by Sara Craven
Madame snorted. ‘Madame Donati and her husband think I am a rival for their business. Quelle absurdité.’ She added darkly, ‘Also she is a close friend, that one, of Mademoiselle Monique, who rents the appartement above their shop.’
‘And who isn’t friendly either,’ Ginny said ruefully. ‘Or not to me.’
Madame shrugged. ‘You are English, mademoiselle, and another Englishwoman captured the heart of the man she wanted. That she cannot forget or forgive.’
She added, ‘Moi, I am disliked because I was there and saw it all. But it is long ago and one cannot change the past.’ She saw Ginny’s involuntary wince and looked at the painkillers with disfavour. ‘Vous avez un mal de tête? Better I make you a tisane.’
Better if I was still in England where I belong, thought Ginny wearily, as they started out of the village towards the long hill that led back to the château.
And a thousand times better if I could alter the past, so that Andre and I would never meet. And that I would not be feeling the pain that’s within me now—eating me alive. Tearing me apart.
* * *
On the way, they were overtaken by a young woman on horseback, her long blonde hair tied back. Attractive, certainly, thought Ginny, but with features too strongly marked for real beauty.
She raised her riding crop in response as Madame greeted her. ‘Bonjour, mademoiselle. Ça va?’ Then looked Ginny over, her eyes narrowing, before riding on.
‘Who was that?’
Madame pursed her lips. ‘Dominique Lavaux.’ She added, ‘Her uncle owns a parcel of land adjacent to our domaine. She is also the godchild of Mademoiselle Chaloux.’
Well, you asked, thought Ginny. And now you know.
Back at the château, she admitted mendaciously to the headache and accepted the tisane with its pleasant, slightly smoky flavour that Madame brewed for her before retiring to her bedroom.
She removed her coat and kicked off her boots, then lay down on the bed, on top of the covers.
Where something—whether it was the tisane or the walk, the fresh air or the deep solid comfort of the mattress—persuaded her taut body and troubled senses to relax, assuring her that it would do no harm to close her eyes and drift—just for a moment—in the pale afternoon light.
But when she awoke, it was to the glow of the lamps that flanked the bed, signifying that hours rather than minutes had passed. Moreover, she realised with alarm, she was no longer alone. Because Andre was sitting in an armchair a few feet away, his face brooding, even bleak as he stared down at the floor, his hands loosely clasped round his knees.
She was struck by the sudden unexpected agony of wanting above all else to go to him and take him in her arms, holding his head against her breasts as she stroked his hair and told him everything would be all right.
Which, of course, it never could be, because he looked like a man realising what an afternoon’s folly in an English hotel room had actually cost him, and struggling to come to terms with his bitter regrets.
She stirred uneasily, trying to sit up, and his head lifted sharply.
He said, ‘Your headache—it has gone?’
‘Yes, I—I think so.’ She bit her lip. ‘Is that why you’re here—to ask about my health?’
He said slowly, ‘No, that is not the only reason.’
She thought, aware of a swift stammer in her heartbeat, Oh God, he’s going to tell me that if I say again I want to leave, he won’t prevent it any longer.
And why is it only now—now—at this moment that I know it’s the last thing in the world I want to happen?
And if I leave, however will I be able to bear it?
Aware that she was holding her breath, she waited for him to speak.
He said haltingly, ‘Virginie, I wish to ask your pardon for last night. I had no right to behave as I did, having given my word, and I am ashamed. Please believe that I intended no more than to offer you some comfort.’
He paused, his eyes searching hers with a kind of desperation, and she knew that he had more to say but could not find the words.
Words that could destroy her.
She said quickly, ‘I’m sorry too. I was—upset. I’d also had more than usual to drink. But I would have come to my senses before any more harm was done.’
‘Harm,’ he repeated. ‘Is that how you regard what has happened between us since we met?’
‘What else?’ She gave him a defiant look. ‘We made a terrible mistake, but we don’t have to wreck our lives because of it.’
