‘At least let me try and get him another home,’ Ginny pleaded.
‘You have a week,’ Rosina flung over her shoulder as she headed for the dining room. ‘Until then, he can stay in one of the outhouses. I don’t want to set eyes on him again.’
And I didn’t want to wake up this morning, Ginny thought wearily, towing the reluctant Barney back to the kitchen. I now see how right I was.
She’d had a restless and miserable night. As she’d guessed, Rosina and Cilla, when she’d re-joined them, had been full of their grievances, admittedly with some justice after this new thunderbolt.
Andrew must have been making his plans for a long time, she thought unhappily, and there was no doubt he’d deceived them all. Yet, at the same time, she could not forget Andre Duchard’s harsh and unexpected riposte to her mother when she’d mentioned cheating.
I should have asked her about it, she told herself, and I will when I get the opportunity.
But at least Rosina seemed to accept the inevitability of Keeper’s Cottage and had even agreed, grudgingly, to look it over, armed with Ginny’s list of suggested refurbishments.
Now Barney, who seemed briefly to have regained some of his former exuberance, had become another addition to her list of problems, she realised unhappily as she changed into a chestnut tweed skirt and a black polo-necked sweater for work.
She had her interview with Emma Finn during her lunch break, and it was just as difficult as she’d feared.
‘There’s been a lot of gossip about Mr Charlton’s will, as I’m sure you know,’ her boss told her unhappily. ‘But, frankly, I discounted it.’
‘Unfortunately, it’s all true.’ Ginny looked down at her tightly clasped hands. ‘I—I have no claim at all.’
‘You don’t think the new heir would back you? If you explained the circumstances?’
Ginny sat up very straight. ‘I’m sure he wouldn’t,’ she returned with emphasis. ‘Even if I could bring myself to ask him.’
‘Oh, dear,’ said Emma. ‘Well, Ginny, I won’t pretend I’m not disappointed, but Iris’s offer is on the table and I need to close the deal quickly.’ She frowned. ‘Even though I suspect when I’m gone, it will be all change.’
Like so much else, thought Ginny as she went back to work.
* * *
It was a busy afternoon, the miserable weather creating a high demand for soup and hot chocolate as the comfort foods of choice, and everyone she served told her how sorry they were about Andrew and what a loss it was, and she quietly agreed, thanking them for their sympathy, while trying not to resent the curiosity which accompanied it.
It was only natural, she reminded herself. Andrew seemed the last man in the world to have fathered an illegitimate son, and kept him a secret all these years.
As closing time approached, Ginny was on her own in the café, clearing tables, when Andre Duchard walked in and took a seat in the corner.
For a moment, she stood, frozen, aware of the dull heavy thunder of her heart, and the sudden dryness of her mouth. Real but inexplicable.
And there was nothing she could do, pride forbidding her to pick up her loaded tray and scuttle with it into the kitchen, leaving someone else to deal with the unwelcome customer.
She drew a deep breath, then walked across the room, acutely aware that he was watching her approach every step of the way, his hard mouth smiling faintly as he leaned back in his Windsor chair.
As she reached the table, he said softly, ‘So this is how you pass your days.’
‘Yes, it is.’ Ginny lifted her chin, thankful for the steadiness of her voice. Even investing it with a note of tartness. ‘Is that what you came here for—to satisfy your curiosity?’
‘Pas entièrement.’ He gave the menu a cursory glance. ‘Un café filtre, s’il vous plaît.’
‘Certainly.’ She wrote on her order pad, then paused. ‘Milk and sugar?’
He grimaced slightly. ‘Merci. But, perhaps, a cognac.’
Ginny shook her head. ‘We aren’t licensed to sell alcohol.’ She added coolly, ‘Not even wine, if you were hoping Miss Finn might be a potential buyer.’
‘Quel dommage,’ he said lightly and looked down at the menu again. ‘But then, this is a very feminine establishment, n’est ce pas?’
‘Not exclusively,’ she denied swiftly. ‘Our food appeals to men as well.’
Although it reluctantly occurred to her that none of their other male customers brought this kind of presence—this raw energy into the place, making it seem somehow—diminished.
She found the realisation disturbing, and hurried into speech again. ‘Maybe you should stick to the Rose and Crown.’