‘Come.’ Marianne patted the chair next to hers. ‘Sit here, Ella, and tell me all the news of your mother. It’s been many, many years since I last saw her, but having you here brings back happy memories of my stay in Edimbourg when I was about your age. Caroline, pass Ella that bowl of olives. Will you have a glass of wine with us? Perhaps mixed with a little water if you’re not accustomed to drinking it both before the meal and as an accompaniment to the food, as we do?’
The dark wine turned a clear ruby colour in the heavy crystal glass as Madame Martet topped it up with water from the pitcher and handed it to her. Ella sipped it hesitantly, trying at the same time to adopt an air of sophisticated nonchalance, as though every evening the boiled beef or mutton that tended to be the regular fare for suppers at her house, was washed down with a bottle of Château Talbot, the name engraved on the label of the bottle sitting on the table before her. Even watered down, the wine was heady and rich, and Ella felt the last knots of tension, born of her long journey and her even longer anticipation of this summer, dissolve and fade with the last of the light as night fell over the island.
In the glow of the candle lantern that Marianne had brought to the table, along with a platter of blanquette de veau, Ella glanced surreptitiously at Christophe. The shadows played across his features and his eyes seemed to shine with an inner light of their own. He glanced up and met her gaze, and she felt the flicker of a connection between the two of them. To cover her confusion, she turned her attention gratefully to the plate of food in front of her and to Caroline’s questions about life in Scotland.
Finally, a faint chill in the night air made Ella shiver and yawn. Noticing this, Marianne said, with a smile, ‘Come, it is time for bed. I think we are all tired tonight after the excitement of Ella’s arrival. Even you are a bit quiet this evening, my talkative twins. Leave the dishes, Sandrine will be in in the morning. Get a good night’s sleep, my dears. The barometer is set fair, so tomorrow you can take Bijou out for a long sail. I’ll make you a picnic lunch if you like.’
Upstairs, Ella lay between smooth cotton sheets, her eyes wide in the darkness of her room. At the open window, the night air crept in through the shutters, stirring the curtains with its salted breath. Through a gap where the shutters didn’t quite meet, she watched as a full moon rose, casting a beam of silver light across the floorboards and on to the cotton coverlet of her bed. The vast ocean, out there just beyond the dunes, reflected the bright moonbeams, creating a strange twilight, a dream-like dawn at midnight, and the gentle sighing of the waves whispered promises of the summer ahead.
It isn’t really dark at all, was Ella’s last thought before she fell asleep, her mind drifting away on a soft island moored in a sea of light.
She was awoken by the sound of someone – Christophe, she supposed – whistling the Marseillaise as he went downstairs and then being hushed by someone else – Caroline or Marianne, presumably.
A bright line of sunlight, straight as a rule, slanted in through the gap in the shutters, a golden replacement for the moon’s silver beam the night before. She jumped out of bed and crossed the rag rug to pull open the heavy metal arm that held the shutters closed and threw them wide. A warm breeze enveloped her bare arms and made the fine lawn of her nightdress flutter around her ankles. Unimpeded now, the sun’s rays flooded the room with sudden heat.
Ella pulled on a skirt and blouse, brushed her hair, and all but ran downstairs.
The French windows in the kitchen stood open again, as they had last night, and a stout, grey-haired lady wearing a white apron over skirts made of striped cotton ticking came in from the terrace, carrying an empty tray in one hand, her wooden clogs clacking on the terracotta tiles. ‘Bonjour, mademoiselle. Enchantée.’ She shook Ella’s hand formally, with a strong, work-roughened hand, but the broad smile never left her face. Caroline, following in her wake, introduced her as Sandrine, and then the lady turned to busy herself at the sink.
‘Come, Ella, breakfast is on the terrace,’ said Caroline, picking up a pair of broad-lipped pitchers from the kitchen table. As they emerged into the jasmine-shaded daylight, she announced, ‘Voilà, Ella and coffee.’
