Celebration. Rosie Thomas
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blondness of his head as he put his hands on Bell’s arms and kissed her quickly on each cheek. The brush of his skin reminded Bell of the night before and she caught her breath.
‘And this is from me,’ he told her.
It was a smaller package, this one wrapped in white tissue paper. Bell held it for a second in her fingers, unable to think of anything but the closeness of Charles himself.
‘Go on, open it,’ prompted Juliette. ‘I want to see what it is, too.’
Charles’s present to her was a narrow ivory bangle, intricately carved with wreaths of vine leaves and bunches of grapes. Bell turned it to and fro under his gaze, marvelling at the delicacy of the workmanship.
‘Phew,’ said Juliette. ‘Clever you, Chariot.’
Bell slipped the little creamy circle on to her wrist and stretched her arm out to admire it. At last she looked up at Charles.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘It’s exquisite. Whenever I wear it I will think of you.’
‘That was definitely the intention.’
How sexy, thought Bell, is the combination of those formal manners with the set of his mouth and the look in his eyes.
He made her feel like a girl again, a little in awe of him, fascinated, bewildered and entranced.
Later, he had said, ‘May I take you into Bordeaux for lunch? There is a restaurant I think you will like, and it will give us a chance to talk.’ Bell had nodded, not knowing whether to feel excited or apprehensive. Her own thoughts were in an impossible whirl, and she found it was beyond her to gauge what Charles was thinking.
Charles had driven her into Bordeaux in the grey Mercedes, leaving the streams of Citroëns and Renaults almost standing behind them. He looked relaxed at the wheel, evidently enjoying the speed, and Bell was content to sit in silence, watching the vineyards flashing past. They drove into the middle of the handsome city and Charles eased his car into a space in the broad Alleés de Tourny. He took her arm and guided her through the traffic, then led her down a narrow side street lined with tall, blank-faced houses.
Bell had been to Bordeaux often before, but this time she looked at it through new eyes. It was where Charles belonged, amongst the elegant eighteenth-century architecture and the calm, discreet prosperity.
A few more steps brought them to a nondescript green-painted door. Charles opened it for her and they walked into a little square hallway where a grey-haired woman in a black dress sat at a desk.
‘Ah, Baron Charles, bonjour,’ she said at once, adding ‘et madame’ as her eyes travelled over Bell. Charles bent to kiss the woman’s hand.
‘Madame Lestoq,’ he murmured and Bell could not help turning to stare in surprise. Charles acknowledged her look with a flicker of one eyelid, almost a wink, as they followed Madame into the dining-room.
There were only ten tables, all but one of them occupied, and they were separated by what looked like yards of carpet. Bell said nothing until they were sitting facing one another across the starched white cloth and glistening silver of a corner table.
‘So this is Chez Lestoq.’
‘Of course. Where else, on your birthday?’
Bell knew that the food in this tiny restaurant was legendary, almost as legendary as the difficulty of securing a table. She suddenly remembered that Charles had only heard about her birthday a matter of hours ago. He must wield impressive influence to arrange for her to sit so casually in the best corner of the room.
‘Well,’ she said, laughing, ‘I don’t think I shall be able to match the splendour of all this with much brilliant conversation. I want to concentrate on every miraculous mouthful.’
‘I will make do with just looking at you.’
Bell had wanted to read the menu syllable by syllable, but Charles waved it away and ordered, quickly and decisively, for both of them. Bell opened her mouth to protest, and then thought better of it.
The food, when it came, was perfect, of course. But afterwards, when she came to try and recall what she had eaten, the memory of the meal was just an exotic blur. She remembered the facts of truffle soup under a fragile golden pastry dome, their shared lobster in its veil of piquant sauce, pink lamb redolent of tarragon and a perfect concoction of summer fruits in a silver dish. Yet all she could really recall was the pleasure of being with Charles.
As they ate he told her about his childhood, and Juliette’s, at Château Reynard. He described the old baron, a fierce and stubborn disciplinarian with the roll of the seasons from vintage to vintage in his blood.
When he died he had entrusted Reynard to Charles, and his son had accepted the charge proudly. To Charles, that meant keeping the property as his father had left it.
Bell asked gently whether for the good of the château Charles might not adopt some of the new, labour-saving technology. She meant that perhaps his father’s wishes could be more liberally interpreted.
The blue eyes snapped with sudden anger and his mouth tightened into a hard line.
‘Never. We have made some of the greatest wines in the world in exactly the same way for hundreds of years. Why should I imagine that I have the right to change everything, for the sake of a few extra bottles or a few more francs?’
Bell looked down at her plate. Charles de Gillesmont was not the kind of man who would suffer an argument about his heritage.
Then, seeing her discomfort, he reached out and put his hand over hers.
‘You are such a child of the twentieth century, Bell. You have so much … freedom, to be the kind of person you want. But can’t you understand how it is for me?’
Bell nodded. Yes, in a way she could, and she could sympathize. Yet – beyond that – with Charles’s deep-rooted certainty and her own needle-sharp newness, what a team they could make against the rest of the world.
‘I do understand,’ was all she said.
Charles lifted her hand, turned it over and kissed the palm in a gesture as openly sexy as if he had reached across the table to unbutton her dress.
‘You do understand,’ he breathed. Around the room the eyes of the other diners returned discreetly to their plates.
Afterwards, outside the unmarked green door, they turned without speaking and strolled towards the Quai des Chartrous.
The watery, dockside tang of sea air penetrated the pall of exhaust fumes, and food smells from the clustering restaurants, beckoning them on.
Beside the oily, grey-blue water they fell into step, still in silence.
When Bell glanced at him she saw that Charles was frowning. When the sensuality of his mouth and the humanity in his eyes were masked, he looked as cold and aristocratic as the profile on an ancient coin.
At length he turned to look at her.
‘I seem always to be asking you to understand things, Bell. I know you can, and will. That’s why I feel myself drawn to you, as I haven’t to anyone else … for years and years.’
Bell was watching him, waiting. He took a deep breath.
‘Do you understand what it means, being a Catholic?’
So that was it. She had known it all along, really.
Yet Bell listened in silence as Charles talked about his faith, knowing that he was offering her a rare confidence.
As a child, he told her, Catholicism had seemed the simplest, most natural thing in the world. As much a part of life as eating and drinking. God had been safely in his heaven, watching and knowing and forgiving of the little, innocent childhood sins. The faith had seemed to Charles, as a small boy, like a magic talisman with its comforting, opaque rituals.
It was only with adulthood