20

‘Mesdames, Messieurs. Attention, s’il vous plaît.’ Clare obediently paid attention. The early evening flight to Toulouse had been delayed for technical reasons.

Sitting by a window, drinking Perrier water, she watched other aircraft come and go, wondered what the phrase ‘technical reasons’ might actually mean. Perhaps a wheel had fallen off, or an altitude meter had started recording while the aircraft was still on the ground. On the other hand, it could be something quite different. The in-flight drinks hadn’t arrived, perhaps, or the pilot was delayed in a traffic jam, or the documentation for a box to be placed in the hold had disappeared.

She smiled to herself, thinking of the tactful reasons the bank used to turn down a request for finance. Courtesy was always an objective. The area of concern might be referred to, but only in general terms. Unless one was going as far as to offer an assessment of the problem, it was policy to use a phrase like ‘not in the best interests of the bank’. It was only another variation of ‘technical reasons’.

The delay lasted about an hour, but the flight itself was unexceptional, only the landing rather unpleasant as they lost height through thick cloud, the tail end of one of the thunderstorms generated by the heat of the last week.

She spotted Christian before he saw her, surrounded as she was by the dark suits and striding figures of returning businessmen. He was scanning the dark stream intensely, his tanned face staring and expressionless. The moment he saw her, he smiled, that warm expansive smile that had so captivated her.

‘My poor little one, you must be so tired. Was it a bumpy flight?’

He slipped an arm round her, kissed her cheek and drew her towards the baggage area.

‘Which ones are yours?’

‘Just that one,’ she said, laughing. ‘With the Athens sticker. The wretched thing wouldn’t peel off,’ she said easily, glad to have arrived and found him waiting for her.

She noticed a tightening in his face as he left her to retrieve the case. He hurried back to her and shepherded her towards his car.

‘New car, Christian?’

‘No,’ he said absently, as he reversed at speed and then headed for the exit. ‘This is the one I always use here. I keep the Renault in Paris.’

He drove fast through the suburbs of Toulouse, and even faster when the city had been left behind.

‘Your flight was late,’ he said flatly. ‘You will want time to change before dinner. Travelling on a Friday night is always more tiring,’ he added, with a glance towards her.

‘What do you usually wear on a Friday night?’ she asked lightly.

She thought longingly of a pair of trousers and a cool over-shirt.

‘Oh, just a suit. I don’t bother with a dinner jacket, though my father always does. I expect you’ve brought a short evening dress. Easier to pack,’ he said brightly, without taking his eyes off the road.

The road was twisty and wet from the thunderstorm, though the sky had cleared and there was freshness in the air. She concentrated on the countryside to distract herself from the speed of the drive. Perhaps it was the flight, but she almost felt slightly car sick.

‘Not far now,’ he said, reducing speed marginally on even narrower roads. ‘My parents moved out of the château some years go. They found a more comfortable house about five miles away, between Pescadoire and Puy l’Eveque. It was built by an American recluse in the nineties, a strange mixture of styles, but there are no draughts. My mother says she’s too old for a draughty château,’ he said, flashing her a warm smile.

‘And you live with them?’

‘No, of course not. I have a small suite in the château. I’ll take you there tomorrow.’

He swung off the road on to a broad gravelled drive lined on one side with poplars, on the other with flowering shrubs. The shrubs gave way to a broad lawn, remarkably green compared with the dried-out look of the countryside, which the rain had done nothing to modify.

‘Good,’ he said, looking at his watch, as he came round to open her door. ‘Just eight o’clock. We have drinks on the terrace at eight thirty and dine at nine. Come down as soon after eight thirty as you can manage. Gabrielle will take you to your room.’

The house was large. Three storeys. Pink, with shutters, like many houses she’d seen in the south. But, unlike them, it had a porch with Grecian columns painted white and a wide fan of shallow steps leading up to the front door.

The hall was even more extraordinary. It reminded her of baronial halls in films like The Adventures of Robin Hood. There were beautiful oriental carpets on the polished wood floor, suits of armour, heraldic shields, and a number of flags, so faded with age they were almost transparent.

