by Lynne Graham
Ginny bit her lip. ‘She wanted a favour from him. Maybe she was just trying to improve relations—make him more amenable.’ She tried to smile. ‘You know how she is, when her heart’s set on something.’
‘I’m beginning to,’ he said. ‘But after tonight, I’m not entirely convinced that it’s me.’
Ginny groaned under her breath. This was serious stuff.
She said, ‘Jon, you can’t really believe that. Cilla interested in someone like Andre Duchard? Never in a million years. She may have behaved unwisely at dinner, but none of us are altogether rational at the moment.’
She added vehemently, ‘Besides, no one in her right mind could ever prefer him to you.’
He said more gently, ‘You’re a good friend, Ginny. Better than I deserve, I think.’
He bent suddenly and to her surprise and alarm she felt his lips touch hers. It was only a fleeting caress, but she stepped back instantly, aware as she did so of a sound like the soft closing of a nearby door.
She forced a smile. ‘And I’ll be an even greater sister-in-law. Goodnight, Jon, and don’t worry. Everything will work out just fine. You’ll see.’
She saw him out, and locked up, remembering as she did so the time before Cilla had returned and taken him captive. When she’d hoped that one day he might take her in his arms and kiss her.
And now, suddenly, it had happened. Jon had kissed her—and she’d felt—what? Just a vague embarrassment, if she was honest, plus a deep relief that neither Cilla nor her mother had chosen to walk into the hall at that inopportune moment.
I think quite enough hell has broken loose for one day, she thought.
While tomorrow I have to go to work—and tell Miss Finn the bad news. And, for me, that’s the worst prospect of all.
CHAPTER FOUR
GINNY WOKE THE following morning to find the world covered in a blanket of snow. Not enough to cause major disruption, but sufficient to be annoying, she thought as, wrapped up and booted, she took Barney for an early walk on the common.
He clearly thought the snow was wonderful and bounded round happily. On their return, he shot into the kitchen and through the door into the hall where he was shaking himself vigorously at the exact moment that Rosina was descending the stairs.
‘That dog,’ she exclaimed with real venom as Ginny arrived in pursuit. ‘He’s going just as soon as the vet can come for him.’
‘No, you can’t do that.’ Ginny caught Barney’s collar and quietened him. ‘Andrew loved him.’
‘More than he loved any of us, apparently,’ her mother snapped.
‘At least let me try and get him another home,’ Ginny pleaded.
‘You have a week,’ Rosina flung over her shoulder as she headed for the dining room. ‘Until then, he can stay in one of the outhouses. I don’t want to set eyes on him again.’
And I didn’t want to wake up this morning, Ginny thought wearily, towing the reluctant Barney back to the kitchen. I now see how right I was.
She’d had a restless and miserable night. As she’d guessed, Rosina and Cilla, when she’d re-joined them, had been full of their grievances, admittedly with some justice after this new thunderbolt.
Andrew must have been making his plans for a long time, she thought unhappily, and there was no doubt he’d deceived them all. Yet, at the same time, she could not forget Andre Duchard’s harsh and unexpected riposte to her mother when she’d mentioned cheating.
I should have asked her about it, she told herself, and I will when I get the opportunity.
But at least Rosina seemed to accept the inevitability of Keeper’s Cottage and had even agreed, grudgingly, to look it over, armed with Ginny’s list of suggested refurbishments.
Now Barney, who seemed briefly to have regained some of his former exuberance, had become another addition to her list of problems, she realised unhappily as she changed into a chestnut tweed skirt and a black polo-necked sweater for work.
She had her interview with Emma Finn during her lunch break, and it was just as difficult as she’d feared.
‘There’s been a lot of gossip about Mr Charlton’s will, as I’m sure you know,’ her boss told her unhappily. ‘But, frankly, I discounted it.’
‘Unfortunately, it’s all true.’ Ginny looked down at her tightly clasped hands. ‘I—I have no claim at all.’
‘You don’t think the new heir would back you? If you explained the circumstances?’
