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.