Читать книгу Come The Vintage - Anne Mather, Anne Mather - Страница 7

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If the furniture – the iron-posted bedstead, the heavy tallboy, the mahogany wardrobe and dressing table, were a little outdated, they nevertheless shone from frequent polishings, and the room smelt sweetly of freshly laundered sheets and bees-wax.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, do I make myself clear?’

‘But I’ve never – I wouldn’t know how—’

‘You will learn. I will employ a young girl from the village to help you with the heavy tasks, but you will find there is reward in knowing yourself capable of managing alone.’

Ryan finished her coffee and put the mug down heavily on the draining board. ‘You have it all worked out, haven’t you?’ she demanded bitterly. ‘When did you tell Berthe she would no longer be needed? As soon as my father was dead? Were you so sure I’d agree to your outrageous plans?’

‘They were not my plans, mademoiselle,’ he retorted, and his voice had cooled perceptibly. ‘I suggest you stop feeling sorry for yourself and start appreciating your good fortune!’

‘The good fortune of marrying you, monsieur?’ she taunted him insolently, and then felt an inward thrill of fear at the menacing darkening of his tawny eyes.

‘Have a care, little one,’ he said chillingly. ‘Once we are man and wife I will have certain rights where you are concerned. Do not tempt me to exert them.’

Ryan’s cheeks flamed now. ‘But you said—’

‘There are other rights beside the conjugal ones,’ he retorted swiftly. Then he made an impatient gesture. ‘But this is getting us nowhere. I suggest we stop this bickering and begin accepting that for both of us there will have to be – adjustments.’

‘Adjustments?’ Ryan felt stupidly near to tears. She knew whose the greater adjustment would be. Schooling her features, she nodded. ‘All right, all right. I suppose I have no choice, as I’m to be confined here …’

‘In what way confined?’ His voice was dangerously quiet.

Ryan spread her hands, unconsciously revealing her likeness to her father. ‘What else is there for me to do? There are no buses here. No trains that I can see. I can hardly walk to the nearest town, can I, and the village isn’t exactly huge!’

‘You don’t drive?’ It was more of a statement than a question. ‘No? Then I will teach you. There are two vehicles here – the station wagon, and a Landrover. You are welcome to use either of those when you have become proficient. Anciens is only twenty kilometres away. There are shops there, and a cinema. And a library, too, should you require one.’ This last was said with a reversion to his earlier mockery, but Ryan chose to ignore it.

‘Thank you.’

He inclined his head. ‘It is nothing. And now I suggest you help yourself to something to eat. Fatigue follows swiftly on the heels of malnutrition.’

Ryan shook her head. ‘I’m not hungry.’

‘You will be before the morning is over. I suggest you spend the time exploring your domain. The Abbé Maurice will no doubt join us for lunch. Perhaps you should be considering what you are going to offer him.’

Ryan stared at him in horror. ‘You – expect me to provide a meal?’

Alain walked towards the kitchen door and picked up a black leather coat he had thrown ready for use over the back of a chair. ‘I have to go into Bellaise to see Gilbert Chauvin. I expect to be back soon after one o’clock. You will find the larder is well stocked, and there is a deep-freeze in the storeroom. Berthe was a careful housekeeper. I do not think you will be disappointed. Do not trouble to enter the cellar. I myself will choose the wine when I return.’

‘But—’ Ryan took a step towards him. ‘I mean, I’ve never served a meal before!’

Alain opened the door, and stood regarding her with scarcely-concealed amusement. ‘There is always a first time for everything, little one. Adieu – and good luck!’

Ryan stood motionless as the door closed behind him, and after a few moments she heard the station wagon’s engine roar to life. She hurried to the window as the tyres crunched over the cobbles of the yard, but he did not turn to look at her as the vehicle drove between the gateposts and disappeared down the track towards the village.

She told herself she was glad to see him go, but with his departure the house seemed suddenly very empty, and very isolated. For a girl who all her life had been spared the drudgery of housework, it seemed there was a tremendous amount to learn, and she hadn’t the first idea where to start.

Remembering that someone had once told her that the best way to clean a house was from the top down, she looked doubtfully towards the door which led into the hall. The bedrooms, she supposed, were the place she should begin. But where was Alain de Beaunes’ bedroom, and was she expected to make his bed?

Shaking her head, as if to shake away the sense of bewilderment and confusion that filled it, she walked purposefully into the hall and up the stairs. The first landing, where her room was situated, presented what seemed to be an alarming amount of doors to her inexperienced eye. But after discovering broom cupboards, and airing cupboards, and renewing her acquaintance with the rather antiquated bathroom, she discovered that there were only four bedrooms to cope with. The room which had been her father’s offered an air of melancholy which she was little prepared to bear in her emotional state, and she quickly closed the door again, promising herself that she would go through his things fully when time had dulled perception. Apart from her own room, there only were two other rooms, one of which was dust-sheeted, and the other was Alain de Beaunes’.

