Stronger than Yearning

by Penny Jordan

  ‘Of course.’

  Norma Goodman was a tall, elegant woman in her mid-fifties. Her grey hair was fashionably styled, her make-up and clothes immaculate. Nothing about her was remotely headmistressy, and she greeted Jenna warmly, offering a glass of sherry.

  ‘I’d better not, I’m driving back, and I have the lowest alcohol tolerance of anyone I know,’ Jenna admitted wryly.

  They exchanged pleasantries for several minutes, Norma Goodman expressing her admiration of a colour scheme Jenna had recently organised for a mutual acquaintance.

  Then, with the barest hesitation in her manner, she walked over to the window that looked out on to the front of the school. After pausing for a few seconds, she turned to face Jenna, and what Jenna saw in her face made her heart sink.

  ‘It’s Lucy, isn’t it?’ she asked tensely.

  ‘Yes…I’m afraid so. She’s an extremely intelligent girl you know, one of the brightest we have—definitely Oxbridge material. But she can’t settle here, and because of that she isn’t able to give her best attention to her work. In our pre-enlightenment days she would have been described as a bad influence on the rest of the class, but now we know that these pupils, who seem determined to disrupt their classes and flout authority continuously, are normally suffering from some deep-seated emotional problem. In Lucy’s case, and from the talks I’ve had with her, there can be no doubt that she resents being a boarder…’

  ‘And she resents me,’ Jenna supplied tiredly. ‘I know. Just lately we don’t seem to be able to get on at all. She seems to be obsessed with the fact that she doesn’t know the identity of her father.’

  ‘Surely not entirely unusual in a girl of her age,’ Norma Goodman suggested gently. ‘I think it’s a natural human desire to know one’s antecedents. Lucy is undeniably one of those girls who responds best to masculine authority. She isn’t alone in that, of course.’ She looked gravely at Jenna and added, ‘I wonder if you realise fully just what that could mean. In a very short space of time she will be eighteen and adult, at least according to the laws of this country—that means free of all parental control—free to vote, and also free to marry. Far too often I’ve seen what happens to a girl of eighteen who marries for a parental substitute—as I’ve just said Lucy is an extremely intelligent girl. Of course, like most girls of her age a career is the last thing on her mind. It’s almost impossible for them to visualise being forty, and alone with a couple of children to bring up, but regrettably that is what happens to a good many women.

  ‘Here at Chalmhurst we don’t teach our girls to despise marriage and motherhood, but neither do we advocate it as an escape from reality and responsibility. We like to think we teach our pupils to be self-sufficient, whether as a wife and mother or as a single woman. We try to make them understand that leaning on emotional crutches and other people is false security and that the only real security in life comes from being self-reliant.

  ‘In Lucy’s case, I suspect she is deliberately shutting her ears to what we have to say. I know all teenage girls dream of marriage and motherhood, but with Lucy I’m afraid it’s more than that. Her lack of a father seems to have given rise to an almost obsessive desire to form her own family unit. She’ll leave here…and marry within twelve months, almost certainly to a man old enough to be her father. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t dream of imposing my personal views on the life of my pupils—for some girls such a marriage could work, but not for Lucy. I suspect by the time she’s in her mid-twenties, she’d feel trapped; her independence and intelligence would reassert themselves, but by then it would be too late. She’d be trapped in a little-girl relationship with an immature father-figure—probably with a couple of children dependent on her—and my view is that because of her own background she will stick by the marriage for the sake of those children.’

  The picture she was painting was not a pleasant one, but it was all too possible.

  ‘Is it really not possible to tell Lucy the identity of her father?’ Norma Goodman pressed gently. ‘It would give her someone to relate to if nothing else.’

  Numbly, Jenna shook her head, and then taking a deep breath quickly explained the truth.

  For a moment the headmistress was silent. ‘No…I quite see that that is impossible,’ she said at last. Then added, ‘My dear, I am so sorry…I had no idea.’

  ‘Bill and Nancy…the couple who took Lucy and me in when Rachel died, both want me to tell Lucy the truth—I wish now that I had done so years ago when she was young enough to accept it, but she’s so resentful and bitter towards me now that I feel if I did tell her it would alienate her completely.’

