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His face seemed strained, his gaze oddly intense. He said again, ‘Virginie...’
The swift hammer of her heart was half-joyous, half-fearful. She wanted so badly to say yes and know that, for an hour or two, he would belong to her too, lost in the exchanges of sexual pleasure. But with the added danger that she might so easily be betrayed into saying what he did not want to hear—and what must for ever remain unspoken. The words, I love you.
But as she hesitated, she heard the loud clang of a bell and saw a surprised Gaston hastening to the front door.
She saw the candles flare in the sudden draught as the door opened to admit the late arrival. Through the shifting mass of people, she saw a woman, her mass of blonde hair spilling on to her shoulders as she pulled off her woollen cap. For a moment, she thought it must be Dominique Lavaux, who had not replied to her invitation, but then, above the buzz of conversation, she heard a voice she knew all too well, announcing autocratically, ‘I’m here to see my sister, Virginia Mason. Where is she, please?’
She stood, numb with disbelief, as Cilla, in her violet quilted coat, came pushing her way through the crowd towards her. But only to walk past as if she was invisible.
‘Oh, Andre.’ There was a note of hysteria in Cilla’s voice. ‘I had to come, because everything’s just awful and I don’t know what to do.’
And with a strangled sob, she threw herself straight at Andre, burying her face in his shirt front as he caught her.
For a moment there was total, astonished silence. Then Jules appeared from nowhere with a chair. He detached the weeping girl from Andre with cool authority, made her sit, and when his aunt arrived with brandy, encouraged her firmly to drink.
It occurred to Ginny, suddenly transformed into helpless bystander, that this was one party no one would forget in a hurry. Least of all herself.
She stepped forward into the breach. Raising her voice, she said in her clear schoolgirl French, ‘Madame Rameau, would you have the goodness to prepare a room for my sister. She has had a long and tiresome journey and needs rest.’
Madame gave the drooping beauty an old-fashioned look, but nodded and bustled off.
Ginny walked over to the chair and put a hand on her sister’s shoulder. ‘Has Mother come with you? Is she waiting somewhere?’
‘Mother?’ Cilla reared up, nearly spilling what was left of the brandy. ‘You must be joking. She’s turned me out and won’t even speak to me—not since Jon broke off our engagement. Why else would I be here?’
Why indeed? thought Ginny. Conscious of the eyes and ears around them and Baron Bertrand’s shocked face, she said, ‘We’ll talk about this later. Why don’t I take you upstairs to freshen up in my bathroom?’
‘Your bathroom?’ Cilla seemed to focus on her for the first time, her eyes narrowing as she spotted the rubies. ‘What’s going on here? What’s the celebration?’
Ginny kept her voice steady. ‘Among other things, my engagement to Andre.’
‘Engagement,’ Cilla repeated. Her laugh was breathless as she looked back at Andre, who was standing stony-faced, his arms folded. ‘Is this a joke?’
‘Au contraire, madame.’ It was Jules who spoke. ‘The marriage of our future Baron is a serious affair, but also a time of great happiness for the Château Terauze.’
Cilla got to her feet. ‘But I thought,’ she began, then paused, swaying slightly, a hand to her head, as she whispered, ‘Andre...’
Then, as Andre took one slow step towards her, Jules again intervened. ‘You are clearly not yourself, mademoiselle. You must allow me to assist you.’
And before anything more could be said or done, he calmly lifted Cilla into his arms and carried her across the room and up the stairs, leaving an amazed silence behind him.
‘Did you expect this to happen?’ Andre asked harshly. ‘You received some advance warning, perhaps?’
They were in the petit salon, the last guests having left half an hour before and the Baron having bade them a tactful goodnight.
Although there’d been no mass exodus from the party, Cilla’s arrival had changed the whole atmosphere of the evening, offering another sensation for the participants to mull over.
And, in private, a different confrontation.
‘No,’ Ginny protested. ‘Of course not. I told my mother we were getting married, but I thought she was simply ignoring it like all my other messages. And clearly, she hasn’t told Cilla.’
He said icily, ‘But what irony, n’est-ce pas, that on the night of our engagement, your sister arrives to say her relationship with Monsieur Welburn is at an end.’