‘This way, mam’selle, if you please,’ said Gabrielle, taking her suitcase from Christian and heading for the stairs.

‘Don’t be late,’ he said, smiling warmly, as he disappeared.

‘If there is anything you need, mam’selle, will you please ring,’ she said, throwing open a bedroom door and indicating a heavy gold rope by the fireplace. ‘Your bathroom is through here,’ she went on, opening a heavy panelled door into a room almost as large as the one in which they stood.

‘Thank you, Gabrielle.’

Gabrielle bobbed a curtsy and Clare managed to keep a straight face until she’d closed the door gently behind her.

‘Whee …’ she said, as she dropped down on a sofa placed across the end of the four-poster bed. ‘You nearly put your foot in it, Clare dear.’

She opened her case quickly, took out her make-up and dressing gown and shook out the new plum velvet cocktail dress she nearly hadn’t brought. She wasn’t even sure she liked it, now she saw it lying on the bed, waiting to be worn. But Louise said it looked good when it arrived from the couturier’s yesterday. She’d put it in just to be on the safe side, in case Toulouse might think itself quite as smart as Paris, if Christian wanted to take her out to dine.

The room was gloomy now as the light faded, despite its two large, high windows overlooking the garden. Another beautifully green lawn with paths and pergolas covered with roses, leading to other areas defined by box hedges. She had such a desire to run out of the house, down one of those paths and let the freshness of the evening envelop her. She sighed and smiled as she felt her shoulders give a passable imitation of a classic Gallic shrug.

‘Come on, Clare. You haven’t got time. Just do a Louise.’

 

She parked her suitcase in the bottom of a huge wardrobe, where a summer dress and her light trousers already hung in solitary splendour, and two pairs of shoes occupied a small corner of a shoe rack with enough capacity for a football team, and examined herself critically in the long mirror. She sighed. She had broken a golden rule. Never wear a new dress for the first time when about to go out. The dress was nicer than she thought: she liked the soft fall of the fabric and the fit was impeccable, but the deep V-neck needed a necklace.

She scolded herself. Marie-Claude had taught her to use costume jewellery as she used scarves and belts and she’d built up quite a collection of brooches for her costumes and earrings for her evening dresses. But no necklaces. It was not a matter of expense. She just hadn’t seen the need until now.

She wondered if the brooch from her blue suit might offset the bareness of the neckline. The blue was deep enough to wear with the plum, yes, but its setting in white metal was quite wrong against the soft fabric. The richness of the dress needed gold.

‘Ah …’ she breathed, as an idea came to her.

She went to a drawer where she had unpacked her underwear and took out the small red jewel box. She’d only brought it because she’d promised Madame never to leave real jewellery in her apartment and she hadn’t had time to do anything else with it.

‘Oh, what luck,’ she said aloud, as she tried it out at different points on the draped shoulders and fitted bodice. ‘It looks good wherever I put it.’

She turned off the battery of spotlights around the dressing table and stood for a moment in the darkened room. Everything was silent. No friendly household noises came to her, no smells of food, no tramp of feet. The house had a dead feel about it. The hall itself looked like a museum, but her bedroom was more like a stage set for a costume drama, waiting for the cast to bring it to life. Little Gabrielle, in her black dress and starched white apron, merely added to the illusion, a Miss Muffet cap perched on her dark curls, like the one she’d worn herself at Drumsollen.

Strange that the place should so remind her of Drumsollen, given a different country, the great difference in the style of furnishing. Perhaps it would all become clear to her, after dining with the inhabitants.

 

She walked slowly downstairs, half expecting the baronial hall to be lit by flickering torches, but it was not. Concealed spotlights played on key exhibits and threw long, menacing shadows up the high walls and across the timber-beamed roof. She paused at the foot of the staircase. At last, there were signs of life. The chink of glasses and the higher notes of a woman’s voice. It was exactly eight thirty. She walked towards them.

‘Clare you have been quick. Well done,’ said Christian approvingly, as he arced his arm around her without touching her, drawing her into the conservatory, which gave on to a lamp-lit terrace.

