Maxime is sitting at the breakfast table when I finally enter the dining room. It’s just him, and both of us are dressed appropriately this time. I opted for my “expert” attire of a strict black trouser suit to arm myself against my wobbliness. A few weeks without wearing it has been enough to make it feel like slipping on someone else’s skin, someone I am trying to impersonate, which is exactly the point. I walked through a cloud of perfume, hoping for it to work some Merlin kind of magic, make Maxime forget about the balcony and the towel. New Beginnings Mist. I’d buy that. A whole vat of it, please.
He is leaning back in his chair, wearing a white shirt and chinos, his long legs stretched under the table. He is so relaxed, almost reclined, like a Roman emperor, reading a newspaper. As he spots me, he stands up.
“Camille Leray. Delighted to meet you.” He addresses me in English, his French accent transporting me back at once to a snowy pavement in St. Andrews. After Courtenay, I expected him more sullen, broody, rather than this relaxed demeanor I’m immediately wrapped in, this knowing smile. He’s always had a way of taking you in, as if you are the only person on earth.
I take a quiet breath and step forward to shake the hand he’s offered. “Hello, Maxime. We’ve met before,” I say in French. Luckily I’m also an expert at sounding confident—years of practice.
“Did you mean just now, when you were hanging out of my window half naked, or when we studied together?”
Despite dying inside, I hold his gaze. “Really pleased to see you again.”
“Likewise. Thank you for coming.”
So, he remembers St. Andrews, but does he remember the following summer, in London, at the Victoria and Albert Museum, when we almost—
He gestures for me to sit in front of a lush farmhouse-style breakfast: a pile of fresh croissants, golden butter in a ceramic dish, and homemade apple jam. I sink into my seat, realizing, after the relief of Maxime’s friendly demeanor, that I’m ravenous.
“I see you’ve met Ms. Leray.” Marie-Laure is coming in with a pot of coffee.
We thank her as she fills both our mugs, wide-brimmed like bowls, duck egg blue and old-fashioned.
“You will show her the sculptures today, then?” She seems tired, much more so than yesterday, with a deep wrinkle between her brows, as if the strings connecting her features are a little too short.
“Milk?” Maxime asks me. I nod and reach out for the jug. “Allow me.” His hand brushes mine as he pours.
Calm down, Camille. For goodness’ sake.
“I can’t wait to take a look at the sculptures,” I say, “and to find out exactly what you need me for.”
“After breakfast,” he says.
Marie-Laure nods. “I’ll be in the garden.”
Maxime puts a hand on her arm as she goes to leave. “How about you sit down? Just for a minute, and have some coffee?”
She shakes her head, smiles at him. “I have to tend to my roses. They’re very demanding children.”
I sip my coffee as she leaves the room (milky, hot, delicious), watching Maxime’s brow furrow as he checks his phone.
“Is she all right?” I ask.
“Who? My mother? She’s always worried about something.”
“Really? What about?” Then I realize it might sound ignorant, as if I’m implying that rich people can’t have worries. (They don’t, really. Not real worries, when they can have anything they ever wanted; that’s what Lowen would say when drama would erupt at boarding school. I bat the thought away.)
Maxime half shrugs. “Me, mainly.” His smile has a hint of wickedness that vanishes so quickly I wonder if I dreamt it. “So.” He throws his napkin on the table. “Shall we get to it?”
It soon transpires that by getting to it he means an extensive tour of the castle, starting with the grounds. I’m in his hands, following him as he talks about the history of the estate and rare spruces. The dew soaks the leather of my brogues as we draw a wide circle around the castle, to more water basins, square and mirror-like in the morning. I half expect to see Maxime’s reflection appear on them alone, without mine. This can’t possibly be real—a tour of D’Arvor with him. I’ve studied archives and old maps of the estate until I knew its layout by heart, but it is so much better to see it all in person. The air smells of damp grass, of the rosebushes we walk past, at which Marie-Laure is already working with huge shears, a wide-brimmed straw hat obscuring her face. The sun presses on us, fighting the cooler breeze coming from the sea. Everywhere I look, my eyes are met with the silver loops of the river. I follow them to catch a glimpse of the lake. Viviane’s voice echoes in my head. Je t’attends. I am waiting for you. Or is it Constance’s?
“Is it true that Louis XV snogged Madame de Pompadour in your orangery?” I ask, knowing full well it’s rubbish trivia, but trying to trick my brain into staying in the present. Maxime still hasn’t told me why I’m here, and I know I’m going to face Constance’s sculptures soon. I’m scared. What if my gift is tainted, turned against me and my sanity? What if I can’t do whatever Maxime needs me to do to help him? Or what if I find myself pulled in and incapable of returning to reality? This estate is the source of my gift, the key to understanding Constance’s fate. I feel jittery, sensitive, raw, and that’s no good.
Maxime’s lips lift slightly. “There are many rumors about D’Arvor. But that one isn’t true, I’m afraid.”
“Ah,” I say, half my brain still distracted by the worrying, “I imagine it must have been very difficult to fumble when wearing eighteenth-century dress anyway. The corsets, the endless ribbons…”
“Another legend is that Louis XV came up with the idea of his famous topiary costume here, while visiting the gardens.”
“Is that also inaccurate?”
“Probably. Though my great-grandmother used to swear that his ghost would visit her. She said she connected with a lot of—people.”
He looks away and I glance at his face, which has tensed inexplicably. “Were you close?”
“Yes. She lived until the incredible age of a hundred and five. She never looked or acted older than seventy either. A bit of a local celebrity, a wonder of nature, with a notorious sweet tooth. But she had her demons.”
We walk a bit farther, the silence filled by blackbird calls. I wonder why Maxime chose to show me the outside of D’Arvor rather than the inside. I’m aware I’ve not been shown the most ancient part of the castle yet, which I’m so excited about. Then it dawns on me.
“Are we going to Constance’s workshop?” I ask. “I thought it was in the old barns? By the river?”
“I think you’re mistaken,” Maxime says. “She always worked in her room. Anyway, I’m afraid many of the outbuildings are rather derelict. It takes much time and love to maintain these great places. There hasn’t been much time recently.”
But love, he implies, that runs deep.
“I understand.”
It takes some more silence before he speaks again. He must be thinking about the nature of love, perhaps, or heritage. “Can you imagine trying to undress somebody disguised as a hedge, though? You’d prick yourself.”
I nearly choke, but he is already on his way back to the house, darting with his long elastic steps across the lawn, when I put my hand on his arm to stop him.
“Maxime?”
“Yes?”
“The tour was great, but… why do you need me here?”
He smiles. “You’re about to find out.”