Miranda's Marriage

by Margery Hilton

  'Here?' Miranda paled. Desperately she strove to be calm, to dismiss Susan's unhappy tale-bearing with the scorn it de­served. For didn't they all know Rena Harvey? 'Doesn't she know I'm getting married tomorrow? Does she think I'm interested in anything she has to tell me about Jason? Whatever it is I don't want to hear it. It's in the past now. I—I couldn't care less if he ran a harem or kept half a dozen mistresses.' Her voice wavered but she kept her control. 'I know Jason has had affairs. I think I'd be more worried if he hadn't—he's not a boy. I'm not going to listen to anything from that poisonous woman.'

  'Oh, no,' Susan sighed, 'you don't understand. I know she talks, but she isn't as bad as that. Please listen, it isn't just silly things like you making the biggest mistake of your life and he'll break your heart, and all that kind of thing. She's really worried about you. You have to be told.'

  The ice of fear paralysed Miranda again. The brave denials stilled on her white lips and she could only stare at Susan with the anguish of entreaty in her eyes. Don't spoil it! Don't de­stroy me! she wanted to cry. Instead, she whispered dully: 'You'd better tell me, then, and get it over. Why shouldn't I marry Jason?'

  'Because he's having an affair with a married woman.'

  * * *

  It seemed aeons instead of moments passed while Miranda stared with horror-filled eyes at her friend's unhappy face. At last she forced stiff lips to frame an almost soundless denial: 'I don't believe it. It's not true. It can't be.'

  'I don't know,' Susan whispered hopelessly.

  'Who?' Miranda clenched her hands. 'Who is she?'

  'I don't know,' Susan repeated. She looked down at her own nervously twisting fingers. 'Rena wouldn't tell me. She said, "No names now—no trouble for me later if somebody talks out of turn." But she swears she's seen them together recently and she believes it's true.'

  Miranda couldn't speak. Susan looked at her deathly white cheeks and trembled. She whispered: 'Are you all right? I'm sorry, but I had to tell you—I'd never forgive myself if after­wards it—it was true and you—you—because then it would be too late.'

  Miranda bowed her head, then hid her face in her hands with a fierce, convulsive movement. 'It's too late now,' she choked. 'It's too late… I love him…'

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  A married woman…

  There was little sleep for Miranda on that anguished eve of her wedding day. All through the long dark hours she tossed restlessly, Susan's disclosure, Jean's advice, and everything she had ever heard about Jason seething through her mind.

  But it was all in the past, she told herself desperately, even if it was all true. The past, but not now. Logic tried to convince her that Rena's latest insinuation couldn't be true—hadn't she herself shared so many of his free evenings and week-ends since he asked her to marry him? With his work and all the rushed trip it entailed there could have been precious little time to spare for the alliance Rena claimed. Perhaps his name had been linked with that of a married woman—Rena Harvey would link anyone's name to intrigue at the merest whisper of hearsay—but that didn't mean it was still linked with… Who was she?

  Susan had gone, unhappily, and Jean had arrived back, to drag out the reason for the distraught state in which she found Miranda. She had been shocked and incredulous, then angry, and her advice blunt: 'Forget it, and trust him—or get on that phone and have it out with him.'

  Miranda could do neither, and when Jason rang as promised at ten o'clock she could only respond in taut little syllables. The dreadful question stayed locked in anguish while she longed desperately for some assurance of his love, one that would banish these heartbreaking doubts. It seemed that something of what she felt got over to him, but that he drew the more obvious conclusion.

  'I won't keep you—I feel a bit like that myself,' he said.

  'Like what?' she quavered.

  'Like you sound—somewhat hors de combat,' he returned dryly. 'But don't worry—tomorrow is all ours. Good night, sweetness. See you…'

  Sweetness… She said the word softly to herself. It was the nearest he had ever come to an unguarded endearment that hinted at the depth of feeling she searched for in him; one that was not part of that brittle charm he sometimes adopted and which she had instinctively divined as partly protective as well as a man's artifice towards a woman. Because we are to blame for that artifice, she thought suddenly. We want a constant statement of affection, and a man will sometimes give it auto­matically. Practised…?

