by Sara Craven
‘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 was 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.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
GINNY AWOKE WITH a start, and lay for a moment wondering what had disturbed her.
She had not expected to sleep at all, yet it see
med she had done so, and deeply, because her supper tray, delivered with chilling disapproval by an unsmiling Madame Rameau, had been removed at some point without her being aware of it.
It was still early, but a persistent sense of restless unease drove her out of bed and across to the window to open the shutters on another cloudless blue sky lit by a misty sun.
She had not believed, that first morning, that she would ever find the view of the vines so appealing, or how quick she would be to see how they changed with the passing weeks. Or how much she would miss them. Miss everything, she thought. And everyone.
At present, the sap was rising, making the branches look as if they were weeping. Not that she’d seen it for herself, of course. It was one of the pieces of information that Cilla had acquired and eagerly passed on.
When she came to dress, after her shower, she found she was wrestling with the zip on her jeans, a discovery adding to her woes but spurring her into action at the same time.
I need to go online, she told herself. Now, while I have the house to myself. Find out about flights back to the UK. Jump before I’m pushed.
As she made her way up to the office, she became aware of an unfamiliar noise. A vague but persistent whine of machinery in swift bursts, getting louder as she mounted the winding stairs.
The office door was slightly open. She pushed it wider and saw Monique Chaloux on her knees, feverishly feeding sheet after sheet of paper into the shredder, oblivious to the fact that she was being watched.
But she shouldn’t even be here, Ginny thought, startled. This isn’t one of her days. And that stuff she’s shredding looks like bank statements.
So what on earth’s going on?
She said quietly, ‘Bonjour, mademoiselle. Ça va?’
The older woman glanced up, her face as white as the paper she was destroying. She was far from her usual soignée self. Her clothes looked as if they had been thrown on and her hair needed washing.
‘You,’ she said, almost spitting the word. ‘What are you doing here?’
Ginny walked forward, raising her eyebrows. ‘I think that should be my question.’
‘And my own business,’ Monique retorted. ‘You are not mistress here yet.’
‘Nor are these working hours,’ Ginny said levelly. ‘So who authorised you to destroy these documents and why?’ She saw Monique hesitated, and bent, dragging the shredder’s plug out of the wall socket. ‘I’d like some answers.’
‘You would like. You would like.’ Mademoiselle’s voice was harsh and jeering. ‘What are you? Nothing but an interfering English bitch like that other one. Just as pale, just as dull.’
She got clumsily to her feet and even across the room Ginny could see she was shaking.
‘I believed she was my friend, but instead I had to watch while she took the man I loved. Even when she went away, he could not forget her, and when she came back, enceinte with another man’s baby, he married her. C’etait incroyable.’
Her voice rose. ‘He should have loved me. I could have given him children of his own, not the leavings of some Anglais.
‘When she died, I thought I had been given another chance. So I returned, hoping that at last he would see me as the wife he should have taken.’
She gave a strident bitter laugh. ‘And he was grateful to me, ah, oui, and kind. All these years, so grateful and so kind. Until the night of Baron Emile’s birthday when I saw Andre fasten the Baronne’s rubies round your throat, and I knew then I had wasted my life in vain hope.
‘I realised that I would have to see another putaine Anglaise in the place that should have been mine, and once again I would leave Terauze with nothing.’
She shook her head, a trace of spittle on her rigidly smiling lips. ‘But not this time.’ She looked down at the remaining papers crushed in her hand. ‘All these years of devotion deserve a generous reward from the Duchards and I have taken it.’
Ginny stiffened. My God, she thought. She’s been stealing money. Maybe those computer glitches were deliberate. A cover-up. If so, this is real trouble. And I’m not just uneasy. I’m beginning to be scared.
She said quietly, ‘I’m sure Baron Bertrand truly values you, mademoiselle.’ She paused. ‘So why don’t I go and find him, so you can talk things over.’ She added carefully, ‘Before things get serious.’
Mademoiselle’s eyes glittered with malice. ‘You mean before they send for the police? You are a fool. They will not do so.’ She shrugged almost gleefully. ‘Bertrand knows what I am truly owed, and he can afford the loss. Nor will he want the brouhaha of an action in the courts. The Duchard name is a proud one and your sister’s disgraceful affaire is scandal enough for the moment.’
She nodded. ‘En plus, I have been clever, taken care a couvrir ma marche. They will be glad just to let me go.’
‘You say you love Monsieur Bertrand,’ Ginny whispered. ‘Yet you can do this to him.’
