Harlequin Presents January 2015 Box Set 3 of 4(180)

CHAPTER TWELVE

AS THE LONG, agonisingly slow days passed into weeks, Ginny began to feel that she’d become a bystander in her own life, watching helplessly from a distance as Cilla morphed into the role of Andre’s future wife.

It was achieved with great charm and an eagerness to learn she had never displayed before. Baron Bertrand, having recovered from the shock of her arrival, was now openly indulgent. Even Madame Rameau, inclined at first to eye the newcomer askance, had been won over and was actually teaching Cilla the basics of cooking.

She’d pretty much taken over the daily shopping too, Ginny watching and listening in envious admiration as Cilla chatted away to the shopkeepers and stallholders in what seemed to be flawless French, courtesy, of course, of her stay at that exclusive establishment in Switzerland.

At other times, she was immersing herself in every aspect of the life of the domaine, displaying what seemed to be a genuine interest in the complex production of fine wines, and spending several hours a day among the vines or in the chai. Discussing what she had learned in the evening, over the dinner table.

As I never did, Ginny acknowledged unhappily. Because I told myself that it was dangerous to become too involved. That to do so would only make it harder to say goodbye when the time came.

So I can hardly start asking questions now, not without appearing jealous, which would embarrass me and everyone else. Especially Andre.

They were still, she supposed, officially engaged to be married, but an engagement could easily be ended as Cilla had demonstrated, particularly as the wedding itself had not been mentioned since the night of the fete.

On the few occasions when she found herself alone with Andre, the only topic of conversation, raised quietly and politely, was her health.

‘Clothilde tells me you are still being sick,’ he’d commented recently.

‘As soon as I wake up each morning,’ she’d returned ruefully. ‘I could almost set my watch by it.’ She paused. ‘But she tells me it will stop very soon.’

His brief smile was wintry. ‘I am glad to hear it for your sake.’ And left her.

What he never mentioned was that other early morning when he’d told Cilla she could stay. Leaving Ginny free to guess at what else might have been said. To guess and, accordingly, to suffer...

Nor had he ever expressed, by word or look, the slightest interest in sleeping with her again. Instead he was spending his nights at La Petite Maison. Probably not alone.

But she did not let herself think about that, concentrating instead on how the problem of her expected baby could be resolved. What happened when a man fathered a child by a girl he no longer wanted? After all, he could hardly expect his new bride to raise another woman’s child, especially when the mother was her own sister.

It was an impossible situation and she quailed at its implications.

The most equitable solution, she supposed, would be for Andre to allow her to return to England as she’d requested so often in the past and have the baby there. He was, she knew, too honourable to stint on financial support, and she could work part-time until the child was of school age.

And if her mother was truly planning to remarry with such scandalous haste and live in London, maybe she could occupy the empty Keeper’s Cottage in Rosina’s place.

According to her most recent letter from Mrs Pel, who’d become a regular correspondent, her mother’s absence as well as Cilla’s broken engagement was still providing ample sustenance for the local gossips. And the new regime at the café had not found favour with the customers, who were staying away in droves. ‘I’m told Iris Potter is thinking of selling up,’ she wrote.

I suppose I could revert to Plan A, Ginny thought with a sigh. Take another shot at becoming the new Miss Finn.

But wherever she went and whatever she did, it seemed likely that Andre would want to establish and maintain contact with his child and some kind of regular access would have to be agreed, however painful she would find it.

And repeating over and over again that she only had herself to blame did nothing to dispel the growing desolation that haunted her.

The attitude of Monique Chaloux only added to her wretchedness. ‘The little sister,’ she’d exclaimed effusively. ‘Quelle enchanteresse. Quelle jolie blonde. No wonder all the men, including Monsieur Andre, have been rendered bouleversé by her presence.’

‘No wonder indeed,’ Ginny agreed expressionlessly, aware that Mademoiselle’s goading remarks were almost certainly intended to punish her for having introduced the new computer system which Monique had still failed to master.

In a way, Ginny was almost grateful for the constant errors that had to be corrected, the deletions needing to be painstakingly retrieved, the data assigned to the wrong files or even omitted altogether.