Escape to the French Chateau

Chapter 34

Chapter 34

Fran took her time as she walked along the seafront. She’d left it too late to make it out to the ammonite pavement, which would already be submerged beneath the incoming tide, but she didn’t suppose this would be the last time she’d ever be in Lyme Regis. She was moving to the Loire, not the moon.

And she couldn’t wait to get back there. The weeks she’d spent away from the French countryside, the chateaux and the vineyards and the tantalising promise of a new future had been difficult. She hoped the pact she’d made with Penny would hold, too, that once Penny had finished her adventures on the Italian Riviera, and had tried her luck working on a superyacht with Harry, the pair of them might consider spending some more time in the Loire, as Fran’s guests. She was determined not to feel jealous at the almost daily texts she received from Penny, documenting how wonderful everything was with Harry – Fran was so happy for them both, she only hoped to feel the same way, one day.

But it was the time away from Johnny which had been the most challenging. The days had dragged like nothing she’d experienced ever before.

Even though Lyme Regis would still be there, the tasks which had filled the past few weeks had come with a real sense of finality, and to Fran it felt as though she was leaving forever. Sorting through her own possessions hadn’t been difficult. She’d already pared down her stuff when she’d left Victor, knew most of her belongings would fit into a couple of the largest suitcases she could source. The real challenge she faced was packing up the accrued belongings of her mum. Working out what to do with it all. Somehow, sorting through her mother’s shoes had been a particular low point. Remembering her mum wearing them, then seeing them useless in the bottom of the wardrobe had been so hard. Fran thought she’d done enough crying already, that she should be coming through the other side of her grief, both for her mother and for Red, but the shoes spiralled her back down again.

It had taken all her fortitude to wade on, to make piles of things she wanted to keep, to donate, or to throw away. To lug bags full of clothes to the local charity shop, to take a deep breath and leave stuffed bin liners out for the refuse collectors.

Fran had left her mum’s bureau until the end. The piece of furniture had always stood in the corner of the living room, doubling up as a filing cabinet of sorts, a photograph album holder, as well as a makeshift desk and always piled high on top with paperbacks. The thought of trailing through her mother’s personal paperwork seemed even harder than going through her clothes. But with the books already sorted through and gone, and the memorable photographs extracted from albums and secreted in her own belongings, the task began to look a little less daunting.

With stacks of bank statements stretching back a decade, random recipes scribbled on pieces of paper, clippings from magazines and a whole stack of Christmas and birthday cards received from people Fran hardly knew all discarded, the bureau sighed in relief alongside Fran. Only a few more drawers and partitions remained to sort through. In one of them was a small collection of letters. One of them had Fran tearing up all over again. The handwriting sprawled its way across the page, a child’s hand asking Santa for a long-forgotten selection of toys, and a daddy.

Why had her mother kept this letter over all the other childhood missives Fran must have produced? She must have tortured her mum with that request on numerous occasions. Why would she keep something by which she would be reminded of Bill, reminded of what she’d run from?

It brought her back to the main question of why had her mum left him in the first place? Bill’s explanations went a long way to reassuring Fran that her parents’ relationship wasn’t as concerning as she once thought it to be. But what had driven her mother away from the man who could have been, at least in part, a father to her child?

Tucked behind her letter to Santa was another envelope. Cream and screaming quality with every fibre of its thickness and rich texture, the envelope was formally addressed to her mother, Lucia Compton, handwritten in spidery black ink across the front. Inside was a single sheet of paper, of similar type to the envelope, folded into three. Fran unfolded the paper, noticing again the formal structure of the handwritten letter it contained. As she read the words, Fran’s fingers pressed against her lips. Dated over twenty-six years ago, the letter was from Bill Wilding’s first wife.

It outlined what would happen if Fran’s mum, Lucia, was ever to lay claim at Bill’s door for the ‘bastard’ she was carrying. That legal proceedings would bury her if she ever spoke of the conversation the two of them had conducted at The Grand, where it seemed Lucia had spoken to Bill’s first wife about the situation. The final paragraph drove home just how unwelcome Lucia had become. As Fran read on, it became clear that back then it had been Bill’s wife holding the purse strings and that if Lucia didn’t leave, immediately, Bill’s wife wouldn’t hesitate to destroy his fledgling property portfolio. Her wealthy family would bury him, too. And if Lucia loved Bill as much as she said she did, or valued the future of her unborn child, she would be wise to cut all contact with Bill Wilding immediately and move on.

