by a flash of sun reflected from the rows of windows. The wrought-iron gates were open and the car shot straight through into the driveway, slowed between the expanse of lawn, and drew up at the château steps.
Bell opened her door, slowly, and tilted her head to look up at Château Reynard. It was classic late-eighteenth-century perfection, from the steeply-pitched slate roof pierced with the discreet row of dormer windows, down through the two rows of tall windows framed in their wooden shutters, to the double flight of stone-balustraded steps running up to the heavy double front doors. Two wings at either side, each with its own narrow-pitched roof, framed the symmetry of the main façade. Bell had seen it in pictures many times, but she was unprepared for its exact simplicity, and its air of authority.
As she stood with Jacopin waiting patiently at her side, her bag in his hand, one half of the massive double doors swung open.
Bell saw a tall man, dressed in a formal, dark suit. For a second or two he stood staring expressionlessly down at her from the height of the terrace. Then he walked slowly down the right-hand flight of steps and came towards her. Bell’s heart sank.
The baron looked even more formidable than she had expected. He was younger than she had imagined, only in his mid to late thirties. He had an aristocratic face with a high-bridged nose, the face of a man who was used to deference. His sun-bleached fair hair was brushed smooth to his head and his eyes were slightly hooded.
The complete autocrat, thought Bell.
There was only the ghost of a smile around his mouth, and none at all in his eyes. He held out his hand and she shook it firmly, putting all the warmth she could muster into her smile.
She wouldn’t be here, after all, if he hadn’t invited her.
‘Welcome to Château Reynard, Miss Farrer,’ he said. ‘I am Charles de Gillesmont.’ Yes. I don’t think I would have mistaken you for the butler.
‘Will you come this way? Jacopin, I will take the luggage in for Miss Farrer. I am sure that you have other things to do. Jacopin is our maître de chais,’ he told Bell. She looked back at the little man with new respect. As cellar-master, his responsibility for what appeared in the bottles labelled Château Reynard would be almost as great as the baron’s. Jacopin winked at her and settled himself back into the big car. Regretfully Bell watched the car disappear round the corner of the house in a spurt of gravel.
Then, feeling just as if she was tiptoeing into the lion’s den, she followed Charles de Gillesmont into his château.
When they stood side by side in the stone-flagged hallway, Bell saw that he was much taller than her. His eyes were very dark blue with darker rims to the irises, almost navy in the dim light.
Before he spoke again she noticed that his mouth was full, the top lip deeply curved.
‘Marianne will take you up to your room,’ he said. A thin dark girl in a maid’s uniform came out of the shadows towards them. ‘I am sure you will need an hour’s peace and quiet after your journey. Do come down when you are ready.’ He nodded, formally, and strode away.
Bell obediently followed Marianne. A huge stone staircase edged with intricately wrought iron curved upwards, and as Bell’s eyes followed it she caught the gleam of a gilt and crystal chandelier hanging over the stairwell.
‘This way, madame,’ the girl prompted and turned to the right at the top of the stairs. The wide corridor was lit at either end by tall, narrow windows. Heavy oak chests stood at intervals with high-backed chairs in dark, carved wood between them. It was very sombre and completely silent except for the sound of their footsteps on the thin matting.
‘Here we are,’ said Marianne, opening a door at the end of the corridor. The big room was in one of the narrow wings at the side of the house and it had windows in three walls. It was very sunny, clean and bare. Marianne pushed open another door and gestured inside.
‘Your bathroom, madame. Is there anything else you need?’
‘No, this is perfect, thank you.’
As soon as she was alone, Bell crossed to the end of the room and stood looking out of the middle window. From the first floor, and with the height of the little hill beneath her, the view was commanding. She could see the river, with the town of Pauillac and the huge oil refinery on the near bank. In the distance the scene was built up, almost industrial, but in the foreground were rolling masses of vineyards, bisected by tracks and the white, dusty road.
The right-hand window looked across the golden stone face of the Château to the identical opposite wing. A slight woman in a navy blue pleated dress with a bow at the neck strolled across the lawn from the front steps. A fat dachshund waddled at her heels.
‘Now that,’ thought Bell, ‘must be the baroness dowager. I wonder where the young baroness is?’ Still musing, she turned to the left-hand window and immediately forgot the mysteries of Charles’s family. Below her were the working buildings of the Château, the long, low chais with tiled roofs and limewashed walls grouped around a cobbled yard. Blue-overalled men were crossing the yard and Bell could see Jacopin standing in the open doorway of a barn, deep in conversation with a fat woman in a white apron. The sight reminded her that she was there to explore a living vineyard and make a story out of it, and she felt an immediate surge of energy.
Abandoning the view she made a quick survey of the room. It was almost bare except for a high brass bed with a well laundered plain white cotton coverlet and the traditional long, hard French bolster. There was a pretty chest of drawers, a tall mirror in a gilt frame, the glass flecked with dim spots, a pair of spoon-backed armchairs upholstered in pale blue moiré silk, and a tiny pale blue rug with a faded pattern of rosebuds beside the bed. The rest of the floor was bare, highly polished, dark boards.
‘The baron is evidently not investing his profits in domestic comforts,’ Bell murmured to herself, but a glance into the bathroom surprised her again. It was the last word in luxury, with a deep bath and a separate shower, a thick carpet and a cane armchair piled with fluffy white towels. A long white robe hung from a hook and a case of heated rollers stood on a glass shelf next to an enticing row of crystal jars. The gentle smell of expensive French soap filled the room.
The contrast between the stark bedroom and the sybaritic bathroom pleased and intrigued Bell, and she found herself wondering if Charles was responsible for it.
Oh God, Baron Charles. She must think about getting down to work, however much the chilly Frenchman disconcerted her. She went into the bathroom and splashed her face with cold water, combed her hair and then went to unpack her tape recorder.
Here goes.
Charles was sitting in an armchair in the dim hall, reading. He stood up as she wound down the grand staircase and watched her impassively. There was still no smile, but Bell thought that the lines of his face looked less taut.
‘If it suits you, Miss Farrer, I thought we might have a talk now about the Château and the way we run it. Then perhaps you would like to spend tomorrow seeing it all from the practical point of view.’ Bell nodded, and as she moved her head she thought she saw Charles looking coolly at the curve of her cheek. Then their eyes met, and there was a second’s silence.
‘That sounds fine,’ she said quietly. ‘And won’t you call me Bell?’ They were speaking French, as they had done ever since she arrived, and the crisp English monosyllable sounded suddenly incongruous.
‘Bell?’ The blue eyes met
