Читать книгу The Bartered Bride - ANNE WEALE - Страница 7

CHAPTER TWO

SINCE Julian’s wedding, Fran had had a lot of sleepless nights, prowling around in the small hours, tortured by thoughts of Julian making babies with Alice...babies which should have been hers.

All she had ever really wanted was to be Julian’s wife and the mother of his children. Not the kind of ambition applauded by the teachers at the expensive boarding-school where she and her sister had been sent to learn to be ‘ladies’.

That had been Gran’s idea. Though Gran’s own origins were humble, she was a tremendous snob and hadn’t approved of her eighteen-year-old Daphne marrying a rough diamond like George Turner, even if he had gone on to make pots of money.

Gran wanted to see her granddaughters marrying men who were not only well off but also what she called well-spoken. To that end she had chivvied her son-in-law into sending the girls to one of the most exclusive schools in England. To Gran’s disappointment, her eldest granddaughter, Shelley, had fallen in love with a young man who had once spent a summer working in her mother’s garden. He now had his own plant nursery and was a contented man, but he didn’t make a lot of money. John and Shelley couldn’t afford to support her mother. With two small children and another on the way, they didn’t even have a spare bedroom to offer her.

Had Gran known of Fran’s secret passion for the chauffeur’s son, she would have disapproved, at least until his achievements at university had signalled an impressive future.

The irony was that Gran would probably regard Reid Kennard as a wonderful catch. She didn’t think much of love as a basis for wedlock. She wouldn’t admit it under torture, but her granddaughters suspected there had been a metaphorical shotgun in the background of her wedding, and the marriage hadn’t been happy.

In the morning Fran woke with a headache, the result of too little sleep and too much wine the night before. Staying up late, she had finished the bottle.

She spent the morning sorting out things in her bedroom and waiting for Reid Kennard’s call. When the telephone remained silent, she should have been relieved. Instead she felt oddly uneasy.

What if he’d changed his mind? What if her animosity had made him have second thoughts? During his solitary dinner he might have decided he couldn’t be bothered to wear down her opposition when there were plenty of women he could have for the asking.

The longer she considered this scenario, the more it seemed to Fran that she might have rejected in haste an opportunity she would live to regret turning down.

As things stood, all the future offered was relative penury for her mother and a dull job for herself. It wasn’t an attractive prospect.

The trade-off Reid had suggested—suddenly she found herself thinking of him by his first name instead of his surname—would mean that if they were miserable, they would at least be miserable in comfort.

But what about her side of the trade-off: being the wife of a man she didn’t love and who didn’t love her?

Well, love, for long the first item on her private and personal wish list, had been crossed off the day Julian married Alice. So that brought it down to the question of whether she could face having sex with someone other than Julian in order to have some babies. They wouldn’t have the father she had dreamed of, but any father had to be better than none.

Thinking about sex with Reid, Fran felt a strange sensation in the pit of her stomach. He had all the physical makings of a good lover; his aura of animal magnetism deriving from a great body, a sensual mouth, hands that looked strong enough to crush, but also capable of performing the most delicate and subtle caresses. Just thinking about the components of his disturbing personality sent strange little quivers through her.

Even though still a virgin, her innocence saved as a gift for her first and only love, Fran knew all the theory, knew what those frissons meant. She had recognised the passionate depths of her nature a long time ago. From the beginning of adolescence she had been excited and moved by amorous scenes in books and movies, recognising her capacity to feel the same fiery emotions as the women in the stories and on the screen.

But she had also had a strong streak of idealism. After falling in love with Julian, keeping herself inviolate for him had seemed more important than indulging her natural curiosity about what it felt like to do the things many of the girls in her class had experienced as soon as they were sixteen.

A lot of them were the over-indulged, under-disciplined children of broken marriages. During the holidays they had too much pin money and not enough supervision. Several girls she knew by sight hadn’t completed their time at school. They had been expelled for serious misdemeanours ranging from night-time truancy to drugs.

