‘No, it’s a perfect opportunity,’ she declared buoyantly. ‘The Welburns are our nearest neighbours and he’ll want to make a good impression.’

‘Well, I don’t believe Mr Duchard will give a damn about what the neighbours think of him,’ Ginny returned wearily. ‘His home is in France so he won’t be around long enough to care.’

Her mother tutted impatiently. ‘Really, Virginia. Can you please stop being so negative. It’s very depressing.’

And being a widow isn’t? Ginny thought bitterly.

Working companionably and efficiently with Mrs Pel to produce the meal itself lifted her spirits however, and if she could only have put on her ‘Miss Finn’ pinny and simply served the food without having to join the party round the table, she’d have been happier still.

For one thing, she had no idea what to wear.

Most of the clothes in her wardrobe were of the workaday variety, entirely through her own choice. After a day on her feet in the café, followed by the domestic demands of Barrowdean, she was glad of the excuse to avoid the local social whirl, such as it was.

Lady Welburn had the right idea, she thought wistfully, generally appearing in a series of long skirts in jewel-coloured velvet run up for her by the village dressmaker, and teaming them with plain black cashmere tops.

She, however, would have to wear the Dress. She took it from the wardrobe and pulled a face at it. Mid-calf-length, long-sleeved and high-necked in taupe jersey, it had been bought for the Christmas before last when she was running short of time and temper.

And she could say with total truth it did nothing for her at all, except fit where it touched.

Never mind, she told herself. The best thing you can be at this blighted party is insignificant. And no more bright ideas either. They have this way of coming back to bite you in the rear.

She showered, dried her hair into its usual smooth bob, put on the taupe dress and went downstairs, knowing that neither her mother nor Cilla would put in an appearance until the last minute.

She checked the fire in the drawing room, and the drinks tray, then went along to the kitchen to fetch the bowls of nibbles.

She pushed open the door, and halted, her throat tightening in shock. Because Andre Duchard was there, perched on the edge of the kitchen table—a thing Mrs Pel never permitted—helping himself from a packet of cashew nuts.

He was wearing the dark suit again, with a white shirt setting off the sombre magnificence of a grey silk tie. That mane of hair was still too long but had at least been combed into some kind of order and, as she saw instantly, her own face warming, he had shaved.

He looked her over in turn, his brows rising quizzically as if confirming her own opinion of her dress, then gave a polite inclination of the head. ‘Bonsoir.’

Withstanding a desire to grind her teeth, Ginny uprooted herself from the doorway and took a step forward. ‘I—I didn’t realise anyone was here yet.’

‘I was unforgivably early.’ He did not look or sound particularly repentant. ‘But I wished an opportunity to speak with Marguerite who was a friend to my mother.’ He smiled at her, and took another cashew. ‘But you already know that, I think.’

Ginny said stiffly, ‘Mrs Pelham believed she knew her identity, yes.’

And at that moment Mrs Pel came bustling back from the direction of her small flat carrying a photograph album. ‘I knew I’d find it,’ she announced happily, then checked. ‘Oh, Miss Ginny. Are the other guests arriving?’

‘No,’ Ginny assured her. ‘I just remembered a few last-minute things.’

She emptied what remained of the nuts into a bowl and picked up a dish of cheese straws, intending to head for the door but something made her linger and listen.

‘There she is,’ Mrs Pel was saying. ‘Out in the garden with Mrs Charlton. And that’s her helping at the village fete. Oh, but she was a lovely girl.’

Andre Duchard said softly, ‘Si jeune. Si innocente.’

‘That’s what she was,’ Mrs Pelham said almost fiercely. ‘Not a bad bone in her body, and I’ll say so until my dying day.’

And with that came the sound of the doorbell and she became the correct housekeeper again. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, sir.’

Ginny raced ahead to the drawing room, Andre Duchard beside her, and was standing, smiling, as the Welburns were shown in.

She took a deep breath as she performed the necessary introductions, and offered drinks. Sir Malcolm and Lady Welburn both asked for sherry, while Jonathan and Andre Duchard requested Scotch.

Jonathan came with her to help with the drinks. He said in an undertone, ‘This must be a nightmare.’

‘Life has been easier,’ she agreed quietly, at which moment the door opened and Rosina came in wearing a black silk sheath which showed off her still admirable legs, uttering smiling greetings with profuse apologies for her tardiness.

‘I do hope Virginia has been looking after you properly,’ she added. ‘A gin and tonic for me, darling, please. And do I see it’s snowing again? How very tiresome.’

Just as a slightly stilted general discussion of the weather was running out of steam, Cilla chose to arrive, halting in the doorway for maximum effect. In her violet tunic dress and black tights she looked like a particularly sexy herald, and it was clear she knew it.

Ginny found herself glancing at Andre Duchard, observing with faint alarm that his mouth was curling into amusement, and something else besides.

Not just a bad idea, this party, she thought uneasily. The worst ever.

When dinner was announced, Ginny discovered that her carefully devised seating plan had been discarded.

‘No need for formality on a family occasion,’ Rosina announced brightly from the head of the table, indicating that the Welburns should sit on either side of her.

Ginny saw with foreboding that Andre Duchard had adroitly taken a seat next to Cilla, leaving Jonathan to sit opposite to them.

The salmon mousse was eaten with great appreciation, Rosina blandly accepting the praise lavished on it.

‘Cooking has always been one of my great pleasures,’ she added.

Lady Welburn looked over her glasses. ‘I thought this was one of your wonderful Mrs Pel’s specialities.’

Rosina didn’t miss a beat. ‘I’m afraid this sort of thing is rather beyond her now. She really should have retired long since.’ She turned to Ginny. ‘The next course, dear. Would you mind?’

Inside the pastry case, the fillet of beef with its layer of pâté and mushrooms was cooked to pink perfection and the garlicky roasted vegetables made a delicious and colourful accompaniment.

Sir Malcolm had jovially offered to act as wine waiter, his brows lifting a little when he saw that Ginny had chosen a St Emilion to succeed the Chablis served with the first course.

‘Bordeaux, my dear chap, not Burgundy,’ he boomed as he filled Andre Duchard’s glass. ‘I hope you won’t see it as a challenge.’

‘By no means,’ Andre returned softly, his gaze meeting Ginny’s across the table. ‘A wonderful wine is always that, no matter where the grape is grown.’

She flushed. ‘I don’t really know much about wine,’ she said untruthfully, and saw his smile widen.

Lady Welburn came to her rescue. ‘Where in Burgundy do you live, Monsieur Duchard?’

‘A village called Terauze, madame.’

‘Terauze?’ Sir Malcolm mused. ‘That name’s familiar. Are you involved with the wine industry, Mr Duchard?’

‘I work in the Domaine Baron Emile, monsieur.’

To Ginny’s horror, the look Rosina sent Lady Welburn could not have stated, A peasant. I knew it, more obviously if she’d shouted it aloud. But her air as she turned to Andre Duchard was gracious.

‘Are you one of the people who tread the grapes, Mr Duchard?’

‘Non, hélas.’ His dark face was impassive. ‘They are no longer crushed in that way. Although still picked by hand.’