A Rather Charming Invitation by C. A. Belmond Read Free Book Online

believe my little Cinderella luck.
    We headed north from Cannes, away from the coast, climbing up, up into the hills, where the winding local roads lead eccentrically to one rotary after another, so it was like circling halfway around a clock and then darting away onto an even smaller road with yet another rotary to circle. I’d never seen this part of the South of France before, so very high up, and miles away from the coast. The air was a bit more humid, and the vegetation more lush.
    As we reached the medieval town of Mougins, the steep roads narrowed even more, with ancient walls rising high on both sides, at times to the point of absurdity. There was a fairly dicey moment when Jeremy had to slow the car to a near stop in order to get through a terrifyingly narrow passageway under an old stone bridge.
    “Another coat of paint on this car and we wouldn’t make it,” I observed, as we squeezed through the tight pass, with the stone walls pressing in on either side of us. But after all, I told myself, these villages had been built not for cars, but for horses, donkeys and mules, long before today’s fancy restaurants and spas began attracting modern traffic.
    Higher and higher we climbed, with a brief, stunning glimpse of fertile farmland spread out in valleys far below, impeccably sculpted into neat lines of contrasting shades of green—endless rows of vegetables, herbs, silvery-branched olive trees, and gnarly fruit trees openly basking in the abundant sunshine. Beyond this, off in the horizon, were other villages, with plumes of smoke rising from the tiny chimneys of faraway stone farmhouses, and villas with terracotta-colored tiled roofs.
    Returning to her roots had a slightly dampening effect on Honorine’s high spirits. She was slumped in the backseat, closing her eyes to the magnificent views, with her earphones on again. But when we drew nearer our destination, she seemed to sense it, for she opened her eyes just long enough to tell us which turns to make. Then she went right back to her private earphone world of canned music.
    Jeremy glanced at her in the rearview mirror, and whispered to me, “Geez, I feel like we’ve inherited a grumpy adolescent kid that we’re forcibly taking on vacation.”
    “She certainly is drooping like the last rose of summer,” I agreed. We drove a short way in silence; then, glancing at the map, I confirmed, “Right turn here.”
    Now Honorine sat up alertly, yanked off her earphones and directed us down a private driveway, which turned out to be a long, elegant avenue slicing through a private park of tall, beautiful old pine trees, and big leafy chestnut trees that demonstrated how gloriously a tree can grow when given ample space. Seated grandly at the far end of the drive, behind several squares of lawn rimmed with formal flowerbeds and potted topiary, was a fine old château, its multitude of rooms laid out with intellectual precision, its long windows and French doors like regal proud eyes, watchful of our approach.
    I gasped. Was this the “country cottage” that Tante Leonora invited us to? Phew! Even Jeremy, with all his bigwig, world-wide connections, was impressed.
    “Blimey,” he said drolly, slowing the car as we pulled up to the entrance.
    Honorine reached for her backpack on the floor. “You can turn left and go halfway down the drive to the garage. Park anywhere you like. It’s fine. Leave the suitcases in the car,” she instructed. “And the keys.” She didn’t elaborate, so I assumed a servant would take care of it. We left the car, and followed her to the front path.
    The château was a pale, yellowy- cream-colored building, with dark green shutters and a dark green roof. It stood three stories high, and was laid out very widely, with window after window in perfect symmetry; and on the left, there was a square four-story tower with a matching roof of its own. Honorine now scampered up the five steps to the big front door, and she offhandedly led