he plane touched down at Charles de Gaulle at four A.M., and with her single bag, it only took Marie-Ange a few minutes to go through customs. And it felt strange suddenly to hear people speaking French everywhere, and it made her smile as she thought of Billy and how well he had learned it.

She took a cab to a small hotel one of the stewardesses had recommended to her. It was on the Left Bank, and it was safe and clean, and after she had washed her face, and unpacked her bag, it was time for breakfast. She decided to walk around outside and found a little cafe where she ordered croissants and coffee. And just for the sheer joy of it, she made herself a canard in the cup of steaming cafe au lait, and thought of Robert. It brought back so many memories, she could hardly bear it. Afterward, she walked for hours, looking at people, enjoying the scene, relishing the feeling of being in France again. She didn’t go back to her hotel for hours, and when she did, she was exhausted.

She had dinner in a little bistro, and cried in her bed in the hotel that night, for her brother and her parents, and the years she had lost, and then she cried for the friend she had left in Iowa. But in spite of her sadness, she loved being in Paris. She went to the Sorbonne the next day, and took some brochures with her about the classes they offered. And the following morning, she rented a car, and made her way to Marmouton. It took her all day to get there. And she could feel her heart pound, as she drove slowly through the village, and on a whim, she stopped at the bakery she had loved as a child, and stared in disbelief when she saw the same old woman behind the counter. She had been a close friend of Sophie’s.

Marie-Ange spoke to her cautiously, and explained who she was, and the old woman began to cry the moment she recognized her.

“My God, you are so beautiful, and so grown-up! Sophie would have been so proud of you,” she said as she embraced her.

“What happened to her?” Marie-Ange asked as the woman handed her a brioche across the counter.

“She died last year,” the woman at the bakery said sadly.

“I wrote to her so often, and she never answered. Was she ill for a long time?” Perhaps she’d had a stroke, Marie-Ange thought, as soon as she’d left her. It was the only possible explanation for her silence.

“No, she went to live with her daughter when you left, and she came to visit me every few years. We always talked about you. She said she wrote to you nearly a hundred times the first year, and all her letters came back unopened. She gave up after that, she thought maybe she had the wrong address, but your father’s lawyer told her it was the right one. Perhaps someone didn’t want you to see her letters.” Marie-Ange felt her words like a blow to her heart, as she realized that Aunt Carole must have returned Sophie’s letters to her, and thrown Marie-Ange’s letters away, to sever her ties with her past. It was just the kind of thing Carole would do. It was yet another act of cruelty, but so needless and so unkind, and now Sophie was gone forever. She felt her loss now as though it had just happened. “I’m sorry,” the woman added, seeing the young girl’s face, and the pain etched on it.

“Who lives at the château now?” Marie-Ange asked quietly. It was not easy coming back here, it was full of bittersweet memories for her, and she knew it would break her heart when she saw the château again, but she felt she had to, to pay homage to the past, to touch a part of her family again, as though if she returned, she would find them, but of course she knew she wouldn’t.

“A count owns it. The Comte de Beauchamp. He lives in Paris, and no one ever sees him. He rarely comes here. But you can take a look if you want. The gates are always open. He has a caretaker, perhaps you remember him. Madame Fournier’s grandson.” Marie-Ange remembered him well from the farm at Marmouton, he was only a few years older than she was, and they had played together once in a while as children. He had helped her climb a tree once, and Sophie had scolded them both and forced them to come down. She wondered if he remembered it as clearly as she did.

She thanked the woman at the bakery and left, promising to return, and she drove slowly the rest of the way to the château, and when she reached it, she found, as the woman had said, that the gates were open, which surprised her, particularly if the owner was more often than not absent.

Marie-Ange parked her rented car outside the grounds, and walked slowly through the gates, as though she were reentering Paradise and was afraid that someone would stop her. But no one came, there was no sound, no sign of life. And Alain Fournier was nowhere in sight. The château looked abandoned. The shutters were closed, the grounds were somewhat overgrown, there was a sad look to the place now, and she could see that part of the roof was in disrepair. And beyond the house, she saw the familiar fields and trees, woods and orchards. It was precisely as she had remembered. It was as though, just seeing it, she was a child again, and Sophie would come looking for her at any moment. Her brother would still be there, and her parents would come home from their activities in time for dinner. And as she stood very still, she could hear birds, and wished that she could climb a tree again. The air was cool, and the place, even in its disrepair, was more beautiful than ever. For a moment, she wished that Billy could see it. It was exactly as she had described it to him.

She walked out into the fields, with her head bowed, thinking of the family she’d lost, the years she’d been away, the life she had loved so much and that had ended so abruptly. And now she was back, and it belonged to someone else. It made her heart ache to know that. She sat on a rock in the fields, reliving a thousand tender memories, and then as night fell slowly in the cool October air, she began to walk back slowly toward the courtyard. She had just passed the kitchen door, when a sports car pulled in at full speed, and stopped near her. The man behind the wheel looked at her with a puzzled expression, and then smiled at her and got out. He was tall and thin, with dark hair and green eyes, and he looked very aristocratic. She wondered instantly if he was the Comte de Beauchamp.

