by Lynne Graham
‘Thank you,’ she returned stiffly.
‘That is, of course, unless you wish to come with me. You might enjoy seeing Dijon in daylight.’ He added softly, ‘And it could appeal in other ways.’
‘That’s kind of you.’ She tried to ignore the swift unwelcome shiver of her senses at the thought of what they might be. ‘However, I’d prefer to wait until I take the flight home.’
‘As you wish.’ His shrug was unperturbed. ‘Although you may wait a long time. But the choice is naturally yours.’
As if I’m here of my own free will, Ginny thought rebelliously as she returned his ‘Au revoir.’
Once he’d departed, Madame Rameau decisively rejected any help with clearing away, and conducted Ginny through another door into what she realised was the main entrance hall.
Baronial, Ginny thought as she looked around her, doesn’t get near it. There was an enormous fireplace, easily able to accommodate an average ox at the far end, while the centre was occupied by the biggest table she’d ever seen, its length measured by a series of elaborate silver candelabra. If that was where dinner would be held, any conversation would need to be shouted.
Nor was the petit salon particularly small. And although the furnishings were definitely more shabby than chic, the room looked inviting, with the pale sun coming through the long windows and logs crackling in the grate.
In the centre of the marble mantelpiece was a charming ormolu clock, clearly dating from a different century, flanked by two exquisitely pretty porcelain candlesticks, and a photograph in a silver frame.
A family group, she realised, with a slender dark-haired, brown-eyed woman at the centre, her tranquil features lit by a glowing smile, her hand resting on the shoulder of an adolescent boy, while a broad-shouldered man stood protectively behind them.
Even at half his age, Andre was unmistakable, she thought. And now that she’d had her first look at his mother, she could see what Mrs Pel had meant. No beauty, certainly, but with a sweetness about her that shone through.
While Bertrand Duchard, whom she would meet that evening, had a tough, uncompromising face which seemed to warn ‘Don’t mess with me’.
And I was hoping for twinkly-eyed benevolence, she mocked herself as she turned away, deciding that before she left Terauze for ever, she would offer Andre the photo of his father she’d brought with her to fill the space on the other side of the clock.
This, after all, was where Andrew had really wanted to be, in exchange for his beautiful, luxurious home and his standing in the community. His marriage...
He might never have persuaded Rosina to get this far, she mused wryly. But she’d been his wife, for better, for worse, and surely she’d deserved, at least, to be given the option.
Yet, for some unfathomable reason, she thought restively, he believed I’d fit right in. In heaven’s name why?
She’d intended to continue with her thriller but it was upstairs, so she wandered over to the tall glass-fronted bookcase to see if she could find something more engaging. She discovered a mixture from Dickens, Hardy and Tolkien to modern detective stories mingling with some interesting literary fiction.
In addition she found Flaubert’s Madame Bovary and several novels by Honoré de Balzac and Dumas both in the original and in English translations, plus a well-thumbed French grammar, suggesting that the late Madame Duchard had been working to improve her knowledge of her adopted language.
A worthy ambition which I’ve no wish to emulate, she told herself with determination. It smacks too much of making myself at home—which I’m not and never will be.
In the end, out of sheer nostalgia, she picked The Hobbit and retired with it to the elderly but still comfortable sofa facing the fire.
But perhaps she knew the story too well because, after a while, she found her mind drifting.
The result, she thought, pulling a cushion under her cheek, of the warmth of the room and the large lunch which had preceded it. Whatever, it would do no harm to close her eyes for a minute.
When she opened them again with a start, the room was in darkness and the logs in the fireplace had burned away to ashes.
My God, she thought, struggling upright and pushing her hair back from her face. I must have slept for hours.
And she’d dreamed. Dreamed she was back at Barrowdean, walking through a series of empty unfamiliar rooms, searching desperately for—something. Eventually hearing in the echoing distance the deep-throated bark of a dog, and calling ‘Barney’ begun to run.
I must have said it aloud, she told herself, and that’s what woke me.
Only there it was again, the sound of a bark, gruff, excited and close at hand. She turned to stare towards the door. It opened and light flooded the room at the press of a switch. Then, with a scrabble of paws, Barney was there hurling himself across the room at her, paws up against her chest and licking every inch he could reach. No dream, but solid golden reality.
‘Barney. Oh, darling boy.’ She was off the sofa, kneeling on the rug with her arms round him, her face wet with sudden uncontrollable tears.
She looked over his head at Andre lounging in the doorway, his face inscrutable. ‘Oh—how did you find him?’