  ‘Yes. I can quite see your point.’ Norma Goodman paused and then said delicately, ‘I suppose there’s no chance of you yourself getting married ..?’

  ‘To provide Lucy with a substitute father? You aren’t the first person to suggest it,’ Jenna admitted wryly, ‘but…’ She shrugged, unable to bring herself to explain to the older woman her own aversion to the male sex.

  ‘Well, we’ll keep Lucy here for another term and see what develops,’ Norma Goodman suggested, ‘but if she still can’t settle down, I’m going to have to suggest that she leaves. Not as a form of punishment,’ she hastened to add, ‘nothing like that, but simply because I don’t believe in keeping a pupil at a school where she is plainly so unhappy.’

  * * *

  Lucy was on Jenna’s mind during the long drive back to London. Norma Goodman had done no more than voice her own fears for Lucy’s future, but what was the answer? Once she was based in Yorkshire, Lucy could attend a day school there: since Jenna would be working from home she would be on hand much more to supervise Lucy and to spend time with her, but Lucy herself had said that she did not want to move to Yorkshire.

  Jenna felt that until she could come up with some rational reason for keeping the identity of Lucy’s father from her, Lucy would not respond to her. Sometimes she felt as though the girl hated her and it hurt Jenna bitterly when she thought of her own relationship with Rachel. It was almost as though she had let her sister down, as though Lucy would have been happier had she been adopted at birth and brought up in the security of the family environment she craved. It was a problem to which there seemed to be no realistic solution.

  * * *

  Despite her late night on the Sunday, Jenna was at her desk by eight on Monday morning. When Maggie arrived, she found that Jenna had already been through the post and was frowning over two letters.

  ‘Problems?’ Maggie enquired with concern, noting her frown.

  ‘A complaint from Lady Farnham—she isn’t happy with the silk wall hangings in her drawing-room. Apparently they’ve started to fade rather badly. Richard was in charge of that contract, wasn’t he? I’ll have to talk to him about it.’

  ‘And?’ Maggie prompted, glancing at the other letter Jenna was reading.

  ‘Oh, that one’s good—confirmation from Bierley’s that they’ll be able to supply the Holmeses’ carpet on time.

  ‘Maggie, I’d love a cup of coffee, and if Richard’s arrived, I’d like to see him.’

  ‘You wanted me?’ Richard grinned cheerfully at her as he walked into her office.

  ‘Umm…’ Jenna motioned to him to sit down and then showed him the letter.

  ‘Damn,’ he swore quietly. ‘What do you suggest we do?’

  ‘The silk shouldn’t have faded,’ Jenna told him. ‘Dewharts who supply it use the very best quality fabrics and dyes and we’ve never had any trouble with them before. I’ll pass on the complaint to them, I think, and see what they have to say.’

  ‘Ah!’ Richard sat back in his chair and grimaced boyishly. ‘I’m afraid for that contract we didn’t use Dewharts.’

  Jenna frowned. ‘But we always use them. You know how tricky silk wall hangings can be, especially red, and Lady Farnham did specify red for her dining-room as I remember it.’

  ‘Yes, well, it was about the time when you were talking about making economies. I found this f
irm who could supply the silk at almost half the cost of Dewharts, and so I took a chance and bought from them.’

  Jenna felt her heart sink. She made it a rule never to use products that she could not completely rely on and she thought that Richard had understood this.

  She looked at him blankly for a few seconds, struggling to contain her rising temper. Far from looking apologetic he was watching her with a bland self-confidence that suddenly she found immensely irritating.

  ‘You did specify economies,’ he reminded her quietly.

  ‘And this firm you bought from…’

  ‘Well…’ Now he did look apologetically sheepish. ‘I’m afraid they’ve gone bust…It seemed they were selling too cheaply and…’

  ‘And we have no chance of recouping anything from them.’ Jenna finished for him with a calm she was far from feeling. ‘You do realise what this means, don’t you, Richard? We shall have to redo the walls completely—at our own expense and using the right fabric.’

  He shrugged. ‘Surely you’re covered for these things under your insurance?’

