Page 11 of Summer at the Château
The next morning, Pixie was awake early and quickly dressed, pulling jeans and a sweatshirt out of the wardrobe before creeping past Gwen’s door, not wanting to disturb her. Downstairs in the kitchen, she made herself a mug of tea and took it out onto the terrace. She loved this time of day and was often up at this hour at home, where the silence was punctuated by the rumble of a distant motorway and the street she lived on coming to life as people began their working day. Here, the nearest neighbour was several fields away and noise from traffic was non-existent. Right now all she could hear was the gentle cooing of pigeons in one of the high pine trees.
Pixie sipped her tea and sighed as she looked out over the parkland. Château Quiltu really was a special place. She and Frank should never have bought it really, it was far too big. A place like this cried out to become a family home, or at the very least a bolthole for people who needed time out from life for whatever reason. Living here, writing and running retreats with Frank would have been such a wonderful thing to have done together. Out of the question now, of course; no way could she do it on her own, but it had been a good dream.
A wave of sadness threatened to engulf her at the thought of how different the rest of her life was going to be now she was alone. Not that she wasn’t used to being alone for days at a time. For the last few years, while Frank had travelled more and more in Europe, her own lifestyle had been dictated by the demands of his diary. While he was away, she wrote for long periods every day, freeing up hours for when he was home so they could spend as much time as possible together, particularly at the weekends. But now she was facing a future where there would be no weekends together, no one to celebrate birthdays and anniversaries with, no one to care whether she was ill or not. She was well and truly on her own and the future looked bleak.
Sitting there, Pixie could sense that all the old despairing feelings that had swamped her so often in the past after every miscarriage were in danger of breaking through the inner wall she’d built around them, keeping them buried. There was no way she wanted to give rein to those desperate feelings that had overwhelmed her every waking thought in those years. Those awful days had taught her a valuable life lesson though. She would get through this. The older and stronger version of herself would survive even without Frank at her side. Besides, the unwritten guarantee that Frank would be a part of her future life had been torn up by the presence of this unknown woman in the cottage.
Just who was she? How long had Frank known her? Was her arrival on the scene linked to him not telling her about the viager agreement finishing? So many questions waited for the woman’s return.
Pixie closed her eyes, willing the tears not to fall. Once she’d confronted her, received a few answers and told her to get out, the château would be put on the market and she, Pixie, would return to the UK, pull herself together and get on with the rest of her life.
‘Morning. Here, have another cuppa.’ Gwen’s quiet voice broke into Pixie’s thoughts.
Pixie opened her eyes to find her mum standing next to her. ‘You’re up early.’
‘Could say the same about you,’ Gwen said as she handed Pixie a mug. ‘I don’t seem to need as much sleep these days – what’s your excuse?’
‘I like this time of day. At home, I like to write early in the morning and late at night.’
‘You plotting your next book right now then? You were deep in thought.’
‘No, bad case of writer’s block at the moment. I was thinking about how different life is going to be from now on and…’ Pixie sighed. ‘Wondering about how our mysterious woman fits into things.’
Gwen took a sip of her tea before cradling the mug in her hands. ‘I admit I’m curious too, but until she returns, best to put it to the back of our minds.’
Pixie gave a resigned nod. ‘I know. And I should really be thinking about writing. My deadline is getting closer. Listen,’ she said. ‘I can hear the church bell tolling for early Easter mass. D’you want to go to a later service?’
‘No, although I’d like to have a look around the church sometime,’ Gwen answered.
The two of them sat there for several more moments, enjoying the sound of the bells drifting across the fields as they drank their tea. Pixie was the first to make a move.
‘Breakfast out here, I think. No, stay there,’ she said as Gwen went to stand up. ‘I’ll get it. Afterwards, we’ll have to see if that ancient range works to cook the lamb, otherwise lunch could be a problem.’
* * *
Later that morning, Pixie smeared the leg of lamb with honey and inserted cloves of garlic deep into several small cuts she’d made in the meat.
‘D’you want some rosemary to go with that?’ Gwen asked, busy peeling potatoes at the kitchen table. ‘I saw a bush the other side of the orangery when I had a wander around yesterday. Think there was an abandoned vegetable patch close by.’
‘I’ll nip out and pick a few sprigs,’ Pixie said.
After picking two or three stems of rosemary, she went over to the plot of land that Gwen had thought was an old vegetable patch. Standing there, looking at the leaf-strewn but strangely weed-free ground, Pixie saw green shoots appearing in line and at regular intervals and laughed with delight. Not an abandoned veg plot but an established asparagus bed and the season was just starting.
She shrugged away the thought that someone had clearly been taking care of the plot. If it was ‘her’, then it didn’t matter; if anyone turned up to claim the asparagus, she would apologise to them for helping herself but point out that it was on her land after all.
Back in the kitchen, Pixie placed sprigs of the rosemary on the bottom of the roasting tray with some water and sat the lamb on top. To Pixie’s relief, when she switched the ancient cooking range on, it responded with a low hum, not the loud bang she’d half been expecting, and within a minute or two, as she opened the oven door, she could feel some heat.
An hour later, the kitchen was warm, the potatoes were roasting and delicious lamb smells were filling the air.
‘Another twenty minutes and lunch will be ready – time for an aperitif and a glass of champagne,’ Pixie said.
Gwen had placed a plate of blinis and smoked salmon with a bowl of olives on the table.
Because the weather had clouded over, they sat at the kitchen table and toasted each other with their champagne, ‘Happy Easter’.
‘I love this kitchen,’ Pixie said. ‘I imagined turning it into the hub of the château – the place where everyone gathered, not just for food, but company and conversation.’ She swallowed a mouthful of her champagne. ‘Sad to think really that it’s not going to happen. C’est la vie.’
‘Maybe the new owner will have a similar vision. The whole place has such a good vibe to it.’ Gwen gave Pixie a serious look. ‘You’ll need to try and make sure the person you sell to is like-minded. Doesn’t want to change things radically.’
