Read Chapter 22: Shadows of the Past

The harvest table in the Bellevue courtyard had been scrubbed clean of festival debris, its oak surface now buried under blueprints, soil samples, and the yellowed pages of Henri's 1961 vintage notes. Camille pressed her palm flat against the fragile paper, tracing the faded ink with her fingertip.

"Sixty-three percent Cabernet Sauvignon," she murmured. "I would have guessed more."

Étienne leaned over her shoulder, close enough that she caught the clean scent of soap and something earthier—leather, perhaps, from his jacket. "My grandmother's records show the same. But the *merlot* came from the old vines along the eastern ridge." He tapped a separate map. "The ones Vanderhoeven's people have been eyeing."

She straightened, forcing herself to focus on the documents rather than the warmth of his presence. Two weeks since their fathers had shaken hands in this same courtyard. Two weeks of meetings, lawyers, and the slow, agonizing work of merging two estates that had spent sixty years learning to hate each other. The joint venture agreement sat in a binder at her elbow, still unsigned, still waiting on the missing signature page Vanderhoeven had stolen.

"A heritage wine," she said. "One vintage, recreated exactly. That's what we promised the consortium."

"And that's what we'll deliver." Étienne's confidence grated even now, though she'd stopped resenting its constant presence. "The 1961 style. We have the journals, the soil analysis, the weather records from that autumn. We can do this."

Camille opened her mouth to argue—it was instinct, by now—when a commotion at the gate drew her attention. One of the seasonal workers, a young man named Theo, was arguing with someone just outside the iron bars. His voice carried across the courtyard, sharp and defensive.

"I don't care who you say you are. You don't have an appointment—"

"An appointment?" The voice that answered was gravelly, aged, but carrying an authority that silenced the courtyard. "I planted half the vines on this property before you were born, boy. I don't need an appointment to walk land that remembers my hands."

Camille exchanged a glance with Étienne, then moved toward the gate. The man standing beyond it was lean and weathered, his face a map of deep creases, his eyes pale and watery beneath the brim of a battered felt hat. He wore a wool coat despite the afternoon warmth, and his hands—gnarled, stained permanently brown at the knuckles—clutched a leather satchel to his chest like a shield.

"Jacques," Camille said, the name surfacing from childhood memory. "Jacques Moreau."

Not *Moreau*—that had been his name before he was dismissed. Jacques Renaud, one of Bellevue's longest-serving vineyard hands, who had vanished the year she turned twelve. Her father had called it a resignation. The other workers had called it something else, in whispers she was never meant to hear.

"Camille." He said her name slowly, tasting it. "You've grown into the spit of your grandmother. She had that same stubborn set to her jaw."

"What are you doing here, Jacques?" She kept her voice even, though something cold had settled in her stomach. "You were told never to return to this property."

"I was told a great many things." He smiled, and the expression didn't reach his eyes. "Including that I had no legal standing to claim what was rightfully mine. But the law has a funny way of changing, doesn't it? And documents have a funny way of surfacing when you least expect them."

He reached into the satchel and withdrew a folder, aged and worn at the edges, bound with red ribbon. The sight of it made Camille's chest tighten.

"Bellevue was never your family's to hold," Jacques said, holding the folder out to her. "It was promised to my father. To Antoine." He paused, letting the name hang in the air. "Your great-uncle, I believe. The one your family erased from every record, every photograph, every story they told themselves."

Camille's hand hovered over the folder. Behind her, she heard Étienne's sharp intake of breath.

"Take it," Jacques said. "Read it. Then we'll talk about what I want in return."

---

The deed was old, that much was certain. The paper had the yellowed, brittle quality of genuine age, the ink faded to a sepia brown. It was dated April 1959, two years before the mysterious rift that had supposedly torn the families apart. And it was signed—so far as Camille could tell—by her great-grandfather, Auguste Delacroix.