Ginny sat up very straight. ‘I’m sure he wouldn’t,’ she returned with emphasis. ‘Even if I could bring myself to ask him.’
‘Oh, dear,’ said Emma. ‘Well, Ginny, I won’t pretend I’m not disappointed, but Iris’s offer is on the table and I need to close the deal quickly.’ She frowned. ‘Even though I suspect when I’m gone, it will be all change.’
Like so much else, thought Ginny as she went back to work.
* * *
It was a busy afternoon, the miserable weather creating a high demand for soup and hot chocolate as the comfort foods of choice, and everyone she served told her how sorry they were about Andrew and what a loss it was, and she quietly agreed, thanking them for their sympathy, while trying not to resent the curiosity which accompanied it.
It was only natural, she reminded herself. Andrew seemed the last man in the world to have fathered an illegitimate son, and kept him a secret all these years.
As closing time approached, Ginny was on her own in the café, clearing tables, when Andre Duchard walked in and took a seat in the corner.
For a moment, she stood, frozen, aware of the dull heavy thunder of her heart, and the sudden dryness of her mouth. Real but inexplicable.
And there was nothing she could do, pride forbidding her to pick up her loaded tray and scuttle with it into the kitchen, leaving someone else to deal with the unwelcome customer.
She drew a deep breath, then walked across the room, acutely aware that he was watching her approach every step of the way, his hard mouth smiling faintly as he leaned back in his Windsor chair.
As she reached the table, he said softly, ‘So this is how you pass your days.’
‘Yes, it is.’ Ginny lifted her chin, thankful for the steadiness of her voice. Even investing it with a note of tartness. ‘Is that what you came here for—to satisfy your curiosity?’
‘Pas entièrement.’ He gave the menu a cursory glance. ‘Un café filtre, s’il vous plaît.’
‘Certainly.’ She wrote on her order pad, then paused. ‘Milk and sugar?’
He grimaced slightly. ‘Merci. But, perhaps, a cognac.’
Ginny shook her head. ‘We aren’t licensed to sell alcohol.’ She added coolly, ‘Not even wine, if you were hoping Miss Finn might be a potential buyer.’
‘Quel dommage,’ he said lightly and looked down at the menu again. ‘But then, this is a very feminine establishment, n’est ce pas?’
‘Not exclusively,’ she denied swiftly. ‘Our food appeals to men as well.’
Although it reluctantly occurred to her that none of their other male customers brought this kind of presence—this raw energy into the place, making it seem somehow—diminished.
She found the realisation disturbing, and hurried into speech again. ‘Maybe you should stick to the Rose and Crown.’
He shrugged. ‘Its coffee does not deserve the name. But it serves its purpose in other ways. I have found it une veritable mine de renseignements.’
He paused, observing her puzzled expression. ‘A mine of information,’ he explained. He gave her an ironic look. ‘Also the girls who work there smile more.’
Ginny stiffened. ‘Perhaps they have more to be happy about. You seem to forget that I have lost someone I looked on as a father for a lot of years.’
‘As I did not,’ he said with a touch of harshness. �
��For most of my life, he was just a name. And when that changed, at first I did not welcome it.’
‘Whereas we weren’t even aware you existed.’
He said drily, ‘And you wish it had stayed that way, n’est-ce pas?’
‘I certainly wish we’d been prepared,’ she returned stonily. ‘Instead of being subjected to one shock after another.’
‘And you hate him for this?’
She gave him a startled look. ‘No—no, of course not. How could I?’ She paused. ‘I just don’t understand how he could have kept all this from us for so long.’
He said softly, ‘But we all have our secrets, do we not? Matters we prefer to keep from the world?’ For a second his reflective gaze lingered on her parted lips, as if reminding her of those brief devastating moments in his arms, and to her fury, Ginny felt her skin warm in a response she was unable to control.
‘As for my father...’ He shrugged again. ‘Perhaps, he believed there would always be more time—to explain the past and talk of his plans for the future. A lesson we should value, peut-être.’
