Читать книгу Smokescreen - Anne Mather, Anne Mather - Страница 6

‘THE Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away … ashes to ashes, dust to dust …’

The words of the funeral service drifted over Olivia’s head. She was hardly aware of them. She was hardly aware of the sunny February day, an inappropriate contrast to the sombreness of the occasion, or of the covertly interested glances she attracted, as the young, bereaved widow. She appeared unconcerned that her sallow skin and ebony black hair were a startling contrast in this essentially English setting, or that the sable coat she wore with such indifference accentuated her almost alien appearance. She seemed remote from what was happening around her, careless that her manner might be misconstrued; the whispered speculations of her fellow mourners reaching her ears with no more consequence than the sound of the leaves shifting about her feet.

There were a great number of mourners gathered about the graveside, associates and business colleagues of Henry Gantry, his fellow directors in the huge chemical corporation he had founded, employees; anyone who thought that by being there they might prove themselves in some way. Henry Gantry had been a powerful man, in death he still commanded great respect, and although not one of them would admit to being afraid of him, they all had been, at one time or another.

Olivia was the exception. She had not been afraid of him. She had hated him before she even knew him, and latterly she had come to despise him, and herself. But fear, that was for people whose lives Henry Gantry had been able to control, and there had been many, she had to admit. Yet, strangely enough, living in his house, she had come close to respecting him, even if she could never forgive him for what he had done. She had even discovered in herself a mild contempt for people whose weaknesses Henry had exploited. It was a feeling she had fought to overcome, and now it was all over. Or perhaps it was only beginning …

The funeral service had ended. The heavy, lead-lined coffin had been lowered into the ground, and Francis Kennedy, who had been Henry Gantry’s personal assistant, touched her sleeve.

‘Let me drive you back to the house, Mrs Gantry,’ he offered, with the bland personable charm that seemed to have ensured his success with her sex. ‘You must be cold and tired. What you need is a stiff brandy—to take the strain.’

Olivia turned her long green eyes in his direction, their cool transparency startling in those dark features. ‘Thank you,’ she said, civilly enough, although experience had taught her to distrust too much subservience. ‘I think I can stand it, Francis. I shall ride back with Forsyth, as usual. As you can see, he’s waiting for me. But it was a nice gesture.’

Francis Kennedy inclined his head. ‘It was my pleasure, Mrs Gantry. I’ll see you later, at the house.’

Olivia acknowledged his submission and then, with a faint smile for the priest who had conducted the ceremony, she turned in the direction of the cars. Poor Father Donovan, she thought cynically, as the heels of her long boots sank into the soggy turf that flanked the graves. Like everyone else, he had succumbed to the corrosive power of wealth and possession, and although Henry Gantry had never stepped inside a church in his life, his funeral Mass had been just as magnificent as that conveyed to the most ardent believer. But perhaps that was only right, she reflected, forcing her callousness aside. What was it she had read: that God rejoiced more over the repentance of one non-believer than over so many who had had faith? She shook her head. It was something like that. The trouble was, Henry Gantry had repented nothing. He had lived his life the way he chose to live it, and at the end he had had only gratification for his own shrewd reasoning.

The sun was hidden by a cloud suddenly, and the bright afternoon with its promise of spring became at once dull and overcast. Although it was barely three o’clock, it would be dark soon, and Olivia quickened her step to where the chauffeur, Forsyth, was standing beside the Rolls.

A flutter of condolences surrounded her as Forsyth opened the door of the Rolls for Olivia to ascend. Malcolm Birk, Henry’s managing director, and his wife, pressed forward to offer their regrets, Barry Freeman, the company secretary, Sean Barrett, another director; Mortimer Lloyd, Lane Grimond, Paul Sloane, James Farrell; Olivia acknowledged all their commiserations with unsmiling politeness, aware as she did so that each one of them was concerned for his own ends and no one else. Henry had been right about one thing, she thought, sinking back against the soft leather upholstery; they were like a pack of wolves, intent on the kill. And if her position had not been so secure, she would have been the first casualty.

