by Lynne Graham
At other times, she was immersing herself in every aspect of the life of the domaine, displaying what seemed to be a genuine interest in the complex production of fine wines, and spending several hours a day among the vines or in the chai. Discussing what she had learned in the evening, over the dinner table.
As I never did, Ginny acknowledged unhappily. Because I told myself that it was dangerous to become too involved. That to do so would only make it harder to say goodbye when the time came.
So I can hardly start asking questions now, not without appearing jealous, which would embarrass me and everyone else. Especially Andre.
They were still, she supposed, officially engaged to be married, but an engagement could easily be ended as Cilla had demonstrated, particularly as the wedding itself had not been mentioned since the night of the fete.
On the few occasions when she found herself alone with Andre, the only topic of conversation, raised quietly and politely, was her health.
‘Clothilde tells me you are still being sick,’ he’d commented recently.
‘As soon as I wake up each morning,’ she’d returned ruefully. ‘I could almost set my watch by it.’ She paused. ‘But she tells me it will stop very soon.’
His brief smile was wintry. ‘I am glad to hear it for your sake.’ And left her.
What he never mentioned was that other early morning when he’d told Cilla she could stay. Leaving Ginny free to guess at what else might have been said. To guess and, accordingly, to suffer...
Nor had he ever expressed, by word or look, the slightest interest in sleeping with her again. Instead he was spending his nights at La Petite Maison. Probably not alone.
But she did not let herself think about that, concentrating instead on how the problem of her expected baby could be resolved. What happened when a man fathered a child by a girl he no longer wanted? After all, he could hardly expect his new bride to raise another woman’s child, especially when the mother was her own sister.
It was an impossible situation and she quailed at its implications.
The most equitable solution, she supposed, would be for Andre to allow her to return to England as she’d requested so often in the past and have the baby there. He was, she knew, too honourable to stint on financial support, and she could work part-time until the child was of school age.
And if her mother was truly planning to remarry with such scandalous haste and live in London, maybe she could occupy the empty Keeper’s Cottage in Rosina’s place.
According to her most recent letter from Mrs Pel, who’d become a regular correspondent, her mother’s absence as well as Cilla’s broken engagement was still providing ample sustenance for the local gossips. And the new regime at the café had not found favour with the customers, who were staying away in droves. ‘I’m told Iris Potter is thinking of selling up,’ she wrote.
I suppose I could revert to Plan A, Ginny thought with a sigh. Take another shot at becoming the new Miss Finn.
But wherever she went and whatever she did, it seemed likely that Andre would want to establish and maintain contact with his child and some kind of regular access would have to be agreed, however painful she would find it.
And repeating over and over again that she only had herself to blame did nothing to dispel the growing desolation that haunted her.
The attitude of Monique Chaloux only added to her wretchedness. ‘The little sister,’ she’d exclaimed effusively. ‘Quelle enchanteresse. Quelle jolie blonde. No wonder all the men, including Monsieur Andre, have been rendered bouleversé by her presence.’
‘No wonder indeed,’ Ginny agreed expressionlessly, aware that Mademoiselle’s goading remarks were almost certainly intended to punish her for having introduced the new computer system which Monique had still failed to master.
In a way, Ginny was almost grateful for the constant errors that had to be corrected, the deletions needing to be painstakingly retrieved, the data assigned to the wrong files or even omitted altogether.
After all, apart from occasionally walking Barney, she had little else to occupy her. And at least putting the mistakes right gave Ginny a sense of purpose and stopped her brooding, as well as improving her own computer skills, something which, she told herself resolutely, would stand her in good stead for the future. Back in England. Alone.
But, in turn, she struggled to understand the labyrinthine filing system of Mademoiselle’s devising which seemed, in some inexplicable way, to swallow up letters, invoices and bank statements, never to be traced again. So maybe the end result was a draw, she told herself with a shrug, quelling the odd feeling of uneasiness which could be ascribed to any number of causes.
Including the understandably strained atmosphere at the château.
So when a spell of fine spring weather led to Andre’s suggestion that they should undertake the delayed visit to Beaune, she agreed without hesitation, even if the trip was more for Cilla’s pleasure than her own.
After the peace of Terauze, the sudden confluence of busy main roads with large lorries thundering past as they neared their destination came as something of a shock to the system, but this was soon forgotten as Ginny caught her first sight of Beaune, sheltered securely by its striking medieval walls.
‘Oh, it’s gorgeous,’ she exclaimed impulsively as Andre turned through an arched gateway into a labyrinth of narrow streets, and saw him smile.
‘That was also the opinion of your beau-père when I brought him here,’ he said, slotting the car neatly into an empty parking space. ‘Now we shall walk a little. Nothing is too far away.’
He guided them both through another maze of quaint, cosy streets into a square dominated by a massive building, a spire rising above its forbidding stone walls.
Is this where they dispose of unwanted visitors? Ginny wondered mordantly as they crossed to an entrance made no more cheerful by the massive door knocker depicting a salamander eating a fly.
Will you come into my parlour? she chanted under her breath. And took a step into a different world. One that stopped her in her tracks, gasping with a delight as wholehearted as it was unexpected as she found herself in a cobbled courtyard, staring at one of the most amazing buildings she’d ever seen in her life.