  She turned her head, searching out the dim outlines of the room with troubled eyes. This was the last time she would sleep here. Soon another girl would sleep and dream here in this bed. Would she ever lie awake until the small hours, tortured by indecision, wondering…? But what decision? The wedding was tomorrow. Everything was arranged. How could she back out now? With her heart crying out for him…

  The dark curved hump that was Jean took shape in the bed at the far side of the window, stirred gently, then wriggled over.

  'Miranda, are you still awake?

  'Yes.'

  'Well, go to sleep, for goodness' sake!' came the hissed com­mand. 'Do you want to look a wreck on your wedding day?'

  'I—I can't sleep. 'I don't know what to do.'

  'I've told you—forget it. Suppose you did walk out on him and found it was just gossip after all? You should have told him what they're saying and given him the chance to deny it.'

  The very thought sent cold tremors through Miranda. She knew instinctively what Jason's reaction would be: cold anger, and possibly curt dismissal of the whole matter. He would neither admit nor deny, of that she was sure, but it would mean the end of everything. With such an accusation between them what chance would there be for trust or love?

  'Anyway, I've always thought there's a ghoulish motive behind that sort of gossip,' Jean went on. 'They love the satisfaction of destroying something they haven't got them­selves.'

  'But Susan isn't like that.'

  'Maybe not, but she should have tried to pin down something a bit more concrete before she told you. Oh, surely you know how a rumour gets bits added to it as it passes along,' Jean said impatiently, heaving the coverlet back to her chin. 'Maybe he is friendly with a married woman. Maybe he's also friendly with her husband. Of course, if you're not much in love with him this would prove it. If you were really in love with him you'd want to tear out the eyes of anybody who said anything against him. I'd say it was jealousy, myself. And he did ring you all the way from Moscow… and all those flowers… that heavenly ring…' Jean's voice was getting sleepier. 'There's probably a very innocent explanation, and I know I wouldn't take anyone else's word for it. I'd want to find out for myself…'

  There was stillness, and a soft sigh as Jean settled down again. Miranda stared up at the ceiling and tried to see things Jean's way. The numbness of exhaustion was taking over now and with it a certain clarity. Neither Jean nor Susan were en­tirely unbiased in their conviction, and neither could provide the answer. She could only seize at what her heart wanted to believe: that whatever relationships Jason had had in the past she was the present. She was the one he had chosen to become his wife… no one could take that away from her…

  At last she fell into an uneasy sleep, which seemed to have lasted only moments when Jean touched her shoulder and said cheerfully:

  'Wake up—morning tea for the bride!'

  'What time is it?' Miranda struggle up, not yet back to re­ality, and gave a cry of dismay as she saw the bedside clock. Half past eight! And the taxi was coming at ten!

  'Now dinna fret!' Jean pushed her back against the pillow. 'Everything's under control. You've five minutes to drink your tea while I run your bath. All you have to do is obey orders.'

  Jean and Mrs. Saunders certainly had everything under con­trol. Calmly and briskly, but without fuss, they organized that last hour and a half, keeping up a cheerful banter and never once giving Miranda a moment to consider that there had ever been the slightest doubt about her wedding taking plac
e. Only once was the shadow of the night allowed to flit across the morning, and that was when Miranda, seated in front of the mirror, met her new friend's reflected gaze.

  'You're going to need a touch of colour in those cheeks, I think.'

  Mrs. Saunders overheard this and came to look. 'Wedding nerves,' she said. 'I looked exactly the same.'

  'You, Auntie?' Jean giggled. 'I bet Uncle Andrew looked ten times worse.'

  'Your Uncle Andrew had had such a night with the boys the night before it was a toss-up whether I married him or the best man,' Mrs. Saunders said tartly. 'Sometimes I wish I had,' she added darkly.

  'Now you don't mean that,' said Jean.

