Page 8 of Liaison with the Champagne Count
‘Publicly,mon fils. I know you’ve been with me, even when you were a schoolboy in England and living with yourtanteand I, you were beside me. But I want everyone toseeus together. When we reclaim the land and the chateau, I want it to beourvictory.’ Oncle Etienne gave him a fond smile. ‘That settles it. You can wash up and change into the spare things you keep here. We’ll leave in an hour. The meeting is at Charles Tremblay’s. He wants to show off his new carriage horses and his improvements on his stables. Pompous braggart.’ Hisonclerolled his eyes and then gave a sly smile. ‘At least he sets a good table for luncheon,non? We’ll get a taste of that red he’s always talking about.’
Julien laughed. Sometimes it was hard to tell if hisonclethought the growers’ consortiumwerefriends or foes. The line was thin and often crossed and recrossed. Still, there was something comforting about knowing if there was trouble,realtrouble like blight or drought or, heaven forbid, fire, the other growers would be there to support them. The consortium had celebrated with them when hisgrandpèrehad bought back the first of the acreage several years ago, some of them having been in the same situation not long before. They’d been there for them when his father had died, supplying them with enough workers to get the harvest in. If Charles Tremblay wanted to brag about his horses, he’d probably earned the right.
‘I’ll be ready, Oncle. I just need to send a note to Richet and let him know I’ll be gone until tomorrow.’ He had no illusions about ‘lunch’ at Tremblay’s. The meeting would run well into the evening once they’d eaten and admired the man’s stables, drank his wine, and then finally got down to business. They wouldn’t be back to the farmhouse until evening, and he wouldn’t risk his horse’s legs on a pothole in the dark. Better to sleep over and ride home in the daylight. It would be safer, and it would give Madame Luce time to take stock. Perhaps hisonclewas right. If she could see first-hand the enormity of running the chateau, it may go a long way toward her realising she was no match for it. This way, it would be her decision to step back.
Chapter Six
Richet took a step back from the breakfast table, his note delivered. ‘Monsieur Archambeau will be away until tomorrow,’ he informed her, making it unnecessary for her to read the note and making it clear that he’d read it before passing it on to her.
She fixed themaître d’hôtelwith a strong stare. ‘Do you make it a habit of reading your mistress’s mail before she does?’ Or reading it at all. Reading it after her probably wouldn’t make things any better. It wasn’t his business, regardless.
Richet had the good form to at leastlookscandalised. His brows went up and his long face gave a strong facsimile of shock. ‘Absolutelynot,madame.Mon Dieu, what sort ofmaître d’hôteldo you take me for?’
His disbelief was so creditably done she felt for a moment that she’d been the one in the wrong. ‘I thought perhaps it was a French thing?’
Richet drew himself up to his full height, an impressive six feet, almost as tall as Monsieur Archambeau, she thought. ‘I only read my mail,madame.’ He nodded to the note in her hand. ‘If you look at the outside, you’ll see that it is addressed to me.’
Emma turned the note over, a slow horror dawning as she realised herfaux pas, and something else, too. ‘Monsieur Archambeau left word with you?’ But not with her. He’d preferred to tell themaître d’hôtelhis schedule but not to inform her? It was a most implicit snub. She scanned the note again, looking for a line that indicated Richet was expected to pass the information on to her, but there was nothing. Archambeau had written explicitly to Richet. It was only through Richet’s kindness inchoosingto share the message with her that she knew. Her cheeks flamed with her error. Emma squared her shoulders. ‘I owe you an apology. I should not have assumed.’ Should not have assumed she couldn’t trust her staff’s own loyalty. Should not have assumed she’d be treated as an outsider despite Monsieur Archambeau’s attempts to do just that last night.
‘It is no problem,madame.’ Richet bowed and left her to finish her breakfast in penitent silence. She needed to do better. Monsieur Archambeau had put her on edge and in doing so, she’d not thought clearly, rationally. These were Garrett’s people. People hired by him to see to the running of his home. Her home now. She may not know them the way Monsieur Archambeau did, but she did know Garrett. Garrett meant the chateau to be a place of refuge and recovery, a place to start her life anew. He would not leave her among enemies. Garrett had Richet’s loyalty. That meant, she, as Garrett’s wife, did, too. Yet Monsieur Archambeau respected Richet.
