Читать книгу Inherited by Her Enemy - Сара Крейвен, Sara Craven - Страница 7
ОглавлениеGINNY MASON SENT a wave and grateful smile to the last of the departing well-wishers, then closed the heavy front door against the raw chill of the late January afternoon with a deep sigh of relief.
That, she thought wryly, leaning a shoulder against the doorframe as she listened to the car draw away, was the worst part of the day over. At least she hoped so.
The crematorium chapel had been full, because her stepfather Andrew Charlton was popular in the locality and well respected as an employer too, being the recently retired head of his own successful light engineering company. But only a handful of those present had accepted Rosina Charlton’s invitation to return to the house for the lavish buffet she’d arranged and few had stayed for very long.
They still think of us as interlopers, Ginny told herself, pulling a face, and they probably feel that Andrew should have been buried next to his first wife after a church service.
Or, maybe, word of Mother’s plans has probably got around. Today Rosina had been the wistful, gracious chatelaine, fragile in black. Last night she’d declared peevishly that she couldn’t wait to sell Barrowdean House and get away from all these stuffed shirts, to somewhere with a bit of life.
‘The South of France, I think.’ She nodded. ‘One of those really pretty villas in the hills, with a pool. So nice for the grandchildren when they come to visit,’ she’d added with an arch look at her younger daughter.
‘For God’s sake, Ma,’ Lucilla had said impatiently. ‘Jonathan and I have only just got engaged. We won’t be thinking of a family for absolutely ages. I want some fun too.’
Nothing new there, then, Ginny had thought to herself. Although she supposed Cilla could hardly be blamed. She was ‘the pretty one’, whereas Ginny, as her mother often pointed out, took after her father. Her creamy skin and neat figure did not compensate for the fact that her hair was light brown instead of blonde, and her eyes were not blue but grey. And her face could best be described as unremarkable.
Cilla on the other hand was a true golden girl, spoiled since birth by everyone.
Even Andrew had not been immune, because, when she’d returned from completing her education at an expensive establishment in Switzerland, while he might have muttered about her doing some proper training and getting a job, he’d never insisted that she become gainfully employed.
And when she’d caught the eye of Sir Malcolm and Lady Welburn’s only son, and courtship had proceeded rapidly to engagement, he’d nodded in a resigned way, as if weighing up the probable cost of the wedding.
An occasion he had not lived to see, thought Ginny, her throat tightening as she remembered the tall, thin kindly man who’d provided such safety and security in their lives for the past ten years.
As she began to recover from the immediate shock of Andrew’s death, she was already wondering why they hadn’t been warned about his heart condition.
But, as yet, she’d had no real opportunity to grieve. Her mother and Cilla’s hysterical reaction to their loss had demanded all her time and attention to begin with, and then had come the bombshell of Rosina’s decision to sell Barrowdean and move as soon as a buyer could be found, which had knocked her sideways all over again.
There was, her mother had claimed defiantly, nothing to keep her here, because Cilla, marrying darling Jonathan, would be well taken care of.
‘While you have your job at that funny little café, Virginia,’ she’d added. ‘I’m sure someone in the village will have a room you can rent.’
It had been on the tip of Ginny’s tongue to say that the café was no longer just a job, but a prospect for the future, and accommodation might not be an issue. However, on second thoughts, she decided to keep quiet.
She moved away from the door and stood, irresolute for a moment, listening to the murmur of voices and chink of china and cutlery from the dining room, where Andrew’s elderly housekeeper Mrs Pelham, and Mavis from the village were clearing away the remains of the buffet.
Which we’ll probably be eating for the rest of the week, she told herself ruefully.
Mrs Pel, of course, was another problem for her to worry about. Not that the old lady was under any illusions. She knew quite well that Rosina had been trying to get rid of her ever since she’d come to live at Barrowdean House, using Mrs Pel’s age and growing infirmity as her excuse. But Andrew had ignored all hints.
