To Provence, with Love. T Williams A

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СКАЧАТЬ he had reminded her of Didier. Maybe this man wasn’t a lying, deceitful cheat, but she had no intention of finding out. Shaking her head, she returned to her car and set off in the direction of the chateau of St-Jean-sur-Sarde.

      ***

      The chateau certainly was quite a place. Faye drew up in front of an imposing pair of wrought-iron gates and climbed out to press the bell set in one of the gate pillars. There was no name, just a button. A few seconds later, a yellow light on top of the post began to flash and the gates started to open inwards with a mechanical hum. She jumped back into the car and squeezed carefully through the gates, continuing up a sweeping gravel drive, lined with colourful oleander bushes in full flower – the red, pink, and white contributing to make a striking display. Beyond them was a lush green lawn that wouldn’t have looked out of place in the gardens of Buckingham Palace. Evidently the chateau had its own irrigation system.

      She drew up at the foot of a fine stone stairway leading up to the front door and sat in the car for a moment, composing herself and admiring the view. From here she could see right down as far as the limestone cliffs of the hills beyond. Just down the slope from her was the village, a collection of red-tiled roofs clustered around the old church, its square tower pierced with Roman arches.

      The heat of the sun had made the air hazy, but she felt pretty sure the dusty line on the horizon might be the mighty Maritime Alps. Although it hardly seemed believable on a day like today, the proximity of the mountains would probably mean cold winters and she wondered, for a moment, whether she would be here to experience that. All round the village the fields were filled with bright green vines and ripening corn, with serried rows of wonderful purple lavender bringing flashes of colour from time to time.

      Turning back towards the chateau, she saw that this was even more impressive. It occupied the top of a small hillock and had probably started life more as a fortified castle than a manor house, its powerful stone walls rising up several storeys to a tiled roof. It had no doubt been built at a time when the owner had needed his home to provide protection from his enemies as well as shelter from the elements. It wasn’t absolutely enormous, like some castles Faye had seen, but it was very beautiful.

      Over the centuries, window openings had been pierced in the walls and a fine entranceway built, opening out onto the terrace. This terrace extended along the front of the building, punctuated by green and yellow splashes of colour provided by lemon trees in ancient terracotta pots, and a mass of red and pink roses climbing the rugged walls. It was simply stunning.

      Of course, Faye thought to herself, that was no surprise. She had been expecting something pretty imposing, after all. The owner of the house, the lady she was here to meet for the first time, was none other than Anabelle Beech, and she was genuine Hollywood royalty. No longer contemporary royalty, but definitely one of the all-time greats. Her name conjured up memories of iconic films of the post-war era, where she had appeared alongside such movie colossi as Humphrey Bogart, Gary Cooper, and James Stewart. Often compared to Grace Kelly as one of the most beautiful women in the world, there was no doubt she would have more than enough small change to buy even a fabulous place like this.

      Faye glanced down at the rather short skirt she had chosen, beginning to regret not having dressed up a bit more formally for her first appearance before the great lady. Well, she told herself, it’s too late now.

      As she opened the car door, she heard a cacophony of barking and came close to closing the door again and locking it. It sounded as if the Hound of the Baskervilles himself was in there, straining to get out. Cautiously, she made her way up the steps until she was level with the half-glazed front door that was visibly shaking. By this time, Faye was also close to shaking. The door, set into a carved stone surround, was made of sculpted oak and, thankfully, it looked solid, even though the upper half was made up of little square red, white, and blue stained-glass panels. Staring at her through the base of one of these, was the source of the noise.

      A shiny black nose and an intimidating set of gleaming white teeth were very much in evidence, as were a pair of bright eyes that studied her approach. Then, as she and the dog made eye contact, the barking suddenly stopped, leaving Faye’s ears ringing. The dog dropped back to the floor, and in place of the barking, she heard low whines emanating from inside.

      At that moment, the door was opened by a slim, grey-haired man in jeans and a crisp white T-shirt, his other hand firmly gripping the dog’s collar.

      ‘Good morning. You must be Faye. We’ve been looking forward to meeting you.’

      He spoke in English, with a soft American accent, and he might have been seventy or so. He shot a glance down at the dog, who was wagging his tail so hard, the whole back half of his body was wiggling. ‘You must tell me your secret. I’ve never seen Marlon so pleased to see somebody before. I’ll let him go if you’re all right with dogs. He’ll probably try to jump up at you, but just push him down.’

      Faye looked at the dog whose intentions were now unmistakably friendly and nodded her head. ‘Hello, yes, I’m Faye Carter. Do let him go. I’ll be fine.’

      A split second later she found herself pinned back against the door by a pair of hefty, mercifully clean, paws – a big hairy Labrador head stretching upwards, a pink tongue trying unsuccessfully to reach her face. Marlon was definitely very, very pleased to see her. She recovered her balance, persuaded the dog to return to all fours, and bent down to stroke him. As if by magic, feeling her touch, he slid down onto the floor and rolled over, all four legs in the air, emitting an assortment of happy canine grunts. His tail was still wagging furiously, doing a very efficient job of sweeping the polished oak floor.

      ‘That’s quite amazing.’ The grey-haired man was still looking very surprised. ‘We normally have to shut him in the kitchen when somebody comes to the door.’ He stepped to one side and waved her in formally. ‘Anyway, welcome to St-Jean, Faye. My name’s Eddie Marshal. I’m Miss Beech’s PA.’

      Faye walked in past him, trying not to trip over the dog. As she did so, she noticed a grey ponytail hanging down Eddie Marshal’s neck – not something normally to be found on an elderly gentleman. On closer inspection, there turned out to be a still-handsome face underneath the lines and wrinkles, and a definite sparkle visible in his pale blue eyes. She smiled back at him and held out her hand. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you, Mr Marshal, and did you say his name was Marlon?’

      The man accepted her hand and shook it, before nodding towards the dog. ‘Named after the great man himself. Miss Beech knew Brando well and has always admired him. Now, if you’d like to come into the sitting room, I’ll go tell her you’ve arrived. She hasn’t been too well for the past couple of days and she has the nurse with her at the moment, so I’m afraid you might have to wait for a few minutes.’

      He led Faye, closely accompanied by the dog, along the corridor, limping slightly as he walked. The walls were lined with paintings – not old masters, as one might have expected in a medieval environment such as this, but modern, abstract and impressionist paintings that, remarkably, sat very well in this antique setting.

      At the end of the corridor they turned into a gorgeous high-ceilinged room, furnished with surprisingly modern leather sofas and armchairs. The ceiling was supported by hefty carved beams, the detail of the predominantly floral design picked out in red and gold against the dark wood. The floor was a stunning chequerboard of centuries-old pink and cream terracotta, worn down by the passage of countless feet. At the end of the room was a monumental stone fireplace, supported by sculpted pillars on either side. It was breathtaking.

      ‘Now, what can I get you?’ Mr Marshal was still standing by the door. ‘Over the years I’ve become pretty good at making cocktails. How about a Manhattan?’

      Faye СКАЧАТЬ