At The French Baron's Bidding

And, despite her first inclination to refuse, Natasha had known she had to come. After all, notwithstanding the past, now that both her parents were dead Natasha was the old lady’s only living relative.

After Henri had exclaimed, with a tear in his eye, at seeing her again, all grown up, thrilled that she’d remembered his name, Natasha followed him up the stone staircase, amazed at how much she recognized. Over twenty years had elapsed since her last visit to Normandy, but so much felt familiar: the scents, the light pouring through the tall windows and bathing the muted walls, the echo of her heels resonating on the well-trodden steps. And something else that she couldn’t quite identify.

‘Madame is waiting for you upstairs in the small salon,’ Henri pronounced in stentorian tones.

‘Then I had better go to her at once.’ Natasha smiled again, her green eyes sparkling with amusement. The situation was so dreadfully formal, as though she’d walked into another time and place.

With a small bow the butler led the way slowly up the wide staircase. Natasha realized that he suffered from arthritis and found the climb difficult. She was about to suggest that he simply tell her where the salon was and she would find it herself when she realized that would be a grave breach of etiquette. Henri, who had worked here all his life, would not take kindly to any deviation from the rigorous habits her grandmother kept.

Soon they stopped before a white and gold door. Henri knocked, then gently opened it. ‘She awaits you,’ he pronounced in a hushed tone.

Natasha swallowed. Suddenly this didn’t seem quite as simple as she’d imagined it would when she was back in Khartoum. She was a compassionate person by nature, but the drastic way her grandmother had cut her own son out of her life had made Natasha distrustful of the older woman, whom she barely recalled.

Then, knowing she must get on with it, Natasha gathered up her courage and stepped through the door that Henri was holding open and into the high-ceilinged, shaded room. It took a moment or two for her eyes to adjust to the half-light. Then she gazed over at the tiny white-haired figure shrouded under a silk coverlet on an antique pink-velvet day-bed under the window.

‘Ah, mon enfant, finally you have arrived.’

The voice was a thin whisper and, despite her initial instinctive desire to hold back, Natasha’s natural empathy asserted itself. Instead of the grandmother who’d rejected her and her family for most of her life, she saw instead a feeble old lady in need of help. Quickly she approached.

‘Yes, Grandmère. I am here.’

‘At last.’ The old lady turned her once beautiful, fine-boned features towards Natasha, the pale blue eyes searching. ‘Come here, child, and sit next to me. I have waited so long for you to come.’

‘I know. But I couldn’t get away before. We have a humanitarian crisis on our hands right now,’ she explained, perching her tall, slim figure gingerly on the edge of a spindly gilded chair.

‘Never mind. The main thing is that you are here now. Henri.’ The querulous voice had not lost its authoritarian tone. ‘Le thé, s’il-vous-plaît.’

‘Tout de suite, madame.’

With another little bow Henri retired, closing the door behind him.

‘Are you sure he can manage?’ Natasha asked, glancing doubtfully at the closed door.

‘Manage? Of course Henri can manage,’ the old lady responded peremptorily, straightening herself against the cushions with determination. ‘He has been managing since before the war, when he came here as assistant aide de cuisine. But enough of that.’ The old lady waved a delicate white bejewelled hand. ‘Tell me about yourself, child. It has been too long. Far too long.’ She let out a tremulous sigh. ‘I am to blame for that, I know. But it is too late for regrets.’ Her eyes rested on Natasha as though assessing her. Even though she was physically fragile, there was nothing weak about the old lady. Clearly she had all her faculties about her.

‘Well, there’s nothing much to tell. When I finished school I went to university. But when my parents died three years ago in the car crash, I just wanted to get away as far as I could, so I dropped out. That’s when the job in Africa came up.’ She shrugged, bit her lip. ‘It seemed the right thing to do.’

‘And are you happy in your work?’ Her grandmother eyed her piercingly.

‘Yes. I am. It’s very exhausting, and emotionally harrowing, but it’s also terribly rewarding.’

The old lady nodded. ‘You are a good and compassionate person. Unlike me,’ she added with a bitter laugh. ‘I was always more concerned about my own well-being than that of others. Now I’ve paid the price for my selfish behaviour.’ She let out another long sigh and closed her eyes.

Natasha hesitated. Part of her was still reticent, remembering her father’s sorrow and her mother’s sense of guilt at having estranged the man she loved from his family. There was no denying that it was hard to shove a lifetime’s grievances under the carpet and pretend that all was well. Still, she didn’t want the past to affect the future.

‘Grandmère, we all make mistakes in life.’

‘That we do.’ The old lady nodded. ‘I wonder, is it possible for you to forgive me for all the harm I have done to your family, Natasha? I wish so deeply now that I had been more enlightened, that I had not estranged my dearest Hubert as I did.’

Natasha hesitated, saw the flicker of hope in the elderly woman’s eyes, and her heart went out to her. ‘Of course, Grandmère. Let’s look towards the future, and not into the past.’