  In a voice that splintered with icy rage Jenna told him bitingly, ‘No insurance policy offers cover for errors of judgement, Richard—instead of saving us money, what you’ve actually done is cost us money.’

  ‘I am sorry, but I acted in the best of faith.’ He stood up and glanced at his watch. ‘Look, Jenna, I must run, I’ve got an appointment with Fergie Longton at ten: he wants to discuss a contract for the show apartment in a new block he’s building.’

  ‘Fergie Longton?’ A sharp frown creased her forehead, ‘but he’s notorious for cutting corners and costs. We don’t want his sort of image, Richard. Please don’t accept a contract from him. In fact,’ she looked at him squarely, ‘I’ve decided that from now on I shall sign all contracts myself.’

  Anger flashed in the pale blue eyes, but he had himself under control quickly. ‘If that’s what you want,’ he told her, ‘after all, you’re the boss.’

  There had been a faintly jeering note in the way he said the last few words that jarred on Jenna, but before she had time to dwell on it Maggie was ringing through to tell her that James Allingham had called and arranged to go to Yorkshire on Wednesday.

  There was more than a hint of speculation in Maggie’s voice as she relayed this information and acting on a sudden impulse Jenna searched her diary for the number of the York architects. Quickly dialling it herself, she drummed impatient fingers on her desk. She would soon scotch any ideas that there was a romance brewing between James and herself.

  She got through quite quickly and asked to speak to the partner she had been recommended to use. When she explained to him that she was travelling to Yorkshire on Wednesday and that she would appreciate his advice on certain aspects of her proposed alterations to the Hall, he quickly agreed to meet her there.

  She wasn’t sure yet what architectural changes she wished to make; so long as the property was structurally sound she would be content to leave the rooms as they were. The warren of passages and tiny rooms that formed the kitchens would need attention of course, and there would be the perennial problem of central heating. More damage had been done to many ancient buildings by the installation of central heating than anything else, but she knew an excellent firm who could be relied upon to devise a system that would provide heat without being either obtrusive or damaging.

  She made several phone calls, and by lunchtime she was ready to leave the office to go and visit several of the craftsmen she had rung that morning. In particular she wanted to call on a young couple who specialised in traditional wood gilding.

  The drawing-room and ballroom at the old Hall both had ornate marble fireplaces, which originally would have had specially designed decorated mirrors above them, and Jenna wanted the couple to design and produce authentic-looking period mirrors for those rooms.

  They lived and worked in a small mews house in Chelsea. Vanessa Hargreaves opened the door to Jenna, embracing her warmly. A tiny, vivacious brunette with a cloud of pre-Raphaelite hair, her gamine features were ruefully expressive as she glanced from Jenna’s immaculate tailored suit to her own faded blouse and stained jeans.

  ‘Jenna, you always make me feel like a typical scruffy arty type,’ she complained. ‘Come on up to the studio. Alan’s out at the moment but he shouldn’t be long. I’ll make us a cup of coffee while we wait for him.’

  The studio was at the top of the house, a light airy room with an easel in one window and the traditional gilder’s tools on a bench in another.

  Briefly, Jenna explained what she was looking for while they waited for Alan to return.

  ‘Sounds exciting—quite a challenge. It’s a pity you don’t have any sketches of the original room. Of course, there are plenty of examples of Adam’s work we can use for inspiration but if you want total authenticity…’

  ‘Well, there might be.’ Jenna explained about James Allingham.

  ‘Allingham?’ Vanessa rubbed her nose thoughtfully, and then grinned. ‘Now, that name has a familiar ring to it,’ she teased Jenna. ‘I wonder why?’

  Fortunately Alan came in before Vanessa could question her further, and once again Jenna explained what she was looking for.

  ‘The best thing we can do is to get up there and take a look around,’ Alan commented. ‘Take some measurements, see exactly what’s involved. Then we could produce some outline ideas, see how they take your fancy. Where’s the diary, Van?’ He found it underneath a pile of papers on the floor, and commented wryly, ‘Great filing system we have here.’

  ‘At least it’s all in one place,’ Vanessa countered defensively.

