Chapter 12
The following morning, I arrive at Chateau Angèle at nine o’clock on the dot for my first official day at work. I’m expecting Patricia, the housekeeper, to answer the door, so I’m caught by surprise when Jackson does.
He’s wearing a pale blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the top two buttons undone, and his hair is damp from the shower. He looks incredible and he smells even better. When he hugs me, I feel my stomach kick-flip in spite of myself.
“Where’s Patricia?” I ask tightly, trying not to breathe in.
“I beat her to it.” He smiles as he releases me. “How was your hangover yesterday?” he asks as he leads me across the checkerboard marble floor, beneath a low-hanging chandelier.
“Fine. I didn’t drink much.”
“You fared better than I did then,” he says ruefully.
We walk up the wide central staircase, past pastel-colored oil paintings depicting river scenes from the turn of the last century.
None of the people enjoying picnics and boating expeditions in these works are related to Jackson’s family—everything from the furniture to the rugs and curtains came with the chateau after its last owner went bankrupt.
Jackson’s great-grandfather Pierre got quite a deal, from what I recall hearing.
He opens a door off the second-floor landing.
“I’ve never been in here before,” I muse as he waves me inside.
The office faces the rocky mountainside, but even from this aspect, the dormer windows, high ceilings, and cream-colored walls make it feel bright and spacious.
“I cleared you a desk.” He points at the only one not covered in crap and drops into the chair opposite.
I sit down too, swiveling to face him. If we were both hard at work, we’d have our backs to each other. It’s probably a good thing that I don’t have to look at his face.
“Do you want a coffee? Tea?” he asks.
“I’d love a coffee.”
He jumps up and tugs a rope dangling by the door, prompting its golden tassel to shiver and shake.
“I would have made it myself if I’d known you weren’t going to,” I say with a frown, aware that far below us, in the basement, a bell is ringing to alert Marcia, the cook.
The house bells are a hangover from when more servants used to live here, and Sandrine uses them with abandon.
“Marcia doesn’t mind. It’s what she’s here for. We do pay her, remember,” he reminds me with a smile, sitting back down again and accidentally knocking his knees against mine.
“Fine,” I say as he moves his legs to the side, reclining so that they’re stretched out on the light gray carpet. “But I’m not dragging her up here every time I want a drink, so in future I’ll go and make one myself.”
“So different to Chloe,” he says, his tone laced with affection.
“I’m surprised she didn’t tell you to hire her a lady’s maid,” I reply dryly as I unpack my bag: laptop, phone, headphones, notebook, pen, water bottle, tissues.
He laughs. “I bet she would have if she’d thought I’d say yes.”
We’re interrupted by Marcia. She’s in her fifties and her dark hair is threaded through with gray, but she looks as stylish as ever in her black uniform and neat bun. I’ve never seen a hair out of place.
“Bonjour, Marcia,” I say cheerfully.
“Bonjour, Gracie. ?a va?” she asks with a smile.
“Très bien. Et vous?”
“Oui, très bien.”
That’s about as much French as I’m comfortable with, but it trips off Jackson’s tongue like he’s a natural as he asks for a couple of coffees. It’s a bit of an aphrodisiac listening to him, to be honest. All I manage is a “Merci!” as she leaves the room.
“I love Marcia,” I say.
“She loves you too,” he replies. “She’s less keen on Chloe and Mom.”
It’s rare for him to say anything negative about his mum. I can’t help but take his comment and run with it.
“Your mum and Chloe were quite alike in some ways.”
He wrinkles his nose and I worry I’ve overstepped, but after a moment he nods. “Yeah. I think that’s why they had a mutual respect for each other. At first, anyway. Toward the end, they couldn’t stand to be in the same room.”
“What actually went wrong, apart from planning the wedding? What were their biggest gripes?”
“Mostly my involvement in the family business. Chloe wanted her say; my mom had to have hers.” Chloe didn’t even work for the business; she was in finance. “I was stuck in the middle being pulled both ways. It was exhausting.”
“Kind of hard to hear your own voice if everyone else is shouting loudly around you.”
“Exactly.” He regards me warmly. “You’ve always understood.”
“Understood what?”
“My family. This dynamic. We’re so lucky to have you here.”
I blush at the tender look in his eyes. “I’d better not disappoint you then.”
That week I share with Jackson my initial thoughts on the rebranding for Eau de Sainte églantine.
The current packaging has been in use for the last twenty years and the label features a simple design with the product name front and center.
It’s not dissimilar in style to Evian and Vittel, but Jackson and Albert aren’t trying to compete with the likes of them.
Jackson wants to target posh delis and upmarket restaurants in American cities, selling in smaller numbers but at a much higher price point. Albert has been keen to shift from plastic to glass for environmental reasons, and Jackson maintains they need glass to justify the significant price hike.
“Your new bottle should be so special that consumers will want to put it out on their tables.”
“Rather than pouring the water into glasses and dumping the bottle in the trash,” he says. “Agreed.”