Expelling her breath on a sigh, she became aware of Forsyth’s eyes watching her through the rear-view mirror. But his eyes showed concern, not avarice, and she allowed a slight smile to touch her lips in answer to his unspoken question.

‘I’ll be all right,’ she said, drawing off the black suede gloves which had hidden her narrow fingers. Examining the square-cut sapphire that nudged the broad gold wedding band on her left hand, she shook her head half disbelievingly. ‘I’ll be all right, Forsyth,’ she said again. ‘You’ll see.’

There were reporters at the gates of the cemetery, a gaggle of them, with notebooks and cameras, leaning dangerously close to the car as it passed to take yet another picture of the grieving widow. For it was quite a news story: a young woman, of only twenty-two years of age, whose marriage to a man more than forty years her senior had made her a celebrity; a bride of only six months, widowed by her elderly bridegroom, and suddenly one of the wealthiest women in the world.

Olivia could not hide from the flashing light bulbs, so she did not try. She sat there, cool and remote, her intense composure yet another source of speculation for the gossip-hungry readers of the gutter press. She knew everyone thought she had married Henry for his money, and she supposed she had, in a way. But not in the way they meant; not even in the way his business associates believed; and certainly not for the reasons Henry himself had put forward.

It was only a fifteen-minute drive from St Saviour’s cemetery to the house she had shared with Henry for the past six months. They had not had a honeymoon; it would have been an unbearable irony. And in any case, Henry had already been a sick man. He had known the few months he had left to him, and while Olivia might despise his memory, she could not help but admire the strength of will which had kept this knowledge in the back of his mind. Only his closest associates, like Francis Kennedy, had been aware that ill health had impaired his ability to function as he would have liked. But who would have believed it, after all? He had been a fighter to the last. And only the gauntness of his features in these last few weeks had betrayed the hours of pain he had suffered in silence. He had always looked so strong; a fine figure of a man, with his broad shoulders and tall physique. Indeed, when the pictures of their wedding appeared in the papers, not everyone had envied him his good fortune. Some had envied Olivia too, and not just because Henry Gantry was reputed to be the fifteenth most wealthy man in the world.

The Rolls slowed as they turned into Virginia Drive, and the tall steel gates of the house confronted them. Virginia Drive wasn’t really a road at all, it was a cul-de-sac, with only the high walls of Henry Gantry’s property on either side. The gates, which were set squarely at the end, guarded the entrance to the private estate, and were patrolled day and night by armed guards with dogs. As the Rolls approached, it was identified, and the heavy steel gates swung back with mechanised smoothness. Olivia received a polite salute from the guard on duty as she passed, and although in the beginning she had been embarrassed by this mark of respect, now she raised her hand automatically, without even giving it much thought.

A gravelled sweep curved between tall hydrangeas and rhododendron bushes, before emerging into the wide forecourt before the house. The house itself was casually elegant, a neo-Georgian edifice, with a pillared portico and panelled doors below a fluted fanlight. A series of box hedges gave definition to the terrace, and beyond them a manicured expanse of lawn, inset with a lily pool and flower beds, provided a formal display. Everywhere was immaculate, as immaculate as an army of gardeners could make it, and because Henry Gantry had believed in paying for service, he had never suffered from any shortage of staff.

‘Will you be wanting the car again today, Mrs Gantry?’

Forsyth’s polite enquiry drew Olivia’s attention, and she looked at him almost absently. She had been absorbed with her thoughts, absorbed with the enormity of the task that confronted her, and Forsyth’s simple question required some concentration.

‘No,’ she said at last. ‘No, I don’t think so, thank you, Forsyth. You can take the rest of the day off.’

‘Why, thank you, Mrs Gantry.’ Forsyth was pleasantly surprised. He walked round the car and opened the door for her as she moved to alight. ‘Take it easy, hmm?’ he added, as she accepted his hand, and the sympathy he had shown her in the car was renewed in that warm grasp.

‘Thank you.’ Only briefly, her rare smile showed, and then she released herself and walked towards the house as other cars pulled up behind them.