Monique Chaloux gave a contemptuous laugh. ‘Love? What do you know of love, a silly girl with water in her veins instead of blood? No wonder Monsieur Andre amuses himself elsewhere. You deserve no more.’
She reached for a large leather bag on the floor beside her, stuffing the remaining statements into it. ‘Et maintenant, I am finished here,’ she added.
‘But I’m not.’ Ginny lifted her chin. ‘Because you’re not getting away with this. I’m going straight to Monsieur Bertrand.’
She turned and went quickly down the stairs. As she reached the turn, she was pushed violently as Monique barged past her. She grabbed desperately at the rail of knotted silk rope on the wall, missed and fell forward, crying out as her body rolled and jolted down the remaining stone steps, crashing into the door at the bottom.
She felt a sudden blinding pain in her head, and the world went dark.
* * *
There was something shining above her, a light so bright it managed somehow to penetrate her closed eyelids, making the previous darkness seem friendly. She tried to ask someone to switch it off, but her voice wasn’t working.
Also somewhere in the distance, someone else was speaking. Whispering, so that she had to strain to hear him, ‘Virginie, mon ange, mon amour. Wake up, chérie. Look at me, je t’en supplie.’
The voice was familiar but the words made no sense. No sense at all. Just the same, she tried to obey, but forcing her eyes to open was altogether too much of a struggle. Besides, she was aware of pain, a ferocious ache like the jaws of an angry animal waiting to devour her.
It was easier to decide that she must be asleep and dreaming, and let herself slide back into the tenuous comfort of her inner night-time.
But the voice would not let her rest, calling her, ‘Ma douce, ma belle.’ Commanding her, ‘Reveille-toi.’
And he was being joined by others, none of whom she recognised except for Cilla, sounding strangely choked, as she begged, ‘Oh Ginny, please speak to me. Please say you’re all right.’
And she wanted to say crossly, Of course I’m not all right, because the pain was no longer at bay, but all around her, grinding at her when she attempted the simplest movement.
When, at last, she opened her unwilling eyes, she discovered a different kind of light in the form of the sun streaming through a large square window, in a room with ice-blue walls where she lay in a high, narrow bed.
And she thought—Where am I? What’s happened to me?
She turned her throbbing head slowly, wincing, and saw Andre, unshaven, dishevelled and fast asleep in a chair a few feet away.
He looked terrible, she thought, filling her eyes and her heart with him, physical discomfort almost forgotten as she thought of his voice—the things he’d said to her. Until, of course, she also remembered it had only been a dream.
She said his name, her own voice a husky shadow of itself, but somehow he m
ust have heard it because his eyes snapped open and he sat up. For a heartbeat he stared at her with something like incredulity, then, with a noise like a yelp, he was out of the chair and racing to the door, yelling, ‘Philippe.’
Within seconds, the room was full of people led by a thin dark man with lively dark eyes and a goatee beard, who shone something like a pocket torch but infinitely more powerful into both her eyes and took her blood pressure before asking her in careful English if she knew what day it was.
It took a moment, but she told him.
‘You know why you are here?’ the doctor enquired. ‘What happened to you?’
For a moment Ginny was silent, then as if a curtain in her mind was slowly being raised, she remembered being jostled. Trying to save herself but pitching forward.
She croaked, ‘I fell. On some stairs.’
He nodded approvingly. ‘Très bien. Vous êtes couverte de bleus, mademoiselle, mais rien est cassé. Vous comprenez?’
‘I’m very bruised but nothing’s broken,’ she said obediently. Then tensed, smothering a gasp of pain. She whispered, ‘But the baby. I’ve lost my baby, haven’t I?’
‘Heureusement, non.’ He smiled at her reassuringly. ‘As I told Andre, a fall does not always lead to une fausse couche, and the child is still safe and warm inside you.
‘No, our concern has been the blow to your head which has caused une commotion cerebrale. A concussion.’ He nodded. ‘We shall carry out some more tests, but there is no internal bleeding and I believe the injury to be not serious.’
But there had been a serious injury of a very different kind, thought Ginny, as events and images began crowding back into her mind. And the results could be dire.
She said urgently, ‘Andre—I have to speak to him. There is something he must know. Quelque-chose très importante.’
He clicked his tongue reprovingly. ‘It is more important that you rest and recover, mademoiselle. But,’ he added, his face softening, ‘I will allow you a few moments with your fiancé, if first you must take the painkiller and the sedative the nurse will give you, so that you sleep when he has gone.’