Unwelcome Invader. Angela Devine
handed her a huge, fluffy white towel, a bath mat and a washcloth.
‘The bathroom is the second door on the left,’ he said.
‘I know where the bathroom is!’ flared Jane.
‘Of course, of course,’ he murmured in an amused voice. ‘Well, then, I’ll leave you to it while I go and heat up some food.’
Jane was quietly seething as she stalked into the bathroom and began to run hot water into the old claw-footed bath. How dared this stranger treat her like a guest in her own home? And what was he doing here? The questions buzzed in her head like a cloud of hornets, but the whole evening was beginning to take on a dreamy, surrealist air, like some sort of strange nightmare. Yet the clouds of steam rising from the bath and the fragrant horse-chestnut scent of Badedas were real enough, even if the tiled floor did seem to be undulating gently underneath her feet. With a wail of exhaustion Jane stamped out into the hall, snatched up the smaller of her two bags and retreated to the bathroom. As she locked the door, she wished she could just escape from the whole crazy predicament. All she wanted to do now was soak in the hot, foamy water, then dry off and stumble up to bed. Instead she had to try and clear her tired brain enough to go out and do battle with this extraordinary foreigner who seemed to have taken over her home.
Deliberately she kept him waiting, but the results were not helpful. She almost fell asleep in the soothing hot water and was roused from a drifting doze by a peremptory hammering on the door.
‘Have you drowned in there?’ demanded a deep, masculine voice. ‘Must I come in and rescue you? I can break the lock if you’re in difficulties.’
Alarmed at the threat, Jane scrambled out of the bath and began hastily to dress. Once she was dry she hesitated in front of the mirror, then wiped off the steamy glass with her towel and looked at herself critically. If she had been alone, she would have put on comfortable old pyjamas and some sheepskin boots. As it was, she paused indecisively. Should she put on an even older pair of clean jeans and a more ragged windcheater as an act of defiance, or dress up to the nines?
From childhood onwards Jane had always tried to tackle difficult situations by making sure that she looked her very, very best. Somehow it always helped to control those butterflies of insecurity in her stomach. But if she dressed nicely mightn’t this arrogant stranger think that she was trying to lead him on? She stared at herself in the mirror. Long, curly blonde hair, wide green eyes, heart-shaped face with a small pointy chin and a wide, defiant mouth.
‘Why should I care what he thinks?’ she demanded aloud. ‘I’ll wear whatever I like!’
Kneeling down, she unzipped her bag and took out clean underwear, tights, shoes and the one wild extravagance of her French trip—a dress of pale green clinging georgette, which clung to the curves of her body and made her look ten thousand times more sexy and sophisticated than she ever usually did. Jane scrambled into these clothes, brushed her hair, sprayed herself with Arpège, fastened a gold and pearl-drop necklace around her throat and applied a glossy scarlet lipstick to her lips. Then, squaring her shoulders and ready to do battle, she opened the bathroom door and charged.
‘Go into the dining-room,’ called a masculine voice, which was already beginning to be hatefully familiar. ‘I’ll be with you in a moment.’
Jane gasped as she entered the dining-room. The large cedar dining-table that she and her father only ever bothered to set for special occasions like Christmas dinner was covered with an exquisite lace tablecloth. At one end two places were set; candles burned in silver candelabra and their gentle, flickering light winked off crystal glasses, heavy silver cutlery and the best Wedgwood china. Mouthwatering scents drifted in from the kitchen. Some kind of delicious beef stew, with an undertone of other delights. Fresh bread and something fruity and spicy. An apple tart perhaps? Jane’s spirits revived magically. She might be small and even rather frail-looking, but she had a formidable appetite. Perhaps there was something to be said for having mad Frenchmen take over the house if they cooked like this!
A moment later the mad Frenchman entered the dining-room. He paused at the sight of Jane and a small, approving smile lit his face.
‘Very chic,’ he murmured. ‘I congratulate you, mademoiselle. I half expected you to appear looking like a grape-picker after the harvest.’
Jane flushed, torn between pleasure and annoyance.
‘Can I do anything to help in the kitchen?’ she asked.
‘But no, it is all organised. I had only to heat things up. Have a glass of sherry and I’ll bring in the soup.’
He moved across to the sideboard and turned back to look enquiringly at her as his hand hovered above the bottles.
‘A medium dry Reynella, please,’ she said.
‘A very good choice. I think I’ll join you. Now, please sit down at the table and we’ll eat.’
Jane sipped the pale, straw-coloured, nutty-flavoured liquid and stared wonderingly after Marc’s departing back as he vanished into the kitchen. Moments later he returned, first with a couple of hot bread rolls in a napkin and then with two bowls of clear soup.
‘Consommé Julienne,’ he announced, setting one down in front of her.
‘Bon appetit,’ said Jane automatically.
‘Ah, you speak French?’ asked Marc with interest.
‘Not really,’ she replied. ‘Certainly not fluently, but I’ve just spent six months in the Champagne district.’
‘Really? What were you doing there?’
‘Learning more about winemaking.’
‘And is this a hobby, or your profession?’
‘My profession,’ said Jane proudly.
‘You’ve trained in it?’
‘Yes. After I finished school I did a winemaking course in South Australia, worked for a year at Penfold’s and then came back here to Tasmania to try and start a family vineyard. That was five years ago.’
‘So it’s your hand that’s been at work planting the vines and setting up the equipment? Are you the one who masterminded the whole enterprise?’
‘Yes,’ agreed Jane with satisfaction. ‘I put in Riesling and Cabernet Shiraz vines several years ago. Since then I’ve planted and pruned and irrigated. It’s been hard work, although I’ve had some help from my father and from Charlie Kendall, who works for us. In fact, Charlie became so good at handling everything that I felt I could afford to go to France for six months to learn more about the trade.’
‘You’ve done well,’ said Marc. ‘It’s an impressive little operation, although it would have been wise to put more nets over the vines. It protects them from birds and prevents the risk of botrytis.’
‘You know about wines yourself, then?’ asked Jane, intrigued in spite of herself.
‘It’s in the blood,’ replied Marc. ‘My family have been winemakers near Bordeaux for the last five hundred years.’
‘Then what on earth are you doing here?’ demanded Jane in a baffled voice.
‘All in good time,’ he said, rising to his feet. ‘Have you finished your soup? May I take your bowl?’
After he had vanished into the kitchen again, Jane sipped her sherry and frowned thoughtfully. There was a mystery about Marc that intrigued her. Who was he? What was he doing here? If they had met in different circumstances, she might have found him fascinating. As it was, she felt very, very troubled and uneasy.
A moment later he returned and set a bubbling iron casserole on to a hot pad. Jane inhaled ecstatically, revelling in the mingled odours of stewed beef, red wine, bayleaf, black pepper.
‘Boeuf à la bourguignonne,’ she breathed.
‘Ah, your nose does not fail you,’ said