by Abby Green
As Rosina began an indignant, ‘Well, really,’ she took her mother’s hand, giving it a warning squeeze and led her to the big chair by the fireplace, herself perching on its arm, hoping that her sixth sense, so often a warning of trouble ahead, was wrong in this instance.
Mr Hargreaves began in the conventional manner, dealing first with the small bequests, to the gardener, and various charities. There was also a generous pension for Margaret Jane Pelham ‘in recognition of her years of devoted service’, and the use of one of the village properties Andrew owned for the whole of her lifetime.
She should have been here to hear that for herself, Ginny thought wearily, but her mother had vetoed the idea.
‘Now we come to the major provisions in the will,’ Mr Hargreaves continued, and Rosina sat up expectantly.
‘For my wife, Rosina Elaine Charlton,’ he went on. ‘I direct that she receive an annuity of forty thousand pounds, payable on the first of January each year, and the use of Keeper’s Cottage during her lifetime, its repair and maintenance to be paid from my estate.’
‘An annuity—a cottage?’ Rosina, her voice shaking, was on her feet. ‘What are you talking about? There must be some mistake.’
‘Mother.’ Ginny guided her back into her chair, aware that she too was trembling. ‘Let Mr Hargreaves finish.’
‘Thank you, Miss Mason.’ He cleared his throat, awkwardly. ‘There is one final and major item.’ He paused. ‘All other monies and property of which I die possessed, including Barrowdean House and my shares in Charlton Engineering, I bequeath to my natural son, Andre Duchard of Terauze, France.’
There was an appalled silence. Ginny stared at the man sitting beside the solicitor, his dark face expressionless. Andre, she thought. The French version of Andrew. And, while she’d been aware of some faint familiarity, Barney—Barney had known in some unfathomable way. Barney had recognised him as family.
Then: ‘Natural son?’ Rosina repeated, her voice rising. ‘Are you telling me that Andrew has left everything—everything—to some—some bastard? Some Frenchman none of us have heard of until now?’
‘But I, madame, have heard a great deal about you,’ Andre Duchard said silkily. ‘I am enchanted to make your acquaintance at last.’
‘Enchanted?’ Rosina gave a harsh laugh. ‘Enchanted to think that you’ve robbed me of my inheritance, no doubt. Well, don’t count your chickens. Because I intend to fight this outrage if it takes everything I’ve got.’
Which at the moment, thought Ginny, is forty thousand a year and the use of a cottage. Damn all else. As for me—well, I can’t think about that now. The priority is damage limitation.
She put an arm round her mother’s shoulders. She said quietly, ‘I’m sorry, Mr Hargreaves, but I think we’re all in a state of shock. As my mother says, we hadn’t the least idea that Monsieur Duchard existed. But I imagine Andrew arranged for his heir’s credentials to be thoroughly checked.’
Mr Hargreaves took off his glasses and wiped them carefully. He said, ‘Indeed, yes. Mr Charlton always knew he had a son, and obtained legal recognition of his paternity according to French law. He also has letters and photographs going back to the time the boy was born, which my father kept for him in a box at our offices.’ He paused again. ‘This was a matter of discretion as Mrs Josephine Charlton was still alive at that time, and our client was anxious not to distress her.’
‘And what about my feelings?’ Rosina demanded tearfully. ‘He wasn’t so caring about them. Ten years of devotion rewarded by a pittance and the use of a hovel!’
Ginny groaned under her breath, stingingly aware of Andre Duchard’s sardonic smile, as he absorbed every word and gesture, then froze as he looked directly at her, the dark brows drawing together as if he’d been presented with a puzzle he had yet to master.
Hastily, she averted her gaze.
‘Mother, why don’t you come upstairs and lie down,’ she suggested gently. ‘I’ll ask Mrs Pelham to make you some tea and...’
‘I want nothing from that woman. Don’t you realise Andrew has treated me the same as her—a servant—in this disgusting will? Oh, how could he do such a thing? He must have been quite mad.’
Her eyes suddenly sharpened. ‘But of course, that’s it. Something must have disturbed the balance of his mind. Isn’t that what they say?’
‘I think you are referring to suicide, madame,’ Andre Duchard corrected gently.
‘Well, whatever.’ Mrs Charlton waved a dismissive hand. ‘We can still have the will overturned. You hear about such things all the time.’
‘I strongly advise against any such action,’ Robert Hargreaves said gravely. ‘You have no case, Mrs Charlton. Your husband was a sane and rational man, who wished to openly recognise his son born outside wedlock. The will I have just read was drawn up two years ago.’
