Page 54 of The French Wife

As she turned into the gate off the road and drove slowly along the rutted track towards the farm, she realised she hadn’t been as happy and enthusiastic as this for a long time. She felt a stab of guilt that she was somehow betraying Eliza’s memory by letting herself feel this way.

Don’t think like that, she told herself. What good would it do Eliza for Emma to spend the rest of her life feeling miserable?

She was just about to drive into the courtyard when she saw movement beside the large hay barn. It had to be Étienne Moreau again. She stopped the car on the track, got out and ran after him.

‘Étienne!’ she shouted. ‘Monsieur Moreau. Please stop, I’d like to speak to you.’

He’d already gone round the side of the barn. He must be heading towards the tap in the corner of the far barn again with his bucket. Why on earth would he do that? she wondered.

Emma ran along beside the herbergerie and into the large, vaulted barn. Sure enough, she could hear the sound of water running into a cast-iron bucket. Not wanting to alarm him, she waited until he emerged from the wooden stall carrying the pail in one hand. When he saw her, he stopped abruptly and stood stock-still, his eyes fixed on her.

‘Monsieur Moreau,’ she said. ‘Please could I talk to you?’

His eyes didn’t move from her face, but slowly, carefully, he lowered the pail to the ground.

Emma took a step towards him, watching his face. ‘I just want to find out about Amélie. Amélie Garnier,’ she said. ‘Could you tell me anything about her?’

He frowned, scrutinising Emma’s face, clearly weighing up whether he could trust her. ‘Amélie…’ he said after a few seconds, almost reverentially. ‘Amélie was a good person. She was beautiful and kind. She was better than him.’

‘Him?’ Emma asked. ‘Do you mean Bruno?’

‘Oui, Bruno. He was a cruel man.’

Emma paused. If Étienne was to be believed, her instincts had been correct. Bruno might have been a hero of the Resistance, but he wasn’t a good man.

‘Why do you say that?’ she asked. ‘What did he do?’

He dropped his gaze and examined the dirt floor of the barn. ‘I can’t say,’ he said.

Emma waited again, wondering what she could ask him that might prompt him to tell her what he knew.

‘Do you know what happened to Amélie?’ she asked finally.

He looked up and into her eyes. He was frowning now, his eyes full of pain. ‘She won’t be coming back,’ he said and then he muttered something in such a quiet voice Emma could barely hear him. ‘It’s my fault.’

‘Your fault?’ she asked. ‘What do you mean?’

Étienne began to shake his head, working his mouth as if he was trying not to cry, breathing quickly. He looked so distressed, Emma realised she couldn’t ask him anything else that day and that he wasn’t going to give her the answers she was looking for.

‘I need to go,’ he said, picking up the bucket, putting his head down and charging past her, the water slopping.

Emma stepped aside and watched him hurry away, wondering what was behind his fear and confusion. She walked slowly back to the car, drove it into the courtyard and unloaded her shopping into the kitchen. Then she went through to the living room, where Gaston had already papered half of one wall. He looked up and turned off the radio station he was listening to and stood back to look at the result so far.

‘What do you think?’ he asked.

She hadn’t been able to find a reproduction that replicated the original design, but the one she’d chosen, with swans and lilies, had the same effect – almost art deco in feel, like the original, but Emma had chosen a pale-grey background, rather than faded charcoal.

‘It’s perfect,’ she said. ‘Just as I imagined. Thank you so much, Gaston.’

‘It’s not finished yet,’ he said.

‘I’ll leave you to it then,’ she said. ‘I need to start cooking. Wine tasting at six, did we say?’

‘That would be great,’ he said. ‘I should definitely have finished this wall by then.’

Right on cue at six o’clock, Gaston came into the kitchen, having washed and changed into clean jeans and a pale-blue shirt up in the bathroom. Emma had also changed into a strappy light-green summer dress, one she hadn’t worn for years, but which she knew suited her. She’d also piled her hair up and put on some makeup, something she’d barely done since she’d lived at the farmhouse. Looking in the mirror, she was pleased at how well she looked; her skin slightly tanned and her hair shining. Country life was obviously suiting her.

‘That smells delicious,’ Gaston said as he entered the kitchen. His gaze rested on Emma, and he raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘Hey, you look… you look lovely,’ he said.