by Sara Craven
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?’
‘Obviously not, but I’m learning fast.’ Ginny got up. ‘I think I’ll have a hot bath.’
In the hall, she encountered the housekeeper. ‘I won’t want dinner, Mrs Pel. I’m planning an early nig
ht.’
Closing my eyes. Blotting out this awful day...
‘I’m not surprised,’ Mrs Pel said with faint asperity. ‘You look washed out. But you’re not going to bed hungry,’ she added firmly. ‘I’ll bring you something on a tray.’
The ‘something’ turned out to be a steaming bowl of Scotch broth, accompanied by crusty bread, a hunk of cheese and an apple, and this, allied with the hot-water bottle Ginny had discovered in her bed, made her throat tighten with the threat of tears.
But I can’t cry, she thought. Because if I start, I may never stop, and I need to be strong.
‘You’re spoiling me, Mrs Pel,’ she said with an attempt at lightness.
‘It doesn’t happen so often.’ The older woman set the tray across Ginny’s lap. ‘Besides, it may be my last chance to do so. Mrs Charlton wants me gone by the end of the week.’
‘The end of the week,’ Ginny repeated numbly. ‘But that isn’t even proper notice.’
‘Oh, hush now,’ Mrs Pel said robustly. ‘She’s been trying to get rid of me for long enough, as well you know. And I’ve no wish to stay on here without the master, not with my beautiful cottage waiting for me.’
She paused. ‘And you should do the same, my dear. Spread your wings and fly.’
She gave a brisk nod and left Ginny to her supper. And to her thoughts—which, although confused and unhappy, were still not proof against the delicious soup, thick with chunks of lamb, vegetables and pearl barley, and spreading its beguiling warmth through every inch of her. She found she was finishing every last drop and scraping the bowl.
She finished off the bread with the cheese, then, leaning back against her pillows, began to eat the apple, juicy and slightly tart, just as she’d always liked them. Like the ones on the tree in Aunt Joy’s garden at the big comfortable house in Fulham...
She hadn’t thought about that for years, and but for Andre Duchard’s hateful insinuations, she wouldn’t be remembering any of it now. Yet some of their exchange had set alarm bells ringing. And taken her unwillingly back to the time when she was eleven years old and her life had changed for ever.
Taking her back to Lorimer Street. A terraced house like all its neighbours with a small paved area in front and a yard at the back.
A house her mother had always hated, although Ginny could recall her father explaining quietly and patiently that on his present salary as a primary school teacher, it was all they could afford. That when he got promotion, they could, perhaps, think again.
Instead he’d become ill, and while Ginny had been too young to understand what leukaemia was, some instinct had told her that it was taking her gentle, humorous father away from her, all too quickly and with a terrible finality.
A trained beautician, Rosina had been working part-time at a local salon but switched to full-time when she became a widow. The wages, bolstered by tips from a wealthy clientele, weren’t generous, but the family survived, with the help of neighbours in term time and Aunt Joy in the school holidays.
She could remember taking Cilla to the salon each day after school, keeping her quiet in the cramped staffroom with crayons and colouring books until it was time to go home.
‘She’s your little sister,’ her mother had told her. ‘It’s your job to look after her.’ And she’d obeyed.
Aunt Joy and her husband, who owned a successful garage chain, were childless, but they were always genuinely delighted to see Rosina and her daughters, although Ginny had noticed that her mother was often quiet—almost brooding—on their return to Lorimer Street, as if she was making comparisons between their differing lifestyles, and finding them odious.
Just as she did when the clients at the salon talked about their villas on the Mediterranean and showed off their new jewellery and designer dresses.
Then one day Rosina was suddenly the one with carrier bags full of clothes from Oxford Street and Knightsbridge.
‘I’ve had a surprise,’ she told them airily. ‘A little windfall.’
Not so little, thought Ginny. Several thousand pounds from the Lottery. Enough to pay for a cruise in the sun and more while she and Cilla stayed with Aunt Joy.
They’d known exactly when their mother was returning by the days crossed off from the kitchen calendar. Ginny watched them mount up, longing to go back to Lorimer Street and their usual life.
But when Rosina returned, it was not to Lorimer Street. Instead she’d taken a short-term rental on an attractive flat in a modern block. And after Aunt Joy had delivered them there, they’d heard the sounds of her quarrelling with their mother and then the distant slamming of a door.
Even then she hadn’t moved, just waited until her mother came, flushed and tight-mouthed, her voice brittle as she said, ‘Let’s explore our new palace.’
