Chapter 1 - The Invitation Beside the Lake
Three weeks before the dinner, Claire Hale had believed the most difficult part of marrying Luca Beaumont would be choosing a wedding venue.
She had been wrong.
The invitation arrived on a Tuesday morning in a thick cream envelope embossed with a silver letter B.
Claire found it beneath the door of the small London flat she shared with Luca.
She was standing barefoot in the kitchen, wearing one of his old shirts, when she opened it.
Mr. and Mrs. Philippe Beaumont request the pleasure of your company at the Beaumont summer residence on Lake Geneva.
A family dinner in celebration of Luca and Claire’s engagement.
Formal attire.
Claire read the final two words twice.
Formal attire.
It sounded less like a dinner and more like an examination.
Luca entered the kitchen carrying two cups of coffee.
“They finally sent it.”
“You knew?”
“I knew they were planning something.”
Claire looked at him.
“Something?”
“A dinner.”
“At a mansion in Switzerland.”
“It is technically a villa.”
“That does not make it less terrifying.”
Luca smiled and kissed her forehead.
“You have nothing to be afraid of.”
Claire folded the invitation.
She loved Luca’s confidence, but sometimes it came from having grown up in rooms where he had never needed to prove he belonged.
The Beaumont family owned vineyards, hotels, shipping companies, and several buildings in Paris that Claire had only ever seen in magazines.
Her mother owned a small catering business in Sussex.
Claire had grown up helping wash dishes after weddings and carrying trays through village halls.
Luca claimed his parents did not care about money.
Claire had met them twice.
She knew better.
The first time, Hélène had asked whether Claire’s university had been “one of the recognized ones.”
The second time, Philippe had asked what Claire’s father did.
When Claire explained that her father had died when she was eight, Philippe had nodded, glanced at her inexpensive shoes, and changed the subject.
Now they wanted to host an engagement dinner.
Claire placed the invitation on the counter.
“My mother is coming.”
Luca hesitated.
It lasted less than a second, but Claire saw it.
“Your parents invited her,” he said carefully.
“That is not what I asked.”
“Of course she should come.”
Claire studied his face.
“Your mother will hate it.”
“My mother does not hate your mother.”
“She has never met her.”
“Exactly.”
Claire raised an eyebrow.
Luca sighed.
“She will behave.”
“You sound like you are trying to convince yourself.”
He set down his coffee.
“I want our families to know each other before the wedding.”
“So do I.”
“Then we go. We eat. We survive my father’s endless discussion about wine. We leave.”
Claire tried to smile.
That afternoon, she drove to Sussex to tell Margaret.
Her mother was in the kitchen of Hale & Hearth Catering, rolling pastry while three enormous pots simmered behind her.
Margaret listened without interrupting.
She was sixty-three, with silver beginning to appear in her dark hair and a face that seemed gentle until one looked closely at her eyes.
Those eyes missed very little.
“A family dinner in Switzerland,” Margaret said.
“On Lake Geneva.”
“At their summer home?”
Claire stopped.
“You know they have a summer home?”
Margaret continued rolling the pastry.
“People like the Beaumonts usually do.”
Claire laughed.
“You say that as though you have met a hundred families like them.”
Margaret’s hands paused.
“Not a hundred.”
Something in her voice made Claire look up.
Margaret smiled.
“When is the dinner?”
“Next Saturday.”
“I will come.”
“You do not have to.”
“You want me there.”
“I do.”
“Then I will be there.”
Claire came around the counter and hugged her.
Margaret held her tightly.
For a moment, Claire felt her mother’s body go rigid.
“What is it?”
“Nothing.”
“Mum.”
Margaret pulled away and brushed flour from Claire’s sleeve.
“What did you say Luca’s mother’s name was?”
“Hélène Beaumont.”
Margaret’s face changed so quickly that Claire nearly missed it.
Only the smallest tightening around the mouth.
Only the faintest shadow in her eyes.
“And his father?”
“Philippe.”
The rolling pin slipped from Margaret’s hand.
It struck the floor.
Claire stared at her.
Margaret bent down to pick it up.
“Clumsy.”
“You are never clumsy.”
“Age comes for all of us.”
Claire laughed, but Margaret did not.
That night, after Claire had returned to London, Margaret locked the catering kitchen and went upstairs to the flat where she lived alone.
She opened the wardrobe in her bedroom.
Behind a row of winter coats was a narrow wooden box.
Margaret carried it to the bed.
Inside lay a French passport, three photographs, a tarnished silver key, and a newspaper clipping dated twenty-nine years earlier.
The clipping showed a burned château outside Lyon.
The headline read:
HEIRESS MARGUERITE LAURENT PRESUMED DEAD AFTER FAMILY ESTATE FIRE
Margaret touched the photograph beneath it.
Philippe and Hélène were smiling beside her.
On the back, someone had written:
To Marguerite, our sister.
Margaret turned the photograph over again.
May you like
Below the first message, written in a different hand, were six smaller words.
Trust no one wearing the black rose.