Christian’s father rose at once. A little taller and somewhat older than Emile, he had broader shoulders and bushy eyebrows, but little of Emile’s gentle hesitancy. He was wearing evening dress with the flèche of the Legion of Honour in one lapel.

He waited, patiently enough, while Christian introduced Clare to his mother, a tall, aristocratic woman with iron-grey hair and papery skin on which her rouge sat unhappily, despite its skilful application.

‘How do you do, Miss Hamilton, I’m sure we may call you Clare,’ she began, in English, extending her hand limply, her fingers cold.

‘How do you do,’ Clare replied, wondering which English habits of speech Madame Moreau would expect. ‘Yes, of course, you may,’ she added easily.

‘I regret my English always was poor, completely non-existent now,’ said Monsieur Moreau abruptly, in French.

Clare smiled at him as she shook his hand. ‘But that’s much better than having an unfortunate accent. So my boss says. He learnt his English from the Americans after the war and refuses to speak it at all,’ Clare replied, in French.

He grunted, and sat down again looking relieved.

‘Christian, Clare has nothing to drink. What are you thinking of?’ Madame Moreau demanded, reverting to French, her tone sharper, less rounded than when she spoke English.

But at that very moment Christian appeared from behind Clare’s chair carrying a glass of white wine.

‘Thank you,’ she said politely, as he handed her the glass without looking at her.

Clare had a sudden desire to giggle. She spoke to herself severely. If she felt like giggling now, how on earth would she feel if she drank wine on an empty stomach? She’d broken another of Louise’s golden rules. Always eat something before you go out, in case the meal is late. While Louise drank milk, Clare usually had cream crackers or plain biscuits, but that was one more thing she’d forgotten to pack. She really wasn’t scoring very well tonight, and the evening was only just beginning.

She took a very small sip of her wine and waited.

Madame Moreau turned towards her with a slight inclination of the head, speaking now in French.

‘You must think us very old-fashioned, Clare, with our silly old flags and trophies. Charles is the keeper of the family history and it does go a long way back,’ she said, stroking the grey silk of her full-length gown.

‘But family history is so interesting,’ Clare replied. ‘I think I saw the device of Henry of Navarre in the entrance hall, but perhaps I was mistaken.’

‘Oh no, not at all,’ Madame replied, her eyes opening a little wider. ‘Henri Quatre was a very important figure in our family history. Without his protection we Huguenots would not have survived. I’m sure you are familiar with his efforts on our behalf and what happened when the Edict of Nantes was finally revoked.’

‘Yes, indeed. A very dark episode in French history, though one which my own country has benefited from.’

‘It has?’

‘Yes, very much so. While England and the Netherlands seem to have welcomed the silk workers and goldsmiths, we in the north of Ireland had the benefit of Louis Crommelin. He and other Huguenots transformed the existing textile industry and gave us our famous linen industry.’

‘And your family, are they also Huguenot, as we are here?’ she went on, with a slightly more than courteous interest.

‘Most of the families I know well seem to have Huguenot links,’ Clare replied, thinking of all the aunts and uncles who worked in the mills round about Banbridge. ‘But they also have strong ties with the Calvinists in Scotland,’ she added, now that the drift of Madame’s questioning was quite clear to her.

‘How very interesting, my dear,’ she said warmly. ‘You must ask my husband to take you on a tour of our treasures. But not until you have had some supper. We are neglecting our duty while we enjoy your company,’ she said, standing up and sweeping out of the room, just as a distant clock struck nine and a young man appeared to announce that dinner was served.

 

Clare was grateful when the first course turned out to be a comforting soup. Madame, it was clear, did not permit conversation with the servants present, so it was not until they departed and Clare was feeling distinctly more like herself, that Charles Moreau addressed her.

‘Christian says your plane was delayed. Were there thunderstorms further north?’

‘Yes, I think there were, but the main delay was in Paris. Technical reasons, they said. Coming in to land in Toulouse was nasty. I think we flew through the edge of the thunderstorm moving away south.’

Moreau nodded.

‘But there was no rain on the drive back?’ he asked, turning to Christian, who had not said a word since the meal began.

‘No, none at all, but the road was wet over large stretches. There was water actually lying by the roadside on the far side of Pescadoire.’

