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She said, ‘Where’s Cilla?’
‘Off to the Manor to consult Jonathan about this appalling situation.’
‘In what way—consult?’
‘How we can fight this fraudulent will, of course,’ said Rosina, the ominous throb returning to her voice. ‘Oh, I can hardly bear to think of Andrew—his deceit—his betrayal of me. Of our love.’
She shook her head. ‘To have had a son—in secret—all these years, and said nothing to me—his wife. It beggars belief. It makes me almost wish...’
She broke off abruptly. ‘Get me a brandy, Virginia. A large one. I need something to settle my nerves.’
As Ginny busied herself with the decanter on a side table, Rosina added abruptly, ‘You’re so fortunate not to suffer in this way. Cilla and I are so sensitive, but nothing ever seems to affect you.’
‘That’s not true,’ Ginny said quietly, as she brought her mother the brandy. ‘But I don’t see any mileage in fussing over things I can’t change.’
‘But if we all stand together...’
‘We could end up looking grasping and silly.’
‘You might change your tune if you were the one faced with penury.’
If only you knew, Ginny thought bitterly. Aloud, she said mildly, ‘It’s hardly that, Mother. Whole families have to manage on much less.’ She paused. ‘Why don’t we go over tomorrow and have a look at the cottage? It may not be as bad as you think.’
Rosina tossed her head. ‘You go, if you want. I refuse to set foot in the place.’ She produced a handkerchief. ‘Oh, Andrew, how could you do this to me?’
To which, presumably, no answer was expected. Ginny waited until Rosina had drunk some of her brandy, then suggested they should watch some television, figuring correctly that she would again be accused of being without feelings.
All the same, her mother allowed herself to be persuaded, and was soon deep in a drama series she enjoyed, leaving Ginny to pursue her own unhappy train of thought.
The Meadowford Café was the official name of her present place of employment, but it had never been known in the village as anything but ‘Miss Finn’s’.
The original Miss Finn had been a cook in some very exclusive households before deciding to open her own establishment in an area where she’d spent several holidays and which she’d grown to love.
A round rosy lady, her phenomenally light hand with cakes and pastry had made the business a roaring success, opening for morning coffee, serving light lunches of homemade quiches, open sandwiches and interesting salads, and closing once afternoon teas had been served.
And when she eventually retired, her place was taken and her high standards maintained by her unmarried niece, Miss Emma Finn, also pink-cheeked and on the plump side and considered locally, with kindly affection, as another born spinster.
Ginny, her school days behind her, and with respectable exam results to treasure, had considered teaching as a career, but her mother had reacted in horror, protesting that Ginny was needed at home.
‘Such an enormous house to run single-handed, and Mrs Pelham not really pulling her weight any more. And really, you owe it to Andrew.’
Eventually, Ginny had reluctantly agreed, only to find herself caught between her mother’s steely resolve and Mrs Pel’s stony resistance. After three largely unproductive months doing very little, she saw a card in Miss Finn’s window asking for part-time assistance, applied and got the job.
‘You’re going to be a waitress?’ Mrs Charlton had been appalled. ‘But you can’t possibly. Whatever will Andrew say?’
Which had turned out to be ‘Good for you,’ accompanied by a wink and a pat on the shoulder.
To Ginny’s own surprise, she enjoyed working at Miss Finn’s and it wasn’t long before she joyously accepted Miss Emma’s offer of full-time work.
Three years on, Ginny was still enjoying herself, while giving Mrs Pelham unobtrusive and now welcome support at home too.
However, a few months ago, Miss Emma had, to everyone’s astonishment, announced her engagement, with the news that she would be moving to Brussels after her marriage.
So a quick decision about the future of the café was needed. The premises were leased from the Welburn estate, so all she needed was someone to buy the actual business, and she had offered first refusal to Ginny.
‘I suppose it should be Iris Potter,’ she’d confided anxiously, ‘as she’s been here the longest, but she does so rub people up the wrong way. And while you’re young, Ginny, you’re such a capable girl and the customers like you.’
It was, Ginny knew, a wonderful opportunity, but Miss Finn clearly had no idea of her financial position. Andrew, it was true, made her an allowance, which he’d increased once he realised just how much she did in the house, but, apart from her wages, that was it.