‘He was never lost.’ He paused. ‘Or did you believe I would leave him in England?’
‘But surely there are rules and regulations about taking dogs abroad. Vaccinations—paperwork—stuff like that.’
‘Already completed by my father. I had only to change the dates of Barney’s collection and flight.’
‘He flew?’
‘Bien sûr. There are companies that specialise in such arrangements.’
‘I didn’t know.’ She bent and put her cheek against the golden head. ‘I—I thought I’d never see him again. You could have told me.’
He shrugged. ‘Or you could have asked. Alors, it was Marguerite who told me of your distress at your mother’s ultimatum. Not you.’
She flushed. ‘My mother has never liked dogs. And I didn’t think you’d care.’
‘You have much to learn,’ he said flatly. His gaze travelled from the sofa to the dead fire. ‘You have been asleep?’
‘Well, yes.’ She got to her feet. ‘Perhaps Madame was right and I did need a rest after all.’
There was an odd silence, then he said quietly, ‘She is rarely wrong.’ He clicked his fingers and Barney went to him, tail like a metronome, pushing his head against the long jeans-clad legs just as he’d always done with Andrew, forcing Ginny to bite her lip hard.
She said, ‘I don’t know how to thank you for this.’
He said softly, ‘Vraiment? Yet I can think of many ways, each more pleasurable than the last.’
Her flush deepened. She said unevenly, ‘You don’t make being here any easier for me with remarks like that.’
‘And when you are my wife,’ he said, ‘will you expect me still to guard my tongue, or shall I be allowed to tell you that I want you and how I intend to please you in bed?’
There was a note in his voice that made her breath catch in her throat and sent an unwelcome trembling sensation rippling across her nerve endings.
Hastily, she pulled herself together. ‘You may be certain this marriage will happen,’ she said curtly, ‘but I’m not.’
‘C’est ce que nous verrons,’ he said, and smiled at her. ‘That, ma mie, remains to be seen.’ He turned and went out, Barney padding beside him.
She followed them both to the kitchen. Barney’s feeding bowl and water dish were in the scullery area, but his basket was by the hearth and he went straight to it and sat looking round him.
She said, ‘He’s had quite a traumatic time. A plane trip and now finding himself in strange surroundings.’
‘But not with strangers.’ Andre bent to fondle Barney’s ears—a gesture
she remembered. ‘And the girl who accompanied him said he was a born traveller.’
‘All the same,’ Ginny went on quickly, ‘I think I’d better stay quietly here this evening. Help him settle down.’
He said blandly, ‘There is no need for that, ma mie. He too is one of the family now and will dine with us.’
Damn, thought Ginny, who hadn’t seen that coming. I can’t say I’m tired, having slept most of the afternoon, and if I complain of a headache, he’ll probably have a whole cupboard full of painkillers.
So it looks as if I’ll just have to make the best of this dinner en famille, even though I’d rather be a hundred miles away and still travelling. Not stopping until I reach some place where life will be simple again.
And knew with a pang that achieving her ambition would not be as easy as it sounded.
* * *
Ginny rarely bothered with cosmetics but, she told herself, on this occasion she needed all the help she could get, especially as the most respectable garment she possessed was the grey skirt she’d worn for Andrew’s funeral, teamed this time with a paler grey scoop-necked sweater.
Not exactly gala gear, but better than the taupe dress, she thought ruefully, as she applied a touch of blusher to her face and emphasised her eyes with silvery shadow and a soft grey pencil. Her only lipstick was a neutral shade between pink and beige, but it would have to do.
After a swift spray of scent, she gave herself a last, critical glance in the mirror and went downstairs.
Jules was sitting at the kitchen table and he looked across at her with open surprise, then across at Andre, his lips forming into a silent whistle. Andre merely grinned back at him.
One of those male bonding moments that women love so much, thought Ginny, biting her lip and wondering if her neckline wasn’t a little too scooped.
‘Papa is waiting for us in the grand salon,’ Andre informed her. ‘Tonight the Château Terauze is en fête in your honour, ma belle.’
He snapped his fingers and Barney uncurled himself from his basket and came to join them, padding sedately between them as they crossed the great hall.
Suddenly nervous, Ginny cast about for something to say and came up with, ‘Does Jules have a girlfriend?’
‘A new one every week,’ he responded. ‘Why do you ask? Are you thinking of adding to their number?’
She wondered how he’d react if she said, Actually, I fancy him rotten, but decided not to take the risk.
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 frow
ned. ‘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.
