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Happening to come into the sunroom at that precise moment, Diana’s father had flung himself into a wicker chair across from her mother’s and said cheerfully, “Who are you talking about, my dear, and why are you ready to string her up by the thumbs?”
“Mrs. Hampton,” Diana had informed him, since her mother seemed bereft of words. “She told Merrilee that I’m adopted, but I’m not, am I, Daddy?”
She’d never forgotten the look her parents exchanged then, or the way her father had taken her on his lap and said gently, “Yes, you are, sweet pea.”
“Oh!” Terribly afraid she’d contracted some kind of disease, she whispered, “Am I going to die?”
“Good heavens, no! All being adopted means is—”
“David, please!” her mother had interrupted, her voice sounding all funny and trembly. “We decided we’d never—”
“You decided, Bethany,” he’d replied firmly. “If I’d had my way, we’d have dealt with this a long time ago, and our child would have learned the truth from us, instead of hearing it from someone else. But the cat’s out of the bag now, and nothing you or I can do is going to stuff it back in again. And after all this time, it can hardly matter anyway.”
Then he’d turned back to Diana, tugged playfully on her ponytail and smiled. “Being adopted means that although another lady gave birth to you, we were the lucky people who got to keep you.”
Trying to fit together all the pieces of this strange and sudden puzzle, Diana said, “Does that mean I have two mommies?”
“In a way, yes.”
“David!”
“But you’re our daughter in every way that counts,” he went on, ignoring her mother’s moan of distress.
Still unable to grasp so foreign a concept, Diana said, “But who’s my other mommy, and why doesn’t she live with us?”
At that, her mother mewed pitifully.
“No one you know,” her father said steadily. “She was too young to look after a baby, and so, because she knew we would love you just as much as she did, and take very good care of you, she gave you to us. After that, she went back to her home, and we brought you here to ours.”
“Well, I can see why you’d want to learn more about this woman,” Carol said, when Diana finished her story. “I guess it’s natural enough to be curious about your roots, especially when they’re shrouded in so much mystery. What I don’t understand is why you waited this long to do something about it.”
“Simple. Every time I brought up the subject, my mother took to her bed and stayed there for days. ‘Why aren’t we enough for you?’ she’d cry. ‘Haven’t we loved you enough? Given you a lovely home, the best education, everything your heart desires? Why do you want to hurt us like this?’”
“Uh-oh!” Carol rolled her eyes again. “I realized she was a bit over the top temperamentally, but I’d no idea she stooped to that kind of emotional blackmail.”
“She couldn’t help herself,” Diana said, old loyalties coming to the fore. “She was insecure—very unsure of herself. I don’t know why, but she never seemed to believe she deserved to be loved for herself, and nothing I said could convince her that, as far as I was concerned, she and my father were my true parents and that I adored both of them. In her view, my wanting to know about my birth mother meant that she and my father had failed. So eventually I stopped asking questions, and we all went back to pretending the subject had never arisen. But I never stopped wanting to find answers.”
“Then tell me this. If it was that important to you, why didn’t you pursue the matter after she and your father died, instead of waiting until now?”
“Harvey didn’t think it was a good idea.”
“Why ever not?”
“I think he was…embarrassed.”
“Because you were adopted?”
“Pretty much, yes.”
Carol made no effort to disguise her scorn for the man. “What was his problem? That you might not be blue-blooded enough for him?”
“You guessed it! ‘You’re better off not knowing,’ he used to say, whenever I brought up the subject of my biological mother. ‘She was probably sleeping around and didn’t even know for sure who the father was. You could be anybody’s brat.’”
“And you let him get away with that kind of crap?” Carol gave an unladylike snort. “You should be ashamed, Diana, that you let him walk all over you like that!”
“At the time, what mattered most was my marriage. I wanted it to succeed, and Harvey was under enough stress at the hospital, without my bringing more into our private life, as well.”
“A fat lot of good it did you, in the end! He walked out anyway, and left you an emotional wreck.”
“For a while, perhaps, but I’m better now. Stronger, in some ways, than I’ve ever been.”
“Enough to stand the disappointment, if you don’t find what you’re looking for?”
“Absolutely,” Diana said, and at the time, it had been true.
The car coughed alarmingly and clunked to a halt at the foot of a hill. It serves you right, Carol would have said. If you’d taken the time to book ahead, you wouldn’t have been stuck with an old beater of a car no right-minded tourist would look at.
With some coaxing, she got the poor old thing running again, but as she approached a fork in the road, and found a sign pointing to the left, showing Bellevue-sur-Lac 31 kms, panic overwhelmed her and, for a moment, she considered turning to the right and heading for Monaco and a week of reckless betting on the roulette wheel, rather than pursuing the gamble she’d undertaken.
What if Carol was right, and she was inviting nothing but heartache for everyone by chasing her dream?