Apart from his personal fondness for her, he said, Mrs Pelham was part of Barrowdean, and ran the house like clockwork. When she decided to retire, she would tell him. Until then, no change would be made.
Now, of course, there was no such curb, and the housekeeper’s dismissal would be high on the list of Rosina’s ‘things to do’.
Ginny knew she ought to lend a hand with the clearing, as she did with most of the household chores these days, out of regard for Mrs Pel’s arthritis, but instead she headed for Andrew’s study to make sure everything was ready for the formal reading of the will.
‘What a ridiculous performance,’ Rosina had said scathingly. ‘When we’re the sole beneficiaries.’
I hope it’s that simple, thought Ginny, aware of a brief and inexplicable pang of anxiety.
However, Mr Hargreaves, the solicitor who’d always handled Andrew’s affairs had been quite adamant that in this, at least, his client’s wishes should be observed, and had arranged to call at five o’clock.
The study had always been Ginny’s favourite room, probably because the walls were lined with books, and she’d enjoyed curling up in a chair by the fire, silent and engrossed, while Andrew worked at his desk.
She hadn’t been in here since his death, and she had to brace herself to open the door, hardly believing that he would not be there to look up and smile at her.
But there was still a living presence in the room. Barney, her stepfather’s five-year-old Golden Labrador was stretched out on the rug in front of the fire.
As she entered, he raised his head, and his tail beat a brief tattoo on the rug, but he didn’t jump up and come over to push his muzzle into her hand. That was a privilege still reserved solely for the beloved master who would not return.
‘Poor old boy,’ Ginny said softly. ‘Did you think I’d forgotten you? I promise I’ll take you out again once this will-reading business is sorted.’
Although Barney, of course, was another problem. Her mother who disliked dogs—the mess, the smell—was already talking about sending him to the vet to be put down, and Ginny felt sick at the prospect.
She would take him herself like a shot, but until she knew for certain what her own prospects were, her hands were tied.
She added logs to the fire, switched on the lamps, made sure there were enough chairs, then walked across to draw the curtains over the French windows. As she did so, she saw the flash of car headlights approaching up the drive, and glanced at her watch, verifying that Mr Hargreaves, usually a stickler for punctuality, was in fact early.
Probably because this is undoubtedly going to be his least favourite appointment of the day, and he wants to get it over with, she thought, with a sigh.
When the doorbell rang a few minutes later, she was surprised to find Barney accompanying her across the hall, whimpering with excitement.
He must think Andrew’s simply been away and has just returned, she told herself, her throat tightening again. But it’s the sound of his key that he’s always recognised in the past.
She tucked a hand into his collar, knowing that not everyone relished being hit amidships by a large and exuberant Labrador, and opened the door.
She began, ‘Good evening,’ then stopped with the words ‘Mr Hargreaves’ freezing on her lips.
Because the man standing in front of her was certainly not the family solicitor. For a moment, he seemed part of the darkness, his black trench coat hanging open over a charcoal grey suit, with a leather satchel on a long strap hanging from one shoulder. His hair was dark too, and glossy as a raven’s wing, even if it was over-long and slightly dishevelled.
For the rest of him, he was tall, with a lean tanned face and heavy-lidded dark brown eyes. Not good-looking, was her overriding impression. Not with that thin-lipped, uncompromising mouth, nor that beak of a nose, which looked as if it had been broken at some point, and a chin that by contrast seemed to threaten to break any fist which dared approach it.
And yet he was, in some incomprehensible way, faintly familiar, and she found this disturbing.
But Barney had no reservations about the newcomer. With a whine of delight, he broke free of Ginny’s suddenly slackened hold and pushed himself against the stranger’s legs.
‘Barney! Sit down, sir.’ There was a faint quiver in her voice, but the dog obeyed, tail thumping and brown eyes gazing up in liquid adoration.
She said, ‘I’m sorry. He’s not usually like this with—people he doesn’t know.’ Or with people he does know most of the time...
