Keys to the Castle (35 page)

He said hoarsely, “It was your train. I thought you were on that train.”

It took her a moment to comprehend, and then the color drained from her face. “Oh, Ash.” Her arms came around his neck, she buried her face in his shoulder, and he held her, held them both, until his arms began to tremble from holding them. Alyssa wriggled away, took his face in both of her small, plump ones, and demanded with a scowl, “Why do you cry,
petit-papa
?”

He laughed and wiped his hand across his eyes, and his wet face, not because he was embarrassed, but so that he could see. “Because I'm happy to see you,” he told her. He scooped her up and stood, his other arm around Sara's waist. “That's all. Just happy. Let's go home.”

That night he stood beside Alyssa's bed while Sara cuddled her to sleep, thinking how life could change in an instant, thinking about second chances, and no power on earth could have moved him from their sides. He lay down beside them, careful not to wake Alyssa, and put his arm over them both. Sara twined her fingers with his.

Fifteen were confirmed dead; forty-two injured. Life could change in an instant.

“Sara,” he said softly, “when I was in that room, looking at those people's faces . . . knowing what they felt, seeing myself in their eyes . . . I'll never forget it. I don't think I can ever be the same person again.”

She turned gently to face him, forming herself to the curve of his body. She said, “I know.” And he knew that she did.

She whispered, “I don't want you to hate Daniel anymore. I don't want you to hate yourself.”

He shook his head, kissing her hair. “How can I hate Daniel?” His voice was low and rich with emotion. “He brought me this. This moment. This incredible treasure. And this time I'll protect what is mine with all my heart. As for the man I once was . . .” He stretched out his arm, across Sara, and gently tucked away a curl that was caught in the moisture near Alyssa's parted lips. “I think I can forgive him as well.” He looked at Sara. “If you can.”

“There was never anything to forgive.” Very softly, very sweetly, she kissed his lips. She said, “Remember the man I fell in love with. Please don't take him from me. Not entirely.”

He was silent for a long time, holding them. Just holding them. “I don't think I can go back to my old life.” And when her eyes lifted, questioningly, to his in the dark, he smiled. “For one thing, I seem to have lost my mobile. For another . . .” He released a long soft breath, lightly tangling his fingers in her hair. “It simply doesn't seem important anymore. I'm not sure how I ever thought it was.”

“What will you do?”

“I'm not entirely ready to become a missionary to the Sudan,” he admitted, “and I won't abandon the company, or my employees. But I've always known I was a good deal more involved there than I needed to be. And lately I've been thinking about a midlife change of career. Perhaps I'll try my hand at wine making. Or the hospitality industry.”

Sara tucked her head beneath his chin, smiling. “You seem very employable to me,” she said. “I'm sure you won't have any trouble at all finding a job.”

And then he said softly, because it had seemed so unimportant before, because it hadn't even mattered until now, “The results of the paternity test came in today. That's why I canceled the trip to Johannesburg. I knew there would be a copy waiting for you at Rondelais, and I didn't want you to be alone when you opened it. I was on my way to tell you when I . . . when I heard.”

She looked up at him. Her eyes were as soft and as luminous as moonlight in the dark. She whispered, “Do I need to know? Does it matter?”

“No,” he returned, kissing her cheek. And he added simply, “She's ours, isn't she?”

Sara smiled, and closed her eyes again, and said, “Yes.”

Sara relaxed, content in the circle of his embrace, and he reached across her again, and found Alyssa's hand, and felt her fingers close around his in her sleep. He smiled, and watched over them until his eyes grew heavy, and he fell asleep.

The dream came, and he awoke with a start, as he always did, as he leapt to catch the white hat. And then he started laughing, silently to himself in the dark, turning over carefully so as not to disturb his girls. But Sara was already awake, and she eased herself up onto one elbow, looking at him. “What?” she whispered. “What's so funny?”

“Nothing.” He stroked her hair, but he couldn't stop smiling. “I just suddenly realized where I've seen you before.”

She waited for him to say more, but when he did not, she merely kissed his cheek softly and said, “Did I tell you I've figured out how we can solve all of our differences?”

“No,” he answered, twining his fingers through hers, still smiling, “but it doesn't matter. Because so have I.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

The ceremony was private, with only family and, of course, Mrs. Harrison in attendance. They gathered on the knoll amidst the ruins of the old chapel: Dixie and Jeff, who had flown in from the States the day before, and Ash's sister Margaret from Scotland with her husband, and his mother in cascades of lavender ruffles. Alyssa wore her pink dress with its ruffled petticoat and solemnly held a bouquet of wilting daisies that she and her soon-to-be
grandmère
had picked that morning. Mrs. Harrison wore a pale blue suit, which for Ash was cause enough for celebration. A holy man said words, and gold rings were exchanged, and a single, gentle kiss. It was a simple ceremony that in and of itself changed nothing. But with it, a family was formed where none had been before. And afterward, nothing would ever be the same.

