And for once, she was allowed without protest the use of her mother’s smart little Peugeot.
Keeper’s Cottage was on the very edge of the Barrowdean estate, and approached by a narrow lane. Built in mellow red brick, it was the kind of dwelling a child might draw, with a central front door flanked by two square windows, three more windows on the upper floor and chimneys at each end of the slate roof.
She pushed open the wooden gate and went up the flagged path between the empty winter flower beds. It was a bleak, iron-grey day with the promise of snow in the air, and Ginny huddled her fleece around her in the biting wind.
The front door creaked as she unlocked it and went in. She stood for a moment in the narrow hall, looking up the straight flight of stairs ahead of her, and taking a deep exploratory breath but she could pick up no telltale hint of damp, under the mustiness of disuse.
The downstairs rooms weren’t large, but they’d be pleasant enough when redecorated. And surely it wouldn’t be unreasonable to ask for the windows to be double-glazed.
The kitchen, reached from the dining room, had an electric cooker, and wall cupboards with space under the counter top for a washing machine and refrigerator.
Upstairs, she found two bedrooms facing each other across the passage, and a bathroom, where a pale blue suite made the room seem even chillier. The only other upstairs room was so small that it could never aspire to be a bedroom. Even a baby’s cot would swamp it.
Ginny closed the door on it, her heart sinking. For someone with enthusiasm and energy to match, Keeper’s Cottage had real potential, she thought. Rosina, however, would regard it as a sentence of banishment, and maybe she had a point.
Once again, she found herself pondering the state of a marriage she had always assumed was perfectly content. After all, people didn’t have to live in each other’s pockets to be happy—did they?
But what do I know about marriage—or love, for that matter, she asked herself derisively, remembering Cilla’s jibes earlier.
She’d liked Jonathan. She could admit she’d known a frisson of excitement when he called her, but that was as far as it had gone. Cilla’s golden, glowing return had made sure of that. And any inward pangs she’d suffered from his defection were probably injured pride.
If I’d cared, I’d have fought for him, she told herself. Anyway, it’s all in the past now, and, come June, he’ll be my brother-in-law.
But where and what I’ll be, heaven only knows.
She turned back towards the stairs then froze, as from the ground floor came the unmistakable creak of the front door opening and closing.
Her first thought was that it couldn’t be a burglar because there was nothing to steal but the cooker.
All the same, she reached into her bag for her mobile phone, only to remember it was on charge on her bedside table.
She crept to the top of the stairs and looked cautiously down into the hall.
And there leaning against the newel post, completely at his ease as he looked up at her, was Andre Duchard. He said softly, ‘Virginie.’
Once again, the sound of it made her feel as ridiculously self-conscious as if he had run a finger over her skin. She said huskily, ‘I don’t remember giving you permission to use my name. And what are you doing here?’
His gaze was unwavering. ‘Examining my inheritance,’ he said and smiled. ‘All my new possessions.’
‘Is that what you were doing last night—hanging round on the common?’
He shrugged. ‘I needed to clear my head a little.’
Ginny bit her lip. ‘Does Mr Hargreaves know that you’re here?’
‘But of course.’ The dark brows lifted. ‘I explained to him that I had never visited a hovel and wished to see for myself what such a place was like. He understood perfectly and gave me a key, which, naturellement, I have not needed to use. Because you were here first.’
She stared down at him. ‘Didn’t he tell you that I might be?’
‘No, why should that matter?’
She couldn’t think of a reason apart from how empty the cottage was—and how isolated. And that she had never expected to find herself alone with him—anywhere.
It occurred to her that in some odd way he made the hall seem even more cramped. And that with his untidy hair and the stubble outlining his chin, he was even less prepossessing in broad daylight than he had been the previous evening. He was wearing a dark roll-neck sweater under a thick jacket reaching to mid-thigh, and his long legs were encased in denim and knee-length boots.
And the silence lengthening between them was beginning to feel inexplicably dangerous.
She said hurriedly, ‘I—I’m sorry about the hovel remark. I’m afraid my mother was too distraught to think what she was saying yesterday.’