She could cope in the daytime, becoming immersed in preparations for the party, from sending out the invitations—and being astounded at the acceptance rate—to even more practical matters such as helping to wash by hand the array of exquisite eighteenth-century porcelain plates and dishes and amazing sets of crystal which Gaston had reverently produced from a cupboard, to cleaning the elaborate silver candelabra which would stand down the centre of the long table in the hall.
And in the past twenty-four hours, she’d become Madame’s kitchen assistant, helping prepare the fragrant hams, joints of beef, turkeys and game to be consumed by the guests.
Moreover, Madame’s brother-in-law, a keen fisherman, had promised to supply enough perch and pike for a massive and traditional fish stew.
‘And I shall show you, mon enfant, how to make jambon persille,’ Madame promised, referring with a satisfied nod to the famous Burgundian dish, resembling a mosaic of ham, shallots, garlic, wine and parsley.
The Baron, who had overheard, was amused. ‘Clothilde guards her recipes with care, mademoiselle. You are honoured. Clearly you have the makings of a serious cook.’
Who will probably be living out of a microwave in the months to come, Ginny thought, murmuring an appropriate response.
And who was most certainly not the flavour of the month in another quarter.
* * *
Monique Chaloux’s face had turned to stone when she’d arrived to find a computer engineer replacing the current system with a panoply of new hardware and software, and she had protested vigorously than it was an unnecessary expense, shooting a look at Ginny that spoke daggers.
But the Baron, having taken delivery of the latest thing in laptops for his personal use, was bullish about his decision, telling her that the real expense would be to lag behind their competitors. Adding blandly, to Ginny’s horror, that if Monique had problems using the software, she could always ask Mademoiselle Mason for her assistance, as he intended to do.
‘But that is hardly fair,’ Mademoiselle had said smoothly. ‘To intrude on what remains of her time with us with such mundane matters.’
‘On the contrary,’ Ginny returned quietly. ‘Monsieur le Baron knows I am happy to help. In this small way, to repay the kindness I’ve been shown here.’
And tried to pretend she had not seen Andre’s ironic glance.
She had not intended to be at the party for all kinds of reasons, one being that she had no suitable outfit, and had planned to invent some illness, minor but enough to confine her to her room, on the day itself.
But Madame Rameau had removed one major obstacle by demanding to know what she intended to wear during one of their shopping expeditions, dismissing her faltering reply, and conducting her forthwith to a small shop in a side street, where, Ginny noticed with alarm, the window held just one silk blouse in an exquisite mélange of rainbow colours.
Inside, the proprietress, stunningly chic in grey, had looked her over, nodded and produced a whole armful of evening wear for her to try, in spite of Ginny’s uneasy conviction that the price of anything on offer would easily exceed her modest resources.
There were two dresses, however, that immediately attracted her, a full length, long-sleeved ivory silk in Empire style, which she put aside with a pang of regret as altogether too bridal, and a gorgeous black taffeta, with a full skirt reaching just below the knee and a deep square neck against which her skin seemed to glow like pearl.
She couldn’t see a price label anywhere, but when she asked diffidently about the cost, she found to her astonishment that it was half what she’d have expected, and therefore —just—affordable, especially as she already possessed an almost new pair of high-heeled black shoes.
Within minutes, the transaction was done and she was watching the taffeta dress being swathed in tissue paper and laid reverently in a blue and silver striped box tied up with ribbons.
As she carried it through the market, she’d felt momentarily like Cinderella, a dream soon shattered by the sound of Madame scolding a stallholder over the price of leeks.
A much needed reality check, she thought ruefully now, as she climbed the final slope to the gates of the château, and one that she’d returned to over and over again in the days which followed.
She went in the back door and into the kitchen, where Jules was standing talking to his aunt. And just beyond them, lying on the kitchen table, Ginny saw two rabbits.
‘Bonjour, mademoiselle. Ça va?’ Jules greeted her cheerfully. He gestured at the rabbits. ‘Tonight Tante Clothilde will cook them for you in her special mustard sauce.’ He kissed his fingertips. ‘Formidable.’