Inherited By Her Enemy (HQR Presents)

by Sara Craven

  ‘Sois tranquille.’ He had the audacity to grin at her. ‘It took courage, sans doute, but what experiment does not?’ He paused. ‘So, ma douce, do I still have that invitation to dinner, or have I offended too deeply?’

  Ginny was in a cleft stick. The dinner party was being held at her insistence. How could she cancel it without involving herself in truly hideous explanations? And if she claimed he was unavailable, she had no guarantee he would not find some way of letting the truth be known.

  She swallowed hard. ‘The invitation stands.’

  He said slowly, ‘You surprise me. Your family must want something very badly.’

  She walked past him to the front door, and paused. ‘A truce,’ she said. ‘Is the most that’s hoped for. So, we’ll expect you at seven-thirty.’

  His smile still lingered. ‘I shall look forward to it. À demain.’

  Her hair had been loosened in the encounter, and whipped around her face as she walked to the car. She slid into the driving seat and gripped the wheel, waiting for the fierce trembling inside her to subside a little before starting the engine. As she probed her throbbing mouth with the tip of her tongue, it occurred to her that she could still taste him and felt her body clench harshly in response.

  Get a grip, she adjured herself tersely. You’ve been kissed and by someone who knows how. You tried to hit him. He taught you a lesson. That’s all there is to it.

  But it was a learning curve she could have well done without.

  She drove off with exaggerated care until Keeper’s Cottage was a long way behind her, then pulled into a lay-by just outside the village and sat there until she felt calmer and more focused.

  You have a dinner party to prepare for, she told herself. Concentrate on that. Forget everything else.

  She’d discussed a possible menu with Mrs Pelham that morning, and they’d settled on salmon mousse, followed by Beef Wellington with roasted vegetables, and ending with white grapes in champagne jelly, and some good cheese.

  She had returned the key to Mr Hargreaves’ office, and was just emerging from the speciality cheese shop in the High Street, when she saw Sir Malcolm and Lady Welburn leaving the Rose and Crown, and waved to them.

  As she reached the opposite pavement, she said breathlessly, ‘I’m so glad I’ve seen you. I know it’s terribly short notice but my mother would be delighted if you’d come to supper tomorrow evening, with Jonathan if he’s free, and meet Andrew’s son and heir, Andre Duchard.’

  ‘My dear Virginia, what a very nice idea.’ Lady Welburn’s slight air of constraint fell away, and she smiled with her usual warmth. ‘We were just inquiring for him at the hotel, but he’s out.’

  She lowered her voice. ‘I confess I was a little worried by Lucilla’s attitude yesterday evening, so I’m very glad that Rosina’s decided to do absolutely the right thing. Such a difficult situation for everyone otherwise. Thank your mother and tell her we’ll all be there.’

  Ginny smiled back, well aware that Lady Welburn was under no illusion whose scheme it really was.

  ‘She’ll be so pleased.’

  Two hours later, she returned to the house, laden with bags from the supermarket at Lanchester. In the hall, she met her mother.

  ‘Hi, she said. ‘I’ll just unpack this stuff, then I’ll tell you about the cottage.’

  ‘No need,’ Rosina said airily. ‘Because I’m not moving there.’

  Ginny put down her carriers. ‘Then where are you planning to live?’

  ‘I’m staying right here. It’s the obvious solution.’

  ‘To what problem exactly?’

  Rosina waved an impatient hand. ‘To the future of Barrowdean. This Duchard individual will go back to France soon. He doesn’t belong here and he must know it. But—he owns this house and he needs someone to look after it in his absence. Hiring resident caretakers would cost him a fortune, so I continue to live here rent-free and, in return, I make sure Barrowdean flourishes. I’d say it was a no-brainer.’

  ‘I would too, but my definition of “no-brainer” is rather different.’ Ginny shook her head. ‘How did you dream up this fantasy?’

  ‘It’s a matter of hard practicality,’ Rosina said sharply. ‘You seem to have forgotten Cilla’s wedding. The marquee and the caterers have already been booked, and well over two hundred people will be coming.’