“The chances of your finding this woman are slim to nonexistent, you know,” her friend had warned. “People move around a lot, in this day and age. And even if you do find her, what then? You can’t just explode onto the scene and announce yourself as her long-lost daughter. You could blow her entire life apart if she’s married and hasn’t confided in her husband.”
“I realize that. But what’s to stop me talking to her, or even to people who know her, and trying to learn a little bit about her? I might have half brothers or sisters, aunts and uncles. Grandparents, even. She was seventeen when she had me, which means she’s only forty-five now. I could have a whole slew of relatives waiting to be discovered.”
“And how will that help you, if they don’t know who you are?” Carol asked gently.
It had taken all her courage to admit, “At least I’ll know I’m connected to someone in the world.”
“You have me, Diana. We might not share the same blood, but you’re like a sister to me.”
“You’re my dearest friend, and I’d trust you with my life, which is why I’m confiding in you now,” she replied. “But first and foremost, you’re Tim’s wife and Annie’s mother.” She opened her hands, pleadingly. “Can you understand what I’m saying?”
“Yes,” Carol said, and her eyes were full of tears suddenly. “But I care too much about you to want to see you suffer another disappointment. You give your heart so willingly, Diana, and sometimes people see that as an invitation to trample all over it. Hotshot Harvey’s done enough damage. Please don’t leave yourself open to more. Don’t let anyone take advantage of your generosity. Just once, think of yourself first, and others second.”
The advice came back to her now as the car rattled around another bend in the road, and crossed a little stone bridge above a wide stream that burbled over brown rocks. Bellevue-sur-Lac 25 kms, a sign said.
What if she found her birth mother destitute? Abandoned by her family for her adolescent indiscretion? How could any decent person not lift a finger to help?
“I’ll find a way,” Diana promised herself, thumping the steering wheel with her fist. “I’ll buy her a house, clothes, food—whatever she needs—and donate them anonymously, if I must.”
It was the least she could do, if she was to live with herself, and heaven knew, she could afford it. Within reason, she could afford just about anything money could buy. In his eagerness to be rid of her and married to his mistress before the birth of their child, Harvey had been generous. Added to what she’d inherited from her parents, it added up to a very tidy sum. But would it be enough?
Probably not, she thought. When all was said and done, money never could buy the things that really mattered.
The car wheezed around another bend in the road. In the distance, she saw tidy rows of grapevines climbing a steep hillside. In the valley below, a subdued purple touched the earth. Lavender fields just bursting into bloom.
Another sign post, painted blue with white lettering. Bellevue-sur-Lac 11 kms.
Hand suddenly clammy with sweat, Diana eased the car over to the side of the road and rolled down the window. Wild-flowers grew in the ditch, filling the air with their scent.
“Let me come with you,” Carol had begged. “At least you’ll have me in your corner if things don’t go well.”
Why hadn’t she taken her up on the offer?
Because this was something she had to do by herself, that’s why.
Reaching into her travel bag, she pulled out the single sheet of stationery she’d hoarded for so long. Spreading it over her lap, she smoothed out the creases, searching as she had so often in the past for any clues she might have missed that would help her now. The ink was faded, the script elegant and distinctly European.
Aix-en-Provence
December 10
Dear Professor Christie,
I write to inform you that Mlle. Molyneux has returned to her native village of Bellevue-sur-Lac. From all accounts, she appears to have put behind her the unhappy events of this past year, the nature of which she has kept a closely guarded secret from all who know her. I hope this will ease any concern you have that she might change her mind about placing her baby with you and your wife, or in any other way jeopardize the adoption.
I trust you are well settled in your home in the United States again. Once more, I thank you for the contributions you made to our university program during your exchange year with us.
With very best wishes to you, your wife and your new daughter for a most happy Christmas,
Alexandre Castongués, Dean
Faculty of Law
University Aix-Marseille
Did Mlle. Molyneux ever regret giving up her baby? Wonder if her little girl was happy, healthy? Or was she so relieved to be rid of her that she never wanted to be reminded of her, ever again?
There was only one way to find out.
Refolding the letter and stuffing it back in the side pocket of her travel bag, Diana coaxed the car to sputtering life again, shifted into gear and resumed her journey. Seven minutes later, the silhouette of a château perched on a cliff loomed dark against the evening sky. Immediately ahead, clustered along the shores of a long, narrow lake, buildings emerged from the dusk of early evening, their reflected pinpricks of light glowing yellow in the calm surface of the water.
Passing under an ancient stone arch, she drove into the center of the little village.
Bellevue-sur-Lac, the end of her journey.
Or, if she was lucky, perhaps just the beginning?
CHAPTER TWO
CROSSING the square en route to his car, which he’d left in the inn’s rear courtyard as usual when he’d spent the day with the supervisor of his lavender operation, Anton noticed the woman immediately. Strangers who lingered in Bellevue-sur-Lac after sunset were a rarity, even during the summer months when travelers flocked to Provence. Usually they came for the day only, arriving early by the busload to tour the château, winery, lavender distillery and olive mills.
