Wrong Train to Paris Page 5

  “It smells delicious,” Julia said.

  “Go on, then.” Gabi motioned with her spoon. “Bon appétit.”

  “Shall we not wait for Monsieur Paquet?” Julia asked.

  “Luc ate and left quickly. He doesn’t believe he’ll return before nightfall. Apparently an important errand. Je ne sais pas.” Gabi shrugged and spread butter over her bread.

  Julia felt a bit of disappointment, thinking she might have liked for M. Paquet to see her in a dry gown she hadn’t slept in without a mass of soggy feathers in her hair. She took a slice of the dark-colored bread, surprised by how heavy it felt. Following Gabi’s lead, she spread butter over it and took a bite. The bread had a thick crust and was very chewy. Nothing at all like the light baguettes Paris bakers prided themselves on.

  She took a tentative bite of the soup, recognizing pasta, potatoes, and vegetables, but she wasn’t prepared for the burst of basil flavoring. The country food was hearty and delicious, especially after a long wet morning. Before she knew it, the soup was gone, and in spite of Julia’s protests, Gabi ladled more into her bowl and gave her another piece of bread.

  “You must try le fromage de chèvre as well.” She offered a plate with triangles of a pungent cream-colored cheese.

  Julia took a small bite, surprised by its creamy sweetness. “It is very good.”

  “It is Coquette, my new goat,” Gabi said proudly. “Every year, Madame Laurent’s chèvre wins first place at the Fête du Fromage.” She scowled in the direction of her neighbor’s house. “But not this year. No more second place.” She pointed to the cheese. “Coquette’s milk is the sweetest in all of Provence, and in a few weeks, I will triumph at last.” She raised a finger into the air dramatically.

  “With this chèvre, you will surely win.” Julia smiled at the speech and found herself hoping more than anything that Gabi would win first place at the Cheese Festival.

  Gabi set the cheese and another slice of bread in front of Julia, motioning for her to take another serving.

  “Has your nephew always lived with you?” Julia asked, worried that if she didn’t distract her hostess with conversation, Gabi would keep feeding her.

  “He is here only temporarily. His house is . . .” She looked toward the kitchen door and stood, motioning for Julia to accompany her. “Come see for yourself.”

  They stepped outside, staying on the gravel track that ran around the house and away from the muddy puddles. The rain had stopped, leaving the air fresh and the earth damp. It was still a bit chilly, especially with Julia’s wet hair.

  Surrounding the house, Gabi’s garden was splendid. Wrought-iron café sets and stone benches were set beneath grand trees, and honey-colored paths lined with rows of lavender ran among beds of herbs, shaped shrubs, and colorful flowers.

  Chickens wandered among the plants. A coop and what appeared to be a small livestock barn were fenced to one side. Julia could hear the bleating of goats from that direction.

  “There.” Gabi pointed past her garden and to the hills beyond. Olive trees, their silver leaves rippling in the breeze, covered the flat land and moved up the hills in one direction, and on the other side of a dirt track, the rows of grape vines stood straight like disciplined soldiers. “You can just see Luc’s house at the very edge of the family property.” Gabi pointed past the olive grove to a large stone structure with a horse paddock and a barn beside it. “Long ago, the building was used as a winery.”

  Even from here, Julia could see Monsieur Paquet’s house was a shambles. Part of the roof was covered by canvas tarps, and scaffolding holding stones and buckets ran along one outer wall.

  “The olives grow wild”—Gabi motioned to the hills rising at the edge of the property—“climbing up the hills and into the mountains. But here . . .” She pointed to the flat area between Luc’s house and her own. “These olives here are cultivated. Luc grows cuttings in the nursery to transplant into the groves.” She indicated another structure closer to the hills.

  “And what is that?” Julia pointed to a stone building directly in the center of the vineyard and the groves. It was smaller than the other buildings, but it looked well maintained.

  “In my father’s time, that building was used for wine tasting. Customers would come, and he would treat them to samples. There is a cellar below. But now, it is for storage.” She looked to her right at the vineyard. “Once, all of this belonged to the Paquet family, but much has changed.”

