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Andre’s mouth relaxed into a grin that made Ginny’s heartbeat quicken ridiculously. ‘For myself, I wonder what Clothilde would have called Monique.’
She tried to speak lightly. ‘She sounds quite something.’
‘Judge for yourself,’ he said as a door banged and an instant later a woman surged into the room, talking nineteen to the dozen, with a canvas bag in one hand and several baguettes under her other arm.
The antithesis of Mademoiselle Chaloux, the newcomer was short, clad in a cape like a small tent, her rosy double-chinned face crowned by an untidy topknot of pepper and salt hair. The removal of the cape revealed that she was built on generous lines, full-bosomed and wide-hipped, her ample body supported on sturdy legs in red woollen tights.
As she paused for breath, lively brown eyes discovered Ginny and narrowed. ‘So she is here—the daughter of Monsieur ton père?’
‘Sa belle fille. His stepdaughter,’ Andre corrected with faint emphasis.
She sent him a shrewd glance, the small mouth pursing, then looked back at Ginny, examining her slowly from head to toe. She gave a brisk nod. ‘Soyez bien-venue, petite. Asseyez-vous.’
In next to no time, breakfast was on the table with bread and croissants still warm from the bakery, a choice of peach or cherry jam and café au lait served in cups like bowls.
As she ate, Ginny found herself watching Andre under her lashes, seeing him for the first time on his own territory. Listening to the ebb and flow of his conversation with Jules, the turn of his head, the movement of his hands to stress a point. Everything about him leaving no doubt as to who was the boss here.
And her boss too, she supposed without pleasure as she finished her coffee, then watched, astonished as Madame Rameau began to empty the canvas bag, unloading a patisserie box followed by potatoes, onions, a cabbage, a bunch of carrots and a large chicken together with several jars and containers.
She said, ‘Well, dinner looks good.’
Andre grinned. ‘Except that it is lunch. Dinner will be another affair altogether.’
She closed her eyes. ‘My God.’
Jules had already left and as Andre drained the last of his coffee and rose, Ginny leaned across the table. She said quietly, ‘I came here to work. Perhaps you’d explain my duties so I can start.’
‘Eh bien,’ he said. ‘You may begin by coming for a walk with me. I wish to show you the vineyard.’
She hesitated and he added softly, ‘S’il te plaît, Virginie. Please.’
She was chagrined to feel herself blush and didn’t know whether to blame the coaxing note in his voice or the fact that Madame Rameau was regarding them benignly, hands on hips.
She got up from the table. ‘I’ll fetch my coat.’
He held out a detaining hand. ‘But before we go, you may wish to telephone your mother to tell her you have arrived and are safe.’
‘I already did so,’ she said. ‘The machine picked up my message.’
‘She has not returned the call.’
‘I doubt she’ll want to.’ Ginny looked away, biting her lip. ‘We—we parted on bad terms.’
‘Ah,’ he said and paused. ‘But at least give her the chance to do so, ma mie, or you may regret it.’
‘You sound almost sorry for her,’ she challenged. ‘What’s brought about this change?’
His voice was quiet. ‘I would feel sorry for anyone who has turned away the gift of happiness.’
And what was she supposed to make of that? Ginny wondered as she sat on the edge of her bed to pull on her boots before zipping herself into her quilted coat.
Outside, it was cold and crisp, the sun now a pale globe in the misty winter sky. They left by the rear door, crossing a walled courtyard with empty stone troughs waiting for spring blooms.
Beyond its double wrought-iron gates the vines were also waiting, no longer invisible in the early morning dazzle, but stretching, rank upon rank of them, as far as the eye could see, and planted, Ginny saw, with almost military precision against the neat lines of wooden posts and wire which supported them, in broad alternating bands of grass and ploughed tan soil.
She paused halfway up the slope, drawing a sharp breath and Andre looked down at her and smiled.
‘You are surprised.’
‘Well—yes. I didn’t expect it to be so neat and orderly.’
He nodded. ‘As my father said—like his office desk.’
She realised that Andrew must have stood here, maybe on this very spot, taking in this very different world. Perhaps formulating the decisions that had led to these tumultuous repercussions in her own life.
She spoke quickly, fighting the sudden tightening of her throat. ‘I—I didn’t think it would be so big either.’