‘It rained here about seven, but only for a few minutes,’ said Madame Moreau. ‘Did you not have that up at Chirey?’ she went on, addressing her husband for the first time.

All conversation ceased as Gabrielle and the young man removed the soup and served fillets of trout, beautifully arranged on translucent china plates, rimmed with gold and decorated with the family crest.

‘Clare, you must forgive this boring conversation,’ said Madame, with an indulgent smile, when they had gone. ‘You have discovered that it is not only the English who talk about the weather.’

‘I have certainly discovered that rainfall in early September is a serious matter with the vendage so close at hand. I wondered if it might have begun already, at least on the south-facing slopes.’

‘You are quite right, Clare,’ said Monsieur Moreau, looking somewhat taken aback. ‘We would have begun by now had it not been so very dry.’

‘So you do need the rain to swell the grapes, but you do not need thunderstorms to risk damaging them,’ she said, smiling at him. ‘It must be a very difficult time.’

‘Yes, it is,’ he said firmly. ‘With our table wines, there is no difficulty. We have a range of vineyards over a wide area. We can compensate and balance by careful blending. There is some satisfaction in producing a quality wine in very large quantities. But at Chirey itself, we’ve always had ambition.’

‘Aiming for a great year?’

‘Precisely.’

‘I should have told you of Clare’s interest in winegrowing, father,’ Christian broke in quickly.

‘Indeed,’ said the older man. ‘But surely there is no winegrowing in Ireland,’ he said, smiling for the first time.

‘Sadly, no. At least not since the fifth century, when the climate was warmer than it is now,’ she replied. ‘No, my knowledge is all of the French industry. It began one morning near Avignon when I discovered the benefits of the large pieces of stone lying around looking untidy in a very well-ordered vineyard,’ she said, laughing. ‘From then on I listened as well as translated. What fascinates me is what affects the grapes, the small variations of soil, of site, even before you introduce the variables of rainfall and sunshine, and hazards like frost and thunderstorms. It surprises me great years can occur at all with so much to prevent them.’

‘We have had one or two since the war,’ said Charles Moreau, looking at her steadily. ‘But not here at Chirey. You are right. Success can be almost within one’s grasp and something goes wrong. It can even be as small a thing as a key workman being ill when the presses are being set up. You must come up to Chirey tomorrow and I will show you round.’

‘I should enjoy that very much,’ said Clare honestly, as Madame raised a warning hand to indicate that the servants had once again come into the room.

The meal was lengthy and the food very good. All three Moreaus now felt free to talk about the wine-making that was their consuming passion, about the history of their vineyards and the successes they had had over the years.

By the later stages of the meal, Clare felt steady enough to drink her wine. Served from unlabelled bottles, it had to be from one of their many vineyards. She hoped no one would ask her opinion on its quality for when she was as tired as she now felt, wine tasted merely pleasant or unpleasant. All subtlety was lost.

‘Come, Clare, let us leave these gentlemen to their speculations. You will have heard more than enough of the family’s preoccupations for one evening,’ said Madame Moreau. ‘Gabrielle will bring more coffee to the sitting room when you join us,’ she said, with a meaningful look at her husband.

The sitting room was on the opposite side of the baronial hall. Its heavy velvet curtains were already drawn, a small fire of logs glowed on the hearth of an enormous marble fireplace. A tray of coffee sat waiting on a low table.

‘Do come and sit beside me, my dear. This room echoes so when it is not full of people,’ she said, waving Clare to a white and gold armchair close to the long settee where she had seated herself.

‘I’m afraid you’ve heard a great deal about the Moreau family tonight. I’m much more interested in hearing about your family. Christian is thoughtful in so many ways, but he has told us so little about you. Terribly selfish, keeping you all to himself. Now do tell me, where did you learn to speak French so beautifully?’

Clare smiled to herself and sipped her coffee. She was about to be interviewed for the position of lady wife to the heir apparent to the Moreau estates, the extent of which had taken her by surprise even after Robert’s wry comments. She’d reckoned this was going to happen sooner or later, but she’d hoped it might be later.