“Are you lost? Do you need help?” he asked pleasantly, and she noticed the gold crest ring on his finger, indicating that he was noble.

“No, I’m sorry. I’m trespassing,” she said, thinking of how her great-aunt had fired her shotgun the first time Billy came to visit. But this man’s manners were a great deal better than her Aunt Carole’s.

“It’s a pretty place, isn’t it?” he said with a smile. “I wish I spent more time here.”

“It’s beautiful,” she said with a sad smile, as another car came through the gate and stopped near them, and as a young man got out, she saw that it was his caretaker, Alain Fournier. “Alain?” she said, before she could stop herself. He was short and powerful and had the same pleasant face he had had as a child when they played together. And he recognized her immediately, although her hair was long and no longer in curls, but it was the same golden color it always had been. And although she had grown up, she hadn’t changed much.

“Marie-Ange?” he said with a look of amazement.

“Are you friends?” the count said with a look of amusement.

“We were,” the caretaker answered as he held out a hand to shake Marie-Ange’s, “we played together as children. When did you come back?” he asked her with a look of wonder.

“Just now … today …” She looked apologetically at the new owner of the château. “I’m sorry. I just wanted to see it.”

“Did you live here?” the count asked, puzzled by this brief exchange.

“Yes. As a child. My parents … I … they died a long time ago, and I went to America to live with my great-aunt. I just drove down from Paris today.”

“So did I,” he smiled benignly at her, looking polite and well bred and pleasant as Alain waved at her and slipped away. The count was wearing a blue blazer and gray flannels, and his clothes looked impeccably cut and expensive. “Would you like to come inside and look around?” She hesitated for a long moment, not wanting to intrude further on him, but the offer was irresistible. And he could see in her eyes that she would love to. “I insist that you come inside. It’s getting cold out here. I’ll make a pot of tea, and you can wander.” Without a word, she followed him gratefully into the familiar kitchen. And as she did, she felt her lost world envelop her, and tears stung her eyes as she looked around her. “Has it changed much?” he asked her gently, unaware of the circumstances of her parents’ accident, but it was easy to see that this was an emotional moment for her. “Why don’t you walk around for a while, and when you come back, I’ll have your tea ready.” It was embarrassing to have barged in on him in this way, but he was so nice about it.

“It has hardly changed at all,” she said, with a look of tender amazement. In fact, the same table and chairs were there, where she had had breakfast and lunch every day with her parents and Robert. It was the same table Robert had passed the sugary canards under as they dripped coffee on the carpet. “Did you buy the château from my father’s estate?” she asked, as he took out the teapot and an antique silver strainer.

“No. I bought it from a man who had owned it for several years but never lived here. I think his wife was ill, or she didn’t like it. He sold it to me, and I have been planning to spend some time here and restore it. I haven’t owned it for long, and I’ve been too busy to pay much attention to it. But I’m hoping to get to work on it this winter, or at least next spring. It deserves to be as beautiful as it once was.” It looked undeniably tired and un tended.

“It doesn’t look as though it would take much work to do it,” Marie-Ange said to her host as he poured the tea through the strainer. The walls needed some paint, and the floors needed wax, but to her, it still looked wonderful and so precisely as she remembered. But he smiled at her assessment.

“I’m afraid the plumbing is in sad shape, and the electrical wires have all gone wrong. It needs a great deal of work you can’t even see. Believe me, it’s a big undertaking. And both the vineyards and the orchards need to be replanted … it needs a new roof. I’m afraid, Mademoiselle, that I have let your family home fall into sad disrepair,” he said apologetically with a smile that was filled with charm and wit and spirit. “By the way, I’m Bernard de Beauchamp.” He extended a hand to her, and they shook hands politely.

“Marie-Ange Hawkins.” As she said it, something clicked in his memory, and he remembered a story about a terrible accident that had claimed three lives and left a little girl an orphan. The man he’d bought it from had bought the château from her father’s estate, and told Bernard the story.

He shooed her off to the living room then, and heard her go upstairs to visit her old bedroom. And when she came back downstairs, he could see that she’d been crying and felt sorry for her.

“It must be hard for you to come back here,” he said, handing her the cup of tea he’d made for her. It was strong and dark and pungent and helped to restore her, as he invited her to sit at the familiar kitchen table.

“It’s harder than I thought,” she admitted to him, as she sat down, looking very young and very pretty. He was almost exactly twice her age. He had just turned forty.

“That’s to be expected,” he said solemnly. “I remember hearing about your parents, and about you,” he smiled at her, and there was nothing wicked or lascivious about him. He just looked like a nice man, and seemed like a sympathetic person. “I’ve had my own taste of that. I lost my wife and son ten years ago in a fire, in a house like this. I sold the château, and it took me a long time to get over it, if one ever does. That’s why I wanted to buy this one, because I longed to have a house like this again, but it has been hard for me. Perhaps that’s why it has taken me a while to do it. But it will be lovely when I get around to it.”