Fortunately, although described as ‘lazy’, ‘inattentive’ and ‘irresponsible’ in her school reports, Fran had never been taken up by the group known to the serious-minded girls as The Decadents. The fact that she was reserving herself for Julian would have debarred her from that clique. Although far from being a teacher’s pet, from The Decadents’ point of view Fran was one of the girls they called The Nuns.

She was thinking about her lack of sexual experience and wondering what conclusions the detective had drawn about her in that respect, when the telephone started to chirrup.

She forced herself not to grab it, letting it signal six times before she said coolly, ‘Hello?’

‘Good morning.’

If the distinctive voice at the other end of the line had mocked her about not leaving the phone off the hook, she would have cut the connection and dashed round the flat disconnecting all the extensions.

But Reid didn’t refer to her parting shot. He said, ‘I’d like to show you my library. Will you have lunch with me?’

She drew in her breath, knowing she was on the brink of one of the defining moments of her life.

‘If you’re worried about being alone with me, you needn’t be,’ Reid went on. ‘My household is run by staff who are far too respectable to stay with any employer who doesn’t live up to their standards. But even if that were not so, I’ve already made it clear my intentions are honourable.’

She could guess from the tone of his voice that there would be a sardonic quirk at the corner of his chiselled mouth.

‘All right,’ she said. ‘What time and where?’

When he had rung off, she looked at the exclusive address she had jotted down on the notepad and wondered why she had relented.

Less than twenty-four hours ago she had stormed out of his office, convinced he was out of his mind. Now she was going to have lunch with him. Had she gone out of hers?

Before setting out for their lunch date, Fran reread the file Reid had sent her.

He was thirty-four, twelve years older than herself. A big age gap. It seemed likely that wasn’t the only gulf between them.

Kennards, a merchant bank dealing with long-term loans for governments and institutions and advising on takeover bids, had been founded by his great-grandfather. The controlling influence had been retained by Thomas Kennard’s descendants.

Unlike her father, Reid hadn’t had to claw his way up from nothing. The facts in the file indicated that from birth he had been groomed for the position he occupied. But family influence couldn’t have made him head boy at his public school if he’d lacked the qualities needed for that position, nor could it have gained him an impressive degree at one of England’s most prestigious universities. He had to have a brilliant brain.

So why pick someone as unbrainy as me? Fran pondered uneasily. She knew she had other equally important qualities and had never wanted to exchange them for a superior intellect. But for a man like Reid deliberately to select a female who operated by instinct rather than logic seemed strange, not to say suspect.

He lived in a large house in one of the most select squares in the ultra-fashionable Royal Borough of Kensington. The butler opened the door to her and took her coat.

A man in his fifties, dressed in an ordinary dark suit with a discreet tie, he led her up a sweeping staircase, past a line of family portraits, to a large first-floor landing. As they reached it, Reid was descending the stairs from the floor above. She noticed his thick dark hair was damp and wondered why. It seemed an odd time of day to take a shower.

‘You’re admirably punctual,’ he said, holding out his hand to her.

As they hadn’t shaken hands the day before, it was her first experience of the firm clasp of his fingers. Then he took her lightly by the elbow to steer her across a rose and gold Aubusson carpet and through open double doors in an elegant drawing room with three tall windows overlooking the square.

Normally Fran would have swept an appreciative glance around the beautiful room, taking in some of the details. Instead she was overwhelmed by the strength of her reaction to their first physical contact.

‘I nearly kept you waiting,’ said Reid. ‘I came back from the bank at eleven to go for a run in the park. As I was coming home I saw an old man on a bench who obviously needed medical attention. That held me up.’

‘Do you run every day?’

‘I try to. Are you a runner?’

Fran shook her head. ‘I play tennis and ski. I don’t do work-outs.’