‘Just as I should remember I’m here to work,’ she said curtly, still feeling off-balance and hating him for it. ‘I’ll get your coffee, Monsieur Duchard.’
‘And bring one for yourself. I wish to speak with you.’
‘That’s against the rules. We don’t sit with the customers.’
His brows lifted mockingly. ‘Oh là là. Not even when it is with a member of the family?’
‘You and I are in no way related,’ she said. Adding, ‘Thankfully.’
‘Then we agree on something, enfin.’ He smiled at her. ‘Now, for once, break this rule that I do not believe exists, and drink coffee with me.’ He added drily, ‘On the understanding, bien sûr, that we do not throw it over each other.’
Ginny sent him a fulminating glance then went reluctantly to the hotplate behind the counter and poured two black coffees, aware she was under scrutiny through the glazed panel at the top of the kitchen door.
There was a large mirror on the back wall, and she caught a glimpse of herself as she turned, all shiny face and hair in lank wisps.
She looked like someone who’d been on her feet all day—and in a menial job at that, while the butcher’s apron made her feel suddenly like a badly wrapped parcel.
But what the hell, she thought. He has no illusions about me. He came here to talk, that’s all.
Her hands were shaking, in an echo of the foolish inner turmoil she seemed unable to control, but she managed to get the cups back to the table without spilling any of the liquid in the saucers.
‘What did you want to discuss?’ she asked, perching awkwardly on the edge of her chair.
‘Let us begin with your extraordinary wish to buy this business.’
She put her cup down quickly. ‘How did you know about that?’
‘My father told me.’ He paused. ‘Please understand that he did not wish to disappoint you, but he did not favour the proposal.’
‘He told you that?’ Mortified, Ginny swallowed. ‘But—why?’
‘He did not want you to be the next Miss Finn. He thought you too young to bury yourself in such a future.’
She bit her lip. ‘Well, it hardly matters. The café’s being sold to someone else.’
‘So you will be looking for a fresh start, away from here, peut-être.’
She said shortly, ‘I haven’t decided.’
His mouth curled slightly. ‘No doubt there is much to consider. But I advise you to ignore your mother’s hopes of having my father’s will set aside in her favour. It will not happen, no matter what avocat she chooses to employ in place of Monsieur Hargreaves.’
‘In his place?’ Ginny was bewildered. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘They spoke on the telephone today. She was angry he had not warned her that the house had been rented. He explained that he had not wished to immediately burden her with more bad news. That he awaited only a convenient opportunity. But it made no difference. She no longer wishes him to act for her.’
Stifling a groan, she said, ‘I’m sure she didn’t mean it. I’ll talk to her.’
‘I think it is too late for that. She blames him, tu comprends, for obeying my father’s instructions about the disposal of his estate. For not, as she says, making him see reason.’
The note of faint derision in his voice flicked Ginny on the raw. She said hotly, ‘Clearly you don’t understand how my mother feels. How bewildered—how hurt she is—to be treated like this—after eleven happy years.’
‘That is how you see it? Une vraie idylle?’ The mockery was overt now and it stung. ‘Which is how it began, n’est-ce pas? The deck of a ship beneath the stars—a man and a woman in each other’s arms, overcoming past tragedy, finding new hope together?’
‘And what’s wrong with that?’ Ginny demanded defensively. ‘Lots of people begin lasting relationships on holiday.’
He said softly, ‘And many more treat it as an enjoyable interlude, and never think of it again on their return to the lives they live each day. Perhaps that is the wisest course.’
She stared at him. ‘And that’s what you think my mother should have done?’
His tone hardened. ‘I cannot speak for her. But my father—certainement.’
She said, ‘I think you’re being insulting.’
He shrugged. ‘I would say—truthful.’
Ginny got to her feet, trembling. ‘What right have you to judge her—or any of us? My mother was left a widow with two young children, and very little money.’
His mouth twisted cynically. ‘Yet she was a partner in a beauty salon, n’est-ce pas, and could afford to pay for an expensive cruise in the Mediterranean, on which she did not choose to include you or your sister. Incroyable.’