‘Nor should we damage the future of the child you may be carrying.’
‘Even if that’s true, I know that to stay here and marry you would be a disaster.’
The dark brows lifted. ‘How can you be so certain—and so soon?’
How indeed? she thought desperately. What argument could she possibly produce as a clincher?
‘Because, when you came to England, marriage must have been the last thing on your mind.’
His mouth twisted. ‘It has been mentioned. But, like most men, it has not been a priority for me so far.’
She took a deep, steadying breath. ‘And because we don’t—love each other.’
‘Love?’ Andre repeated the word musingly, as if he had never heard it before. ‘When did that become part of our bargain?’
Bargain, she repeated silently. Deal—trade-off—call it what she might, how could she ever have thought it would be enough? Or, from that first moment, had she been secretly hoping for so much more?
Oh, you idiot, she thought. You pathetic little fool.
She swallowed. ‘You—you’re right. It didn’t. I expressed myself badly, so I’ll try again. I’m not your type, and you’re certainly not mine.’
The dark brows lifted. ‘So, what is your type? The estimable Monsieur Welburn?’
‘If that’s what you want to think.’ She tried to sound nonchalant. ‘What I really mean is—I don’t want you.’
‘Vraiment?’ His tone expressed polite interest. ‘And yet we both know that if Gaston had not interrupted us, we would have spent the night here in that bed and you would have woken in my arms this morning.’
She made herself shrug. ‘As I said—brandy and emotion. A lethal combination, never to be repeated.’
I should forget about teaching, and become an actress, she thought painfully. I could almost convince myself.
‘Something I shall try to remember while you remain with us.’ Andre glanced at his watch and got to his feet. ‘It is time for dinner,’ he said, adding courteously, ‘Papa hopes you will join us.’ His brief smile did not reach his eyes. ‘I think he wishes to talk about computers.’
She bit her lip. ‘I hope you don’t think I’ve been interfering.’
‘Au contraire. It was Maman who insisted that the domaine must enter the computer age.’ He shook his head ruefully. ‘Since we lost her, I am aware that matters have been allowed to slide. But you seem to have persuaded him that we must move with the times. Permit me to thank you.’ He added quietly, ‘I hope when you return to England you will not feel your time here has been completely wasted.’
As she watched him go, it occurred to her that they’d just taken the first step in the process of separation. Not a giant stride by any means, but a beginning.
But, she reminded herself, her throat tightening, it was also very clearly an ending.
The Baron was in an ebullient mood over the vegetable soup, the wonderfully garlicky roast lamb and the chocolate mousse. He had already, he said, contacted a computer firm in Dijon, and a representative would be visiting them to make his recommendations the following day.
‘He believes that we should have what he calls a website,’ he added, helping himself to cheese. ‘You approve, mademoiselle?’
She said q
uickly, ‘I think it’s a wonderful idea.’ As well as long overdue, she thought grimly, wondering how Mademoiselle Chaloux could have allowed matters to slip in this way.
‘Ah, but I have not finished,’ he said, and turned to Andre. ‘Mon fils, I have decided that this year we shall again celebrate the birthday of Baron Emile.’
Andre’s brows lifted. ‘Is it not a little late for that? We have less than a month to prepare.’
The Baron waved a hand. ‘I have spoken with Gaston and Clothilde and they agree with me that his memory has been neglected for too long, and that all will go well.’ He smiled at Ginny. ‘Mademoiselle Mason will see the Château Terauze en fête and her presence will add grace to an already happy occasion.
‘Tomorrow, I shall make a list of guests to be invited,’ the Baron went on. ‘And we must order cards to be printed. I remember my dear one always used the same company.’ He nodded. ‘I shall look in my desk for the name,’ he announced and went off to do so, taking his coffee with him.
