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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.
