The logic of her argument hit hard. Although he knew she was exaggerating, there was the danger that she was right and his father might prefer the easy way of making money from the château rather than from the vines. Making champagne was going to take a while to become profitable. He knew he needed more than one year but it had been all he’d been able to bargain with his father.
‘I can’t stop the wedding,’ he said.
‘No, but you don’t have to make it too easy for them, do you? I hear there’s a problem with mice. I did tell the English girl. You might want to mention it again.’
Yvette was a piece of work, that was for sure. ‘I won’t tell any lies.’
She pursed her mouth in a tight, disapproving line. ‘Fine. It will be your loss.’
He watched her sashay back up the steps. He turned and glanced towards Hattie. She wasn’t the enemy but Yvette had a point – he didn’t want things to go too smoothly, no matter how much he liked her. And he did, he realised. He liked Hattie rather a lot. Perhaps he ought to back off a little.
Disappointment warred with relief when Luc didn’t return. At least she could regain her composure, thought Hattie as she dried off in the sunshine. Now the problem was what was she going to cook for dinner this evening. Luc had made it look so effortless and she found herself wanting to impress him.
She had her head in the fridge and was making disconsolate huffing noises as she studied various ingredients, when she realised that she wasn’t alone.
‘Is everything all right?’ asked Solange with one of her gentle smiles, materialising in her quiet way like a ghost. She stood by the sink, absently deadheading the little pot of African violets on the windowsill.
‘Yes. Just thinking about what I might cook for dinner,’ said Hattie, with a vague smile as if she were in total command of the situation. ‘Something simple.’ She glanced at the cookery books on the shelf. ‘I just need a bit of inspiration.’ Walking over to the shelf, she plucked one of the books, opened it and flicked through the pages. Everything was in bloody French. Of course it was. She was in France.
With an internal groan of despair, she put the book down, admitting to herself that she wanted to impress Luc this evening.
‘Do you have some onions?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you have butter and flour.’
Hattie nodded.
‘And there will be anchovies and olives in the cupboard.’
‘Will there?’ asked Hattie doubtfully.
Solange came over and patted her hand. ‘Always.’ She crossed to one of the tall larder cupboards and produced a short squat jar of anchovies and a tall thin jar of black olives. ‘You can make apissaladière.’
Her airy tone made Hattie laugh. ‘I could if I knew what one was, or how to cook it.’
Solange hesitated a moment. ‘I could … I could show you, if you would like me to, but, of course, I don’t want to interfere.’
Hattie was about to refuse because she didn’t want to trouble the other woman – there were eggs, she could always make an omelette with salad – hand-torn of course – but Solange’s diffidence made her stop. There was something in Solange’s stance, almost akin to a deer about to bolt, that made her want to accept the shy overture. That and desperation.
‘I would love it. If you don’t mind.’
‘I don’t mind. I used to love to cook but –’ she shrugged rather hopelessly ‘– not anymore.’
‘That’s a shame.’
Solange didn’t say anything, just picked at the cuff of her long-sleeved black dress, suddenly shy again.
‘So, pissalade.’
‘Pissaladière,’ corrected Solange.
‘Yes. That. What is it?’
Solange’s eyes crinkled. ‘It’s the most delicious tart made with caramelised onions. Their soft sweet flavour contrasts with the saltiness of the anchovies and black olives. And the wonderful thing is that it’s very easy to make.’ Solange was already rolling up her sleeves and for the first time Hattie saw real animation in the other woman’s face.
‘Okay, that sounds wonderful.’