She hesitated before entering his bedroom, but then pushed away her feelings of distaste. After all, once they were married she would have to get used to caring for his clothes, washing his linen, making his bed. All the same, she felt somewhat of an intruder as she hung his bathrobe on the hook behind the door, straightened the tumbled pillows and smoothed the sheets of the bed. There were no pyjamas lying about, and she assumed he must have folded them away into a drawer. It was an odd thing for him to have done, but it was not up to her to question his actions.

When the bed was made and the coverlet had been neatly spread, she looked round with reluctant curiosity. What was there here to indicate what manner of man he was? A bookcase beside the bed revealed a selection of theses on viticulture, books on economics and the geology of the Rhone basin, and a couple of novels, which Ryan herself would not have been opposed to reading. A bedside cabinet supported a lamp and an alarm clock, but she respected his privacy sufficiently not to probe into its drawers and cupboard.

The furniture matched that in her own own room, although his bed was broader and longer, and looked rather more comfortable. On impulse, she opened the wardrobe door and looked at the clothes hanging inside. There were not many, obviously Alain de Beaunes did not pay a lot of attention to keeping up with current fashions, but as she closed the door again she had to concede that in his case clothes were merely a necessary covering and not something to accentuate his masculinity. His masculinity was in no doubt.

Realizing she was wasting time, she quickly left his bedroom, made her own bed and tidied her room, and then went downstairs again.

A mewing at the kitchen door admitted the huge tortoiseshell-coloured tabby which had occupied the settle by the fire until Berthe’s departure, and which Ryan had assumed belonged to her. But now the cat walked into the kitchen as though it owned the place, and ignoring Ryan completely took up its former position on the settle. Although piqued at its treatment of her, Ryan was almost glad of its company, and there was something reassuring about knowing it was there, relaxed and uncaring, licking its paws.

Her distraction had cost more time and her eyes sought the clock on the mantelshelf with some alarm. It was half past ten already. How long did meat take to cook, and what on earth was she to give them for lunch?

As she pushed the dirty dishes from the table into the sink, she reflected that Alain at least had had breakfast that morning. There was the sweet smell of conserve on his knife, and a thick slice had been cut from the crusty loaf that still resided on the table. A quick look round revealed a bread bin, and she stuffed the remains of the loaf inside, and closed the lid over the curls of butter in their dish. As she did so her own stomach gave a knowing little rumble, and she sighed. She ought to have something to eat. But time was precious, and she steeled herself against hunger.

The storeroom adjoined the kitchen. She had been in there once with Berthe and seen the sacks of salt and flour, the bins containing sugar and dried fruit, only then she had never dreamt that in so short a time she would have charge of the household.

The freezer revealed an impressive array of meat and vegetables. Obviously Berthe had frozen a store of greens for the coming winter, as well as bottling jams and chutneys and preserved fruits. It was alarming for Ryan to imagine herself coping so efficiently. She felt sure she would never do it.

Abandoning any ideas of producing a thoroughly continental meal such as Berthe might have provided, she took some steaks from the freezer and a jar of apricots in syrup from the shelf. The meat would need some time to thaw, and she put it on a plate on the draining board while she made an inspection of the kitchen cupboards. When the fire needed more logs, she smiled as the cat protested at the sparks which flew when she put on more wood.

With the dishes washed and draining, and the table clear for the first time since Berthe’s departure, Ryan began to feel she was making progress. As well as the huge kitchen, there were three other downstairs rooms, and she decided to inspect these, too. There was a dining-room, which was seldom if ever used, a parlour for sitting, which was treated with respect, and which Ryan privately thought was quite hideous with its stiff-backed chairs and antimacassars, fiddly little tables and unlikely ornaments, and the study which had been used equally by her father and Alain de Beaunes.

The study was obviously the most favoured room of the house. Its worn leather armchairs bore witness to frequent use, and it had a comfortable untidiness that went well with its atmosphere of pipe tobacco and good wine. Papers were strewn over the wide top of the desk, and the typewriter which was pushed to one side must have been a prototype of its kind. Ryan put in a sliver of scrap paper and pressed the keys and was pleasantly surprised at the result.

She sat in the chair behind the desk and studied the vintage charts which had been framed and hung on the wall opposite. The Ferrier vineyards were obviously improving, and the charts for the past five years showed a steady rise in ratings. She felt a stirring of compassion for her father that he should have died when things were going so well. But side by side with the Ferrier charts hung those for the Aubert vineyards. Their ratings were improving also, and seemed to prove that Alain de Beaunes had not been exaggerating when he spoke of her father’s rivalry with such forcefulness.

