Читать книгу Last Chance Marriage - Rosemary Gibson - Страница 6

CHAPTER ONE

WEED or seedling? Trowel in her hand, Clemency crouched over the green shoots with thoughtful grey eyes. She’d scattered a packet of mixed annuals around about here in a fit of horticultural zeal last October, she recalled. Leave them alone and see what happens, she decided tranquilly, the spring sunshine glinting on her short copper curls multiplying the smattering of tiny freckles across her neat, straight nose. It was hotter than she’d realised. Dropping the trowel, she picked up the wide-brimmed sun hat that she’d discarded earlier and placed it firmly back on her head.

‘Dammit all, I moved down here to the country for some peace and quiet!’

Startled, Clemency rocked back on her heels and then realised that the deep, vehement male voice wasn’t addressing her, but issuing from the other side of the thick, high boundary hedge.

‘Peace!’ There was a loud, derisive snort. ‘I’ve been here barely one week and already every prying, interfering female in the village—no, the whole of Dorset—has been round...’

‘Now, stop exaggerating, Joshua, dear,’ a serene female voice broke in, adding musingly, ‘And I rather thought you moved here to be nearer to your father and I.’

‘Handing out advice, offering to babysit for the twins, suggesting I join this, that and the other club...’ There was the rhythmic sound of sawing.

‘They’re just being kind, dear. Welcoming you into the community.’

‘I have no desire to be part of the community, absolutely no desire to take up bell ringing, join the wine tasting circle, the gardening club or the local amateur dramatics association...’

Clemency raised her eyebrows, pushing the large sunglasses back on the bridge of her nose. The local societies would probably survive without him, she thought. Feeling a little uncomfortable eavesdropping, even though it wasn’t intentional, she tugged up a dandelion and rose to her feet, brushing off the mud from the knees of her jeans.

‘What’s your neighbour like?’ said the female voice.

Another disdainful snort. ‘Single. Chartered accountant. Works for a commercial bank in Poole.’

Clemency’s mouth curved as she tossed the dandelion into the bucket. The good old village grapevine.

‘No male in evidence. Compensates for her lack of social life by working long hours. Mid-twenties with her biological body clock beginning to start ticking.’

Well, really! Indignation and amusement warred for supremacy as Clemency picked up her trowel and bucket of weeds.

‘You’ve met her? That top branch looks dead too, dear.’

‘Not as such. She appeared on the doorstep yesterday morning with Jamie’s football. Why the hell she couldn’t have just tossed it back over the hedge...’

Clemency’s eyes sparked. Because she’d decided that it was about time she made some sort of welcoming gesture to her new neighbours, and also let them know that they were perfectly free to come and collect stray balls at any time.

‘I didn’t bother to answer the door and she left the ball on the front step.’

There was a little sigh. ‘You were always so polite as a boy, Joshua.’

‘And I saw her peeping at us from an upstairs window yesterday evening.’

She’d been closing her window, that was all, had done nothing more than glance into the next-door garden at the tall, dark-haired man playing cricket with two identical small boys. Pity that he’d chosen that precise minute to glance up. Clemency looked thoughtfully down at her trowel and decided regretfully that it might well miss the intended target.

‘Don’t you think you’re being a little arrogant, dear? Assuming every single woman has designs on you?’

Clemency’s eyes danced with repressed, delighted laughter.

‘It’s not me they have designs on. It’s the twins. I’m just part of the package.’ There was a fleeting note of self-mockery in the deep voice and then it hardened again. ‘The twins are not looking for a mother and I most certainly am not looking for a wife. This is an all-male household and that’s the way it intends staying.’

Clemency gave a muffled snort. What sane woman would want to infiltrate that household?

‘Yes, dear. When your father gets back from swimming with the twins, I should ask him to have a look at that wisdom tooth.’

‘Dad won’t want to go into his surgery on a Sunday afternoon. I’ll make an appointment with him for tomorrow.’

‘He was planning to go in anyway for a couple of hours to catch up on some paperwork, and you might be able to last out until tomorrow but I don’t know whether the rest of us can.’

There was a moment’s silence and then the stillness was broken by a rich, deep chuckle. ‘Have I been that impossible this morning?’

‘You haven’t exactly been suffering in silence,’ the gentle voice observed dryly, but the underlying affection was marked. ‘Shall I hold the ladder?’

Forewarned, Clemency had plenty of time to beat a hasty retreat, but refused to be driven out of her own garden and glanced up with a sunny smile as a dark head and wide, powerful shoulders appeared in her line of vision through the branches of the huge ash tree.

