Remember. Barbara Taylor Bradford

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СКАЧАТЬ occasional tables were scattered around, and two tall pottery lamps with cream shades stood on antique chests on either side of the chimney. A table under the window held all the latest magazines from around the world, copies of Life and Paris Match being much in evidence, as well as Time and Newsweek.

      ‘Now we shall go upstairs?’ Amelia had said to her, swinging around and guiding her back to the front hall. Nicky had dutifully followed her up a white stone staircase, broad and curved, which stopped on a square landing.

      On either side of this were the library and the main living room. Both were painted white, had soaring fireplaces, pale wood floors and flat woven rugs from Morocco.

      The living room was decorated with French country furniture in the Provençal style, and the sofas and chairs were upholstered in cream, café-au-lait and caramel-coloured fabrics. Again, masses of flowers introduced vivid colour everywhere, and Nicky had an instant impression of air and light and spaciousness, and the most marvellous sense of tranquillity.

      Across the landing, the library was lined with books and furnished with two overstuffed sofas covered in melon-coloured cotton. Clee had created an audio-visual centre in one corner, using the most up-to-date equipment: a large-screen television, video player, tape deck, compact disc player. Stereo speakers were positioned high on the bookshelves.

      ‘This is Monsieur Clee’s room, he likes it the best, I think,’ Amelia had informed her, nodding her head. She had then pointed her finger at the ceiling, and announced, ‘One more flight, Mademoiselle. Allons!’

      The two of them had gone out onto the large landing and climbed up a narrower flight of white stone steps to the bedroom floor.

      Nicky had discovered that she had her own suite under the eaves: a bathroom, a bedroom and a sitting room. The latter were quaint, and charmingly decorated, again with lots of white, cream and caramel. Several good wooden pieces were set against the walls of the sitting room and an antique armoire and a chest graced the bedroom; with only a cursory glance, she had noticed that a great deal of care had been taken, and every comfort had been provided.

      ‘I will bring up your cases,’ Amelia had said, after showing her around, opening the armoire doors, sliding out drawers in the chest. ‘And please, Mademoiselle Nicky, you must tell me if there is anything else you need. Monsieur Clee will be angry if I do not look after you properly.’

      ‘Thank you very much, Amelia,’ Nicky had answered, smiling. ‘I’m sure I have everything. And thank you for the grand tour.’

      ‘Ah, it is a pleasure, Mademoiselle,’ Amelia had answered with a smile, before disappearing down the stairs.

      This conversation had taken place only four days ago, but already Nicky was beginning to feel rested. The farmhouse and the surrounding grounds had had a soothing effect on her, and she was more tranquil than she had been for a long time. She had slept better than she usually did, and had relaxed completely in this peaceful environment.

      Her days were slow, lazy, without pressure, and she had done nothing more complicated than walk around the grounds and the woods close by, and swum in the pool. The fresh air and exercise, and Amelia’s delicious cooking had done her good; in the evenings she had read, listened to music or watched French television in the library, although mostly she had found herself tuning into CNN, being such a news addict.

      According to Guillaume, Clee had recently installed cable to pick up the American news network. ‘For his work, you know, Mademoiselle,’ Guillaume had found it necessary to add, and she had turned away to hide the small, amused smile that had touched her lips.

      Nicky shifted slightly on the chaise, reached for the citron pressé, took a long swallow, enjoying the tart taste of the lemonade.

      It was the last week of June and already hot, although not yet unbearable. Amelia had told her only this morning that July and August were the worst of the summer months in this part of Provence. Blistering was the word she had used. Then Amelia had suddenly launched into a little histoire about the Mistral, the dry north wind that could blow so furiously even in the summer, bringing with it havoc. It came whistling down to the south from the Rhône Valley, and it was often the first real warning of mean weather brewing. Amelia, like most Provencaux, blamed a variety of problems and ailments on the Mistral.

      ‘Animals can go mad. And people,’ she had confided somewhat dolorously as she had poured Nicky a second cup of café-au-lait. ‘It causes migraine. And la grippe. And toothache. And earache. And sometimes in winter it can blow for as long as three weeks. It destroys property! Uproots trees and flings tiles off the roofs! Quel vent!’ And then with a typical Gallic shrug she had hurried off to the kitchen to refill the coffee pot and warm up more milk for Nicky.

      Just as Clee had suggested she would, Nicky had fallen in love with Amelia. The housekeeper was small, stocky, and obviously a very strong woman physically, undeniably Mediterranean with blue-black hair pulled back in a bun, eyes like black olives and a nutbrown complexion. Forever laughing and smiling, and always in a high good humour, she went through the farmhouse doing her vast number of chores like a whirlwind. Or the Mistral perhaps. She cleaned and polished, washed and ironed, baked bread and cakes and tarts, prepared the most wonderful meals, and arranged the beautiful vases of flowers and the decorative baskets of fruit that were all around the house.

      Like Amelia, Guillaume was a typical Provencal. He was as brown as a berry with a weatherbeaten face from being outdoors, jet-black hair spreckled with grey, and kindly, humorous brown eyes. Medium in height, and very muscular, he tackled every job with the same vigour and enthusiasm as his wife.

      He swept the yard, the outdoor dining terrace and the barbecue patio, cleaned the pool, kept the garden and the orchard spruce, and attended to the little vineyard. This stretched out behind the farmhouse, and covered about four or five acres. Guillaume did the spraying, the cropping and the pruning, and he and Amelia, with some local hired help, picked the grapes, kegged the wine and bottled it.

      ‘Some of it is sold. Some we keep for ourselves. And for Monsieur Clee, naturellement,’ he had explained to her when he had taken her around the property yesterday, pointing out many of its distinctive features.

      Amelia and Guillaume had a son, Francois, who was studying at the Sorbonne in Paris, of whom they were very proud; Nicky had already heard rave notices about him from his doting mother. Their two daughters, Paulette and Marie, were married and lived in the village, and were frequently pressed into service at the farm whenever Clee had more than one guest.

      When Clee had called from Moscow, on the night of her arrival, he had described Amelia and Guillaume as the salt of the earth. Now she knew exactly what he meant. They were devoted to him, took care of the farmhouse and the land as if they themselves were the owners. The house they lived in adjoined the main farmhouse and was entered through a door opening off the kitchen. It was built of the same local stone, pale beige in colour and weathered by the years, and had an identical red-tiled roof, heavy wooden shutters and doors painted gleaming white.

      Both houses were visible to her from the pool area where she was sitting, and it seemed to her that they appeared to grow up out of the earth, as if they were part of the land itself. And in a sense, they were. The farm and its out-buildings were a hundred and fifty years old, so Guillaume had told her, and they did look as if they had been there forever.

      Everything about the farm fascinated Nicky; she was beginning to realize how much she enjoyed being in the country, close to the land. It was easy to see why Clee loved the farm, although he was not able to come here as often as he would like. During the two years she had known him, he had talked about this place occasionally, and she understood why his voice changed slightly whenever СКАЧАТЬ