‘There you are, my dear. Did you sleep?’ Marianne passed Ella a basket of bread, as Caroline did the rounds, pouring treacle-dark coffee into small rounded bowls for each of them and topping up the rich-smelling brew with hot, creamy milk. More accustomed to a bowl of porridge and tea served in genteel cups and saucers, Ella paused, unsure how to proceed. She followed suit, gingerly, as Marianne picked up her bowl with both hands and sipped from it. The coffee was delicious and invigorating, as was eating breakfast outside in the heady sea air. Christophe tore his bread into chunks which he dipped into his coffee bowl, but Ella followed Caroline’s example and spread hers thickly with white butter and cherry jam.
‘So today we’ll take you out in Bijou,’ said Christophe, in between mouthfuls. ‘Have you ever sailed before?’
She shook her head. ‘Never.’
‘Don’t worry. She’s a beauty, and easy to sail. We’ll teach you.’
‘I’m worried that you might spoil your pretty clothes though,’ Marianne said, smiling kindly. ‘Caroline, could you lend Ella something of yours? And we must get you a pair of espadrilles from the market this weekend. They are perfect for the beach and the boat.’
An hour later, Christophe nodded approvingly as he helped Ella climb into the little rowing dinghy which he held steady in the water against the side of a rough slip-way. Bare-footed, holding the sandals that she’d just slipped off, she took the hand he was holding out to her and stepped down into the small wooden tender that would ferry them out to where Bijou, a pretty daysailer, bobbed on her mooring. ‘You look almost French in those clothes,’ he said with a smile, only releasing her hand once she was safely settled on one of the wooden seats. She had changed into a loose navy blue top, striped with white, and a pair of cotton shorts that Caroline had lent her. Her hair was tied back from her face with a navy ribbon, which fluttered in the breeze.
Ella smiled back at him, her new outfit lending her a feeling of relaxed confidence. Speaking a different language, wearing different clothes and setting out on an altogether new experience all combined to heighten her new-found sensation of freedom; the liberty to be someone entirely other than her Edinburgh self.
Christophe reached up to take the picnic basket and a capacious, leather-handled straw bag full of towels and jumpers that Caroline was passing down to him. He helped his sister into the dinghy in her turn and then set the oars in the rowlocks, pushed off from the slip-way and turned the bow towards Bijou’s mooring.
Once on board the sailing boat, Ella felt awkward and clumsy. The other two busied themselves with easy assurance, readying the yacht and stowing the picnic in the tiny cabin below decks. Bijou really was a beautiful boat, her lines sleek and elegant, her deck made of oiled teak and the boards of her clinker-built flanks pristine under their coat of white paint.
‘She’s an original, there’s no other boat exactly like her,’ Christophe explained with some pride. ‘Grand-père had her specially built, ten years ago. Maman inherited her, along with the house, when he died. She’s been coming to the Île de Ré since she was an infant. It was Grand-père who taught us all how to sail. But Papa doesn’t really enjoy the sea, and Maman would rather spend her time tending to her beloved garden, so I’m looking after Bijou now.’
Caroline cast off from the mooring buoy and, as Christophe drew the tiller towards him, Bijou turned her bow towards the open sea and the wind caught her sails. They edged out slowly at first, picking their way between the other boats that were moored in the shelter of the harbour, until they were clear. Ella felt the wind pick up suddenly, making her hair-ribbon flutter against the nape of her neck.
Then, all at once, they were flying.
Sparkling wavelets, their crests speckled with white, rose up playfully before them, sending up a shower of fine sea-spray as Bijou’s bow ploughed through them. A kittiwake, white as blown cherry-blossom against the dizzying blue of the sky, soared on an updraught, its ink-tipped wings wide-spread, and Ella felt her heart soar with it, transported by the sense of exhilaration and pure, unadulterated joy that suddenly surged through her body. She tipped her head back to follow the gull’s flight and then closed her eyes for a moment, letting the rays of the sun caress her face, all thoughts of sun-hats and freckles completely forgotten now.