‘Hello,’ she began cheerfully, and stopped, her breath catching in her throat, the hairs stiffening on the back of her neck as she absorbed the hard, chiselled male features.

It couldn’t be him.

Slowly she expelled her breath, berating herself for her idiocy. Even after all these years, she thought wryly, the sudden glimpse of a well-shaped head, of a square, tenacious chin, a certain inflection in a deep male voice could still catch her completely off-guard, could still make some part of her leap in half-remembered recognition.

But of course this man wasn’t him. That other man belonged to the past, and she’d known that night they’d parted that she would never see him again.

Her eyes jerked upwards again. There was a slight facial resemblance, that was all, she convinced herself uneasily, but this man looked tougher, more formidable. His face could have been carved out of granite, gave nothing away, the hard, unyielding contours etched by a world-weary cynicism.

‘Clemency Adams,’ she introduced herself swiftly. Mid-thirties, she judged. It couldn’t be him, she denied again. It was impossible. He could not be her new neighbour. She wasn’t even sure how clear her recollection of him was any more, anyway. The image of the dark face still haunted her sleep sometimes but, when she woke with that inexplicable aching sense of loss, the image had blurred. Their time together had been so fleeting.

If he’d noticed her momentary agitation, he gave no indication of it, the blue eyes showing no more than idle curiosity as they swept speculatively down the length of her slight frame from the top of her sun hat, over the baggy pink T-shirt, to her sandalled feet with a dismissive assurance that made her stiffen with inexplicable resentment. He wasn’t sure whether she’d heard or not. Didn’t much care if she had.

‘Joshua Harrington,’ he returned crisply, the straight mouth unsmiling. The bare arms revealed by the short-sleeved blue shirt were as tanned as the strong, lean fingers holding the saw.

‘How are you settling in?’ she enquired blithely, her heart giving an uncomfortable thud. So that was his name. ‘I’m sure you’ll enjoy village life, being part of such a small, friendly, close-knit community.’

The corners of the firm mouth quirked, the unexpected smile transforming the harsh, forbidding face so dramatically that Clemency’s stomach turned an involuntary somersault, the terrible, unwelcome sense of familiarity gripping her again, this time leaving her in no doubt—it was him.

‘I’m sure I shall, Miss Adams,’ Joshua Harrington drawled, the amusement in the discerning blue eyes leaving her in no doubt that he knew she’d overheard his earlier tirade and was now deliberately baiting him.

‘Mrs Adams,’ Clemency corrected immediately, wondering why on earth she had done so. When she’d first moved to the village, to her intense relief, it had been generally assumed that she was unmarried. She’d neither confirmed nor denied the mistaken assumption, just grateful to be spared the necessity of explaining about Simon.

‘Mrs Adams,’ he repeated slowly, the blue gaze concentrated on her face with heart-stopping intensity, as if, for the first time, he was mentally stripping her of the camouflaging hat and sunglasses. His mouth suddenly tightened, his eyes narrowing as they lingered on the short copper curls peeping out from beneath the wide-brimmed hat, and then abruptly he turned away, the muscles in his shoulders tautening as he swiftly and efficiently began sawing through the rotten wood.

Averting her own gaze just as abruptly, Clemency pushed the wheelbarrow to the end of the garden to empty the contents. She’d corrected Joshua Harrington because being dismissed as a workaholic spinster had struck a raw nerve, she admitted slowly. Especially as there was more than a grain of truth in it.

Work, initially an antidote to Simon, had slowly come to dominate her entire life to the exclusion of all else, she reflected with uncomfortable honesty. She squared her small chin. Well, unlike her marriage, she was at least making a success of her career, had heard only on Friday that she’d been short-listed for the vacancy in the international audit team, invited for a second interview in London next week.

The chief attraction of the coveted post was the travel involved. Mostly in Europe, but with occasional trips to Canada, Australia and the Far East. A chance to see much of the world, all expenses paid. Determinedly Clemency tried to recapture the enthusiasm that had made her apply for the position in the first place but was aware only of a tiny, dull emptiness inside her. No one to miss her when she went overseas, no one to greet her rapturously when she returned from each trip.

Snap out of it, Clemency! She could block off Joshua Harrington’s words but it was impossible to dismiss the man himself.

Stretched out lazily on the lounger after a late lunch, she tried to concentrate on her novel, but the disturbing image of strong, assured male features seemed to be superimposed on every page. It was all too easy to understand how his advent in the village had made such an impact on the local female populace, she conceded uneasily, overwhelmingly grateful that she was now safely immune to all members of the male sex. Her stomach started to churn; her hands felt clammy. Had he recognised her? She squeezed her eyes shut. Was he divorced? Widowed?

