dragged her back to the here and now. That, and the piercing cold of the night air as she left the car.
There were cobbles underfoot and she stumbled slightly, only to find Andre’s steadying hand under her elbow as they moved towards a lighted doorway.
They walked along a flagged passage and through another door into the kitchen beyond, and Ginny stood for a moment, feeling a blissful warmth surround her. Aware, too, of an equally heavenly aroma from a cast-iron pot on the big stove.
Her gaze travelled from the wide fireplace where logs smouldered and the wooden rocking chair next to it, to the dresser filling an entire wall, its shelves groaning with china and glassware, and on up to the beamed ceiling where strings of onions and bunches of dried herbs hung from hooks.
Through an archway, she could see the gleam of a sink and the shining white of a large washing machine and tumble dryer.
By the time she left, she thought, all this would be totally familiar. But right now, she felt as if she’d landed on a different planet, and she was scared—especially about what tonight might bring.
He said he’d leave me alone, she reminded herself. But how do I know he’ll keep his word—about anything?
Andre’s voice broke into her reverie. ‘I regret that my father is not here to welcome you, but he is in Paris until tomorrow.’
He was briskly ridding himself of his coat and, after a slight hesitation, Ginny did the same, before joining him at the long table covered in oilcloth and set with cutlery and a platter of bread, and watching as Jules ladled stew into bowls and Andre filled glasses from the unmarked bottle of red wine in the centre of the table.
‘
Boeuf bourguignon,
’ he said, handing her a bowl. Taking a seat opposite, he raised his glass to her. ‘
Salut.
And welcome to Burgundy.’
Tired as she was, Ginny did not miss the faintly caustic glance directed at him by Jules as he joined them. Maybe her arrival was not going to be greeted by universal rejoicing, and Andre might possibly come to regret his hasty offer.
She’d thought she’d be too tired to eat, but it took just one delicious mouthful of tender beef, beautifully cooked with wine, herbs, tiny onions and mushrooms to convince her she was wrong.
The wine was astonishing too, filling her mouth with rich earthy flavours while caressing her throat like velvet. Or a lover’s touch...
She even had some of the sharp, creamy cheese which followed the stew and sighed as she finally pushed her plate away.
‘That was—utterly delicious,’ she said stiltedly and looked at Jules. ‘My compliments to the chef,
monsieur.
’
For a moment he stared at her, astounded, then a broad grin spread across his rugged face as he turned to Andre, making some incomprehensible remark.
‘Jules is flattered,’ Andre translated. ‘But the credit must go to his aunt, who has been cook here for many years. Madame Rameau is busy elsewhere tonight, but you will meet her tomorrow.’
Jules got to his feet, still grinning. He said, ‘
Bonne nuit,
Andre,
mam’selle.
’ His dark eyes danced as he looked from one to the other. ‘
Et dormez bien, n’est ce pas?
’
Well, she didn’t need a translation of that, Ginny thought, flushing angrily as Jules sauntered across the kitchen and out into the night.
She said tautly, ‘Where has he gone?’
‘Home to sleep. He lives in a house on the edge of the vineyard. La Petite Maison is always occupied by the manager.’
He picked up her coat and suitcase. ‘And I think it is time that you, too, Virginie, went to bed.
Viens avec moi.
’
A door in the corner led up a
winding flight of wooden stairs to a curtained archway. He held the velvet aside to allow her to precede him and she stepped through to find herself in a broad corridor, its pastel walls illumined by elegant gilded sconces, which appeared to lead to a pair of ornate double doors at the end.
Conscious that with Jules’ departure, she seemed to be
There were cobbles underfoot and she stumbled slightly, only to find Andre’s steadying hand under her elbow as they moved towards a lighted doorway.
They walked along a flagged passage and through another door into the kitchen beyond, and Ginny stood for a moment, feeling a blissful warmth surround her. Aware, too, of an equally heavenly aroma from a cast-iron pot on the big stove.
Her gaze travelled from the wide fireplace where logs smouldered and the wooden rocking chair next to it, to the dresser filling an entire wall, its shelves groaning with china and glassware, and on up to the beamed ceiling where strings of onions and bunches of dried herbs hung from hooks.
Through an archway, she could see the gleam of a sink and the shining white of a large washing machine and tumble dryer.
By the time she left, she thought, all this would be totally familiar. But right now, she felt as if she’d landed on a different planet, and she was scared—especially about what tonight might bring.
He said he’d leave me alone, she reminded herself. But how do I know he’ll keep his word—about anything?
Andre’s voice broke into her reverie. ‘I regret that my father is not here to welcome you, but he is in Paris until tomorrow.’
He was briskly ridding himself of his coat and, after a slight hesitation, Ginny did the same, before joining him at the long table covered in oilcloth and set with cutlery and a platter of bread, and watching as Jules ladled stew into bowls and Andre filled glasses from the unmarked bottle of red wine in the centre of the table.
‘
Boeuf bourguignon,
’ he said, handing her a bowl. Taking a seat opposite, he raised his glass to her. ‘
Salut.
And welcome to Burgundy.’
Tired as she was, Ginny did not miss the faintly caustic glance directed at him by Jules as he joined them. Maybe her arrival was not going to be greeted by universal rejoicing, and Andre might possibly come to regret his hasty offer.
She’d thought she’d be too tired to eat, but it took just one delicious mouthful of tender beef, beautifully cooked with wine, herbs, tiny onions and mushrooms to convince her she was wrong.
The wine was astonishing too, filling her mouth with rich earthy flavours while caressing her throat like velvet. Or a lover’s touch...
She even had some of the sharp, creamy cheese which followed the stew and sighed as she finally pushed her plate away.
‘That was—utterly delicious,’ she said stiltedly and looked at Jules. ‘My compliments to the chef,
monsieur.
’
For a moment he stared at her, astounded, then a broad grin spread across his rugged face as he turned to Andre, making some incomprehensible remark.
‘Jules is flattered,’ Andre translated. ‘But the credit must go to his aunt, who has been cook here for many years. Madame Rameau is busy elsewhere tonight, but you will meet her tomorrow.’
Jules got to his feet, still grinning. He said, ‘
Bonne nuit,
Andre,
mam’selle.
’ His dark eyes danced as he looked from one to the other. ‘
Et dormez bien, n’est ce pas?
’
Well, she didn’t need a translation of that, Ginny thought, flushing angrily as Jules sauntered across the kitchen and out into the night.
She said tautly, ‘Where has he gone?’
‘Home to sleep. He lives in a house on the edge of the vineyard. La Petite Maison is always occupied by the manager.’
He picked up her coat and suitcase. ‘And I think it is time that you, too, Virginie, went to bed.
Viens avec moi.
’
A door in the corner led up a
winding flight of wooden stairs to a curtained archway. He held the velvet aside to allow her to precede him and she stepped through to find herself in a broad corridor, its pastel walls illumined by elegant gilded sconces, which appeared to lead to a pair of ornate double doors at the end.
Conscious that with Jules’ departure, she seemed to be
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