Roberta Leigh - It All Depends on Love

by Roberta Leigh

  That would be the turning-point in their relationship, and within days—well, perhaps a week or two—he'd realise that life without her was unthinkable. And then she'd confess who she was.

  There was no point pretending he was going to be overjoyed to learn of her career—more than a career, in fact: a deep commitment to a life-enhancing job. It meant she would always have to juggle between work, husband and children, but she had accepted this when she had entered medical school, and hoped Patrick would accept it too.

  It was mid-morning before she returned from Iverton and stacked the china and paintings in the bedroom on the second floor. Then she rushed to the kitchen to help Eva hand out mid-morning coffee and biscuits.

  It was impossible for her to restrain a leap of excitement as she entered the sitting-room and saw Patrick talking to Jenna Donaldson and her husband. But, remembering her place, Tessa gave him a formal smile as she approached with his coffee.

  Instead of his usual grunt with barely a glance at her, he gave her a warm smile. 'Come to my study as soon as you've finished here,' he said. 'And tell Mrs Withers you'll be busy with me for the rest of the day.'

  Try though she did, Tessa failed to stop a tide of colour flaming her cheeks, and with a quick nod she turned and busied herself at the trolley, glad when everyone was served and she could leave Eva to collect the empty cups.

  'You aren't in any trouble again!' Mrs Withers exclaimed when Tessa gave her Patrick's message.

  'What a funny thing to say!' she answered, and dashed out before she was questioned further.

  Patrick was impatiently pacing his study as she came in, his chestnut-brown hair tousled, as if he'd continually raked his hand through it.

  'Where have you put everything?' he asked without preamble.

  'In an empty bedroom upstairs.' She held out the key and he took it from her with a brief smile.

  'Come on, let's go and examine my new-found fortune!'

  Disappointed by his refusal to acknowledge what had happened between them last night, she followed him to the bedroom. She understood his anxiety to examine the objects whose sale would buy him everything his heart desired, but still wished he had made a reference, however small, to their lovemaking.

  Yet perhaps he was too embarrassed to do so. After all, he hadn't yet admitted to himself that he cared for her, though she was sure that propinquity, and the right encouragement, would eventually make him realise it.

  Eyes filled with love, she watched him scrutinise every painting before carefully studying the Ming bowls and vases, so absorbed by them that he was lost to everything else.

  'Beats me how my great-uncle forgot all this,' he muttered. 'Yet there's no other explanation.'

  'He was always a bit eccentric,' Tessa commented.

  'How do you know?'

  'I—er—Mrs Benson mentioned it. But surely you knew it yourself?'

  'I only met the old boy half a dozen times, and in the last few years of his life he shut himself away and refused to see the family. I'd no idea he intended leaving me this house. No money came with it—according to his lawyer there wasn't any—and it was lucky I had enough of my own to turn the Hall into my business headquarters as well as my home. Otherwise I'd have had to put it on the market——-' Patrick broke off sharply. 'If I had, all these things would have gone to the new owner! I'd never have dreamt of clearing out the attics first.' Pale-faced, he sank on to the bed. 'If you hadn't examined everything yourself, I'd have called in a junk man sooner or later to take the whole lot away.'

  'You have to thank Mrs Withers, not me,' Tessa said, honesty preventing her from taking the credit. 'She was the one who asked me to look at the attics.'

  'I bet she didn't tell you to open every box and carton!'

  'Well, no. It was nothing other than pure nosiness on my part!'

  'What say we escort that proboscis of yours back to the attics to see if it can sniff out other valuables?'

  Springing to his feet, he strode purposefully to the topmost floor, Tessa scurrying breathlessly after him.

  'About last night,' he said abruptly as they entered ne of the attics. 'It shouldn't have happened.'

  'But it did.'

  'To my eternal shame. You're only eighteen, for God's sake. I'm sixteen years older, than you and should know better!'

  'Men often fancy women years younger than themselves,' she said hurriedly. 'Only the other day I read of a man of sixty marrying a woman of forty.'

  'A woman of forty knows what she's doing. Unlike you. You haven't started living yet.'

