The Mistress of His Manor

by Catherine George

  Jack Logan, also helpless to find some way of comforting his daughter, suggested she take a little break somewhere—get away for a while.

  ‘Lick my wounds on a sunny beach? No thanks, Dad. I need work, not time on my hands.’

  Kate relented when she saw how much her daughter regretted sending March away, and filled her daughter’s spare time with babysitting duties. She also insisted that Jo attend family meals regularly.

  Slowly Jo began to recover from her self-inflicted misery. She gave herself a scathing lecture on self-pity and rejoined the living, as she put it to Isobel, who greeted the news with such relief Jo felt guilty for causing her friend so much anxiety.

  This new-found tranquillity took a hammering a few weeks later. Early for her usual meeting with Isobel one Saturday, Jo was passing the time by cleaning the inside of her parlour window when a familiar sports car turned into Park Crescent. She almost fell as she scrambled down from her ladder, then waited in the hall, heart thudding and knees shaky. When the doorbell rang at last she forgot to put down her bucket as she went to the door.

  Jo opened it with a polite smile that came unglued when she found that her visitor was Rufus, not March. ‘Hi!’ she managed. ‘Isobel told me you were back from Italy. Come in.’

  ‘Thanks. Good to see you Jo.’ He eyed her bucket in amusement. ‘Am I interrupting something?’

  ‘Window-cleaning—interrupt all you like. Go into the parlour. I’ll just get rid of this. Would you like a drink?’

  ‘Nothing, thanks. I must get back soon, or milord will be worried about the light of his life out there. March must be getting soft in his old age—he’s never let me drive it before.’

  When Jo rejoined him, Rufus was intent on Isobel’s watercolours. ‘These are so good,’ he said, turning. ‘Isobel’s wasted in her job. Why doesn’t she paint full-time?’

  ‘She likes to eat,’ said Jo, wondering why he was here.

  ‘I came to deliver some invitations,’ he said, after driving Jo mad by first examining every watercolour in detail. ‘Charlie’s finally organised my exhibition at Arnborough, and it would mean a lot to me for you to be there, Jo. Your parents, too, if you think they’d be interested.’

  ‘I’ll ask,’ said Jo, feeling almost light-headed with disappointment. Rufus was not here as March’s emissary.

  ‘But you will come with Isobel?’ he persisted.

  Oh, why not? March could hardly refuse to let her in. ‘Of course I will, Rufus. I’m glad to see you looking so much better.’

  ‘There was nothing really wrong with me,’ he admitted guiltily. ‘I just forget to eat when I’m painting, and the result is usually one of the headaches I’ve been plagued with since the accident. But now the Parisis have let Charlie share the lake house with me I’m being looked after very well. Charlie’s a brilliant cook as well as an efficient manager.’

  ‘Talents he certainly hid from me! But it’s a good thing for both of you, I think.’ Jo gave him a straight look. ‘Look, Rufus, be kinder to Charlie than I was. He’s never recovered from half-killing you that night.’

  Rufus coloured painfully. ‘Actually, Jo, he didn’t. When he came to pick me up he was steaming over the row he’d had with you. Then he got hopping mad with me because I took your side. He was so drunk I made him give me the keys. I was driving when we had the accident.’

  Jo stared at him in shock. ‘But I thought you couldn’t drive back then.’

  ‘March had made me have driving lessons, but I hadn’t passed my test. I’d had a bit to drink myself that night, too, and had a blazing row with Charlie in the car. Which is why we had the accident.’ His mouth turned down. ‘You probably won’t believe it, but after the smack on the head I had absolutely no recall of that night. Then Charlie came to see me in Italy one day and it all came filtering back.’

  ‘He never said a word!’

  Rufus nodded ruefully. ‘He was afraid it could mean a custodial sentence for me, so he took the blame. March was mad as hell with me when I told him. Not to mention amazed that Charlie had risked jail himself rather than tell the truth.’

  ‘Because he loves you,’ said Jo simply.

  Rufus nodded, flushing slightly. ‘I know. In my own way I love him too—but only as a special friend, which he says is enough. We don’t sleep together, but we rub along very well now we live together. Please come to the exhibition, Jo.’

  ‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world,’ she assured him.

  ‘Nice little place,’ said Jack Logan, as he drove his companions into the Arnborough car park a fortnight later.

  ‘Nice?’ said Kate. ‘It’s magnificent! But I see what you mean, Jo. It’s awe-inspiring. Exactly Kitty’s idea of an enchanted castle.’

  Jo was so reluctant to get out of the car Isobel gave her a push at last.

  ‘Come on. Chin up.’

  Jo was fully prepared for a cool reception from the stewards gathered outside the main doors to welcome the guests. But the woman who came to greet them was the chief steward Jo had met on her first day. She smiled kindly at Jo, gave a warm welcome to her parents and Isobel, and directed them inside, informing them that drinks were being served in the Great Hall before the viewing in the ballroom.

  ‘Rufus didn’t want anyone sloshing champagne about anywhere near his paintings,’ whispered Isobel. ‘I promised I’d go straight to the ballroom when we got here, so I’ll sneak off now. See you later.’

  To Jo’s surprise Jack put an arm round her as they went inside, and she was glad of it when she noticed several faces familiar from the ball. But his protection proved unnecessary when Hetty rushed towards her, arms outstretched.

  ‘Joanna, I’m so glad you came.’

  Jo sagged a little as Hetty’s arms closed her. ‘I thought I’d be persona non grata here now,’ she said thickly.

  ‘Not with me,’ Hetty assured her, and surrendered her to Cal as she smiled up at Jack. ‘Hi. I’m Henrietta Stern, and the man hugging your daughter is my husband Calvin.’

  Jack shook her hand, smiling. ‘Delighted to meet you. Let me introduce my wife.’

  Hetty stared in amazement as she shook Kate’s hand. She turned to grab Cal’s arm. ‘Darling, can you believe that this lovely lady is actually Joanna’s mother? Kate, it’s so good to meet you.’

  ‘Likewise,’ said Cal, bowing to Kate. He thrust out a hand to Jack. ‘Calvin Stern.’

  ‘Jack Logan—Joanna’s father.’ He turned round, frowning. ‘I was about to introduce you to Jo’s friend, Isobel James, but—’

  ‘She promised Rufus she’d go straight to the ballroom,’ said Jo, wishing she could get the encounter with March behind her.

  Kate smiled warmly at Hetty, grateful for the way she’d put them all at ease—other than Jo, who was still as tense as a drawn bow. ‘You’ve come back home to support Rufus?’

  ‘She never needs an excuse to come back to Arnborough, Mrs Logan,’ drawled Cal, grinning at his wife.

  ‘I do apologise for Rufus,’ said Hetty. ‘He’s too much on edge about his paintings to even think about good manners.’

  ‘Artistic licence,’ said a voice behind them, and Jo’s heart turned a somersault in her chest behind the tawny velvet of the dress Kate had forced her to buy.

  Everyone turned to face March, who was beckoning over a waiter with a tray of drinks. ‘Welcome to Arnborough, everyone,’ he said smoothly, and bowed to Kate. ‘Mrs Logan—we meet at last.’

  She smiled warmly. ‘How do you do? What a wonderful, wonderful place you have here. Jo has described it, of course, but the reality of it is breathtaking.’

  ‘My wife is right,’ said Jack, shaking March’s outstretched hand. ‘You must sell a hell of lot of pansies to keep this place going.’

  ‘Pansies?’ said Hetty blankly.

  ‘Joanna mistook me for one of the gardeners at the centre the first time we met,’ said March suavely. ‘How are you, Joanna?’

  ‘Absolutely fine,’ she lied. ‘How are you?�
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  ‘I’m absolutely fine too.’

  Hetty smiled brightly on everyone and pressed them to drinks and canapés. ‘I really want to hear all about your babies, Kate—may I call you Kate? But once we’ve had a drink we really must go and look at the paintings. I only hope Rufus doesn’t bolt before we get there.’

  ‘Isobel will see that he stays put,’ said Jo. ‘Is Charlie with him?’

  ‘Yes,’ said March. ‘He keeps well in the background, but he won’t let the star of the show take off.’

