MAY 26, 1790
LES TROIS-MOUTIERS
LOIRE VALLEY, FRANCE
An assemblage of men, women, and children—a mass nearly a hundred thick—poured down the road to the castle. Aveline gripped tight to Robert’s forearm, fingernails digging into the sleeve of his morning coat.
The last memory they had of an assemblage descending upon the castle was the night of the attack. And now, even as they’d stepped from the chapel christened as husband and wife that morning, the savagery of France’s bloody battle for independence seemed intent to strike at them again.
“It’s alright,” Robert whispered. His solid tone did little to convince Aveline, however, as he’d stepped forward, edging his shoulder to ease his body in front of hers. “I will speak with them.”
“We will speak with them.” Aveline slid her hand down to grip his. “That is, if you believe we can reason with an assailment of a company this size?”
“They’re not carrying torches, Aveline.”
“Perhaps not, but look—” She pointed to a number of horse-drawn wagonettes, filled to the brim with sacks of grain and wooden handles hanging from the end. “They carry tools of some sort.”
“Garden tools. And children. I don’t think they’d arrive to attack a couple on their wedding day with their families in tow.”
“Robert, the last time the populace came down that road, the castle was nearly burned to the ground. The Second Estate may not exist any longer, but the hate remains. In Paris, it is growing. You know the Commune de Paris holds the power of the government now. Even with the municipalities redrawn, the king’s rule is in peril. Why would they come here if not to threaten us as members of our families’ former rank in the peerage?”
“You know how I appreciate your interest in politics, my love.” He pecked a kiss to her lips. “But la noblesse is dead. And we are not in Paris now. These people are our family. Philippe has no interest in this estate and has given it to my charge. That means I am still master vigneron here. If they wish to speak with me, then I’ll allow it.” He laced his fingers with hers, squeezing a light tap against her fingertips. “I will not live in fear for our lives. And I won’t give them a foothold against us, even on a day as special as this.”
Aveline’s heart jumped in her throat when Robert took a step forward, cutting the people’s advance to the castle.
The gathering slowed to a stop before him. They were restrained, as if forbearance held them to a hush. Robert stood before her, legs braced in a wide stance in the center of the road. He waited, hands at his sides, open to the crowd.
“Master Robert, vigneron and son of the Duc et Vivay.” Fan stepped out and bowed in front of the group, a smile lighting her features. “We have come to speak with Madam Vivay.”
Aveline swallowed hard. It was the first time she’d been addressed as Robert’s wife, and though the sentiment should have warmed her heart, caution overwhelmed it instead.
“My wife is here.” Robert eased to the side, hand extended to her. “If you wish to speak with her, you have but to ask. It is to her to decide who she will take audience with.”
“It is because of who she is that we are here.”
Fan stepped forward and took a span of folded paper from her apron pocket.
“Some time ago, a rumor persisted in Paris that a woman of great wealth and rank in the king’s court had once attended a paupers’ burial in the heart of the city. It was said she was so moved by what she’d witnessed that she sought to tear down a wall between the nobility and the people. She purchased a very large trousseau for her impending marriage to a high-ranking member of the French peerage. But instead of keeping the wares she’d purchased, she bartered them and sent wagons of provision to the people, instructing that a bundle of color should go into the hands of each one she’d blessed.
“She thought to stay out of sight, but the men hired to disperse the goods hadn’t payment enough to quiet their tongues to keep it secret. And her family’s coachman has confirmed what he, too, saw of her actions.” Fan placed the missive in Aveline’s hand, tendering the exchange with a gentle squeeze. “This letter proves that woman is you, madam, and we would like to convey our happiness that you are here, and our wish that you should always remain.”
Fan stepped away, easing back toward the group.
“Gentlemen? If you please?”
Men opened the wagonettes at Fan’s bequest, and the people went to work unloading sacks of seed, opening them, filling seeding bags, and, with the children at their sides, dispersing the promise of wild violets all along the road to the castle. Spades cut earth in the garden. Hoes and picks tilled the ground along the stone wall. And the laughter of men, women, and children rose up, carrying through the gate; a harvest as great as the arbor rows owned beyond.
“Aveline?” Robert stepped forward, easing the letter from her hand. He scanned it, brow furrowed as the words sank in. “Is this true? I’d heard rumors. They came all the way from Paris here; the lady and her violets are known as far as the Loire Valley. But I never imagined . . .”
He stood back, staring, the usual kindness in his eyes a comfort to see once again.
“Félicité’s letter,” she cried, tears bathing her eyes. Aveline took the letter and pressed it to her heart, covering the fox brooch she’d worn for the ceremony that morning. “After all this time, I’d forgotten. I thought it was lost in the fire last year. But Fan saw I’d dropped it, right before I received your note . . . and the gift that saved me.”
“You are remarkable.” He leaned in, his arm collecting the small of her waist, and pressed a kiss to the base of her neck where the scars met her gown. The praise he’d whispered, but she felt it soar high as the canopy of trees overhead. “And a treasure, worth more than any jewels to which the Vivay family could lay claim. It is you who saved me.”
It was all Aveline had wanted, to come back, walk the road to their castle, and see him standing in its path, looking on her as though beauty were more than skin deep. It was true that scars could heal to make something exquisite again; the castle would be brought back to life in the same way—scarred by stories in their generation and perhaps rebuilt in one they might never know.
If the smile of a bride on her wedding day is felt on her face even more than it is seen, Aveline looked to Robert, knowing it was true.
“I wonder if I might make a request before we, too, pick up tools and go to work in our garden?”
He laughed, no doubt because what bride would till the earth in her wedding gown, save for one who had a voracious love for violets?
“Anything.”
“I would like to sit for a portrait, as soon as it can be arranged.”
“Another portrait?”
She nodded to him. “We don’t need the old one. I should like to be painted as I am now. I don’t know the lady in the former portrait any longer. I only know the one who stands before you. The one who loves this place, and loves you in return.”
“Is that all?” He paused, brow tipped, thinking it over. “Then if we’re agreeing on the making of concessions, I would request one from you. To start off on the right foot as a husband, of course.”
“Very well.”
“The Renard Reserve . . . You know of it?”
Fanetta had mentioned it. Once, quite some time ago.
“I do.”
He tightened his hold around Aveline’s waist and with softness added, “Bien. Then our most renowned label should be yours. Just like the castle . . . this land . . . and the people in it. I want the evidence of your heart forever tethered to the Vivay family. So—L’Aveline. That’s its new name.”
L’Aveline . . . She’d not have smiled at the sound of her own name, had he not said it in a shiver-inducing whisper against her ear.
“Then we should start anew while our Sleeping Beauty takes her time to awaken. Perhaps christen a new wine with a new life entirely. I favor the site on the ridge. We could build an estate house where we first dined and danced with the people. With a dining hall large enough to accommodate our friends. Where we can open our doors, work side by side, and celebrate when the harvest is drawn in, and when the wine flows in abundance. We have a gate now, between former worlds. You’ve opened it to me, and I pray it will never be sealed. I would like to know that we breathed life back into the castle.”
She paused, watching as beautiful, laboring hands scattered seed on the grove floor.
“I want this place to always tell the story of God’s faithfulness, just as we’ve received it here.”
“Aveline, if the presence of your beloved violets is any indication, it always will.”