Inherited by Her Enemy

‘However, it doesn’t affect you,’ Ginny hastened to assure her. ‘Mr Charlton has made sure you’ll be taken care of.’

‘Now that I did know,’ Mrs Pelham said calmly. ‘He sat me down and talked it over with me two months since, and when Mr Hargreaves arrived, he gave me this letter with it all set out.’ She added with sudden fierceness, ‘He was a good man, the master, and I’ll never say otherwise, even if he didn’t always find the happiness he deserved.’

Ginny filled the kettle and set it on the big gas range. She said quietly, ‘Mrs Pel—have you any idea who Mr Duchard’s mother might have been?’

‘I can’t be certain, Miss Ginny.’ The housekeeper rose stiffly and began to assemble cups and saucers on a tray. ‘But I remember Linnet Farrell, the late Mrs Charlton’s companion. Here for a year she was, then one day she was gone, to nurse her sick mother it was said. Except she’d told me once that her parents were dead.’

Ginny retrieved the milk from the fridge and filled a jug. ‘What was she like?’

‘Not much in the way of looks,’ said Mrs Pelham. ‘But there was a sweetness about her just the same, and she made the house a brighter place. And Mrs Josie took to her too, for a wonder.’

Ginny said slowly, ‘I gather she was an invalid.’

‘Nerves,’ said Mrs Pelham. ‘And disappointment. That’s what it was at the start. She wanted a baby, you see, and it didn’t happen. Three miscarriages, all at four months, in as many years, and the doctors warning her she’d never carry a child full-term. She got into one of those depressions. Ended up in a nursing home, more than once.’

She sighed, ‘And when she was back at home, she spent all her time in bed, or lying on a couch. And poor Mr Charlton having to sleep in another room, as well.’

She lowered her voice. ‘I’m sure she loved him, but I don’t think she was very keen on married life, as it were. Not unless there was going to be a baby to make it worthwhile. But a man wouldn’t see it like that.’

No.’ Ginny emptied sugar into a bowl. ‘I—I don’t suppose he would.’

‘And suddenly there was this kind, warm-hearted girl living in the house, and he was an attractive man when he was younger. Not that I ever saw anything untoward, mind you,’ she added hastily. ‘And Linnet was good for Mrs Josie. Got her out and about, driving her car, and even doing some gardening.

‘But one day she just upped and left. Came in the kitchen to say goodbye, and it was plain she’d been crying.’ She sighed again. ‘And later on, Mrs Josie really did become ill, poor soul, with Parkinson’s disease, and Mr Charlton was as good to her as any husband could be, and enough said.’

She nodded with a kind of finality then glanced at the Aga. ‘And that kettle’s boiling, Miss Ginny.’

Ginny’s mind was whirling as she carried the tray into the study, but the torrent of grievance which greeted her soon brought her back to earth.

‘Well, at least you’ve got this annuity thing, Mother,’ Cilla was saying furiously. ‘Whereas he didn’t leave me a penny, the old skinflint.’

Ginny put the tray on the desk. She said mildly, ‘Perhaps he thought it was unnecessary, as you’re marrying into one of the richest families in the county.’

Cilla turned on her. ‘And you’re getting nothing too, so all that trying to wheedle your way into his good books was a waste of time. You’re going to be worse off than any of us,’ she added almost triumphantly.

‘So it would seem,’ Ginny agreed, sounding more cheerful than she felt, as she poured the tea. ‘But please don’t worry about it.’

‘I’m not,’ her sister said sulkily. ‘I just want to know how we’re going to pay for my wedding. Mother, you’ll have to talk to Mr Hargreaves. Get some more money out of him somehow.’

As Ginny poured out the tea, she noticed something. ‘Where’s Barney?’

‘I put him outside,’ said her mother. ‘I couldn’t bear him in the room a moment longer,’ she added, fanning herself with her handkerchief.

Ginny put down the pot. ‘You do realise he might have wandered off?’

‘What if he has? I told you I’m getting rid of him.’

‘You can’t do that,’ Ginny flung over her shoulder as she headed for the door. ‘Like everything else in this house, he probably belongs to Monsieur Duchard. And he’s a valuable dog.’