He slanted an appraising glance at her figure. Today, in place of the black suit, she was wearing a designer outfit bought on a holiday in Italy. It consisted of a fine jersey-knit top in lilac, a waistcoat in violet, and a swirling chevron-striped skirt combining those colours with pink and pale pistachio-green. The audacious colour combination was perfect with Fran’s dark red hair and green eyes.

‘You look in good shape,’ he remarked. ‘But people in desk jobs like mine need some kind of fitness regime to stave off the bad effects of a sedentary lifestyle. Come and sit down. What would you like to drink before lunch?’

She remembered his remark about the wine she had been drinking when he forced his way in the previous evening. Was he one of those people who drank only mineral water and made everyone who didn’t feel on a lower plane?

Fran had no intention of allowing him to intimidate her. ‘A Campari and soda, please,’ she said firmly.

Reid said to the butler, who had been following them at a discreet distance, ‘A Campari for Ms Turner and my usual, please, Curtis.’

With a silent inclination of the head, the butler withdrew.

‘Let’s sit over here, shall we?’ Reid steered her towards a group of comfortable chairs near one of the windows. ‘Have you finished your packing?’

‘Almost.’

Knowing that she wouldn’t be able to sleep, she had worked on it till long past midnight. At half past nine this morning a dealer from whom she had bought a lot of the furnishings had come round to buy them back. Luckily Fran had paid for them out of her bank account. Although the money in it had come from her father, technically they were her property, not his. As soon as his business had been forced into receivership, everything George Turner had owned, including the family home, belonged to his business creditors. But the cash the dealer had handed her could go in her own pocket.

It wasn’t much but it was better than nothing if, when Reid spelt out the terms of this trade-off marriage, she found that she couldn’t accept them.

‘What date is this house?’ she asked, looking up at the elegant cornice around the ceiling and the two crystal chandeliers, their chains swathed with coral silk to match the festoons of silk cord and big coral tassels at the tops of the heavy cream curtains.

‘Late eighteenth century. Are you interested in architecture?’ He sounded faintly surprised.

‘Sometimes.’

The butler came back with their drinks, hers a slightly more vivid red than the coral linen slipcovers on some of the sofas, Reid’s colourless except for a twist of lemon floating among the ice cubes. It could be gin or vodka, or it could be straight mineral water.

Reid said, ‘This was my grandparents’ house. My paternal grandmother still lives here when she’s not staying with her daughters. I moved here when my father died. We had been living in Oxfordshire and commuting by helicopter. For the time being I have an apartment on the top floor. But I thought you would feel more comfortable being entertained in the main part of the house,’ he added, with a gleam of amusement.

After a slight pause, he added, ‘I shall move out when I marry. The country is better for children... if their parents can choose where to live. Most people can’t of course.’

‘Where are you thinking of moving to?’ Fran asked.

‘I haven’t decided.’ His expression was enigmatic. ‘Where would you choose to live, given a free choice?’

Fran considered the question. Once the answer would have been ‘Wherever Julian wants to live’.

She said, ‘Probably not in England. Ideally, I’d like more sun than we get in this country. I wouldn’t mind living by the sea...or a lake would do as long as it had mountains round it. I’d like to look out on mountains... big ones with snow on top.’

He lifted an eyebrow. ‘Sounds as if New Zealand would suit you.’

She shook her head. ‘I’m sure it’s a beautiful country but it’s too far away from Europe. Have you been there?’

Reid nodded. ‘The scenery’s magnificent...when it’s not raining. The South Island shares England’s problem. Unreliable weather. Where have your travels taken you?’

‘Mostly to holiday places...the Caribbean in winter... resorts round the Med in summer. My mother’s a passionate gardener. She doesn’t like travelling alone, even in a group. I’ve been on some garden tours with her...the south of France, Ireland, California. Where do you go for your holidays?’

‘I used to go with my father who also liked someone with him. We went to Japan together and to other Pacific Rim countries. I travel a lot for the bank. For pleasure I usually go to France or Spain. Where would you like to go for our honeymoon?’