  She nodded briskly. ‘Maybe this dinner party scheme isn’t as ludicrous as I thought. It will give us a chance to talk him round.’

  ‘I’m glad you think so,’ Ginny said drily. ‘It’s tomorrow night—and the Welburns are coming too.’

  Rosina frowned. ‘Well, hopefully, they’ll get him to see reason, especially over the wedding.’ She paused. ‘You saw him, did you—the Duchard man? How did he seem when you issued the invitation?’

  Dangerous, thought Ginny, as a shiver ran through her. Aloud, she said, ‘Surprised.’

  Her mother shrugged. ‘Judging by his appearance, I wouldn’t think many dinner parties come his way. I only hope he knows how to use a knife and fork properly.’ She shuddered. ‘I cannot imagine how Andrew, always so fastidious, ever became involved with some peasant woman.’

  Ginny, about to correct her, thought better of it, being unable to guarantee how Rosina might use any information she could garner.

  She picked up her carriers. ‘I must see to this food.’

  ‘Well, come back as soon as you’ve done so. There were a lot more letters of condolence in the post just now, and I find them so painful. Perhaps you’d reply on my behalf, and get them out of the way.’

  ‘Maybe Cilla could help.’

  Rosina sighed. ‘Cilla is lying down with one of her headaches. She’s so sensitive, poor darling, and this awful business has shaken her very badly.’

  ‘This awful business’ seems to have the right idea, Ginny thought bitterly as she went off to the kitchen. I’d like to shake her myself.

  She threw herself into preparations for the dinner party, doing as much advance food preparation as possible, then cleaning silver, washing glasses, and giving her favourite tablecloth a crisp ironing.

  By the time she took the tray with afternoon tea, egg and cress sandwiches and a Victoria sponge into the drawing room, Cilla had come downstairs and was sprawled in an armchair.

  ‘Did you visit this cottage?’ she asked, without turning her gaze from the old black and white movie she was watching. ‘What’s it like? How many bedrooms?’

  ‘Two reasonably sized and one like a storage cupboard,’ Ginny returned briefly as she set down the tray.

  ‘Two?’ Cilla sat up. ‘Did you hear that, Mummy? How on earth are we going to manage?’

  Rosina glanced up from her magazine with a catlike smile. ‘We’ll worry about that when it happens, darling. I’ll have lemon with my tea, Virginia,’ she added. ‘I need to be careful about my weight.’

  ‘Well, I’m never sharing a bedroom,’ Cilla said sharply.

  ‘Do you include Jonathan in that sweeping statement?’ Ginny asked mildly, handing her mother her tea.

  Cilla shrugged. ‘Plenty of married couples have separate bedrooms. It’s supposed to make it more exciting. Retain that air of mystery.’ She giggled. ‘And when you are available—it makes men so much more grateful.’

  Ginny took her tea and a sandwich and headed for the door. ‘I never knew you were such a romantic,’ she said drily as she left.

  She collected the pile of letters from the hall table and took them to the study where Barney was lying by the newly kindled fire. He looked up as she entered and tentatively thumped his tail on the carpet, clearly bewildered as to why he spent so much time in the kitchen quarters these days.

  ‘You and me both, sweetie,’ she told him as she sat down.

  The letters were just as difficult to deal
with as she’d suspected. They were imbued with grief for Andrew’s death and warmth and gratitude for his life. She read about his generosity, his fairness, and his personal kindness, particularly to former members of his workforce.

  And after the first half dozen or so, she put her head down on the desk and wept a little, wondering where this man had gone, and why he’d changed so much.

  * * *

  By Sunday evening, winter had returned inside and out, with brief snow showers adding to the general chill.

  Because all Ginny’s attempts to reason with her mother over the caretaker scheme had got nowhere.

  ‘Then at least ask him privately,’ she’d begged at last, but Rosina waved her away.

  ‘No, it’s a perfect opportunity,’ she declared buoyantly. ‘The Welburns are our nearest neighbours and he’ll want to make a good impression.’

  ‘Well, I don’t believe Mr Duchard will give a damn about what the neighbours think of him,’ Ginny returned wearily. ‘His home is in France so he won’t be around long enough to care.’

