Inherited by Her Enemy

‘You mean I still have a bedroom in this house?’ Rosina glared at both men. ‘Your client isn’t proposing to move in here and now?’

‘I would not put you to such trouble, madame.’ There was a thinly veiled note of amusement in Andre Duchard’s cool tones. ‘I have a reservation at the hotel in the village, while I too have discussions with Monsieur Hargreaves.’

‘May I offer you a lift, monsieur?’ Robert Hargreaves was thrusting documents back into his briefcase, his relief palpable. ‘I see you dismissed your taxi.’

‘Merci. But with the flight and the journey here, I have been sitting too much. I think I will walk.’ He put on his trench coat and swung the leather bag on to his shoulder.

As they turned to leave, Barney emerged from the desk and stood watching their departure, ears flattened and tail drooping, as if he felt he’d been deserted a second time.

It was a sentiment that Ginny had her own reasons to share. But she made herself accompany the two men to the front door and wish them a polite ‘Good evening,’ adding haltingly, ‘I hope you understand my mother is very upset.’

‘Of course,’ Mr Hargreaves agreed reluctantly. ‘I will postpone any further meetings with her until next week. Goodbye, my dear. I’m sure things will seem different in the morning.’

She smiled and nodded, reflecting bitterly that there was a very long evening to get through first.

‘Au revoir, Virginie.’ The drawled French version of her name made it sound softer, giving it an almost sensual intonation, she realised with sudden embarrassment. Not that he had any right to use it. She felt her face warm and had to restrain herself from taking a step back, in order to put extra distance between them. ‘Et à bientôt,’ he added.

And this time the note of mockery was unmistakable, as he must know he was the last person she would ever wish to see again, soon or late.

She murmured something evasive, and shut the door, recalling how earlier she’d thought the worst was over.

With a sigh, she took herself off to the kitchen, to find Mrs Pelham sitting at the large scrubbed table reading a letter.

She said, ‘Don’t disturb yourself, Mrs Pel. I’ve come to make some tea. I’m afraid we’ve all had rather a shock.’ She paused. ‘It seems Mr Charlton has an illegitimate son—a Frenchman called Andre Duchard—and made him his sole heir.’

As she watched the housekeeper slowly remove her glasses and return them to their case, she added, ‘But perhaps you knew that already.’

‘No, Miss Ginny. But I knew there was something up earlier, Mrs Charlton having a carrying sort of voice, and Mavis all ears.’ She was silent for a moment. ‘So this French gentleman gets everything. Well, well.’

‘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.’