Partner in a beauty salon? Ginny repeated silently, her heart missing a beat. Her mother had been a manicurist. An employee. What was he talking about?
She hastily switched tack. ‘You speak as if my mother abandoned us in the streets,’ she challenged. ‘We actually stayed with my godmother and her husband in Fulham, and had a wonderful time, whereas we’d have been bored stiff on a ship all day long.
‘And Mother was only able to go on the cruise because she won a prize in the National Lottery. Not one of the big ones, of course,’ she added quickly, seeing his brows lift. ‘But it paid for all sorts of things. Besides, she’d had a tough time and she needed a break.’
‘Sans doute.’ His voice was flat. ‘And, at the end of the cruise, quelle surprise, she has a new and wealthy husband.’
Her voice shook. ‘How dare you. What the hell are you implying?’
‘I imply nothing. I state facts. Can you deny that you have ever wondered how it came about—this so convenient marriage?’
‘Of course I deny it. They met and fell in love. That’s all there is to it.’ She gripped the back of her chair with both hands as pain, a strange mixture of hurt and bewilderment, twisted inside her, adding to her shock and confusion. ‘Is this the kind of poison you’ve been feeding to Andrew over the years? Turning him against his own wife? Well, I won’t—I don’t believe a word of it.’
‘A display of family loyalty?’ he countered harshly. ‘A little late for that, I think. And I said nothing to my father. Au contraire, the doubts were all his own. You are not a fool, Virginie, so ask yourself why.’
He drained his cup and rose, dropping a handful of pound coins on the table. ‘But your coffee is excellent,’ he added, and walked out.
She wanted to fling the money after him, but her awareness of the watchers in the kitchen prevented her.
She put the payment for the coffee in the till and dropped the rest into the jar for staff tips, then carried her laden tray into the kitchen, ignoring the curious glances which
greeted her.
And she hadn’t been able to talk to him about Barney and her plan to rehome him, she realised ruefully. But what the hell? She’d go ahead anyway.
* * *
When she got home, she found Rosina bristling with defiance and clearly in no mood to answer the kind of questions that Ginny knew needed to be asked.
‘I’ll find a law firm in London who’ll act for me,’ she declared. ‘That Hargreaves man couldn’t fight his way out of a paper bag as I told him.’
Ginny bit her lip. ‘Court battles are very expensive.’ Not to mention the kinds of unexpected truths that sometimes emerge as a result...
‘But my costs will be paid by the other side,’ Rosina insisted. ‘And while it’s all sub judice, I shall insist on remaining here. I’ve no intention of moving into that ghastly little house.’
‘It needs work,’ Ginny admitted reluctantly. ‘But it could be really cosy.’
Ouch, she thought, as her mother reared up indignantly. Wrong word.
‘Cosy? There isn’t space to swing a cat, let alone entertain my friends.’ She added sharply, ‘And, of course, with only two bedrooms, you’ll need to find somewhere else to live.’
Ginny stared at her. ‘But Cilla’s getting married. Surely we can share a room until then.’
‘Don’t be silly, Virginia. Both bedrooms are tiny, and your sister will need storage for her clothes.’ Rosina made it sound so logical. ‘Anyway, it’s time you were independent. You can’t expect me to support you for the rest of your life.’
Ginny wanted to protest. To say, If I’d gone to university and trained as a teacher I’d be qualified by now. But you stopped me.
Instead, she said quietly, ‘No, Mother. I’ve never expected that. And I’ll find something.’ She paused. ‘Where is Cilla, by the way?’
‘Out.’ Rosina shrugged. ‘I suppose at the Welburns’.’
‘Building bridges, I hope,’ said Ginny, remembering without pleasure that awkward few minutes with Jonathan in the hall.
‘That’s hardly necessary. Not when you’re as pretty as Cilla.’ Her mother shook her head. ‘Poor Virginia. You’ve never really understood how it all works, have you?’