Page 14 of The French Wife

The following day, a representative from Fournier et Fils, the large building firm Olivier the estate agent had recommended, arrived in his large, shiny BMW, wearing a smart suit. He followed Emma around the house with a clipboard and pen, noting down what she wanted efficiently, but she sensed he had no real feeling for the history of the place, and little passion for restoration work. He didn’t ask enough questions and was clearly keen to get away. She’d virtually decided the firm wasn’t right for the job even before he’d driven out of the courtyard, but when she received their quote two days later, that made up her mind. It was several thousand euros more than the quote from Gaston Marchand, so she called Gaston straight away and asked him when he could start work.

‘Monday next week, if that would be convenient for you?’ he replied. ‘I have had a postponement, so have some free time after all.’

‘A postponement?’

‘Oui, the client had to leave on urgent business, so that job has been put back.’

‘I see. Well, that would be wonderful,’ she said, surprised but thrilled that he could make it so soon.

On Friday morning, she drove into St Marie-des-Champs for the second time and parked up in the same place at the end of the Boulevard des Promenades. There was a bustling street market in full swing on the wide pavement under the plane trees. Emma wandered through the stalls, marvelling at the luscious displays of fresh fruit and vegetables, the jars of local honey, homemade cheeses and cured meats, and the bottles of local wine and craft vermouth. She stopped at various stalls, chatting in her imperfect French to the stallholders and buying a few things to show her support for the market.

Beyond the food stalls was a craft market, selling clothes, pottery, bric-a-brac and paintings. There was a stall selling painted wooden toys there too, and she ran her hand over a wooden spinning top, her heart aching as she pictured Eliza’s delighted smile. Then, taking a deep breath, she stopped to admire some antique watercolours showing scenes of the town and the surrounding countryside, which captured perfectly its rugged beauty. She made a mental note to come back and buy one or two when she was ready to furnish the house.

The friendly stallholder gave her a card. ‘I have a small gallery in town, behind the market square,’ she told Emma. ‘Do come and look. I have more from that artist on display, if you like them.’

The town hall was open. Emma went inside the echoing front entrance hall and up a wide wooden staircase, which creaked at every step she took. At the top of the stairs, in a galleried reception area, a woman sat at a desk typing. She looked up and smiled a welcome as Emma approached.

Emma had practised what she was going to say as she’d been driving into town, but she still wasn’t completely sure of some of the words she needed. In her halting French she explained that she had just bought Le Châtaignier, a farmstead a few kilometres out of town, and that she was looking into the history of the place. She asked if any records were kept at the town hall.

‘Yes, madame,’ the woman replied. ‘We keep the cadastral records of every property in the region. We could release to you details of the historical boundaries and of the former owners, if they are known. You just need to complete a request form.’

Emma signed the visitors book, completed the required form, and was allowed through some antiquated double doors and up a spiral stone staircase into the archives, a dark room with a vaulted roof on the top floor, in the eaves at the back of the mairie. It was filled with shelves from floor to ceiling, and smelled of dust, musty old books and leather. The receptionist showed her to the shelf where the records to Le Châtaignier were likely to be.

‘This shelf is for the region where your farm is, but you may have to search for it as there are other properties in the area. If you need to write anything down, there is a desk over there,’ the woman said, indicating a leather-topped table in the centre of the room. ‘I will leave you to it. If you need any help, please let me know.’

When she’d gone, Emma pulled out the drawer the woman had indicated. The records of properties were stored by parcel number rather than name. In the front of the drawer was a plan of the area, printed on cloth-backed paper. It was clearly very old and very fragile. Carefully, she spread it out on the table and, tracing the line of the River Orbieu with her finger, and then the road on the other side of the woods, she managed to narrow down the square of the map where her property was. She wrote down the parcel number of the plot – 245A – and returned the map to its file.

Sorting through the rest of the files for the correct parcel number, she eventually found the one labelled 245A and, with a slight feeling of trepidation as to what she might find inside, took it to the table and opened it.

She stared down at the contents in disappointment. There were only a few folded pages inside, consisting of two plans and a typewritten page, all yellowing with age. Admittedly, these plans were slightly more detailed than the parcel plan, and showed the land, the house and the barns. One of the plans was dated 1915 and the other 1930. Examining them closely, Emma noticed that the land belonging to the farm was much larger in the map dating from the 1930s than in the earlier one. Looking back at the file, she picked up the printed document still in it. It had two signatures at the bottom. Peering at the faded handwriting, she could just about make out that they were signed by a Philippe Benoît and a Jean-François Garnier and dated May 1930. She got out her notebook and sat down at the table to translate what was printed on the page.

