Page 15 of The Magic of Provence (A Year in France #3)

‘This is so kind of you.’ Jeannie Gilchrist climbed out of Julien Rousseau’s car when they arrived in the village of Saint-Martin-Vésubie, close to the Italian border and just another fifteen minutes’ drive into the mountains from where they’d dropped his grandmother and mother at their home in Roquebillière after the hospital appointment.

‘It’s my pleasure,’ Julien said. ‘My mère and my grand-mère were 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. The rue 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 a gargouille like 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 an église – 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 called La 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. It was something 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 it was painted 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 him l’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 a vacherie .

‘It is also a fromagerie ,’ 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.’

The turn-off was onto no more than a rutted track.

The overgrown branches of spruce trees brushed the sides of the car and it was long enough to feel like the destination was completely isolated.

At first glance the long, stone-built structure looked derelict with a broken window roughly covered with wooden planks and a door half open, hanging on an angle off its top hinge.

Julien was frowning. ‘Stay here,’ he instructed Jeannie. ‘I will go and see if anyone is home. If they are, they may not be happy to see us.’

Jeannie watched him walk to the door. He lifted his hand and knocked and then she heard him calling.

‘ Bonjour! êtes-vous là, monsieur ?’

She was holding her breath as she waited but there seemed to be no response. Then Julien took a step forward. He looked a little hesitant as he peered around the partially open door, but then he took another step and vanished from view.

Jeannie waited again. The seconds ticked past and tipped into being long enough to make her anxious about what was going on.

Was Julien in danger? Ellie would never forgive her if something had happened to her beloved husband, the father of her tiny baby.

She would never forgive herself. Getting out of the car she almost ran to the door, hesitated only long enough to take a deep breath and slipped inside.

She’d expected darkness in an ancient building with almost no windows, but she couldn’t have been more wrong.

Most of the end of this old stables that couldn’t be seen from the driveway had been replaced with glass and light flooded a large open area with terracotta tiles visible above bleached, hand-hewn beams. The floor was packed earth, a dark ochre shade of wet clay as hard as concrete, and the space was full of totally unexpected colour from dozens of canvases – sitting on easels or propped against the walls.

The same kind of colours that were in Ellie’s painting.

Gold and yellow, blood-red and a glistening white.

The colours of summer. Of warmth and sunlight with a background of earthy, homely colours.

The impression only lasted a blink of time, however, as Jeannie’s eyes were adjusting to the dim light at the other end of the building.

There was a bed in one corner. A small table, a sagging armchair and a potbelly stove.

Julien was standing halfway between the door Jeannie had entered and what had to be the artist’s living space.

Standing in front of the stove was a tall man with unkempt hair, bushy eyebrows and a beard, all of the same mix of grey and white.

Surely this man was too old to be Gordon? He would only be in his mid-sixties if he was still alive.

But Jeannie was walking forward, one slow step at a time – as if, she thought, she was a bride walking to meet her groom, down an aisle that divided a crowded church.

Julien was the only other person here, of course, but Jeannie wasn’t looking at her son-in-law as she kept walking towards the stranger.

Because something was pulling her forward and it felt as if the entire world had gone completely still.

It was holding its breath until she knew.

And she did know, as soon as she was close enough to look into this man’s eyes.

‘ Gordon …?’ The word came out halfway between a question and an exclamation. A shaky word. A plea, even?

He was staring at her.

‘ Non ,’ he said. ‘ Non, non, non …’

He sounded desperate. His distress was as raw as the fear that Jeannie could see in his face.

Fear that was tipping into terror. And then, as if a switch had been flicked, his expression became completely blank.

His body stiffened and he simply fell backwards, making no attempt to break the fall.

There was a horrible thud as his head hit the floor and Jeannie could only stare in horror as his body started to jerk uncontrollably.

Julien moved past her so swiftly she felt the air move around her. Jeannie was a nurse. She knew exactly what to do to care for someone having a seizure but she couldn’t move.

This was Gordon . He’d recognised her. And he’d been terrified of her?

Maybe she’d never know why. Had she found him only to be watching him die?

Julien shoved the armchair back to clear space. ‘Find something soft,’ he told Jeannie. ‘To put under his head.’

She ran to the bed and stripped off the blanket.

Julien folded it to make a protective covering on the hard floor but a pool of blood told them it was too late to prevent injury.

He must have bitten his tongue as well, because there was a trickle of blood on his chin.

His eyes were open, his hands in fists as his arms and legs continued convulsing.

His breathing was ragged and his lips were going a worrying shade of blue, but Jeannie knew not to try and put anything in his mouth or restrain his limbs.

There was nothing more they could do now except wait for the seizure to finish and then put him into the recovery position and make sure his airway was open.

They had to wait.

But Julien looked at his watch again. ‘It’s going on too long,’ he said quietly. ‘And he’s injured himself. I’m going to call for an ambulance.’