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She listened to the shocked silence, then nodded. ‘So tomorrow, I’ll leave a note for him at the Rose and Crown. Nothing formal, but not kitchen sups either. And we’ll invite the Welburns too. Make it an extended family occasion, and hopefully score a few points.’
She turned to her mother. ‘And we can’t play ostrich about the future, so I’ll also call at Mr Hargreaves’s office and get the key to the cottage. Have a preliminary look round and make a list of anything that needs to be done.’
‘You’re taking a lot upon yourself,’ Rosina said sharply.
‘Someone has to,’ said Ginny. ‘And now, if you’ll both excuse me, I’ll take my sandwich up to my room. It’s been a hell of a day, and I have a letter to write.’
As she closed the door behind her, she heard Cilla say furiously, ‘Well, really...’
She went first to Andrew’s study to get a sheet of notepaper from his desk. The envelopes were at the back of the drawer, but as she reached for them, her fingers grasped something bulkier.
My God, she thought in self-derision, as she pulled it towards her. Is this the moment I find a new will and all our problems are solved?
But what she’d discovered, in fact, was a map of France’s Burgundy region. And no need to wonder why it was here, hidden away.
She stared down at it for a long moment, fighting her curiosity with resentment. Telling herself it was of no interest to her where Andre Duchard came from, even as she opened the map and spread it on the desk.
And found Terauze, heavily circled in black, jumping out at her. Saw too that the map itself was beginning to tear at the creases, evidence of heavy use. All those trips abroad, she thought, dismissed airily by her mother as ‘more boring business’. As some of them must have been, because the company order books were always full.
She’d once asked Rosina, ‘Hasn’t Andrew ever asked you to go with him?’
Her mother had shrugged evasively. ‘My dear child, it’s just one meeting after another. He’s far better on his own.’
And so, of course, was Rosina with her golf lessons, her bridge friends, and her ladies luncheon club in nearby Lanchester, Ginny had mused drily.
But, under the circumstances, Andrew probably preferred to keep his secret, and encouraged his wife to stay at home.
But surely he must have realised the devastating effect the eventual revelation would have? Ginny argued. Or didn’t he care?
No, she thought, I don’t believe that for a minute. Because he was a kind, dear man, and taking on a widow and her two daughters must have been quite an enterprise. So what changed?
With a sigh, she looked back at the map. Burgundy, she mused.
Producing wine and Dijon mustard, and also, apparently, Andre Duchard. But if he was indeed Linnet Farrell’s son, as Mrs Pel thought, how had she fetched up there?
So many questions for which she would probably never find answers. And she would be better employed in trying to establish better relations.
And on that resolve, she put the map back in the drawer, took her paper and envelope and went up to her room.
There was no problem obtaining the key for Keeper’s Cottage the following morning. Mr Hargreaves did not work on Saturday mornings, but Ginny telephoned him at home after breakfast and he promised, sounding positively relieved, that he would arrange for it to be waiting for her at his office.
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.
