She set the table for him, and they chatted for a long time.

He was from Paris, and had lived in England briefly as a child, and then come back to France. And after they had talked for a while, he said that his little boy had been four years old when he died in the fire. He said he thought he would never recover from it, and he hadn't in some ways. He had never remarried, and admitted that he led a solitary life. But he didn't seem like a morose sort of man, and he made Marie-Ange laugh much of the time.

They left each other at ten o'clock, after he had made sure that there were clean sheets on the bed in the master suite. He made no overtures to her, did nothing inappropriate, wished her a good night, and disappeared to the guest suite on the opposite side of the house.

But it was harder than she thought sleeping in her parents' bed, and thinking about them, and to get there, she had walked past her own room, and Robert's. Her head and heart were full of them all through the night.





Chapter 8




When Marie-Ange came down for breakfast the next day, after making her bed, she looked tired.

“How did you sleep?” he asked with a look of concern. He was drinking café au lait, and reading the paper Alain had bought him in town.

“Oh … I have a lot of memories here, I guess,” she said thoughtfully, thinking that she shouldn't disturb him more than she had, and that she could get breakfast in town.

“I was afraid of that. I thought about it last night,” he said, as he poured her a huge cup of café au lait. “These things take time.”

“It's been ten years,” she said, sipping the coffee, and thinking of Robert's clandestine canards.

“But you've never come back here,” he said sensibly. “That is bound to be hard. Would you like to go for a walk in the woods today, or visit the farm?”

“No, you're very kind,” she smiled, “I should drive back to Paris today.” There was no point staying here anymore. She had had one night to touch her memories, but it was his house now, and time for her to move on.

“Do you have appointments in Paris?” he asked comfortably. “Or do you simply feel you ought to go?”

She smiled as she nodded, as he silently admired her long blond hair, but she saw nothing frightening in his eyes. The idea that she had spent a night alone in the house with him would have shocked most people, she knew, but it had been so chaste, and so harmless, and so polite.

“I think you ought to have time to enjoy your house, without a stranger camping out in your master suite,” she said with serious eyes as she looked at him. ‘You've been very kind, Monsieur le Comte, but I have no right to be here anymore.”

“You have every right to be here, as my guest. In fact, if you have the time, I would love your advice, and the benefit of your memory, to tell me exactly how the house was before. Do you have time for that?” In fact, she had nothing but time on her hands, and she couldn't believe his enormous kindness to her, in inviting her to stay on.

“Are you sure?” she asked him honestly.

“Very sure. And I would much prefer it if you called me Bernard.”

Before lunch, they took a walk in the fields, and she told him precisely how everything had been, as they walked all the way to the farm, and then he called Alain to pick them up, so he didn't wear her out walking back.

She went into town to buy groceries and bought several excellent bottles of wine for him, to thank him for his incredible hospitality. And this time, when she suggested she cook dinner for them, he offered to take her out. That night he took her to a cozy bistro nearby, which hadn't been there ten years before, and they had a very good time. He had a thousand tales to tell, and an easy way of speaking to her, as though they were old friends. He was a very charming, amusing, intelligent man.

They parted company outside her parents' room again, and this time, when she climbed into bed, she fell asleep at once. And the next day, when she got up, she told him a little more strenuously that she thought she should move on.

“I must have done something to offend you then,” he said, pretending to look wounded, and then smiled. “I told you, I would be so grateful for your help if you'd stay, Marie-Ange.” It was crazy. She had literally moved into the house with him, a complete stranger who had landed on him. And in spite of her embarrassment, which he dispelled easily, he didn't seem to mind.

“But won't you stay through next weekend?” he asked pleasantly. “I'm giving a dinner party, and I would love to introduce you to some friends. They'd be fascinated by what you know of Mar-mouton. One of them is the architect who is going to draw up my remodeling plans. I'd appreciate it so much if you'd stay. In fact, I don't know why you're leaving at all. There's no need for you to rush back to Paris. You said yourself you have time.”

“Aren't you tired of me yet?” She looked worried for a minute, and then smiled. He was so convincing about wanting her to hang around, almost as though he'd been expecting her, and didn't mind at all that she had taken over the master suite and invaded his house. He treated her like an expected houseguest and good friend, instead of the intruder she was.

“Why would I be tired of you? What a silly thing to say. You're charming company, and you've helped me immeasurably, explaining to me about the house.” She had even showed him a secret passage that she and Robert had loved, and he was fascinated by it. Even Alain hadn't known about it, and he had grown up at the farm. “Now, will you stay? If you must go, which I don't believe at all, at least put it off until after the weekend.”

“Are you quite sure you don't want me to go?”

“On the contrary, not at all. I want you to stay, Marie-Ange.”

She continued to buy groceries for him, and he cooked for her. They went back to the same bistro again, and then she cooked for him the next night. And by the time the weekend came, they had become old friends. They bantered easily in the morning over their café au lait, he discussed politics with her, and explained to her what had been going on in France. He told her about the people he knew, the friends he liked best, asked her about her family at length, and now and then reminisced about his late wife and son. He told her he had worked for a bank, and was now doing consulting work, which gave him a remarkable amount of free time. And he had worked so hard for so many years, and been so devastated after he lost his wife and son, that he was finally enjoying taking a break from the rat race for a while. It all sounded very sensible to Marie-Ange.