  The Great Hall, for all its size, was beginning to look so crowded March decided it was time to make for the ballroom. ‘I’ll leave you to cope in here, Hetty. This way, Mrs Logan.’

  ‘Please call me Kate,’ she said, smiling.

  ‘Thank you. I’m grateful for the privilege.’

  He was oozing charm from every pore, thought Jo savagely, as she followed behind with Jack.

  ‘Are you really absolutely fine?’ asked her father in an undertone.

  ‘Of course I am.’

  ‘That’s my girl. Now, tell me,’ he added, ‘are these paintings any good?’

  ‘Yes. But you know a good thing when you see it, Dad, so judge for yourself.’

  The ballroom was packed with people circling round the twelve paintings on display.

  ‘Dad,’ said Jo, ‘will you join Kate and March? I must find Isobel and have a word with Rufus. And Charlie, too.’

  ‘Coward,’ said her father mildly.

  ‘That’s me,’ she agreed, pulling a face.

  Two hours later, when a gratifying number of paintings held red dots to show they were sold, Hetty came to look for Jo to say her parents were ready to leave, then dashed away to see people off.

  ‘Kate needs to get back to the baby,’ said Jo, nodding, and eyed Isobel. ‘A shame we have to drag you away too.’

  ‘I’m more than ready to be dragged,’ said Isobel, and stood firm when Charlie and Rufus protested in unison. ‘You’re on your way now, Rufus. You’re a success. And Charlie will keep your nose to the grindstone to keep you that way.’

  ‘I will,’ said Charlie, and kissed Jo’s cheek. ‘It was good to see you again.’ He handed her an envelope. ‘Thanks a million, love, but I didn’t need it. Hetty put up the money in the end.’

  ‘So all’s well that ends well,’ said Jo, as she left the ballroom with Isobel—then stiffened as March barred their way.

  ‘Isobel, would you mind telling Jo’s parents she’ll be along in a minute?’ he asked. ‘I need a word with her.’

  ‘Of course not.’ Isobel ignored the look of panic in Jo’s eyes and hurried off.

  ‘Come into the drawing room, Joanna,’ said March. ‘Please,’ he added.

  Since the vestibule was crowded with people on their way out, it was impossible to argue. Jo let March usher her into the beautiful, rarely used formality of the drawing room, then turned to face him as he closed the door.

  ‘Have you been ill?’ he demanded.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You look—fragile.’

  ‘It’s the fashion this season,’ she said flippantly, wishing her heart would stop trying to thump a hole in her chest.

  ‘Why did you come tonight?’

  ‘To support Rufus, naturally.’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘Look,’ she said, edging away, ‘I must go. Kate wants to get back to the children and—’

  His mouth smothered the rest of her sentence, his arms like iron bands as he pulled her close. At first she tried to fight him, keep her lips closed, but it was a losing battle. And at last, with a broken little sob, she surrendered her mouth to him and let him devour it mercilessly.

  When he raised his head at last March was pale but triumphant. She stared at him for a moment, then turned and stormed out of the room, banging the door behind her.

  Isobel took one look as she caught up with her, then hurried her outside to Jack’s car, thankful that neither of Jo’s parents could see her face in the dark interior.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ said Jo tightly. ‘Lord Arnborough wanted a word.’ But he’d wanted—and received, damn him—so much more than that. She blessed her parents’ restraint, Isobel’s too, when they asked no questions.

  Jo’s phone rang when she was in bed. She snatched it up, afraid something was wrong with the children, then sat bolt upright when she heard the stomach-clenching tones of Lord Arnborough.

  ‘Joanna?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I hope you weren’t asleep.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘It’s important I see you. I promise—cross my heart,’ he added, ‘that I won’t pounce on you again, or propose, or do any of those things you take such exception to.’

  This, thought Jo, is where I either let my pride take over and say no, or do what I really want to do.

  ‘Are you still there?’ he demanded.

  ‘Yes.’ She cleared her throat. ‘All right, March. Come if you want.’

  ‘Thank you. I’ll come to your place after dinner tomorrow—if that’s convenient?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. I’ll see you then. By the way,’ he added, ‘as well as selling most of his paintings tonight, Rufus got a couple of commissions.’

  ‘How wonderful! Congratulate him for me.’