The question, tacked on to innocuous small talk, took her by surprise.

‘I haven’t agreed to marry you,’ she said coldly.

‘If you found the idea unthinkable, you wouldn’t be here,’ he said dryly. ‘Let’s be straight with each other, Francesca. I need you...you need me. It’s a sensible, practical arrangement.’

She knew that at least the first part of what he said was true, but she wasn’t about to admit it. Was it pride that made her reluctant to fall in with his plan too readily?

She said, ‘I’m not clear why you’ve selected me.’

‘You’re very attractive...as I’m sure you’re aware.’

‘Is that all you want in a woman? An acceptable face and figure? Don’t you care what I’m like inside?’

‘I can make some intelligent guesses. People can’t hide their characters,’ he told her casually. ‘Even in repose a face gives a lot of clues to its owner’s temperament. Apart from yesterday’s evidence that you have a short fuse, I haven’t detected any characteristics I wouldn’t like to live with.’

His arrogance took her breath away. In that moment of silent shock, she was struck by the thought it would be both a challenge and public service to bring this man down from his lofty pinnacle and convert him into an acceptably unassuming person.

But perhaps it was already too late. One of Gran’s favourite sayings was, ‘What’s bred in the bone must come out in the flesh.’

Reid, with his long-boned thoroughbred physique and his autocratic features, looked a descendant of generations of men who had felt themselves to be superior beings and never experienced the doubts felt by ordinary people.

In a different, more rough-hewn way, her father had been the same. Probably, somewhere far back in Reid’s ancestry, there had been a man like her father: a roughdiamond unscrupulous go-getter who had founded the Kennard fortune.

Perhaps, if George Turner had married someone better equipped to handle him than her quiet and easily cowed mother, her father might have been saved from becoming an overbearing braggart.

Whether, at thirty-four, Reid’s essential nature could be modified was problematical. But it could be interesting to try.

She said, ‘I don’t find you as transparent as you seem to find me. It takes me longer to make up my mind about people.’

‘You haven’t had as much experience of summing up people as I have.’

The butler reappeared. ‘Luncheon is ready when you are, sir.’

They ate in a smaller room with a view of a large garden, an oasis of well-kept greenery in the heart of the city. The surface of the round Regency breakfast table had the gleaming patina resulting from nearly two centuries of regular polishing. It reflected the colours and shapes of the red-streaked white tulips arranged in what Fran recognised as an antique tulip-pot, its many spouts designed to support the stems of flowers which had once been costly status symbols.

The meal began with potted shrimps served with crisp Melba toast, tiny green gherkins and a dryish white wine which they continued to drink with the main course, chicken with a minty yogurt dressing.

While they ate Reid talked about plays and art shows he had been to recently. It was the kind of conversation made by strangers at formal lunch parties and although his comments were interesting, Fran thought his choice of subjects irrelevant to this particular situation.

When the butler had withdrawn, leaving them to help themselves to a fruit salad with fromage frais, or to a selection of more substantial cheeses, she said, ‘Why do you want a wife when you could go on having girlfriends and change them when you get bored?’

Offering her the elegant Waterford compote, its apparent fragility emphasising the powerful but equally elegant form of the hands in which it was cradled, he looked at her with unexpected sternness.

‘I have a responsibility to my line. I need sons to carry on the traditions established by my predecessors.’

She found his solemnity irritating. ‘Are you expecting me to provide proof of my fertility?’

Before she could add that, if he was, he could forget it, Reid said, ‘No, I’m prepared to chance that.’

‘Big deal!’ Fran said sarcastically.

She had the feeling that Reid wouldn’t hesitate to divorce her if she failed to live up to his expectations in some way.

But although he struck her as a monster of coldhearted self-centredness, she couldn’t deny that he was extraordinarily attractive. Every movement he had made since they sat down had heightened her awareness of the lean and muscular physique inside the well-cut suit and the long legs under the table. His hair was dry now but still had the sheen of health. There was nothing about him suggestive of stress or tension. He seemed entirely relaxed. Yet why did he need to arrange a businesslike marriage instead of falling in love the way people usually did?

