Caroline had been unable to sleep a wink. Without getting undressed, she’d paced her room, wondering how on earth she could repair the damage she’d done.
It wasn’t the sound of Fran’s snores that had kept her awake. Strangely, there wasn’t a peep from next door, and the last Caroline had heard was on their return from Montmorillon, when she was trying to rest. Drawers had been opened and closed, and a wardrobe rattled, suggesting clothes were being removed from their hangars. She couldn’t imagine what Fran had been up to. Perhaps rearranging the furniture and creating a mess to make it more like the lounge of Dunromin?
Caroline sighed.
Whatever Fran had been doing, right now it was blissfully quiet on the other side of the wall. But outside, the hoot of the owl had competed with a cacophonous chorus of croaking frogs and the high-pitched screech of a bat, and, despite the earplugs she’d acquired from Angelique, Caroline had remained wide awake.
Over the years, Caroline had learned to live with little sleep. With one ear tuned to the front door and staircase and her eyes staring at her bedside clock, she’d lay awake for hours wondering where Stanley was and what he was getting up to. She knew that speechwriters kept unsociable hours, dependant on events in the House, but Stanley could put a tomcat to shame and would often creep in with the dawn to the sound of the milkman, who still delivered in affluent Kensington, rattling bottles as he made his rounds.
But the real reason for her insomnia was the question she’d posed to Waltho about lavender. She could have kicked herself. How could she have been so insensitive?
Biting her lip and clenching her fingers, yet again, she recalled the event that ended the evening. Why, oh why, hadn’t she had the perception to ask her question privately? After all, she’d witnessed firsthand Waltho having a moment to himself in the garden, at night, as he wandered along the lavender path. Why hadn’t she been more intuitive? Was she so blinded by her own problems that she failed to see problems in others?
Caroline hadn’t known that such an innocent question would cause upset. She remembered how his dark skin paled when, trance-like, he’d pushed back his chair and disappeared from the courtyard.
Now, as she stood alone in her room, Caroline thought of the conversation that followed amongst the guests and could almost feel the electricity that had charged as they looked from one to the other.
Fran had been the first to speak.
Turning to Angelique, she’d softly asked, ‘Is Waltho alright? Has something upset him?’
All eyes stared at Angelique who looked around. ‘Waltho didn’t want it discussed,’ she said. ‘He worried it might spoil your holiday.’
‘What could possibly spoil such a wonderful week as this?’ Bridgette frowned.
Angelique twisted the stem of her glass in her fingers. ‘People in the village remember and have been very kind,’ she said.
‘Remember what?’ Fran asked.
Angelique sighed. ‘Waltho wasn’t alone when he bought La Maison du Paradis. It had been a dream that he shared with his partner.’
‘Partner?’ Sally looked puzzled. ‘I thought you were his partner?’
Angelique laughed. ‘My goodness, no, Arletta is my partner. We live in the village, but she has taken our little boy, Florian, to visit family in Holland.’
‘Then where is Waltho’s partner?’ Sally asked.
Angelique shifted in her chair and pulled at the beads at her throat. Not a sound was heard in the courtyard as hands holding glasses paused, bodies leaned in, and heads tilted to capture her softly spoken words.
‘I’m afraid,’ Angelique had whispered, ‘that Lauren, Waltho’s partner, is dead.’
Angelique’s words echoed in Caroline’s head as she stared out at the garden slowly appearing in the dawn light, and she wondered how on earth she could put things right with Waltho. But as her brain raced, she suddenly saw a figure heading to the pool.
It was Waltho!
Without pausing to check her appearance, nor pick up her bag, she flung open the door to her room and hurried down the stairs. As Caroline headed out to the garden, she knew what she had to do.
* * *
The night had been restless for Waltho and with only a few hours’ sleep, he decided that an early swim would clear his mind and prepare him for the day. He was about to slip out of his robe and dive into the water, when he heard a voice calling out.
‘Waltho, please, wait!’
It was Caroline. Surprised to see her, he noted her appearance was a little dishevelled. She was wearing the same dress she’d worn the night before.
‘I must speak to you,’ she said, her footsteps bringing her closer.
Waltho was puzzled and wondered if Caroline was unwell.
‘Of course,’ he replied and gestured to chairs beside a table. ‘Are you alright?’
‘I am so sorry to disturb you, but I … I must apologise,’ Caroline stammered, nervously running her fingers through her hair.