And by the time she'd been there a week, she decided to call Billy from the post office, just to tell him where she was. She called him from the telephone cabine, because she didn't want to make a transtlantic call on Bernard's phone.

“Guess where I am!” she chorded excitedly the moment Billy came to the phone.

“Let me guess. Paris. At the Sorbonne.” He was still hoping she'd come back to finish college in Iowa, and he felt a flicker of disappointment to think that she might have enrolled at the Sorbonne.

“Better than that. Guess again.” She loved teasing him, and had missed talking to him since she'd been gone.

“I give up,” he said easily.

“I'm in Marmouton. Staying at the chateau.”

“Have they turned it into a hotel?” He sounded pleased for her, and he hadn't heard her sound that happy in a long time. She sounded rested and content, and at peace with her memories. He was glad she had gone to Marmouton after all.

“No, it's still a private house. There's a terribly nice man living there, and he let me stay.”

“Does he have a family?” Billy sounded concerned, and she laughed at the tone of his voice.

“He did. He lost his wife and son in a fire.”

“Recently?”

“Ten years ago,” she said confidently. She knew she had nothing to fear from Bernard. He had proven himself ever since she'd arrived, and she trusted him as her friend. But it was hard to explain that to Billy over the phone. It was just something she felt, and she trusted her instincts about the man.

“How old is he?”

“He's forty,” she said, as though he were a hundred years old. And compared to her, he was.

“Marie-Ange, that's dangerous,” Billy scolded her sensibly. “You're living alone at the chateau with a forty-year-old widower? What exactly is going on?”

“We're friends. I'm helping him remodel the house, by telling him how it used to be.”

“Why can't you stay at a hotel?”

“Because I'd rather stay at the chateau, and he wants me there. He says it will save him a lot of time.”

“I think you're taking a hell of a chance,” Billy said, sounding worried. “What if he jumps on you, or makes a pass at you? You're alone with him in the house.”

“He's not going to do that, I promise you. And he has friends coming down for the weekend.” On the one hand he was pleased for her, but on the other, Billy thought she was being very foolish to trust the man. But the more he said, the more she laughed at him, and she was suddenly sounding very French.

“Just be careful, for God's sake. You don't even know who he is, except that he's living in your old house. That's not enough.”

“He's a very respectable man.” She was quick to defend Bernard.

“There's no such thing,” Billy said suspiciously, but she sounded happy and independent, and so pleased to be back home. And it was obvious to both of them, from what she said, and so evidently felt, that to her it was still home. She told him about Sophie's letters then, and he said he wasn't surprised. It sounded like just the kind of thing her Aunt Carole would have done. “Anyway, be careful, and let me know how you are.”

“I will. But don't worry about me, Billy. I'm fine.” And he could certainly hear that she was. “I miss you.” That was true, and he missed her too. And now more than ever, he was worried about her.

She went back to the chateau, and that night she and Bernard went out again. And the following morning, his friends arrived. They were a lively group, the women were sophisticated and fashionable, and all of them were well dressed, and extremely nice to Marie-Ange. Bernard explained who she was, and that she and her family had lived at the chateau when she was a child. One of the men recognized her name, and knew of her father's enterprise. He commented that John Hawkins had been an extremely respected and successful man. She told Bernard how her parents had met, and he was touched by it, but even more impressed by what his friend had said about her father's success in exporting wines. And she realized that men were more intrigued by business than romance.

It was an idyllic weekend for all of them, and when she packed her bags after the weekend, Bernard begged her not to go. But she knew she had been there long enough, and had told him all she could about the chateau. It was definitely time for her to leave, and she wanted to visit the Sorbonne, but she would cherish the memory of the ten days she had spent at Marmouton with him, and she thanked him profusely before she left, and was touched when he kissed her on both cheeks and told her how sad he was to see her go.

She drove back to Paris that day, and had dinner alone at her hotel, thinking of him, and the days she had just spent in what had once been her family's chateau. It was a precious gift Bernard had given her, and she was deeply grateful to him. The next day, she wrote him a long thank-you note, as she sat at the Deux Magots. She mailed it that night. In the morning she went to the Sorbonne to see about classes. She still hadn't decided whether to enroll, or go back to Iowa to finish her last year of college there. And she was thinking seriously about it, as she took a walk along the Boulevard Saint-Germain that afternoon to decide what to do, and ran smack into Bernard de Beauchamp on her way back to her hotel.

“What are you doing here?” she asked with a look of surprise. “I thought you were staying in Marmouton?”

“I was,” he said sheepishly. “But I came to Paris to see you. The place was like a tomb once you left.” She was touched and flattered by what he said, and assumed he had other things to do in town, but she was as happy to see him as he was to see her.

He took her to Lucas Carton for dinner that night, and Chez Laurent the next day for lunch, and she told him all about her visit to the Sorbonne. And he begged her to come back to Marmouton with him, for a few days at least, and after resisting for as long as she thought reasonable, she finally packed her bags and went. She had given up her rented car by then, and drove back down to Marmouton with him, and was amazed by how much she enjoyed his company, and how much there always was to say. They were never bored for an instant talking to each other, and when they reached Marmouton, she felt as though she had come home.