Shelley nodded, wondering if it would be considered rude if she asked for a double scotch on the rocks.
“My literary weakness aside, please continue,” Marie-Jeanne commanded. “We will dismiss further mention of that woman.”
The fact that no love was lost was becoming clearer and clearer. “Yes, well, let me explain. You see, I have always been a practical kind of person.”
“Something we have also greatly admired about you,” Isabelle noted politely. “The way you organized the electricians to come and put in those modern connections—circuit breakers, I believe they are called—was exceptional, truly magnifique.”
“Thank you, but that is really just part of my job.”
“Never underestimate efficiency,” Marie-Jeanne declared.
“Well, thank you again.” Maybe they could write a letter of recommendation for a new job if she was unsuccessful in convincing their nephew to come around? No, best not to be negative.
Shelley forged on. “Speaking of efficiency, don’t you think it would benefit the family to keep renting out the chateau? That way you could maintain a regular income and have the satisfaction of knowing that the property would remain in the family and that you could still live on the grounds?” She stopped to gauge their reaction. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be too blunt, and of course someone could easily argue that my motives are not completely pure—after all, the suggestion to keep the contract with Dream Villas also benefits me.” If they only knew how much.
“You have nothing to be sorry about,” Isabelle assured her.
“In truth, we were reluctant to interfere in the decision regarding the estate and burden Edmond with our little problems. But we have been wondering where we will go if the chateau is to be sold,” Marie-Jeanne confided.
“Then for your sakes and mine, I must tell you that I am here in Aix-en-Provence only until the end of the week, Monday at the latest. Therefore, if I am to convince Monsieur le Comte to maintain a business connection, I must do it soon. Today even.” Shelley looked back and forth between the two sisters.
Marie-Jeanne fingered her pearls. Isabelle toyed with her ring. And Shelley wondered if the two old women, who seemed more attuned to a bygone era of black-and-white movies and governesses, were capable of strong-arming their high-flying businessman of a nephew, who appeared to be oblivious to his family’s needs. Perhaps this is what too much fluoride did to one’s thinking?
Marie-Jeanne squared her narrow shoulders and stood up even straighter than before, as much a testament to her moral fiber as to her upbringing. “Isabelle, perhaps you would be so kind as to take Shelley on a tour of the chateau while I place a call to Edmond?” Marie-Jeanne elongated the pronunciation of her name—Shell-ee—in a charming and very un-Lionel way. She started to leave but stopped. “If I may be so bold, may I inquire as to your relationship with Monsieur Toynbee?”
Shelley straightened her back—in horror and as a testament to her passing the President’s Fitness Test in middle school three years running. “He’s my employer, nothing more, I can assure you.” And possibly not my employer for much longer—though Shelley didn’t add that part.
Isabelle beamed at her sister. “You see, I said she was remarkable.” She turned to Shelley. “For you, it is the Botticelli and nothing less.”
3
ACTUALLY IT WAS MORE.
First came the chateau’s library, with hundreds of leather-bound volumes—a books-by-the-yard fantasy come true. Only these looked as if someone had used them for more than decoration.
Someone had.
“As a young boy, Edmond, the new count, spent many hours reading the works of Thucydides and Virgil—in the original Greek and Latin, of course,” Isabelle explained with a sweep of the hand.
“Was Mademoiselle Bruce his tutor, as well?” Shelley asked somewhat distractedly. She had just noticed what appeared to be a Gutenberg bible.
“Oh, no, Mademoiselle Bruce had already returned to her native Glasgow. Edmond mastered Greek on his own when he was recuperating from a fall from the oak tree behind the stables. He was pretending to be Rinaldo from Gerusalemme, off to fight the Saracens. You know the poem by Tasso, of course?”
Shelley shook her head. “I know of it, that’s all.” How many people could claim intimate knowledge of the epic Renaissance poem?
“Not to worry. Edmond can introduce it to you.” Isabelle smiled in that knowing way that immediately made Shelley suspicious. “Here, this way is to the Botticelli.” She pointed to the door on the opposite side of the room.
They glided along the marble floors into a large room with flaking, pale-green plaster walls. Fading Belgian tapestries depicting beheadings lined one wall, and atop a massive rococo sideboard sat a pair of matching Ming vases. Shelley bypassed those in favor of the art on the facing wall. There was a small panel painting of St. George, which to her trained eye appeared to be a Duccio. Next to it and practically hidden by heavy velvet curtains hung a delicately carved ivory. She turned to Isabelle. “Is it northern French? Fourteenth century perhaps?”
Isabelle squinted. “I had forgotten about that objet. It is so small, no?”
Small, yes, but definitely to die for. Roughly two inches by six inches, it depicted a pair of lions, male and female, cavorting in a forest under the watchful eye of exotic birds and small rodentlike creatures.
“But it’s so delightful, and a shame that it’s not better displayed.” Shelley loved the ivory—immediately. More than loved it. She lusted after it with greater intensity than she’d ever lusted for anything, Paul included. Which, come to think of it, probably said something about their sex life. True, he’s hung like a Clydesdale, but he has the finesse of one, too, Shelley had once confided to Abigail after too many Cosmopolitans.
“But surely you agree that the ivory cannot compare with our Botticelli?” Isabelle stepped next to what was clearly the family’s pride and joy.
Shelley approached the large framed drawing. It was a preliminary study for the painter’s famous Birth of Venus, in which the naked goddess of love rises from a scallop shell, her blond locks cascading over one shoulder. The thing of it was, the Italian Renaissance master had never been one of Shelley’s favorites—she always thought his women looked like Valley Girls without the benefit of blow-dryers. And now she was even more disappointed than usual upon viewing his work up close.
“I’ve never seen an original drawing of his,” she said, searching for a remark that would not offend her hostess. “And it’s amazing that you’ve managed to retain possession of these treasures after all these years.”
“Oh, they are not ours to possess really.” Isabelle looked genuinely shocked by Shelley’s comment. “We—the family, that is—think of ourselves more as caretakers of these things. It is our obligation to preserve them for the generations to come.”
Shelley nodded. She was beginning to understand how the aunts could live a life of genteel poverty and still be surrounded by priceless masterpieces.
The sound of a decisive tapping grew louder as footsteps approached. Shelley gladly turned her attention