‘Ah.’ The old lady rested her hand on Natasha’s and smiled a frail yet gentle smile. ‘I was right to have you come. Very right indeed.’ She laid her fingers over Natasha’s and two women sat thus for several minutes, a new bond forming between them.

Then a knock at the door announced Henri with the tea, and the spell was broken. Natasha jumped up to open the door while her grandmother issued imperative orders regarding the placement of the tea tray. She might be old, Natasha realized, a smile hovering, but she had all her wits about her and her authority still stood strong.

An hour later they had sipped tea, exchanged stories, and the old lady was obviously very tired.

‘I’ll leave you and unpack,’ Natasha said, rising.

‘Yes, mon enfant. That is a good idea. I’m afraid I won’t join you for dinner, but Henri will see to you. Come and say goodnight, won’t you?’

‘Very well.’ Natasha bent down and dropped a light kiss on her grandmother’s withered cheek. ‘I’ll see you later.’

‘Yes, my child. I shall be waiting.’

After undoing her case and placing her clothes inside the beautiful lavender-scented armoire in the faded yet elegant blue satin-draped bedroom she had been allotted, Natasha moved to the window and gazed out over the lush green countryside. In the distance she could see a medieval castle, its ramparts etched against the translucent sky. Shading her eyes, she distinguished a pennant flying from the turret. She thought of William the Conqueror, of the Norman invasion. Perhaps it was a historical monument that she could visit.

It was late spring. Flowers bloomed as though they’d constantly burst forth from one day to the next, their rich hues framing a weathered stone fountain; flowerbeds dotted with lupins and roses surrounded the velvet-smooth lawn. It was peaceful and lovely, as though caught in a time warp. Natasha glanced at her watch and wondered if she’d have time for a wander before dinner.

Deciding that she did, she slipped on a pair of sneakers and went downstairs. There was no one in the hall so she stepped out of the front door and began walking, tilting her face up towards the fast-moving cloud, enjoying the wind mussing her hair.

Soon she had wandered well beyond the lawn and the garden perimeter, and was walking across a field, enjoying the fresh breeze and the exercise. Suddenly she heard the sound of hooves. Stopping abruptly, she turned to find out who it might be, surprised to see a tall dark man in jeans and riding boots astride a nervous chestnut horse. The stranger reined in abruptly. He did not, Natasha realized, somewhat taken aback, look too pleased.

‘Who are you?’ he threw at her in French, in the tone of one unused to being thwarted.

Natasha glanced up at him, stiffening. ‘I don’t see what it has to do with you who I am,’ she retorted in fluent French.

‘It has everything to do with me as I am the owner of this land.’

‘Well, if you are, I’m sorry I trespassed. I had no ill intention,’ she replied in a haughty tone, damned if she was going to be ordered about by this obnoxious man.

‘Very well,’ he snapped. ‘See that it doesn’t happen again.’

On that peremptory note he swung the horse around and galloped off, leaving Natasha fuming, her fists balled in anger.

The nerve of the man. Why, he was the rudest creature she’d ever encountered.

It was later than she’d thought and deciding that if she really had stepped onto someone else’s land she’d better make her way back to the Manoir, she walked fast. As she approached the stately building she stopped and gazed at it, bathed now in the glow of the setting sun, copper drain-pipes glinting on the roof. Natasha drank in the sight, determined to banish the image of the dark and odious horseman. Still, as she entered the hall and made her way quickly up to her room, she couldn’t help wondering who the ignominious rider could be.

Obviously a neighbour if he owned the land. Come to think of it, if he’d had a pleasanter expression she might even have thought him good-looking, she conceded, remembering the dark scowling features and the black hair swept back from his autocratic brow. Not that it was any of her business, she reminded herself. Still, she’d ask her grandmother who he was.

At eight o’clock sharp Natasha, dressed in a dark blue silk dress she thought her grandmother would approve of, glided gracefully down the main stairway and was met by Henri, who immediately guided her into the formal dinning room. Natasha sighed. She had no desire to sit alone at a table big enough to seat sixteen. But she said nothing. This was the way things were—she’d heard it often enough from her father’s stories about his boyhood. There was little use saying she’d rather have a tray in the sitting room, as it wasn’t going to happen.

After the meal she got up, relieved to have finished, and made her way upstairs to her grandmother’s bedroom. She’d say goodnight before it was too late, then go to her room, have a bath in the huge antique tub, and curl up in the blue satin-swathed four-poster and read.

After three unanswered knocks she decided to open the door and peer inside. She smiled when she saw the old lady sleeping. Perhaps she shouldn’t disturb her. Yet something pushed her to stay, and she moved towards the bed and gazed down at her grandmother. The Comtesse de Saugure lay perfectly still, her expression peaceful. Then all at once Natasha gasped, leaned forward, and felt for the older woman’s pulse.

But there was none.