The hall of the house was high-ceilinged and wide, carpeted in blue and gold, and supporting a huge chandelier. There were other lights, set around the walls, whose discreet positioning highlighted some of the many original paintings Henry Gantry had collected during his business career; and as they were presently lit to allay the gloom of the lowering skies, the hall had a warmth and an intimacy it was sometimes lacking.

The house itself was built on two levels. Where Olivia stood to allow the butler, Hamish Murdoch, to help her to remove her coat was the upper level, and to either side of her, the drawing rooms and the library opened on to this level. The stairs, that gave access to the first floor, also rose along one panelled wall, and the gallery above provided further space for Henry’s collection.

Ahead of her, Olivia could see the sweeping arch that framed the shallow steps that led down to the dining room and sun lounge, and her late husband’s study. This part of the house faced south, and a series of glass doors in each of the rooms gave access to a pool patio, which Henry had used frequently when the weather was good enough. Below the patio, the ground fell away gradually to the river, the Thames at this point being deep enough and wide enough to create a natural barrier to intruders.

A cold buffet had been laid in one of the drawing rooms, at Olivia’s suggestion. She had not wanted a formal gathering in the dining room, and besides, this way no one would notice how little she ate. Francis Kennedy, typically, was the first to arrive, and he surreptitiously took over, organising drinks for those who wanted them, and generally taking the pressure off Olivia. She knew she would feel grateful to him, for easing her position, if only she could stop thinking of the motives behind his conciliatory smile.

Henry’s solicitor was there; Adam Cosgrove had known Henry all his working life, and Olivia supposed it wasn’t unreasonable that he should feel some remorse. Nevertheless, she thought he looked at her with more than a degree of calculation, and she wondered if he was speculating how best to present his suit. It was a little distracting to consider how many people had depended on Henry for their livelihood, and who now depended on her! How would they feel when they learned what she intended to do? She was realistic enough to know that they would not admire her for it.

‘Olivia!’

A woman’s faintly sardonic voice spoke behind her, and she turned to confront Drusilla Stone. The other woman looked cool and elegant, in a dark fur coat over plain grey flannel, her immaculately tinted hair as fair as Olivia’s was dark. She certainly didn’t look her age, Olivia reflected bitterly, and no doubt of all Henry’s retainers, Drusilla would benefit most; but perhaps that was how it should be; she had been his mistress for years, and had remained so up until his marriage.

‘Hello, Drusilla,’ Olivia responded now, without expression. ‘So good of you to come. I knew you would.’

Drusilla’s lips twisted. ‘It was the least I could do, don’t you think? For Henry’s memory? Of all the hangers-on here, including yourself, I have the most right to expect an acknowledgement.’

Olivia did not take offence. She knew Drusilla had never forgiven Henry for marrying someone else, particularly someone so much younger than herself.

‘I don’t suppose you’ll be disappointed, Drusilla,’ she remarked now, offering her a canapé from the tray held by a passing waitress. And when the older woman refused: ‘Surely we can overlook our differences now. We have so much in common.

‘I have nothing in common with a money-grubbing little gold-digger like you!’ Drusilla hissed venomously. ‘And if Henry hadn’t been so all-fired keen to deprive that selfish son of his from getting his hands on his money, he’d never have been taken in by an over-sexed little——’

‘That’s enough, don’t you think?’ Francis Kennedy’s smooth interruption successfully circumvented Drusilla’s attack. ‘Dear Drusilla! You never could distinguish between good taste and bad, could you? And don’t you think H.R. knew that? Or else you’d be standing where Olivia’s standing now.’

Drusilla’s carefully painted face contorted. ‘Keep out of this, Kennedy! Don’t think I can’t see your game! With Henry dead, you’ve got to revise your strategy, haven’t you? And paying court to his rich widow must have its attractions.’

Kennedy’s expression hardly changed, but his eyes narrowed angrily and Olivia sighed as she put a hand on his arm. ‘Please, Francis,’ she said, ‘it’s kind of you to defend me, but honestly, I can look after myself.’

‘Yes, she can look after herself, Francis!’ Drusilla mocked maliciously. ‘You’d better believe it. She’s Mrs Gantry, and you and I aren’t even poor relations!’