Her mother hadn’t been far off Fran’s current age when she’d gone through this experience. Sinking onto the edge of the windowsill, the letter still clutched in her hand, Fran closed her eyes. Had her mother gone to Bill’s wife in the mistaken belief that the women might find a way to navigate through the situation together?

How would Fran have dealt with a situation like this? Having your unborn child openly threatened in this way? It was easy to assume there should have been legal intervention on her mother’s behalf, that it would make sense to call on the help of a professional. But lawyers were expensive. Legal battles were intimidating. Bringing a child into the world alone was enough of a challenge, without some hideous court case to deal with.

Finally, Fran turned her attention to a small photograph tucked in the envelope. It looked as though it was a snatched moment, a totally impromptu scene of her mother and Bill, both so young and full of life, grinning like teenagers at one another, the light in both their eyes leaving Fran in no doubt as to the strength of their feelings for one another. On the back were some words, scrawled in her mother’s hand. ‘My love, Bill’.

Fran understood better than ever before the choices her mother had made. Loved her even more for the tough decisions she’d had to make to keep her lover and her child safe, to allow them both to grow and live their lives, at the expense of her own. Tucking the photo and her Santa wish list into the same envelope as the letter, Fran slid them into her belongings and set about clearing the rest of the bureau.

The following day she travelled to London to see her father. To show him what she’d found.

Bill took his time to read the letter penned by his first wife, to stare at the photograph while his finger trailed a path across the images held on it, to allow Fran’s childish note to Santa to make him smile, then cry. His glance at Fran was all she needed to know he’d understood, as she had, exactly what had happened. He wiped away his tears, the touch of vulnerability hidden with efficiency as he returned the collection to her.

‘I’ve changed my mind. I’m not going to invest in Chateau des Rêves,’ he said.

Fran almost dropped the envelope, catching it before it slipped from the edge of the burr walnut desk as her expression plummeted. She searched her father’s face for an explanation for his random declaration.

‘Why not? I don’t understand …’

The beat of time before he spoke again threatened to last for eternity. Then he reached across, taking her hand in his as he smiled. ‘Because that’s nowhere near what you deserve.’

Fran’s confusion gave way to astonishment as her father explained that his first wife’s family had indeed bankrolled his first enterprise. That The Grand, the hotel in which he’d met Fran’s mother, Lucia, had been paid for by his then father-in-law. That his wife hadn’t been posturing with her threats, and that she could have destroyed him and his business before he’d even really got started.

‘Instead of Wilding Holdings loaning money in return for a share of the chateau business, I think the money should come from you.’

Fran was struggling to understand and her face must have mirrored her own confusion.

‘What I’m saying is this. The amount of money my first wife’s family invested in me was substantial. It was enough to give me the leg-up I needed, gave me a running start in the property game. That amount of money also cost me your mother, and you. I want to gift you the same amount of money. You can do what you want with it, but if you’ve got any sense, I think you’ll invest it in a little chateau in the Loire, and in a business partnership with excellent prospects. What do you say?’

‘I’m lost for words,’ Fran replied, finding it difficult to swallow. ‘How much money are you talking about?’

Bill reached for a piece of paper, scribbled a figure on it and passed it across to her. The sum was eye-watering. It would be enough to easily replace the proposed investment they had all agreed on a few weeks previously, with plenty to spare, and it would mean the entire chateau business would be split between Johnny and herself.

‘Are you serious?’ she said.

‘Never more so,’ Bill said. ‘Life is full of decisions, and we don’t always make the right ones. I should have told Patricia where to stick her father’s money and fought for your mother instead. I will have to live with the regret that I never did so, that I didn’t follow my heart and as a result I missed out on so much. But I’m not missing out on anything else. My offer today is no less than what you deserve and is made in part to encourage you to learn from my mistakes. Follow your heart, Fran. Go for whatever it is you believe will bring you happiness. You’re a strong, independent young woman, but I want you to know I’m also here, now, to support you, no matter what.’