Chapter 8
IT WAS A STRANGE MOMENT to be a part of, or to bear witness to.
This was a family event, and she shouldn’t have been there, but somehow their fiction and the enormous ring she wore gave her entry to something that should have been private. And even as she felt the dark emotions engulfing the small group of people—and more broadly, the domestics that filled the walls of the grand country estate in the south of Provence—she was aware of other things too. Snatches of sights, sounds, words, views, that left her with the impression of several things.
This was a very old, very beautiful, very expensive home. From the manicured, stately gardens beyond the home, to the hills that formed around it, creating privacy and exclusivity, to the unmistakably world-class artwork that hung from the walls, there was no doubting the billions and billions of dollars that Matthieu’s family had at their disposal.
It was also impossible not to have those old feelings of unsuitability. Even the staff appeared to wear couture suits, elegant and chic black with large white collars, their hair was coiffed, their nails polished, the women wore heels. As for Matthieu’s family, to say they were intimidating was an enormous understatement. Even with faces lined with worry, they were stunning. Introductions had been hasty.
His grandmother, who insisted Skye call her ‘grand-mère’, to make it easy, had patted Skye’s arm in welcome. She could have been fifty or she could have been eighty. The woman had an ageless face, and her hair was still dark except for some greying around the temples, whether with the aid of cosmetics or naturally. She was rail thin and tall, just like the daughter she introduced Skye to. Matthieu’s aunt Margot was married to a man named Richard who was similarly elegant, wearing a grey suit and pale pink shirt. Finally, there was Fleur, Matthieu’s cousin. Skye wasn’t sure what she’d expected, but as their eyes met, she felt as though she was looking at a female version of Matthieu. The same dark brown eyes, tall, slim figure, inquisitive smile, slightly cynical features, and an identical air of luxury and expense.
Introductions had been made in a flurry as they’d arrived, and then Matthieu had been swallowed into the family group. Skye’s French couldn’t possibly keep up with their rapid conversations, nor the high-level medical talk. He made an effort to include her, keeping an arm around her waist and holding her to his side, but it was blatantly obvious to everyone—particularly Skye—that she didn’t belong in such a personal moment, so she’d found an excuse to pull back, then disappeared from the room completely.
It wasn’t a hardship to be at a loose end in the beautiful chateau. One of the staff, a young house maid who introduced herself as Emilie, showed Skye to a delightful terrace that framed views of the garden all the way to the curving ocean that licked the shores of Nice. Emilie brought her coffee and croissants, and a pile of English language magazines –fashion ones, of course—and Skye flicked through them, simply to have something to do. They were not her usual fare and yet she was surprised to find herself engaging with the articles.
The de Garmeaux label was featured in the glossy pages frequently, either as advertising, features, or interviews. There was even an interview with Fleur, and a profile on Matthieu. She read it with the appearance of calm but her heart began to jackhammer against her ribs.
Matthieu de Garmeaux might have been born with a silver spoon in his mouth but no one can doubt his work ethic nor brilliance. It takes guts and guile to turn one of France’s oldest fashion houses into an ecologically sustainable and relevant behemoth, a name that speaks to both established fashionistas as well as millennials on a budget, looking for quality and timeless elegance. Monsieur de Garmeaux has taken an active role in the fashion house for many years, but his control has grown bolder in recent times, his vision hard to argue with given the balancing of environmental considerations and style in a rapidly changing marketplace.
