Читать книгу Marriage Reclaimed: Marriage at a Distance / Marriage Under Suspicion / The Marriage Truce - Сара Крейвен, Sara Craven - Страница 7

JOANNA stirred in the chair and shivered. The hopeful fire had burned down, and she replenished it with a couple of fast-burning beech logs.

But the real cold was inside her, in her bones. In her heart.

She shook her head in irritation. Why was she thinking these things—allowing herself to remember—probing into old wounds?

Perhaps, she thought, grimacing, because they’d never properly healed the first time. Now there’s a dangerous admission.

Wrapping her arms across herself, she began to walk slowly up and down the room, head bent. Her hair brushed her cheek and she combed it back with impatient fingers. She was still wearing it in the same sleek mid-length bob. A change, she decided abruptly, was well overdue.

Something short, she thought, and businesslike, be-fitting her job-seeking status.

She had filled in for the secretary more than once at the estate office, so she knew the rudiments of word-processing and the preparation of spreadsheets.

What she should look for, she thought detachedly, was a position similar to the one she’d filled here, but minus the personal involvement. Housekeepers who could drive and had basic secretarial skills would surely be in demand. And didn’t the National Trust employ people to live in their properties and care for them?

I would like to do that, she thought. I would like to care for the fabric of another old house, as I’ve looked after this. It’ll be handed back to Gabriel in good shape.

She had marked time for the past two years, but if that led to a career then the time would have been well spent after all. It was only a pity she couldn’t find a suitable post before she was forced to confront Gabriel again.

Gabriel. Every pathway in her mind seemed suddenly to lead back to him, she thought angrily. But that was understandable, in a way. After all, in another forty-eight hours he would be here, taking possession.

Another uncontrollable shiver went through her as the words lodged in her brain. For a brief nightmare second she could almost feel his physical presence. She could feel his hands touching her, as if she were some rare and delicate object which had taken his fleeting interest but which he would decide, in the end, not to buy. Her head seemed to fill with the scent—the taste of him.

And she remembered his face, stark, almost pagan in the golden Mauritian moonlight, as he’d lifted himself above her. The way he’d suddenly become some fierce, dominating stranger, obsessed with an emotion she did not share or even understand.

But he had never treated her like that again.

Nor had either of them referred to what had happened, or the bitter words which had followed. Instead, by some tacit agreement, they’d treated the honeymoon as if it was just another holiday. They’d swum, gone sightseeing, bargain-hunted in local markets and sampled the Mauritian specialities in the restaurants like all the other tourists.

In the daytime, he’d seemed to revert to the Gabriel she’d always known, so that she’d been able to relax, even enjoy herself a little. Except that she’d known the night would always come and she would find herself lying alone in the enormous bed, listening to the gentle swish of the ceiling fan as it revolved above her and wondering if he was asleep.

It was their last night on the island when he’d eventually turned to her again.

This time he’d been gentle, almost objective as he’d touched her. There’d been no pain when he entered her, but she’d been rigid in his arms, wanting to respond—longing to share this ultimate secret with him—but not daring to. Because she’d known from his own words that it was a mistake—that he didn’t really want her. He needed sexual release and she was just an available female body. And that knowledge had imprisoned her in a constraint that this polite, controlled, dutiful coupling could not release.

At one point, she’d heard him ask quietly, ‘Do you want me to stop?’

And her own stilted reply. ‘No, it’s all right—really.’

For a moment he’d been very still, staring down at her, then he’d closed his eyes and begun to drive towards his climax.

In a way things had become easier when they returned home. For one thing they hadn’t been in each other’s undiluted company any more.

But there had been inherent problems in the situation—Cynthia’s almost prurient interest in their relationship for one, and Lionel’s jovial hints about grandchildren for another.

If they’d been in love, passionately and physically involved with each other, they could have laughed about it. As it was, Joanna had found it acutely embarrassing. What Gabriel thought he’d kept to himself.

He had begun to stay overnight in London instead of driving down, and she’d had to find excuses not to join him.

When he was there, in bed with her in the room they’d shared for form’s sake, she’d lie awake half the night, dreading he was going to touch her, then fretting because he’d simply wished her goodnight, turned on his side and instantly fallen asleep.

When he wasn’t there, the darkness she’d stared into had been filled with images of him, the challenging grace of his naked body arched above some other woman.

And there had to be someone. Painful common sense had told her that. Gabriel was not a natural celibate, and the spaces between their lovemaking—if it could be called that—were becoming longer.