  Julia knew nothing about grapes, but she thought the vines looked small. Maybe their size was usual for spring.

  “Out beyond the vineyard is a lily pond I quite enjoy. There is a lovely old stone bridge surrounded by lavender fields. In the spring the hills are covered with poppies. You should visit it while you are here. Perhaps Luc will take you.”

  “I would like that,” Julia said. Her reply was automatic, as her thoughts turned over the bits of information Gabi had given. It appeared Luc’s house was in disrepair, the winery was closed down, and Luc was being forced to sell off parts of his family land. Apparently, he struggled financially. She felt sorry for the man. Farming must be difficult, and if she remembered correctly, many, if not all, of the vineyards had suffered from a blight that had killed off their vines within the last few decades. Had it affected the Paquet family as well, then? She didn’t think it polite to ask. But she wished to help the people who had so willingly rescued her in her time of need.

  When they returned to the kitchen, Julia insisted Gabi allow her to wash the dishes. Gabi argued for a moment but in the end acquiesced, having mending to finish. She sat in the soft chair beside the hearth, humming as she stitched a torn seam.

  Julia wondered briefly if the shirt Gabi was repairing belonged to her nephew. But all other thoughts went from her head as she surveyed the pile of dishes in the washbasin and stacked on the counter beside it, some which had apparently sat dirty for days. The task would not be a quick one.

  “Very well,” she muttered, pushing up the sleeves of her blouse. Julia rather enjoyed a challenge, and she found putting a disorganized mess to rights to be quite a satisfying endeavor.

  She began by taking all of the dishes from the basin and filling it with water. Then she collected the dirty dishes, utensils, pots, and bowls from around the kitchen, and the few she’d seen on the table in the front hall, stacking them beside the sink and even on the floor once there was no more room on the counter.

  She cleared a space on the table for the clean dishes and set to work.

  An hour and a half later, Julia wiped the last spoon dry and set it on the table with the others. Seeing the piles of gleaming dishes was very gratifying, and she took a moment to admire her work. She considered the shelves on the wall and looked into the drawers on the hutch and realized the dishes didn’t appear to belong in a specific place. Perhaps she simply didn’t understand Gabi’s organizational system.

  “Gabi, how would you like me to put the dishes away?” Julia asked. “I’m not certain where things belong.”

  Gabi looked up from the sock she was stitching and shook her head. “Ah, ma chérie, it is rather overwhelming, oui? I inherited pots from my grandmother, dishes from my husband’s mother, bowls and utensils from my sister . . .” She waved her hands as she spoke, giving a sigh. “All of it has all accumulated to the point where I cannot find what I need, and once I do, I don’t know where to put it when I’m finished.”

  Julia looked around the kitchen, imagining where she might put things if it were her own. The room had plenty of storage. Shelves, drawers, and cupboards in the hutch. If there were less clutter, she thought Gabi would find her kitchen much more comfortable and use the space more efficiently.

  “I could organize the kitchen if you’d like,” Julia said. “It is something I’m particularly good at, and I would love to have a way to repay you for your hospitality.”

  “Oh, ma J
uliette, the task—she is énorme.” Gabi clasped her hands and shook her head. “Surely you do not wish to undertake such a thing.”

  “I would do it happily,” Julia said. “If you’ll trust me with it.”

  “Oh, oui, I trust you.” Gabi grimaced, but she looked as if she were considering the idea. “But I do not like to burden you with my mess.”

  “Et voilà. It is settled.” Julia clapped her hands. “But before I begin, show me your favorite things. The bowls you use most often, your favorite decorative pottery, a pot with sentimental value—that sort of thing.”

  After a few moments of discussion, Gabi left to milk the goat and tend to the herbs in her garden, and Julia launched into action.

  She emptied the drawers and cupboards, finding quite a mixture of treasures as she did so: a partially eaten package of chocolates, a crumpled dishrag, a wrench, a bit of molded cheese, and a thimble. She cleared off the shelves and counters and sorted everything on the table, folding the laundry and setting it on the chairs. Then, using hot water, she wiped out the cupboards and drawers and washed off every shelf.