‘Shut up, Drusilla——’

‘Oh, please! Can’t we leave it?’ Olivia’s fingers tightened round the stem on her glass. ‘This is my husband’s funeral, Francis. I’d appreciate it if you’d remember that. Perhaps you’d make sure everyone has what they need. You know them all so much better than I do.

‘Certainly, Mrs Gantry.’

Francis resumed his role smoothly, and ignoring Drusilla’s malevolent gaze, he quickly circulated among the guests. Olivia, for her part, was relieved when several other members of the gathering joined them, and Drusilla eventually drifted away, no doubt to brood over past injustices.

Olivia managed to handle the conversation adroitly. Even in so short a time she had learned to dissemble, and it was easier to accept these people at their face value than try to evaluate their individual intentions. She knew they were wary of her. She knew they were suspicious of her plans now that Henry was dead. It could not be easy, having a stranger thrust so unexpectedly into their midst, a stranger moreover who had been given the power to direct the future course of their lives.

‘Well, Olivia——’ It was Adam Cosgrove at her side, his lined face grave and thoughtful. ‘I suggest we get the formalities over with, don’t you? I realise you may not be feeling up to it right now, but these matters have to be attended to, I’m afraid. If you’d like to join me in the library, I think we can suitably dispose of H.R.’s last wishes.’

Olivia’s features stiffened. ‘You’ve read the will?’

‘As I helped to draw it up, of course.’

‘Of course.’ Olivia felt foolish. ‘When—when was this?’

‘A few days after your marriage.’ Adam was prosaic. ‘But you knew. Surely H.R. told you what he planned to do?’

‘Oh, yes.’ Olivia’s tongue appeared to moisten her lips. ‘Yes, he told me. I only wondered——’

‘——whether he’d kept his word?’ suggested Adam sagely. ‘Well, that rather depends on what limitations you expected, I suppose. You’re a very rich young woman, but I’m sure you know that. As for the rest——’

‘The rest? You mean Henry’s estate?’

‘I mean his estate, of course. His shares in the corporation; his interests in banking and mining; his involvement in the development of North Sea oil; his houses, here, and in New York and the South of France; his collection; his racehorses——’

‘Oh, don’t go on.’ Olivia pressed the palm of one hand to her cheek, the delicate shade of her nail varnish so much warmer then the pallor of her skin. She felt chilled, inside and out, and even swallowing the last of her brandy could not remove the sense of apprehension that was gripping her now the moment had come.

‘Very well.’ Adam bowed his head in silent acceptance of her plea. ‘I suggest we continue this conversation in more private circumstances. Will you lead the way? I want to speak to Kennedy.’

The library was empty, but Mrs Winters had had a fire laid in the wide hearth and its flames were welcoming. The library was the only room in the house that possessed a chimney, and Olivia had spent many hours here, examining the books that lined two walls. The curtains had been drawn against the darkness that was now complete, and their plummy velvet folds provided a fitting backcloth to the heavy desk that stood squarely in front of them.

Olivia paced about the room anxiously as she waited, her fingers playing with the double rope of pearls that circled her slender throat. They were real pearls, just as the diamonds in her ears were real diamonds, and the simple jersey dress she wore had cost a fortune in a Paris fashion house. Henry Gantry was nothing if not thorough, and he had made Olivia his wife in every possible way. She had to look like his wife, as well as act like it, and money was no object to a man of his means.

It seemed hours before Adam joined her, but a glance at the exquisitely designed watch on her wrist confirmed that it was scarcely five minutes. The watch was accurate to two seconds in five years, or some such ridiculous claim, but in this instance it was enough to know that it was her tenseness that had made time drag.

She had expected he would have brought Francis with him, and perhaps Drusilla, too, but he had not. Adam was alone as he closed the door behind him, and its heavy soundproofed panels ensured their conversation the utmost privacy.