Wondering, suddenly, if he might be in the same situation as herself, heartbroken, although it didn’t seem likely, she said, ‘When did you dream up this scheme?’

‘It’s an idea I’ve had for some time...probably since my contemporaries started divorcing. I have about a dozen god-children, most of whom now have stepparents, some official, some not. I don’t want that for my children.’

‘Did your parents stay married?’

It seemed to her that his face underwent a change. His lips didn’t tighten. His eyebrows didn’t draw together. But there was a subtle hardening and chilling, reminding her of the impression of formidable coldness she had received yesterday morning when they sat on opposite sides of his imposing desk.

Now they were at a table designed for a more intimate and relaxed conversation. But she sensed a change in the atmosphere and knew she had trespassed in an area of his life where she was an unwelcome intruder.

‘They separated. They were never divorced,’ he answered.

Fran wanted to ask how old he had been when the separation happened, but something made her hold her tongue.

Later, going back to the flat in the taxi he had laid on for her, she regretted restraining her curiosity.

When—if—two people were going to many, there shouldn’t be any ‘No go’ areas between them...or at least none of that nature. His past girlfriends were not her business, but his family life certainly was. She shouldn’t have allowed herself to be put off. From now on she wouldn’t be, she told herself firmly.

Later that afternoon, her sister rang up.

‘How’s it going?’ Shelley knew about clearing the apartment but not about the interview with Reid.

‘I’ve more or less finished. How are things with you?’

‘Fine, but I’ve just been talking to Mum and she sounds at the end of her tether. You don’t think she might crack up...have a real nervous breakdown, do you?’

‘She wouldn’t dare,’ Fran replied. ‘Imagine Gran’s reaction to anyone in her family going to pieces. She’d consider it letting the side down.’

But despite her cheerful response, intended to soothe Shelley’s anxiety, Fran wasn’t as sanguine as she . sounded. Her mother’s state of mind had been worrying her for some time.

‘Gran’s made of sterner stuff than Mum,’ said her sister. ‘You’re like her and so am I, up to a point. But Mum’s nothing like her. She takes after Grandad’s sister, the one who was jilted and never really recovered.’

‘Maybe...a bit. But Great-Aunt Rose wasn’t strong and Mum is. There’s nothing wrong with her physical health. She’ll be all right, Shelley. Just give her time to get over the shock of it all.’

‘I hope you’re right.’ Her sister didn’t sound convinced.

‘I live with her. I ought to know. In some strange way it may be harder for a woman to come to terms with the end of an unhappy marriage than to lose a husband she loved. Mum can’t look back and say to herself, “Well, I can’t complain because we had thirty great years which is more than lots of people do.” Her marriage was one of the duds.’

‘You could be right. Even though everyone else feels it was all Dad’s fault they didn’t get on, I think she blames herself...and I guess if she had been different, he would have been. Still, that’s all in the past. What worries me is her future. She’s never going to marry again, that’s for sure, and she isn’t equipped to stand on her own feet. Somehow, between us, we’re going to have to look after her... but how?’

This was ground they had already been over several times and Fran didn’t want to rehash it until she had made up her mind whether the solution offered by Reid was feasible.

By the following morning she had come to a decision. She rang Reid and told him.

‘Good,’ he said calmly. ‘We’d better have dinner together. I’ll pick you up at seven.’

It seemed a prosaic response, but then this was a practical down-to-earth union they were setting up.

Not knowing where he would take her, but assuming it would be somewhere fairly sophisticated, she wore a white silk-satin shirt and a narrow black wrap-over skirt. She cinched her waist with a wide belt and fixed large rhinestone stars in her ears.

Reid called for her in a taxi, wearing a Savile Row suit and conventional shirt with an unexpectedly flamboyant tie in wonderful Gauguinesque colours.