  'Maybe not now. But you never saw our best man. He—' Mrs. Saunders broke off with an exclamation and rushed out She returned immediately with a handful of letters. 'Your post—I forgot to bring it up before. Here you are…'

  There were several cards. From Jean and her aunt, from Susan and Ray, from several other girls in her office, from Rena Harvey, surprisingly wishing her every happiness, and one from Jason. It was a silver card, with no personal message except the strong black signature, and even though she knew this was yet another of the arrangements Miss Mayo had taken care of it brought a rush of warm emotion and a smarting to her eyes. Why hadn't she thought of this token herself? The final gesture before their lives were linked.

  The thought of Jason's post arriving without a message from herself worried her for the rest of the short time that remained before the taxi swept Susan and herself off to Caxton Hall. Neither of them spoke during the journey, Susan was unusually quiet and wore a faint air of guilt, and Miranda felt chilled and trembling as she went into the building.

  The first person she saw was Jason. He looked tall and dis­tinguished in a dark formal suit and more devastatingly at­tractive than ever. As he came forward she scarcely noticed the older, heavily built man with the vaguely familiar face who was with him. For a moment Jason neither smiled nor spoke, and she could only look up into those disturbingly steady eyes, the hue of smoke-grey crystal, as long as they chose to hold her captive. She had no knowledge of the vision of pale, ethereal beauty she made, or the unconscious plea of her own wide eyes. Then Jason said: 'You look very lovely,' and broke the spell holding her in a trance.

  She put out her hand. 'Do I?—I'm sorry I forgot to send you a card—thank you for yours.'

  'Card?' His brows went up, then his companion moved for­ward and Jason turned. 'I don't think you've met Sir Charles Hubard, our chairman. Charles—this is my bride-to-be, Miss Meake.'

  'And a very beautiful bride-to-be,' Sir Charles corrected, heavily jocular. 'I'm charmed to meet you, my dear—and I hope he deserves you. My wife should have been here by now, but—' he broke off, glancing past her. 'Ah here she is now.'

  Sir Charles began introductions, and at the same moment the previous wedding party-emerged and it was time for the brief ceremony which made Miranda into Mrs. Jason Steele.

  She retained few memories of that wedding morning. She remembered Sir Charles clearing his throat as he bent to append his signature as witness, and again Sir Charles making the time-honour prompting: 'Well, kiss your bride, my boy!' and Susan's stifled giggle in the background while Jason's lips made what seemed like a perfunctory obedience and a camera flash exploded a blinding radiance over their heads.

  Sir Charles' own chauffeur-driven limousine took them back to Byrne Square, and within its privacy Jason at last took her in his arms and without speaking claimed her lips with con­siderably more feeling.

  Miranda wanted to cling to him, but her hands were still involved with the enormous beribboned silver horseshoe Susan had thrust at her as she got into the car. By the time she freed her fingers of the ribbons Jason had drawn back.

  'Are you hating all this fuss too much?' he asked with brittle humour.

  'No—of course not!'

  She sounded so shocked he laughed. 'With all due respect to feminine dreams, I have to admit I'm thankful we decided against having all the trimmings. Frankly, imagination boggles at what might have been.'

  'Does it?' she said in a small voice.

  He took her left hand, twisting and working at the new gold band he had so recently placed on the third finger. 'Isn't this the main thing?' he said softly.

  She looked down, the small sensuous movements compelling her heartbeat to quicken, even as she wondered if it were mock­ery rather than feeling behind the small question.

  'All those ghastly time-worn traditions,' he went on mus­ingly. 'Sly back-slapping; snide speeches about little troubles and coy gifts of miniature porcelain potties! Apart from endless confetti stuffed into every crevice they can find.' His mouth turned down at the corners. 'If Charles and Miss Mayo and Libby have failed to follow my instructions I'll fire the lot of them.'

  'You can't fire Sir Charles!'

  'Not literally, alas, but I'll find other ways of revenge.'

  Miranda did not doubt this; even with all the bonhomie of a wedding day the ruthlessness she had always known Jason possessed was merely dormant beneath the surface. Some­what to her dismay, the inevitable little gift of porcelain had found its way among the wedding presents beginning to pile up at the house in Byrne Square. It was from Ray and Susan, tucked in with the stainless steel serving dish which she already knew they had planned to give her. There was a magnificent Georgian silver tray from Sir Charles and Lady Hubard, gay linen glass cloths from Jean and her aunt, a crys­tal bowl from Wally Ambrose, whom she knew by sight and who was waiting at the house with a group of men who were strangers.

