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TWELVE
Three days later. The Marina, 4pm
Millie found a comfortable spot on the stone parapet at the bottom of the garden. It overlooked the marina, where a single small yacht bobbed in the water next to the pier. She unslung the tote bag from her shoulder and found the packed picnic Joanie hadgiven her.
There was still a good hour till the old man had his dinner and needed her again. Enough time to eat and go through the second lesson in her online French course.
She’d been kept occupied for three days cataloguing papers and books for old Du Montfort. Typical man with a new toy. Having finally agreed to embrace the digital revolution, he now wanted everything scanned and saved electronically.
But whenever she had a few minutes alone, her thoughts would wander back, reliving her evening with George. And just like old Du Montfort, her memory re-examined and scanned over every part of that night.
She had seen an unexpected side of him when he’d apologized to her. Clearly he struggled with being wrong—that famous Du Montfort pride.
His anger when he’d talked about Henry—I could punch his lights out—was an odd flash of rage from an otherwise carefully controlled man. It gave her a thrill because it was about defending her. A delicious shiver ran through her whenever she remembered.
But her favourite was the moment he’d stood close behind her telling her about the stars. His voice had whispered, rich with love for La Canette, its dark sky, its legends and history. Something transformed him when he spoke about it, and he became a boy, eager to show off his beloved island. It impressed her far more than his money, his executive lawyer’s power and his ability to order dinnerin French.
Well, she had never turned away from a challenge. Next time—and something told her there would be a next time—she would do the ordering herself,in French.
Crunching on the apple, she pulled out her phone and went to her iTunes library for Lesson 2. She put her earphones in and listened. The course was brilliant, showing the learner how to find similarities between English and French and how to convert words correctly. Within three lessons, she could have 12,000 words andsentences.
It wasn’t difficult, but the French had an annoying habit of running all their words together. She mouthed the sounds to herself as she watched a boat on the pier; what she needed was someone to correct her accent and help her conversation. Joanie would be ideal, but Millie hadn’t found a chance to ask her.Maybe now, before Du Montfort needsme again.
Millie gathered her things and walked up tothe house.
And into a storm.
Du Montfort Hall. 5pm
Du Montfort’s voice from his usual sitting room upstairs was loud enough to rattle the windows. Other voices argued back, muffled through the ceiling. Her heart fell.What now?
Suddenly, there was a crash from above, and she raced up the stairs.
Nurse Ann was standing just through the double doors of Du Montfort’s room. She closed her eyes as Millie rushed down the gallery towards her. “Godhelp us.”
“What’s happened?” Millie asked.
Nurse Ann looked grim as she mouthed one word.“Joanie.”
“Oh no.” Millie put her face in her hands. Joanie had the least tolerance for the old man, which was why everyone kept the two away from each other.
Pushing past Nurse Ann into the room, the first thing she saw was Mrs B wiping some unrecognizable food stuff from the floor. A sausage lay on one of the shelves and dripped gravy on the rug. A closer look showed a splash of gravy across the bookshelves at the far end of the room. For a disabled man, Du Montfort’s one good arm could certainlythrow far.
The man himself was halfway through one of his tirades. “If you’re not going to learn English cooking, you should go back to that French colony and dance barefoot inthe souk.”
Joanie, tears streaming down her face, shouted back, “I would be happy just to get away from a racist tyrantlike you.”
“There you are!” Du Montfort saw Millie coming in. “Could you teach this Algerian bint the difference between toad-in-the-hole and African gumbo?”
“Gumbo is Cajun, not African,” Joanie snapped back. “You should go back to the coal mines in Lancashire. I am sure you can find someone to fry stale bread in lard for you. They can serve you cholesterol on a plate for all I care.”
Du Montfort ignored her. “Millie, please ask that controlling interfering son of mine to fire her and get me a proper cook?”
“I will save you the trouble.” Joanie turned on her heals and stormed out, “I resign.”
“Good riddance to bad rubbish,” he threw the wordsafter her.