  Inside the pantry, she used a stool to reach the top shelves, discovering old cans and jars that had long been forgotten. She wiped off the shelves and arranged the bottles in neat rows, as well as the jars of spices. Finding a basket, she filled it with root vegetables and anything else that should remain cool and took it below to the cellar.

  As she moved the dishes to their places, Julia paid close attention, ensuring that the things Gabi used the most were within easy reach. She put two extra colanders and a pile of mismatched plates, along with other duplicates, into a crate she found outside the kitchen door. Gabi owned enough ladles for an entire town. Anything that was broken went into the crate as well.

  The shelves on either side of the window over the sink Julia saved for special trinkets and a few flowerpots, thinking Gabi would not only appreciate colorful blooms while she washed dishes but would find it easy to water them as well. She dusted a photograph, returning it to the mantel beside a vase, and stored kitchen linens in a cupboard beneath the hutch.

  Not knowing what to do with the crate and the piles of laundry from the table, she moved them to the small parlor. She could put them away later, once she knew where Gabi wanted everything to go.

  Julia glanced out the window and noticed the afternoon had grown late. She looked at her two timepieces and saw that she had been working steadily for more than four hours. Soon it would be time to prepare supper.

  She took the vase Gabi had explained had been a wedding gift fifty years earlier and hurried out into the yard with a knife. She hoped Gabi would not be upset if she cut a few flowers and within a moment had a gorgeous arrangement of peonies, roses, and of course, lavender.

  Julia had just set the vase in the center of the table and the knife in the sink when Gabi entered the kitchen.

  She let out a gasp and put her hands over her mouth. “Oh, ma chérie Juliette! C’est merveilleux!” Spinning around, she took it all in. “Everything is so bright and open. I . . . cannot believe . . .”

  “I put a crate of extra dishes in your parlor,” Julia said, not wanting Gabi to think she’d thrown away her things.

  “Oh, how I will love to cook in such a kitchen. It feels brand-new,” Gabi said. She embraced Julia, giving her a kiss on each cheek. “How shall we celebrate? We shall have wine, of course.” She started to the pantry.

  Julia grinned, delighted by the woman’s reaction. “Do you like gugelhupf cake?”

  Chapter Six

  Julia woke, and she stretched beneath the purple sheets. The sunlight that filtered into the Lavender Room was faint, and through the sheer curtains, the sky bore a hint of pink. The morning was still early, and she heard no noise in the house. Julia was warm and comfortable in the bed. She rolled over and closed her eyes, but the prospect of the unknown day ahead wouldn’t allow her to fall back asleep.

  She felt well rested and very happy, and it took only a moment to think of why. She’d worked hard the day before, and her efforts had been met with thanks and praise. Knowing she’d found a way to help gave her a warm feeling, and she decided that since she was to spend three more days in Provence, she would find other ways to be helpful to her hosts.

  She’d spent a lovely evening with Gabi, preparing dinner, eating, and then listening to the older woman’s stories for hours next to the fire as she ran her fingers over Fredric’s soft fur. Between the two, they’d eaten nearly all the cake, saving only one piece for Gabi’s nephew.

  M. Paquet hadn’t returned before the women retired for the night. Gabi expressed concern a few times, telling Julia his extended absence was very unusual—he rarely missed dinner—but she’d consoled herself that her nephew was a grown man and able to take care of himself. Julia couldn’t help but wonder what kind of errand kept a man away so late, but of course, it was none of her business.

  Deciding that she’d lolled about long enough, Julia rose. She checked her wristwatch and the pocket watch she kept on a ribbon. The hour was past six. She pulled a shawl around her shoulders and stepped to the window, pushing aside the curtains.

  When she did, something large and brown fell to the floor beside her feet and crawled toward her bare toes.

  Though she had never actually seen one, she recognized the creature from drawings: pinchers, a long curved tail with a barb at the tip . . . a scorpion!