Of course. It was obvious. Monsieur Archambeau had her so on edge, she’d forgotten one of her father’s most fundamental rules: if one wanted to fully understand a situation, one had to look at it from the viewpoints of others, not just one’s own. How difficult this must be for Richet, to be torn between the two of them. If she wanted to be upset with anyone, it should be Monsieur Archambeau for snubbing her. She finished her breakfast and set aside her napkin. Well, lesson learned. There was nothing to do but move forward. She would allow this knowledge to inform her upcoming meetings this morning with the housekeeper and with Cook. She would also let it shape her choices. She had today and tomorrow to herself without the risk of Monsieur Archambeau’s interference. It was the perfect time to familiarise herself with the house. It occurred to her that though she might have been here before, visiting did not equate with knowledge. To be an effective mistress of her home, she needed to know it. She’d meet with Mrs Dormand and Cook, then she’d change into clothes that would allow her to get to know her home more intimately, another lesson learned from her father.
One day and a whirlwind later, Emma was feeling much more at home. She’d spent the time cleaning, getting to know her new house, and most of all, she’d spent it dreaming of the life she’d create here. It would be a life of acceptance where the origins of her family’s fortune didn’t matter. Where people would come to her gracious home for tea and cards, garden parties and picnics, and not look down their noses at her. They would get to know her without her antecedents preceding her.
It was the type of acceptance she’d always dreamed of, of being part of the district. It was an acceptance she’d experienced in some small part as Garrett’s wife. There’d been authentic acceptance within Garrett’s circle of friends; Adam and Fleur, Antonia and Keir, people Garrett trusted with his life. Then there’d been the verisimilitude of acceptance among those in Society who’d recognised they could not entirely ignore Sir Garrett and Lady Luce. The Luces had piles of moneyanda title. But she and Garrett had been honest with each other about the foundations of that acceptance. They could laugh at Society, they could let Society have its foibles, because they’d had each other. She’d been alone no longer.
Here, in the middle of the French countryside, itwouldbe different, and Emma could hardly wait. She polished silver, imagining the teas she would give, imagining walking through the gardens, her arm looped through that of a new friend’s as they laughed together. She rubbed at a smudge on a teapot and laughed at herself. If she had an Achilles heel it would be sating her hunger for acceptance in the form of true friendships that weren’t contingent on her money or where it came from. She would prove herself worthy of acceptance on her own merits. She would prove herself in the wine business. Here, there would be no spoiled debutantes like Amelia St James to look down at her, no lords like the Earl of Redmond who flirted with her money but shunned her behind her back. Yes, here it would be different. Garrett had given her a fresh start with his last gift.
Emma hummed to herself, tucking a loose curl underneath her kerchief as she stirred the pot of soup on the stove. She breathed in the herb-scented steam with satisfaction. There was nothing like creamy chicken corn chowder on a cold, damp night, especially when it was made with barley and garnished with sage and bacon. Best of all, she’d made it herself. She loved cooking, an activity her father had encouraged when she was growing up and one that Garrett had enjoyed the fruits of on the nights they’d chosen to stay in, just the two of them. She’d worked on this soup all afternoon, checking it between other sundry chores that had been self-assigned. Cook had been scandalised at the suggestion she make her own food, but when Emma had offered to give Cook the day off to visit her daughter’s family and new grandbaby in the village, Cook had been far more accepting.
People had their pride. One must always be conscious of that. Mrs Dormand had been wary, too, when Emma had told her she wanted to do some chores. She’d had her own degree of scandal when Emma had shown up in a plain blue work dress and apron, a kerchief on her head, ready to sort linens and polish silver after a tour of the house from top to bottom.‘I will not be a tourist in my own home, Mrs Dormand,’Emma had said strictly.
When put that way, Mrs Dormand seemed to understand. The best way to know a place was to be a part of its inner workings. It was also the best way to appreciate a place. Beautiful meals in a candlelit dining room didn’t materialise out of thin air. There were laundresses that ensured the pristine quality of the white cloth, footmen who polished the silver and set the immaculate table, kitchen staff who saw to the cooking and plating of the meal. There were no happy accidents, as her father liked to say. That reminded her, she would need to write to her parents and let them know she’d arrived. They worried about her. In truth, they had not quite understood why she wanted to go to France instead of coming home to them and her family’s business. Her father would always see her as his little girl even though she was twenty-seven. That was the main reason she couldn’t go home again. She needed to be more. More than her father’s bookkeeper, her parents’ little girl. It would be her brothers who took over the business when her father retired. Her efforts would gain her naught. She knew her father simply wanted to protect her, but she didn’t want to be protected.