She huddled on her quilted jacket, pulled on her Wellington boots and grabbed a leash and a torch from the shelf in the boot room before letting herself out through the back door. The temperature outside wasn’t much above freezing, and she could see her breath like a cloud in front of her as she skirted the house, softly calling Barney’s name, hoping he would be waiting anxiously on the terrace for readmission.

But there was no sign of him. Biting her lip, she went round to the side gate, left carelessly open, probably by the departing Mavis, and stepped out on to the lane leading to the common.

As she walked, she called again, sweeping the area with her torch, knowing that he could be anywhere. As she reached the edge of the common, she took a deep breath then gave three soft whistles as Andrew used to do.

In the distance, there was an answering bark and a moment later, Barney came loping into view, tail wagging and tongue hanging out.

‘Good boy,’ Ginny said, sighing with relief as she attached the leash to his collar, but as she turned back towards the house, he resisted, standing stock still, staring back the way he’d come, and whimpering softly and excitedly.

As if, she thought, he was waiting for someone. She raised the torch, aiming the beam across the scrubby grass and clumps of gorse. She said sharply, ‘Who’s there?’

But there was no reply or sign of movement, and after a moment or two, Barney came out of alert mode and turned obediently for home.

You, my girl, she told herself grimly, had better stop being over-imaginative and get down to practicalities—like where you’ll go, and how the hell you’ll earn your living.

And, as she trudged back to the house, she found herself wishing, with a kind of bitter despair, that she’d never heard the name of Andre Duchard. Or, better still, that he’d never been born.

CHAPTER TWO

WHEN GINNY GOT back to the house, she found her mother alone in the drawing room.

She said, ‘Where’s Cilla?’

‘Off to the Manor to consult Jonathan about this appalling situation.’

‘In what way—consult?’

‘How we can fight this fraudulent will, of course,’ said Rosina, the ominous throb returning to her voice. ‘Oh, I can hardly bear to think of Andrew—his deceit—his betrayal of me. Of our love.’

She shook her head. ‘To have had a son—in secret—all these years, and said nothing to me—his wife. It beggars belief. It makes me almost wish...’

She broke off abruptly. ‘Get me a brandy, Virginia. A large one. I need something to settle my nerves.’

As Ginny busied herself with the decanter on a side table, Rosina added abruptly, ‘You’re so fortunate not to suffer in this way. Cilla and I are so sensitive, but nothing ever seems to affect you.’

‘That’s not true,’ Ginny said quietly, as she brought her mother the brandy. ‘But I don’t see any mileage in fussing over things I can’t change.’

‘But if we all stand together...’

‘We could end up looking grasping and silly.’

‘You might change your tune if you were the one faced with penury.’

If only you knew, Ginny thought bitterly. Aloud, she said mildly, ‘It’s hardly that, Mother. Whole families have to manage on much less.’ She paused. ‘Why don’t we go over tomorrow and have a look at the cottage? It may not be as bad as you think.’

Rosina tossed her head. ‘You go, if you want. I refuse to set foot in the place.’ She produced a handkerchief. ‘Oh, Andrew, how could you do this to me?’

To which, presumably, no answer was expected. Ginny waited until Rosina had drunk some of her brandy, then suggested they should watch some television, figuring correctly that she would again be accused of being without feelings.

All the same, her mother allowed herself to be persuaded, and was soon deep in a drama series she enjoyed, leaving Ginny to pursue her own unhappy train of thought.

The Meadowford Café was the official name of her present place of employment, but it had never been known in the village as anything but ‘Miss Finn’s’.

The original Miss Finn had been a cook in some very exclusive households before deciding to open her own establishment in an area where she’d spent several holidays and which she’d grown to love.

A round rosy lady, her phenomenally light hand with cakes and pastry had made the business a roaring success, opening for morning coffee, serving light lunches of homemade quiches, open sandwiches and interesting salads, and closing once afternoon teas had been served.

And when she eventually retired, her place was taken and her high standards maintained by her unmarried niece, Miss Emma Finn, also pink-cheeked and on the plump side and considered locally, with kindly affection, as another born spinster.

Ginny, her school days behind her, and with respectable exam results to treasure, had considered teaching as a career, but her mother had reacted in horror, protesting that Ginny was needed at home.

‘Such an enormous house to run single-handed, and Mrs Pelham not really pulling her weight any more. And really, you owe it to Andrew.’

