Come The Vintage. Anne Mather

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СКАЧАТЬ 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,’ СКАЧАТЬ