Sara Craven - Inherited by Her Enemy

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.