by Sara Craven
Instead, she said caustically, ‘Out of the frying pan into the fire? Hardly. I was just—curious.’
‘You are not the only one. According to Clothilde, his mother despairs that she will not live to see her grandchildren.’
‘Is she very ill?’
‘Only in her imagination,’ he returned laconically and she was startled into a giggle.
He smiled too, then reached down and took her hand. His clasp was light, but she felt it in every curve and every hollow of her body, as if they were, once again, naked, their bodies locked together in the ultimate intimacy. In the act of madness which had brought her here, she thought restraining a gasp, along with the impulse to wrench herself free.
Then he pushed open a door and, as they entered the brilliantly lit room beyond, Ginny realised that this time a gasp might not have been out of place.
Imposingly furnished with pastel silk wallpaper and formally grouped chairs and small sofas, all striped satin and narrow gilded legs, this room was as far removed from le petit salon as it was possible to get.
In fact, thought Ginny, it was more like a showcase of a bygone era than a sitting room.
Even the fire seemed elegant, burning modestly in its elaborate marble fireplace.
And beside it, languidly occupying one of the small armchairs, shapely legs crossed and looking as if Chanel had invented the little black dress solely for her, was Monique Chaloux.
For a moment, Ginny felt Andre’s fingers tighten round hers, then he released her as the man standing on the other side of the fireplace came forward, smiling. He was of medium height and trimly built with broad shoulders, his rugged features set off by a mane of silver hair, but still recognisable from the photograph.
‘Andre, mon gars,’ he said with open affection and embraced him.
As Andre returned his stepfather’s greeting with equal warmth, Barney wandered forward to explore these new surroundings.
‘Mon Dieu.’ Languor forgotten, Mademoiselle Chaloux was on her feet. ‘A clumsy, dirty animal in the Baronne Laure’s beautiful salon?’ She looked at Ginny. ‘Is the dog yours, mademoiselle?’
Andre said quietly, ‘He belonged to my father, Monique, therefore he is mine. And he has perfect manners.’
A commendation instantly spoiled by Barney’s low, menacing growl aimed straight at his detractor.
Mademoiselle Chaloux recoiled. ‘And dangerous too,’ she accused shrilly. ‘Bertrand—I insist the animal must wear a muzzle.’
‘Please, no.’ Ginny intervened hastily. ‘He’s never growled at anyone before.’ Not even Rosina at her worst, she thought. ‘Truly. He—he’s had a trying day.’
The other woman snorted. ‘Quelle bêtise.’
Bertrand Duchard extended a hand for Barney to sniff. ‘I would not call him a danger,’ he said calmly. ‘More—a new friend who needs a little time.’
He turned to Ginny. ‘And now, mademoiselle, permit me to welcome you. Je suis énchante de faire votre connaissance.’
Not that enchanted, thought Ginny, aware that his smile no longer reached his eyes.
She said quietly, ‘You’re very kind, Monsieur le Baron. Your home is very beautiful.’
‘You have heard about it, perhaps, from your beau-père?
‘No,’ she said. ‘He—he never mentioned it.’
There was a silence, then the Baron inclined his head courteously. ‘Then it is good we meet at last, as he wished. Andre, you must make sure your guest’s stay with us is a pleasant one. Burgundy, mademoiselle, has a fascinating history and some exquisite architecture.’
He turned to Mademoiselle Chaloux. ‘Ring the bell, will you, Monique, and Gaston will bring the aperitifs to toast our visitor.’
It all sounded very hospitable and pleasant but Ginny wasn’t fooled.
‘He doesn’t want me here,’ she whispered to herself. ‘I’m getting a subtle warning not to outstay my welcome.’
Maybe she had an ally at last, yet somehow she couldn’t rejoice, because suddenly it was being brought home to her, coldly and bleakly, that she no longer belonged anywhere.
And the lonely, painful knowledge of that settled inside her like a stone.
CHAPTER NINE
THE ENSUING SILENCE was eventually broken by the Baron’s courteous voice. ‘Your mother is well, mademoiselle, and your sister?’
