After we had polished off a delicious clafoutis, made with cherries from the villa’s own garden, Alden turned to me. ‘Racing isn’t really your thing, is it, old man?’
I was about to protest politely, but actually I regretted rebuffing Alden’s offer of stake money earlier. I liked our host and decided it was best to give him a straight answer. ‘Not really. Sorry.’
‘Have you heard of Honfleur?’ Alden said. ‘It’s only a few miles from here.’
‘Where Henry V led his men once more into the breach?’
‘I think so,’ said Alden. ‘It’s a pretty place. Old. Real old. French painters love it. Why don’t you go there tomorrow instead of the races? Sophie will take you, won’t you, Sophie? She hates racing too.’
‘I’d be happy to,’ said Sophie, smiling at me politely.
Flustered by the prospect of spending a day with Alden’s beautiful sister-in-law and not wishing to offend my host again, I hesitated. ‘Er...’
‘Don’t worry,’ Alden said. ‘You will be doing Sophie a favour. Is it OK if they borrow your car, Tony?’
‘Sure,’ said Tony.
The realization dawned on me that actually Alden preferred to go to the racecourse without his scruffy, non-gambling English guest.
Embarrassed and a little humiliated, I agreed. ‘That’s very kind. Thank you, Sophie, it will be interesting.’
I was enchanted by Honfleur; I was also enchanted by Sophie. We were sitting outside one of the restaurants around the little town’s old harbour. The air in Normandy was fresher than in Paris, and the afternoon was pleasantly warm rather than unbearably hot. A breeze from an unseen English Channel squeezed its way through the ancient buildings into the harbour. The basin was packed with yachts and the odd fishing boat, and surrounded by tall tottering houses of cream and orange and yellow, most of them skirted with red or gold awnings shading pavement cafés. It seemed appropriate to order fish, and Sophie had chosen a delicious crisp wine from Sancerre, which was apparently near where she came from. The meal would bust my budget, but it was worth it.
We had spent the morning in the town’s art galleries, the remarkable wooden church of Saint Catherine, and two old salt barns: quantities of salt were vital for the long-distance fisherman harvesting cod from the Grand Banks of Newfoundland. Sophie was a knowledgeable guide, pointing out where Eugène Boudin had painted, as well as Monet and Courbet.
She was polite and not unfriendly, but I had the impression that she thought she had been lumbered with an awkward young student, and was making the best of a bad job. Not unreasonable, really. Her blue dress was simple, yet elegant, and she wore a scarf around her neck with casual sophistication. Her large eyes fascinated me: at one moment they would be absent-mindedly drifting off into the distance, and then they would focus on me and whatever I was saying, large pools of intelligence. Three freckles danced playfully on the end of her nose. At any moment I was expecting one of the many wealthy Parisian men loafing around the harbour to elbow me out of the way and take over. And who could blame them, or her for responding?
‘What are we doing this afternoon?’ I said.
‘If you have the energy we can walk up to the chapel of Notre- Dame de Grâce. There’s a lovely view of the town from there.’
‘What about the walls? Can we see them?’
‘I think they’ve been demolished.’
‘That’s a shame,’ I said. ‘I’d like to see where Henry V broke through. You know Shakespeare wrote a play about him, and one of the big scenes takes place in Honfleur?’
Sophie didn’t answer. She looked as if she was about to laugh, but covered it up by looking out over the harbour.
‘What is it, Sophie?’ I was aware I had said something stupid; I just wasn’t aware what it was.
‘It is nothing,’ said Sophie. But her lips were twitching, and her blue eyes shining. “Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more,” you mean that one?’
‘I see you know your Shakespeare.’
‘I do. And it’s Harfleur, not Honfleur.’
‘Ah.’ I realized that I had, in fact, made a fool of myself. ‘They are not the same place?’
‘No,’ said Sophie. ‘Harfleur is on the other side of the Seine estuary.’
I winced. ‘Oh Lord. What an idiot! I’m supposed to know my medieval English history. Are you sure?’
Sophie nodded. ‘I am French. I have been to both places. I’m pretty sure I am right.’
‘I can see that.’
Sophie laughed. It was a kind laugh, at least.
‘Do you know much about the Hundred Years War?’ I said.
‘Yes. I enjoy history. Even English history. The Norman Conquest. The Battle of Hastings. The Siege of Calais. And from here raiders set out to attack the Sussex coast.’
‘All right, all right. In that case, what I don’t understand is why you don’t all speak English? We are taught all about the big battles of the war: Poitiers, Crécy, Agincourt. We won them all. But we don’t seem to have won the war, do we? I suspect they are not telling us something.’
Sophie laughed. ‘I see what you mean. Have you forgotten Jeanne d’Arc, or don’t they teach you about her?’
‘They do. In fact, I’ve seen the play — Saint Joan. But didn’t we burn her in the end?’
‘You did. Not very gentlemanly, not cricket at all. But after Jeanne it was all over for you. You lost. Sorry.’
‘It’s probably for the best. It wouldn’t be quite the same if the waiter had a Brummie accent and we were drinking tea and eating jellied eels.’
Sophie shuddered.
‘Not an Anglophile, then?’
‘Actually, I am. I like reading English historical novels. And Scottish. Robert Louis Stephenson. Walter Scott.’
‘No wonder your English is so good.’
‘Thank you,’ she said with a small smile of pleasure. ‘You are studying history at university?’
Despite my Harfleur — Honfleur error, I did know quite a lot about medieval history, but so, it turned out, did Sophie. We talked at length and with great enthusiasm about the Black Death and its effects on medieval English and French society. I badly wanted to regale her with my theories on bastard feudalism, but I thought that might be pushing my luck.
‘Would you have liked to have studied history at university yourself?’ I asked.
The enthusiasm left Sophie. ‘My father wouldn’t let me.’
‘Oh. That’s a shame.’
‘He is very traditional. My whole family is very traditional, very Catholic. I’m not even sure he would let Hector go to university. He’s my younger brother, but he will inherit the estate and Papa never wanted him to be distracted by too much education. He’s at Saint-Cyr, the military college.’
I realized I had no idea how old Sophie was, or her older sister Madeleine. Twenty-five and twenty-seven, I guessed.
‘So what are you supposed to do?’
‘Go to Paris. Find a husband. Marry him.’
‘Oh. And how long have you been doing that for?’ As soon as I said it, I realized how ridiculous it sounded. Sophie burst out laughing.
‘Almost a year, now.’
‘Any luck?’
‘Not yet.’
‘I’m surprised.’
‘Why, thank you.’
‘Wait a moment,’ I said. ‘How old are you?’
‘Nineteen.’
‘But that’s my age!’ I protested.
‘When’s your birthday?’
‘March.’
‘Well mine is September. Which means I am significantly older than you.’