Inherited by Her Enemy

Ginny tried to smile. ‘I thought you’d be pleased. After all, Mrs Pel, you were the one who told me to spread my wings and fly.’

‘Yes,’ Mrs Pel said soberly. ‘But only for the right reasons.’

Ginny put down her case and hugged her. ‘I’ll make them right,’ she said, more cheerfully than she felt. ‘And I won’t be gone for ever. I’ll write to you at Market Lane.’ She hesitated. ‘And if there’s any news of Barney, can you let me know?’

‘Of course.’ Mrs Pel sighed. ‘But I’ll be glad to be gone, and that’s the truth. This house will never be the same again.’

What will? Ginny asked herself tautly as the hall clock began to strike twelve, and she heard the sound of a car approaching up the drive.

Head held high, she walked out, closing the door behind her.

* * *

Once the plane had taken off and she knew there was no turning back, she sat stiffly, hands gripped together in her lap, only too aware of the intimacy imposed by the seating, the proximity of Andre’s thigh to hers. Fighting the memories it aroused. Dreading the inevitable conversation.

But Andre said very little. After making sure she was warm enough and ordering coffee, he occupied himself with a sheaf of papers he’d taken from the leather satchel she recalled from their first meeting.

All too soon they were landing at Dijon, where a stocky young man, introduced to Ginny as Jules Rameau, was waiting with a battered Range Rover to take them to Terauze.

Slumped in the back, unable to understand the quick-fire exchanges between the two in the front, Ginny found herself swamped by weariness mingled with depression.

The quarrel with her mother had been inevitable, but she still regretted it. When she returned to England, she would have to find a way to make peace with Cilla too. Perhaps a week or two on a sun-drenched island would make both of them more amenable to reason.

And maybe pigs would fly...

* * *

The jolting of the Range Rover as it slowed, then halted, dragged her back to the here and now. That, and the piercing cold of the night air as she left the car.

There were cobbles underfoot and she stumbled slightly, only to find Andre’s steadying hand under her elbow as they moved towards a lighted doorway.

They walked along a flagged passage and through another door into the kitchen beyond, and Ginny stood for a moment, feeling a blissful warmth surround her. Aware, too, of an equally heavenly aroma from a cast-iron pot on the big stove.

Her gaze travelled from the wide fireplace where logs smouldered and the wooden rocking chair next to it, to the dresser filling an entire wall, its shelves groaning with china and glassware, and on up to the beamed ceiling where strings of onions and bunches of dried herbs hung from hooks.

Through an archway, she could see the gleam of a sink and the shining white of a large washing machine and tumble dryer.

By the time she left, she thought, all this would be totally familiar. But right now, she felt as if she’d landed on a different planet, and she was scared—especially about what tonight might bring.

He said he’d leave me alone, she reminded herself. But how do I know he’ll keep his word—about anything?

Andre’s voice broke into her reverie. ‘I regret that my father is not here to welcome you, but he is in Paris until tomorrow.’

He was briskly ridding himself of his coat and, after a slight hesitation, Ginny did the same, before joining him at the long table covered in oilcloth and set with cutlery and a platter of bread, and watching as Jules ladled stew into bowls and Andre filled glasses from the unmarked bottle of red wine in the centre of the table.

‘Boeuf bourguignon,’ he said, handing her a bowl. Taking a seat opposite, he raised his glass to her. ‘Salut. And welcome to Burgundy.’

Tired as she was, Ginny did not miss the faintly caustic glance directed at him by Jules as he joined them. Maybe her arrival was not going to be greeted by universal rejoicing, and Andre might possibly come to regret his hasty offer.

She’d thought she’d be too tired to eat, but it took just one delicious mouthful of tender beef, beautifully cooked with wine, herbs, tiny onions and mushrooms to convince her she was wrong.

The wine was astonishing too, filling her mouth with rich earthy flavours while caressing her throat like velvet. Or a lover’s touch...

She even had some of the sharp, creamy cheese which followed the stew and sighed as she finally pushed her plate away.

‘That was—utterly delicious,’ she said stiltedly and looked at Jules. ‘My compliments to the chef, monsieur.’

For a moment he stared at her, astounded, then a broad grin spread across his rugged face as he turned to Andre, making some incomprehensible remark.