‘Won’t you sit down?’ Adam placed his briefcase on the desk, and surveyed her slim figure with mild impatience. ‘My dear, there’s absolutely no need to look so apprehensive.’ His lips curled a little wryly. ‘You are H.R.’s heir, in spite of my pleas on Alex’s behalf. Relax. There’s not a court in England that could overthrow it.’

Olivia sank down into a dark green leather armchair. It was strange, hearing Alex Gantry’s name spoken for the first time in this house. Henry had never used it. If he had ever mentioned his offspring, it was always as ‘that ungrateful whelp’ or ‘Elise’s brat’, and just occasionally as ‘that bastard son of mind’. Olivia had never troubled to work out what it was that Alex had done to deserve his father’s undying hatred. But if Henry had disowned him, it must have been something pretty bad. It was no concern of hers, she thought, moving her shoulders in a dismissing gesture. She had not been responsible for Henry’s decision to cut his son out of his will. She had been merely the unwilling instrument of that decision, and she should not feel remorse now when her revenge was within her grasp. Henry Gantry had been an unscrupulous man, it was right and fitting that he, in his turn, should have been taken in by an unscrupulous woman; though whether she was as strong in her convictions as he had been, remained to be seen.

‘You seem—distracted, Olivia.’ Adam was speaking again, and she looked up at him almost blankly, aware that for several minutes she had been absorbed with her thoughts. ‘Is something wrong?’ he persisted. ‘You’re not—afraid of the responsibilities that are now yours? You needn’t be, you know. You have some of the best business brains in the world to help you.’

Olivia shook her head. If he only knew, she thought with irony. ‘I was thinking,’ she excused herself quickly. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Cosgrove. What were you saying?’

Adam hesitated. ‘You haven’t—that is—there’s been no word from Alex, I suppose?’

‘Alex?’ Olivia blinked. ‘No. Should there have been?’

‘Well—no,’ Adam shrugged. ‘Was he informed?’

‘As I have no idea where he is, that would have been difficult,’ Olivia replied tautly. ‘Henry said something about his living in Africa, but Africa’s a big place, and he never heard from him.’

‘No.’ Adam nodded. ‘No, of course not.’ He flicked open the lid of his briefcase. ‘Shall we begin?’

Olivia scarcely listened to the preamble. It wasn’t long. Henry had no close relatives, other than herself and Alex, of course, and his bequests to the members of his staff were characteristically few. Five hundred pounds here, a thousand pounds there; Francis Kennedy received a bonus in the form of a five-thousand-pound block of shares in Gantry Chemicals; but otherwise the vast sum of his estate remained intact, to be administered by his wife, Olivia, providing certain conditions were adhered to.

Olivia straightened her spine. ‘What conditions?’ she asked Adam, her green eyes alight with suspicion, and the elderly lawyer exhaled a sigh before explaining the situation.

‘It’s quite simple,’ he said. ‘I don’t think you’ll find them onerous. H.R. simply wanted to ensure that his business empire survived his death.’

Olivia sprang to her feet. ‘You said the estate was mine!’

‘I said you were his heir,’ said Adam mildly, his eyes showing faint bewilderment. ‘My dear, surely you consider an income of some quarter of a million pounds a year an adequate commission for sustaining Henry’s controlling interest in the Gantry corporation?’

‘What are you saying?’ Olivia gazed at him. ‘That I can’t dispose of it?’

Adam looked confused. ‘Why should you wish to do that? Olivia, you’ll have everything anyone could ever want—money, power, position——’

‘But not complete power,’ she exclaimed harshly ‘You’re saying that the estate is entailed.’

Adam regarded her with evident perplexity. ‘My dear, you’d be a fool to sell, even if you were able to do so. In this time of recession, the corporation has continued to make a comfortable profit for its shareholders, and now that the economic crisis seems to be bottoming out——’

‘I know all that.’ Olivia turned away, her hands pressed to her cheeks, a sick sense of defeat replacing the nervous anticipation inside her. God, she had been a fool! Her mother had been a fool! They should have known that Henry would find some way to perpetuate his memory. It had been naïve to imagine he would give her complete control. He had alleviated his conscience. He had left her well provided for. But the capital investment remained within his grasp, even after death.

