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just . . .” She stared out across the verdant landscape below her, trying to find the words to explain. “I want to be judged for myself.”
    “I understand, I really do. Look, I’m not going to hold you up anymore, but it was a pleasure to meet you.” Sebastian held out his hand. “Good luck with it all.”
    “Thank you. Good-bye.” Emilie unlocked her car and released an irritated Frou-Frou onto the passenger seat. She climbed inside, started the engine, and drove off slowly down the hill, trying to understand why she had reacted so violently. Perhaps, used as she was to the formal French protocol of a first meeting, Sebastian’s openness had startled her. But, Emilie told herself, he had simply tried to be friendly. It was she who had the problem. Sebastian had pressed her most sensitive button and she’d reacted accordingly. Emilie watched him strolling down the hill a few meters ahead of her and felt guilty and embarrassed.
    She was thirty years old, Emilie chastised herself. The de la Martinières estate was hers to do with as she wished. Perhaps it was time she began to behave like an adult, not a temperamental child.
    As she drew the car adjacent with Sebastian, taking a deep breath, she wound down the window.
    “As you’ve come all the way here to see the château, Sebastian, it would be disappointing if you didn’t fulfill your goal. Why don’t you let me drive you there?”
    “If you’re sure . . .” Sebastian’s expression echoed the surprise in his voice. “I mean, of course I’d love to see it, especially with someone who knows the house intimately.”
    “Then, please, climb in.” She leaned over and unlocked the passenger door for him.
    “Thank you,” he said as he closed it behind him, and they set off once more down the hill. “I feel dreadful for upsetting you. Are you sure I’m forgiven?”
    “Sebastian,” she sighed, “it’s not you who’s at fault, it’s me. Any mention of my family in that context is what I think a psychologist would call a trigger. And I must learn to deal with it.”
    “Well, we all have plenty of those, especially when we’ve had successful, powerful relatives who’ve gone before us.”
    “My mother was certainly a strong character. There’s a space in many people’s lives now she has passed away. As you said, it’s a lot to live up to. And I’ve always known I couldn’t.”
    Emilie wondered whether the two glasses of wine at lunch had loosened her tongue. But suddenly she didn’t feel uncomfortable telling him this. It thrilled and unnerved her at the same time.
    “Well, I can hardly say the same of my mum, or Victoria as she insisted we call her,” said Sebastian. “I can’t even remember her. She gave birth to my brother and me at a hippie commune in the States. When I was three and my brother two, she arrived with us in England and dumped us both on my grandparents in Yorkshire. A few weeks later she took off again, leaving us behind. And she hasn’t been seen or heard of since.”
    “Oh, Sebastian!” Emilie responded, shocked. “You don’t even know if your mother is still alive?”
    “No, but our grandmother more than made up for it. Because we were so young when we were left with her, to all intents and purposes Constance was our mother. And I can honestly say that if my real mother ever appeared in a crowded room in front of me, I wouldn’t be able to spot her.”
    “You were lucky to have your grandmother, but it’s still very sad for you. And you don’t even know who your father is?”
    “No. Or, in fact, whether my brother and I share the same one. We’re certainly very different. Anyway . . .” Sebastian stared into the distance.
    “Did you know your grandfather?”
    “He died when I was five. He was a fine man, but he’d been out in North Africa during the war and the injuries he sustained there made him very frail. My grandparents were devoted to each other. So mypoor old granny not only lost her