Page 15 of The French Wife

Eventually, she stumbled upon an overgrown path that branched off the main one. It was almost hidden by bushes and appeared to lead east towards the river. She pushed her way along it, thorns snagging her jeans and clawing at her skin, slowing her down at every step. The path led her uphill for a hundred metres or so, and when she reached the top where there was a rocky ridge, she smiled to herself and stopped there to catch her breath. Standing on the rocks, she had a view down over the treetops. Now she could see where she was. There was the river, snaking through the valley beneath her, and from this viewpoint she could see that the canopy of trees went right up to its banks.

She noticed an overgrown path winding along the ridge through the maquis. She wondered where it led, but decided that would have to wait for another time. Today her heart was set on getting to the old structure she’d seen on the map.

She left the ridge and started downhill on the overgrown path, pushing her way through the brambles, slowed down by creepers and thorny undergrowth. Her hands were bleeding now and she was sweating in the heat of the summer afternoon; her clothes clinging to her. But she was determined to find where the old building had once been. At one point she slipped and skidded down the bank on some loose stones, starting a mini avalanche of soil, rocks and gravel. When she finally stopped sliding, she got to her feet and dusted herself down, feeling a little shaky. She wondered briefly how easy it would be to get back up the hill again, but she wasn’t going to stop now. It couldn’t be much further.

At last, she glimpsed the river through the trees. It was so close now she could hear the gentle babble of the water over the stones. With a final push through the undergrowth, she reached the bank, which was a metre or so above the river itself, and consulted her plan again. The building couldn’t be far from here. She turned left and walked along the bank, following the remnants of the overgrown path.

Eventually, she spotted the stone wall of a low building which was mostly hidden by the trees. Her heart sped up and she pushed on until she was standing beside it. It was a low, one-storey cabin, the sort used by shepherds or foresters. Its roof was caved in at one end, its windows broken, with ivy growing over the panes and even through them in places. Stinging nettles surrounded the walls, so she skirted them and arrived at the front entrance on the other side. It was a boarded, wooden door, with faded blue paint that had virtually all peeled off, and locked with a rusting padlock. She rattled the handle. The bracket the padlock was attached to was so old and fragile that the screws securing it to the door dropped out after she wiggled it a few times. She turned the rusty handle, pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The windows were so filthy and covered with ivy that it took Emma a few moments to adjust to the gloom. She looked around her, expecting to find a crude forester’s hut. Instead, the room looked as though someone had once taken a great deal of care to make it comfortable. Beside a large, stone fireplace at the far end was a wide couch covered in a faded, embroidered cloth that must once have been beautiful but was now frayed, moth-eaten and mouldy. There were a couple of large cushions on the couch, which mice must have nibbled – the stuffing was spilling out. Beneath one of the windows was a low, antique table with cups, glasses and a couple of empty bottles, stained with mould, laid out on it, and on the walls hung four small, framed paintings, the glass mottled with black dust.

Emma went up to one of the pictures and rubbed the dust away with her fingertips. To her surprise, the painting looked familiar. It depicted the medieval stone bridge over the River Orbieu in the centre of St Marie, and she could have sworn it was a copy of one of the paintings she’d seen in the market that morning. She moved on to the next picture, which again she recognised. It was an aerial view of the town painted from the opposite hill; another, the ancient Abbaye de Sainte-Marie, surrounded by vineyards.

Emma had to look at the last one for several minutes to work out what it was. And then she realised and smiled to herself. It was a painting of the very cabin she was standing in at that moment, from the opposite bank of the river. The cabin wasn’t rundown in the painting: the door was cornflower blue, the roof intact and smoke curled from the chimney. The trees around it were all in leaf, so it must have been painted in the spring or summer. She looked along the bottom of the picture for a signature, but found none. When she looked on the reverse of each picture, each was named in black ink in capitals: LE PON DE ST MARIE, ST MARIE-DES-CHAMPS, L’ABBAYE-DE-ST-MARIE, and the final one said simply: NOTRE RETRAITE, which Emma knew meant ‘Our Retreat’.

She took this one off the wall and sat down on the old couch, staring at the painting for a long time. Who had painted these pictures? Why had they been left here, locked up in this tumbledown building? And why were copies of them being sold in the craft market in the town?

