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‘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 between 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?’