  'I've lived long enough to know I love you.'

  It was a bold statement, and a calculated one, though he appeared so stricken by it that she wished she'd kept her mouth shut.

  'You can't care for me,' he said flatly. 'You're attracted to me because I'm an older man.'

  'Your age has nothing to do with it. I love you because you're intelligent and interesting and——-'

  'Stop it! If you go on like this, you'll have to leave.'

  His vehemence shocked her. 'You'd honestly send me away?'

  'For your sake, Tessa. I can't seem to get it through your head that I enjoy my life as it is, and have no intention of complicating it with marriage.'

  'I'm willing to wait until you're ready.'

  'No!' It was a strangled sound. 'If I do marry, it will be to——-' he paused, eyelids lowering '—to someone like Ingrid.'

  Momentarily Tessa was lost for words. Then her brain started functioning again. He had said someone like Ingrid, so that didn't necessarily mean Ingrid herself. Or did it?

  'You prefer blondes to redheads, then?' she managed to say lightly, her voice giving no inkling of her inner turmoil.

  'Let's say I can more easily consider Ingrid than you.'

  Tessa clenched her hands to hide their trembling. 'Do you kiss her the way you did me?'

  Patrick gave an exasperated shake of his head. 'For heaven's sake, girl, leave things be! I've already told you what mood I was in last night. I was staggered by what Angus Boswell told me, and I went crazy with joy. I'd have kissed any girl who was with me. It wasn't because it was you. It's because you were female and provocative, and you were there!'

  This was a blow to the solar plexus, but even as she felt the pain of it she wondered if Patrick meant it, or was saying it because he was worried by the supposed difference in their ages.

  'I thought you fancied me,' she murmured.

  'Fancying isn't love. And kissing a girl—no matter how intensely—doesn't necessarily mean more than momentary passion.'

  The very quietness of his voice gave impact to what he said, and her doubts grew. Logic told her to leave the Hall and put him out of her mind, but her heart said otherwise. Besides, even if she left this instant it would take her years to forget him, so why not stay and hope that proximity would work its magic?

  'OK,' she shrugged. 'You've made your feelings clear and I'll accept it.'

  'You mean that?'

  'Sure. There are plenty more fish in the sea.'

  Wry humour lit his eyes, enhancing the blue, but he said nothing, and silently bent to prise open a rusty tin trunk.

  For the next few hours they worked side by side, Patrick's agile hands making short shrift of locked cases and nailed lids. It didn't take them long to discover that three of the attics held only rubbish, though it was another story in the fourth, which disclosed a set of six Elizabethan glass goblets, date-marked fifteen eighty two, and a large leather jewel case containing two suede pouches: one filled with inch-square, flawless emeralds, and the other with glistening black pearls.

  'This is the most fantastic haul I…' Lost for words, Patrick sank on to the top of a wooden case.

  "There's one trunk left to open,' Tessa reminded him. 'I suggest we stop for lunch and carry on afterwards.'

  'You go and eat. I'm not hungry.'

  The rumble emanating from his stomach gave the lie to this, and, flinging him a baleful glance, she went off
to make some sandwiches.

  Returning with a thermos of coffee, and a plate piled high with food, she found Patrick bent over the opened trunk, his expression bemused.

  'What else have you found?' she asked, setting the plate and thermos on the floor.

  'Mmm.'

  'I can't decipher that! Lift it up and show me.'

  'It's too heavy.'

  'Solid lead?' she asked sarcastically.

  'No, solid gold!'

  'You're kidding!'

  But Patrick wasn't. An eighteen-inch-high gold Buddha, inset with hundreds of precious stones, the largest of which was a glowing ruby the size of a pigeon's egg, gazed serenely up at her.

  'Jeepers!' she gasped.

  'My sentiments entirely!' Dropping to the floor, Patrick reached for a sandwich. 'The Finworth family obviously enjoyed collecting little baubles!'

  She giggled, and began to eat. 'Decorative trifles that could probably clear the National Debt!'

  Grinning at each other, they munched their way through the laden plate, and drained the thermos.

