She sat beside him a while, saying nothing. The maelstrom had gone now, sunk down through her, absorbed into her veins. Quieted. Somewhere she could hear birdsong.
She looked about her. It was so very beautiful, this spot, with the vista of the level gardens spreading all about her, the ancient mass of the château behind, and the lingering sunlight just catching the tops of the protecting trees. An oasis of beauty. Of quietness. And peace.
Peace of the heart.
Slowly, very slowly, in the warm, peaceful quietness, she reached for his hand, closing hers over his, winding her fingers into his. He pressed his into hers, holding her hand. Such a simple gesture. Saying nothing.
Saying everything.
He turned to her.
Tears were running down her face. Quietly, silently.
He gave a soft rasp in his throat. Then he put his arms about her, drawing her to him, holding her against him as they sat together, side by side. And still her tears came—so quietly, so silently.
Making words unnecessary.
Then he kissed away her tears and kissed her trembling mouth, kissed the hands he took again in his, raising them to his lips in homage, and she clung to his hand, and to him, and to his heart. ‘Ma belle Alexa,’ he murmured. Then he drew back a little. ‘I thought you hated me,’ he said wonderingly.
‘So did I,’ she said. ‘But I was wrong.’ She kissed his mouth. ‘So wrong. It was still love…all along.’
‘Still?’ There was a questioning in his voice. Uncertainty.
‘For so long. I don’t know since when. Only that I fell in love with you knowing I should not—that it was…unwise beyond all things. A folie d’amour. There was no point in loving you—not even before I knew you were going to marry Louisa. Because what hope could there be in loving you—you who were who you were, from so different a world, wanting only what you did from me and for so brief a time? And when I knew about your betrothal, when you came back and I ran from you, refusing to listen to you, then there was no point in love at all. Only in hatred. And I poured it all—all my hatred—into that portrait of you. The one you saw.’
A voice from the French windows spoke. ‘Just as you poured all your love into the one Guy gave me.’
Both started—Guy getting to his feet, drawing Alexa with him, her hands were still entwined in his.
‘Maman—?’
Madame de Rochemont stepped out on to the gravelled terrace. How she had suddenly arrived, Alexa had no idea. But then, as a de Rochemont, what was there to stop her having a second private jet at her disposal?
‘Mon fils,’ she acknowledged. Then, coming up to Alexa, she kissed her on each cheek. ‘Why do you think,’ she asked her, ‘I made sure I would know exactly the moment you returned to London?’
She took a step back, her regard encompassing them both.
‘When it became clear to me that on no account should my son do what his father had done—what I had done—marry someone he did not love, I knew I must ensure it did not happen. Quite how to do it gracefully, I did not know. Sometimes, yes, such a marriage can be successful. But mine, Guy, was so because in the end I came to love your father, and he me. When I saw your portrait—the one you gave me—I knew.’ Her voice changed. ‘I knew you were already in love—and were loved in return.’
She met Alexa’s eyes. ‘That was why I told you I was grateful to have been given that portrait. Because it told me all that I needed to know.’ She paused, her expression softening as she spoke to Alexa. ‘I can tell who loves my son as much as I do. And I can tell—’ she looked at Guy with the same look ‘—when my son is looking at someone with as much love as—from time to time!—he looks at me. And so,’ she went on, ‘there was only one last mystery to solve. Why the two of you were not together. A mystery,’ she finished, with the air of one delivering a coup de théâtre, ‘solved not three hours ago, when you, ma chère, recommended I consult my daughter-in-law on the action I was—in desperation to resolve this impasse—urging you to take.’
She glared at Guy. ‘How could you not have told her Louisa had eloped, and solved your problem tout court?’
‘Maman,’ he answered, tight-lipped, ‘it was not that simple—’
Madame de Rochemont gave another imperious wave of her hand. ‘Love is always simple. It is men who are fools to think it is not! Do you not agree, ma chère Alexa?’
‘I think, madame, it is also women who can be fools—as I was.’
‘Well, I am sure Guy gave you cause. But now I can see that finally all is resolved, and that is a great relief to me. Ah…’ her voice lifted ‘…perfect timing.’
Guy and Alexa turned to see what the cause was. Guy’s face blanched, and Alexa could only stare, eyes widening.
Along the façade of the château a grand procession was approaching, its lead a resplendent personage in a velvet jacket, bearing a vast silver salver held in front of him with both hands. On it nestled a champagne bottle in an ice bucket, next to three flutes, and behind him three equally resplendent but lesser personages bore aloft silver salvers groaning with dishes of canapés and hors d’oeuvres. They were followed by a dozen uniformed staff carrying between them a gilded antique table and three matching chairs, which they proceeded to set down, with great precision, on the terrace. Upon the table with a practised flourish, the salvers were placed, one after another, and then the champagne bottle was opened and the flutes filled to perfection.
All the attendant staff stood back, apparently staring fixedly ahead, as well-trained staff would always do, but Guy knew they were actually riveted with full and absolute attention on Alexa. They clearly realized—given the dramatic circumstances not only of her sudden unscheduled arrival, but also the arrival of his mother, not to mention the fact that he was still clasping her hand—that she was, evidemment, to be their new châtelaine.
With admirable composure Guy thanked them, his expression a picture, and they withdrew in good order.