Page 21 of The Wandering Season

The bookshop welcomed us with the tinkling of the bell over the door, the crackle of the fireplace, and the sweet twinge of burning cedar. It truly was a glorious little nook of the world with mismatched shelves and jumbles of books in every little cranny. It was the sort of place where I’d gladly spend hours perusing the stacks and thumbing through more tomes than I’d be able to read in a lifetime. The only shops that intrigued me to that extent were kitchenware shops. Preferably with the same warm, jumbled vibe and an eclectic mix of antiques and shiny new gadgets.

The old woman’s face lit up as she saw us, probably the first customers she’d had that day. Perhaps longer. I wasn’t sure how a shop like this could afford to keep its lights on, but I had to assume the building had been in the family for generations, which would have lowered their costs significantly. “Ah, you’ve come back to see me. What a treat. Make yourselves at home, dears.”

Madame DuChatel padded to the back room, leaving Niall and me to browse. A shaky breath escaped my lungs. “I don’t know what to ask her without sounding like a madwoman.”

He placed a hand on my shoulder. “You weren’t nervous about confiding in me.”

I tilted my head. “I was. More than you know. And you weren’t quite the stranger Madame DuChatel is.”

Not even then. I left the words unspoken, but he heard them all the same. His gaze warmed.

“You don’t need to explain everything to her. Just that you’re curious about local lore. The history of the house. You don’t have to confide more than you feel comfortable sharing.”

He was right. I could ask about Imogène without betraying why I was curious. Certainly I wouldn’t be the first American to become fascinated with the history of the place. My breathing became deeper, more measured, as I perused the shelves. Dusty tomes on the history of the Aquitaine and all the conflicts that had scarred the verdant valleys here. Novels of every imaginable provenance and vintage. A section of cookbooks that could have occupied the rest of my stay in the Dordogne. Niall, too, scanned the shelves, occasionally taking a volume to examine more closely.

Ten minutes later, Madame DuChatel emerged from the back room with a silver tray laden with a coffee service and a plate of French galettes—a lovely buttery cookie that paired marvelously with a hot beverage.

“You didn’t need to bother with all this.”

I helped her with the heavy tray.

“You wouldn’t deny an old woman the pleasure of playing hostess, would you? It’s been far too long since I’ve had visitors.”

“Of course not,”

Niall said. “But it’s kind of you all the same.”

She gave a resigned sigh. “It’s not what it should be. I used to be rather handy in the kitchen, but I haven’t the spunk for it often anymore. Store-bought cookies instead of homemade tarts are my lot now. But it’s a small price to pay for the privilege of growing older.”

She gestured to the chaise, but I insisted on helping her serve the coffee.

I handed Niall a cup, then Madame DuChatel, before I filled my own. “A wise philosophy. Too many think ‘growing old gracefully’ is about hair dye and avoiding wrinkles.”

She shook her head. “That misses the mark by a mile, I agree. Do tell me, is everything as it should be at the cottage? Have you everything you need?”

“We couldn’t ask for anything better. It really is an enchanting place.”

My stomach lurched at my choice of words, but I tried to remain impassive.

“It must have a fascinating history,”

Niall added. “After five hundred or so years, it must have more than its share of stories.”

It was several hundred years younger than Blackthorn, but he spoke with the sort of reverence for the cottage’s antiquity that a caretaker like Madame DuChatel would appreciate. Likely extending the courtesy he hoped to receive from his own guests.

“Oh yes. I couldn’t start to calculate all the generations that have lived and died there. It’s been in my family for over 150 years, and we’re considered the new custodians. It was in the Bonneau family for several centuries. Quite possibly since it was built.”

I felt a tingling sensation in my fingertips. Follow this thread. “How did it come to be in your family?”

“It seems that the Bonneau family lost their only daughter. They moved away to be with a branch of the family in Provence to forget their grief. A sad story, given the length of their family connection here, but with no family to pass the cottage on to, I wonder if they didn’t prefer to leave it behind so they wouldn’t spend their golden years reminded that their family legacy was at an end.”

“That is sad. Do the records say what happened to her?”

I leaned forward in my seat, my coffee and cookies forgotten.

She set down her coffee cup and folded her fingers. “I assumed for many years that she succumbed to some sort of illness. It was so common in those days. But I have never been able to find records to prove anything. I always thought it odd that she wasn’t buried in the cemetery here with her parents and generations of her family, but I can do no more than speculate what the cause for that might be.”

I thought about reaching for my coffee cup out of politeness, but my hands were shaking too much to attempt it without incident. Just then Maximillien padded down the steps and crossed the room to where we were gathered by the fire. He sat for a moment, appraising me, then hopped into my lap with an impressively agile leap for such a large cat.

