Unwelcome Invader. Angela Devine

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      ‘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 Marc. ‘But the real test is with the wine. Tell me what you think of this.’

      He fetched a decanter from the sideboard and poured a small quantity of purplish-red liquid into the bottom of Jane’s crystal wine glass. She raised it to her nose, inhaled, swirled and then drank.

      ‘It’s magnificent!’ she said. ‘Very rich and well-balanced, with a lace-like finesse and incredible ripe fruit aromas.’

      ‘Quite right,’ he agreed. ‘You’ve learned a lot in France.’

      Jane helped herself to a substantial serving of the stew, accompanied by waxy new potatoes and carrots in a herb butter. For the moment she had almost forgotten her dislike and distrust of Marc Le Rossignol.

      ‘Oh, I did,’ she agreed eagerly. ‘It’s an amazing place; there’s so much skill, so much dedication, so much tradition. The French winemakers are wonderful.’

      ‘Ah, yes. But where there is appreciation there must also be a faculty for criticism,’ said Marc. ‘What did you find to criticise there?’

      ‘Well——’ said Jane doubtfully.

      ‘Please, don’t spare my feelings. Be perfectly frank with me.’

      ‘Perhaps too much emphasis on tradition,’ she said. ‘Sometimes they seem a little hidebound, unwilling to try new things.’

      ‘I couldn’t agree with you more. Australian wine-makers are often more adventurous, more willing to use new technology. I think Australia is a very exciting place at the moment for anyone seriously interested in wine. That’s why I’m here.’

      Jane put down her fork and gave him a troubled look.

      ‘Why are you here?’ she demanded bluntly.

      With another of his mocking smiles, Marc changed the subject.

      ‘Are you fond of cooking?’ he asked.

      Jane was annoyed but decided not to pursue the subject further, at least for the moment. Yet all her initial dislike of Marc Le Rossignol came surging back at full strength. During the remainder of the meal she confined herself to terse replies to his questions. Her only weak moment came when Marc produced a pear and brown sugar tart that was so good she had to acknowledge it.

      ‘That was superb,’ she said grudgingly. ‘Can you always produce a three-course meal at a moment’s notice?’

      Marc smiled.

      ‘Usually,’ he agreed. ‘I’m fond of good food and fortunately I had some substantial leftovers from last night’s meal. Also fortunately, I was too busy to eat anything much earlier this evening.’

      ‘Too busy doing what?’ asked Jane.

      Their eyes met.

      ‘You’ve bathed, you’ve eaten,’ said Marc, as if he were a doctor assessing a patient’s progress. ‘I think perhaps you’re ready to face the truth now. Come into the sitting-room and we’ll have our little discussion.’

      Hardly able to contain her alarm, Jane followed him into the sitting-room next door. There was a fire burning in the fireplace and the room seemed comfortably inviting with its smell of lemon furniture polish, woodsmoke and old leather couches. There were no curtains but cedar shutters kept out the chill night air, and the faded Persian rug on the floor, with its now dim patterns of scarlet and royal blue, looked reassuringly familiar. The grandfather clock in the hall ticked stoically and then struck once with a reverberating boom as Jane lowered herself into a comfortable chintz armchair by the fire. One a.m. Somehow the sound had an oddly sinister ring, as if it heralded the end of everything she had ever known and loved, as if this man had come like some dangerous enchanter to change her world forever. A feeling of growing alarm clamoured inside her.

      ‘What are you doing here?’ she burst out. ‘Why have you taken over my home?’

      ‘It’s very simple,’ said Marc, standing with one arm draped along the mantelpiece. ‘You really are Colin West’s daughter, aren’t you?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Well, I can’t imagine why your father hasn’t told you this, but it seems I must be the one to do so. There have been some big changes here. In the first place your father has sold off all his sheep. Secondly…’ He paused.

      ‘Secondly?’ prompted Jane with an ominous sense of misgiving.

      ‘I have leased this property from СКАЧАТЬ