Come The Vintage. Anne Mather
Читать онлайн книгу.
– and are you experienced, monsieur?’
She didn’t know what made her ask the question, except that she sensed he would have no small knowledge of her sex. He regarded her disconcertingly for a while, and then said: ‘As much as any man who has already had one wife.’
Ryan gasped. ‘You – you have a wife, monsieur?’
‘I had,’ he corrected expressionlessly. ‘My wife died almost ten years ago.’
‘Almost ten years ago!’ Ryan found it hard to take in. Ten years ago she had been a child …
‘I am forty years of age, mademoiselle. Old enough to be your father, I admit. Perhaps you had better regard our relationship in that light. With luck, you could be a widow before you are my age.’
Ryan sucked in her breath on a sob. ‘Don’t say such things!’
‘No?’ He moved his shoulders indifferently. ‘Perhaps not. Perhaps I will live my three score years and ten. Perhaps even a little more. Who knows? A life sentence, mademoiselle, is it not? I am sorry, but I did not make the rules. Your father did that.’
RYAN’S room was at the head of the twisting flight of stairs which led to the upper reaches of the house. It was not a large room and towards the eaves the ceiling sloped a little, but it was a comfortable room and when she had first seen it, Ryan had been delighted with it. The uneven floorboards were covered with fluffy wool rugs, the bed-spread was a rich folkweave, and the curtains were patterned with sprigs of lilac. If the furniture – the iron-posted bedstead, the heavy tallboy, the mahogany wardrobe and dressing table, were a little outdated, they nevertheless shone from frequent polishings, and the room smelt sweetly of freshly laundered sheets and bees-wax.
On the morning following her father’s funeral, Ryan stood by the window of her room, looking down the sweeping length of the valley. She could see the river, the terraced hillside, the houses huddled at its base, the reaching spire of the church of St. Augustine, and the distant mountains where the snow could always find a resting place. In summer when the snows receded to the high plateau, the goatherds sought the lush pastures that had been hidden all winter long, and the air echoed with the sound of goat bells, but now it was almost time for the snow to come again and Ryan shivered at the prospect.
Still, the rain had departed and the morning was fresh and clear, if a little chill. Ryan had been dressed since the first grey fingers of light probed her bedroom curtains, but she had delayed the moment of going downstairs and confronting Alain de Beaunes. The evening before had a curiously unreal quality about it, and although she had slept almost as soon as her head touched the pillow, she had been awake early, lying staring into the darkness, trying not to feel afraid of the future.
But it was impossible for her not to do so. The idea of marrying a man she had known little more than a week was a terrifying prospect, particularly as that man inspired no confidence inside her. He was so much older, so much more experienced, so big and powerful, so much a man in every sense of the word. She had seen the broad strength of his shoulders, the hair-covered skin of his chest which narrowed to a flat stomach, the muscles bulging against the taut cloth which covered his thighs; how could she believe him when he said theirs would be a marriage of convenience only, that he had no interest in her? Once they were married, she would have no defence against him except his word.
A disturbing shivering sensation ran down her spine and into her legs. Married! Married to Alain de Beaunes! She would be Ryan de Beaunes; Ryan Ferrier, no longer. It was an incredible prospect!
The church bells were ringing out the hour and she glanced automatically at her watch. It was nine o’clock. She would have to go downstairs and face her future husband. She caught her breath on a gulp. If it was not so deadly serious, it would be laughable.
A slim figure in denim jeans and a chunky green sweater, her chestnut dark hair confined with an elastic band, she descended the winding staircase and reached the panelled hall. A smell of freshly ground coffee emanated from the direction of the kitchen, and Ryan’s spirits rose when she thought that perhaps Berthe had returned.
But when she opened the kitchen door, it was not the plump housekeeper who was bending over the fire, but Alain de Beaunes, his tanned skin contrasting sharply with the curious lightness of his hair. Dressed in close-fitting corded pants and a thick black sweater, his trousers pushed into tall black boots, he had obviously been outside, and he exuded an aura of virile good health.
‘Good morning, Ryan,’ he greeted her easily, as though nothing had changed since the previous day. ‘I was just about to bring you some coffee upstairs.’
Ryan closed the door and leaned back against it. ‘That wasn’t necessary,’ she managed, picturing her own alarm at the image of him entering her bedroom. He would dwarf its less than generous proportions.
He shrugged, and indicated the percolator on the stove. ‘Help yourself,’ he directed. ‘I am afraid there is no fresh bread, but perhaps tomorrow …’
Ryan crossed the room rather awkwardly, and reaching down a mug from the dresser poured some of the strongly flavoured liquid into it. She added cream and sugar and stood cradling the cup in her two hands, watching him adding wood to the already blazing logs. Then she licked her lips and said: ‘When is Berthe coming back?’
Alain straightened and looked round at her, brushing his palms over the seat of his pants. ‘Berthe is not coming back,’ he replied flatly.
Ryan’s eyes were wide. ‘Not – coming – back?’ she faltered.
‘No.’ Alain lifted his shoulders expressively. ‘Berthe stayed because of your father. Now there is to be another mistress in the house, she has left.’
Ryan’s cheeks coloured. ‘But – but that’s not necessary.’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘No.’ Ryan spread an expressive hand. ‘Who – who will do all the cooking here – the cleaning – looking after the animals?’ Then at the mocking look in his eyes, she uttered an exclamation of protest. ‘Not me!’
‘Why not you? What do you intend to do all day?’
Ryan sought for words, swallowing some of the coffee as though its bitterness might sharpen her means of retaliation. ‘I – I – I’m not a housekeeper!’
‘What are you, then? Or rather, what do you intend to be?’
Ryan’s brows drew together. ‘I – I’m a librarian—’
‘There are no libraries in Bellaise.’
‘I could do other work – other office work—’
‘For whom? I know – you may take charge of the book-keeping which up till now I have dealt with myself.’
Ryan bent her head. ‘You don’t understand—’
‘On the contrary, Ryan, it is you who do not understand.’ He felt about in his pockets and drew out a case of narrow cheroots. He put one between his teeth, and as he lighted it with a spill from the fire, he went on: ‘Let me tell you something, may I?’ He did not wait for her acquiescence, but continued: ‘You have a lot to learn, Ryan. Oh, I know your father has shown you the vineyards, taken you down to the cellars, and introduced you to the men who work for us. But as yet, you know nothing of our life here. Ours is a small vineyard. We produce less than two hundred cases of wine every year. But we like to think that what we do produce is good, very good. Our wine is comparatively unknown as yet. It is drunk locally, in the hotels and restaurants of the tourist resorts, but we do not make a lot of money. We do not compare to the great wine-producing chateaux of Bordeaux and Burgundy. In consequence, our life is quite simple. We do not waste money employing housekeepers when the mistress of the house is perfectly capable of running her own establishment,