“Hello, friend. I’m glad to see you too.”

He circled in my lap twice before he settled down, emitting a constant low purr I could feel through to my bones.

“My God in heaven, I’ve seen everything now. I’ve never seen that hell beast of a cat sit on anyone’s lap, let alone purr. He tolerates the occasional pet on the head or near the base of his tail from Sylvie or me, but he’s a terror to anyone else who tries.”

“Perhaps Veronica here is a cat whisperer and never told us?”

Niall suggested.

“This cat wandered into this shop ten years ago as the scruffiest, scrawniest-looking kitten you’ve ever seen and refused to leave. He claimed this as his home and has been acting like its guardian ever since. That he’s taken a liking to her is a remarkable thing indeed.”

“Perhaps he feels a kindred spirit?”

Niall suggested.

I swallowed my courage, gently stroking between Maximillien’s ears. “Was the daughter they lost named Imogène?”

Madame DuChatel blinked a few times. “How could you know this? Have you been researching our history for a book of some kind? Surely there was no trace of her in the cottage.”

“More than you realize. I . . . dreamed about her last night. Vividly.”

I didn’t try to persuade her that I was, in fact, wide awake when I’d seen Imogène. I didn’t go into the depths of the pain she’d felt, the shame her parents had inflicted on her. The least I could do was protect a sliver of her privacy.

“This is a remarkable thing. Clearly, you are of Beynac, my dear girl. I’d believe that just from the cat’s behavior, never mind the dreams. Imogène Bonneau was the last of her family.”

I hoped Imogène wouldn’t mind my divulging more of her story. “No, she was pregnant with her sweetheart Lucien’s baby. They were to be married, but he was killed in the war.”

Her eyes widened. “Indeed, my dear. Lucien DuChatel was killed in the Prussian War in 1870 near Sedan.”

My mouth gaped for a moment before I could find my words. “DuChatel?”

She nodded solemnly. “Yes, my great-great-uncle was killed in the war when he was just nineteen years old. His brother, my ancestor, was too young to be conscripted—and selfishly I thank the stars for it. There was mention in the family records that Lucien had an understanding with a young woman here in the village, but it never mentioned who. Imogène would have been as likely a candidate as any.”

“Her parents wanted to send her to a convent to have the baby. She was heartbroken about it.”

I tried to keep my tone neutral, but I couldn’t erase entirely the pain she’d felt. That I had felt for her. With her.

“Ah, that is how it was done in those days. People aren’t quite so fussy about these things now. I wouldn’t call myself a ‘modern woman,’ but I think it’s better when people don’t judge others so harshly for their decisions.”

She looked down at her hands, lost in thought. “People can be cruel. I’d like to think that little by little the world is becoming a kinder place. At least in some respects.”

I wondered what memories were being triggered just then, but I couldn’t bring myself to pry. “I hope you’re right about that. Imogène did insist on going to visit Lucien’s mother before she would allow them to send her away. She refused to go along with the plan if they denied her that chance.”

“That would be Coralie DuChatel, née Joubert. My great-to-the-third-degree grandmother,”

Madame DuChatel mused. “According to village lore she was a skilled apothecary and respected in the village. It seems she was regarded with some suspicion because she never remarried despite being young enough to be interesting to suitors when her husband passed. I suspect some were jealous of her ability to support herself and her children comfortably without a man’s interference.”

A cloud passed over Niall’s face. “It would have been the same in Ireland. Perhaps worse.”

Was he thinking about Caitlin? I knew he’d texted her a few times, sending her pictures of the market and the village. She’d seemed unimpressed with any town smaller than Paris, but I think she would have happily come along if she’d not worried about being a third wheel.

For a moment I imagined what it might be like if I did try to keep up communications with her and with Niall. Maybe she and Niall could come to Denver before tourist season picked up. It was strange to think of Niall out of the context of this strange adventure and in the context of my everyday life. Denver might be just enough excitement for Caitlin. But it would just be a tease. A reminder of a delicious idea that could never be brought to fruition.

Madame DuChatel rose and wandered about her stacks a few moments before she handed me a battered old tome. Careful not to disturb Maximillien who dozed contentedly on my lap, I opened the text, able to parse it, if only poorly, owing to my French courses in high school and college.

“The History of Beynac-et-Cazenac?”

I looked at her quizzically

“It is a fairly definitive book, but of little interest to anyone who does not live here. It’s a gift, my dear. I hope you find something of interest to you in its pages.”