The emptiness in her stomach eventually reminded her that it was time she was preparing the meal. She could make herself some coffee while the steaks grilled, she thought, and sauter the vegetables for quickness.

But a shock awaited her when she returned to the kitchen. The huge tabby was licking her paws on the draining board, and the plate on which she had laid the steaks was empty.

Ryan was horrified. ‘Oh, cat!’ she exclaimed angrily, lifting the creature and dropping her unceremoniously on to the floor. ‘Oh, what am I going to do now?’

Knowing she had no time to ponder, she went back into the storeroom and took three more steaks from the freezer. Their coldness clung to her fingers and without stopping to consider the advisability of such a course, she plunged them into hot water, thawing them quickly. By the time the Abbé Maurice came tapping his walking stick at the kitchen door, the meat was under the grill and potatoes were frying appetizingly in the pan.

The old priest came in smiling warmly, obviously impressed by her activity. ‘I see you are going to make a good housekeeper, my child,’ he pronounced, sniffing the air appreciatively. ‘Alain has invited me for lunch. I trust that will not inconvenience you.’

‘Oh, no!’ Ryan’s cheeks were flushed from the heat of the stove, but she felt rather sick inside. She had still had nothing to eat, and her exertions were beginning to tell. ‘Won’t you sit down, Father? Can I offer you something? Some coffee – or tea?’

The old priest was breathing rather heavily, and he sat down with obvious relief. ‘No, nothing just now, child,’ he refused politely, taking off his hat. ‘My, my,’ he patted his chest, ‘that walk up from the village gets steeper, I think.’

‘You’ve walked?’ Ryan was astonished. She hadn’t heard a car, but she had just assumed he had used one.

‘But of course. The exercise does me good. I must say, though, that after one of Berthe’s good lunches, I could not always walk back, even though it is downhill,’ he chuckled.

Ryan turned back to the stove. His words were rather unfortunate in the circumstances, but he was not to know that. And after all, steak and tomatoes and chips, followed by apricots and icecream, was not such a frugal repast. Perhaps she should have opened a tin of soup. She shrugged. Another day. Alain could think himself lucky he was getting any meal at all.

The station wagon roared into the yard about five minutes later, and Alain came in bringing a breath of cold frosty air with him. In his absence she had forgotten the overwhelming domination of his presence, and the penetration of those tawny cat’s eyes. He greeted the priest warmly, exchanged a glance with Ryan, and then bent to the cat who had leapt from her perch to rub herself lovingly against his booted legs.

‘Hey, Tabithe!’ he chided gently, his deep voice acquiring a disturbing tenderness Ryan had never heard before. ‘So you came back, did you? Have you been keeping our mistress company?’

Ryan lifted the potatoes into a serving dish, her hands trembling slightly. She was tempted to tell him exactly what kind of company the beastly creature had provided, but to do so would embarrass the Abbé, and she had no quarrel with him. All the same, she felt a faint resentment that her overtures towards the animal had been ignored, while Alain had only to appear for her to be caressing his legs with her sinuous body. But of course, she thought impatiently, the cat was a female, and had all the usual attraction towards the male. Obviously the creature did not regard the Abbé Maurice in his flowing robes in quite the same light.

The steak looked reassuringly good when it was served with sprigs of parsley, and Alain, who had been down to the cellar below the storeroom to fetch a bottle of wine for their delectation, stopped what he was doing to compliment her on its presentation. After a moment’s hesitation, she had decided to serve the meal in the kitchen, and obviously she had done the right thing. Had she not felt so unwell, she would have been almost satisfied with her morning’s work. However, the wine which Alain had uncorked and poured into her glass served to revive her.

‘Ah, but this is good,’ essayed the priest, nodding as he inhaled its bouquet. ‘What is it, Alain? Not the ‘68 or the ‘69? It cannot be the ‘66. No, I think perhaps it is a Beaujolais …’

Alain smiled, taking his seat at the head of the table, his fingers hiding the label on the bottle in his hand. ‘How astute, Father,’ he murmured humorously. He partially withdrew his fingers. ‘See – I will not tease you. It is from the Vosne-Romanée. But can you guess which it is?’

Abbé Maurice picked up the glass and inhaled again, his brows drawing together in perplexity. ‘You know I am no expert, Alain. A Burgundy is a Burgundy. I know what I like, and that is about all.’

Alain set the bottle down. ‘It is the Richebourg, see? The ‘61. A very special case which Ryan’s father had laid down for very special occasions.’

The priest surveyed them both expectantly. ‘And this is such an occasion, Alain?’

Alain’s eyes sought Ryan’s, but she looked away, unable to contemplate what he was about to say. ‘It is a special occasion, Father,’ he agreed. ‘Ryan and I are to be married, as soon as it can be arranged. Is that not so, Ryan?’