It was clearly very old, its creamy stones almost golden in the early spring sunlight, but it was the colourful design that entranced her, from the slender pillars of the arcade that supported the ornate upper balcony up to the beautiful dormer windows.
And above them the kind of roof she’d never seen before, its tiles glazed and geometrically patterned in spectacular green, rust and black against a golden background, with gilded weathervanes soaring towards the sky.
She turned to Andre. ‘What in the world is this place?’ Her voice was husky.
‘The Hotel-Dieu, built six centuries ago by Nicholas Rolin, Philippe le Bon’s Chancellor, as a hospital for the poor.’ His mouth twisted. ‘Perhaps, as the King of France remarked, to make amends for all those he’d helped to impoverish. Whatever Rolin’s motives, it has become a symbol of our region, its decoration reminding Burgundians of their Flemish roots.’
‘Is it still a hospital?’
‘No, a museum. The sick and elderly were moved to modern buildings some forty years ago. But all of them, including the Hotel-Dieu, are still maintained by the Hospices de Beaune charity which Nicholas and his wife established.’
Ginny looked back with awe at the astonishing façade. ‘That must take some doing.’
Andre shook his head. ‘Not when the charity owns some of the greatest vineyards in Burgundy. And in November, during the Trois Glorieuses, their new vintages are sold by auction to buyers from all over the world, raising five to six million euros.’
‘Is that when they light the candle and have to bid before it burns out?’ asked Cilla eagerly.
He grinned. ‘No, that is only for the most important lot—La Pièce de Presidents—usually with a celebrity auctioneer encouraging the feeding frenzy.’
Cilla sighed. ‘Oh, I would love to be there and see that.’
Andre said quietly, ‘Then all you need do is stay here. You know the choice is yours.’
Ginny had the oddest sensation that the brightness of the day had faded as she watched him look down gravely and searchingly into her sister’s upturned face. As she saw the exquisite, brilliant colour rise in her cheeks, and heard her murmur something shy, confused, and most un-Cilla-like before she turned away.
Because she knew all that shy radiance could mean only one thing.
That this time Cilla was genuinely and deeply in love.
And glancing at Andre, she saw him smile with quiet, deep satisfaction as he led the way into the Hotel-Dieu and felt her heart turn over in agony.
The interior was just as astonishing and, under other circumstances, Ginny would have revelled in the history of the place, from the neat alcove bedrooms of the Great Hall, all facing towards the painted woodcarving of Christ on the altar at the end of the long room to the enormous painting of the Last Judgement in the tapestried salle specially built to house it.
But now I have to make my own judgement, she thought wryly, pain building inside her as she obediently studied the immense detail of the painting through one of the magnifying glasses supplied to visitors as if her life depended on it.
I know it can never be right to wreck three lives, she thought, so I must be the one to leave, even if I am condemning myself to a hell of regret. But will that be any worse than being with a man who has only married me out of duty?
Yes, Cilla will be shocked and hurt when she finds out about the baby, as she eventually must, but, loving him, she’ll surely forgive him. And loving her, he’ll stay faithful in future. And they’ll be happy together.
I have to believe that. Have to...
When, at last, they re-emerged into the sunlight, Ginny, still wretchedly preoccupied with her bleak thoughts, took a clumsy step and stumbled on the cobbles.
‘Fais attention, ma mie.’ Andre was beside her, taking her hand, his arm encircling her in support. A simple action, but it sent a shiver of uncontrollable, unbearable response reverberating through every nerve-ending in her body.
‘Leave me alone.’ Her voice was hoarse as she wrenched herself free.
She saw the shock in his dark face deepening to a kind of anguish, and realised Cilla was watching them, her eyes widening in the tingling silence. Knew she needed to pass the whole thing off, and quickly.
She even managed a little laugh. ‘I’m sorry. You—you startled me.’
‘Evidemment.’ His own voice was quietly toneless. ‘I too am—very sorry.’
Simple words, thought Ginny, as she picked her way with care to the gate. But, at the same time, they encompassed the entire situation. And drew a final line beneath it.
She wanted to be alone, to tend her wounds, and make her plans, but as that was impossible, she decided, instead, to play the tourist, and make the most of her final hours in Burgundy.
Before my own candle burns down and goes out, she thought, bracing herself against the wretchedness twisting inside her.
By the time they returned to Terauze, Ginny’s face ached with smiling, and her throat was hoarse from the bright, interested questions she’d made herself ask.
Her worst moment had come in the Musée des Beaux Arts, when she’d turned impulsively to comment on the Turner-esque landscapes of an artist called Felix Ziem, only to see Cilla, close to Andre and looking up at him, her hand on his arm.
After that she’d concentrated feverishly on things she was meant to see and nothing else.
She’d already realised that although Andre’s parents were English, he had become a true son of Burgundy, committed heart and soul to this ancient and historic region and its great wines.
And now clearly committed to selling the complete package of a future here with him to the girl he loved. It resounded passionately in every word he spoke.
