‘It’s my pleasure,’ Julien said. ‘Mymèreand mygrand-mèrewere delighted to see you again. You are all Bonnie and Theo’s grandmothers, which means you are very much a part of our family.’ He led the way from the parking area to the main street of the village. ‘This is the Rue Docteur Cagnoli. Therue principale. You call it the high street?’
‘Aye. I remember this.’
‘Everybody does, if they’ve been here before. It’s the only village that has agargouillelike this. A little canal.’
The ripple of the fast-moving water in the channel that divided the cobbled street felt like it was sweeping Jeannie back in time. So much so, she could imagine she was holding the hand of the man she was so much in love with, her other hand resting on her rounded belly. She’d been so incredibly happy that day. Enjoying a dream honeymoon, with so much to look forward to when she and Gordon returned to Scotland to prepare for the birth of their first child.
The pain of what had been lost was enough to bring the threat of tears to her eyes. Hastily, Jeannie distracted herself from sinking any further into the past.
‘Why did they build it?’ she asked. ‘Do you know? And where does the water come from so fast?’
‘I believe it comes from a mountain spring and I’ve heard that it was built about the fifteenth century, in case of fires in the town.’
That made sense. And perhaps it had been a success, because some of those medieval houses still existed on this narrow, sloping street that was crowded with various shops, restaurants and businesses. At a fork in the road, a curious house filled the middle of the Y shape. It had a big front door, with an alcove above it that contained a small religious statue. An arrow was painted on the wall as a direction to anéglise– possibly the church whose bells Jeannie had heard chiming the hour a little while ago. It took her a moment to realise what was odd about the house was that the second storey, with its green-shuttered windows, was bigger than the ground floor.
‘It’s calledLa Maison du Coiffeur,’ Julien told her. ‘The hairdresser’s house. It’s a famous example of how a tax could be avoided because it was counted by how much ground the house stood on.’ He shook his head. ‘Times haven’t changed so much, no? People still hate paying a tax.’
Jeannie made a sound of agreement. There were definitely things that didn’t change over time. Including people? Why did she feel the need to try and find the truth of why her husband, her children’s father, had left them? Perhaps Laura was right in not wanting any part of this search. What if she discovered that Gordon had never been the man she thought he’d been? That he’d become so unhappy he’d simply moved on? That he had another family here in France… And another wife?
It was enough to make her look over her shoulder at the street she’d just come down. She could simply turn around and go back, couldn’t she?
Or maybe not.
‘The gallery is just down here, on the right,’ Julien said. ‘We discovered it when we were walking back from visiting the church…’ His glance at Jeannie was a little wary. ‘…where Ellie’s grandparents got married? Her father’s parents?’
Jeannie gave a single nod. She knew. She’d been to see it herself nearly forty years ago. Her breath came out in a sigh as she remembered wishing that they had got married in the pretty church in Gordon’s childhood village instead of a registry office in Scotland.
‘It was important for her to come here,’ Julien added quietly. ‘It connected her to the French heritage she hadn’t known she had.’
No. She couldn’t change her mind now. Coming here today was important for herself. If this was a dead end, she needed to know, or it would haunt her for the rest of her life.
‘It’s an odd thing, that kind of connection.’ It was Julien who spoke first. ‘It seems like something unconscious. Like the way a bird knows how to build a nest?’
Jeannie nodded again. Itwassomething at a cellular level. She’d felt that strange, deep touch when she’d first seen the painting hanging in La Maisonette.
Maybe Julien was reading her thoughts.
‘I know Ellie is worried about what you might find out here but… I can’t help wondering if the reason she felt so strongly about that painting is because of a connection she had no way of knowing was there. That itwaspainted by her father.’
They were outside the gallery now. There were several paintings in the window but none of them were done in that choppy, three-dimensional technique. Were there any like the mountain chapel in the summer meadow inside? Jeannie’s mouth felt very dry but she straightened her spine. She had to do this.
‘Ah… Docteur Rousseau! Quel plaisir de vous revoir.’ The woman in the gallery was clearly happy to see Julien again. ‘Bienvenue…Comment puis-je vous aider aujourd’hui?’
A rapid conversation in French followed that Jeannie couldn’t understand. There was quite a lot of the kind of Gallic shrugging and facial expressions that suggested the answer to a question was not known or, perhaps, shouldn’t be divulged but, finally, the woman found a scrap of paper and began drawing what looked like a map.
‘She hasn’t seen him for months and she can’t tell me much more than she did when I first came here. Except that, while everyone calls himl’ermite– the ’ermit – his real name is Gideon.’
Jeannie could feel the blood draining from her face as the shiver ran the entire length of her spine.
‘And this’ – Julien showed her the map – ‘is where he lives.’ He lifted his eyebrows. ‘It’s not too far away. Do you want to go there?’
Finding words was impossible. It was obviously more than a coincidence that the name Gideon was almost the same as Gordon. Her heart was hammering against her ribs but Jeannie pressed her lips together and nodded decisively.
* * *
Brown-and-white cows, wearing collars and bells, looked up with only mild curiosity as Julien drove past the signage on the main entrance to a farm that advertised itself as avacherie.
‘It is also afromagerie,’ Julien told Jeannie. ‘They supply milk from their cows but they also make their own cheeses. We need to find the next road, which will take us to the old stables.’