  'I passed the word round yesterday,' said the plump, genial Wally. 'Couldn't let you depart without a decent send-off.'

  The 'decent send-off' included much of the back-slapping and snide jollification Jason had deplored, besides the generous imbibing of champagne and a great deal of kissing of the bride. It was plain that Wally and his colleagues had laid firm foun­dations of the party spirit before their arrival, and Jason made no secret of his thankfulness when the time came to leave for the airport.

  Miranda came downstairs after changing into a cool blue linen suit more suitable for a flight and found Jason holding his guests at bay.

  'No more! You can hijack my wine cellar but not my wed­ding flight. We'll make it without your help. Come on, Mir­anda, hurry!'

  It was like running a gauntlet.

  Sir Charles' limousine stood by the kerb, his impassive-faced chauffeur ready at the wheel, and in front of it stood Wally's vintage Daimler, decked with ribbons. The plan appeared to be to pressgang the bride and groom into this, and hands reached out to seize Miranda as she reached the top of the steps. Miss Mayo and Susan were struggling to get through, and Sir Charles was standing by his car, bellowing at his unruly execu­tives. Suddenly Jason thrust himself in front of Miranda and snatched her up into his arms. A cheer went up as he fled down the steps and almost threw her into the back of the limousine as Sir Charles opened the door. Another moment, and Jason was safely inside and the door slammed shut. The car reversed quickly and pulled away to a chorus of cries, laughter, boos and a shout of 'Shame!' amid the well-wishes and the final hail of confetti. Sir Charles waved, and Susan ran along the pave­ment to wave the last frantic farewell.

  It took a little time to recover their breath and most of the car journey to rid themselves of the endless confetti. Miranda was now strung to a high pitch of excitement and she had accepted the send-off as part of the day. Not so Jason, who made no secret of his sense of humour being decidedly strained.

  'So much for a quiet wedding! Sorry about the roughing up.'

  'But I didn't mind—it's all part of getting married.'

  'Perhaps. But things get out of hand. If they'd had their way we would have missed the plane,' he said brusquely.

  She could not deny this and deemed it wiser to remain in silent agreement. He was glancing at his watch, as though to reassure himself that there was no risk of that disturbing possi­bility, an
d the dark frown still hovered between his brows. Mir­anda watched it, and in that moment the beginning of wifely wisdom was born in her. She said firmly:

  'We won't—now sit still a moment—there's confetti on your shoulder.'

  Almost unwillingly he obeyed as she brushed at the dark lapels with feather-light fingers. She met his gaze, and his brows flickered.

  'Will you forgive me if I say thank God it's over?'

  'Of course,' she said seriously. 'I know exactly how you feel.'

  'Do you, now? I wonder.' Suddenly amusement was back and the ruffled look had fled. He reached for her. 'I don't think you do, you know,' he added on a rather provocative note.

  Deep within the tinted shadows of the smoothly speeding limousine she forgot all doubts as she let singing senses drown in response to his kiss. This moment was hers; this was her wedding day. Nothing, no one, could take that away from her…

  * * *

  The long transatlantic flight was smooth and without delays, and to Miranda a new and exciting experience. But not so to Jason, who was too seasoned a traveller for the experience to hold any novelty, nevertheless, he was indulgent of her eager pleasure and her shocked remonstrance when, after the brief stopover at Bermuda, he announced his intention of having a siesta.

  'As I've seen it all before, and it seems even a husband can't compete with that'—a mocking wave of his hand—'I'll leave you to it and catch up with some sleep.'

  'I don't know how you can,' she breathed, gazing down at the blue and rose glory of the Caribbean spreading like a magic carpet far below the great plane.

  'Can what?' he asked lazily, folding his arms and composing his head more comfortably against the padded curve. 'Sleep on my honeymoon?'

  'No!' Instantly the warmth flowed into her cheeks at the sidelong glance accompanying his response. 'I mean, how can you ignore all that down there—even if you have seen it all before? It's so beautiful.'