The Lavender Garden Read Online Free PDF

“Then may I ask how you know me?” she said, imperious out of nerves.
    “It’s a long story, and one I would like to share with you at some point. Are you expecting company?” he asked, indicating the empty chair opposite her.
    “I . . . no.” Emilie shook her head.
    “Then may I sit down and explain?”
    Before Emilie had a chance to demur, Sebastian had pulled out the chair opposite her. Without the sunlight blinding her eyes, she studied him and saw that he was probably of a similar age to her, his good-quality, casual clothes worn easily on a slim body. He had a smattering of freckles across his nose, chestnut hair, and attractive brown eyes.
    “I’m sorry to hear of your mother’s death,” he offered.
    “Thank you.” Emilie took a sip of her wine and then, her ingrained good manners surfacing, said, “Can I offer you a glass of rosé?”
    “That would be very kind.” Sebastian signaled for the waiter and caught his attention. A glass was placed in front of Sebastian, and Emilie poured the wine into it from the jug.
    “How did you hear of my mother’s death?”
    “It’s hardly a secret in France, is it?” Sebastian’s eyes filled with empathy. “She was rather well-known. May I offer my condolences? It must be a difficult time for you.”
    “Yes, it is,” she replied stiffly. “So, you’re English?”
    “You guessed!” Sebastian rolled his eyes in mock horror. “And I’ve worked so hard to lose my accent. Yes, I am, for my sins. But I spent a year in Paris studying fine art. And I admit to being a fully paid-up Francophile.”
    “I see,” murmured Emilie. “But . . .”
    “Yes, that still doesn’t explain how I knew you were Emilie de la Martinières. Well now”—Sebastian raised his eyes mysteriously—“the connection between you and me goes back into the deep and distant past.”
    “Are you a relation?” Emilie was suddenly reminded of the warning Gerard had given her only yesterday.
    “No, most definitely not,” he said with a smile, “but my grandmother was half-French. I discovered recently that she worked closely with Édouard de la Martinières, who I believe was your father, during the Second World War.”
    “I see.” Emilie knew almost nothing about her father’s past. Only that he had never discussed it. And she was still nervous of what this Englishman wanted from her. “I know little about that time of my father’s life.”
    “I didn’t know much either until my grandmother told me, just before she died, that she was over here during the Occupation. She also said what a brave man Édouard was.”
    This revelation brought a sudden lump to Emilie’s throat. “I didn’t know . . . You must understand that I was born when my father was sixty, more than twenty years after the war ended.”
    “Right,” said Sebastian, nodding.
    “Besides”—Emilie took a healthy gulp of wine—“he was not the kind of man to ever boast about his triumphs.”
    “Well, Constance, my grandmother, certainly seemed to hold himin high esteem. She also told me about the beautiful château in Gassin that she’d stayed in while she was in France. The house is very close to this village, isn’t it?”
    “Yes.” Emilie’s salad arrived. “Will you eat?” she asked, again out of politeness.
    “If you’re happy to have my company, yes.”
    “Of course.”
    Sebastian ordered and the waiter retreated.
    “So, what brings you to Gassin?” Emilie queried.
    “That’s a very good question. After my course in fine art in Paris, I went on to make the art business my career. I show from a small gallery in London, but spend much of my time searching for the rare paintings that my wealthy clients desire. I came to France to try to persuade the owner of a Chagall to sell it to me. The chap lives up in Grasse, which, as you know, isn’t far from here. I happened to read in the newspaper about your mother, and that prodded my memory of my grandmother’s association with