‘Thank you, yes. They’ve gone away for a little while.’
‘And you did not choose to accompany them?’ asked Monique Chaloux.
Ginny knew an overwhelming temptation to say affably, No, because I’m flat broke and the future Baron thinks he may have made me pregnant. But she restrained herself nobly with a quiet, ‘No, not this time.’
Then the door opened and a small thin man, his solemn face made even more lugubrious by a heavy dark moustache, came in carrying a tray of glasses filled with something pink and sparkling.
The Baron said, ‘Merci, Gaston. You have tried Kir Royale, mademoiselle?’
She took a glass. ‘Yes, and loved it. Crème de cassis and champagne. Wonderful.’
‘Ah, but it is not champagne,’ Andre said swiftly. ‘Our cremant du Bourgogne is made by a similar method, but the name “champagne” can only be used for wine that comes from its own region around Epernay. The rules are strict.’
Ginny frowned. ‘I didn’t realise it could be so complex.’
‘We take great pride in our industry, and in what each region has to offer. And the crème de cassis is also made in Burgundy.’ Andre raised his glass. ‘À votre santé.’
She wondered if his choice of toast was loaded, her state of health being an issue between them, but echoed it anyway and sipped, before taking the chair she was offered and discovering it was just as uncomfortable as it looked. Perhaps, she mused, the enormous skirts and masses of petticoats favoured by ladies in the olden days acted as a bolster.
She took another look round her. There were numerous pictures on the walls, mostly landscapes in frames as gilded as the furniture. The exception was the portrait of a woman, which hung above the fireplace.
A stern, rather cold beauty, her black hair drawn back from her face into a chignon, and the décolleté of her dark red dress revealing an elaborate necklace of what seemed to be rubies.
‘You are admiring the Baronne Laure, Monsieur Bertrand’s mother, I see.’ Monique Chaloux leaned forward. ‘An excellent likeness. It is a Terauze tradition that a portrait of the Baronne always hangs in this room and, in her case, most appropriate as she redesigned it so admirably.’ She sighed. ‘Sadly, it seems, notre chère Linnet would never consent to be painted.’
‘My wife,’ Bertrand Duchard said quietly, ‘was a very modest woman.’
‘But of course,’ Mademoiselle agreed quickly, smiling, but Ginny read quite clearly in that smile and with so much to be modest about and it galled her.
She said impulsively, ‘Surely it isn’t too late. There’s a lovely photograph of her in the other sitting room. Couldn’t someone paint a portrait from that?’
Andre said slowly, ‘Et pourquoi pas?’ He looked at the Baron. ‘What do you think, Papa?’
‘That it would be a joy to see my dear one remembered in such a way.’
He looked at Ginny with undisguised surprise. ‘Merci, mademoiselle. An excellent thought.’
Which was an improvement. However, Madame’s softly spoken, ‘Bravo, indeed,’ left Ginny with the uncomfortable feeling she had just made an enemy.
She was quite glad when Gaston came to summon them to dinner, in a much cosier room hung with tapestries of medieval hunting scenes, in which, she noticed, the central figure was a tall man with a long, slightly hooked nose and clothing that glimmered with gold.
‘Philippe Le Hardi. Duke Philip the Bold,’ Andre supplied quietly. ‘An
amazing man, at one time King of France in all but name, and the creator of the Order of the Golden Fleece. His feasts were legendary and so was his spending. He died poor.’
‘But we remember him,’ said Bertrand, ‘for his interest in the wine industry and the measures he took to protect its quality, which led, in time, to the Appellation Contrôlée system.’
Monique Chaloux flung up her hands. ‘Have pity, messieurs. You forget that Mademoiselle Mason is not Dominique Lavaux and this talk of wine will bore her. Let us speak instead of your plans for her entertainment while she is with us.’ She paused. ‘You will make time for a little sightseeing, n’est-ce pas?’
There was a brief odd silence, and Ginny saw Andre’s mouth tighten. He said calmly, ‘As soon as the pruning is finished, and begin, I think, with Beaune. Would that please you, Virginie?’