"Transfer of ownership," she read aloud, her voice tight. "All rights and claims to the estate known as Château Bellevue, including all structures, vineyards, and associated lands, to Antoine Moreau, in recognition of services rendered and debts owed."

Étienne took the deed from her hands, examining it under the afternoon light streaming through the study windows. Jacques had refused to enter the château proper, insisting instead on the courtyard table where he now sat, watching them with an unreadable expression.

"This doesn't make sense," Étienne said. "Why would Auguste sign over his own estate? He spent forty years building Bellevue."

"Perhaps because he owed my father a debt he couldn't otherwise repay." Jacques's voice was flat. "Or perhaps because Antoine saved his daughter's life, and this was the price of silence."

Camille's blood went cold. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about the truth your family has buried for sixty years." Jacques leaned forward, his weathered hands flat on the table. "The truth about what really happened in 1961. The wine that failed. The woman who came between two families." He paused, his eyes finding Camille's. "The child who was never acknowledged."

The words hung in the air like smoke. Camille felt Étienne's hand brush her arm—a gesture of support she might have shrugged off a week ago. Now she let it stay.

"This deed is a forgery," she said, forcing steel into her voice. "You know it, and I know it."

"Does it matter what I know?" Jacques smiled again, that same hollow expression. "It matters what a court of law will believe. And this deed, coupled with the testimony of living witnesses who remember Antoine's claims, will cast sufficient doubt on your family's title to tie Bellevue up in litigation for a decade." He spread his hands. "I have nothing but time. You have a harvest approaching, a joint venture agreement awaiting signature, and a competitor who would love to see this estate tied in knots."

Camille's jaw tightened. "What do you want?"

"Ah." Jacques's smile widened. "Now we're speaking honestly. I want what my father was promised. A stake in Bellevue. A seat at this table. Recognition that the Moreau name belongs here as much as the Delacroix."

"That's impossible."

"Nothing is impossible when the alternative is losing everything." He pushed back from the table, rising to his feet with the careful movements of a man nursing old injuries. "I'll give you three days to consider my offer. After that, I file the deed with the court and begin proceedings."

He turned and walked toward the gate, pausing at the threshold. "Your grandmother knew the truth, Camille. Perhaps before you destroy what she built, you should ask yourself why she kept it hidden."

---

"Three days," Étienne repeated, pacing the length of the study. "Three days to prove a sixty-year-old deed is a forgery, without the funds to hire a document examiner, while Vanderhoeven's deadline looms over our heads."

Camille sat at her father's desk, the deed spread before her. She had examined every inch of it, searching for some flaw, some inconsistency she could point to without expert testimony. The paper was old. The ink was old. The signature—she hated to admit it—looked authentic.

"There's something else," she said slowly. "Something about Jacques that's been bothering me."

Étienne stopped pacing. "What?"

"When he spoke about Antoine. About the child who was never acknowledged." She looked up, meeting his eyes. "He said *my father* was promised Bellevue. He called Antoine his father. But according to the letter, Antoine was Henri's half-brother. My father's uncle." She paused. "So who exactly is Jacques to Antoine?"

Étienne's expression shifted as the implications registered. "You think he's lying about his connection to Antoine?"

"I think he's lying about something." Camille stood, moving to the window. Below, in the courtyard, she could see Jacques's figure disappearing through the gate. "He showed up the day after we announced the joint venture. The day after the story of Antoine Moreau appeared in the local papers. That's not a coincidence."

"So what do we do?"

"We have the deed examined." She turned back to face him. "We find a way to pay for it, even if it means swallowing our pride and asking for help."

"And if it's genuine?"

Camille held his gaze. "Then we have a bigger problem than either of us imagined. Because if that deed is real, it doesn't just threaten Bellevue. It means your family and mine have been building our futures on a foundation of lies." She paused, the weight of the revelation settling over her. "And it means Vanderhoeven isn't our only enemy. Jacques is holding a blade at our throat—and he hasn't shown us where he plans to strike."