by Lynne Graham
‘What makes you think so?’
He said softly, ‘You have a small crimson mark below your left breast received, I think, at birth. Do you wish the world to know that I kissed it yesterday? Non? Alors, come with me now.’
He took her hand firmly in his and led her up the street to the Rose and Crown.
She hung back. Her voice shook a little. ‘I—I’m not going back there.’
‘Qu’as tu?’ He stared at her, then gave a short laugh. ‘Mon Dieu, you think I have time for such things? We are going to talk.’
He took her into the hotel’s deserted dining room and, when a surprised waitress appeared, ordered coffee.
Once they’d been served and were alone again, he said abruptly, ‘Why did you not tell me you were a virgin? It was something I needed to know. And do not deny it,’ he added swiftly. ‘You bled a little.’
Ginny’s colour mounted. ‘I didn’t realise. Anyway, it doesn’t matter.’
Slowly, Andre stirred the light brown liquid in his cup. ‘I used no protection, ma mie, so it could matter a great deal. Tu comprends?’
Ginny stared at him, wondering why he seemed to have receded to some far distance. She said huskily, ‘I understand—but I don’t believe it.’
The dark brows lifted. ‘You do not believe how babies are made?’
‘No,’ she said hotly. ‘I mean it’s not that easy to get pregnant. People try for years—take fertility drugs. Do IVF. It can’t possibly have happened just like that on—on my first time.’
His mouth twisted. ‘But for many millions, ma belle, it does happen every day—just like that. And you may be one of them. For which I blame myself entièrement. I should have known how innocent you truly were and taken adequate precautions.’
She looked down at the table. She said in a voice she didn’t recognise, ‘And my sister?’
‘You concern yourself unduly.’ He shrugged. ‘She knows very well how to protect herself. One would not think she was the younger.’
She gasped. ‘Is—is that all you have to say?’
‘For the moment, yes.’ He paused. ‘As for you, Virginie, it is time to think only about yourself and the child we may have made.’
She swallowed. ‘Well, if it’s happened, it’s my problem, not yours. And if necessary I’ll deal with it.’
‘And how will that be?’ There was a note in his voice which made her shiver. ‘A few hours in some clinique and the baby will be gone, as if it had never existed. You think you can do that?’
She looked down again. ‘If I have to.’
‘And I say you cannot,’ Andre told her harshly. ‘That for you, at least, such a thing could never be forgotten and you would regret it for the rest of your life.’
She made herself meet his gaze. Spoke icily. ‘Not my only regret, believe me.’
He made a slight cynical bow. ‘At least we can agree on that. But we cannot change the past, only deal with the present. And the future.’
‘I can manage that for myself,’ she flashed.
‘Vraiment? I doubt that. You have lost your job and may soon be homeless, unless you hope to join your mother at the cottage.’ He watched her colour deepen and nodded. ‘Eh, bien, I have another plan. You heard me say I am returning to France? Come with me.’
The breath caught in her throat. When she could speak: ‘That’s ridiculous. You must be quite mad.’
He smiled faintly. ‘Sometimes, I think so too, but not now. You have a passport. You know where to find your birth certificate? Because you will need it.’
‘What for?’
‘For the legal formalities,’ he said. ‘Before we can be married.’
There was a silence, then she said unsteadily, ‘Now I know you’re crazy. Because I would never marry you. Not if...’ And hesitated.
‘If I were the last man on earth?’ he asked drily. ‘Merci du compliment.’ He paused. ‘Virginie, it is not easy to be a single mother. If my own mother still lived, she would tell you so and that she was thankful to be offered a home and the protection of a man’s name. I offer you the same.’
‘It’s impossible,’ she said stormily. ‘For one thing, we’re practically strangers.’
‘Hardly that.’ He had the gall to sound faintly amused. ‘After yesterday.’
‘That was no wish of mine,’ she flared in return.
