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the trip, Jack’s father had stepped in. After he died, Gaston managed the daily operations. Now, the job had fallen to Jack.
    He glanced around the office as Gaston mentioned the latest problems with transportation and increasing port charges. His gaze drew upward to the portrait taking prominence on the wall. His mother’s painted blue eyes gazed down at him.
    She was posed in a rose garden fabricated by the artist, since roses had never grown so lushly at Stoughton Park. Her slender white arms and neck, as well as her sweeping chestnut curls, had not emerged from the artist’s imagination. If he stared at the painting, he could almost hear her voice or see the sparkle in her eyes.
    When he was high enough to reach his father’s knee, she’d abandoned them. The lingering memories were vague blurs. Were it not for the sole remaining portrait, he didn’t know if he would have forgotten how she looked. Grandfather had all the other portraits and her possessions burned the terrible morning they discovered her betrayal. This painting had escaped his tirade, having been transported across the Channel a few years before. It was one of the reasons Jack didn’t mind coming to the vignoble .
    “You’ve kept it after all these years.” Jack motioned toward the portrait.
    Gaston shrugged. “I see no reason to take it down. Your father told me this was the only place he could visit her.”
    He averted his eyes, and Jack realized it was because his own face must have displayed all the stifled agony her disappearance had caused. Grandfather had forbidden mourning his daughter-in-law, and once when Jack had asked where Mamma had gone, he’d received a sound slap.
    He’d managed, as children can, to fill his life with games and friends, but his father had taken her absence hard. He’d turned to drinking at all hours of the day and was found in a field a few months later. The official word was that his horse had thrown him, but Jack knew his mother’s abandonment had caused it. A sudden pain gripped his chest, and he ground his teeth, waiting for it to dissipate.
    “Monsieur?”
    Jack gave his shoulders a little shake. “Yes, yes. What do I need to sign?”
    Gaston set a leather-bound book before him, and Jack dipped his pen in the inkwell, signing where Gaston pointed. He could have been signing away state secrets to some French upstart for all he knew. When he was done, Gaston handed him a stack of letters. One particular letter on buff-colored thick paper caught his eye.
    “What’s all this?”
    He recognized the owner of the handwriting the moment he took the packet. The Comtesse de Mirville was expecting him. Staring at the letters brought back a flood of memories, which consisted of too much wine and not enough clothes for either of them. An odd sense of regret overtook him. He stuffed the letter inside his coat.
    “Your grandfather’s letter is here, monsieur.” Gaston pulled a missive from the pile and placed it meaningfully before Jack.
    “You can forego all the monsieuring , Gaston. You’ve known me since I was wet behind the ears. These formalities give one a headache.”
    The older man’s lips twitched, and he bowed smartly. “As you wish, Ambrose.”
    “I’d prefer monsieur , after all.” He pushed away from the desk. “We both know you are running this place handsomely by yourself, and my presence is only a formality. Shall we call an end to this dreary meeting? I have other things to do.” Being in the room with the reminder of his beloved father’s death staring down at him was suddenly too much.
    Gaston arranged the papers on the desk into neat stacks. “Fortunately, the vignoble manages well on its own.”
    “If that is the truth, I wonder why my grandfather sends me here at all.”
    The Frenchman’s thick black eyebrows drew together in a line. “Perhaps it is so monsieur will have meaningful employment and not waste his time on frivolous living.”
    “Amazing, Gaston. You didn’t even