The Garden Of Dreams. Sara Craven
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They ate some excellent home-made paté, followed by a fricassée of chicken and mushrooms and toasted the success of the new book in vin ordinaire.
‘Bless you both,’ Maggie smiled at them. ‘I think we really ought to drink a toast to your brother, Paul—to Monsieur le Comte de Gue, who has kindly given us the freedom of his home.’
They drank, but Lissa was disturbed to see Paul’s geniality give way to a sudden scowl, while he only perfunctorily raised his glass to his lips. Was it his brother, she wondered, who had made him get rid of the low-slung Italian sports car which had been his pride and joy, and replace it with the ‘more useful’ estate?
‘There’s obviously been trouble of some kind,’ she decided ruefully to herself. ‘I just hope it’s all blown over by the time we get there.’
Maggie was easygoing herself and needed a congenial atmosphere to work in. It would be disastrous as well as embarrassing if their stay at the Château was to be punctuated by family rows.
They drove on steadily towards St Denis, through rolling wooded country, the car windows down, revelling in the mellow warmth of the day.
‘We will be there before tea,’ Paul told them. ‘Oh, yes, we keep up the English custom, although Madame Grand’mère no longer lives with us. She prefers the climate at Antibes.’
‘Your grandmother is English?’ Lissa asked.
‘Absolument.’ He threw her a quick smile. ‘It is a family tradition for de Gues to marry English wives. A tradition I hope to follow,’ he added in a much lower voice.
So much, Lissa thought, for all his promises to treat her simply as Maggie’s secretary, nothing more nor less, for the duration of her stay. She was aware that Maggie was smiling indulgently and tried to present a façade of indifference.
Maggie dozed for a while as the car sped on and Lissa felt herself getting drowsy after the excellent meal, but she fought her sleepiness away when Paul told her that St Denis was only two kilometres away.
‘We go down now into the valley,’ he explained. ‘One can hardly see the Château from the village because of the trees, but I will stop at the bridge where there is a view.’
St Denis was a delightful village, with narrow streets, and tall houses, their stonework washed in pastel colours. There was a small market in the town square, which was ringed by plane trees, and Paul’s car was instantly recognised and became the focus for good-natured attention. Paul drove slowly, keeping a careful eye on the throng of people, children and animals, and giving smiling waves to the many greetings that came his way.
‘Now I know how royalty feels,’ Lissa said as the car threaded its way out of the square and through another narrow street. They turned a corner and the river was before them—a placid rather shallow affair spanned by a sturdy stone bridge. Paul parked a little way from it, and helped Lissa from the car.
‘Allons-y,’ he commanded, and led her on to the bridge. Before her the road curved upwards into a dark mass of trees. Lissa followed his pointing finger and caught a glimpse of grey towers rearing above the massed trunks. She was filled with a strange breathless excitement. It was like all the fairy tales she had ever known—with the castle crouching almost unseen among the clustering trees—a place where one might find the Sleeping Beauty, or even Bluebeard, who had been the Frenchman Gilles de Rais, Lissa recalled with some amusement.
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