There was another silence, then: ‘Forgive me,’ he said, too courteously. ‘I am a little confused. Are you saying that I took you against your will?’
Ginny bit her lip. ‘Well—no. Not exactly.’
‘I am relieved to hear it.’ His tone was harsh.
‘But it changes nothing,’ she went on quickly. ‘Marriage is out of the question, particularly when we don’t know if I am pregnant.’
‘Then until we can be sure, I will make you a different offer,’ he said. ‘A roof over your head and paid employment.’
‘As what?’
‘Not what you are so clearly imagining.’ His retort was brusque. ‘I have never yet paid a woman to share my bed and you, ma mie, will not be the first.
‘I have heard from my father how much you contributed to the running of his household,’ he went on. ‘Alors, a solution presents itself.’
‘You want me to be your housekeeper? I wouldn’t dream of such a thing.’
He pushed away his untouched coffee and sat back, regarding her thoughtfully. ‘The time for dreaming is past, Virginie, and you must face reality. What is your own plan for the future?’
‘To find a permanent and worthwhile job,’ she said defiantly. ‘I might even go back to London.’
‘To ta marraine? Your godmother?’
She shook her head. ‘She and my mother quarrelled, so we’ve lost touch.’
‘But you have other friends there?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Not that it’s anything to do with you.’
‘It is very much my concern. A city like London is no place for a girl without work, family or connections.’ He was silent for a moment, drumming his fingers restlessly on the table. He said abruptly, ‘I will make you another offer. Come with me to Burgundy until you know whether or not you are enceinte. If you are not, I will give you the money to return to England and support you while you train for whatever profession you desire.’
She said slowly, ‘You would do that. But why?’
‘Because I believe it is what my father would have wished. What he himself would have done had he lived.’
‘You make it very hard for me to refuse.’
‘Then why do so?’
‘Because there’s another side to the coin. If I am pregnant, I still won’t want to stay. To be married. To you.’
‘And you think I will force you?’ He shrugged. ‘Marriage in France, Virginie, is hedged about with respectability and performed in front of the Mayor. The ceremony would not take place if it was thought you were unwilling.’
He paused, then added levelly, ‘D’ailleurs, by that time you may come to see that, for the child’s sake, becoming my wife is your only rational course.’
My first, perhaps only, proposal of marriage, thought Ginny, pain twisting inside her, and it’s happening in a dismal room smelling of Full English Breakfasts, and with nothing but rationality and business deals on offer.
She said quietly, ‘I can’t promise that. And I’d like some time on my own—to think.’
‘To think or to run away?’
‘To decide.’ She pushed back her chair and rose. ‘Perhaps, Monsieur Duchard, it’s time we began to trust each other, if you want your plans to succeed.’
He got to his feet too. ‘And I would feel more optimistic, mademoiselle, if you were to call me Andre.’ He added gently, ‘Under the circumstances, such continued formality b
etween us is nonsense.’
Her swift flush was painful. ‘I suppose so.’
He added briskly, ‘En tout cas, I require your answer now if we are to catch the afternoon flight to Dijon.’
She took a deep breath, her stomach churning as a voice in her head told her that his proposition was ludicrous—impossible. Something she should not contemplate. For all sorts of reasons.
The feel of his skin against hers. Oh God, the taste of him...
And heard herself say shakily, ‘Then—yes, I agree.’ She paused. ‘On one condition. That you treat me as an employee. Give me my own space.’
He nodded, his face cool and unsmiling. ‘Soit. Let it be as you wish.’ He added, ‘I will come for you at noon. Pack your warmest clothing only—and not the hideous dress, hein?’
Her gasp of indignation followed him to the door—and this time she had no desire to laugh.
On her way home, she called at the bank and drew out what little money she possessed, leaving just enough to keep the account open. This, plus her wages, gave her at least a semblance of independence.
She’d hoped to have the house to herself, but she could hear Rosina and Cilla laughing and talking in the drawing room, so taking a deep breath she walked in—on chaos.