  'Best meal I've eaten in years,' he commented, wiping his hands on the napkin she had remembered to bring with her.

  'Me too.' She yawned and stretched.

  'You must be tired,' he said. 'You were digging round here most of yesterday, and now today.'

  'It's worth digging when you find treasure!'

  'Even though the treasure isn't yours?'

  'It makes no odds. It's the finding that's exciting.'

  'What a typical Tessa remark,' he said gently, the softening of his face giving her such hope that she realised she couldn't carry on her game.

  'There's something I have to tell you, Patrick. I'm not——-'

  'What on earth are you two doing here?'

  They turned to see Ingrid coming towards them, carefully stepping over mounds of dusty paper. Without waiting for them to answer, she peered into the trunk.

  'Good gracious!' She glanced round at Patrick. 'Pity it isn't real. If it were, it would be worth a fortune.'

  'I'd say the ruby will fetch half a million,' Patrick murmured casually.

  'The ruby?' Ingrid clutched at his arm, her pale eyes wide with astonishment. 'You—you mean the Buddha's for real?'

  'Every ingot of him!'

  'That's incredible! Why, you—you'll be able to buy into Allinson's company! Better still, you can buy out one of his rivals!'

  'If I sold everything we've found, I might even manage a chunk of IBM!'

  Catching a dumbfounded Ingrid by the arm, Patrick showed her the jewel box and the goblets, then told her of the paintings and china.

  The girl glowed with pleasure, her pale skin pink, her usually cool eyes flashing with excitement. Always beautiful, she was now entrancing, and Tessa, watching Patrick eye Ingrid, decided not to tell ban the truth about herself just yet.

  Despondency swamped her. It was a rare feeling, for she was a fighter by nature. Yet, observing Ingrid's silver-blonde head on a level with Patrick's mouth, she conceded it was stupid to kid herself that five feet one was as alluring as five eight.

  'Shall I help you go through the other cases?' Ingrid was asking.

  'No, thanks, we've finished. I'm going to stack this lot with the other stuff, then ask Christie's to come and assess it.'

  'You'd better call John Allinson too, and say you can buy those shares he offered you.'

  'Not till I find out exactly what all the things are worth.'

  'It's silly to wait. The paintings alone will more than pay for your stake!'

  'I still want Christie's' opinion.'

  'Very well.' Ingrid's casual tone was at odds with her tightly clenched hands, though Tessa was the only one to notice them.

  'If you've finished helping Mr Harper,' the girl said to her from the doorway, 'you can give Pedro a hand cleaning the silver.'

  'I need her hand here!' Patrick interposed, and with a shrug Ingrid left them.

  'Thanks for rescuing me. She knows darn well I hate cleaning silver!'

  'More than you hate taking orders from her?'

  'Only because she's always on my back.'

  'Probably because she thinks if she wasn't, you'd be on your backside!'

  'If you're suggesting I'm lazy——-' Tessa flared, her anger abating as she saw Patrick's amusement.

  'I enjoy riling you,' he confessed. 'And I dare say Ingrid does too. If you were more mature, you wouldn't rise to her bait.'

  'If she were more mature, she wouldn't cast it at me!'

  He laughed, but Tessa was too cross to join in. None the less, his advice was sound, though hard to follow. Normally she'd be amused by anyone as pointedly jealous as Ingrid. But normality appeared to go out of the window when love came in at the door!

  'Stop breathing fire and brimstone and put your energies to better use,' Patrick ordered, lifting the leather jewel box and heading for the bedroom below.

  Two days later, the experts arrived to make their assessment, and, after a week of nail-biting tension for everyone concerned, gave Patrick an astronomical evaluation.

  Realising the impossibility of keeping the news secret, and that the media were going to descend on him like a pack of vultures, Patrick took himself to America to visit John Allinson, leaving Ingrid to deal with the Press and television cameras that parked themselves in the driveway.

  Tessa, anxious not to be photographed, feigned a severe attack of food poisoning, and remained closeted in Greentrees, first warning Mr and Mrs Withers not to mention the part she had played in discovering the treasure trove.