‘There is one more thing.’ Adam spoke tentatively, his tone indicating his continuing mystification at her attitude. ‘It concerns the future, Olivia. If—if you should decide to get married again, your position as nominal head of the corporation will be withdrawn. You will receive a settlement of three hundred thousand pounds, but your controlling interest will, at that time, be taken into trust for H.R.’s grandchildren, should Alex ever produce any.’

Olivia steeled herself to look at him. ‘And this house?’

‘All H.R.’s houses are yours, so long as you wish to live in them,’ replied Adam.

‘But—if I marry?’

‘Again the situation changes. The houses are part of the Gantry estate.’

Olivia nodded. She felt immensely weary suddenly. It seemed as if it had all been for nothing, she thought painfully. Her mother’s schemes, her mother’s desire for revenge—it had all been futile. Oh, she was wealthy now, more wealthy than she had any right to be, and that was part of her disillusionment. She had not wanted to be wealthy. She had not wanted Henry’s money. And although at the time it had seemed a cruel irony, perhaps it was as well now that her mother would never learn how unnecessary her sacrifice had been. In her confused state, she might well have suspected Olivia of being a party to this all along.

It was so unfair! For a moment, a tearful sense of outrage gripped her. She had given up her career, her future, her life! Maybe another girl would have found it fair recompense. Olivia did not. She had been inveigled into a marriage that was abhorrent to her, persuaded it was the only way to restore her mother’s health, only to find that Henry’s desire to make amends had been as empty as his proposal. He had only wanted a scapegoat, she could see that now, someone to deprive his son of his inheritance.

Adam folded the will and laid the copy in his briefcase. Then he said stiffly: ‘I suggest you sleep on it, Olivia. Obviously, this is neither the time nor the place to go into further detail. Perhaps you’d allow me to make an appointment for you to come and see me in a day or so. We can continue this discussion at that time.’

‘Wait——’ Olivia put out her hand instinctively, forcing a note of apology into her tone. After all, this was not Adam’s fault, and it would not serve any purpose she had to make an enemy of Henry’s trusted business advisor. ‘I—I want to thank you,’ she said, adopting a rueful expression. ‘I’m afraid you must think me very ungrateful. It’s just that—well, I suppose the fact of Henry’s death hasn’t really sunk in yet.’

That was an outright lie, and she thought that perhaps Adam identified it as such. But he was evidently prepared to give her the benefit of the doubt, and he took her hand automatically as he made his farewells. His attitude gave Olivia pause, and almost incredulously she realised that so far as Adam was concerned, she still wielded a hefty weapon. Henry had given her the power to administer his controlling interest; how she actually used that power was her decision to make. She could be the symbolic, but silent, partner they expected, or she could exercise her rights to offer her opinion. How far that opinion would be listened to remained to be seen, but one thing seemed certain: no one, not Adam Cosgrove, or Francis Kennedy, and most particularly not Henry himself would expect her to involve herself in the corporation’s affairs.

Adam left, not altogether satisfied, she knew, with her explanation, but prepared to put it down to the inconsistency of her being female. His departure seemed to signal to the others that it was time they, too, made their farewells, and in ones and twos they took to their cars, their expressions of sympathy ringing in Olivia’s ears long after the steel gates had sealed behind them.

Francis had left, too, after offering to remain behind and being refused. He had suggested she might need company over dinner, but as Olivia had little taste for food right now, she had declined his proposal.

‘It’s very kind of you, Francis,’ she said, ‘but I’d prefer to be alone. I—have a lot to think about. We’ll talk again in the morning. Join me for breakfast. I—I have something I want to talk to you about.’

He had been curious, she had known that, and vaguely wary of any proposition she might devolve. But like Adam before him, he was sufficiently in awe of her position not to argue, and Olivia had known an unexpected surge of excitement as she flexed the reins of power for the first time.

It was only as she was leaving that Olivia remembered Drusilla. The other woman had not been mentioned among the few bequests Henry had made, and Olivia felt a wave of compassion sweep over her for the bitterness Drusilla must be feeling. It was typical of Henry Gantry, of course. He never forgot an insult, and Drusilla’s behaviour at the time of his marriage had created an unpleasant scene.