She remembered the very last time with painful vividness. They’d been to a party—someone’s twenty-first birthday—and she’d drunk too much champagne. For once Joanna had felt her inhibitions slipping away. She’d laughed, flirted, and danced with everyone, suddenly aware as she did so that Gabriel was watching her, leaning against a wall, drink in hand. For a moment, she’d faltered, bracing herself for his disapproval, then realised that he was smiling faintly, his eyes hooded, speculative. She’d laughed back at him, and, obeying an impulse, spun around on the ball of her foot so that the skirt of her indigo crêpe dress billowed round her slim legs, blowing him a kiss as she faced him again. And she’d seen him, in return, lift his glass in a silent toast.

In the car going home, she’d kicked off her high-heeled shoes and slid down in her seat, allowing her head to droop towards his shoulder.

She’d half expected him to move away, but he’d stayed where he was and so had she, watching the passing hedgerows through half-closed eyes, moving her cheek gently against the smooth silky texture of his jacket, and humming snatches of the music she’d been dancing to.

They hadn’t talked, but that in itself had imposed a kind of intimacy, as if there was no need for words.

Or, she’d thought afterwards, as if they had been in a dream.

When they’d got back to the Manor, Gabriel had parked by the front entrance and come round to open Joanna’s door. She’d been scrabbling around on the floor.

‘I’ve lost my shoe.’

‘Look for it tomorrow.’

‘But the gravel—’ She stopped abruptly as he lifted her out of the car into his arms, and carried her up the short flight of stone steps into the house.

She expected him to set her down in the hall, but he kept going up the stairs, then along the gallery to their bedroom.

She could feel her heart hammering suddenly. The effect of the champagne had dissipated and she was sober again, half-frightened, half-excited.

Gabriel carried her across the room and put her on the bed, following her down onto the yielding mattress. For a moment he lay beside her, one hand cupping her face, making her look at him. His eyes were lambent, intent, as if, she thought, he was looking into her soul. The silence that surrounded them was charged. The light from the shaded lamps seemed to shimmer and dance.

Joanna was trembling inside, almost dizzy with expectancy. She lifted her own hand and stroked his cheek lightly with her fingertips, and she saw him hesitate, the lean body suddenly tense, the dark face unfathomable.

And she remembered, just in time, as he must also have done, the bitter truth about their marriage, and that to yield to the sweet, potent forces in her blood—to draw him down into her arms—into her body—would be an unendurable complication.

Because nothing’s basically changed, she thought, her throat tightening. He’s had a good time at the party tonight and he wants to end the evening in the traditional way. That’s all.

And I—I can’t let myself want him. I couldn’t bear to be hurt like that—to spend the rest of my life waiting for him, needing him, and being disappointed. Being betrayed.

It’s better the way it is. At least I still have my pride.

She moved abruptly, pushing herself away from him.

He reached for her. ‘Joanna.’ His voice was gentle, almost rueful.

She said in a small, high voice, ‘I—I’m sorry. I’m not feeling very well.’

She slid off the bed, a hand pressed to her mouth, and ran across to the bathroom, closing the door and bolting it behind her.

It wasn’t altogether a lie. She felt sick with self-betrayal.

She ran the taps in the basin and splashed water onto her face and wrists. After a decent interval she flushed the lavatory and emerged from the bathroom, dabbing her lips with a tissue.

Gabriel, still fully dressed, was standing by the window, looking out into the darkness. He turned, brows raised, and surveyed her.

Joanna gave him a tremulous smile. ‘That was awful. It must have been the champagne.’

‘Naturally,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing else, after all, that could have turned your stomach.’

She halted uncomfortably, disturbed by his unwavering scrutiny.

‘I hope you’ve never had leanings towards becoming an actress,’ he went on conversationally. ‘You’re not very good at it.’

She felt colour invade her face. ‘I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Your recent performance as the dying swan,’ he said derisively. ‘But you won’t have to sink to any more of these undignified ploys to keep me at bay. Enough is quite enough.’

He paused, the tawny eyes sweeping her contemptuously. ‘I think I’ll do us both a favour, and find some other form of entertainment.’

He walked past her to the door. ‘I’m going back to London. You can tell my father I had an early meeting, or make up what story you like. It really makes no difference.’ His smile flickered at her like a cold flame. ‘Goodbye, my sweet wife.’

Joanna realised dazedly that she was standing in the middle of the study with her eyes shut and her hands pressed tightly to her ears, as if—two years on—she could somehow shut out the sound, the image of that night, and by doing so reduce its pain.

But that, she reminded herself bleakly, had never been possible. And with Gabriel’s return it would all begin again. The day after tomorrow, Henry Fortescue had said. Forty-eight hours, maybe less, and she would have to face him.

Yes—on the positive side—forty-eight hours and the official dissolution of their marriage could begin.

She would leave the letter she had written him on the desk for him to find.

She took a long look around her. The chances were she would never enter this room again. The house that had been her home was hers no longer.

I have to move out, she thought. Move out—and move on.

And, whatever emotional furore Gabriel’s return would cause, there were still practical details to be dealt with.

