Come The Vintage. Anne Mather
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