He was challenging her now. It was the moment of truth, and she was not prepared for it. ‘I – yes. Yes, I suppose so.’

The old Abbé beamed. ‘I could not be more pleased.’ He pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. ‘This calls for a toast, in this most excellent wine of the Côte de Nuits. I wish you every happiness, my children, and I drink to your future together.’

The priest insisted that they join in the toast, and he patted Alain on the shoulder and told Ryan that her father would have been so happy had he been alive to see this day. Alain had been like a son to him, he said, and it was always her father’s dearest wish that his two loved ones should meet.

Ryan couldn’t help thinking that had her father still been alive, this day would not have occurred. She wondered how much the priest had known of her father’s affairs, of the terms of his will, and decided he had probably been a witness to it. He obviously shared her father’s and Alain’s belief that marriage should first and foremost be treated as a business arrangement, but the cold-bloodedness of it, the calculating method of its inception, filled Ryan with despair.

Custom satisfied, they turned to the meal. Alain served the priest first, then Ryan, and finally himself. If he was surprised that Ryan would accept nothing more than a small steak and half a tomato, he made no comment, and for this she was thankful. But when she cut into the meat she found to her horror that although the outer casing was brown and smelt appetizing, inside the core was still hard and frozen.

She looked up aghast to find Alain and the priest eating silently, apparently unperturbed at the rawness of the meat, but her stomach revolted. What must they be thinking of her? she thought desperately. Were neither of them going to say anything? They must know she had not thawed it before cooking. They would think her an absolute idiot!

She pushed her plate aside, and waited for one of them to speak. But they said nothing, and she suddenly felt furiously angry. She didn’t want their pity, she didn’t want them to pretend to enjoy something so as not to hurt her feelings. It was too galling to contemplate!

Taking a deep breath, she burst out: ‘Don’t eat it! It’s horrible! It’s raw! The cat ate the meat I thawed, and I didn’t have time to thaw any more.’

Abbé Maurice lifted his head in an embarrassed way, and Alain regarded her steadily. ‘Don’t be silly, Ryan. I prefer my steak rare.’

‘There’s a difference between rare and raw!’ declared Ryan vehemently.

‘I tell you, it’s all right.’ Alain’s eyes had hardened slightly.

Ryan’s lips moved tremulously. ‘Well, I’m not going to eat it,’ she retorted, pushing back her chair and getting to her feet.

‘Where do you think you are going?’ demanded Alain, half rising also, but she didn’t reply, she merely shook her head and walked unsteadily to the door.

Somehow she made it to her room, closing the door and sinking down on the bed, tears probing hotly at her eyes. Her first meal and it was a disaster! She would never learned to cope as efficiently as Berthe.

The door opened on her misery and she looked up in amazement to see Alain de Beaunes blocking the doorway with his bulk. His eyes were dark and angry, and his mouth was a thin line in his tanned features. He came into the room and stood looking down at her coldly.

‘What do you think you are doing?’ he inquired tautly. ‘Is it your practice to abandon your guest half-way through the meal?’

‘He’s not my guest, he’s yours,’ she managed, biting her lips to stop them from trembling.

‘He is our guest,’ Alain corrected her shortly. ‘Stop behaving so childishly. So – the meat is not thoroughly cooked! No one expects you to produce a perfect meal at the first attempt.’

‘Oh, thank you. That’s very reassuring to know!’ she exclaimed with heavy sarcasm.

He thrust his hands into the hip pockets of his trousers, tautening the cloth across his thighs. ‘I make allowances for your immaturity, little cat. Be thankful that I do.’

Ryan turned her head away, her eyes smarting from tears suppressed. ‘I don’t remember inviting you into my room, monsieur. Aren’t you supposed to knock before entering a lady’s bedroom?’

The exclamation he made was half anger, half amusement. ‘You are determined to challenge me, are you not, little one?’ he commented quietly. Then he turned towards the door. ‘Very well. You have five minutes to tidy yourself, and then you will join the good Abbé and me for dessert. Do I make myself clear?’

Ryan turned to face him protestingly. ‘I don’t want anything else.’

‘Maybe not.’ His eyes assessed her in a way that caused the blood to quicken in her veins. ‘You had no breakfast, did you? In spite of what I said. Your colour is high at the moment, but underneath you are pale. It is food you require, little one. Perhaps not the steak, I admit, but maybe some soup would not come amiss, eh?’

Ryan’s stomach heaved restlessly. ‘There is no soup.’

‘There are tins. Even I am proficient with a tin opener.’ He paused in the doorway and looked back at her. ‘You are all right now?’

Ryan hesitated, and then she nodded. And she was. It was true. Although he had not sympathized with her, his quiet words had restored a little of her confidence. The knowledge surprised her.