When she complimented him on it, he said, ‘Even bankers have to break out sometimes.’

The restaurant he had chosen for the occasion was on the south bank of the Thames but high above the river with a panoramic view of the buildings on the far bank through walls made of sheets of glass. The décor was modern and minimalist, very different from the period elegance of his house in Kensington, although of course she hadn’t seen his own part of it.

‘You’ve been here before, I expect?’ he said, as they sat down in leather tub chairs.

‘No, as it happens I haven’t.’ She hoped the chef wasn’t a minimalist. She had a heartier appetite than many of the people who patronised London’s smart restaurants and tension always made her hungrier.

They had come directly to the restaurant without stopping off in the bar.

‘Something to drink before dinner, sir?’ the wine waiter enquired.

‘Do you like champagne?’ Reid asked her.

Fran nodded. She didn’t like the cheap champagne sometimes served at weddings but she guessed that whatever he ordered would be the best.

‘Let’s make our decisions now, shall we?’

Reid was referring to the menu, but his choice of words reminded her of the momentous decision they were, if not exactly celebrating, at least ratifying. In theory she could back out right up to the moment of official commitment. But she knew she wasn’t going to do that. The die was already cast, her future as his wife settled.

The champagne came, a bottle of vintage Dom Pérignon.

‘Someone called this “psychological magic”,’ said Reid, raising his glass to her.

‘We could do with some,’ she said dryly.

‘Why do you say that?’

‘We don’t have the usual kind of magic.’ She nodded her head in the direction of a couple at another table gazing at each other as if the rest of the world had ceased to exist.

‘We can easily conjure some up.’ He reached for her free hand and lifted it to his lips, brushing them against the back of it and then turning it over and pressing his mouth to her palm.

Fran felt like snatching it back but managed to control the impulse and remove it from him with a semblance of graciousness. ‘I don’t think we should pretend anything we don’t feel.’ After a slight pause, she added, ‘At the same time I’d rather no one else knew that it’s a...a marriage of convenience. I know it would disturb my family if they realised it wasn’t a love match.’

‘In that case we’re going to have to put on a show of amorous feelings in front of them,’ said Reid, his expression sardonic.

‘Yes... up to a point,’ she acknowledged. ‘When will you make it public?’

‘Unfortunately I’m committed to going overseas, leaving tomorrow. I shan’t be back for ten days. When I am, we can meet each other’s families before putting a notice in The Times to let all our friends know.’

He gave her an unexpectedly charming smile. ‘I would rather not go away just now, but a lot of arrangements are in place and it would cause great inconvenience if I were to cancel the trip. I’m sorry about it.’

‘That’s all right. It will give me more time to get used to the idea.’

‘Or to change your mind.’

‘If I wasn’t certain, I wouldn’t be here,’ she said firmly. ‘Once I make up my mind, that’s it. I’m not a ditherer.’

‘Neither am I.’

She had half expected that he might produce an heirloom ring to seal their bond. But perhaps that rite came after he had presented her to his grandmother and possibly some of the aunts he had mentioned.

‘Do you have brothers and sisters?’ she asked. Siblings hadn’t been mentioned in the file on him, although the report on her had referred to her sister and brother-in-law.

‘Unfortunately not,’ he said. ‘Tell me about your sister. Do you get on well with her?’

It wasn’t late when he took her back to the flat. Towards the end of dinner she had begun to wonder if he would expect to make love to her. She wasn’t ready for that. In the taxi, she braced herself for the awkwardness of refusing what he might now consider an entitlement.

But her apprehension proved unnecessary. He asked the driver to drop them off at the entrance to the gardens surrounding the flats, but told him to wait there. Then Reid walked her to her door, unlocked it for her and switched on the hall light.

‘Goodnight, Francesca.’

He kissed the corner of her mouth. For a fleeting moment she felt the hardness of his chin and the masculine texture of his cheek against her smoother skin.