Eventually, Ginny had reluctantly agreed, only to find herself caught between her mother’s steely resolve and Mrs Pel’s stony resistance. After three largely unproductive months doing very little, she saw a card in Miss Finn’s window asking for part-time assistance, applied and got the job.

‘You’re going to be a waitress?’ Mrs Charlton had been appalled. ‘But you can’t possibly. Whatever will Andrew say?’

Which had turned out to be ‘Good for you,’ accompanied by a wink and a pat on the shoulder.

To Ginny’s own surprise, she enjoyed working at Miss Finn’s and it wasn’t long before she joyously accepted Miss Emma’s offer of full-time work.

Three years on, Ginny was still enjoying herself, while giving Mrs Pelham unobtrusive and now welcome support at home too.

However, a few months ago, Miss Emma had, to everyone’s astonishment, announced her engagement, with the news that she would be moving to Brussels after her marriage.

So a quick decision about the future of the café was needed. The premises were leased from the Welburn estate, so all she needed was someone to buy the actual business, and she had offered first refusal to Ginny.

‘I suppose it should be Iris Potter,’ she’d confided anxiously, ‘as she’s been here the longest, but she does so rub people up the wrong way. And while you’re young, Ginny, you’re such a capable girl and the customers like you.’

It was, Ginny knew, a wonderful opportunity, but Miss Finn clearly had no idea of her financial position. Andrew, it was true, made her an allowance, which he’d increased once he realised just how much she did in the house, but, apart from her wages, that was it.

She’d gone to the bank with a business plan, but got nowhere. Too young, she was told, and with no collateral.

So, eventually, and reluctantly, she took her plan to Andrew, who had sat quietly and listened while she outlined her requirements and her proposed system of repayments.

‘So,’ he said, when she’d finished. ‘You really want to become the new Miss Finn?’

‘Well, yes,’ she agreed, although that was not how she’d thought of it. ‘It’s a marvellous business, and since they built those two new housing estates over at Lang’s Field we’re nearly rushed off our feet.’

He held out his hand. ‘Give me your paperwork, my dear, and I’ll look it over in detail and let you have my decision.’

But he was away a good deal over the three weeks that followed, and Ginny began to grow anxious, although the last thing she wanted to do was apply any pressure when he was at home.

Miss Emma, however, wanted an answer, and Ginny was just nerving herself to approach Andrew again when he himself broached the subject in the hall one night, just as she was going up to bed.

She heard him call her name and turned to find him standing at the foot of the stairs looking up at her, with his usual gentle smile. He said, ‘Don’t worry, my dear. I haven’t forgotten about the new Miss Finn.’

But he did, thought Ginny, painfully. Because two days later he was dead, without, it seemed, leaving any instructions that would have secured her future. So, she was still—just a waitress, and on Monday she would have to tell Miss Emma that she was out of the running.

As the credits rolled on her mother’s TV series, Mrs Charlton asked plaintively if there was to be any dinner that evening, or if Mrs Pelham was on strike.

‘I told her we could manage for ourselves.’ Ginny paused. ‘There are plenty of cold cuts.’

Her mother pursed her lips. ‘Funeral food. Is a warm meal too much to ask? Even an omelette would do.’

Grating cheese and whisking eggs in a basin, Ginny reflected ruefully how completely her mother had adapted to being a rich man’s wife, and how hard she would find it to cope once more with her own cooking and cleaning.

She was just dividing the golden-brown fluffy omelette in two when she heard a door bang in the distance. And as she slid the two halves on to warmed plates and added grilled tomatoes, Cilla walked in.

‘Is that supper? Thank God. I’m starving.’ She grabbed both plates and a handful of cutlery and marched off, leaving Ginny gasping.

She buttered two thick slices from a crusty loaf, filled them generously with cold ham, and took her sandwich back to the drawing room where it was clear a tale of woe was in progress.

‘I simply couldn’t believe it,’ Cilla was saying plaintively. ‘I told them what had happened and how dreadful everything was, and they said nothing. Just looked at each other. Not a word of sympathy or concern.’

‘Do you think they already knew?’ Rosina asked, but Cilla shook her head.

‘No, they were obviously surprised. Then Sir Malcolm said he supposed that Mr Duchard was staying at the Rose and Crown, and she said, “Of course, you’ll call on him, my dear, and ask him to come to dinner.”’ She shook her head. ‘When I heard that I was stunned. I waited for Jon to say something, to point out how upsetting that would be for us, but he never spoke. Just stared at the carpet.’

