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‘Thank you,’ she returned stiffly.
‘That is, of course, unless you wish to come with me. You might enjoy seeing Dijon in daylight.’ He added softly, ‘And it could appeal in other ways.’
‘That’s kind of you.’ She tried to ignore the swift unwelcome shiver of her senses at the thought of what they might be. ‘However, I’d prefer to wait until I take the flight home.’
‘As you wish.’ His shrug was unperturbed. ‘Although you may wait a long time. But the choice is naturally yours.’
As if I’m here of my own free will, Ginny thought rebelliously as she returned his ‘Au revoir.’
Once he’d departed, Madame Rameau decisively rejected any help with clearing away, and conducted Ginny through another door into what she realised was the main entrance hall.
Baronial, Ginny thought as she looked around her, doesn’t get near it. There was an enormous fireplace, easily able to accommodate an average ox at the far end, while the centre was occupied by the biggest table she’d ever seen, its length measured by a series of elaborate silver candelabra. If that was where dinner would be held, any conversation would need to be shouted.
Nor was the petit salon particularly small. And although the furnishings were definitely more shabby than chic, the room looked inviting, with the pale sun coming through the long windows and logs crackling in the grate.
In the centre of the marble mantelpiece was a charming ormolu clock, clearly dating from a different century, flanked by two exquisitely pretty porcelain candlesticks, and a photograph in a silver frame.
A family group, she realised, with a slender dark-haired, brown-eyed woman at the centre, her tranquil features lit by a glowing smile, her hand resting on the shoulder of an adolescent boy, while a broad-shouldered man stood protectively behind them.
Even at half his age, Andre was unmistakable, she thought. And now that she’d had her first look at his mother, she could see what Mrs Pel had meant. No beauty, certainly, but with a sweetness about her that shone through.
While Bertrand Duchard, whom she would meet that evening, had a tough, uncompromising face which seemed to warn ‘Don’t mess with me’.
And I was hoping for twinkly-eyed benevolence, she mocked herself as she turned away, deciding that before she left Terauze for ever, she would offer Andre the photo of his father she’d brought with her to fill the space on the other side of the clock.
This, after all, was where Andrew had really wanted to be, in exchange for his beautiful, luxurious home and his standing in the community. His marriage...
He might never have persuaded Rosina to get this far, she mused wryly. But she’d been his wife, for better, for worse, and surely she’d deserved, at least, to be given the option.
Yet, for some unfathomable reason, she thought restively, he believed I’d fit right in. In heaven’s name why?
She’d intended to continue with her thriller but it was upstairs, so she wandered over to the tall glass-fronted bookcase to see if she could find something more engaging. She discovered a mixture from Dickens, Hardy and Tolkien to modern detective stories mingling with some interesting literary fiction.
In addition she found Flaubert’s Madame Bovary and several novels by Honoré de Balzac and Dumas both in the original and in English translations, plus a well-thumbed French grammar, suggesting that the late Madame Duchard had been working to improve her knowledge of her adopted language.
A worthy ambition which I’ve no wish to emulate, she told herself with determination. It smacks too much of making myself at home—which I’m not and never will be.
In the end, out of sheer nostalgia, she picked The Hobbit and retired with it to the elderly but still comfortable sofa facing the fire.
But perhaps she knew the story too well because, after a while, she found her mind drifting.
The result, she thought, pulling a cushion under her cheek, of the warmth of the room and the large lunch which had preceded it. Whatever, it would do no harm to close her eyes for a minute.
When she opened them again with a start, the room was in darkness and the logs in the fireplace had burned away to ashes.
My God, she thought, struggling upright and pushing her hair back from her face. I must have slept for hours.
And she’d dreamed. Dreamed she was back at Barrowdean, walking through a series of empty unfamiliar rooms, searching desperately for—something. Eventually hearing in the echoing distance the deep-throated bark of a dog, and calling ‘Barney’ begun to run.
I must have said it aloud, she told herself, and that’s what woke me.
Only there it was again, the sound of a bark, gruff, excited and close at hand. She turned to stare towards the door. It opened and light flooded the room at the press of a switch. Then, with a scrabble of paws, Barney was there hurling himself across the room at her, paws up against her chest and licking every inch he could reach. No dream, but solid golden reality.