‘Hello.’

Her eyes shot open. Two small boys, distinguishable only by the differing colours of their T-shirts, stood by the lounger, studying her solemnly.

‘Hello,’ she returned with equal gravity, pushing herself upright. About four years old, she hazarded. No, she thought, her stomach muscles constricting. She didn’t need to guess—knew almost to the week exactly how old Joshua Harrington’s sons were.

‘What are you doing?’ Red T-shirt enquired, removing a twig from his tousled dark hair.

Thinking about your daddy. ‘Reading,’ Clemency said firmly.

‘Why?’

She was momentarily nonplussed. ‘Because I like reading.’

‘I can read. What’s your name?’

‘Clemency. What’s your name?’

‘Jamie.’

‘I’m Tommy.’ Blue T-shirt chipped in, looking down admiringly at the grass stains on his jeans.

‘Does your daddy know where you are?’ Clemency asked gently. Silly question. She hardly imagined Joshua Harrington had passively watched his offspring tunnelling their way through the hedge into her garden.

‘He’s gone out with Grandpa.’

Of course. The wisdom tooth.

‘And Granny’s making a cake.’

Doubtlessly innocent of the fact that her two enchanting grandsons had decided to go exploring. Swinging her long, slim legs to the floor, Clemency slipped on her sandals and rose to her feet. The sooner she herded these two escapees home, the better.

‘Why?’ both Tommy and Jamie enquired in unison when she explained her intention.

‘Because your Granny will worry when she finds you’re missing.’

‘She won’t mind,’ Tommy said airily. ‘Have you got a cat?’

Clemency’s lips twitched. Somehow she didn’t quite share his optimism. ‘No.’

‘Anna has two cats,’ he informed her, adding grandly, ‘When I’m big, I’m going to have ten cats.’

Who was Anna? ‘Are you?’ Clemency murmured, looking suitably impressed as she guided the two small boys down her front path and up the drive of the adjacent cottage. Originally a farm labourer’s dwelling, like her own, it had been extended by a previous owner but still retained its simple charm.

‘Have you got a dog?’ Jamie took over the interrogation.

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because it wouldn’t be fair to leave it on its own all day while I go to work.’

‘My daddy doesn’t go to work.’

‘He just draws,’ Tommy contributed vaguely.

‘Does he?’ Clemency said casually, determinedly masking her curiosity as she pressed the doorbell.

The woman who answered the door matched the voice she’d heard earlier to perfection. Slight, her dark hair sprinkled with grey, her gentle, serene face evinced momentary surprise and concern.

‘What have you two scamps been up to?’

‘We’ve been next door to see Clemency,’ Tommy announced innocently.

His grandmother frowned. ‘That was very naughty of you both,’ she said quietly. ‘You know very well you’re never to leave the garden on your own.’

‘Forgot.’ Tommy shuffled his feet uncomfortably and scurried into the cottage.

‘Sorry,’ mumbled Jamie, his small face equally crestfallen, and hurried after his twin.

Pulling a rueful face, the older woman held out a hand. ‘Mary Harrington. Thanks for bringing them home.’

‘Clemency Adams.’ Clemency shook the outstretched hand. ‘I think there must be a hole in the hedge somewhere.’

‘My son’s in the process of refencing the garden so it shouldn’t happen again. I hope they didn’t trample all over the flower beds.’

‘With the state of my garden at the moment, I wouldn’t notice if a herd of elephants had passed through.’ Clemency grinned. ‘It’s just that there’s an old well right at the bottom. There’s a small protective wall around it and a manhole cover, but...’

‘It might prove irresistible for two curious, unsupervised four-year-olds?’ Mary Harrington smiled back. ‘Look, I’ve just made a pot of tea. Have you time to join me in a cup?’

Not wanting to refuse the friendly invitation but reluctant to be discovered ensconced in his home should Joshua Harrington appear, Clemency hesitated and then accepted, following her hostess down the hall into the kitchen overlooking the rambling back garden. Tommy and Jamie, crouched down on their small haunches, were engrossed in a game involving three plastic flowerpots, two sticks and a length of old hosepipe, the rules of which were completely incomprehensible to their two observers.

‘Do sit down,’ Mary Harrington waved a hand in the general direction of the large refectory table, and poured out two cups of tea. ‘Just push some of that clutter to one side.’ she added cheerfully.

Removing a plastic spade and bucket from a stool, Clemency drew it up to the table, carefully depositing a toy fire engine and packet of crayons on top of a pile of papers. Twice the size of her own immaculate kitchen, the comfortable, untidy, sun-filled room was evidently a focal point of family life. Brightly crayoned drawings adorned one wall.