Ginny said quietly, ‘You’ll find, Cilla, that Jonathan generally agrees with his mother.’

Her sister turned to stare at her, sudden malice glinting in her blue eyes. ‘Not always. If he did, you’d be engaged to him instead of me. I’m sure the Welburns had you down as the daughter-in-law of choice, so it was hard luck for all of you when I came back and Jonathan decided he preferred me.’

‘Darling,’ Mrs Charlton said reproachfully. ‘That’s not very kind.’

‘Nor is it true,’ Ginny said quietly. ‘Jonathan and I had a few casual dates, nothing more.’

Cilla tossed her head. ‘That’s certainly not what Hilary Godwin says. She’s been telling people you were crazy about him.’

Ginny shrugged. ‘Hilary dated him too for a while. Maybe she has her own agenda. But that’s unimportant. So let’s get down to brass tacks.’ She drew a breath. ‘I think we, not the Welburns, should be the ones inviting Andre Duchard to dinner.’

Her mother gasped. ‘You must be quite mad. Do you want us to become the laughing stock of the neighbourhood?’

‘On the contrary,’ Ginny returned with energy. ‘That’s exactly what I’m trying to avoid. If we’re to maintain any sort of credit locally, we have to accept what’s happened with as good a grace as we can manage. Accept Andrew’s chosen heir.’

She listened to the shocked silence, then nodded. ‘So tomorrow, I’ll leave a note for him at the Rose and Crown. Nothing formal, but not kitchen sups either. And we’ll invite the Welburns too. Make it an extended family occasion, and hopefully score a few points.’

She turned to her mother. ‘And we can’t play ostrich about the future, so I’ll also call at Mr Hargreaves’s office and get the key to the cottage. Have a preliminary look round and make a list of anything that needs to be done.’

‘You’re taking a lot upon yourself,’ Rosina said sharply.

‘Someone has to,’ said Ginny. ‘And now, if you’ll both excuse me, I’ll take my sandwich up to my room. It’s been a hell of a day, and I have a letter to write.’

As she closed the door behind her, she heard Cilla say furiously, ‘Well, really...’

She went first to Andrew’s study to get a sheet of notepaper from his desk. The envelopes were at the back of the drawer, but as she reached for them, her fingers grasped something bulkier.

My God, she thought in self-derision, as she pulled it towards her. Is this the moment I find a new will and all our problems are solved?

But what she’d discovered, in fact, was a map of France’s Burgundy region. And no need to wonder why it was here, hidden away.

She stared down at it for a long moment, fighting her curiosity with resentment. Telling herself it was of no interest to her where Andre Duchard came from, even as she opened the map and spread it on the desk.

And found Terauze, heavily circled in black, jumping out at her. Saw too that the map itself was beginning to tear at the creases, evidence of heavy use. All those trips abroad, she thought, dismissed airily by her mother as ‘more boring business’. As some of them must have been, because the company order books were always full.

She’d once asked Rosina, ‘Hasn’t Andrew ever asked you to go with him?’

Her mother had shrugged evasively. ‘My dear child, it’s just one meeting after another. He’s far better on his own.’

And so, of course, was Rosina with her golf lessons, her bridge friends, and her ladies luncheon club in nearby Lanchester, Ginny had mused drily.

But, under the circumstances, Andrew probably preferred to keep his secret, and encouraged his wife to stay at home.

But surely he must have realised the devastating effect the eventual revelation would have? Ginny argued. Or didn’t he care?

No, she thought, I don’t believe that for a minute. Because he was a kind, dear man, and taking on a widow and her two daughters must have been quite an enterprise. So what changed?

With a sigh, she looked back at the map. Burgundy, she mused.

Producing wine and Dijon mustard, and also, apparently, Andre Duchard. But if he was indeed Linnet Farrell’s son, as Mrs Pel thought, how had she fetched up there?

So many questions for which she would probably never find answers. And she would be better employed in trying to establish better relations.

And on that resolve, she put the map back in the drawer, took her paper and envelope and went up to her room.

There was no problem obtaining the key for Keeper’s Cottage the following morning. Mr Hargreaves did not work on Saturday mornings, but Ginny telephoned him at home after breakfast and he promised, sounding positively relieved, that he would arrange for it to be waiting for her at his office.

