished it out onto the plates, along with new potatoes and haricots verts.

‘This looks fabulous, Emma. I’ve had hunger pangs all afternoon, smelling it cooking on the stove.’

‘I’ve never made this recipe before,’ Emma told him, ‘so I hope it’s turned out OK.’

Gaston poured the wine and they started to eat. After a few mouthfuls, he looked up appreciatively. ‘This tastes as fantastic as it looks.’

‘I’m glad you think so,’ Emma said, taking a sip of wine. She was relieved he thought the dish had turned out well. She’d spent so long cooking and tasting it that she couldn’t judge it critically anymore.

They ate in silence for a few minutes, then Gaston said, ‘I’m glad I told you about Sophie the other day. I often find it difficult to talk about it. But not to you. In fact, it’s the first time I really talked about it properly. I’m glad you told me about Eliza, too.’

‘I didn’t tell you much about her really,’ Emma said. ‘I wasn’t ready to talk then.’

‘Are you now?’

She thought for a moment then nodded. She closed her eyes and an image of her daughter’s face came to her: she was smiling. ‘Yes, I’m ready. But first I need to tell you something else.’ She took another sip of wine then went on. ‘I went to see Bruno Garnier’s grave today and when I was going past, I put a small bouquet on Sophie’s grave – I hope you don’t mind.’

She looked into his eyes anxiously, but he smiled and she relaxed.

‘Of course I don’t mind. It was a lovely gesture. I go there as much as I can and put fresh flowers in the bowl every week. Sophie adored flowers. What sort did you leave?’

‘A little bouquet of lavender.’