The Critic Read Online Free PDF Page B

earlier. But meeting Madame de Bonneval he had been forced to reassess his first impression. She was nearer sixty than fifty, and unless she was a good deal older than Laurent, Enzo must have been about ten years out in his initial appraisal.
    ‘I like your ponytail,’ she said to Enzo as she pulled in a chair to the table.
    Enzo said, ‘You know, when I was first in France, and my French wasn’t what it is now, I always used to mispronounce that, and I never knew why people were laughing.’ Neither Jacqueline nor her husband could guess at how me might have mispronounced it. So he demonstrated. ‘
Cul de cheval
,’ he said, and they both burst out laughing. It only took a slight mispronunciation for “horse’s tail” to become “horse’s ass”. Enzo smiled ruefully. ‘I’m older and wiser now.’ He paused, and looked appreciatively at Madame de Bonneval. ‘And you have a much more impressive ponytail than mine, madame.’
    They started to eat. The duck was moist and fall-apart tender, with a crispy skin that melted in the mouth. And Enzo thought the potato, garlic, and
cèpe
mix was the best he had ever tasted.
    A door opened from the hall, and a tall young man emerged from the gathering gloom of the
château
. His tee-shirt was torn and stained, his green boots blackened by red grape juice. ‘Papa?’
    Enzo watched Bonneval’s face light up as he turned towards his son, dark eyes brimful of affection. ‘Come in, Charles, come in. Meet Monsieur Macleod. He’s a Scotsman. Come to find out who murdered Gil Petty.’
    Charles glanced distractedly towards Enzo. He nodded and offered a cursory handshake. ‘Enchanté, monsieur.’ But his mind was on other things. He turned back to his father. ‘Michel Vidal claims you said he could have the harvester tonight.’
    Bonneval roared with laughter. ‘What do
you
think?’
    ‘I think Vidal knows the rain’s on its way and he’s trying to pull a fast one.’
    Bonneval grinned Enzo. ‘The boy’s not daft.’
    Charles seemed embarrassed. His fresh, pink complexion darkened. Large-lobed ears poking out from a tangle of black curls glowed hot and red. He glanced self-consciously at Enzo.
    But his father was oblivious to his discomfort. ‘Just completed a degree course in viniculture at Bordeaux University. He’s the future of the
château
, Monsieur Macleod. The future of the wine. But more than that, he loves driving that harvester. Am I right, son?’
    ‘I’ll tell Guillaume to send Vidal packing.’
    ‘Sit in at the table, Charles.’ His mother pulled out a chair. ‘There’s enough for four.’
    ‘I can’t, maman, I’ve got to get the machine ready.’
    ‘See?’ Bonneval cocked an eyebrow at Enzo.
    ‘It was nice to meet you, Monsieur Macleod.’ Charles glanced at his watch. ‘Excuse me.’ And he beat a hasty retreat.
    ‘He’s going to be a much better winemaker than his father.’ Bonneval’s pride in his son was nearly palpable. Knows more about the science of it all than I ever did.’
    Madame de Bonneval sighed. ‘Just one more in a long line of Bonnevals who’s going to sacrifice his life to the Château Saint-Michel.’
    ‘It’s his birthright,’ Bonneval said. ‘His inheritance.’ He paused for momentary reflection. ‘His duty.’
    From where he was sitting at the big table in the kitchen, Enzo could see through a door into a sitting room dominated by a huge marble
cheminée
. ‘Is this the only part of the château you live in?’
    ‘Good God, yes,’ Bonneval said. ‘We could never heat the whole place. And in winter it’s damned cold, I can tell you. My ancestors had notions of grandeur, but they must have been hardy souls, too.’
    ‘How long has Château Saint-Michel been in your family?’ Enzo sipped more wine.
    ‘There have been Bonnevals on this land since the thirteenth century, Monsieur Macleod. More than seven hundred years. The
château
isn’t quite that old, but the original building dates back to the