“She doesn’t know I own all this. I don’t think she likes rich guys.”
Now Jean-Claude was really laughing. “Pull the other leg, Jacques. What woman doesn’t like rich men? Or is she not very bright?”
Jack made a chopping gesture with his hand. “Enough.” Jean-Claude raised his bushy eyebrows. Jack hardly ever used his aristocratic mien. He continued, “We will be staying at the petite maison and I do not want her to know the extent of my holdings. She is an independent American girl and very much believes our French concept of liberté, fraternité and egalité.”
Jean-Claude gave a loud snort. He knew himself the equal of any man in France, but knew the class system had well survived the Revolution. “If you say so, milord.”
Jack rolled his eyes. “If you’re going to act the role of a peasant, at least give a little bow or avert your eyes as you talk to me. Now as you know, Princess Stefania will be setting her wedding date soon, and she needs lavender oil for a special perfume. She is planning to sell it for the benefit of her children’s charity. Do we have enough high-quality lavender to supply her needs?”
Jean-Claude drew himself up in affront, as if explaining their business to a particularly dim-witted farmhand. “M’sieu le Comte, all our fields are, as always, Haute-Provence Lavender, designated by the government as AOC, Controlled Destination of Origin. We never have low-quality lavender.” His lips curled at the very thought, and he spit on the dry ground.
“Very good.” He wrapped his arm around his friend’s shoulders. “Where would I be without you, mon vieux?”
Jean-Claude puffed out his lips. “Taking care of your own land and your own lavender.”
“I know, I know.” Jack raised his hands in surrender. “But I am still grateful. And Princess Stefania will be, too.”
“A wedding for her. I remember when she came for the summer when she was what, twelve? Thirteen?”
Jack nodded.
“Marthe-Louise taught her how to cook, how to garden, how to sew. My poor wife, she cried for weeks when Stefania left to go back to school.”
“I’m sure Stefania will want to invite both of you to her wedding.”
Jean-Claude shuffled his feet and looked at the ground. “Eh, why would she want two old Provençal peasants at her fancy wedding? Us rubbing elbows with all the aristos and royalty in Europe.”
“Marthe-Louise would chase you with her carving knife if you declined the invitation and you know it.”
“Eh, bien, you are right, Jacques.” He heaved a theatrical sigh. “If we are invited, I suppose I must buy Marthe-Louise a new dress.”
“Probably two or three,” Jack pointed out. “And a new suit for yourself.” He happened to know that Jean-Claude’s good suit was a relic from Jack’s parents’ own wedding, more than thirty years ago. The lapels were wide enough for Jean-Claude to hang glide off the mountains of the nearby Haute-Alpes.
The older man winced. “Well, for Stefania, I will do it.”
“Good man.” Jack clapped him on the back. “I am not sure how long Lily and I will be staying, but if Marthe-Louise wouldn’t mind cooking an occasional meal for us…”
“She is away in Nice with our daughter who had a baby but will be back in a couple days. And what did you say? This girl’s name is Lily?”
“Yes, why?” he asked, unsure why Jean-Claude was fighting a smile.
“Ah, ah, ah.” Jean-Claude wiggled his gnarled finger at Jack. “You be careful, mon ami. This girl is already part of your life.”
“What? Why do you say that?”
He lifted his hand in mock innocence. “Because of the de Brissard coat of arms, of course. A triple fleur-de-lis on a red background—three lily flowers. C’est parfait—it’s perfect!” He doubled over in laughter as Jack realized his friend was correct.
For the past thousand years, the family’s coat of arms had been golden lilies on a red shield. He’d grown up seeing them every day but had never thought much about them.
Now he had his own Golden Lily. But how could she be a part of his life? And did she even want to be?
LILY WANDERED AROUND the courtyard, wondering what the fountain looked like with the water turned on. It made sense that it had been shut down if there was no one staying there. A working farm had priorities for water elsewhere, especially if they were irrigating vegetables or flower crops.
She sat on a bench in front of the house and wondered if the house’s blue shutters were decorative or functional. Probably