‘I used to listen to the radio when I was a little girl,’ she said, deciding on the direct approach.

‘But surely you studied in Paris?’

‘Only since I’ve been working there. Before that, I looked after two children at Deauville, au pair to the St Clair family during my long vacations in order to learn colloquial French.’

‘How charming. Deauville is delightful, isn’t it?’

Clare agreed that Deauville was delightful and remarkably unchanged since the turn of the century, according to one of her friends. She thought Madame seemed distinctly taken aback at the mention of looking after children, but she smiled indulgently at the mention of Deauville, and nodded at the mention of the St Clairs.

‘You must forgive me making a personal comment, but I have been admiring that pretty little brooch of yours. Such a delightful choice with that dress. It looks as if it might have a story. Am I right?’ she asked archly.

‘Yes, you’re quite right, but the story is still a mystery. It was given to me by an old lady to whom I spoke French. I’m almost sure it came from an admirer while she was in Paris or Deauville with her chaperone, around the turn of the century, but she didn’t marry him.’

‘What an interesting story, Clare,’ she said, enthusiastically. ‘France seems to have been so much a part of your life, even when you lived in Ireland,’ she added, with a little laugh. ‘I find it hard not to think of you as a Frenchwoman, except for your hair. Your beautiful, dark, Irish curls,’ she said with a sweet smile. ‘So romantic. I’m sure Christian … Ah, here they are,’ she said, breaking off, as Charles and Christian came into the room. ‘Christian, darling, do ring for more coffee. She should have brought it by now.’

Clare ran a hand through her beautiful, dark, Irish curls and shivered, though the room was warm. She was back in Greece with Christian, lying in a shaded hotel room during siesta.

‘I love your hair,’ he had said, running his fingers through it. ‘So fine, and so dark. I wish there were more of it for me to stroke,’ he said, kissing her. ‘Why don’t you let it grow for me? Pin it up by day and let it down at night when we make love.’

She’d laughed and told him what hard work long hair was, how poor Louise spent hours in front of her mirror. At the time, she’d thought nothing of it. But Christian had come back to the subject of her hair, many, many times, coaxing her and teasing her with great persistence.

Now she knew why. With all the charm and skill in conversation his mother clearly prided herself upon, she had indicated unambiguously that French women of her class and standing simply did not wear their hair in dark curls.

 

Despite her unease about Christian and the way he’d behaved since she arrived, Saturday turned out to be a very enjoyable day. After breakfast, Charles Moreau drove her to Chirey and gave her his promised tour of the wine presses and cellars of the château. When he’d answered all her questions, he handed her over to Christian, who drove her to the Gorges d’Anglais for a picnic lunch, followed by a lengthy tour of the Lot valley and the countryside around Cahors.

The day was hot, but freshened by a slight breeze, the roads almost empty of cars. Christian himself was relaxed and easy, once again the lively companion she was familiar with, as enthusiastic about mediaeval architecture and the unspoilt villages of his home territory as he’d been about the sights of Paris itself. He spread the landscape before her, driving from one viewpoint to another, stopping wherever there was a particularly interesting feature to be pointed out to her.

‘I will take you to a nightclub where we can dance till dawn. You will like that.’

The words came into her mind as they drove back through Puy l’Eveque. Today, she’d been so aware that Christian always told her what she would like. Until now, she’d simply not noticed, because she’d so enjoyed his company and so much of what they’d done together. Truly, she could say he’d swept her off her feet from that very first evening.

Her friends were delighted to see her so happy. Robert had told her that being in love made her eyes shine. Yes, she had been happy. She did love him. So why did the thought of marrying him fill her with such misgiving?

‘Tomorrow, I will show you my favourite view. You will like it,’ he said, as they drove up the gravelled drive, past the green lawn where the sprinklers were hard at work.

‘I hope you aren’t tired,’ he said, a hint of unease in his voice. ‘My mother has invited some friends to meet you. Even I shall have to dress this evening,’ he said, as he opened her door, kissed her cheek, walked with her to the bottom of the stairs. ‘Eight o’clock on the terrace. Don’t be late,’ he went on, with a winning smile.

