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adored husband, but her daughter too. I think having us grandsons kept her going, actually. She was the most amazing woman, still drystone-walling at the age of seventy-eight and hale and hearty until a week before she fell ill. I’m not sure they make them like her anymore,” he mused, a timbre of sadness entering his voice. “Sorry,” he said suddenly, “I’m talking too much.”
    “Not at all. It’s comforting for me to know there are other people who have grown up in difficult circumstances. Sometimes”—Emilie sighed—“I think that having too much of a past is just as bad as having none at all.”
    “I totally agree.” Sebastian nodded, then grinned. “Dearie me, if other people heard this conversation, they might think we were a couple of spoilt, privileged kids feeling sorry for ourselves. Let’s face it, neither of us are on the streets, are we?”
    “No. And of course it’s what people would think. Especially of me. Why should they not? They don’t see what lies beneath. Look”—she pointed—“the château is just down there.”
    Sebastian gazed into the distance at the elegant, pale-pink building nestling in the valley beneath them. He let out a whistle. “It’s absolutely beautiful, and just how my grandmother described it to me. And rather a contrast to our family home on the bleak moors of Yorkshire. Although the rawness of the surroundings make Blackmoor Hall spectacular in a different way.”
    Emilie turned into the long drive that led to the château, then steered along the side of the house to park at the back. She pulled the car to a halt and they climbed out.
    “Are you sure you have time to show me around?” Sebastian looked at her. “I can always come back another day.”
    “No, it’s fine.” Emilie walked with Frou-Frou toward the château and Sebastian followed her through the lobby and into the kitchen.
    She took Sebastian from room to room, watching as he paused continually, studying the paintings, the furniture, and the vast collection of objets d’art that lay dusty and unvalued on the tops of mantelpieces, bureaus, and tables. She led him into the morning room, and straightaway, Sebastian walked over to examine a painting.
    “This reminds me of Luxe, Calme et Volupté , which Matisse painted in 1904 when he was staying in Saint-Tropez. The stippled effect issimilar.” Sebastian traced his fingers just above the oil. “Although this is a pure landscape of rocks and sea, without the figures.”
    “Luxury, Peace and Pleasure,” Emilie repeated in English. “I remember my father reading me Baudelaire’s poem.”
    “Yes.” Sebastian turned, his eyes bright with enthusiasm that she knew it. “Matisse took ‘L’Invitation au voyage’ as his inspiration for the painting. It now hangs in the Musée National d’Art Moderne in Paris.” He turned his attention back to the painting in front of him. “It isn’t signed from what I can see, unless the name’s hidden under the frame. But it may be that this was some form of a practice run for the actual painting itself. Especially given that Matisse was in Saint-Tropez at the time when his style was so similar to this. And that’s a stone’s throw away from here, isn’t it?”
    “My father knew Matisse in Paris. Apparently he used to come to the salons Papa gave for the creative intelligentsia in the city. I know he liked Matisse very much and spoke of him often, but I don’t know if he ever came down to the château.”
    “Well, like so many other artists and writers, Matisse spent the Second World War years down here in the south, out of harm’s way. Matisse is my absolute passion.” Sebastian was quivering with excitement. “May I remove it from the wall to see if there’s any dedication on the back? Often pictures would be given by artists to generous benefactors. Such as your father, perhaps.”
    “Yes, of course.” Emilie went to stand next to Sebastian as he tentatively gripped the frame and