‘Thank you.’ Clemency took hold of the proffered cup and saucer, her mouth curving as her eyes alighted on one of the drawings. Unlike the others, this had evidently been executed by an adult hand. A small boy, easily recognisable as one of the twins, was surrounded by cartoon cats, their almost-human feline expressions indicating their individual characteristics. Lazy, curious, supercilious, artful.

‘Joshua drew it for Tommy.’ The older woman smiled as she followed Clemency’s gaze. Positioning her chair so that she could keep a vigilant eye on her grandsons, she sat down.

‘It’s very good.’ Clemency’s eyebrows furrowed together as she continued to study the cartoon. More than good. Professional. There was something familiar in the style. ‘My daddy doesn’t go to work’. ‘He just draws’. A small suspicion beginning to unfurl in her head, her eyes dropped to the pile of papers on her right, editions of the same national daily she had delivered to her cottage. And each morning the first thing she glanced at was the gently satirical topical cartoon on the front page. Josh. She’d always assumed it was a pseudonym—‘josh,’ as in to tease good-naturedly. But it could equally be the diminutive for Joshua. No. It was all just coincidence. She was adding two and two and making five.

Aware of Mary Harrington watching her, she glanced up and read the confirmation of her unspoken question on the gentle face.

‘I always buy The Best of Josh every Christmas.’ Clemency instantly regretted the unthinking admission, hoping it wouldn’t be relayed to the author of the books that usually dominated the bestseller lists each festive season.

‘I inundate friends and relatives with copies. And always leave one in the waiting room of my husband’s dental practice,’ Mary Harrington confessed conspiratorially, and smiled. ‘Unbeknown to my son.’

Clemency laughed, liking the warm, unpretentious woman more and more by the second, her laughter suddenly dying in her throat as she heard the key in the door. Simultaneously the twins, having evidently heard a car draw up in the drive, hurtled into the kitchen.

‘Daddy’s back...’

As the lean figure loomed in the doorway, they launched themselves joyfully towards him like small, exuberant puppies.

‘Had a good afternoon?’

The gentleness in Joshua Harrington’s voice made Clemency’s heart miss an unsteady beat, her eyes leaping to his face. Mesmerised she watched the uncompromisingly male features warm, soften as he rumpled the two small, dark heads, the cynicism temporarily eradicated from his face.

‘Yes, Daddy,’ the twins chorused enthusiastically, and scampered back out into the garden.

‘Mrs Adams.’

Caught completely off-balance, Clemency flushed slightly as Joshua Harrington acknowledged her presence in his home and turned towards his mother. ‘Dad’ll be back in about an hour,’ he relayed, but the dark, slanted eyebrow clearly enquired, What’s she doing here?

Or perhaps she was merely being super-sensitive, Clemency acknowledged. She was twenty-seven, had been brought up with three elder brothers, been married, her colleagues were predominantly male—and yet this man unnerved her completely. Even during her adolescence she’d never felt this self-conscious in a man’s presence.

‘The twins went AWOL and Clemency brought them home,’ Mary Harrington said peacefully. ‘Tea in the pot. Oh, Lord, the cake!’ Springing to her feet, she moved across the kitchen to the stove at the far end.

‘Thank you.’ The blue gaze flicked to Clemency.

‘I considered simply tossing them back over the hedge,’ she couldn’t resist murmuring with an impish grin, recalling his earlier remark about the football, and instantly regretted it as she saw him frown. She was only joking, for heaven’s sake. Being deliberately flip to conceal her fast-fading composure. Then with an uncomfortable jolt she realised that the flippant remark hadn’t even registered with him; his whole concentration was focused on her face. He was inspecting each delicate feature, her high, fragile cheekbones, wide-spaced eyes, straight freckle-dusted nose with a clinical thoroughness that she was too keyed up to resent.

There was no acknowledgement of her fragile feminine attraction in the shadowed blue depths, no trace of the appreciation she was accustomed to witnessing—and rebuffing—in male eyes, but something else... But before she could analyse it, before she could be a hundred per cent sure, he had turned away.

Swallowing hard to ease the dryness in her throat, she watched him pour out a mug of tea and carry it across to the table. Removing a cricket bat from a chair, he sat down, stretching his long, lean legs out in front of him.

‘How long have you lived in the village, Mrs Adams?’ he enquired quietly.

Clemency hesitated. It was a perfectly innocuous question and yet there was something in the astute blue eyes that reflected more than just polite, idle curiosity.

‘I moved down here over four years ago.’

