Chapter 4 - The Beaumont Villa
The Beaumont villa stood above the lake like a monument to inherited certainty.
Its pale stone façade reflected the afternoon sun. Cypress trees lined the drive, and lavender gardens descended toward a private dock.
Claire pressed her face to the car window.
“It looks like a hotel.”
Luca gave a strained smile.
“It has fewer rooms.”
Margaret sat beside them in the back seat.
She wore a simple ivory blouse, dark trousers, and a navy coat.
Hélène had told Claire that the evening would be formal.
Margaret had deliberately chosen restraint.
As the car approached the villa, she saw the eastern balcony.
Twenty-nine years earlier, she had stood there with Philippe during a summer reception.
Back then, the villa had belonged to Laurent Banque Privée.
Her father used it for meetings.
After the fire, the property passed through three companies before Philippe Beaumont acquired it.
Margaret knew because Thomas had traced the sale.
Nothing in front of her was unfamiliar.
That frightened her more than surprise would have.
Luca helped Claire from the car.
The front doors opened.
Hélène emerged wearing white silk.
Philippe followed in a tailored charcoal suit.
They looked exactly as Margaret remembered, only older.
Hélène’s hair was silver-blonde now, arranged perfectly at her shoulders. Philippe had grown heavier, but his eyes remained narrow and assessing.
Margaret stepped from the car.
For one instant, Philippe froze.
Hélène’s smile faltered.
Claire noticed.
“Mum, this is Hélène and Philippe Beaumont.”
Margaret extended her hand.
“A pleasure.”
Her English accent was warm and ordinary.
Philippe stared at her face.
“Have we met?”
Margaret smiled.
“I do not believe so.”
Hélène recovered first.
“Claire has told us very little about you.”
“Claire has always preferred telling her own story.”
Hélène’s eyes sharpened.
Then she kissed Claire on both cheeks.
“You look lovely.”
“Thank you.”
“Travel can be so difficult when one is not accustomed to it.”
Luca frowned.
Claire pretended not to notice.
Inside, staff carried their luggage upstairs.
The entrance hall contained paintings Margaret recognized from her childhood.
A Monet that had hung in her mother’s music room.
A small Degas once displayed in her father’s library.
Both had disappeared after the fire.
Margaret stopped beneath the Monet.
Hélène joined her.
“You like it?”
“It is beautiful.”
“A family piece.”
Margaret looked at her.
“Your family?”
“Philippe inherited it.”
“From whom?”
Hélène’s smile thinned.
“A distant relation.”
Margaret nodded.
“How fortunate.”
During afternoon tea, the Beaumonts asked Claire about wedding plans.
Philippe questioned the budget.
Hélène questioned the guest list.
Claire answered politely until Hélène suggested that some of Claire’s relatives might be more comfortable attending only the ceremony.
“Why?” Claire asked.
“The reception will be very formal.”
“My relatives know how to use forks.”
Luca coughed to hide a laugh.
Margaret sipped her tea.
Hélène smiled at Claire as one might smile at a child who had spoken out of turn.
“I only meant that large social events can feel uncomfortable when one is unfamiliar with certain customs.”
“My mother caters large social events.”
“Yes,” Hélène said. “As staff.”
The room became still.
Luca put down his cup.
“Mother.”
Margaret touched Claire’s arm before she could answer.
“It is true,” Margaret said. “I have spent many years serving people at important tables.”
Hélène relaxed.
She mistook Margaret’s calm for submission.
“It is honest work.”
“All work is honest when done well.”
Philippe watched Margaret.
“Where did you grow up, Mrs. Hale?”
“Sussex.”
“Before that?”
Margaret looked at him.
“What makes you think there was a before?”
Philippe’s face tightened.
Hélène stood suddenly.
“Claire, let me show you the garden.”
The women left.
Luca followed them after giving his father a warning look.
Margaret remained with Philippe.
He poured himself more brandy.
“You remind me of someone.”
“I am told I have a common face.”
“No.”
He came closer.
“Your face is not common.”
Margaret held his gaze.
“Should I be flattered?”
“Where were you born?”
“England.”
“Which town?”
“You are very interested in geography.”
“I am interested in truth.”
Margaret smiled faintly.
“So am I.”
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then a housekeeper appeared.
“Mr. Beaumont, Monsieur Bernard has arrived.”
Philippe turned.
Margaret saw a small black rose embroidered on the housekeeper’s cuff.
Her blood went cold.
The warning on the photograph returned to her.
Trust no one wearing the black rose.
May you like
The housekeeper looked directly at Margaret.
Then, almost imperceptibly, she shook her head.
