Page 56 of The French Wife

‘Oh, she loved lavender. She used to grow it in the garden and would hang it up to dry and use it to scent our clothes. The smell reminds me so much of her… But did you find anything out from Bruno’s grave?’

‘Not much,’ she replied. ‘The inscription says he died a hero of the Resistance.’

Gaston shrugged and finished another mouthful of cassoulet. ‘That’s nothing new, though. We already knew the Resistance were active at the farm.’

‘I know. But I didn’t realise Bruno was a hero too. The other strange thing is, Amélie’s grave isn’t there.’

Gaston paused and looked at her, his fork halfway to his mouth. He put it down on the plate. ‘Now that is strange,’ he said, resting his gaze on her face. ‘I wonder why that is.’

‘She was very unpopular in the village, apparently,’ Emma told him. ‘I might be able to find out something more about her from Madame Vernay. I’m going to see her on Monday.’

‘Madame Vernay?’ Gaston said, his cheeks dimpling in a smile. ‘I remember her from my childhood. A wonderful old lady. When she ran the boulangerie, she would always give us schoolkids something extra if we looked hungry and didn’t have enough money. Such a kind woman. Do give her my regards, although I doubt she will remember me.’

‘I will, of course,’ Emma said. There was another pause and she realised Gaston was watching her, waiting expectantly.

‘You were going to tell me about Eliza,’ he prompted.

‘Yes, I was…’ She took a deep breath. ‘Well, I told you about how she died the other day, but I think it’s much more important to tell you about how she lived, what she was like.’

‘Of course. I agree. I’d love to hear about her.’

So, as they sipped their wine and finished their cassoulet, she told him about Eliza’s zest for life, about her love of animals and her fearless nature; how she would fling herself into water, climb up any tree or take on any challenge – the highest bars on the climbing frame, the tallest slide in the playground.

‘She was so full of life!’ Emma said with a fond smile. ‘I remember when she was only about two she would sing so loud in the bath. I can hear her voice now, singing “The Wheels on the Bus”. We had the window open because it was summer and, later, the neighbour said they could hear her from their garden!’

Gaston laughed, and Emma did too. Then she carried on telling him anecdote after anecdote. She hadn’t talked about any of this since Eliza’s death. All her daughter’s exuberance and energy had been overshadowed by her untimely passing. When Emma had finished, she realised her eyes were wet with tears – bittersweet tears prompted by the flood of memories she had unleashed.

Gaston had listened attentively, laughing and shaking his head at the stories. When she’d finally stopped talking, he said, ‘She sounds like a true force of nature.’

‘Oh, she was. She was definitely that.’ She smiled, remembering. ‘And what about your daughter?’ she asked after a pause. ‘Is she like that?’

He shook his head. ‘Not at all. Just the opposite in fact. She is rather shy and timid and terribly sensitive. Such a quiet little thing. I’m sure it has a lot to do with Sophie’s death. It’s been very hard for her, but she was always a shy little girl, even before her mother died.’

‘I would love to meet her,’ Sophie said, taking another sip of wine.

There was a short silence.

‘Would you? Would you really?’ Gaston asked. ‘You don’t think…?’ He left the sentence hanging.

‘No. It wouldn’t make me feel sad. Not at all. I realised today, when I walked past the families playing in the river, Eliza would have loved it there. I could just see her splashing in the water. I realised I’ve started to cherish her memory rather than being crushed by it. I’ve moved past that now.’

She put her glass down and realised Gaston was looking straight at her, his eyes serious. She returned his look and something shifted between them.

‘I’ve been meaning to ask you,’ he said, ‘what happened with your husband?’

She’d barely mentioned Jack to Gaston before, but suddenly she felt ready to do that too.

‘Why don’t we eat dessert and I’ll tell you about it?’ she replied.

So over strawberries and cream and the second bottle of wine, Emma bared her soul for the second time that evening. She told him all about Jack and their relationship, how they’d both had high-powered careers, little time for each other or ultimately for Eliza, and how it had all unravelled after Eliza’s death. How they’d argued about everything.

‘We could argue about what time he came home from work, what to eat for dinner, anything and everything. But at least when we were arguing there was some passion between us. Gradually, though, we each withdrew into our separate shells and became strangers to each other. I realised he would never be able to support me through my grief. He just wanted to move on, to brush it aside. So, eventually, we both agreed it was best to separate.’

‘I’m so sorry, Emma, that’s such a sad story.’

‘But maybe for the best in the end,’ she said. ‘If it hadn’t happened, I would never have bought this place.’

‘Or met me…’ he said.