‘From London?’

Her spine stiffened. ‘Yes,’ she acknowledged.

‘An unusual career move,’ he observed slowly.

For a second Clemency wondered if he was baiting her, but there was no hint of mockery in the pensive eyes.

‘Relocation,’ she said shortly. Relocation of her life.

She focused her attention firmly on Mary Harrington as she rejoined them at the table but it was impossible to distance herself from the formidable male presence on her left. Contributing little to the casual conversation, he nevertheless seemed to dominate the room, emanated a masculine force that was almost tangible.

He wasn’t even in her direct line of vision, but she was alert to his slightest movement, her senses tuned into him as if she’d suddenly developed a set of ultra-sensitive antennae.

The kitchen which had seemed so warm and welcoming when she’d first entered seemed to have undergone some subtle change. There was an underlying tension which wasn’t solely contributable to her own growing unease. Unable to resist any longer, she flicked the silent man a sideways glance.

Dark eyebrows drawn together, he was frowning at the opposite wall. Unobserved, her eyes swept over the strong planes of his face, and dropped to the firm line of his chiselled mouth.

Unsteadily she picked up her cup and drained the contents, setting it down on the saucer with a clatter that seemed deafening in the otherwise silent kitchen.

‘Thanks for the tea.’ She forced herself to smile across the table.

‘You’re more than welcome.’ Mary Harrington smiled back.

‘I’ll see you out.’ Her son rose to his feet in a swift, controlled movement.

‘Thank you,’ she murmured evenly, overwhelmingly conscious of his height and breadth as he ushered her down the hall. Opening the front door, he stood back to enable her to step through, and for an imperceptible second her eyes locked with his, saw the hard certainty in their depths as they raked her oval face. The pretence was over for both of them.

‘It was you, wasn’t it?’ Joshua Harrington said quietly.

The colour drained from her cheeks. ‘Yes,’ she said simply, and saw a muscle clench along the hard line of his jaw.

‘I think I recognised you almost straight away,’ he conceded slowly.

‘But you hoped you’d made a mistake?’ she said levelly.

‘Yes,’ he admitted shortly.

That swift pinprick of hurt was completely irrational. Hadn’t she been equally reluctant to acknowledge his identity? Exhibited no more warmth or pleasure at seeing him again than he had her?

‘Your hair was longer then,’ he said abruptly.

Five years ago her waist-length red hair had been the most striking, most immediately noticeable thing about her.

‘I had it cut.’ She stated the obvious, wondering why it should matter that he made no immediate comment on the shorter gamine style. His own physical appearance had altered, too, but the change was more subtle. His dark hair was as thick and rich as she remembered. His eyes were the same intense blue—but the guarded detachment in their depths was as alien to her as the cynicism.

Clemency surveyed him with large, wary eyes, the constrained silence that had fallen between them unbearable. It seemed impossible that she had once, for a short time, felt closer to this man than any other living creature. But she was at a total loss how to even try to bridge the chasm that existed between them now. Wasn’t even sure that she wanted to.

‘I’d better be getting home.’ With amazement Clemency registered her calm, collected voice. But then over the past five years she’d become an expert at concealing her emotions. What happened to your wife? Knowing just how tenuous her composure was, terrified that the faade might crack at any minute and she would give utterance to the question pounding in her head, Clemency turned away quickly.

‘Mind the step.’

Instinctively he stretched out a hand to steady her as she missed her footing. His touch was brief and impersonal but her bare skin felt as if it had been scorched. That she could still react to his slightest touch like this was ultimately the biggest shock of all.

‘Goodbye, Clemency,’ he said quietly. It was the first time he had ever used her given name.

‘Goodbye.’ she returned, registering the finality in his voice that told her as clearly as words that he had neither the desire nor the intention of furthering their acquaintance.

But then, what had she expected? Clemency wondered, her legs swinging with uncharacteristic jerkiness down the drive. An invitation to come over for coffee that evening when the twins were in bed to have a cosy chat about old times?

To Joshua Harrington she would always be a reminder of a past that, like her, he wanted to forget. A reminder to that strong, proud, private man of a rare moment of weakness. Moving on autopilot, Clemency made her way around to the back of her cottage. Reaching the far end of her garden without any real recollection of how she’d arrived there, she sat down on the grass beneath the shade of an old gnarled apple tree.

Joshua Harrington. A man she had never expected to see again. The only person to whom she’d ever told the truth about Simon. Her anonymous confidant. The stranger on a train.

Except that she hadn’t met Joshua Harrington on a train but on a London bench by the Thames on a dark New Year’s Eve, five years ago.