She went out of the study, crossing the big panelled hall to the dining room, where Mrs Ashby was laying the table for dinner.

The housekeeper’s elderly face was drawn, her eyes red-rimmed. Joanna remembered with compassion that she had lived at Westroe in one capacity or another for over thirty years, arriving when Gabriel was still a baby.

The smile she sent Joanna was a travesty of her usual cheerfulness. ‘Will Mrs Elcott be down for dinner, madam? Or should I prepare a tray?’

‘I honestly don’t know, but I’ll find out.’ Joanna paused. ‘Mr Verne will be here for the funeral, Grace. Would you get a room ready for him, please?’

Grace Ashby shook her head. ‘What a sad home-coming for him, madam.’ She hesitated awkwardly. ‘I suppose it should be Mr Lionel’s room, but all his things are still there. I—I haven’t had the heart to touch anything, and that’s a fact.’

‘Just prepare the room he used to have for the time being,’ Joanna said gently. ‘He can decide for himself what he wants to do once things—settle down a bit.’ She sighed. ‘Now, I’ll go and tackle Mrs Elcott.’

The lamps had been lit in Cynthia’s bedroom, and she was reclining against her pillows in a pale blue wrap, watching television. A copy of Vogue was open on the bed beside her, together with a half-eaten box of chocolates.

‘Hi.’ Joanna smiled at her, trying not to wince at the over-heated, perfume-laden atmosphere. ‘How are you feeling? I came to see if you felt like coming down to dinner this evening.’

‘I’ll have a bowl of soup up here.’ Cynthia gave her a tragic look. ‘I’m afraid I can’t face anything more solid.’

And nor could I if I’d eaten my way through nearly a pound of chocolates, Joanna thought with irony.

Aloud, she said, ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘It’s not your fault.’ Cynthia waved a hand. ‘Some of us are just more sensitive than others. It’s the burden we have to bear in life.’

She thought of another one. ‘And how many more visitors can we expect today?’ she demanded peevishly. ‘The doorbell seems to have been ringing non-stop. It’s been quite impossible for me to rest.’

‘It’s natural for people to express their condolences,’ Joanna said levelly. ‘Lionel was very much loved.’

‘You think you have to tell me that?’ Cynthia snatched a handful of tissues from a box and applied them to her perfectly dry eyes. ‘Really, Joanna, you can be so tactless. I sometimes wonder if you have a heart at all.’ She paused. ‘I notice none of them came up to see me. I suppose I can expect to be disregarded from now on.’ She sighed. ‘And things might have been so different.’

‘They’re going to be.’ Joanna cleared a handful of lingerie and filmy stockings from a chair and sat down. ‘My last visitor was Henry Fortescue.’

‘Old Fortescue?’ Cynthia sat up abruptly, her wrap slipping from her shoulder. ‘Did he mention Lionel’s will, by any chance? Give a hint how things had been left?’

Joanna was used to her stepmother by now, but there were still moments when Cynthia’s capacity for self-interest left her stunned.

‘No,’ she returned tautly. ‘The will’s going to be read after the funeral.’ She swallowed. ‘When Gabriel is here.’

‘Of course.’ Cynthia gave a slow, sly smile. ‘The return of the prodigal heir. No wonder you’re so edgy.’

Joanna was about to retort irritably that she wasn’t edgy at all, but stopped herself just in time.

‘How do you feel about seeing him again?’ Cynthia helped herself to another chocolate. ‘And, more importantly, how’s he going to feel about seeing you? He must blame you for the fact that he hasn’t been near the place for two years.’ She began to roll the paper wrapping into a tiny ball. ‘After all, he hasn’t just been separated from you, but from his father as well, and now the separation’s permanent.’

‘You don’t have to remind me of that,’ Joanna said bleakly. ‘I should have been the one to go.’

‘Oh, don’t be a fool,’ Cynthia said impatiently. ‘Lionel would never have allowed that.’ She examined a fleck on her nail. ‘You do realise he was madly in love with your mother, don’t you?’

Joanna stared at her in silent shock. ‘What are you talking about?’ she asked eventually.

‘Your father told me all about it.’ Cynthia shrugged nonchalantly. ‘It was one of those boy-girl things, and the families discouraged it because they were first cousins, but Jeremy reckoned he carried a torch for her all his life.’ She gave Joanna a sidelong smile. ‘Why do you think I brought you here after your father was killed? I knew all I had to do was tug a few heartstrings and we’d have a home for life.’

‘I think that had more to do with Lionel’s strong sense of family than any secret passion,’ Joanna said dismissively. ‘You’re surely not suggesting he married Valentina on some kind of rebound?’

