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Marguerite watched helplessly as the child sprang from her chair and brought the cake up in the sink. She came forward to stroke her hair, moving it away from her face. She felt the child’s forehead, and rubbed her back.
‘Have you been feeling ill – should I call the doctor?’
Elodie shook her head.
‘I think I should – you must be coming down with something.’
Elodie shook her head again, then waved her hands shakily.
‘I don’t understand,’ said Marguerite.
Elodie sighed and tried to explain without words, patting her heart, and her head, which just seemed to make Marguerite panic more.
‘You have a condition – your heart?’
Elodie sighed once more, she was feeling tired and she wished her stupid mouth would just work. She opened her lips, but only a puff of air came through. Then she held her fists together in front of her face and squeezed like she was stressed.
‘I don’t understand. You’re angry?’
She shook her head, flapped her hands wildly, tapped her heart twice, then clenched her fists in front of her face again.
‘You’re… stressed?’ guessed Marguerite.
She nodded.
It took a moment for Marguerite to understand and she felt awful. ‘It happens when you are anxious,’ she realised. Feeling worse – it was no doubt from her prattling on nervously about the girl’s father and her living arrangements. She wanted to be honest, but now she realised that it wasn’t the best time.
She’d wanted to raise Elodie as her own, but he hadn’t quite agreed. He’d made promises to her daughter, Brigitte, to look out for the child, and it seemed he was reluctant to dishonour that memory. He’d loved Brigitte in his own way, it seemed. If he hadn’t been married already, he may well have married her. Which only made things harder for him at home. The fact that he’d betrayed his marriage by having an affair with a French nurse, which had resulted in an illegitimate child conceived during the war, was a contentious issue between them.
He’d made it clear to Marguerite that he desired to have the child brought up English and this was his eventual intention; however, for the time being, he was willing to let her recuperate with Marguerite until arrangements could be made – legally, because he had claimed and provided for the child while Brigitte was alive, he was her guardian. Marguerite had no rights, something that caused her pain. She wished, as she had wished so many times over the years, that her stubborn, beautiful and headstrong daughter would have just come home to her. But the last fight they’d had, when Marguerite had warned her that he would never leave his wife, had opened a rift that the younger woman was unwilling to mend, even, or especially, when her mother was proved right. It hurt Marguerite so much that she hadn’t come around when she fell ill. But Brigitte was like that: stubborn, and unforgiving right to the end.
‘I think it is bed for you. Too much information too soon – I’m afraid that is always my way, but let’s take it slowly from now on, d’accord? Nothing is decided, and tomorrow we can have an uneventful day.’
Elodie nodded. Slow sounded good, as did uneventful. She just wanted to sleep, to dream a dreamless sleep.
Marguerite poured her a glass of water, picked up the suitcase she’d left by the door and then guided Elodie to a room down the corridor that overlooked the vineyard. Outside the late-summer sun was finally beginning to set, in shades of cerise and apricot.
There was a single bed with a pale linen duvet cover and beneath the window a large jug full of dried lavender made the air fresh and clean. It was only moments after Elodie sank beneath the sheets, tired from travel and the emotional toll of so much change, she fell into a heavy slumber and got her wish, as no nightmares disturbed her rest.