‘Thank you,’ she returned swiftly. ‘But it’s really not necessary. You have work to do, and I have plenty to read, and Barney to take for walks. I’ll be fine.’
Monique Chaloux clapped her hands. ‘The perfect guest.’
But not Dominique Lavaux, thought Ginny. And wondered.
The meal, served by Gaston, began with consommé, moved on to some excellent smoked fish patties with a creamy sauce, followed by grilled steak, served with a gratin dauphinois and green beans.
‘Charolais beef,’ said Bertrand with satisfaction. ‘The best in the world.’
Ginny, helping herself to Dijon mustard, decided it would be impolitic to speak up for Aberdeen Angus. Too many undercurrents already, she thought.
Dinner concluded with crème brûlée and a selection of local cheeses. Ginny sat back in her chair with a little sigh. ‘That was a wonderful meal.’
‘No better than the one you served to me,’ Andre said lightly and smiled at her across the table.
And for once, she realised, there was no edge or mockery to his smile, just a warmth that seemed to reach out and touch her, spreading its tendrils over every inch of her body. Holding her transfixed and making it suddenly difficult to think or to breathe...
And heard some inner voice whisper with longing, Andre...
‘Do not let Gaston hear you, Andre.’ Monique’s brisk voice broke the spell. ‘Or he may tell his wife and she will make our stomachs suffer for it.’ She paused. ‘Shall we take coffee in the salon?’
‘We will join you later, if you please,’ said Bertrand, adding blandly, ‘I need to speak with my son on the boring topic of wine.’
* * *
The coffee, though strong and delicious, was served in tiny, fragile cups balancing awkwardly on their saucers, while Ginny, in turn, balanced on the edge of a spindly chair.
One false move, she thought wryly, and Baronne Laure’s satin upholstery will never be the same again.
For a while there was silence, except for the crackling of the logs in the grate and Barney’s faint snores from the exquisite pastel rug, then Mademoiselle leaned forward. ‘Tell me, mademoiselle, how long do you intend to stay at Terauze?’
‘I’m not really sure,’ she returned with guarded truth.
‘Then am I permitted to offer some advice?’
Apart from putting a hand over the woman’s mouth and wrestling her to the floor, Ginny could see no way of preventing it, so she murmured something non-committal and waited warily.
‘If you have any romantic dreams about Monsieur Andre, abandon them now.’ Mademoiselle’s voice was low, almost intense. ‘He can be charming, and women find him attractive.’ Her mouth twisted into a faint sneer. ‘Something of which he takes full advantage, believe me, although his preference is for beautiful blondes. But never seriously or for very long, as his lovers soon discover.’ She shrugged. ‘Perhaps, in this, he resembles his true father.’
Ginny swallowed back the hot denial rising to her lips, saying evenly, ‘Mr Charlton was a good man. I think he genuinely loved Andre’s mother. Besides which, one affair hardly makes him a serial seducer.’ She paused, her throat tightening painfully. ‘As for Andre, his private life is not my concern. Or perhaps I don’t take him seriously either.’
‘Vous avez raison. Marriage is a serious business, and Andre is not the material from which good husbands are made.’ She examined her immaculate nails. ‘His wife, you understand, will need to be a girl of discretion, someone from his own world who can also contribute to the domaine.’
Ginny said quietly, ‘Then it’s fortunate that I have no interest in being married.’ Which, she told herself defensively, was no more than the truth.
Mademoiselle’s brows lifted. ‘Then why, with Monsieur Charlton gone, did you accept such an invitation?’
The million-dollar question.
Ginny said carefully, ‘Perhaps I too needed to get away from the trauma of the last few weeks. And I admit I was curious about this part of my stepfather’s life, mademoiselle.’
‘And when your curiosity is satisfied?’
‘I intend to go back to England.’ And offered a silent prayer that there’d be nothing to prevent her. Or, at least, that she could convince Andre it was so.
Monique Chaloux’s nod suggested she too was satisfied. ‘You are wise. Whatever your beau-père may have hoped, mademoiselle, there is nothing for you here, except heartbreak perhaps.’ She paused. ‘Permit me to offer you more coffee.’