This is to record, for the purposes of the cadastral records of St Marie-des-Champs, that following the marriage of Bruno François Garnier to Amélie Lucienne Benoît, on 15th May 1930, twenty-five hectares of farmland in the Orbieu valley were transferred from the ownership of Philippe Benoît to that of Jean-François Garnier and now form part of Le Châtaignier estate. Further details and deeds of ownership are lodged with the notaries of both parties.

Emma read the paper over a couple of times. Perhaps Bruno and Amélie Garnier were the last people to have owned the land? If they were married in 1930, they would probably have been in their fifties or sixties when the property reverted to the state around thirty years later. But that would have been young for both of them to have died. Could they have gone away and abandoned the farm instead? She looked in her bag and drew out the fading photograph of the young, dark-haired woman that she’d found in the back of the kitchen drawer. She stared at the beautiful, oval-shaped face and the luxuriant dark hair, at the unmistakable sadness in those liquid, dark eyes. For some reason, she felt a deep connection to this young woman.

‘Are you Amélie?’ she whispered.

Looking back at the paper and seeing the reference to the parties’ lawyers, she realised that instead of going back to ask the estate agent, she should really speak to the French lawyer, or notaire, who had handled her purchase of the farm. He was the one who would have the title deeds to the property and might be able to give her the answers she was looking for.

Putting the photograph away in her bag, she glanced back at the 1930 plan of the farmland, some of which had subsequently been sold off to surrounding farms long before Emma had bought the house. Something on the plan caught her eye. The house and its surrounding barns were clearly marked, as was the river, the vineyards, the long track that led to the public road and the extensive woodland beside the house. And on the far side of the woods, where the forest went all the way down to the river’s edge, another building was marked. She stared at it, puzzled. Perhaps it was a barn or a cottage. Either way, Emma was sure that part of the woods was on the land she now owned, but for some reason she had never seen this building before. Perhaps it had been demolished?

She took the plans and the document to the woman on the desk and asked her if they could be photocopied.

‘Of course, it is 50 cents a page. I can do this for you now if you like?’

When the woman returned to the desk, Emma paid the fee and, thanking her profusely once again, left the mairie with the photocopies safe in her handbag. She rushed back to the car. She couldn’t wait to get home and explore the grounds.

When she arrived back at the farm, she quickly changed from the summer skirt and blouse she’d worn into town, putting on old jeans and a T-shirt. Pulling on her walking boots, she put a bottle of water in her knapsack and also slipped in the copied plans from her handbag.

Laying her hand gently on Eliza’s urn, she said, ‘I’ll be back soon, my darling.’ Then she went outside and, locking the front door behind her, walked out of the courtyard and into the woods on a narrow path that led between the trees.

She’d never explored the woods before and felt a little uneasy about doing so alone, especially when she remembered the mysterious figure she’d seen heading there on her first evening at the farm. It was daylight now though, she told herself, and there was nobody about.

When she’d gone a few metres into the trees, the vegetation on either side of the path became thick scrub, interspersed with patches of purple heather, gorse, broom bushes with their yellow flowers and other shrubs bearing tiny white ones she didn’t recognise. The air was redolent with the scents of sweet chestnut and wild herbs, and birdsong filled the summer afternoon. Emma breathed in the delightful scents, feeling enlivened that all this belonged to her.

The path continued between the trees and she followed it until she was deep inside the forest. She pulled the copy of the plan out of her knapsack and consulted it. Surely she should be on the other side of the wood by now? Wasn’t she almost at the river? A prickle of concern went through her. Had she been a bit hasty, setting out on her own? Could she be lost?

The problem was every part of this wood looked the same. She peered back the way she had come. The path she’d followed was easy to make out, a clear brown line cutting through the undergrowth. She breathed more easily. She could always turn around and go back the way she’d come, so she wasn’t lost. Reassured by this, she carried on, trying to glimpse the sun through the branches to help gauge her position. She checked her watch; it was almost two o’clock. The sun should be in the west by now and she wanted to head east, so she should be walking away from it.