To her own astonishment, Ginny ate every scrap of the generous portion she was given and still found room for a large slice of tarte tatin under Madame Rameau’s indulgent gaze.
In faulty but robust English, she informed Ginny that she was too thin. That a breeze of the most small would carry her away, enfin, and a man liked a woman that he knew he was holding in his arms.
And no prizes for guessing what man she was referring to, thought Ginny, avoiding Andre’s sardonic glance across the table, and furious to find herself blushing again, as if she was going for some all-time record in embarrassment.
When the meal was over, Andre said, ‘I have to go back to Dijon this afternoon, Virginie, so there is no need for you to hide away in your room again. Clothilde, who believes you need rest, has lit the fire for you in le petit salon, which you will find more comfortable.’ He paused. ‘Also some of my mother’s books are there. Please choose anything you want.’
‘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.