  Although surprised that she didn't wish to become a ten-day celebrity, they promised not to mention her, as did Ingrid, who was only too happy for her to be kept out of the news.

  It was tedious being penned in the house, but Tessa was too scared to go in the garden in case a roving newshound spied her, and came across to obtain a neighbour's opinion of the greatest art finds of the century'.

  But finally the furore died, the media departed, and Tessa went back to the Hall, ostensibly recovered.

  'You tuned your return well,' Mrs Withers greeted her. 'Mr Patrick flew home last night.'

  'How is he?'

  Tine. Wait till you see the present he brought me. A pure cashmere coat. Soft as butter and fit for a queen! Said it was a "thank-you" for making you clear out the attics!'

  The intercom buzzed and Pedro answered it. 'The boss wants you in the library, Tessa. On the treble.'

  'On the double!' she corrected, heart racing madly as she dashed out.

  The sight of Patrick's tall, lean body, a newly acquired tan making his eyes bluer than ever, did nothing to calm her, and she took several deep breaths.

  'I heard you were ill,' he said by way of greeting.

  'It was nothing. I'm fit as a flea now.'

  And indeed she was, so delighted he was within touching distance that she was buoyant with happiness. Their eyes met, hers limpid with love, his enigmatic. Then he moved back and pointed to three large packages by the wall.

  'For you. A little thank-you to be going on with.’

  'It wasn't necessary,' she said uncomfortably.

  'I think it was. If you don't like it, I'll change it.'

  But it was impossible not to like the quadraphonic music centre, for it was exactly what a girl of her supposed age would go overboard for. Idly she wondered what he'd have given her had he known her true persona, for he had clearly taken great pains in choosing this particular gift.

  Tears were close, and she kept her head lowered. 'It's lovely, Patrick—Mr Harper.'

  'Stick with Patrick,' he said gruffly. 'I think we're sufficiently well acquainted for that.'

  Instantly she raised her eyes to his, but he hastily averted his gaze, showing her he was still determined to fight his attraction to her.

  ‘I’ll have Withers take the present home for you this evening,' he went on.

  "There's no need. I'd collect it in Unc—in Mr Anderson's car.'
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  Her delight in the gift lessened considerably when, later that day, she saw the aquamarine pendant he had given Ingrid. She didn't begrudge the girl, but was miserably aware that it was a much more personal gift than her own.

  What if she was misjudging Patrick's feelings, and he had only made love to her because she had provoked him and was available? Why, he had actually said as much, but she had refused to believe him! Now she wasn't sure.

  From what she had gleaned of his past from Mrs Withers, it was littered with discarded girlfriends, and who was to say his future was going to be different? Trouble was, her love for him had made her forget she might only be a single pearl in a long string of pearls which he had strung along and dropped by the wayside.

  Apart from Ingrid, of course, who was a constant in his life.

  Patrick and Ingrid. Ingrid and Patrick. It was a refrain that haunted her throughout a sleepless night, and when she went to the Hall next morning there were violet shadows beneath her eyes.

  'You look as if you were listening to the music centre all night,' Patrick joked when she took in his morning post.

  She nodded, wondering how he'd react if she said her sleeplessness was due to nun.

  'Incidentally, I'd like to give you something more.'

  'Definitely not.'

  'I was thinking of an art appreciation course,' he went on as if she hadn't spoken. 'Sotheby's do an excellent one, and with the right training you might end up working for them. Unless you'd rather take an arts degree?'

  His anxiety to help her find a career was touching, but she didn't show it. 'Still trying to educate me?'

  'Is that wrong?'

  'It's wrong for me'

  'Why? You have a keen eye for what's genuine, and with the proper training you——-'

  'Will become head of Sotheby's Art Department!'

  'Why not?'

  She suddenly decided to play him along. 'OK, then, let's say I make it to the top and become picture advisor to the Queen! But what happens if the next man I fall in love with is like you, and doesn't want his wife to have a career?'

  Patrick's silky dark eyebrows drew together, and she was amused at snaring him in his own trap. But he was too wily to be caught for long, and, leaning back in his chair, he shook his head at her.