‘I’m sorry,’ Olivia said quietly, as Mrs Stone passed her on her way out to her car. She made no further explanations. None was necessary. But Drusilla was not prepared to accept her dismissal gracefully.

‘You will be,’ she declared spitefully, her eyes glittering. ‘One day you’re going to regret you ever laid eyes on Henry Gantry, and you can be sure I’ll be around to see it!’

Olivia found she was trembling when the door finally closed behind the last of her guests, and the housekeeper, Mrs Winters, exchanged a knowing look with Hamish Murdoch. Surprisingly enough, the members of the household staff had all grown to like and respect the young Mrs Gantry, and her quiet manner and unassuming ways had won her many friends among their ranks.

‘It’s been too much for you, Mrs Gantry,’ the housekeeper exclaimed, but Olivia resisted her efforts to urge her back into the library. ‘I said it would be, and I’ve been proved right. You look as if every drop of blood has drained out of you!’

Olivia managed a faint smile for both of them. ‘I’m all right, really,’ she assured them. ‘Just—tired, I think.’ She paused. ‘I think I’ll take a bath before dinner. Do you think I could eat from a tray this evening? I really don’t feel like facing the dining room alone.’

‘Why don’t you get straight into bed, and I’ll get Mary to bring it up for you?’ Murdoch suggested, but Olivia shook her head.

‘I’ll come down,’ she said firmly. ‘I don’t feel like going to bed right now. I’ll probably watch television for a while. After you’ve arranged about the meal, you can all take the rest of the night off.’

It was a relief to reach the sanctuary of her room. It was such a beautiful apartment, and at least one area of the house which held no associations of Henry. Oh, he had probably hired the interior decorators who had designed it for her, she reflected, sinking down on to the side of the huge square bed; but he had never entered the room during her habitation, and she had made it peculiarly her own by the addition of her personal possessions.

Her brushes, with their gilt handles, did look a little out of place on the crystal tray on her dressing table, but she didn’t care. She wasn’t ashamed of her background, and she had refused to pretend she was used to such luxury as she now possessed. Perhaps this was one of the reasons why the servants had taken such a liking to her; because she had never hidden the fact that she had been brought up in surroundings similar to theirs.

Nevertheless, she had become fond of the exquisitely appointed rooms allocated to her. She would not have been human if she had not appreciated a superbly-sprung mattress and real silk sheets, that stroked her skin with sensuous enjoyment; she would not have been honest if she had denied the pleasures of waking up in the morning to the artistic beauty of linen-covered walls, in delicious shades of rose and turquoise, and a soft, shaggy carpet to tease her toes; and she would not have been feminine if she had not felt a thrill every time she slid back the doors of the air-conditioned units in her dressing room, to disclose the rows and rows of suits and dresses, pants and skirts and sweaters and jeans, enough to last a lifetime, were fashion never to change.

Now, Olivia bent and unzipped her boots, kicking them off carelessly as she stood to unfasten the tiny pearl buttons of her dress. When she pushed it off her shoulders, it fell too, in a pool of silk jersey about her feet, and picking it up she tossed it on to the bed. Her reflection, in the stark simplicity of her black slip, was thrown back at her from half a dozen mirrors set about the room, but she paid little attention to her appearance. She saw little to admire in her magnolia-pale skin and night-dark hair. Her mother’s Italian ancestry was never more pronounced than when she was tired, and she turned aside impatiently and strode into the bathroom.

She ran her own bath, liberally sprinkling the contents of a cut-glass flagon of perfumed essence into the water. The step-in tub was deep and wide, and she filled it almost to the brim before stepping into its scented softness, feeling the chill that had enveloped her dispersing in its warmth. She must not allow herself to become depressed, she thought determinedly. She was still the nominal head of the Gantry corporation. And tomorrow she would find out from Francis exactly what that meant.

She was seated on the padded stool in front of her dressing table brushing her hair when there was a knock at her door, and a young woman’s voice called: ‘It’s me, Mrs Gantry. Can I come in?’