And for once, she was allowed without protest the use of her mother’s smart little Peugeot.

Keeper’s Cottage was on the very edge of the Barrowdean estate, and approached by a narrow lane. Built in mellow red brick, it was the kind of dwelling a child might draw, with a central front door flanked by two square windows, three more windows on the upper floor and chimneys at each end of the slate roof.

She pushed open the wooden gate and went up the flagged path between the empty winter flower beds. It was a bleak, iron-grey day with the promise of snow in the air, and Ginny huddled her fleece around her in the biting wind.

The front door creaked as she unlocked it and went in. She stood for a moment in the narrow hall, looking up the straight flight of stairs ahead of her, and taking a deep exploratory breath but she could pick up no telltale hint of damp, under the mustiness of disuse.

The downstairs rooms weren’t large, but they’d be pleasant enough when redecorated. And surely it wouldn’t be unreasonable to ask for the windows to be double-glazed.

The kitchen, reached from the dining room, had an electric cooker, and wall cupboards with space under the counter top for a washing machine and refrigerator.

Upstairs, she found two bedrooms facing each other across the passage, and a bathroom, where a pale blue suite made the room seem even chillier. The only other upstairs room was so small that it could never aspire to be a bedroom. Even a baby’s cot would swamp it.

Ginny closed the door on it, her heart sinking. For someone with enthusiasm and energy to match, Keeper’s Cottage had real potential, she thought. Rosina, however, would regard it as a sentence of banishment, and maybe she had a point.

Once again, she found herself pondering the state of a marriage she had always assumed was perfectly content. After all, people didn’t have to live in each other’s pockets to be happy—did they?

But what do I know about marriage—or love, for that matter, she asked herself derisively, remembering Cilla’s jibes earlier.

She’d liked Jonathan. She could admit she’d known a frisson of excitement when he called her, but that was as far as it had gone. Cilla’s golden, glowing return had made sure of that. And any inward pangs she’d suffered from his defection were probably injured pride.

If I’d cared, I’d have fought for him, she told herself. Anyway, it’s all in the past now, and, come June, he’ll be my brother-in-law.

But where and what I’ll be, heaven only knows.

She turned back towards the stairs then froze, as from the ground floor came the unmistakable creak of the front door opening and closing.

Her first thought was that it couldn’t be a burglar because there was nothing to steal but the cooker.

All the same, she reached into her bag for her mobile phone, only to remember it was on charge on her bedside table.

She crept to the top of the stairs and looked cautiously down into the hall.

And there leaning against the newel post, completely at his ease as he looked up at her, was Andre Duchard. He said softly, ‘Virginie.’

Once again, the sound of it made her feel as ridiculously self-conscious as if he had run a finger over her skin. She said huskily, ‘I don’t remember giving you permission to use my name. And what are you doing here?’

His gaze was unwavering. ‘Examining my inheritance,’ he said and smiled. ‘All my new possessions.’

‘Is that what you were doing last night—hanging round on the common?’

He shrugged. ‘I needed to clear my head a little.’

Ginny bit her lip. ‘Does Mr Hargreaves know that you’re here?’

‘But of course.’ The dark brows lifted. ‘I explained to him that I had never visited a hovel and wished to see for myself what such a place was like. He understood perfectly and gave me a key, which, naturellement, I have not needed to use. Because you were here first.’

She stared down at him. ‘Didn’t he tell you that I might be?’

‘No, why should that matter?’

She couldn’t think of a reason apart from how empty the cottage was—and how isolated. And that she had never expected to find herself alone with him—anywhere.

It occurred to her that in some odd way he made the hall seem even more cramped. And that with his untidy hair and the stubble outlining his chin, he was even less prepossessing in broad daylight than he had been the previous evening. He was wearing a dark roll-neck sweater under a thick jacket reaching to mid-thigh, and his long legs were encased in denim and knee-length boots.

And the silence lengthening between them was beginning to feel inexplicably dangerous.

She said hurriedly, ‘I—I’m sorry about the hovel remark. I’m afraid my mother was too distraught to think what she was saying yesterday.’

‘But today all that has arranged itself, and she is reconciled to her new situation?’ His tone bit. ‘I wish I could believe it was true.’