She paused to transfer Madame’s canvas bag from one hand to the other. She had only bought a few vegetables, yet somehow it seemed infinitely heavier than usual.
Maybe she was just tired, she thought. She couldn’t pretend she’d been sleeping well. The inner tensions of continuing to share a roof with Andre had seen to that.
Not that she encountered him that much, apart from mealtimes, and he’d invariably breakfasted before she got downstairs. His days were spent pruning the precious vines, while after dinner, more often than not, he would excuse himself courteously and disappear down to La Petite Maison to spend the evening, drinking and playing cards with Jules, or so Madame Rameau intimated with raised brows and pursed lips.
And, wherever he was, he was invariably accompanied by Barney, who had wholeheartedly transferred his devotion from the father to the son.
But if Andre thought he was being considerate by keeping out of her way, he could not be more wrong, thought Ginny, stifling a sigh. She found herself constantly on tenterhooks, awaiting his return. Feeling her heart lift as the sudden buzz in the house heralded his return. Longing to look at him and see him drop the formal mask he now used in his dealings with her and smile.
She could cope in the daytime, becoming immersed in preparations for the party, from sending out the invitations—and being astounded at the acceptance rate—to even more practical matters such as helping to wash by hand the array of exquisite eighteenth-century porcelain plates and dishes and amazing sets of crystal which Gaston had reverently produced from a cupboard, to cleaning the elaborate silver candelabra which would stand down the centre of the long table in the hall.
And in the past twenty-four hours, she’d become Madame’s kitchen assistant, helping prepare the fragrant hams, joints of beef, turkeys and game to be consumed by the guests.
Moreover, Madame’s brother-in-law, a keen fisherman, had promised to supply enough perch and pike for a massive and traditional fish stew.
‘And I shall show you, mon enfant, how to make jambon persille,’ Madame promised, referring with a satisfied nod to the famous Burgundian dish, resembling a mosaic of ham, shallots, garlic, wine and parsley.
The Baron, who had overheard, was amused. ‘Clothilde guards her recipes with care, mademoiselle. You are honoured. Clearly you have the makings of a serious cook.’
Who will probably be living out of a microwave in the months to come, Ginny thought, murmuring an appropriate response.
And who was most certainly not the flavour of the month in another quarter.
* * *
Monique Chaloux’s face had turned to stone when she’d arrived to find a computer engineer replacing the current system with a panoply of new hardware and software, and she had protested vigorously than it was an unnecessary expense, shooting a look at Ginny that spoke daggers.
But the Baron, having taken delivery of the latest thing in laptops for his personal use, was bullish about his decision, telling her that the real expense would be to lag behind their competitors. Adding blandly, to Ginny’s horror, that if Monique had problems using the software, she could always ask Mademoiselle Mason for her assistance, as he intended to do.
‘But that is hardly fair,’ Mademoiselle had said smoothly. ‘To intrude on what remains of her time with us with such mundane matters.’
‘On the contrary,’ Ginny returned quietly. ‘Monsieur le Baron knows I am happy to help. In this small way, to repay the kindness I’ve been shown here.’
And tried to pretend she had not seen Andre’s ironic glance.
She had not intended to be at the party for all kinds of reasons, one being that she had no suitable outfit, and had planned to invent some illness, minor but enough to confine her to her room, on the day itself.
But Madame Rameau had removed one major obstacle by demanding to know what she intended to wear during one of their shopping expeditions, dismissing her faltering reply, and conducting her forthwith to a small shop in a side street, where, Ginny noticed with alarm, the window held just one silk blouse in an exquisite mélange of rainbow colours.
Inside, the proprietress, stunningly chic in grey, had looked her over, nodded and produced a whole armful of evening wear for her to try, in spite of Ginny’s uneasy conviction that the price of anything on offer would easily exceed her modest resources.
There were two dresses, however, that immediately attracted her, a full length, long-sleeved ivory silk in Empire style, which she put aside with a pang of regret as altogether too bridal, and a gorgeous black taffeta, with a full skirt reaching just below the knee and a deep square neck against which her skin seemed to glow like pearl.