Free A Rather Charming Invitation by C. A. Belmond Page A

hunt.”
    “Do you shoot?” I asked in amusement.
    “I can if I must.”
    “I mean, do you like it?” I persisted, wanting to know if my future husband had hobbies I’d been entirely unaware of.
    “I loathe it. Therefore I opted for trap. One can only guess at what inferences they will draw from my choice,” he said. “I wonder, do you suppose this will scotch our chances for being married under the tapestry?”
    “It’s ‘before’ the tapestry, as in, ‘in front of’,” I corrected. “Not ‘under’, which implies they’re going to toss it over our heads.”
    “Well, either way, it’s curtains for us now,” he joked.
    “If you loathe shooting, why are you going?” I asked.
    “For love of a Penny,” he said, kissing me and then hurrying off.
    I went downstairs shortly after Jeremy left, wondering uncertainly what I would do with the day while he was out. I needn’t have worried. Oncle Philippe emerged from the little dining salon, having lingered over his coffee, fresh brioche and newspaper; and he now said, with a twinkle in his eye, “You seemed interested in the history of my family’s perfume business. Would you like to come to my workshop in Grasse for a private tour of the best perfume in France? It’s all been arranged, if you’d like.”
    “Oh, yes!” I cried. I loved his rich French accent, which made “arranged” sound more like “orange-ed.” He wore a fine, formal straw hat and a linen suit, white shirt and pale blue tie.
    Nobody else in the household seemed to be around; it was just Oncle Philippe and me. He escorted me out the front door and down the pretty stone steps. The sun was already bathing the air with its warmth and the promise of a beautiful day. A long black car awaited us, and a driver opened the door so that we could slip into the cool interior. Then he steered the car down the driveway past the allée of trees, and whisked us off to Grasse.
    We took the “Route Napoleon”, where the irrepressible emperor had escaped his island exile and marched back to Paris. Despite the roar of traffic on this now- modern highway, the South of France—with its prehistoric caves, sheltering Alps in the distance, and villages perchés clinging to ledges and cliffs—still seemed like something from a fairy tale.
    “Where is Honorine today?” I couldn’t resist asking.
    “Her mother has taken her to call on a few friends of the family,” he replied, and I wondered if this had to do with Charles’ family. He smiled and said, “I am sure that she would much prefer to come with us today.” It seemed like an opening to ask him how on earth he could want a bright young daughter to sacrifice her future happiness for their present business interests, until he added rather presciently, “But I do not interfere where the ladies are concerned.”
    “Honorine is very, very bright,” I ventured. “She’s already been so helpful to us at our office. And her school record is amazing! She’s really quite special.”
    “ Oui , Honorine has always been bright and high-spirited,” Philippe said, “and with that comes a certain independence of mind.” He was careful, in that French way, not to make this sound like either boasting or complaining, but I could tell that Honorine both delighted and vexed him.
    We’d reached the town of Grasse, whose name, Oncle Philippe said, came from the word for “grace”. Once upon a time it had been an independent Italian city, before falling under French rule.
    At the flat top of a high hill was a modern, bustling tourist area with lots of shops and traffic, and a pedestrian plaza, rimmed with stone balustrades, reigned over by an imposing war memorial. From here, one had a view of the old city, which lay below us, at the foot of a wide, steep, stone staircase. Nestled in those narrow, medieval streets were tall stucco and stone houses in pale washed colors of desert sand, faded terracotta and violet-grey.
    I would have been delighted to