Armand smiled above his wine glass. ‘I try his patience, sometimes, but this is natural for people who have passed a life together. Lucie he adores.’
I remembered the way François had watched his young charge by the ducks that morning, how his weary eyes had softened on her face. But even as I thought of that another image rose to take its place – of François staring, startled, at the laughing little girl. Seeing ghosts, he’d told me. For a moment I debated asking Armand if Lucie looked very like her mother, but then decided it might be easier to ask him about Didier. If I could only find some plausible excuse, some way of leading him round to the subject …
Toying with my glass, I tried the indirect approach. ‘You said Martine came back to live with you when … when you were widowed. Where did she live before that? Here in Chinon?’
‘With her husband, yes. You know that he is dead?’ The dark gaze flicked me, moved away. He shrugged. ‘One should not be speaking ill of the dead, I know, but he was not a pleasant man, her husband. Already when she came to help with Lucie there were problems with the marriage.’
I nodded, pleased that my tactic had worked. ‘Yes, I’d heard they were divorced.’
‘Annulled. There is a difference, to the Church.’ The wine swirled like liquid gold in his glass as he lifted it and smiled faintly. ‘If you believe in that sort of thing.’
‘And you don’t, I take it?’
‘Me? No, I believe in the things that I can touch – my land, my family, old traditions and good wine. And you?’
I had to admit I hadn’t the faintest idea. ‘I’m a sceptic, I’m afraid.’
‘You have no religion?’
‘No.’
‘People, then. You must believe in people.’
‘People aren’t permanent,’ I answered drily, and he raised his eyebrows in surprise, a slow smile forming at the corners of his mouth.
‘You are indeed a sceptic, as you say. Tell me, did you always think this? As a child?’
‘Good heavens, no.’ I grinned. ‘I was the most believing child that ever lived. I wished on stars and everything.’
‘So what has happened?’
‘Life.’ I gave the answer with a shrug. My last mussel had grown cold in its shell, and I pushed it away with my fork. How had we got on to this subject from Didier, I wondered? The conversation wanted steering back to more productive ground. ‘And Martine’s husband? What did he believe in?’
‘Money,’ came the answer, then he tempered his quick judgement with an even-minded shrug. ‘That is not fair, perhaps, because I do not know what it is like to be coming from nothing, as Didier did. He had, I think, an ugly childhood. Martine had money, so he married her.’
I found it rather difficult to imagine any man marrying Martine Muret simply for her money, but Armand assured me this was so. ‘It is the thinking of most people, of Martine herself. But then,’ he admitted, ‘most people, they think this is also why I married my wife.’
‘You?’ I stared, surprised. ‘But you’re …’
‘Rich? Yes, now, but when I married things were not so well for the Clos des Cloches. I managed badly in the early years, the harvests were not good, and everybody knew this. I’m not surprised that people think I chose Brigitte for money.’
‘And did you?’ It was too late to withdraw the question, however much I kicked myself for asking it. Already Armand was leaning back, head tilted, considering his answer.
‘In part.’ He smiled without apology. ‘This was no burning passion, between Brigitte and myself. It was more business, an exchange. She wanted a nice house, where she could play the hostess, hold her parties. And me, I wanted a beautiful wife of good family. That she had money was one more attraction. At that moment, we suited one another, but later … I was sorry for her death, but I did not suffer with it.’ His smile softened. ‘Do I shock you? I should keep to the politics in conversation, or you will not come to lunch with me again.’
But he didn’t keep to politics. Instead he asked about my family and my childhood, so I favoured him with a few of the better anecdotes I’d gathered growing up a Braden. I finished with the one about the day Harry tried to burn me at the stake. We’d been playing in the garden – Joan of Arc, as I recall – with me strapped to the rose trellis for an added touch of authenticity. The blaze had been spectacular, and for a few long moments, while Harry was off looking for my father’s garden hosepipe, I had felt uncomfortably close to poor St Joan.
Most people laughed when I told them that story, but Armand looked rather shocked. ‘He is alive still, this cousin of yours? Your father did not kill him?’
‘No, he survived. He lectures in history, on and off, in London.’
‘I see.’ He smiled then, and leaning back he felt for his cigarettes. ‘Then I am glad you did not bring him with you. The history of my family, that is one thing, but the wars, the kings and queens …’ His shrug dismissed such trivialities. ‘I find them always boring.’
Here was my opportunity, I thought, to swing the conversation round again. ‘Your brother-in-law was quite the historian, though, from what I hear.’
‘Didier?’ The cigarette lighter clicked shut. Leaning back, Armand narrowed his eyes as the smoke curled upwards. ‘A historian? Who has told you this?’