Beyond fashion, de Garmeaux luxury holdings is responsible for a staggering amount of France’s annual wine exports, their prestigious champagne known the world over for its crisp, clean palette. While everything Matthieu de Garmeaux touches in the business arena turns to gold, his private life is somewhat less gilded. The very public and bitter breakup with fiancé Clare Astor-Guille (yes, the automobile heiress) only a week before their intended wedding along with rumours of long-term infidelity on the part of de Garmeaux have taken the shine off his image. It’s hard to pay much attention to that, though, when his business stocks continue to soar the way they do…
She slammed the magazine shut, feeling as though she’d just invaded his privacy in an unforgivable way. Her heart was ticking over, her pulse gushing, and she could no longer sit still. Standing, she fidgeted as she walked to the edge of the deck, curving her fingers around the wrought iron balustrade, her eyes chasing the little boats bobbing in the distant ocean. It was a cool day, but crisp and sunny, and the water shimmered as though precious metals danced atop the surface. She wondered if the boats were for fishing or pleasure; perhaps a combination. She knew nothing of this region of France, besides the fact the riviera was, of course, famed for its elegant way of life.
Did Matthieu spend much time there?
She expelled another sigh, turning now to lean against the balustrade, her eyes following the lines of this beautiful home. It was clearly historic, but beautifully restored, so that the interior was like something out of an Architectural Digest magazine. Even her stepsisters, who saw little value in the historic, would have adored this place.
When she breathed in, she tasted the scent of the garden: the hint of citrus blossoms, lavender and rosemary, as well as thyme and something sweet, like gardenias. Her mother would know. She’d always been an incredible gardener. When they’d lived rural, Katie had tended a perfect flower garden, as well as the fruitful, abundant kitchen garden, and Skye’s father had delighted in ensuring she had an adequate water supply to make the plants grow. That was no mean feat in the Australian outback, but season on season, their plants had grown – in produce and fragrance as well as size, each abundant season had convinced her to expand ‘a little’, and then ‘a little more’, until Harry Smith, who couldn’t say no to Katie, was spending all his spare time building new garden beds and touring the nurseries buying plants.
Skye had grown up with her fingers in the dirt, digging out bulbs, peeling them, replanting them for a new season. She’d sat at her mother’s side as she’d weeded, and watered, she’d listened as Katie had said the exotic plant names—always using their full botanical titles for Skye’s benefit—and attempting to repeat them perfectly. Most of her childhood memories were filled with the garden and flowers surrounding that old, weather-faded homestead.
Sadness washed over her—sadness for how much she’d lost when her father had died, for how cruel and unfair life could be—but it was not a sadness she could indulge. Not for long, anyway.
“There you are.” A woman’s voice reached her and Skye blinked towards the door, her eyes struggling to adjust from the early afternoon’s sunlight to the dark shadows cast by the home. Fleur stepped into the light. “I wondered where you’d got to.”
“I thought I’d wait out here a while,” Skye said honestly, grimacing at her intrusion. “How’s your grandfather?”
“He’s awake.”
Skye’s eyes blinked wide, genuine relief lightening her heart. “Oh! That’s wonderful news. I’m so glad to hear it.”
“That makes two of us.”
“What was wrong with him?”
“Dehydration, they think. The doctor’s taken some blood to test. We’ll know more tomorrow. But for now, he’s hooked up to a saline drip, grand-mère is spoon feeding him her stewed apples and cinnamon—don’t ask—,” Fleur said with a laugh and a shake of her hand, which made all the delicate bangles around her wrist jingle together. “And he’s quite lucid.”
Skye offered an apologetic grimace. “Is he not lucid often?”
“Oh, no, he’s doing very well, all things considered. From time to time, he becomes forgetful. He speaks of things that happened decades ago as though it were yesterday. He loses his temper a little more quickly. But on the whole, he’s the same old Lucien we’ve known and loved all our lives.”
“It’s hard to see someone you care about growing weaker.”
“Yes,” Fleur murmured her agreement, her eyes probing Skye’s in the exact same manner Matthieu possessed. “And even harder to know their death is imminent.” She walked towards the table, her elegant brown pants swishing as she walked.
Fleur picked up a handful of grapes and popped one into her mouth, turning to regard Skye with undisguised interest now. “Matthieu wouldn’t like me to interrogate you,” she said, swallowing the grape.
Skye remained very still. “Is that what you’re planning?”