‘But if this man is really Andrew’s son, why is he called—Duchard or whatever it was? It sounds bogus to me.’
The Frenchman spoke. ‘Duchard, madame, is the family name of my stepfather, who adopted me when he married my mother. I hope that sets your mind at rest,’ he added silkily.
Seeing that Rosina’s face had reddened alarmingly, Mr Hargreaves intervened. ‘I suggest you take Virginia’s advice, Mrs Charlton, and rest for a while. We will speak again in a day or two, when you’re feeling calmer. There are other important matters that need to be discussed.’
‘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 th
eir 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.’
She lowered her voice. ‘I’m sure she loved him, but I don’t think she was very keen on married life, as it were. Not unless there was going to be a baby to make it worthwhile. But a man wouldn’t see it like that.’
No.’ Ginny emptied sugar into a bowl. ‘I—I don’t suppose he would.’
‘And suddenly there was this kind, warm-hearted girl living in the house, and he was an attractive man when he was younger. Not that I ever saw anything untoward, mind you,’ she added hastily. ‘And Linnet was good for Mrs Josie. Got her out and about, driving her car, and even doing some gardening.
‘But one day she just upped and left. Came in the kitchen to say goodbye, and it was plain she’d been crying.’ She sighed again. ‘And later on, Mrs Josie really did become ill, poor soul, with Parkinson’s disease, and Mr Charlton was as good to her as any husband could be, and enough said.’
She nodded with a kind of finality then glanced at the Aga. ‘And that kettle’s boiling, Miss Ginny.’
Ginny’s mind was whirling as she carried the tray into the study, but the torrent of grievance which greeted her soon brought her back to earth.
‘Well, at least you’ve got this annuity thing, Mother,’ Cilla was saying furiously. ‘Whereas he didn’t leave me a penny, the old skinflint.’
Ginny put the tray on the desk. She said mildly, ‘Perhaps he thought it was unnecessary, as you’re marrying into one of the richest families in the county.’
Cilla turned on her. ‘And you’re getting nothing too, so all that trying to wheedle your way into his good books was a waste of time. You’re going to be worse off than any of us,’ she added almost triumphantly.
‘So it would seem,’ Ginny agreed, sounding more cheerful than she felt, as she poured the tea. ‘But please don’t worry about it.’
‘I’m not,’ her sister said sulkily. ‘I just want to know how we’re going to pay for my wedding. Mother, you’ll have to talk to Mr Hargreaves. Get some more money out of him somehow.’
As Ginny poured out the tea, she noticed something. ‘Where’s Barney?’
‘I put him outside,’ said her mother. ‘I couldn’t bear him in the room a moment longer,’ she added, fanning herself with her handkerchief.
Ginny put down the pot. ‘You do realise he might have wandered off?’
‘What if he has? I told you I’m getting rid of him.’
‘You can’t do that,’ Ginny flung over her shoulder as she headed for the door. ‘Like everything else in this house, he probably belongs to Monsieur Duchard. And he’s a valuable dog.’
She huddled on her quilted jacket, pulled on her Wellington boots and grabbed a leash and a torch from the shelf in the boot room before letting herself out through the back door. The temperature outside wasn’t much above freezing, and she could see her breath like a cloud in front of her as she skirted the house, softly calling Barney’s name, hoping he would be waiting anxiously on the terrace for readmission.
But there was no sign of him. Biting her lip, she went round to the side gate, left carelessly open, probably by the departing Mavis, and stepped out on to the lane leading to the common.
As she walked, she called again, sweeping the area with her torch, knowing that he could be anywhere. As she reached the edge of the common, she took a deep breath then gave three soft whistles as Andrew used to do.
In the distance, there was an answering bark and a moment later, Barney came loping into view, tail wagging and tongue hanging out.
‘Good boy,’ Ginny said, sighing with relief as she attached the leash to his collar, but as she turned back towards the house, he resisted, standing stock still, staring back the way he’d come, and whimpering softly and excitedly.
As if, she thought, he was waiting for someone. She raised the torch, aiming the beam across the scrubby grass and clumps of gorse. She said sharply, ‘Who’s there?’
But there was no reply or sign of movement, and after a moment or two, Barney came out of alert mode and turned obediently for home.
You, my girl, she told herself grimly, had better stop being over-imaginative and get down to practicalities—like where you’ll go, and how the hell you’ll earn your living.
And, as she trudged back to the house, she found herself wishing, with a kind of bitter despair, that she’d never heard the name of Andre Duchard. Or, better still, that he’d never been born.
Copyright © 2015 by Sara Craven
ISBN-13: 9781460329696
Fonseca’s Fury
Copyright © 2015 by Abby Green
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