When they were alone, Andre said quietly, ‘You know what I am going to ask, Virginie. I have not seen him so animated for a long time, and hope you can find it in your heart to indulge him by staying until the party.’ He paused. ‘And, although this may be no incentive, you will also have my gratitude.’
Gratitude, she thought. Will that stop me feeling as if I’m dying inside?
She stared down at the table. ‘Then it seems I have little choice.’
She did not hear him leave the room, and it was only when she eventually looked up that she realised she was alone.
* * *
Only one more day, Ginny told herself as she walked back from the village. Then the most difficult three weeks of her life would be over and done with.
She paused to transfer Madame’s canvas bag from one hand to the other. She had only bought a few vegetables, yet somehow it seemed infinitely heavier than usual.
Maybe she was just tired, she thought. She couldn’t pretend she’d been sleeping well. The inner tensions of continuing to share a roof with Andre had seen to that.
Not that she encountered him that much, apart from mealtimes, and he’d invariably breakfasted before she got downstairs. His days were spent pruning the precious vines, while after dinner, more often than not, he would excuse himself courteously and disappear down to La Petite Maison to spend the evening, drinking and playing cards with Jules, or so Madame Rameau intimated with raised brows and pursed lips.
And, wherever he was, he was invariably accompanied by Barney, who had wholeheartedly transferred his devotion from the father to the son.
But if Andre thought he was being considerate by keeping out of her way, he could not be more wrong, thought Ginny, stifling a sigh. She found herself constantly on tenterhooks, awaiting his return. Feeling her heart lift as the sudden buzz in the house heralded his return. Longing to look at him and see him drop the formal mask he now used in his dealings with her and smile.
She could cope in the daytime, becoming immersed in preparations for the party, from sending out the invitations—and being astounded at the acceptance rate—to even more practical matters such as helping to wash by hand the array of exquisite eighteenth-century porcelain plates and dishes and amazing sets of crystal which Gaston had reverently produced from a cupboard, to cleaning the elaborate silver candelabra which would stand down the centre of the long table in the hall.
And in the past twenty-four hours, she’d become Madame’s kitchen assistant, helping prepare the fragrant hams, joints of beef, turkeys and game to be consumed by the guests.
Moreover, Madame’s brother-in-law, a keen fisherman, had promised to supply enough perch and pike for a massive and traditional fish stew.
‘And I shall show you, mon enfant, how to make jambon persille,’ Madame promised, referring with a satisfied nod to the famous Burgundian dish, resembling a mosaic of ham, shallots, garlic, wine and parsley.
The Baron, who had overheard, was amused. ‘Clothilde guards her recipes with care, mademoiselle. You are honoured. Clearly you have the makings of a serious cook.’
Who will probably be living out of a microwave in the months to come, Ginny thought, murmuring an appropriate response.
And who was most certainly not the flavour of the month in another quarter.
* * *
Monique Chaloux’s face had turned to stone when she’d arrived to find a computer engineer replacing the current system with a panoply of new hardware and software, and she had protested vigorously than it was an unnecessary expense, shooting a look at Ginny that spoke daggers.
But the Baron, having taken delivery of the latest thing in laptops for his personal use, was bullish about his decision, telling her that the real expense would be to lag behind their competitors. Adding blandly, to Ginny’s horror, that if Monique had problems using the software, she could always ask Mademoiselle Mason for her assistance, as he intended to do.
‘But that is hardly fair,’ Mademoiselle had said smoothly. ‘To intrude on what remains of her time with us with such mundane matters.’
‘On the contrary,’ Ginny returned quietly. ‘Monsieur le Baron knows I am happy to help. In this small way, to repay the kindness I’ve been shown here.’
And tried to pretend she had not seen Andre’s ironic glance.
She had not intended to be at the party for all kinds of reasons, one being that she had no suitable outfit, and had planned to invent some illness, minor but enough to confine her to her room, on the day itself.
