Angela Devine - Unwelcome Invader

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 him with an option to purchase at any time during the next three months.’

Jane gasped as the implications of his words slowly sank in.

‘You mean…you could buy this place any time you want to in the next three months?’

‘Exactly,’ agreed Marc.

For a moment Jane was shocked speechless.

‘The house? The vineyards? The outhouses…everything?’ she stammered at last.

‘Everything,’ he agreed gravely.

Suddenly Jane’s disbelief was replaced by anger-hot and rich and murderous.

‘But that’s ridiculous!’ she cried wildly, jumping to her feet. ‘This has been my home ever since I was born. And the vineyards, the winemaking plant…’ Her voice broke. ‘What happens to those?’

Marc’s face was inscrutable. With the firelight leaping over his features he looked uncannily like some stage demon.

‘All fixed property is included in the sale,’ he said in measured tones. ‘Naturally that means all of the vineyards and most of the winemaking plant. Movable property may be taken with you, but that won’t be much. Only the wine collection, the empty barrels, the ladders, buckets, a few pruning shears. The rest will all be mine if I decide to go ahead with the purchase.’

Jane stumbled desperately across the room, hot tears stinging behind her eyes, then she turned on him like an animal at bay.

‘That’s impossible! I was the one who put up the money for most of this. I had a legacy from my grandmother and I spent every cent of it on this place. My father can’t just sell it behind my back without my approval!’

Marc shrugged. His voice was very calm and cool and seemed to come from a great distance.

‘I checked the legal details very carefully before I entered into this contract. I always do. There is no doubt that your father is the legal owner of this property, nor that it is unencumbered by any mortgages. These payments you say you made on the vineyards, the wine plant…have you any proof of this?’

Jane was furious at his sceptical tone.

‘I don’t just say I made the payments!’ she shouted. ‘I did make them!’

Marc’s voice continued relentlessly, as if he had scarcely heard her impassioned interruption.

‘No doubt you have documents to prove this?’

Jane’s head swam with exhaustion and disbelief.

‘Yes. No. Not exactly. After I inherited the money from my grandmother my father persuaded me to form a company. It was all terribly complicated.’

‘Not Saddler’s Vineyards Limited, by any chance?’ asked Marc in a hushed voice.

‘Yes,’ said Jane uneasily.

‘Parbleu !’ exclaimed Marc, leaving his place by the mantelpiece and crossing the room to her. ‘I’m extremely sorry for you, Jane. It seems to me that your father has…what’s the expression you Australians use?…sold you down the river. I’ve seen the documents governing the formation of that company. Your father is chief managing director and has a controlling interest in it. You were a very foolish girl to hand over control of your assets to another person in such a manner. What possessed you to do such a thing?’

Jane’s head came up and her eyes blazed. Her blonde hair seemed to crackle around her shoulders with a life of its own.

‘Because I trusted him!’ she cried. ‘OK? I trusted him! He’s my father, for heaven’s sake. He wouldn’t do a thing like this to me.’

‘Wouldn’t he?’ asked Marc quietly.

With a low groan Jane crossed to the fireplace and stood staring unseeingly into the leaping flames. Certain bitter memories of her mother came back to her.

‘Maybe he would,’ she admitted at last in a defeated voice. ‘Oh, not deliberately, I suppose. He’d feel certain that he was doing the right thing and he’d excuse it to himself somehow. Tell himself that he was going to make huge profits for me by putting it into some harebrained scheme of his own. My mother always complained that he ran through all her money before they split up. I used to think it was just bitterness, but now I’m not sure…Are you telling me that I’m financially ruined?’