wine should be treated with the greatest possible care. You’ll have to stick to fifteen miles an hour on your way back.’
Lunch was a lengthy affair, served in a handsome panelled dining room overlooking sloping vineyards which stretched away into the distance. Miles was greeted warmly by Baroness Marie-Christine de Rochemort, Yves’ very aristocratic mother. She walked slowly, in obvious pain, leaning heavily on her son’s arm and a stick, though she didn’t seem particularly old.
‘Arthritis,’ whispered Corinne as they followed her and Yves to the table. ‘She doesn’t like to talk about it.’
Perhaps it was this hint, or more likely the effect of the wines he had already tasted, that brought Miles’ powers of entertainment to the fore. Marie-Christine soon extracted his life story, and even Yves managed to show some interest in his army career, although often his eyes focused mournfully on the seat Yolande usually occupied when at home.
‘Do you know, I’ve never spoken such fluent French in my life before?’ said Miles, as the meal drew to a close. ‘It must be this superb cooking,’ he glanced across the table at Corinne and the baroness, ‘and the delightful company.’
Marie-Christine smiled. ‘I know whose beaux yeux have improved your French. Not that she’ll let you say such a thing.’
Yves sensed Corinne’s embarrassment and quickly switched the subject to the Range Rover, since he was thinking of buying one. It was a good move, and within a few minutes he and Miles left the room so its finer points could be demonstrated.
‘I’m afraid he’s suffering terribly,’ said his mother when they had gone, ‘but he won’t talk about it. Where is Yolande, exactly?’
‘In Dorset – with our grandparents.’
‘Ah yes – at their country house? I stayed there years ago with your mother. We had a great time.’ She paused, her fingers tracing the carved head of her stick, then fixed fierce blue eyes on Corinne. ‘Has she taken that actor with her?’
‘Yes.’
‘So it’s serious. I thought she’d come back to Yves but … oh well. He’s so reserved, that’s the trouble.’
Corinne didn’t know what to say and twirled her wine glass absentmindedly.
‘She’ll regret it, Corinne,’ continued Marie-Christine. ‘I know she will. Yves would give her anything she wanted. He adores her. This Patrick sounds like a gold digger.’
‘You’ve made enquiries?’
‘Naturally. My son’s happiness is at stake. But what’s the use?’ She shrugged her shoulders resignedly. ‘No one seems to know where Patrick Dubuisson comes from. I suppose it’s his real name?’
‘I hadn’t really thought about it.’
The baroness was astonished. ‘Just like your father! Never thinking people might do you harm. Look how he was caught off guard when Philippe sold his shares in Marchand.’
Corinne’s heart lurched. It had all happened only a fortnight after Philippe had asked her to move in with him. But he had left without explanation, without even saying goodbye. It had been a painful episode for them all.
‘Have you heard from Philippe lately?’
‘Not for several months,’ replied Marie-Christine, her expression betraying her pain. ‘The last postcard was from California. Does it still hurt?’
‘It annoys me when I realise how naïve I was.’
Corinne sounded braver than she felt. Oh yes, it hurt like hell. More than anyone would ever guess. But the baroness was ill, and she too had suffered a great deal because of Philippe. It wasn’t fair to burden her with additional misery, particularly now Yves was clearly causing her concern.
‘Well you’ll never be short of men, anyway,’ said Marie-Christine with a smile.
‘I’m not interested – which is a good thing, as I simply don’t have time for a boyfriend.’
‘Corinne! Really . What about Miles – didn’t you invite him to lunch on a whim? I must say, I admire your taste. You’ve made a conquest,
Lunch was a lengthy affair, served in a handsome panelled dining room overlooking sloping vineyards which stretched away into the distance. Miles was greeted warmly by Baroness Marie-Christine de Rochemort, Yves’ very aristocratic mother. She walked slowly, in obvious pain, leaning heavily on her son’s arm and a stick, though she didn’t seem particularly old.
‘Arthritis,’ whispered Corinne as they followed her and Yves to the table. ‘She doesn’t like to talk about it.’
Perhaps it was this hint, or more likely the effect of the wines he had already tasted, that brought Miles’ powers of entertainment to the fore. Marie-Christine soon extracted his life story, and even Yves managed to show some interest in his army career, although often his eyes focused mournfully on the seat Yolande usually occupied when at home.
‘Do you know, I’ve never spoken such fluent French in my life before?’ said Miles, as the meal drew to a close. ‘It must be this superb cooking,’ he glanced across the table at Corinne and the baroness, ‘and the delightful company.’
Marie-Christine smiled. ‘I know whose beaux yeux have improved your French. Not that she’ll let you say such a thing.’
Yves sensed Corinne’s embarrassment and quickly switched the subject to the Range Rover, since he was thinking of buying one. It was a good move, and within a few minutes he and Miles left the room so its finer points could be demonstrated.
‘I’m afraid he’s suffering terribly,’ said his mother when they had gone, ‘but he won’t talk about it. Where is Yolande, exactly?’
‘In Dorset – with our grandparents.’
‘Ah yes – at their country house? I stayed there years ago with your mother. We had a great time.’ She paused, her fingers tracing the carved head of her stick, then fixed fierce blue eyes on Corinne. ‘Has she taken that actor with her?’
‘Yes.’
‘So it’s serious. I thought she’d come back to Yves but … oh well. He’s so reserved, that’s the trouble.’
Corinne didn’t know what to say and twirled her wine glass absentmindedly.
‘She’ll regret it, Corinne,’ continued Marie-Christine. ‘I know she will. Yves would give her anything she wanted. He adores her. This Patrick sounds like a gold digger.’
‘You’ve made enquiries?’
‘Naturally. My son’s happiness is at stake. But what’s the use?’ She shrugged her shoulders resignedly. ‘No one seems to know where Patrick Dubuisson comes from. I suppose it’s his real name?’
‘I hadn’t really thought about it.’
The baroness was astonished. ‘Just like your father! Never thinking people might do you harm. Look how he was caught off guard when Philippe sold his shares in Marchand.’
Corinne’s heart lurched. It had all happened only a fortnight after Philippe had asked her to move in with him. But he had left without explanation, without even saying goodbye. It had been a painful episode for them all.
‘Have you heard from Philippe lately?’
‘Not for several months,’ replied Marie-Christine, her expression betraying her pain. ‘The last postcard was from California. Does it still hurt?’
‘It annoys me when I realise how naïve I was.’
Corinne sounded braver than she felt. Oh yes, it hurt like hell. More than anyone would ever guess. But the baroness was ill, and she too had suffered a great deal because of Philippe. It wasn’t fair to burden her with additional misery, particularly now Yves was clearly causing her concern.
‘Well you’ll never be short of men, anyway,’ said Marie-Christine with a smile.
‘I’m not interested – which is a good thing, as I simply don’t have time for a boyfriend.’
‘Corinne! Really . What about Miles – didn’t you invite him to lunch on a whim? I must say, I admire your taste. You’ve made a conquest,
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