Page 72 of Echo in the Wind

The housekeeper glanced first at his niece, but Jean could see no reason to hide the facts from her.

“Where the accident occurred is not far from the château,” she said. “The day was warm, the sun strong. Since the sky was clear, the comte had asked the carriage top be left down. He and the driver had exchanged words that morning over one of the horses, but ’twas not unusual for them to do so.”

Marguerite looked again at the girl, but Donet said, “Go on.”

“When the accident was discovered, Monsieur Giroud had the carriage brought back to the château. It is the one your father kept for his trips through the vineyards. From what Giroud said, the carriage upset going around that curve where the road dips. It ended up in the ditch. Your father was thrown out and killed, but your brother lingered awhile.”

“I thought Papa was sick,” Zoé put in, her eyes brimming with tears. “But he didn’t get well. I know he is gone, but sometimes I pretend he did not die.”

Jean put his arm around his niece and drew her close. “You are not alone any longer, ma petite.”

Sitting beside him, Lady Joanna gave Zoé a look of empathy. Understanding came to him as he recalled Cornelia telling him that years after Torrington lost his father, he lost his mother and then his older brother. Lady Joanna knew what it was to lose close family.

“What became of the driver?” Jean asked, curious.

The housekeeper shook her head. “We don’t know. He must have leapt to safety and, seeing the comte was dead, ran away for fear of what might happen to him. We have not heard from him since.”

“And the funeral?”

“The funeral was attended by a few friends, some neighboring landowners, the servants and the priest, of course. It was a solemn affair. Since then, we have tried to keep the estate running.”

“Is there a lack of funds?”

“Non, Monsieur. The lawyer has made funds available, but the workers who tend the vines do so halfheartedly. Your brother was well liked by them. And others are angry at their circumstances, which concerns Monsieur Giroud.”

“I will have a talk with him and see what can be done.” Jean looked to his quartermaster, glad he had decided to come. Above Émile’s deep-set dark eyes, his heavy brows drew together. Before they left Saintonge, they must set the estate to rights.

When they had finished the small repast, Jean got to his feet. “Zoé, would you show my friend Lady Joanna to her room? I will join you both for dinner.”

Though he knew she was reluctant to leave him, his niece nodded and took the lady’s hand. “I will show you upstairs, Mademoiselle.”

Lady Joanna smiled at Jean. “It seems I have a guide.” The two of them left the room hand in hand. When they were gone, he said to Émile, “Let us have a look at that carriage.”

“Before you go, Monsieur,” said Marguerite, “I have something for you.” She walked to the side table and pulled out a drawer. Reaching inside, she drew out a small box and removed something from it. Grasping it in her hand, she came back to him. “This is yours by right, now.” Into his open palm, she placed his father’s heavy silver ring with the Saintonge crest, three fleurs-de-lis and a bishop’s hat for Saint Eutrope, first Bishop of Saintes.

He slid the ring on his finger, wondering if he would leave it there. So much went with it he did not want. “Thank you, Marguerite.”

“I never thought to see it on your hand, Monsieur, but now that it is there, I see God’s hand in it all along. The younger son, scorned by his father, has returned to command all.” She crossed herself. “By His hand, ’twas meant to be.”

Jean waited until the housekeeper had gone and, with a heavy sigh, looked to Émile and jerked his head toward the door.

The room to which Zoé brought Joanna was in the east wing of the château. Greater in size than her bedchamber at The Harrows, it contained not only a four-poster and dressing table, but a wash stand and a sitting area with a settee and a small table and two chairs set in front of the gilded fireplace. The walls were painted a robin’s egg blue, the raised panels gilded like the fireplace.

On the parquet floors lay a carpet in the same blue but with elaborate gold scrollwork throughout. In one corner of the room, near a window, sat a small gilded writing desk, inlaid with white enamel painted with flowers.

The bed cover and bed curtains were a lovely shade of blue, paler than the walls.

She turned in a circle, astounded at the opulence of it all. A lady’s room. Perhaps it had once been the bedchamber of Donet’s mother, the comtesse de Saintonge. Funny, she had never thought of him as having a mother but, of course, he had. What must she have been like?

Joanna took off her hat and gloves and set them on the bed.

“After ma mère died,” said Zoé, “Grand-père reserved this chamber for special guests. It is my favorite of all the bedchambers.”

“And why is that?” Joanna asked with a smile, for the girl was enchanting.

Zoé ran to the large paned windows and placed her palms on the glass, looking out. “From here, you can see le jardin—’tis the most marvelous garden!”

Joanna walked to the windows and gazed below at the pink and white roses, lavender just starting to bloom and boxed topiary, all circled by well-trimmed boxwood hedges. Beyond the sculpted gardens was a small field of wildflowers and beyond that, hedges and trees. Someone had tended it all with great care. “I see why you love it so. Is the gardener still here, then?”