The floor was littered with empty carrier bags and tissue paper, and their contents, mostly beach and cocktail wear was strewn across one of the sofas.
‘Virginia.’ Rosina sounded faintly defensive. ‘Why are you home at this hour?’
‘I’ve been fired.’ She gestured around her. ‘What’s this?’
‘Some holiday things. After all this stress, I decided I needed a break, and Cilla and I have managed to get a last-minute deal in the Seychelles, so we popped into Lanchester to do some shopping.’
Ginny turned to her sister. ‘Is Jonathan going to be happy about this?’
Cilla shrugged. ‘If not, it serves him right. He’s been so difficult lately.’
‘And if you’re no longer at that dreary little café, you can look after things here,’ Rosina chimed in brightly.
‘Except I shan’t be here either,’ Ginny said quietly. ‘Andre Duchard has offered me a temporary job in France while I consider my future.’
There was an ominous silence. When Rosina spoke, her voice was steel. ‘If this is a joke, it’s not amusing.’
‘I’m perfectly serious. We’ll be leaving in about forty minutes and I’ve come home to pack.’
‘You—and that man? I can’t believe even you would stoop so low.’ Rosina flung out a dramatic arm. ‘Oh, I shall never forgive you for this—you little Judas.’
‘But at least I shan’t be a drain on your resources, Mother.’ Ginny lifted her chin, trying not to see Cilla’s expression of frozen resentment and disbelief. ‘You can’t have it all ways.’
She paused. ‘And maybe some of our problems stem from other causes,’ she added, and walked out, closing the door on another furious tirade.
Packing did not take long, her clothes and other personal possessions barely filling the suitcase she hadn’t used since boarding school.
Not much to show for nearly twenty-two years, she thought wryly, as she added the framed photograph of Andrew with Barney that she’d taken from the desk in the study. Something, she told herself, that only she would value.
As she carried her case downstairs, Mrs Pel suddenly appeared, her face troubled. ‘So you’re really leaving, Miss Ginny? And your mother beside herself, saying things about you and Mr Andre that don’t bear repeating. Are you quite sure you know what you’re doing, my dear?’
Ginny tried to smile. ‘I thought you’d be pleased. After all, Mrs Pel, you were the one who told me to spread my wings and fly.’
‘Yes,’ Mrs Pel said soberly. ‘But only for the right reasons.’
Ginny put down her case and hugged her. ‘I’ll make them right,’ she said, more cheerfully than she felt. ‘And I won’t be gone for ever. I’ll write to you at Market Lane.’ She hesitated. ‘And if there’s any news of Barney, can you let me know?’
‘Of course.’ Mrs Pel sighed. ‘But I’ll be glad to be gone, and that’s the truth. This house will never be the same again.’
What will? Ginny asked herself tautly as the hall clock began to strike twelve, and she heard the sound of a car approaching up the drive.
Head held high, she walked out, closing the door behind her.
* * *
Once the plane had taken off and she knew there was no turning back, she sat stiffly, hands gripped together in her lap, only too aware of the intimacy imposed by the seating, the proximity of Andre’s thigh to hers. Fighting the memories it aroused. Dreading the inevitable conversation.
But Andre said very little. After making sure she was warm enough and ordering coffee, he occupied himself with a sheaf of papers he’d taken from the leather satchel she recalled from their first meeting.
All too soon they were landing at Dijon, where a stocky young man, introduced to Ginny as Jules Rameau, was waiting with a battered Range Rover to take them to Terauze.
Slumped in the back, unable to understand the quick-fire exchanges between the two in the front, Ginny found herself swamped by weariness mingled with depression.
The quarrel with her mother had been inevitable, but she still regretted it. When she returned to England, she would have to find a way to make peace with Cilla too. Perhaps a week or two on a sun-drenched island would make both of them more amenable to reason.
And maybe pigs would fly...
