by Lynne Graham
Although what kind of a sanctuary was it when her door was unlocked and Andre had the key?
She sank down on the edge of the bed and covered her face with her hands.
What had happened to her? she asked herself in despair. In a matter of days, how had she gone from a relatively blameless existence to one which had her stumbling from one disaster to the next? And all of it entirely her own fault—especially tonight.
Because only Gaston’s pursuance of some nightly routine had saved her from yet more abject folly, and that was the bitter truth she had to face.
Only now it must stop.
After a moment’s hesitation, she fetched the chair from the dressing table, and wedged it securely under the door handle.
At least she hoped it was secure. It was something she’d read about in an old-fashioned thriller, which was no guarantee it would be proof against a strong and determined man.
Or, for that matter, a weak and stupid female...
She took off her shoes, turned off the light and got under the covers, still in her skirt and top. Listening—waiting in the darkness.
And eventually she heard it—the soft knock on the door and his voice saying her name.
She realised that he was waiting for her to invite him in—to enter her room, her bed, her body.
To complete what that strange storm of emotion had brought in its wake.
She lifted her hands, clamping them fiercely over her mouth so that no sound could escape. Not a word, a sigh or even an indrawn breath. So that he would think she was asleep, instead of lying there trying to conquer the burning, trembling ache of her unfulfilled flesh.
Knowing that her memories of his lovemaking were already a torment, hardly to be endured, and for the sake of her sanity she could risk no more.
Waiting until the heavy silence told her at last that he had gone.
CHAPTER TEN
I HAD TOO MUCH to drink last night.
Ginny rehearsed the words in her head over and over again as she prepared reluctantly to go down to breakfast the following morning.
That was the story she was going to use, treating the whole thing lightly as an error of judgement, embarrassing but not fatal, and she would stick to it like glue, no matter how Andre might respond.
After all, it was more or less the truth, she told herself defensively, the brandy proving the final straw after the wine so generously poured at dinner. Also she seemed to have done him an injustice. The chair, now restored to its rightful place, had been an unnecessary precaution because he would never have entered the room without her consent.
Sighing, she opened the shutters and found that Mademoiselle Chaloux had been right about the weather. The sky was uniformly grey and the view of the vines was concealed by a thick drizzle. Her accuracy in other matters remained to be discovered.
At the kitchen door, she braced herself, before turning the handle and walking in.
But the room’s only occupant was Madame Rameau setting a platter of bread and croissants and a jar of preserves on the table. Even Barney’s basket was empty, presumably because Andre had taken him for a walk.
‘Bonjour, mademoiselle.’ Madame’s shrewd eyes swept her from head to foot. ‘Vous avez bien dormi?’
‘Oui, merci,’ said Ginny, aware that she was lying. That it had been hours before she fell into a restless doze interspersed with dreams that she would much prefer to forget. She took the coffee that Madame handed to her and sat down.
All she needed to do, she thought, spreading a slice of bread with blackcurrant jam, was ask casually for Andre. Simple enough surely, when he was her host, so why did it seem so impossible? As if she was somehow exhibiting their entire relationship for inspection?
‘You look pale, little one, and not happy.’ Madame sounded almost severe. ‘And you will be plus contente, peut-être, when you know more of Terauze and the life here. So, later, when the rain has stopped, you will take a little promenade with me to the village, n’est-ce pas?’
She nodded briskly. ‘And do not disturb yourself, mon enfant, if you are stared at. Everything that occurs here is of interest to the whole of Terauze, and it’s natural that your arrival should cause a brouhaha. But all will be well. Clothilde gives you her word. And now I shall feed the chickens.’ She bustled away, leaving Ginny to finish her tartine. She was just clearing the table when the Baron came in, looking harassed and muttering under his breath in a way that told her he was swearing.
He checked when he saw Ginny. ‘Your pardon, mademoiselle. I did not know you were here.’
‘Is something wrong?’
‘A problem with the computer, hélas.’
‘Is it all right now?’
He sighed impatiently. ‘No, it is beyond me. And Monique does not work today.’
‘But Monsieur Andre will be back soon...’
‘That will not be for some hours, mademoiselle,’ he interrupted curtly. ‘And I need urgently to access some figures.’
Giving her an opportunity to justify her presence here.
She said quietly, ‘I used computers at home and at work in England, monsieur, so I know a little about office systems. Perhaps I could help.’
His hesitation lasted less than an instant. ‘If so, I would indeed be grateful.’