  Her mother tutted impatiently. ‘Really, Virginia. Can you please stop being so negative. It’s very depressing.’

  And being a widow isn’t? Ginny thought bitterly.

  Working companionably and efficiently with Mrs Pel to produce the meal itself lifted her spirits however, and if she could only have put on her ‘Miss Finn’ pinny and simply served the food without having to join the party round the table, she’d have been happier still.

  For one thing, she had no idea what to wear.

  Most of the clothes in her wardrobe were of the workaday variety, entirely through her own choice. After a day on her feet in the café, followed by the domestic demands of Barrowdean, she was glad of the excuse to avoid the local social whirl, such as it was.

  Lady Welburn had the right idea, she thought wistfully, generally appearing in a series of long skirts in jewel-coloured velvet run up for her by the village dressmaker, and teaming them with plain black cashmere tops.

  She, however, would have to wear the Dress. She took it from the wardrobe and pulled a face at it. Mid-calf-length, long-sleeved and high-necked in taupe jersey, it had been bought for the Christmas before last when she was running short of time and temper.

  And she could say with total truth it did nothing for her at all, except fit where it touched.

  Never mind, she told herself. The best thing you can be at this blighted party is insignificant. And no more bright ideas either. They have this way of coming back to bite you in the rear.

  She showered, dried her hair into its usual smooth bob, put on the taupe dress and went downstairs, knowing that neither her mother nor Cilla would put in an appearance until the last minute.

  She checked the fire in the drawing room, and the drinks tray, then went along to the kitchen to fetch the bowls of nibbles.

  She pushed open the door, and halted, her throat tightening in shock. Because Andre Duchard was there, perched on the edge of the kitchen table—a thing Mrs Pel never permitted—helping himself from a packet of cashew nuts.

  He was wearing the dark suit again, with a white shirt setting off the sombre magnificence of a grey silk tie. That mane of hair was still too long but had at least been combed into some kind of order and, as she saw instantly, her own face warming, he had shaved.

  He looked her over in turn, his brows rising quizzically as if confirming her own opinion of her dress, then gave a polite inclination of the head. ‘Bonsoir.’

  Withstanding a desire to grind her teeth, Ginny uprooted herself from the doorway and took a step forward. ‘I—I didn’t realise anyone was here yet.’

  ‘I was unforgivably early.’ He did not look or sound particularly repentant. ‘But I wished an opportunity to speak with Marguerite who was a friend to my mother.’ He smiled at her, and took another cashew. ‘But you already know that, I think.’

  Ginny said stiffly, ‘Mrs Pelham believed she knew her identity, yes.’

  And at that moment Mrs Pel came bustling back from the direction of her small flat carrying a photograph album. ‘I knew I’d find it,’ she announced happily, then checked. ‘Oh, Miss Ginny. Are the other guests arriving?’

  ‘No,’ Ginny assured her. ‘I just remembered a few last-minute things.’

  She emptied what remained of the nuts into a bowl and picked up a dish of cheese straws, intending to head for the door but something made her linger and listen.

  ‘There she is,’ Mrs Pel was saying. ‘Out in the garden with Mrs Charlton. And that’s her helping at the village fete. Oh, but she was a lovely girl.’

  Andre Duchard said softly, ‘Si jeune. Si innocente.’

  ‘That’s what she was,’ Mrs Pelham said almost fiercely. ‘Not a bad bone in her body, and I’ll say so until my dying day.’

  And with that came the sound of the doorbell and she became the correct housekeeper again. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, sir.’

  Ginny raced ahead to the drawing room, Andre Duchard beside her, and was standing, smiling, as the Welburns were shown in.

  She took a deep breath as she performed the necessary introductions, and offered drinks. Sir Malcolm and Lady Welburn both asked for sherry, while Jonathan and Andre Duchard requested Scotch.

  Jonathan came with her to help with the drinks. He said in an undertone, ‘This must be a nightmare.’

  ‘Life has been easier,’ she agreed quietly, at which moment the door opened and Rosina came in wearing a black silk sheath which showed off her still admirable legs, uttering smiling greetings with profuse apologies for her tardiness.