“It was lovely when I lived here,” Marie-Ange smiled gratefully at him for his kindness. “My mother always had it filled with flowers.”

“And what were you like then?” he smiled gently at her.

“I spent all my time climbing trees and picking fruit in the orchards.” They both laughed at the image she painted for him.

“Well, you’ve certainly grown up since then,” he said, seeming pleased to be sharing a cup of tea with her. It was lonely for him there, for the reasons he had just explained to her, and he enjoyed her company. She had been a pleasant surprise for him when he got there. “I’m going to be here for a month this time. I want to work on the plans for the remodeling with the local builder. You’ll have to come and visit me again, if you have time. Will you be staying here long?” he asked with curiosity, and she looked uncertain.

“I’m not sure yet. I just arrived from the States two days ago, and all I knew I wanted to do was come here. I want to go to Paris, and see about taking classes at the Sorbonne.”

“Have you moved back to France yet?”

“I don’t know,” she said honestly, “I haven’t decided. My father left …” She caught herself on the words. It would have been indelicate to mention the trust her father had left her. “I have an opportunity to do what I want now, and I have to make some decisions about it.”

“That’s a good spot to be in,” he said, as he refilled her cup of tea and they went on talking. “Where are you staying, Miss Hawkins?”

“I don’t know that yet either,” she said, laughing and realizing she must have sounded very young and foolish to him. He seemed so grown-up and sophisticated. “And please call me Marie-Ange.”

“I would be delighted to do so.” His manners were impeccable, his charm impossible to ignore, his looks impressive. “I just had a very strange idea, and perhaps you will think me mad for suggesting it, but perhaps you would like it. If you haven’t made any other arrangements yet, I was wondering if you might like to stay here, Marie-Ange. You don’t know me at all, but you can lock all the doors in your wing, if you like. I actually sleep in the guest room because I like it better. I find it sunnier and more cheerful. But the entire master suite can be sealed off quite effectively, and you would be safe from me, if you’re worried about it. But it might mean something to you to stay here.” She sat and stared at him, overwhelmed by the offer, and unable to believe that things like that happened. And she wasn’t in the least afraid of him. He was so well brought up and so polite that she knew she had nothing to fear from him. And all she wanted was to stay here and steep herself in the past and the memories she had missed for half her lifetime.

“It would be incredibly rude of me to stay here, wouldn’t it?” she asked him cautiously, afraid to take advantage of his kindness, but dying to stay there.

“Not if I invite you, and I did. I meant it. I wouldn’t have offered it if I didn’t want you to stay here. I can’t imagine you’d be much trouble.” He smiled at her in a fatherly way, and without letting herself think about it further, she accepted, and promised to leave for Paris the next day. “Stay as long as you like,” he assured her. “I told you, I’ll be here for a month, on holiday, and the place gets rather dreary when I’m alone.” She wanted to offer to pay for her room, but she was afraid to insult him. He was obviously prosperous, and what’s more, he was a count. She didn’t want to offend him by treating the château like a hotel. “What shall we do for dinner, by the way? Do you have plans, or should I whip something up? I’m not a great cook, but I can come up with something edible. I have some groceries in my car.”

“I don’t expect you to feed me as well.” She looked embarrassed to be that much of a burden on him. She had no sense of how pleased he was to have her around. “I could cook for you, if you like,” she offered shyly. She had cooked for her Aunt Carole every night. The meals had been plain, but her aunt had never complained about them.

“Do you know how to cook?” He looked amused at the thought.

“In America, I had to cook for my great-aunt.”

“Rather like Cinderella?” he teased as his green eyes danced in amusement.

“A bit like that,” Marie-Ange said, taking her empty cup to the all-too-familiar sink. Even standing there brought back countless memories of Sophie. And once more she thought of Sophie’s letters and what she’d learned about them that day.

“I will cook for you,” he promised her. But in the end, they both settled for pate, the fresh baguette he had bought, and some brie. And he brought out an excellent bottle of red wine, which she declined.

She set the table for him, and they chatted for a long time.

He was from Paris, and had lived in England briefly as a child, and then come back to France. And after they had talked for a while, he said that his little boy had been four years old when he died in the fire. He said he thought he would never recover from it, and he hadn’t in some ways. He had never remarried, and admitted that he led a solitary life. But he didn’t seem like a morose sort of man, and he made Marie-Ange laugh much of the time.

They left each other at ten o’clock, after he had made sure that there were clean sheets on the bed in the master suite. He made no overtures to her, did nothing inappropriate, wished her a good night, and disappeared to the guest suite on the opposite side of the house.

But it was harder than she thought sleeping in her parents’ bed, and thinking about them, and to get there, she had walked past her own room, and Robert’s. Her head and heart were full of them all through the night.