By now—it was almost half-past five o’clock—they were gone, not only because accommodation in the village was limited to what L’Auberge d’Olivier had to offer, but because they preferred the livelier nightlife in Nice or Marseille or Monaco.
This woman, though, sat at a table under the shade of the plane trees, sipping a glass of wine, and what captured his attention was not so much her delicate features and exquisite clothing, but her watchfulness. Her gaze scanned the passing scene repeatedly, taking note of every person who crossed her line of vision. At this moment, it was focused on him.
“Who’s the visitor, Henri?” he asked, leaning casually against the outdoor bar where the innkeeper was busy polishing glasses in preparation for the locals, who’d gather later to drink cassis and play dominoes.
Henri paused in his task long enough to shoot an appreciative glance her way. “An American. She arrived last night.”
“She’d reserved a room here?”
“No, she just showed up unannounced and asked if I could accommodate her. She’s lucky the man you were expecting canceled at the last minute, or I’d have had to turn her away. Too bad he broke his leg, eh?”
“For him, and me both. I’m going to have to find someone to replace him pretty quickly.” Again, Anton looked at the woman, observing her from the corner of his eye. Not just watchful, he decided, but nervous, too. Drumming her fingers lightly on the tabletop as if she were playing the piano. Keeping time by tapping her foot on the dusty paving stones. “What do you know about her, Henri?”
The innkeeper shrugged. “Not much. She speaks very good French, the high society kind. And she’s in no hurry to leave here. She’s taken the room for a month.”
“A month?”
“That’s what she said.”
“Did she happen to mention why?”
“She did not.”
When Marie-Louise died, reporters had descended on the area within hours, posing as innocent tourists to disguise the fact they were sniffing out scandal, real or imagined, with which to titillate their readers. In less than a week, Anton had been front-page news throughout France and most of Europe. COMTE’S WIFE’S MYSTERIOUS DEATH, the tabloid headlines screamed. MURDER OR SUICIDE? POLICE QUESTION HUSBAND.
Although public appetite for sensationalism eventually found other victims on which to feed, having his private life exposed to malicious speculation had been a nightmare while it lasted, not just for him and his immediate family, but for everyone in Bellevue-sur-Lac. Since then, he’d been mistrustful of strangers who chose to linger in such a backwater village, content to live in a small inn where they’d be sharing a common bathroom with other guests. And with the third anniversary of his wife’s death coming up, he was especially wary. Like those which had gone before, it promised a burst of renewed interest in the whole tragic mess.
“One has to wonder how she plans to occupy her time,” he remarked.
“Perhaps she’s an artist.”
She, and a hundred thousand others—would-be Cézannes, Van Goghs, Picassos, sure if they breathed the golden light of Provence, genius would ooze from their pores. They came looking suitably tormented by their muse, right down to their disheveled appearance and the paint under their fingernails.
Not this woman, though. She wouldn’t allow a speck of dust to settle on her shoe.
Anton did not, as a rule, patronize the inn. Tonight, though, he was inclined to make an exception. He couldn’t put his finger on exactly what it was, but something about the woman—the set of her slender shoulders, perhaps, or the tilt of her head—seemed vaguely familiar. That alone was enough to increase his suspicions. Had he seen her before? Was she one of the rabid reporters, come back for another helping of empty speculation?
“Pour two glasses of whatever the lady is drinking, Henri,” he said, arriving at a decision.
Although Henri knew better than to say so, his face betrayed his surprise. Much might have changed since feudal times, but the people of Bellevue-sur-Lac and the surrounding area had been under the protection of the de Valois family for centuries. Whether or not he liked it, Anton reigned as their present-day seigneur.
They came to him to arbitrate their differences, to seek his advice, to request his help. That Monsieur le Comte would choose to sit among them at the L’Auberge d’Olivier, drinking the same wine they drank, would do more for Henri’s reputation than if he’d been awarded the Legion of Honor.
As far as Anton was concerned, being the object of such reverence was nothing short of ludicrous. When all was said and done, he was just a man, no more able than any other to control fate. His wife’s death and the reason behind it was proof enough of that. But tragedy and scandal hadn’t been enough to topple him from his pedestal, any more than his disdain for his title relieved him of the obligations inherent in it.
“I should serve it immediately, Anton?” Henri wanted to know, still flushed with pleasure.
“No,” he said, turning away. “I’ll signal when we’re ready.”
The square was deserted now. No faces for the stranger to scrutinize. Instead she stared at her hands where they rested on the table.
“A beautiful woman should not sit alone on such a night, with only an empty glass for company,” he said, approaching her. “May I join you?”
Startled, she looked up. Her face was a pale oval in the gloom, and he couldn’t tell the color of her eyes, only that they were large. He’d addressed her in English, and she replied in kind. “Oh, no…thank you, but no.”