Five hundred guests were expected at Rondelais for the reception, and most of them had already begun to arrive. A dozen white tents were set up across the emerald lawn and throughout the gardens, sheltering food, musicians, a champagne fountain with thousands of sparkling glasses, and a wedding cake that was decorated like Cinderella's castle. The place looked liked a feast day gathering from medieval times, with bowers of flowers everywhere and a Maypole, even though it was September. A steady breeze cooled the bright blue day, and the flapping of the tent canvases sounded like wings.

“And you said I couldn't give a party.” Katherine stood beside Ash with champagne in hand, surveying the whole with enormous satisfaction. “And on such short notice, too.”

“You have outdone yourself,” he assured her, and leaned down to kiss her cheek. “I only regret that we didn't alert the tabloids. Your fame would have spread far and near.”

She gave him an annoyed look. “I had hoped marriage to Sara would improve you. But I can see now you'll never change.”

That made him laugh, and he replied, gazing into his champagne, “No, I suppose not.”

There had been one near-disastrous moment, when Conde de Castrilli of Spain arrived with his new paramour—the former Mrs. Lindeman. Katherine's eyes had gone wide with disbelief and Ash's jaw had tightened, but Michele had merely kissed them both, politely, on the cheek, without ever unwinding her arm from that of the count. She introduced him as her “fiancé, the fourteenth count of Castrilli” and murmured graciously, “What a lovely party. I do hope you'll do us the honor of joining us in the spring for our wedding celebration. Castillo Castrilli is quite a bit larger than this,” she assured them, “so of course we'll expect you to stay the week. And bring the lovely American, won't you?”

They watched her stroll away on the arm of her adoring—and much older—fiancé, and that was when Katherine and Ash had each snatched a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and consumed half without comment.

“Where is your lovely bride, anyway?” Katherine said now. “The guests are starting to grow curious.”

“I think she took Jeff inside to meet the Contandinos. He said something about wanting to look at the west wing.”

“Well, I suppose it wouldn't hurt to have a genuine builder give an opinion. And the Contandinos should be the guests of honor for this entire affair, if you ask me. Imagine, the key to preserving this entire estate was hidden away in the west wing all this time, and the Orsays never even knew it.”

“Our request to be listed hasn't been granted yet,” he reminded her.

“But the letter was authenticated.”

“For which,” he said, slipping his arm around her waist and kissing her again, soundly, “we have you to thank.”

Katherine replied, “Really, my dear, these public displays of affection are growing quite tiresome.” And he laughed again.

The letter to which she referred was, of course, the original written to Louis XIV from his mistress Adelaide Duvant, detailing the joys they had shared during his latest visit and thanking him for the lovely style in which he kept her at Château Rondelais. It had been found behind a 1920s wedding photo of an Orsay couple and several layers of newsprint when Sara, unpacking the photographs to rehang them in the library downstairs, had accidentally broken the frame.

“Of course,” his mother pointed out practically now, “you realize it's rather a weak claim to fame, and if you were actually to receive a restoration grant, it would be all just a bit too fairy-tale, don't you agree?”

“Absolutely,” concurred Ash, his eyes twinkling. “On the other hand, having given the matter some thought of late—and having read aloud a great many of them over the past few months, too, mind you—I've discovered that fairy tales have a good deal more to recommend them than we might first have thought. Besides”—he sipped his champagne—“I've a feeling I'm going to need the funds to pay for this wedding.”

“Lindeman, old man!” A stranger clapped him on the back—a stranger in the sense that, at least, Ash could not currently recall his name. That once had been his strong suit: remembering names, faces, hobbies, the names and ages of children. It was his stock and trade. It was his charm.

“Congratulations,” said the stranger. “Well-done!”

Ash extended his hand. “Good of you to come. May I present my mother, Mrs. Jonathon Lindeman?”

Proper acknowledgments were made, Katherine excused herself, and the man turned back to him. “I wondered what became of you. I heard you were ill, or had retired.”

Ash smiled. “Neither one, in fact. I'm taking a few months off, and next year I may open a small branch office in Lyon, with rather more of an eye toward philanthropy. My wife seems determined to go into the hotel business, and I'd like to be nearby.”

The stranger surveyed the château behind them with an appreciative eye. “Aye, clever woman, your wife. I might not be averse to putting money in a venture like that.”

“Then you should meet with her,” said Ash. “I'll be happy to arrange it. But not today. It's my wedding day.”

The stranger eyed him with interest. “Philanthropy, do you say? An interesting notion, that. A mind like yours for business, you might actually get a thing or two done. I should put you in touch with some chaps I know.”

“I'd be most grateful. But as I said . . .”

“Your wedding day, yes, right.”

“Papa! Papa!” A small torrent of pink chiffon with a red and angry face flung herself at him and began to spill forth in rapid French the story of how cruel her new cousins were to her. Ash hoisted her onto his hip and told her she was his princess and then he said to the stranger, smiling proudly, “Have you met my daughter?”