Cynthia shrugged again, giving an irritable hitch to her slipping wrap. ‘God knows why he married her, because of all the ill-matched couples…’ She pursed her lips. ‘Can you imagine? A Roman beauty, descended from centuries of aristocratic decadence, buried alive in the English countryside. She must have thought she’d died and gone to hell.’

‘And yet they stayed together,’ Joanna objected.

‘By the skin of their teeth.’ Cynthia yawned, and ate another chocolate. ‘Jeremy told me they used to have the most spectacular rows—real plate-throwing, screaming jobs. You can see why Gabriel’s no angel, in spite of his name.’

She paused, her expression soulful. ‘I think that is why poor Lionel was so scared of actual commitment for a second time. If only we’d had more time together, I might have been able to reassure him.’

At the same time keeping a close watch for flying pigs, Joanna thought drily.

Whatever her stepmother’s ego might suggest, Joanna herself had never seen in Lionel’s behaviour towards Cynthia anything more than a rather studied courtesy. On the other hand, the full-length portrait of his late wife still occupied pride of place on the wall of the Jacobean Room, with its big carved four-poster bed, which they’d shared during their marriage and he’d occupied until his own death.

Cynthia directed a malicious look at her. ‘Did Gabriel ever bung any plates in your direction? No, I suppose he was far too civilised—although I often thought there was something pretty volcanic seething under that calm exterior.’

Joanna’s lips tightened in distaste. ‘I wouldn’t know.’

Cynthia laughed. ‘Oh, I’m quite sure of that, darling. Another marriage from hell,’ she added reflectively. ‘Gabriel must have cursed the day he allowed himself to be manoeuvred into it.’

‘Probably.’ Joanna got to her feet. ‘And soon you’ll have every opportunity to ask him about it. Although I doubt if he’ll tell you.’

‘I wouldn’t be too certain about that.’ Cynthia stretched like a cat in the big bed. ‘There’s less than six years’ difference in our ages, you know. He might welcome—a confidante.’

There was something in her voice that stopped Joanna in her tracks.

‘What exactly are you saying?’ she asked slowly. ‘That having failed with the father you’re going after the son?’

Cynthia’s blue eyes took on a steely glint. ‘Crudely put, my sweet, but not altogether inaccurate,’ she retorted. ‘God knows, I’ve got to do something. Unlike you, I can’t count on Lionel’s will to rescue me. If we’d been officially engaged it would have been very different, of course. I might have had some claim. Although I’m pretty certain he’s left me Larkspur Cottage. Certainly I dropped enough hints.’

She paused. ‘And why should you quibble, anyway? You don’t want Gabriel, so why be a dog in the manger?’

‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’ Joanna had a feeling of total unreality. ‘And please don’t let the fact that we’re still married to each other stand in your way either.’

‘No, I shan’t,’ Cynthia returned. ‘And neither, I suspect, will Gabriel.’

It was all Joanna could do not to bang the bedroom door as she left.

Her heart was hammering, and she felt oddly nauseous as she went into her own room to change for dinner.

Gabriel and Cynthia, she thought. Cynthia and Gabriel.

Could such a relationship exist in the realms of possibility?

She swallowed past the sudden constriction in her throat, trying to think dispassionately about her stepmother as she reached into the wardrobe and extracted a woollen long-sleeved blouse and a plain black skirt.

Cynthia was thirty-seven against Gabriel’s thirty-two, she thought, but she didn’t look her age. She never had. She was a regular patron of the nearby health farm, using the gym almost as much as the beauty salon. She played tennis in the summer, squash in the winter, and golf all the year round. Her clothes and make-up were always immaculate, and her blond hair skilfully highlighted.

Superficially, at least, she was a far more obvious and decorative chatelaine for the Manor than Joanna had ever been—or ever could be, she thought, giving her straight brown hair, pale skin and clear hazel eyes a disparaging glance in the mirror.

And Cynthia was undoubtedly a man’s woman. She wasn’t simply attractive, she had a deep, inbuilt sex appeal that announced itself in her voice, her body language and mannerisms whenever she was in male company.

Lionel might have been resistant to her allure, but he’d been an exception. Joanna had seen sensible, responsible men become quite silly when Cynthia turned her honeyed charm on them.

My own father, for one, she thought sadly.

From the first, Cynthia had pursued Lionel quite single-mindedly. But what would have happened if she’d made Gabriel the object of her attentions instead? Lionel might not have approved, but would he really have raised any serious opposition to their marriage—if that had been what they both wanted?

Gabriel never wanted me, she thought. So why not Cynthia?

I’m divorcing him, so what can it possibly matter who he chooses—the second time around?

And then she saw the sudden flare of colour along her cheekbones, felt the angry knock of her heart against her ribcage and the burn of anger in her eyes.

And she knew that beyond all logic and reason, and without any doubt, it mattered a great deal.

A realisation which terrified her.