‘Of course I won’t be late,’ she replied, turning away quickly and running lightly upstairs.

She shut the heavy door firmly behind her, threw her handbag on the smooth, pink silk bedspread that covered the enormous four-poster and dropped into a settee.

‘It’s your own fault, Clare. You weren’t paying attention,’ she said aloud. ‘The signs were all there, you just didn’t choose to see them.’

She went to the window and stood looking down the length of the back garden. For some unknown reason, she thought of Mrs McGregor’s garden in Belfast, that tiny strip of green beyond the back yard and the dustbins. She could see herself standing by the window in the gloomy kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil. Waiting for life to begin.

The Moreau garden ran a long way from the house, till it ended abruptly below a stand of tall poplars that shut out the sky. The sprinklers were hard at work here as well, hazy rainbows shimmering wherever the sunlight fell at the appropriate angle on the rain of their arcing jets.

She stared at the rainbows, entranced by their delicate colour. Suddenly, the water jets sagged, the rainbows disappeared. A gardener appeared, disconnected the green hoses, collected up the metal fountains, walked back and forth, his arms full of equipment, then reappeared with a broom made of long twigs. He brushed the grass gently where the sprinklers had stood. By the time drinks were served on the terrace, the grass would be dry and perfect, unmarked by any sign of human activity.

 

‘You have enjoyed the evening?’ Christian said, slipping into the empty seat beside her, as the first guests rose to say their goodbyes.

‘Yes, I have. I particularly like Monsieur Le Maire. I’ve learnt so much about the surrounding villages. Quite a few things you didn’t tell me,’ she added steadily.

‘Oh, I shall tell you much more, when we have more time,’ he said, looking at her meaningfully. ‘Mother has suggested you come to church with us in the morning,’ he went on, looking pleased with himself. ‘I’m sure you won’t mind. It is rather boring, but it pleases them.’

Clare cast her eye round the sitting room and saw there were people well within hearing distance.

‘I would come, of course. But you didn’t tell me we would be going to church,’ she said, smoothing the sharpness from her voice. ‘I haven’t a hat, or even a suitable scarf.’

‘I’m sure we can solve that problem,’ he said, getting to his feet immediately.

She watched him cross the room, wait his moment, then bend down and whisper in his mother’s ear. She nodded and smiled. Aware that both mother and son were looking towards her, Clare glanced away, and studied the detail of a large, allegorical painting close to her.

It was being arranged. Suitable headgear would be provided. Hardly a felt hat with an upturned brim and bead elastic under the chin like she’d worn for Sunday School in Armagh, before her parents died, or a straw hat, like any of those Auntie Polly had sent from Toronto. Certainly not a beret like she and Jessie had worn as schoolgirls. Berets, she was sure, were only worn by work people.

 

The small church in the nearby village was much older than the church on The Mall in Armagh. Built when the French Protestants had been given protection by the Crown, it was remote enough to have survived the destruction that followed the change of heart of 1685. A solid stone building, a strong mediaeval influence in its pillars and lancet windows, it had a familiar bareness, wooden box pews and a musty smell.

They arrived just before the service began, walked two by two down the narrow central aisle to the family pew just below the pulpit. Every eye was turned towards them, a fact that Madame Moreau appeared to relish and Charles Moreau studiously ignored.

Clare found herself sitting rigid, oppressed by the setting, the smell of damp and the familiar torrent of words. Reading, prayers, sermon, all seemed to merge into one homogenous deluge. It didn’t help that the theme for the day was Original Sin.

Surely, she thought, if you tell people how sinful they are, you only reinforce their weakness and if you are born sinful what can you do about it? She’d always thought it a counsel of despair. When Granda Hamilton had taken her to the Quaker meeting, at least they’d had peace and quiet. And when the people rose to speak they didn’t say the same things over and over again.

‘Do you take this man to be your wedded husband?’

If she were to marry Christian, they’d stand over there, only feet away from the family pew. The front rows would be filled with the great and the good, the back with the workers from the nearest vineyards, probably a large part of this present congregation. She would wear a simple but stunning creation from Paris. Gerard St Clair would give her away. Louise would be her bridesmaid.