Emma dipped a wooden spoon into the pot and tasted the soup. Delicious. She set the spoon aside and began to lay out her supper things on the worktable, a wooden bowl, a board for the bread, the crock of pale country butter. There was a half bottle of red wine left from the previous night and she thought, why not spoil herself in celebration of all she’d accomplished? She’d just set a goblet down beside her plate when she heard boots in the corridor, followed by a raised voice, its tone not unpleasant. ‘Richet? Petit?’ Monsieur Archambeau was back. Some of her hard-won calm satisfaction faded. But not all of it. She wasnotgoing to let him put her on edge in her own home.
The door to the kitchen swung open, ‘Petit, where is—’ His speech halted with his step when he saw her, surprise momentarily stymying him, some of his own casual ebullience evaporating. ‘Bonsoir, Madame Luce. What are you doing here? Where is everyone?’ The furrow that was all too commonplace on his brow returned as his gaze lingered on her clothes, her kerchief, and the idea that she was in the kitchen while Petit was nowhere to be found.
‘I’ve given Petit the day off to visit her daughter and the others a half day. We’ve all been working very hard while you’ve been gone.’ She still hadn’t quite forgiven him for only informing Richet of his absence.
‘You’ve been working?’ He sauntered forward, taking an appreciative sniff. ‘Did you make this? It smells good.’Hesmelled good, all cold spring wind and the fresh manly scent of neroli; citrus and bitter orange mixed with spices and honey. The scent gave her pause. The dusty-booted working man she’d met two days ago paid attention to such things? Certainly, the man in evening dress would, but who was the real Monsieur Archambeau? The man in evening dress or the man who’d come in from the land?
‘Yes, I like to cook.’ She wiped her hands on her apron, trying to remember her lessons; to see things from another’s point of view. Where were her manners? ‘Would you like to join me?’ She couldn’t learn about him if she avoided him. She reached for another bowl and glass.
‘I wouldn’t mind, thank you.’ He pulled a stool up to the worktable with ease as if he’d eaten here before, the gesture more reminiscent of a worker than a gentleman. ‘Is this what you’re drinking?’ He held up the bottle of red and shook his head. ‘It’s all wrong for this soup. It’s too heavy. We need apinot noirif we want red wine with chicken, a chardonnay if we want white.’ He got off the stool. ‘I’ll be right back.’ He disappeared and returned momentarily carrying a bottle in each hand. ‘One white, one red,’ he announced and set about uncorking them. ‘If you mean to live in France, you’ll have to learn your wines, although Richet has an impeccable nose. You can rely on him.’
‘Heisreliable,’ Emma said drily. ‘He showed me your note. Thanks to him, I knew where you were.’ She waited but he said nothing. ‘You could have written to me,’ she said bluntly. ‘Youshouldhave written to me as well.’
‘Why? You knew where I was. I was out conducting estate business with the district growers.’ He flashed her a short smile, unbothered by her attempt at censure, and poured her a glass of white. ‘Let me show you how to taste. It’s all about the three S’s: swirl, smell, and sip.’ He walked her through the process. ‘Now try the red.’
Audacity came naturally to this man. Emma fought the temptation to give vent to her annoyance. An employee that came and went at will? Without so much as a by your leave? She drew a deep breath instead and searched for an alternative explanation for his behaviour. Why would he think to ask permission? The answer was obvious: he’d never had to ask before. Garrett hadn’t been here to oversee his activities. Garrett had in fact relied on this man to organise his day as he saw fit, building relationships for the chateau out in the community. She reached for the red and set aside her animosity.
He strode to the cupboard and retrieved another set of goblets. ‘Now try the red you selected.’ He poured her a small amount and she sipped with a grimace. Archambeau chuckled. ‘See, it’s too strong. If you want to serve a red wine with a chicken chowder, it’s best to have a red with low tannins.’
‘I think I prefer the white, after all,’ Emma laughed and he poured her a full glass. She ladled the steaming soup into their bowls. He reached for the loaf of bread on the board and began to slice. A sense of calm domesticity permeated the kitchen as they worked, performing the simple tasks of dishing up dinner. It was a different atmosphere than the one that had imbued their supper in the dining room. This was a far friendlier setting. But she was aware that could change on a word, or a tone.Play nice, she reminded herself.
‘This is good,’ he complimented after a spoonful. ‘It’s very filling and the seasoning is well balanced.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘Which is unusual for English cooking. It’s not known for its careful seasoning.’