And if only he’d been saying it to me, she whispered to herself in silent anguish as they drove back to Terauze, remembering how Cilla had hung on his every word.
At the château, Gaston was waiting. ‘Your father wishes to see you, Monsieur Andre.’ He added in a voice of doom, ‘Monsieur Labordier and Monsieur Dechesnes are here.’
Andre swore under his breath. ‘I will come at once.’ He turned to Ginny. ‘We need to talk. To begin with, there is something you need to be told—about Lucille.’
Who had, Ginny noted, prudently disappeared kitchenwards.
‘That won’t be necessary.’ She lifted her chin. ‘I’m not blind or stupid and I’m well aware what’s been going on. It’s hardly the year’s best-kept secret. However, I—I’d prefer not to discuss it.’
His mouth tightened. ‘I realise it has been a shock. Tout de même, I had hoped for a more gracious response from you, Virginie.’
‘Perhaps I’ll think of one, eventually.’ Sick at heart and afraid of giving too much away, she turned from him. ‘Now I’m going to rest in my room.’ If it’s still mine...
Upstairs, she took off her coat and shoes and lay down on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, trying to empty her mind, to relax and let her genuine tiredness take over.
But that was not destined to happen any time soon, for just as she was beginning to drift, there was a tap on the door. Propping herself on one elbow, she saw Cilla peeping in at her.
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I was afraid you might be asleep.’ She came nervously across to the bed and sat down on its edge. ‘I—I’ve just had a word with Andre,’ she went on, her tone constricted. ‘And he’s told me how you feel. But Ginny—please believe I didn’t come to Terauze to fall in love. In fact, it’s the last thing in the world I ever expected to happen. I never knew I could feel like this. I—I still can’t believe it myself.’
Her smile was forced—apprehensive. ‘And I’m sure you think it’s too soon, and it won’t last. But I know he’s the only man I’ll ever truly want and need, so can’t you please—please try to be happy for me?’
‘Ginny, I’ve had a bad dream. Can I get into bed with you?’
‘Ginny, I’ve lost my pocket money. Will you buy me some sweets?’
‘Ginny—don’t tell Mummy I broke the jug.’
Words from the distant past echoed and re-echoed in Ginny’s mind, reminding her of the vulnerable, dependent child who’d preceded the spoilt beauty. The little girl who’d believed that anything that went wrong could easily be put right. And who relied on her big sister to do it for her.
She thought, I was all she had...
She bit her lip hard. ‘Of course I’ll be happy for you, Cilly-Billy,’ she said, after a pause. ‘It—just takes some getting used to. That’s all.’
She smiled up with an effort. ‘And now I really would like to relax. All that sightseeing seems to have knocked me out.’
Cilla nodded and rose. She looked down at Ginny, her lips puckering in faint anxiety.
She said in a rush, ‘But it could happen for you too, Ginny. You could fall in love—if you’d only let yourself. I’m sure of it.’
Ginny kept smiling. ‘Perhaps we’re not all that lucky.’
Alone again, she turned over and lay like a stone, her face buried in the pillow. And whispered again, ‘That’s all.’
It was a real struggle not to weep her heart out for all she had lost.
Except it had not been lost. Because she’d thrown it away by refusing to face the truth that she was in love with him, and always had been.
Probably from that first moment. And why could she see that so clearly now—when it was all too late?
But she wa
s glad she’d won the battle with her tears when, barely ten minutes later, her door was thrown open and Andre strode in.
She sat up, staring at him. ‘I thought you had visitors.’
‘They have gone.’
‘And I said I did not want a discussion.’
‘Nevertheless, there must be one.’ His face was set and grim. ‘And about our own future rather than that of Lucille.’
As if there could be any difference...
She met his gaze. ‘Whereas I say that you and I have no future. That we should cut our losses and go our separate ways.’
‘Separate?’ He almost spat the word. ‘How can that be when we are for ever linked by the child you are carrying? When...’ He stopped, shaking his head.
Her throat tightened. ‘I—I’ve no idea. I only know that I can’t stay here. That you must let me go. And the sooner the better.’
There was a silence, then he said quietly, ‘I can no longer argue against that. There are details to be settled, naturellement, which my lawyer, Henri Dechesnes, will discuss with you.’
And as he was here earlier, no doubt most of the discussion has already taken place...
She nodded. ‘That would probably be best.’ She added jerkily, ‘Don’t worry, Andre. I won’t ask for very much.’
His voice was ragged with sudden bitterness. ‘You do not have to tell me that, Virginie. Je crois bien. And I was a fool ever to think—ever to hope for more.’
He paused. ‘I shall go now and tell my father what has been decided.’
She steadied her voice. ‘I’m sure he already knows—and will think we’ve made absolutely the right choices.’
‘Au contraire, I am certain he will be deeply disappointed in us both, and will say so over dinner.’
She said quickly, ‘Which would hardly be fair on Cilla. So, perhaps you’ll make my excuses—and ask Clothilde to bring me some soup up here.’
‘D’accord—if that is what you want.’
No, she thought, as he walked to the door. It is not what I want. But everything I truly wish must remain my secret until I’m out of here. And probably for ever.