He took her across the hall to a door on the other side, opening on to a flight of steep stone stairs, winding upwards.
Good God, thought Ginny as she climbed. I’m inside a tower. And what’s waiting for me at the top? Monique Chaloux crouched over a spinning wheel, hoping that I’ll prick my finger and sleep for a hundred years?
Instead, she found herself in a circular room that had been transformed from medieval austerity into a functional and well-equipped office with a large desk holding a computer stationed right in its centre.
She halted, entranced. ‘What a wonderful place to work.’
The Baron’s look held faint surprise. ‘I am gratified that you think so.’ He added quietly, ‘It was chosen by my wife.’
‘I don’t blame her.’ A series of windows had been set into the curve of the outer wall, and Ginny walked over and knelt on the cushioned seat beneath them, enjoying, in spite of the rain, a panoramic view of the vineyard and the area of thick woodland which adjoined it.
She turned away and crossed to the desk. As she’d suspected, the system on the computer was familiar, if totally out of date, so she had little trouble retrieving the information the Baron required, although the pages of figures seemed confusing.
‘I think you might find this easier to read on a spreadsheet, monsieur,’ Ginny said as she pressed ‘Print’. ‘And your security is very old-fashioned, which could be dangerous. For example, I can’t see how to back up the files. Has Mademoiselle Chaloux never mentioned these things?’
The Baron shrugged. ‘She seems content to work in her own way, mademoiselle. And I know little about technology.’ He paused. ‘But please accept my most sincere and grateful thanks for your assistance. And perhaps you could suggest some improvements to the system to Monique.’
Ginny said drily, ‘I think she would regard that as arrant interference, monsieur. After all, I’m only a visitor here.’
He studied her for a moment, his brows lifting. ‘Peut-être, vous avez raison, mademoiselle. Then speak first to Andre. If the suggestions come from him, then she must listen. He is as much her employer as I am.’
Which did not suggest he saw the lady as a future wife. Or that he looked on Ginny’s own presence as anything more than temporary.
Which, of course, was a good thing, she thought as she followed him downstairs. Wasn’t it?
* * *
As Madame Rameau had predicted, the rain eased off during the morning, allowing a watery sun to make its appearance, so the village
tour took place as planned.
It wasn’t a lengthy operation. Terauze was a cluster of narrow streets all leading on to a central square, where the daily market was just beginning to pack up, its stalls clustering round the statue of a man, standing high on a stone plinth.
Madame pointed. ‘See, mademoiselle. That is Baron Emile who planted the first vineyard at Terauze.’ She sighed. ‘Each year at the Château, it was the custom to invite the village and our neighbours to celebrate his birthday, but no longer. Not after Madame Linnet was taken from us. It was as if Monsieur Bertrand could not bear such an occasion without her.’
She sighed again and walked on, but her subdued mood soon vanished as she was greeted with jovial familiarity on all sides. However, Ginny was soon aware that she was indeed the real focus of all this interest, and that whispers and stares were following her as she was marched round the square, past the mairie where the tricolour flew, in a kind of royal progress, which took in the bakery, the patisserie, the butcher’s shop and the charcuterie.
Next was the farmacie, but as Madame had been accosted and engaged in animated conversation by a woman who was clearly an old friend, Ginny, seized by a sudden idea, slipped inside alone.
As she entered, two women, standing at the counter and talking to a thin-faced woman in a white coat, turned, alerted by the shop bell, and regarded her with the same curiosity she had attracted outside, but lacking the bonhomie.
Ginny hesitated, her immediate impulse being to back out into the street again. Because, she realised, her bright idea had just turned into Mission Impossible. Even if she’d been able to recognise the French brand names, how could she possibly buy a pregnancy testing kit when the news would be all round Terauze almost before she’d been handed her change?
And however keen she was to know the result—to reassure herself that she would soon be free to leave—she couldn’t allow that to become a subject of common gossip.
‘Vous voulez quelque chose, mademoiselle?’ The thin woman was coming forward unsmilingly.
Ginny thought quickly. ‘Aspirins, s’il vous plaît, madame,’ she hazarded, and received a sour nod in return.
She was paying for the tablets when the door opened to admit Madame Rameau in a swirl of cape. Her greeting to the woman in the white coat and her other customers was civil but brisk, and Ginny found herself shepherded firmly into the street again.
‘She didn’t seem very friendly,’ she commented.
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.