‘Why, what has happened?’
‘The question I asked last night w… was insensitive, and I didn’t mean to upset you.’
‘You mean…’ Waltho paused as though searching his memory. ‘About the lavender in the garden?’
‘Y… yes, I didn’t know about L… Lauren.’ Caroline looked away, unable to meet Waltho’s eyes. ‘Angelique told us,’ she whispered.
‘Oh, my dear.’ Waltho shook his head. ‘You haven’t upset me, it’s not your fault.’
‘No, please,’ Caroline held up her hand, ‘don’t be kind, I don’t deserve it.’
Waltho sighed.
Staring at Caroline, he realised that she was more troubled than he’d originally thought. He resisted the urge to take her hand and reassure her that she’d done nothing wrong. But, fearing that she’d leave, he knew that he had to relieve her of this misunderstanding.
‘Sometimes, a reminder of Lauren hits me so hard that I have to walk away.’ Waltho turned to study the pool and his gaze lingered on the surface water. ‘It’s no one’s fault, merely my own for not dealing with her death as I should.’
Caroline looked up. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ he quietly replied. ‘Now, I think I do.’
* * *
Waltho told Caroline that he’d met Lauren while studying in London. ‘I was wholly invested in my art and used to browse flea markets in my spare time, searching for inspiration,’ he said.
‘Is that where you met?’ Caroline asked.
‘Yes, Lauren lived in Notting Hill and had a stall on Portobello Market selling antiques and bric-a-brac. When I saw that she had an old paint-covered easel, I stopped to ask its history.’ Wistfully, he smiled. ‘She told me it had belonged to a school and was dated around the 1950s. If I wanted to buy it I’d have to take her out for dinner.’
So began their love affair.
Waltho explained that Lauren, who came from Provence, regularly coaxed a beaten-up old van, laden with stripped pine, Lloyd loom chairs, French trinkets and interesting objets d’art, along the autoroutes and onto a ferry to cross the Channel and offload on her Portobello stall. She sold to the cosmopolitan crowds who flocked in search of a bargain. He admitted that he was fascinated by the confident French woman who encouraged him to paint, even selling some of his work on her stall.
As their love deepened, he told Caroline that he enjoyed accompanying Lauren on her trips. ‘I soon fell in love with France,’ he said. ‘I became fascinated by the antique fairs, where people thronged to grab a bargain and pour over jumble, sourced from forgotten farmhouses and abandoned chateaux.’
‘It sounds magical.’ Caroline was engrossed as he continued his story.
They ate in cafés where fiery salads were served with eggs and anchovy fillets, dressed with pitted green olives, thick balsamic and rich olive oil. Waltho tasted his first tapenade, the black butter of France, and learned how to spread it on freshly baked baguettes, as they sipped pastis and red wine.
‘We planned our future together during those days.’
‘But you had businesses in London?’
‘Yes, I had a successful gallery and Lauren was an antique dealer. We thought we could have a gallery here and run various residential courses. So, we sold up and made enough to buy this property.’ Waltho sat back and folded his arms.
Caroline sensed that he’d come to the end of his story.
‘And of course, you know the rest,’ Waltho concluded, sparing Caroline of further detail.
‘Thank you for telling me,’ Caroline said.
‘Thank you for asking.’
Waltho’s eyes were like dark pools and Caroline was mesmerised. God, he’s attractive! No wonder Lauren had given her all to be with this man.
‘Would it help if you talked too?’ Waltho softly asked.
Caroline felt her breath become shallow in her chest and her heart hammering. Confiding her self-inflicted problems in this gorgeous man was the last thing she wanted to do. He’d think her completely incompetent if she told him of her failures.
Praying that she wasn’t going to have a panic attack, Caroline thrust back her chair.
‘N… no, thank you, I’m fine, really,’ she stammered. ‘As long as you’re alright, that’s all that matters.’ She began to move away. ‘I must get ready for class or I’ll be late.’
Without waiting for Waltho’s reply, Caroline willed her feet to move swiftly. But as she reached the lavender path, an invisible pull made her stop. She turned and to her surprise saw that Waltho was staring at her.
He hadn’t entered the pool.
Feeling overcome that he’d trusted her with his precious memory, Caroline fought the urge to tell him everything. But fearing she was being foolish, she hurried back to her room.