The man bent and stroked the smooth golden head, gently pulling Barney’s ears.
‘It is not a problem.’ A low-pitched voice, slightly husky, with a definite accent that was certainly not local.
As he straightened, Ginny realised she was being looked over in turn. His face betrayed nothing, but she sensed he was not impressed by what he saw.
Which makes two of us, she thought.
She took a breath. ‘I’m sorry. Were we expecting you?’
‘Mr Hargreaves expects me,’ he said. ‘He asked me to meet him here.’
‘Oh—I see,’ she said untruthfully, trying and failing to connect this tough who appeared to need a shave with the ultra-conservative firm of Hargreaves and Litton. ‘In which case, you’d better come in.’
And if he turns out to be a master burglar and/or a mass murderer, she addressed Barney silently, I shall blame you.
She turned and walked back to the study, knowing without looking round that he was following her, the dog at his side.
She said, ‘If you’ll wait here. Would you like some coffee?’
‘Thank you, but no.’
Civil, she thought, but terse. And the way he was looking round him, appraising what he saw, much as he’d done with herself, made her even more uneasy.
‘Mr Hargreaves should be here at any minute,’ she went on, and he responded with a silent inclination of the head, as he put down his satchel and shrugged off his trench coat. His shirt she noticed was pearl-grey, open at the neck and he wore a black tie tugged negligently loose.
Feeling she was observing altogether too much, Ginny murmured something about her mother and sister and retired.
In the drawing room, Rosina rose, smoothing her skirt. ‘I presume Mr Hargreaves has arrived, and we can get this farce over and done with.’
‘No, that was someone else—from his office apparently,’ said Ginny, frowning a little as she remembered the tanned and calloused fingers that had fondled Barney. Not, she thought, the hand of someone who worked at a desk. So, who on earth...
Her train of thought was interrupted as the doorbell sounded yet again. She rose but was halted by her mother.
‘Stay here, Virginia. It’s Mrs Pelham’s job to answer the door, while she remains under this roof,’ she added ominously.
Just as if she didn’t know how many of the household tasks Ginny had quietly taken over in the past six months.
The drawing room door opened again to admit Mrs Pelham, back upright, but walking with the aid of a stick. ‘Mr Hargreaves is here, madam. I have shown him into the study.’
Rosina nodded. ‘I’ll join him presently.’
She and Cilla disappeared upstairs to tidy their hair and no doubt freshen their make-up. Ginny, content that she looked neat and tidy enough in her grey skirt and cream polo-necked sweater, remembered the unexpected arrival and grabbed an extra chair on her way through the hall.
As she entered the study, she saw him deep in quiet conversation with Mr Hargreaves, who immediately broke off to come across and relieve her of her burden.
His normally calm face was creased in worry. He said quietly, ‘I am so sorry for your loss, Miss Mason. I know how close you were to your stepfather. Even now, it hardly seems possible...’ He paused, patted her arm and went back to the desk, placing the chair beside his own.
Then there was the sound of voices and Rosina and Cilla entered, their blonde hair in shining contrast to their black dresses.
Mr Hargreaves’s unknown companion glanced round and paused, his attention totally arrested by the exquisitely melancholy vision being presented, particularly by Cilla, who was even carrying a handkerchief, and whose dress clung to every delectable contour of her exquisite figure.
Don’t even think about it, Ginny advised him under her breath. Cilla prefers the smooth, safe type. You don’t qualify on either count.
Rosina paused. ‘What is that dog doing in here? Virginia, you know quite well that he should be in the kitchen quarters. Must I do everything myself?’
The stranger spoke. ‘Why not a compromise?’ He snapped his fingers, and Barney got up from the rug and ambled across to curl up under the desk, out of sight.
Which was not a thing a country solicitor’s clerk should do in front of his boss, thought Ginny, startled. And that was definitely a foreign accent. So who was he?
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 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.’
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.
