duffel and carry-on bag and
throwing them in the trunk. “The Château is
very close by, we’ll be there in a few
minutes.”
Angélique was capable, and hardheaded, and no dummy.
She took care of quite a lot of the Château business,
all of the day-to-day running of the place, in fact. She
was a woman you wanted on your side.
Jo realized with surprise that she had shifted easily into
speaking and understanding French–as though the
incident with the creepy man had momentarily distracted her
from any anxiety about whether all that French she had
taken in school would mean anything once she was really and
truly in France and talking to an actual French person.
“That was not much of a welcoming,” said
Angélique as they sped out of the village and down a
long straight road lined with poplars. “Mourency is a
lovely village. I grew up here, and really, we do not have
problems of violence, not usually. But of course, no place
is without its scoundrels, yes?” She glanced in the
rearview mirror as she speeded up even more.
Jo smiled to herself at “scoundrels”. Such a
romantic word choice, she thought.
“Good police? Or just…nobody committing
crimes?” she asked.
“I’d say the latter,” said
Angélique. She paused before continuing. “It
is not fortunate,” she said, “but in Mourency,
the head of police–he is not a good man. Lazy.
Corrupt. Dealing with him is usually a waste of time,
comprenez
?”
Angélique began talking about the stable and the
horses and upcoming shows, in a fast stream of quite good
English, waving her hands around but still managing to keep
the Citroën on the narrow road.
Jo mumbled something in response and looked out of the
window. She began to look forward to meeting David de la
Motte, feeling excited to see the stables and meet the
horse she was supposed to ride, and drinking in the scenery
of France where she had never been before. She looked at
what she could see of the fields of sunflowers whizzing by
in the dark, and small cottages, cozy with lights on, none
of it looking even in the smallest detail like Trenton,
where she had grown up.
“…you’ll be staying in the left tower. I
am in a tower bedroom on the other side of the
Château,” Angélique was saying.
“You do not mind if I shift into English? I need the
practice,” she said, with a rueful look.
“Your English is really good, Angélique. And
the tower room sounds amazing,” said Jo. She
struggled to find more to say. “How is David to work
for?”
Angélique smiled. “David…” she
said.
Jo waited, but Angélique never finished her
sentence. She stopped the car and pointed a clicker at an
immense iron gate with gold-tipped spikes, and then as it
slowly swung open, guided the Citroën through, past
eighteen foot high stone posts covered with carvings, a
coat of arms, and lots of decorative flourishes.
Down a long drive they went, ancient plane trees towering
on either side like a row of guards, watching them pass.
Around a bend, up a short hill, and then, across a field,
Jo saw the lit-up Château Gagnon for the first time.
She couldn’t help gasping even though she had seen
photographs online.
Angélique laughed. “Yes, it has that
effect,” she said. “I remember the first time I
came here, as a little girl,” she said.
“I’m French, I had seen plenty of
châteaux before. But this one, she is a little bit of
different,” she said.
Jo loved the way Angélique’s English was
perfect and then all of a sudden it would hit a bump.
The central part of the Château looked very
old–and in fact it was, certainly by an
American’s frame of reference, having been built in
the early 1400s. Then it expanded on either side, with
additions of various architectural styles, so that the
Château was like a textbook example of French
Architecture Through the Ages,