  Julia screamed and jumped onto the bed. The scorpion must have come in through the window. Were there more? It changed direction, coming toward the bed, and she screamed again.

  The door crashed open, and M. Paquet burst inside, fastening his trousers, his hair stuck up in all directions. His gaze moved quickly around the room.

  “Oh, Monsieur Paquet! Thank goodness.” Julia pointed to the ground next to the bed. “Faites attention!” She shouted the warning and gasped, her hands shaking.

  M. Paquet snatched up one of Julia’s borrowed shoes and smashed it down on the intruder just as Gabi hurried into the room wearing a very sheer nightdress and a cap over her hair.

  “What has happened?” Gabi pressed a hand to her heart.

  “A scorpion,” Julia explained, averting her eyes from Gabi’s ensemble. She pulled her shawl tighter, and feeling silly for standing on the bed, she knelt on the mattress, peering over the edge to where M. Paquet had crouched down to look underneath the shoe. “Are there more?”

  “The lavender.” Gabi stepped around Luc and waved at the windowsill. “Where is the lavender?”

  Julia tipped her head, confused. “I don’t . . .”

  Gabi put her fists on her hips. “The smell—it repels les scorpions.”

  “Oh, I didn’t realize . . .” Julia winced, remembering how she’d thought the dried flowers were simply an indication of Gabi’s negligence. “I brushed them into the bin.”

  Gabi shook her head, tsking while her nephew moved to look beneath the wardrobe. After a moment, he stood. “I think it was only the one.”

  “And where were you last night?” Gabi asked, turning to him. “You returned very late.”

  “I went to Monteaux to find Marcel Bernard before he left for the Wine Festival in Orange.”

  “Why would you go all the way to Monteaux just to speak to Marcel Bernard?” Gabi’s lip curled.

  Apparently, Marcel Bernard was not her favorite person.

  “Orange has a telegraph office.” M. Paquet tipped his head toward Julia. “I did not want Mademoiselle Weston’s father to worry.”

  “I was worried, mon cher. I’m glad you are home safely.” Gabi patted his arm. “And it was very thoughtful of you.” She let out a heavy breath and picked up Fredric the cat as he came curiously into the room. “Oh la la. My heart.” She turned Fredric around to speak directly to his furry face. “What a way to awaken!” Gabi set down the cat again and started from the room,
calling back over her shoulder as she passed through the door. “Remember the lavender, Juliette.”

  “I will.” Julia grimaced. “And I apologize for frightening you.”

  M. Paquet crouched down and wiped the scorpion’s remains with a handkerchief.

  “You sent a telegram to Paris?” Julia stood and folded her arms over the shawl. The cat weaved between her feet.

  “Oui.” He folded the handkerchief, holding it by its edges.

  She considered what the telegram might have said. Knowing M. Paquet, his explanation for her failure to arrive in Paris would have been brief. Had he made her look incompetent? Her stomach felt tight at the thought of her father’s disappointment. And how did M. Paquet know where to send it in the first place? “Why did you not tell me that’s what you were doing?” she asked. “I would have instructed you on what to say and where to address it . . .”

  His brow rose. “I directed it to Colonel Weston, Commissaire Expert des Beaux-Arts, British Exhibition Headquarters.”

  Julia crouched and scratched Fredric’s head. She grudgingly admitted the telegram would have found her father. But what had it said? She couldn’t shake the tight feeling in her chest. Had M. Paquet’s telegram made her look foolish? Was her father right now thinking she should never travel, or do anything for that matter, alone?

  She directed her frustrations at the man in front of her. “Orange has a telegraph office? Does it also have a train station? If I’d gone with you, I could have continued on to Orange with Monsieur Bernard and been in Paris by now.”

  M. Paquet’s eyes narrowed. “Oui, I considered it. But I was faster alone. I knew Marcel would leave well before dark. I only just caught him as it was.”

  “Well, I do wish you’d told me,” Julia said, standing straight and folding her arms. “Especially as your errand pertained to me directly.”

  M. Paquet opened his mouth as if he’d say something further but closed it again. He frowned and left the Lavender Room, closing the door behind him.