But Madame Rameau had removed one major obstacle by demanding to know what she intended to wear during one of their shopping expeditions, dismissing her faltering reply, and conducting her forthwith to a small shop in a side street, where, Ginny noticed with alarm, the window held just one silk blouse in an exquisite mélange of rainbow colours.
Inside, the proprietress, stunningly chic in grey, had looked her over, nodded and produced a whole armful of evening wear for her to try, in spite of Ginny’s uneasy conviction that the price of anything on offer would easily exceed her modest resources.
There were two dresses, however, that immediately attracted her, a full length, long-sleeved ivory silk in Empire style, which she put aside with a pang of regret as altogether too bridal, and a gorgeous black taffeta, with a full skirt reaching just below the knee and a deep square neck against which her skin seemed to glow like pearl.
She couldn’t see a price label anywhere, but when she asked diffidently about the cost, she found to her astonishment that it was half what she’d have expected, and therefore —just—affordable, especially as she already possessed an almost new pair of high-heeled black shoes.
Within minutes, the transaction was done and she was watching the taffeta dress being swathed in tissue paper and laid reverently in a blue and silver striped box tied up with ribbons.
As she carried it through the market, she’d felt momentarily like Cinderella, a dream soon shattered by the sound of Madame scolding a stallholder over the price of leeks.
A much needed reality check, she thought ruefully now, as she climbed the final slope to the gates of the château, and one that she’d returned to over and over again in the days which followed.
She went in the back door and into the kitchen, where Jules was standing talking to his aunt. And just beyond them, lying on the kitchen table, Ginny saw two rabbits.
‘Bonjour, mademoiselle. Ça va?’ Jules greeted her cheerfully. He gestured at the rabbits. ‘Tonight Tante Clothilde will cook them for you in her special mustard sauce.’ He kissed his fingertips. ‘Formidable.’
Ginny stared at the rabbits, feeling curiously hollow as she unfastened her coat.
Fur, she thought. Ears and tails. That would have to be removed.
She said hoarsely, ‘Where did they come from?’
�
��I shot them early this morning.’ He sounded surprised. ‘The noise of my gun did not disturb you?’
Mutely, Ginny shook her head, only to discover that was a serious mistake. Gagging suddenly, she dropped the bag of vegetables and ran to the scullery sink, where she was swiftly and unpleasantly sick.
As she straightened, the world still reeling around her, she was given a drink of water, then, firmly supported by Madame’s sheltering arm, found herself guided out of the kitchen to the petit salon, where she was deposited on the sofa in front of the fire.
‘I’m sorry,’ Ginny whispered. ‘It—it was seeing those rabbits. I’m not usually so squeamish.’
Madame nodded. ‘But everything changes when one is enceinte, mon enfant.’ She gave Ginny a reassuring smile. ‘And for tonight’s dinner, I shall roast a chicken very simply.’
‘Enceinte,’ Ginny repeated numbly. ‘You mean...’
‘That you are to have a child, petite.’
‘No—you must be mistaken.’ You have to be...
Madame shook her head. ‘I knew from the first. And Monsieur Andre will tell you that I am never wrong.’
Ginny stared up at her. ‘You told him too?’
‘That he was to be a father? Most certainly. It is important news for a man.’ She patted Ginny on the shoulder. ‘And another generation for the Château Terauze. It will bring great happiness.’
Happiness, thought Ginny when Madame had bustled off and she was alone. What possible happiness can come from being married to a man out of his sense of duty? And when there’s someone more suitable waiting in the wings?
She closed her eyes and leaned back against the cushions. Falling in love with someone, knowing you wanted to spend your life making him happy should be a wonderful thing. Not like the wretchedness and desperation that were threatening to overwhelm her, but which must for ever remain her secret.
At least, she whispered silently, until I’m long gone from here, which must—must be soon.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
SHE HAD BRACED HERSELF for Andre’s arrival, but when he walked into the room and she saw the bleakness of his expression, her heart felt wrenched.