* * *
The jolting of the Range Rover as it slowed, then halted, dragged her back to the here and now. That, and the piercing cold of the night air as she left the car.
There were cobbles underfoot and she stumbled slightly, only to find Andre’s steadying hand under her elbow as they moved towards a lighted doorway.
They walked along a flagged passage and through another door into the kitchen beyond, and Ginny stood for a moment, feeling a blissful warmth surround her. Aware, too, of an equally heavenly aroma from a cast-iron pot on the big stove.
Her gaze travelled from the wide fireplace where logs smouldered and the wooden rocking chair next to it, to the dresser filling an entire wall, its shelves groaning with china and glassware, and on up to the beamed ceiling where strings of onions and bunches of dried herbs hung from hooks.
Through an archway, she could see the gleam of a sink and the shining white of a large washing machine and tumble dryer.
By the time she left, she thought, all this would be totally familiar. But right now, she felt as if she’d landed on a different planet, and she was scared—especially about what tonight might bring.
He said he’d leave me alone, she reminded herself. But how do I know he’ll keep his word—about anything?
Andre’s voice broke into her reverie. ‘I regret that my father is not here to welcome you, but he is in Paris until tomorrow.’
He was briskly ridding himself of his coat and, after a slight hesitation, Ginny did the same, before joining him at the long table covered in oilcloth and set with cutlery and a platter of bread, and watching as Jules ladled stew into bowls and Andre filled glasses from the unmarked bottle of red wine in the centre of the table.
‘Boeuf bourguignon,’ he said, handing her a bowl. Taking a seat opposite, he raised his glass to her. ‘Salut. And welcome to Burgundy.’
Tired as she was, Ginny did not miss the faintly caustic glance directed at him by Jules as he joined them. Maybe her arrival was not going to be greeted by universal rejoicing, and Andre might possibly come to regret his hasty offer.
She’d thought she’d be too tired to eat, but it took just one delicious mouthful of tender beef, beautifully cooked with wine, herbs, tiny onions and mushrooms to convince her she was wrong.
She even had some of the sharp, creamy cheese which followed the stew and sighed as she finally pushed her plate away.
‘That was—utterly delicious,’ she said stiltedly and looked at Jules. ‘My compliments to the chef, monsieur.’
For a moment he stared at her, astounded, then a broad grin spread across his rugged face as he turned to Andre, making some incomprehensible remark.
‘Jules is flattered,’ Andre translated. ‘But the credit must go to his aunt, who has been cook here for many years. Madame Rameau is busy elsewhere tonight, but you will meet her tomorrow.’
Jules got to his feet, still grinning. He said, ‘Bonne nuit, Andre, mam’selle.’ His dark eyes danced as he looked from one to the other. ‘Et dormez bien, n’est ce pas?’
Well, she didn’t need a translation of that, Ginny thought, flushing angrily as Jules sauntered across the kitchen and out into the night.
She said tautly, ‘Where has he gone?’
‘Home to sleep. He lives in a house on the edge of the vineyard. La Petite Maison is always occupied by the manager.’
He picked up her coat and suitcase. ‘And I think it is time that you, too, Virginie, went to bed. Viens avec moi.’
A door in the corner led up a winding flight of wooden stairs to a curtained archway. He held the velvet aside to allow her to precede him and she stepped through to find herself in a broad corridor, its pastel walls illumined by elegant gilded sconces, which appeared to lead to a pair of ornate double doors at the end.
Conscious that with Jules’ departure, she seemed to be here alone with him, she felt her apprehension mounting.
Swallowing, she saw he’d reached the doors and was holding one of them open, motioning her to enter. Ginny obeyed warily and stopped dead, gasping, as she gazed round the biggest bedroom she’d ever seen.
All the elaborately carved furniture—the enormous armoire, the dressing table and chair, the night tables and the linen chest at the foot of the bed—were clearly very old and made from wood the colour of horse chestnuts. While the bed itself...