A Rather Lovely Inheritance by C. A. Belmond Read Free Book Online

bite of his croissant.
    “Why shouldn’t she?” I said. “It’s a moment in history.”
    There was something so familiar about his ironic tone and good manners that it made me think, Actually, I do remember this fellow. And after all these years, his mother was still a thorn in his side somehow. I’d forgotten that. I never knew what it was, exactly, that bothered him about his parents. As a kid I’d automatically chalked it up to how impossible adults were. Nobody needed to explain why, back then.
    “How are Aunt Nancy and Uncle Georges?” he asked, eager to change the subject from his mother, which, after all, he’d introduced. “Does your father still make those incredible roasted meals? Lamb and pheasant and all those marvelous potatoes, and those brown sauces?”
    “Did he cook for you? How can you possibly remember that?” I asked curiously.
    “How could anyone forget?” he replied.“I sulked for a week after we left, when we went back to our cook’s dull boiled food.You and your parents were like characters in a storybook. I always secretly believed that you really were Penny Nichols, Girl Detective.”
    His tone had just a slight mocking edge to it, but I looked up from my plate in time to catch him glancing at my neckline and my silk negligee ensemble in a way that men simply can’t seem to stop themselves from doing when they first meet a woman. He hastily shifted his gaze to the sugar bowl and busied himself with his coffee. I tried through sheer force of will not to blush, by glancing at the day’s headlines in the newspaper lying beside my plate. This is how I have learned to control my blushing somewhat, but not entirely, by putting my thoughts somewhere neutral and safe—like on wars, murders, political scandals. Anything that I don’t have to personally be embarrassed by. Yet I suddenly felt doubtful that I could pull off this casual grown-up act. But I would certainly go down trying.
    “And are you that same kid who rescued me from a very aggressive bee in Cornwall by zapping him dead with one shot from a beach towel?” I asked him.
    A light blush rose under his pale skin and then faded quickly. Well, well, I noted. He’s a blusher, too. He said,“Ah! Yes, well, I had to do something.You very nearly got us both stung to death.” Then he gulped his coffee and cleared his throat briskly.
    “I must go over to the office and collect some paperwork for the reading,” he said.“But I didn’t want you to have to face down the ‘vultures’ without knowing a few things.There are two wills: one English, the other French, because Great-Aunt Penelope owned property in both countries. The English will is quite simple and straightforward. The French one is newer, because it replaced an earlier French will from the 1950s which originally divided the French assets between her brother—that’s Great-Uncle Roland—and her sister, Grandmother Beryl, who were both alive then. But since she outlived them, Great-Aunt Penelope remade the French will to include ‘the youngsters’—that’s you, me, and Rollo Jr., you see. She made me the executor of the will just before she died. Her solicitor in France had retired, and she didn’t like his partners. So she left everything to the care of my firm.”
    “How did she die?” I asked gently. He looked genuinely regretful.
    “In her bed, quietly,” he answered.“At night, in her sleep, the doctor thought. Heart gave way, but he said it wouldn’t have been painful . . .” He stopped. “She tried to telephone me that day. I was in Japan. Couldn’t get back to her in time. I rather liked her,” he said reflectively. “One of the few older people with an open mind, who’d lived an eventful enough life to actually like the younger generation. Of course, I didn’t know her long. Just when she summoned me to lunch in her London flat, to tell me about the will. She never talked about herself, just asked about me and my life. So I didn’t know