In this way, customers will help to increase brand awareness among their peers.
“Remember how aghast I was that none of the agencies you’d approached had taken inspiration from the town’s art nouveau roots?” I ask as I open up my laptop.
He grins at me. “You were incensed.”
I laugh and nod. “Yeah, I was.” I show him the photographs I took of the painting on the wall of the restaurant. “This isn’t technically from the era, but it’s done in the same style. I was wondering about re-creating something similar for the label.”
He leans in to get a closer look, and my mind fogs as I breathe in his aftershave. He’s clean-shaven and his jaw is so close that if I turned my head, I could brush it with my lips.
“It’s pretty,” he says thoughtfully.
I edge away a little. “The craziest thing is that she”—I point at the woman—“is Sainte églantine.”
He gives me a sidelong look.
“This painting is a depiction of Sainte églantine,” I repeat. “What if we put a picture of Sainte églantine on the bottles of Eau de Sainte églantine?”
“It’s a completely different look,” he murmurs, sitting back in his seat.
“Yes, but that could work in our favor. We can build a story around this, pull in the history of the town. Imagine this image etched onto a glass bottle.”
I can tell by his body language that he’s into the idea: his right foot is tapping. He gets twitchy when he’s excited.
“I can see it,” he says suddenly. “Blue bottle, white etching.”
“Yes!” I reply enthusiastically. “I’d want that on my dining table. I’d want it as a vase! I can picture it on Instagram: a blue glass bottle filled with bright yellow buttercups.”
“Can we find out who painted her or get permission to use her somehow?”
“I know who painted her.”
“Who?”
“étienne’s mother.”
He’s taken aback.
“Sadly, she passed away, but étienne might give us permission.”
“Are you seeing him anytime soon?” He’s trying for casual, but he’s not quite managing to pull it off.
“Maybe this weekend.” He mentioned going to his house. “I should probably text him, actually.”
“No rush,” he says as I reach for my phone. “If he doesn’t agree, could we commission another artist to create something in the same vein?”
“Yes, we definitely could.”
His expression is full of admiration as he smiles at me. “Well, I love it.”
My insides flood with warmth as I return his smile, putting my phone back down on the table.
It gives me a thrill to impress him, but it’s more than that: I’m happy to be doing something that I can feel proud of. If I pull off this project in the way that I’m envisaging, it will look incredible on my CV, and that in turn will open doors for me.
I can’t believe how lucky I am to be here in the Ardèche doing something that fills me with joy instead of working myself to the bone in London.
I’m really going to enjoy the next two and a half months. But I realize with a sudden pang of sadness that even that length of time here won’t be enough.
“Do you know why the pavilion opposite the factory is boarded up?” it occurs to me to ask Mellie on Friday night.
We’ve gone down to the lower terrace to watch the sunset—her basement studio is right behind us.
While I’ve been at work this week, she’s been toiling away on her new range of stoneware bowls and coffee cups.
It was the evening market last night and they looked so gorgeous all laid out on her stall.
Each one is hand-glazed and unique, with blue and green rims. Even though I’m used to throwing pottery, I still find it amazing that pieces that look like stone started out as soft clay.
“Now,” Mellie says thoughtfully, pondering my question. “I believe Albert sealed it up after Josie and Sébastien died.”
His wife and son. They died in a car crash years ago.
“Why?” I ask with confusion.
“It’s where he and Josie met. She worked nearby and they both went there every day to eat their lunch. It has sentimental value to him. I’m assuming he closed it up to protect it. Why do you ask?”
I tell her about the painting.
“I’d like to see that for myself,” she says with interest.
“I was actually wondering if Albert might consider doing up the pavilion as part of the launch.”
étienne warned me not to say anything, but now that I know the pavilion has sentimental value, I’m more convinced than ever that Albert will want to protect it.
I’d love to see it restored, and maybe if I can give étienne some reassurance, he’ll consider granting us permission to use one of his mother’s Sainte églantines for the rebrand.
I’d feel so proud to see his mother’s art etched onto bottles that will be sold all over the world.
Surely it would make étienne feel proud too.
“Could you help with this?” I ask Mellie hopefully.
“Sure,” she replies with a shrug. “I’ll broach it when I next see him.”
We watch in silence as the sun sinks below the distant hills.
“He really loved her,” I say, thinking of Josie and how pain Albert must have been in when he sealed off her favorite place.
“He did,” Mellie confirms. “The fact that Sandrine ever thought I stood a chance of stepping into her mother’s shoes…” She casts her eyes heavenward.
“Oh God, she did, didn’t she? She was a nightmare when she brought Jackson here on my second summer. Do you remember?”
Mellie chuckles. “Yes, I do. A lioness protecting her cub and her king.”
I turn to her. “Would you have done it though? If you could have stepped into Josie’s shoes?” Has there ever been a moment when she wished she and Albert were more?
“No,” she says simply. “Some people are better off as friends.”
I choose to ignore the look she gives me.