Page 53 of The French Wife

But something about that statement didn’t feel quite right. Somehow the thought of Bruno as a hero didn’t chime with the photographs Emma had seen of him; his arrogant bearing at his wedding and the imperious look on his face as he commanded his workers in the vineyards. But then, she told herself, there was no reason why every brave person who’d taken risks and fought for their country had to be decent and likeable.

On the other hand, where was Amélie’s grave? Emma remembered Étienne Moreau’s words: She won’t be coming back. But what did that mean? Madame Brodin had been more ambivalent. Nobody knew what happened to her. That had set Emma’s imagination running wild, but surely it wasn’t possible that Amélie was still alive? She must have died, or the farm wouldn’t have been taken over by the state. The authorities would have had to have proved her death to do that. Emma made a mental note to call Felix Giroud in Carcassonne to ask him if there was a death certificate for Amélie Garnier. She hadn’t heard from the notaire since she’d asked him to look into the history of Le Châtaignier. A death certificate for Amélie would clear up the matter once and for all.

She laid the second bunch of lavender on Bruno’s grave and then, pulling out her phone, took a photograph of the inscription on his headstone for her records. Then, shouldering her knapsack in which she’d stowed the four small Hans Bauer paintings, she wandered back through the graveyard to the wrought-iron gates.

Leaving the cemetery behind, she walked along the narrow road beside the high walls of the abbaye back to the river. Once again, the large pool behind the dam was alive with families splashing around in the water, laughing and shouting, jumping off stones into the river, or simply whiling away the afternoon on blankets on the shingle beach beside it. She smiled watching them, and it surprised her how she was able to do this now and not feel grief and jealousy welling up inside her that Eliza couldn’t be there playing in the water with the other children. All she felt was a surge of genuine pleasure at the memory of Eliza splashing in other waters and at the simple knowledge that she would have loved it here.

She crossed the river on the narrow path that led across the dam, then turned left and walked back along the road that bordered the Orbieu, heading towards the market square. This route led her past Madame Brodin’s cottage. She glanced at the windows as she walked past and was sure she saw somebody hovering there. She was tempted to knock on the door but resisted the urge. Paul Brodin had said he would contact her if his grandmother was prepared to show her Hans Bauer’s unfinished paintings, and it was a few days since they’d spoken. Perhaps she’d refused? Either way, it wouldn’t help matters to call on her out of the blue. Madame Brodin didn’t seem the sort of woman who would welcome surprise visitors.

Emma walked on through the market square, admiring the displays in the quirky craft shops on the way, and turned into one of the narrow, cobbled alleys that led off it. The gallery was open, but empty, and Annette Bertrand welcomed her effusively.

‘I’ve been waiting for you to come back, Madame Hudson,’ she said warmly. ‘I spoke to my grandmother, but I didn’t know how to get in touch with you.’

‘I’ve been busy at the farm and today is the first chance I’ve had to come into town,’ Emma said. ‘I told you I’m doing the place up, didn’t I?’

‘It’s wonderful the old house is being restored at last,’ Annette said. ‘My grandmother has very fond memories of Le Châtaignier. I’m sure she’ll tell you all about it.’

‘Really?’ Emma asked, widening her eyes in surprise. ‘That’s incredible. I can’t wait to meet her.’

‘She says you can visit her anytime, and she’d be happy to talk to you.’

‘That’s amazing,’ Emma said. ‘Thank you so much. I would go today, but I have to get back to cook…’

‘Oh, a dinner party?’ Annette asked.

‘Not exactly…’

That evening, she and Gaston were going to have their tasting of the 1940s Corbières they’d found in the cellar, followed by dinner Emma was going to cook on her new stove to celebrate the fact that the kitchen was finished. She’d decided to cook cassoulet, a local speciality. She’d been looking forward to the evening for days, but now she was having last-minute nerves. It was a long time since she’d cooked for anyone, and she desperately wanted the evening to go well.

Since they’d confided in each other about their respective losses, something had shifted between them, and she and Gaston had been getting on as if they’d known each other for years. While he worked, she’d often sat watching him, admiring the skilled movements of his hands, the confident way he went about his tasks. And as he worked, they’d chatted. About their lives, about their families and friends, about their hopes and dreams. She already felt she knew him better than she knew most of her friends, and she didn’t want that feeling of ease in each other’s company that had developed between them to be destroyed by one awkward evening.

‘Would your grandmother be around on Monday?’ she asked Annette, pulling herself back to the present.

‘Of course. How about eleven o’clock? She’s not an early riser and she likes her croissant and coffee before she does anything. I’ll check with her and let you know.’

‘That sounds perfect. Where does she live?’

‘Ring the bell on the door next to the boulangerie. She lives in an apartment above it… and now, I can’t wait to see the paintings.’

Emma put her knapsack on the desk and one by one pulled out the miniature paintings she’d found in the cabin in the forest. She handed them to Annette, who examined them carefully, muttering approving sounds and low whistles.

‘These are extraordinary,’ she said. ‘They are all exact copies of the ones I have in the gallery upstairs. Except this one of the little house – that has no larger twin, as far as I’m aware.’

‘It depicts the little cabin on my land,’ she said. ‘I had no idea the building was there at first, but I discovered it on a walk. It’s derelict now, sadly. But it’s where I found the paintings.’

Annette turned over the paintings and examined them closely. ‘Yes, I can see they have suffered with the damp over the years. Most of them have dark spots on the surface, and the paper has deteriorated. They could definitely be restored, though.’

Emma shook her head. ‘I don’t think it’s necessary,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to sell them, and I rather like the marks on them – I think it gives them character.’

Annette smiled at her. ‘I think you’re right,’ she said, handing them back. ‘And I quite understand why you don’t want to sell them. They are really something special and they belong on your property.’

Before Emma left, Annette took her phone number and said she would text to confirm if her grandmother was available on Monday morning, then they shook hands.

‘Do keep in touch,’ Annette said. ‘I can see you appreciate beautiful art, Madame Hudson. If you are thinking of buying any of the larger Hans Bauers, I’m sure I could negotiate you a good price.’

‘Thank you. I’ll keep it in mind.’

Emma left the gallery and hurried through to the Boulevard des Promenades, where she bought Toulouse sausage and white beans at the charcuterie for the cassoulet. At the épicerie next door, she bought strawberries and cream for dessert. Then she drove back to the farm, full of anticipation of the evening to come. An image of Jack’s face came into her mind suddenly, of him smiling, when things had been good between them, when she would rush home to cook him a meal. But those days were long gone, she told herself. It hadn’t been like that for many years.