Invitation to Provence(44)
Everything in this house must have a memory, she thought, touching the exquisite little rosewood table inlaid with garlands of a pale wood—every chair, every table, even the faded green brocade sofas. If only walls could speak, these surely would have quite a story to tell, of family gatherings, birthdays, christenings, weddings, fights, and love affairs. She wondered what could have happened to divide such a family.
Haigh had left them alone, the wind had dropped, and in the silence they heard the clatter of hooves. Suddenly the French doors burst open and the wind shrieked in again, sending the curtains billowing and snuffing out all the candles. In the swirling gray mist a black horse with a caped and hooded rider galloped past.
“I’ll bet it’s a ghost,” Clare said, hurrying to shut the doors. “This place is like Sleepy Hollow.”
A moment later the doors from the hall were flung open and their “ghost” stood there, dripping water from his long Drizabone-oil-proofed cape, the kind Australian ranchers wore to keep out the rain. He swept off his broad-brimmed hat, sending a small torrent onto the Aubusson rug, and gave them a beaming smile.
“Hi,” he said in a very unghostly Aussie accent. “I’m Scott Harris, Rafaella’s winemaker. I hope you’re all okay. This is quite a storm.”
Franny and Clare took a second look. He was tall and lean, with a tanned face and sandy hair that stood up in damp spikes where he’d pulled off his hat. Clare grinned and nudged Franny. “Hey girl,” she whispered, “salt-of-the-earth type, remember?”
“Sorry ladies,” Scott said with that sunny smile, “but the power won’t be reconnected till morning. It’s candlelight for all of us tonight.”
Since Franny seemed to have been struck dumb, Clare introduced herself. “I’m Clare Marks,” she said, shaking his damp hand, “and this is Franny Marten, and the little one is Shao Lan Ching Marten.”
“The family reunited,” Scott said, as Haigh appeared to take his wet coat. “I’m very glad to meet you all,” Scott added, going over and shaking Franny’s hand. Shao Lan hid her face in the toy lamb. He knelt next to her and took her hands gently in his. “Hey, pretty girl, don’t be afraid. It’s just a storm,” he said. Over his head, Franny’s eyes met Clare’s, and they smiled.
Unnoticed, Rafaella stood in the doorway, watching them. The dogs crouched next to her, stunned into silence by the unusual sight of people in the salon. The child was the first one to notice her. She stared at her with those deep-blue Marten eyes, sending a thrill through Rafaella. Her granddaughter was so small and skinny and frightened, and she loved her already. She smiled back at her, but again Shao Lan hid behind the woolly lamb.
Rafaella looked at the tall woman with the long blond hair and knew she must be Franny. But what a beauty she was with that sweep of pale gold hair and her lovely peachy skin. There was an otherworldly quality about her too, a vulnerability and an unexpected gentleness. She was tall and lean, like the Martens, but her lack of style was definitely not inherited.
And the dark woman was her friend Clare. An interesting face, Rafaella thought, studying her, a sleek, self-assured, modern beauty, or at least that’s the impression she gave. But beneath that smooth veneer Rafaella caught a hint of something else. Sadness, perhaps? They were young though and lovely, and with all of life in front of them, and she sighed, remembering how quickly those years went by.
Refusing to lean on her stick, she stood tall and proud, gorgeous in her red chiffon and her rubies, with the flowers in her hair. “Bonsoir, mes chères amies,” she said in her low, sweet voice. “Welcome to the Chateau des Roses Sauvages.” They swung round to look at her and she smiled. “I must apologize for the terrible storm and the lack of electricity. Meanwhile, I trust Haigh has been looking after you.”
Scott hurried to help her with an arm under her elbow. He kissed her cheek and whispered, “You look drop-dead gorgeous,” making her laugh as she walked into the room.
Her eyes met Franny’s and it was as if a bond stretched between them, across decades, centuries, continents, a recognition of two souls, united by a past Franny had never known. Rafaella gave a soft sigh of relief—it was going to be all right after all. “I’m so happy to meet you, Franny,” she said.
“And I am happy to meet you, Aunt Rafaella,” she replied.
“Then kiss me, child,” she said, putting her arms around her and holding her tight.
She stepped back and took Franny’s chin in her hand, searching her face. “You have your grandfather’s smile,” she said. “He was a handsome man, you know, and you, ma chérie, are a lovely woman.”
Blushing, Franny introduced Clare. “Another beauty,” Rafaella said, smiling. “Welcome to my home, Clare. I hope you will enjoy your stay. When the storm is over you will see how fortunate I am to live in such a lovely place.”
Finally, she turned to her granddaughter. Shao Lan had dropped the lamb and was staring back at her, looking very puzzled. “Shao Lan,” she said gently, “I am your French grandmother, here to welcome you.” But the child’s eyes darted anxiously past her and somehow Rafaella knew she was looking for her “real” grandmother.
She took her hand and went to sit in the big leather wing chair by the fire. She knew Shao Lan spoke some English, and she turned her to face her. Speaking slowly and clearly, she said, “Look at me, Shao Lan. I know your grandmother Bao Chu is in Shanghai and that you love her very much. But every little girl has two grandmothers. Bao Chu is your Chinese grandmother and I am your French grandmother. Your papa was my son. Do you understand, ma petite?” The child stood silently, apparently not understanding. Rafaella continued, “I am going to call you Little Blue and you shall sit next to me at dinner. You may eat whatever you choose and leave whatever you do not like. Do you agree to that?”