‘Of course, Mary.’ Olivia forced herself to welcome the young woman who entered, even though she would have preferred to be alone.

‘You should have asked me to run your bath for you, Mrs Gantry,’ Mary Parrish exclaimed reprovingly, picking up Olivia’s discarded dress and slipping it on to its hanger. ‘How are you feeling now? Mrs Winters seemed to think you had overdone it. Why don’t you get into bed, and let me fetch you some supper?’

‘Thank you, Mary, but I prefer to eat downstairs,’ declared Olivia resignedly, wishing the girl didn’t take her duties so seriously. Henry had employed her, soon after their marriage, to act as lady’s maid, and Olivia had often wished he had consulted her first. However, she meant well, and Olivia tempered her remark with a small smile so that she should not hurt Mary’s feelings.

‘Then what are you going to wear, Mrs Gantry?’ the girl persisted, carrying the silk jersey into the dressing room and replacing it in the closet. ‘I suggest this trouser suit,’ she displayed an outfit consisting of narrow fitting pants and knee-length jacket, teamed with a silk shirt, ‘or this,’ which was a soft cashmere caftan, with knee-length slits at either side.

Olivia sighed. She had considered going downstairs in a dressing gown and pyjamas, but she realised there was always the possibility that someone else might call to offer their condolences. She could always plead a headache, of course, and avoid visitors, but with Mary pulling out various combinations of garments, it was easier to choose than explain her preference.

‘The caftan, I think,’ she said, indicating the exquisite handwork of the knitted cashmere. Its muted shades of blue and mauve were suitably restrained, and she cared little that it was one of the most flattering items in her wardrobe.

‘I wish I had a figure like yours, Mrs Gantry,’ Mary remarked later, when the folds of the caftan clung lovingly to Olivia’s shapely form. Indeed, its plain lines accentuated the rounded swell of her bosom, and displayed the slimness of her hips and the slender length of her legs.

Olivia shook her head, unconvinced in spite of Mary’s sincerity. ‘Clothes maketh man—or woman,’ she misquoted, half cynically. ‘Leave my hair loose, Mary. I shan’t be seeing anyone tonight.’

Leaving the maid to tidy the room, Olivia descended the stairs with slow deliberation. It was strange to think this house was hers, so long as she chose to live in it, unmarried, of course; the rooms were hers to decorate as she wished; the servants were hers to command. It was a tempting proposition, as Henry had known it would be. He had left her enough money, whatever her inclination, to live in luxury for the rest of her life; firmly believing, as he had always believed, that personal gratification was all that mattered.

But it wasn’t. Not for her. She had not married Henry Gantry to embrace his philosophy. Her motives might have been thwarted at every turn, but she was still determined not to give in. Her mother was dead. She could no longer help her. But she could help the one person Henry had least desired to benefit from his fortune: his son!

Her feet sank into the rich pile of the hall carpet as she walked towards the library. Mrs Winters would know where to find her; the library had become her retreat from Henry’s world. Opening the door, she found the lamps still burning and the fire replenished. Its visible warmth was comforting, and she closed the door wearily, leaning back against it, and closing her eyes.

When she opened them again, the first thing she saw was a pair of booted feet set apart on the hearthrug; and as her eyes moved unsteadily upward, they quickly covered long denim-clad legs and thighs, a loose fitting jersey over an open-necked denim shirt, and a lean tanned face below a straight slick of ash-streaked hair. The man was leanly built, but his chest was broad, and the vee of his shirt revealed a gold medallion glinting among the fine whorls of body hair. His arms were strong and his legs looked powerful, and Olivia could not help but notice the bulging muscles of his thighs. But she did not know him. She had never seen him before in her life. And her initial reaction was that he must be an intruder, who had known he would find her alone.

However, before her undisciplined fears could take verbal form, he spoke, and when he did so, she suddenly realised his identity.

‘Hello, Olivia,’ he greeted her sardonically. ‘How delightful to meet you at last. I’ll say one thing for old Henry, he certainly had good taste!’