  ‘I do hope Virginia has been looking after you properly,’ she added. ‘A gin and tonic for me, darling, please. And do I see it’s snowing again? How very tiresome.’

  Just as a slightly stilted general discussion of the weather was running out of steam, Cilla chose to arrive, halting in the doorway for maximum effect. In her violet tunic dress and black tights she looked like a particularly sexy herald, and it was clear she knew it.

  Ginny found herself glancing at Andre Duchard, observing with faint alarm that his mouth was curling into amusement, and something else besides.

  Not just a bad idea, this party, she thought uneasily. The worst ever.

  When dinner was announced, Ginny discovered that her carefully devised seating plan had been discarded.

  ‘No need for formality on a family occasion,’ Rosina announced brightly from the head of the table, indicating that the Welburns should sit on either side of her.

  Ginny saw with foreboding that Andre Duchard had adroitly taken a seat next to Cilla, leaving Jonathan to sit opposite to them.

  The salmon mousse was eaten with great appreciation, Rosina blandly accepting the praise lavished on it.

  ‘Cooking has always been one of my great pleasures,’ she added.

  Lady Welburn looked over her glasses. ‘I thought this was one of your wonderful Mrs Pel’s specialities.’

  Rosina didn’t miss a beat. ‘I’m afraid this sort of thing is rather beyond her now. She really should have retired long since.’ She turned to Ginny. ‘The next course, dear. Would you mind?’

  Inside the pastry case, the fillet of beef with its layer of pâté and mushrooms was cooked to pink perfection and the garlicky roasted vegetables made a delicious and colourful accompaniment.

  Sir Malcolm had jovially offered to act as wine waiter, his brows lifting a little when he saw that Ginny had chosen a St Emilion to succeed the Chablis served with the first course.

  ‘Bordeaux, my dear chap, not Burgundy,’ he boomed as he filled Andre Duchard’s glass. ‘I hope you won’t see it as a challenge.’

  ‘By no means,’ Andre returned softly, his gaze meeting Ginny’s across the table. ‘A wonderful wine is always that, no matter where the grape is grown.�
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  She flushed. ‘I don’t really know much about wine,’ she said untruthfully, and saw his smile widen.

  Lady Welburn came to her rescue. ‘Where in Burgundy do you live, Monsieur Duchard?’

  ‘A village called Terauze, madame.’

  ‘Terauze?’ Sir Malcolm mused. ‘That name’s familiar. Are you involved with the wine industry, Mr Duchard?’

  ‘I work in the Domaine Baron Emile, monsieur.’

  To Ginny’s horror, the look Rosina sent Lady Welburn could not have stated, A peasant. I knew it, more obviously if she’d shouted it aloud. But her air as she turned to Andre Duchard was gracious.

  ‘Are you one of the people who tread the grapes, Mr Duchard?’

  ‘Non, hélas.’ His dark face was impassive. ‘They are no longer crushed in that way. Although still picked by hand.’

  ‘Ah,’ Rosina said vaguely. ‘Then I suppose you have little to do at this time of year.’

  ‘Perhaps, at this precise moment, madame.’ He shrugged. ‘But after the feast of St Vincent, the patron of vignerons, in ten days’ time, we begin pruning.’

  ‘Fascinating,’ said Rosina, and turned back to Lady Welburn with a query about the Women’s Institute.

  While Andre Duchard, still smiling, resumed devoting his attention to Cilla.

  Or as it was better known, blatantly flirting with her under the nose of her fiancé, thought Ginny furiously. And her ‘beautiful sister’ was responding, all sideways glances under her darkened lashes, and little soft giggles.

  She’d once heard flirting defined as ‘making love without touching’ and here was a practical demonstration, as Andre Duchard smiled into Cilla’s eyes. Murmured to her, his lips just a breath from her ear...

  Very different, she thought, a sudden strange pain twisting inside her, to the way he treated me. Grabbing me and kissing me—like that.

  Which is something I’ve decided not to think about again, and to behave as if it never happened.

  The Welburns, she could see, were studiously pretending not to notice what was going on at the other end of the table. However, one glance at Jonathan told her he was wearing his normally pleasant expression like a mask.