we have been deluged with white lilies. One would think it was still Good Friday.” She paused. “But perhaps that is appropriate after all—Madame la Comtesse always did fancy herself God’s gift to creation.” Her voice contained an hauteur matched only by the artful upsweep of her silver-gray hair. Massive, yellowing opera-length pearls like something out of a portrait by Rembrandt rested atop her black silk shantung dress.
“I am Marie-Jeanne de Montfort. I am sorry I was not here to meet you immediately, but you see, it is only the clients who inhabit the chateau when they are here. We—that is, the family—live in the cottage behind the chateau. It saves on heating and staff costs.”
“Yes, of course.” Shelley nodded, trying her best to follow the accented and somewhat convoluted syntax. One thing was certain; she recognized the name Marie-Jeanne de Montfort. The former count, who’d predeceased his late wife by a good fifteen years, had two female cousins who also lived on the estate, and it was one of them who invariably attended to business.
Marie-Jeanne guided Shelley around the main house to the cottage, which was nestled between twin apricot trees. Its multipaned glass doors were open to the warmth of the midday sun and white curtains fluttered in the gentle breeze. It was picture-postcard perfect—and also, by the looks of it, easily large enough to accommodate a family of six. The Montforts may have come down in the world, but one family’s descent was another’s dream come true.
“Isabelle, Mademoiselle McCleery is here.” The Cuban heels of Marie-Jeanne’s black pumps tapped on the cool tile floors as they entered the kitchen, where another elderly woman was waiting. She was practically a double for Marie-Jeanne except that she was dressed in a black wool suit instead of a dress. Her sole piece of jewelry was a moonstone ring as large as the average quail egg, which years of etiquette and an excessively large knuckle kept poised on her tapered finger.
“This is my sister, Isabelle de Montfort, Mademoiselle McCleery,” Marie-Jeanne made the introductions.
“Please call me Shelley, Lady de Montfort,” Shelley insisted. “And let me say I was so sorry about your recent loss. My employer, Mr. Toynbee, especially wanted me to convey his sympathies regarding the comtesse.”
“Why am I not surprised at Monsieur Toynbee’s sympathies?” Isabelle pursed her lips.
Marie-Jeanne passed the flowers to her sister. “Isabelle and I continue to take solace in that fact that la comtesse was merely a relative by marriage.” She reached for a Sèvres vase and removed a cache of wooden spoons and a folded sheet of paper with typed names. Shelley recognized the list of repairmen that she regularly updated for each property owner.
Isabelle smelled the flowers. “Are they not lovely?” She placed them in the vase, filled it with water and set the arrangement in a place of honor on the table. “Though to give the late comtesse credit, you must admit, ma soeur, that she did have rather shapely calves.”
Marie-Jeanne wiped her hands on a dish towel that was embroidered with a row of bumblebees—there seemed no end to the prickliness of the Montforts. “It is true, Isabelle, and something clearly not lost on Bertrand.” She looked at Shelley. “Our cousin, the late count, was—how do you say?—a leg man. He once raised livestock, you see.”
Shelley nodded. “I see.” She didn’t at all. “Your English, both of your English, rather, is—” she searched for the appropriate word “—remarkable.”
The two women beamed.
“Mademoiselle Bruce would have been so delighted to hear that.” Marie-Jeanne patted her pearls.
“She was our governess when we were young,” Isabelle corrected. “She had a great fondness for shortbread.”
You could take the girl out of Scotland, Shelley realized, but you couldn’t take the Scottish burr out of her students.
The kitchen timer sounded and Isabelle opened the door to a giant oven and removed a large tart. “The, the, eh—” Isabelle turned to Marie-Jeanne. “Comment dit on ‘des mûres’ en anglais?”
Her sister thought a moment. “Raspberries, perhaps? I am not sure.” She rolled the r and pronounced the p.
Shelley looked more closely at the freshly baked pastry. “Blackberries,” she corrected. The last time she had had blackberries was when her family took a week’s camping trip to Vermont to savor the wonders of the Green Mountains and maple syrup. Unfortunately, her parents had not known that May was blackfly month. Her father had abandoned the rest of the family soon after, taking the insect repellent with him.
Isabelle placed the tart on a trivet and smiled. “Yes, blackberries, of course. I thought we would have tea later, if it is not too much trouble?”
“Not at all,” Shelley said. Food tended to relax people, and seeing as it was just tea, she didn’t think there would be an issue over the flatware. In any case, it was the perfect opportunity to start the negotiations. “And will the count be joining us?”
Marie-Jeanne smiled wistfully. “If only.”
Isabelle sighed. “That would be lovely, no?”
That would be lovely, yes, Shelley thought, seeing as he was the sole heir to the estate. “Perhaps you could call and invite him to come?”
Marie-Jeanne shook her head. “I am sure that he is much too busy.”
Isabelle nodded. “His work, it is very important.”
“And secretive.”
“It occupies him all hours of the day and night—forces him to travel constantly from his headquarters in Paris.”
“You make it sound like some kind of undercover operation.” Shelley was intrigued.
Marie-Jeanne coughed and covered her mouth.
Isabelle pursed her lips and looked to her sister.
“La pâte dentifrice,” Marie-Jeanne supplied.
Shelley blinked. “La pâte dentifrice? Toothpaste?” Isabelle nodded vigorously. “Yes, toothpaste. International sales.”
Well, whoop-de-do. The count might be concerned with the highly competitive world of tartar control, but she had the IRS breathing down her neck. Cavities would just have to take a back seat. “Yes, I can understand the pressing nature of his business, but at the risk of being rude, I really do need to speak with him as soon as possible. As I am sure you are well aware, the count plans to terminate the contract with Dream Villas.”
The two women looked at each other, then back at her, nodding nervously.
“Please understand, in no way do I mean to be disrespectful to the memory of the late comtesse, but I was very much hoping to use this opportunity to get the chance to dissuade the count of his decision.” Her muddled syntax was beginning to resemble the sisters’. Shelley hoped that was not a bad omen.
Marie-Jeanne waved off her apology. “It is impossible to be crass when referring to that woman. Françoise was no better than that Mary Astor character in The Maltese Falcon. How she treated poor Humphrey Bogart!” Marie-Jeanne’s distress was evident.
Shelley’s was verging on mild hysteria.
“You