Holding Cilla’s hand, she trailed obediently in Rosina’s wake through the spacious sitting room, the beautiful ivory and aqua master bedroom, the sumptuous bathroom with its pink and violet tiles, and the chrome and marble kitchen, and all she could think was how much she hated it.
‘When are we going back to Lorimer Street?’ she’d asked at last.
‘We’re not,’ her mother said shortly. ‘There is no Lorimer Street. I don’t want to hear you talk about it again. Ever.’
And she meant it, thought Ginny, feeling the same little shiver drift down her spine. She made it seem as if that other life had never existed. Just as we never heard from Aunt Joy and Uncle Harry again. And I was not allowed to mention them either.
Then, one afternoon, Rosina had taken them out to tea in a big department store.
Ginny could remember how Rosina had gripped their hands as if she was nervous as they emerged from the lift, until a tall grey-haired man, at a table on his own, stood up smiling, when she’d relaxed and smiled back.
‘Darlings,’ she said. ‘This is a very special friend of mine.’
And that, thought Ginny, was our first meeting with Andrew.
Frowning, she transferred her supper tray to the bedside table and sat up, hugging her knees.
It was clear that Rosina had improved on her employment status and rented the flat to impress the new man in her life.
Not strictly ethical perhaps, she thought defensively, but hardly federal offences. Or enough to make her husband feel cheated, if he’d ever found out.
Besides, to set against all that, Rosina, in her thirties, had been and even now continued to be a beautiful woman, her hair still fair—admittedly with assistance these days—and her skin flawless.
Small wonder that Andrew had been sufficiently attracted to offer marriage.
And even if their life together hadn’t been perfect, it was surely better than a lot of marriages.
So Andre Duchard had no right to imply anything different. No right at all.
The best thing I can do, she told herself resolutely, is put the whole business—especially him—out of my mind. And concentrate instead on whatever the future holds for me.
And tried not to think how bleak that sounded.
CHAPTER FIVE
OVER THE NEXT couple of days, Ginny’s misgivings over her prospects at Miss Finn’s began to multiply, with Iris Potter talking openly about the changes she was planning.
But at least Andre Duchard had not returned, to Ginny’s relief, although she was aware that every time the bell tinkled on the café door to signal a new arrival, her heart seemed to do a kind of somersault, which made no sense at all.
For all she knew, he might be back in Burgundy and good riddance to him. The last person she needed to have around was someone who caught her so consistently off her guard. Who’d forced her to remember things much better forgotten. And, even worse, who’d made her aware of feelings she’d infinitely have preferred to have ignored. He was altogether too disturbing.
But mu
ch as she wished him gone, some instinct told her that he was still around. And still able to push her towards some unsuspected edge...
Stop it, she adjured herself, digging her nails into the palms of her hands. Don’t think like that. In fact, don’t think about him at all.
Rosina was still hunting obsessively on the telephone for the legal advice she wanted to hear, and not even the start of the improvements to Keeper’s Cottage was able to divert her.
On the contrary, Ginny told herself grimly, Rosina still seemed hell-bent on staying exactly where she was.
And her attitude to Barney had not softened either.
‘Have you done anything about finding him a new owner, Virginia? If not, at the end of the week—he goes.’
‘I’ve put a card in the newsagent’s window,’ Ginny said quietly.
‘You think you’ll be inundated with replies?’ Rosina gave a short laugh. ‘I doubt it.’
‘I’d settle for one person who really wants him,’ Ginny returned. And, if it was humanly possible, that would be me, she thought now with a pang, deciding she would pop up to the shop during her meal break to check.
But it was after two o’clock before Ginny was able to hang up her apron, fling on her coat and sprint up the High Street to Betts Newsagents.
Only to meet with another disappointment.
‘It’s a bad time of year to be taking on a dog, what with Christmas bills coming in, and nasty weather for walking,’ said Mrs Betts. ‘I’d hang on for spring, Miss Mason, and try again.’
If only, thought Ginny as she turned away, with a word of thanks and a forced smile.
As she emerged from the shop and caught sight of the timbered façade of the Rose and Crown directly opposite, rising anger fought her initial sense of defeat.
There he was, she thought, fiercely. The man who’d appeared from nowhere, been given everything yet seemed to value none of it.
She was turning to go back to the café when her eye was caught by a splash of colour and she saw a figure in a familiar quilted jacket the colour of violets emerge almost furtively through the archway which led to the hotel entrance, pulling her fur-trimmed hood forward as if to shield her face as well as cover her blonde hair.