Then he straightened. ‘Don’t forget to put the chain on.’

The day after her return home, when she was still debating how to broach the subject of her impending marriage, two things happened, both unexpected.

First, a large florist’s box arrived. Her mother was there when she opened it. ‘What gorgeous flowers. Who are they from, Fran?’

There was only one person they could be from. Fran read the card enclosed with them. In a clear and distinctive hand which it didn’t take a graphologist to recognise as the writing of a strong, perhaps overbearing personality, Reid had written, no doubt in the expectation that the card would be seen by others, I would rather be talking to you.

‘They’re from someone I met in London... someone rather special. I think I’ll be seeing him again.’

‘What’s his name? Where did you meet him?’

‘His name is Reid Kennard.’ Fran knew the surname wouldn’t ring any bells with Mrs Turner, to whom the Financial Times and even the business pages of the popular newspapers were of as little interest as documents written in Sanskrit. ‘We met at a party some time ago.’ A small lie seemed forgivable in the circumstances. ‘He’s had to go overseas on business. I’m not sure when I’ll be seeing him again.’

‘Reid...that’s an unusual name. What does he do?’

‘Something in the City.’ Forestalling her mother’s next question, Fran said, ‘He’s tall and dark with grey eyes.’

‘He must be very taken with you to spend so much money on flowers.’

Fran made no comment on that. She said, ‘Would you do them for me? You’re better at it than I am.’

‘I’d love to. But they need a long drink of water before going into a vase.’ Mrs Turner took them away.

Soon after this Mr Preston, their lawyer, rang up and arranged to call on them that afternoon.

‘He says he has some good news for us,’ Fran told her mother.

‘That’ll make a change.’ Mrs Turner’s mouth quivered. ‘It’s been such a dreadful year. I don’t know how I’d have got through it without you, love.’

‘That’s what families are for...to stand by each other when the going gets rough.’ Fran put an arm round her shoulders and kissed her mother’s cheek.

Inwardly she shared some of her grandmother’s impatience with what Gran called ‘Daphne’s lack of spunk’, but she tried never to show it. Some people were natural survivors and some weren’t. Her mother wasn’t. She needed someone to lean on.

Mr Preston didn’t keep them in suspense. As soon as he’d shaken hands, he said, ‘I’m sure you’ll be relieved to hear that certain developments since I was last in touch have put a more cheerful complexion on your situation, Mrs Turner. I don’t think it’s going to be necessary for you to sell this house until such time as you yourself wish to move.’

‘What’s happened to change things, Mr Preston?’ Fran asked.

‘To put it in a nutshell, Miss Turner, an offer has been made for the assets of your father’s company...a very generous offer. I must make it clear that before your mother and you receive any benefit from it, the creditors have to be paid. In official order, they are the Inland Revenue, then the secured creditors, which means your father’s bankers, and then the unsecured creditors. But, at the end of the day, there should be sufficient left to cover your foreseeable overheads.’

Mrs Turner burst into tears. Relief made Fran feel a bit weepy herself, but she controlled her emotions.

Before she asked Mr Preston to explain the situation in more detail, she took her mother upstairs to lie down and recover.

That evening Reid rang up. He was in New York where it was still afternoon.

‘I didn’t expect you to act so fast,’ said Fran, after confirming that the solicitor had been to see them.

‘I always act fast whenever possible. Is your mother feeling better?’

‘She can’t quite believe the threat of eviction is no longer hanging over us. It’ll take her a few days to get used to it.’

After he had rung off, she realised she had forgotten to thank him for the flowers.

Explaining the good news to Shelley and John was more difficult. They couldn’t understand how, when George Turner had been unable to raise the investment capital his business needed, someone should make a good offer after the business had failed.

Fran managed to blind them with science by tossing out phrases picked up from Mr Preston. But afterwards she wondered if they would put two and two together when she became engaged to a leading figure in the banking world.