And what then? A marquee in the courtyard of the château, grape baskets and donkey carts carefully hidden away in the cellars. Flags flying? Oh yes, let’s have flags, she thought, looking round the bare walls with neither statue, nor carving, stained glass, or cross to relieve the bareness.

She gazed up at the preacher, a look of rapt attention on her face. She’d heard it all before, so there was no need to listen. Besides, there was the rest of her life to arrange.

No doubt she and Christian would live in the château. She hadn’t seen his suite yet, but that would be this afternoon. The château would be reinvigorated. They might even be permitted to remove the draughts. Then there would be the children.

‘We will have beautiful children. You will like that.’

She could almost hear him saying it. This man, sitting by her side, his handsome face in profile, listening attentively to the penalties of sin, both sins of omission and sins of commission. Most likely he was thinking his own thoughts just as she was.

By the time the highly articulate figure threw his arms in the air and blessed the congregation, she was stiff and cold with tension and the effects of the hard wooden seat. They were dismissed into the warmth and sunshine and the sidelong glances of the departing parishioners.

 

The courtyard of the château was full of activity when Christian swung his sports car up the steep slope between the huge stone pillars that had once supported the portcullis.

‘What’s happening?’ she cried.

‘We’ve decided to begin in the morning,’ he said, getting out of the car, taking her hand and leading her through the throng of people coming and going. ‘It’s a pity you have to go back tonight, but there’ll be other opportunities.’

They walked up stone steps into the château itself, crossed a huge empty hall, climbed a curving stone staircase. The place felt like a cave quarried out of stone. She could feel the damp chill producing goosepimples on her bare arms. At the end of a long corridor, Christian opened a door into a pleasant sitting room, lit by a large window looking south. Warmed by the sun, the heat was blissful after the dank feel of the empty lower storey and the staircase.

The whole suite was pleasant enough, the view down into the courtyard impressive. He led her through the well-furnished rooms, showed her his bedroom, the kitchen and bathroom.

‘It’s quite possible to be comfortable in a draughty château,’ he said, laughing. ‘But Mother has a point. To use the whole château, one needs to be young and have lots of good ideas. You would enjoy such a challenge, wouldn’t you?’

‘I always enjoy a challenge,’ she said, honestly, as she turned away towards the window.

‘Now I will show you the most splendid view of all,’ he said, holding out his hand to her.

Another corridor, another staircase, much steeper than the last. They paused at a small door set deep into the stonework. A final steep flight and they were standing at the highest point of the château, the figures in the courtyard below them reduced to small dark shapes.

There was little space to spare in this high eyrie. They stood close together and scanned the landscape laid out all around them. The sky was clear, not a cloud to be seen, but the heat had generated a haze, which made the far horizon shimmer like a picture viewed through the fumes of a Tilley lamp.

The rugged, dissected country ran, ridge upon ridge, towards lower land far away, the sides of the low, eroded hills ribbed with the rich green of vines in full leaf and fruit. Small villages blended into their hillside sites, their building stone the very same rock upon which they stood.

Twisting roads, appearing and disappearing, today empty dusty ribbons, tomorrow filled with the laden carts now being prepared in the courtyard below. On the tops of the hills the bare rock gleamed between areas of sparse vegetation. Here, on the ‘causses’, farming was a matter of scraping a living in the more favoured hollows.

Clare took it all in, fitting together what she could now see with her tour of yesterday and all the local mayor had told her last night at dinner. It had its own harsh beauty, but it was a hard land, unforgiving, enclosed and remote.

‘This is my favourite view,’ he said, proudly.

She waited, becoming more and more anxious by the minute.

‘You would be happy here,’ he said, smiling as he took her hand.

For a moment she felt desolate, locked in a situation she had allowed to happen and from which she could see no easy means of escape. Then it came to her. With a fluency and ease that afterwards amazed her, she found words – the words she needed.

‘It is a splendid view and quite wonderful countryside,’ she said, smiling. ‘I’m so grateful to have seen it. But I could never be happy here,’ she went on, shaking her head. ‘I would never stop longing for the little green hills of my home in Ireland.’