Ginny managed a polite refusal. She had just eaten a delicious meal, but she felt as hollow inside as if she’d fasted for a week. Shaken too.
Which was ridiculous, because how could the revelation that Andre was an experienced and predatory womaniser really come as any kind of surprise after the way he’d behaved with her?
I must have been one of his easiest conquests, she told herself bitterly as self-disgust attacked her again.
And presumably this Dominique Lavaux has all the necessary attributes of a future Baronne, even if I am temporarily occupying her bed.
Barney stirred, lifting his head, then got up, tail wagging, padding towards the door as it opened and the men came in, laughing together, and even with just a sideways glance across the room, Ginny felt her entire body clench in a sudden shock of need, and knew it was no wonder if women collapsed like ninepins under the sheer force of Andre’s attraction.
What she must not do was let it happen to her. Not again.
Now she watched Barney gently head-butt Andre’s long legs in welcome, as if underlining his change of allegiance. And felt as if she’d never been so much alone in her life.
After that, the party broke up fairly soon, Mademoiselle Chaloux insisting prettily that she had an early start in the morning. ‘They say the weather will become warmer tomorrow,’ she added with a mock shiver. ‘Like my mother, I find the winters harsh here compared with Provence.’
The Baron also excused himself on the grounds of having paperwork to attend to, and, to Ginny’s relief, Andre showed no wish to linger among the stripes and gilding.
‘You are very quiet,’ he observed as they entered the kitchen, neat, empty and silent apart from the hum of the dishwasher. ‘Did Monique bore you with more praise of Baronne Laure and her exquisite taste?’
She didn’t bore me at all, thought Ginny, with a pang. She forced a smile. ‘No, but perhaps she guessed it was a lost cause. The furniture may be valuable, but I prefer comfort.’
‘It was certainly expensive,’ he returned drily. ‘Papa says that one of the few times my grandfather lost his temper with her was when he discovered she’d been fooled by someone she’d met at a party into paying Louis Quinze prices for reproduction junk.
‘Heureusement, it ended her dalliance with interior décor.’ He smiled at her. ‘But if you have any ideas for improvements to the château, I would be delighted to hear them.’
Ginny bit her lip. He was talking about a situation that could not—must not e
xist, she thought resentfully. Acting as if they were an actual couple in love and planning their future home. Something she could not allow to go on, but was not sure how to stop.
She said, ‘I was surprised to see Mademoiselle Chaloux tonight.’
Andre shrugged. ‘But I was not,’ he replied tersely. ‘Monique has her own agenda to pursue.’
‘She’s a close friend?’
‘But an employee. A few days a week, she maintains the records for the house and the domaine and keeps the accounts, all with great efficiency.’ He paused. ‘Also, she hopes to marry Papa Bertrand.’
‘Oh, I see.’ Ginny swallowed. ‘Do you think she will?’
‘I try, ma belle, not to think about it at all,’ he drawled. ‘But I trust most sincerely that she will be disappointed.’
She said slowly, ‘She mentioned Provence. Wasn’t that where your mother’s friend went to live?’
‘Mais oui. Monique was the friend on whom Maman so mistakenly relied. She stayed in Provence until a few weeks after my mother’s funeral, then returned alone.’ He added drily, ‘Presumably she had another correspondante who kept her informed.’
Ginny gasped. ‘You mean she—waited to come back until your mother was dead?’
‘There would have been little point in returning while Maman lived.’
He paused. ‘Clothilde has always claimed that Monique, as a girl, threw herself at Papa constantly, and left Terauze with her parents only when she realised that his heart was already given to her little English friend.’
His mouth curled contemptuously. ‘One should not accept too readily Mademoiselle’s references to notre chère Linnet.’
‘I don’t.’ She paused. ‘But there was something else I wanted to ask.
‘Did I misunderstand, or is Gaston really married to Madame Rameau?’
There was a note almost of awe in her voice and Andre’s face relaxed into a wicked grin.
‘C’est incroyable, n’est ce pas, mais c’est vrai. And they have three big sons, married with families, two in Dijon and one in Lyon.’
