Page 61 of Summer at the Château
* * *
Gwen took a deep breath as she rang the bell before pushing open the front door of the cottage; even that simple act brought back so many memories. Always called the holiday cottage by the Dubois family, it was in fact a large terraced house, two rooms downstairs, a large kitchen at the back, two floors above with bedrooms and bathrooms. Gwen remembered smiling the first time she realised the size of it – a Devonshire cottage would have fitted into it three times.
Today as she walked into the hallway, the terrazzo tiles were the same but the decor had lightened. All those years ago, it had been cluttered with a dark dresser, a mirrored coat and hat stand, a bookcase down the length of one wall and children’s bikes piled around. Now it was an empty space. Except for the wheelchair.
‘Augustus, it’s Gwen,’ she called as she walked slowly through the hall, looking around and wondering.
‘I’m in the garden, come on through.’
The kitchen had been modernised into a bland functional modern one that Gwen barely glanced at as she made her way out into the garden. The garden too, had changed. Gone was the gnarled apple tree with the swing hanging from one of its sturdy branches, gone were the flowerbeds in front of the fences, gone too were the hydrangea bushes that Gwen remembered edging the lawn where the children had played. The whole garden area had been crazy-paved. A fishpond with water tumbling over strategically placed rocks and water lilies covering the surface was the centrepiece. An open-sided loggia had been attached to the back of the house with several jasmine plants climbing its pillars and forming a natural roof protection over the teak table and chairs underneath. The table was already set for lunch, a bottle of champagne and a bottle of water nestled together in the ice bucket.
Augustus was making his way towards her from a gazebo built down by the bottom fence. With a subconscious jolt, Gwen registered the cane he was holding in his left hand and leaning on slightly, but her main gaze was centred on his face as she walked towards him. The face of the man who had filled her dreams for over half a century.
Of course, the face she remembered had weathered and lost its youthful luminosity, how could it not? Her own had done the same. Life had aged his face, leaving its grief, stress and laughter marks etched into lines and creases on the once smooth surface. But it was still the face of the man she’d fallen in love with.
As they both reached the fishpond in the middle of the garden and stopped inches apart, the look in Augustus’s eyes told her all she needed to know and when she reached out to take the hand he was holding out to her, it felt like coming home. And if she was any judge, he felt the same way.
‘Gwen, ma chérie. Today my ’eart and ’ead are filled with much joy. You ’ave no idea how I’ve longed for this,’ Augustus said. ‘Or peut-être you ’ave?’
Gwen smiled at him. ‘More than you’ll ever know. From the moment I left France all those years ago, I’ve wondered what happened. Why I was sent away so ruthlessly, why you disappeared like a pantomime genie in a puff of smoke, after everything I thought we meant to each other. Charlie would say you ghosted me.’
‘Not me. My parents. Come, we sit under the loggia and I tell you everything.’ Still holding her hand, Augustus led her back up the garden. ‘The garden it is different, no? After the tenant left last year and I decided I settle here, I engaged a garden designer. It is all new and low maintenance so I can just potter without any heavy work but still a tranquil place to sit.’
‘I love the sound of running water and the lilies are wonderful. Shame about the old apple tree though.’ Gwen thought about the black and white photo in her bag.
Augustus glanced at his watch. ‘Lunch will arrive in about five minutes from a local traiteur so we will ’ave a champagne aperitif while we wait.’ He lent his cane against the wall out of the way and opened the bottle expertly with a gentle pop and poured some of the sparking liquid into the two waiting glasses. Handing Gwen one, he raised his own and said, ‘Here’s to the future.’
‘The future,’ Gwen echoed.
‘But first we ’ave the need to talk about the past,’ Augustus said. ‘And why it all went wrong for us. Were you ill when you returned to England?’
When Gwen shook her head and said, ‘No,’ Augustus gave a sigh of relief.
‘That is good. I explain why you were dismissed in such a cursory manner. I was ill and my parents panicked. They sent you away because I ’ad contracted polio. They feared for my life and it was many months before they even told me you ’ad gone.’
Gwen gazed at him, horrified, but before she could say anything the doorbell buzzed and a voice called out.
‘Monsieur Dubois, j’arrive,’ and seconds later the traiteur arrived in the garden and placed a large box on the table. ‘You like me to unpack?’
‘Non merci,’ Augustus answered. ‘We can do it.’
‘Bon appétit,’ and the traiteur left.
Together the two of them unpacked the box. As they placed plates of charcuterie, salad, couscous, a crisp baguette, fromage and finally a tarte Tatin on the table, Augustus looked at Gwen.
‘It was years before I learnt the truth about your departure and even longer until I was told about the letters you’d written to me.’
‘You didn’t receive them?’
August shook his head. ‘Non. My father he burnt them without showing them to me.’
‘That is awful,’ Gwen burst out. ‘All of it. The illness and what your father did.’ She wiped a tear away as the realisation hit her of the damage that had been done to both their lives. ‘I thought your parents liked me.’
‘They did while you looked after the children, but as it became clear I would survive, they were terrified that I would leave them and move to England to be with you.’
Gwen gave a rueful smile. ‘If only they’d asked you. That was never our plan, was it?’
Augustus shook his head. ‘Non, we had the youthful daydreams of making the world a better place from here in Brittany.’ He placed a round of Brie next to a piece of cantel on the platter. ‘Voilà. Lunch is ready. We eat.’