  ‘Umm. The first day we could spare to go up there is the eighteenth of next month,’ Alan told Jenna. ‘How would that suit you?’

  She checked her own diary and nodded her head. ‘By then I should have more idea of exactly what if any reconstruction work is going to be needed, so that should be fine.’

  * * *

  There were other people she had to see in connection with work she already had in hand as well as the renovation of the Hall and, all too soon, it was Wednesday morning.

  Jenna woke up earlier than usual and lay in bed, trying to quell the unusual rush of butterflies in her stomach. Was she afraid of meeting James Allingham? Ridiculous, why should she be? She disliked and despised the man.

  Knowing how filthy and uncared-for the old Hall was, she dressed casually in jeans and a loose sweatshirt top over a fine cotton blouse, pulling soft boots on to her feet. She pulled her hair off her face with a silk scarf. There, she thought, studying her reflection in her bedroom mirror. There would be no question of James Allingham thinking that she had dressed to catch his attention. As she hurried into her kitchen she was unaware that the jeans emphasised the length and slenderness of her legs, the huge sweatshirt giving her an air of fragile femininity. She was also unaware that the casual style of her hair made her look closer to twenty than thirty.

  James had made arrangements via Maggie to pick her up and even though she still resented his high-handed assumption of control, she had decided not to object too forcefully to it. Indifference was her best weapon where a man like James Allingham was concerned, and as she gathered together notebooks, pens, a measuring tape and a camera it never occurred to her to wonder why she should feel in need of such protection.

  He arrived promptly on the dot of eight-thirty, his eyebrows lifting slightly in surprise as he registered her casual appearance, but Jenna refused to acknowledge it.

  ‘Ready?’

  ‘Yes,’ she confirmed crisply.

  ‘Mmm…pity, I was hoping I might be offered a cup of coffee before we set off. I missed mine this morning.’

  ‘What a shame,’ Jenna smiled acidly at him. ‘Next time, choose a bedmate who can cook.’

  ‘Sharp, but wrong,’ he told her crisply. ‘I’ve got my step-sister living with me at the moment, and she was due to go into hospital this morning. I wanted to take her myself. S
he’s still suffering from the emotional shock of losing her parents, and she tends to be unhappy in the presence of strangers.’

  Jenna knew she was flushing in a mixture of guilt and chagrin. It wasn’t entirely her fault she had leapt to the wrong conclusion, she told herself as she locked the front door behind her and joined him by the lift. Knowing his lifestyle it had been a perfectly natural assumption to make. But she would have been wiser not to have voiced it, an inner voice told her. In her desire to put him down, she had only succeeded in making herself look crassly thoughtless.

  His car was parked outside the apartments, and Jenna was surprised when he walked round to the passenger door and opened it for her, handing her into the car before returning to the driver’s side. She was unused to such old-fashioned male courtesies from anyone other than Bill and had even begun to believe they had ceased to exist.

  The city centre traffic was heavy and Jenna leaned back in her seat closing her eyes, leaving James to concentrate on driving. He was a good driver, she recognised unwillingly, neither impatient nor a dawdler.

  ‘Tired?’

  His question startled her.

  ‘A little,’ she admitted. ‘It’s been a hectic week.’ Only yesterday afternoon she had had a phone call from Gordon Burns complaining that the business account overdraft was too high. There were monies outstanding to her company and Jenna had promised herself once she returned from Yorkshire she would get down to collecting them. Even so, the telephone call had disturbed her. It seemed suddenly as though fate had turned completely against her, and that everything in her life was going wrong. She had the Hall though, she reminded herself comfortingly, closing her eyes as a signal to James Allingham that she had no desire to talk.

  A little to her surprise he respected it. She was aware of them turning on to the motorway and then nothing until she felt him shaking her awake. Stunned, she opened her eyes, her mind still muzzy with sleep. ‘Are we there already?’

  ‘No. I thought it was time I had a break.’ His hand was still on her shoulder, his nails clean and neatly cut, his fingers lean and strong. A strange quiver of sensation coiled through her stomach and unnervingly she was reminded of other hands on her body…of her dream…Swiftly shutting the memory away, she struggled to sit upright.