Looking around the interior, which must once have been pretty and comfortable, with its throw and cushions, the delicate little oak table and tasteful pictures on the wall, she could tell instinctively that this place had been furnished by a woman. Someone with taste. Probably the same woman who had chosen the wallpaper in the farmhouse living room that she’d been so taken with. Perhaps it was the woman in the photograph. Perhaps it was Amélie Garnier, if indeed they were the same person. Emma thought they were likely to be, but she couldn’t be sure.

She checked her watch: it was after three o’clock. By the time she got back to the house where there would be enough reception for her phone to enable her to call the notaire to ask him about the history of the house, it would probably be the end of his working day. It would have to wait until Monday.

Putting the pictures carefully into her knapsack, she left the cabin and started back up the hill. It was tougher climbing up than she’d bargained for, especially with the extra weight of the paintings in her knapsack, and by the time she reached the ridge at the top, she was sweating and panting again. Was this the way whoever used the cabin in the past would have come? She doubted they would have wanted to struggle up and down this incline each time. Perhaps there was another way to reach it?

She stared down at the river which ran in front of the old cabin. As she looked, she began to make out a line of larger stones that led from the opposite bank to where the hut must be beneath her, although she couldn’t actually see it from where she stood. The stones were virtually submerged but were definitely visible. They looked like stepping stones. On the opposite bank was yet more woodland, and beyond that, she could just about make out an overgrown path or track that ran along the valley. Perhaps that was the way whoever used the hut in years gone by would have reached it?

After catching her breath, she carried on, pushing her way back through the brambles and undergrowth towards the house.

SIX

On Monday morning, Emma woke early. Shafts of sunlight poured into the room through the cracks in the shutters. Her bedroom was familiar to her now and she no longer stared around in confusion, wondering where she was. Instead, she stretched languidly, grateful for the warmth of the sunshine and glad she was in this beautiful place she could now call home.

She’d spent the weekend emptying yet more boxes and trying to make the place feel a little more homely. In her bedroom, she’d put her clothes away in the wardrobe and the chest of drawers the removal men had brought from London. She’d hung the paintings she’d found in the cabin on the walls, after having cleaned them up as best she could. They looked perfect there, against the antiquated wallpaper decorated with faded sprigs of lavender. Emma wasn’t certain, but it felt to her as if both paintings and wallpaper dated from the same era.

She couldn’t do too much towards making the house more homely because every room would have to be decorated, so ultimately this would be a waste of time. On the other hand, she didn’t want to spend the next few months living solely out of boxes and suitcases.

Whenever she went back to the kitchen, she’d spoken gently to Eliza, telling her what she’d been doing, explaining her plans for the house.

‘It’s going to be a real home, my darling,’ she’d said. ‘I know you’ll love it here.’

On Saturday afternoon she’d called her mother, who now lived with Emma’s older sister, Olivia, and Olivia’s family in Devon. Both her mother and Olivia had been apprehensive about Emma leaving everything behind and making her home in France.

‘After all you’ve been through, darling,’ her mother had said when Emma told them her plans, ‘don’t you think it would be better to stay near family?’

‘London isn’t near you, Mum. We can be in touch by phone and Zoom wherever I am, whenever we want to.’

‘You will come and see me sometimes though, won’t you, dear? I’ll miss you.’

Emma didn’t want to remind her that when she’d been living in London and running her own business, she’d hardly ever had time to see her mother. She hadn’t been very good at keeping in touch by phone either so she’d just said, ‘Of course. I can get a flight to the UK from Toulouse or Carcassonne anytime. And you can come and visit me too.’

‘I’d love that,’ her mother had said, but they both knew, with her many health problems – arthritis, heart trouble, diabetes and high blood pressure – it might be difficult for her to make the journey.

So Emma had called them on Saturday to reassure her mother and Olivia that she was coping fine and that things were shaping up well at the house.

‘So lovely to hear from you, darling,’ her mother had said. ‘I hope you’re not lonely there, all on your own.’

‘Not at all,’ she’d said. ‘I’ve been really busy. I’ve been unpacking, and I’ve also been looking into the history of the farm. I found a couple of photos and some information about previous owners. It’s sparked my interest, to be honest.’

‘That’s so good to know,’ her mother had said warmly, sounding relieved. ‘It will keep your mind off…’