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‘Fais attention, ma mie.’ Andre was beside her, taking her hand, his arm encircling her in support. A simple action, but it sent a shiver of uncontrollable, unbearable response reverberating through every nerve-ending in her body.
‘Leave me alone.’ Her voice was hoarse as she wrenched herself free.
She saw the shock in his dark face deepening to a kind of anguish, and realised Cilla was watching them, her eyes widening in the tingling silence. Knew she needed to pass the whole thing off, and quickly.
She even managed a little laugh. ‘I’m sorry. You—you startled me.’
‘Evidemment.’ His own voice was quietly toneless. ‘I too am—very sorry.’
Simple words, thought Ginny, as she picked her way with care to the gate. But, at the same time, they encompassed the entire situation. And drew a final line beneath it.
She wanted to be alone, to tend her wounds, and make her plans, but as that was impossible, she decided, instead, to play the tourist, and make the most of her final hours in Burgundy.
Before my own candle burns down and goes out, she thought, bracing herself against the wretchedness twisting inside her.
By the time they returned to Terauze, Ginny’s face ached with smiling, and her throat was hoarse from the bright, interested questions she’d made herself ask.
Her worst moment had come in the Musée des Beaux Arts, when she’d turned impulsively to comment on the Turner-esque landscapes of an artist called Felix Ziem, only to see Cilla, close to Andre and looking up at him, her hand on his arm.
After that she’d concentrated feverishly on things she was meant to see and nothing else.
She’d already realised that although Andre’s parents were English, he had become a true son of Burgundy, committed heart and soul to this ancient and historic region and its great wines.
And now clearly committed to selling the complete package of a future here with him to the girl he loved. It resounded passionately in every word he spoke.
And if only he’d been saying it to me, she whispered to herself in silent anguish as they drove back to Terauze, remembering how Cilla had hung on his every word.
At the château, Gaston was waiting. ‘Your father wishes to see you, Monsieur Andre.’ He added in a voice of doom, ‘Monsieur Labordier and Monsieur Dechesnes are here.’
Andre swore under his breath. ‘I will come at once.’ He turned to Ginny. ‘We need to talk. To begin with, there is something you need to be told—about Lucille.’
Who had, Ginny noted, prudently disappeared kitchenwards.
‘That won’t be necessary.’ She lifted her chin. ‘I’m not blind or stupid and I’m well aware what’s been going on. It’s hardly the year’s best-kept secret. However, I—I’d prefer not to discuss it.’
His mouth tightened. ‘I realise it has been a shock. Tout de même, I had hoped for a more gracious response from you, Virginie.’
‘Perhaps I’ll think of one, eventually.’ Sick at heart and afraid of giving too much away, she turned from him. ‘Now I’m going to rest in my room.’ If it’s still mine...
Upstairs, she took off her coat and shoes and lay down on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, trying to empty her mind, to relax and let her genuine tiredness take over.
But that was not destined to happen any time soon, for just as she was beginning to drift, there was a tap on the door. Propping herself on one elbow, she saw Cilla peeping in at her.
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I was afraid you might be asleep.’ She came nervously across to the bed and sat down on its edge. ‘I—I’ve just had a word with Andre,’ she went on, her tone constricted. ‘And he’s told me how you feel. But Ginny—please believe I didn’t come to Terauze to fall in love. In fact, it’s the last thing in the world I ever expected to happen. I never knew I could feel like this. I—I still can’t believe it myself.’
Her smile was forced—apprehensive. ‘And I’m sure you think it’s too soon, and it won’t last. But I know he’s the only man I’ll ever truly want and need, so can’t you please—please try to be happy for me?’
‘Ginny, I’ve had a bad dream. Can I get into bed with you?’
‘Ginny, I’ve lost my pocket money. Will you buy me some sweets?’
‘Ginny—don’t tell Mummy I broke the jug.’
Words from the distant past echoed and re-echoed in Ginny’s mind, reminding her of the vulnerable, dependent child who’d preceded the spoilt beauty. The little girl who’d believed that anything that went wrong could easily be put right. And who relied on her big sister to do it for her.
