prestigious and very deserved. Sponsored by Chateau Bouscaral.”
“The famous French winery?”
“The Marquise Bouscaral endorsed the generous grant that makes the reward possible,” Claude explained as she tried to smooth
her wrinkled skirt. “And the Marquise herself invited Kolina down to her chateau on several occasions. She was most gracious
and attentive to the poor child. As was her son.”
“I don’t remember anything in Kolina’s files, here or in Zurich, about the Bouscarals knowing Kolina.”
Claude turned to her with a look of astonishment. “But I am sure I mentioned that to the police.”
Honey kissed her tenderly. “Not to worry, my pet. I’ll follow through.
Irons-nous faire un petit tour
?”
7.
HONEY
In the Bordeaux region of France, Chateau Bouscaral sat like an ornate centerpiece in the vast vineyards that marched in neat
rows up and down the rolling landscape. As Honey drove the rented Citröen up the curved drive, she felt as though she were
stepping back in time—into the days of grandeur and pomp of the French aristocracy. The sprawling, many-winged, single-story
chateau, built in the mid-eighteenth century, was capped at each end by tall, conical-crowned turrets. The simple, long, low
lines of the tan stone chateau and the stately, formal gardens in front bespoke of titled wealth handed down through the same
family century after century.
She was greeted at the massive, hand-carved doors by a petite maid in traditional black dress with white apron and cap, who
politely led her through the opulently appointed entrance hall lined with exquisite Flemish tapestries. Each room they passed
through was filled with immenseartistic riches: Persian drinking bowls, Chinese wine vessels, a huge wooden horse ridden by a man-sized dummy; Honey recognized
the latter as models used by seventeenth-century Italian painters. Inside a drawing room decorated in a decidedly feminine
style she was told to wait, and the maid discreetly withdrew. Left to her own devices, Honey wandered about the lovely room,
admiring the relatively modern masterpieces adorning the walls; among her favorites were a de la Resnaye and a large Picasso
from his blue period.
Her reverie was interrupted by the arrival of the
grand dame
herself, the present-day driving force behind the successful, much-honored winery, Marquise Berengere-Marie Bouscaral. Honey
was surprised at the youthful vitality of the aristocratic-looking woman. Tall, slim, silver-haired, the Marquise held herself
with the erectness and bearing of a woman who enjoyed fully her exalted position in life. Wearing an “at home” long gown of
heavy pink satin, she glided into the drawing room like a queen, gracious and regal.
“Miss Wildon,” she greeted Honey in a lovely, deep voice in faintly accented English, “it is indeed an honor to welcome you
to Chateau Bouscaral.”
Honey took the proffered hand covered with sparkling jewels, as she replied, “Madame La Marquise, I am the one who is honored.
Thank you for receiving me on such short notice.”
Briefly they exchanged pleasantries; Honey’s hand was held by the Marquise as if it were one of the rare crystal decanters
lining the glass shelf near them. At last the
grand dame
let it go, almost reluctantly, and moved to an embroidered wall cord, which she pulled to summon tea to be served. They sat
on moire-silk-covered Louis XV chairs before a pink marble fireplace that was ablaze with a small, neatly laid fire in spite
of the bright sunshineoutside the open French doors leading to a garden terrace. Sipping tea from bone china cups, they chatted about inconsequential
matters: the fine spring weather, the difficulty of finding suitable help, St. Laurent’s new Parisian collection, mutual friends
they discovered in common. In a very short time, Honey felt quite at ease and she sensed the feeling was reciprocal. She decided
the moment was right to get to the
“The famous French winery?”
“The Marquise Bouscaral endorsed the generous grant that makes the reward possible,” Claude explained as she tried to smooth
her wrinkled skirt. “And the Marquise herself invited Kolina down to her chateau on several occasions. She was most gracious
and attentive to the poor child. As was her son.”
“I don’t remember anything in Kolina’s files, here or in Zurich, about the Bouscarals knowing Kolina.”
Claude turned to her with a look of astonishment. “But I am sure I mentioned that to the police.”
Honey kissed her tenderly. “Not to worry, my pet. I’ll follow through.
Irons-nous faire un petit tour
?”
7.
HONEY
In the Bordeaux region of France, Chateau Bouscaral sat like an ornate centerpiece in the vast vineyards that marched in neat
rows up and down the rolling landscape. As Honey drove the rented Citröen up the curved drive, she felt as though she were
stepping back in time—into the days of grandeur and pomp of the French aristocracy. The sprawling, many-winged, single-story
chateau, built in the mid-eighteenth century, was capped at each end by tall, conical-crowned turrets. The simple, long, low
lines of the tan stone chateau and the stately, formal gardens in front bespoke of titled wealth handed down through the same
family century after century.
She was greeted at the massive, hand-carved doors by a petite maid in traditional black dress with white apron and cap, who
politely led her through the opulently appointed entrance hall lined with exquisite Flemish tapestries. Each room they passed
through was filled with immenseartistic riches: Persian drinking bowls, Chinese wine vessels, a huge wooden horse ridden by a man-sized dummy; Honey recognized
the latter as models used by seventeenth-century Italian painters. Inside a drawing room decorated in a decidedly feminine
style she was told to wait, and the maid discreetly withdrew. Left to her own devices, Honey wandered about the lovely room,
admiring the relatively modern masterpieces adorning the walls; among her favorites were a de la Resnaye and a large Picasso
from his blue period.
Her reverie was interrupted by the arrival of the
grand dame
herself, the present-day driving force behind the successful, much-honored winery, Marquise Berengere-Marie Bouscaral. Honey
was surprised at the youthful vitality of the aristocratic-looking woman. Tall, slim, silver-haired, the Marquise held herself
with the erectness and bearing of a woman who enjoyed fully her exalted position in life. Wearing an “at home” long gown of
heavy pink satin, she glided into the drawing room like a queen, gracious and regal.
“Miss Wildon,” she greeted Honey in a lovely, deep voice in faintly accented English, “it is indeed an honor to welcome you
to Chateau Bouscaral.”
Honey took the proffered hand covered with sparkling jewels, as she replied, “Madame La Marquise, I am the one who is honored.
Thank you for receiving me on such short notice.”
Briefly they exchanged pleasantries; Honey’s hand was held by the Marquise as if it were one of the rare crystal decanters
lining the glass shelf near them. At last the
grand dame
let it go, almost reluctantly, and moved to an embroidered wall cord, which she pulled to summon tea to be served. They sat
on moire-silk-covered Louis XV chairs before a pink marble fireplace that was ablaze with a small, neatly laid fire in spite
of the bright sunshineoutside the open French doors leading to a garden terrace. Sipping tea from bone china cups, they chatted about inconsequential
matters: the fine spring weather, the difficulty of finding suitable help, St. Laurent’s new Parisian collection, mutual friends
they discovered in common. In a very short time, Honey felt quite at ease and she sensed the feeling was reciprocal. She decided
the moment was right to get to the
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