  ‘I’ll do that now. He’s off to Italy with Charlie in the morning, so all will be peaceful at Arnborough again. Tomorrow, then, Joanna.’

  Jo was ready well ahead of time next evening. She turned on the television, sat staring at it for a while, then turned it off again and picked up a book. After a while she put it down and went to the window, to peer through the darkness at the pouring rain. Then she paced round the room like a caged animal as the minutes dragged slowly past. By nine she was furious. By ninethirty she was worried sick. At ten, when the phone rang, she seized it—then almost fell apart when it wasn’t March.

  ‘Sorry to intrude, Joanna,’ said Hetty, ‘but is March still with you? He promised to ring me at nine, but he must have forgotten.’

  ‘He never turned up.’

  ‘What? But he set off ages ago. Oh, God!’ Hetty heaved in an audible breath. ‘Look, Joanna, I’ll get off the line in case March is trying to ring you. If he does, tell him to ring me. Please?’

  Her voice wavered so much on the last Jo’s heart contracted. ‘Of course I will—Hang on, Hetty. Someone’s ringing my bell.’ She ran to the door, phone in hand, and flung it open to find March on her doorstep, soaking wet, bedraggled, and sporting a black eye.

  ‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said, shivering.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, what happened to you? No, never mind—talk to Hetty first.’ Jo thrust her phone at him and closed the door, her heart missing a beat when she heard him tell his sister he’d had a slight accident in the car.

  ‘I’m fine, Hetty, I swear. Cold and wet, but I’m in one piece.’ After several more assurances he switched the phone off and handed it back to Jo.

  ‘While you get those wet clothes off, tell me what really happened and I’ll put them in the dryer,’ she commanded. ‘Come into the kitchen.’

  March followed her, his shoes squelching along the hall floor. ‘A joy-rider in a stolen car shot out of a side road on my way here. I swerved to avoid it. There were sheets of water about, and the E-type doesn’t have ABS.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Anti-lock brakes. To my shame, I couldn’t control the skid. I went through a hedge and down into a stream.’

  ‘Heavens above, March,’ she said in alarm. ‘Are you sure you’re in one piece?’

  ‘I’ll have a shiner tomorrow, plus some bruises, but I’ll live.’ He toed off his shoes and peeled off his socks. ‘If I strip off, can you give me something to cover myself?’

  ‘You need a hot shower first. I’ll give you some bath sheets you can drape toga-style afterwards. Best I can do, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Sounds wonderful to me,’ he said fervently, foll
owing her upstairs. ‘The constable who drove me here sat me on a plastic bin bag to save the back seat of his car.’

  ‘Constable? Never mind,’ she said hastily. ‘Tell me when you come down. Would you like something hot to drink?’

  ‘Not right now. They gave me coffee at the police station. I do apologise,’ he said, suddenly formal as he paused in the bathroom doorway. ‘This wasn’t part of my plan for the evening.’

  ‘No, I don’t imagine it was.’ Burning to know more about his ‘plan’, Jo provided him with an armful of towels, waited until he handed his bundle of sodden clothes round the bathroom door, and then left him to it.

  When March came downstairs, tastefully draped in crimson towelling, he still looked damp around the edges but a lot better, despite his swelling eye.

  Jo met him in the hall. ‘Let’s go in the parlour.’

  When March was settled on the sofa, Jo sat in one of the chairs, leaning forward expectantly. ‘Now, tell me about the police bit.’

  ‘The police who’d been in pursuit of the joy-rider locked him in their car, then came to my rescue. They commiserated with me no end when they saw that the E-type was a write-off. My phone didn’t survive its ducking, either.’ He sighed. ‘Another police car was called to take me to the station, where a medical examiner checked me over. After much persuasion he let me off a trip to the local A&E. Then a police car brought me here.’ March looked at her for a long minute. ‘I should have gone home, I know. But I needed to see you tonight.’

  Jo returned the look steadily. ‘Why, March?’

  He raked a hand through his damp hair, for once looking unsure of himself. ‘Because I took one look at you last night and the game was up. I hope to God you still want us to be friends.’

  Jo’s heart sank. ‘Is that what you want, March?’

  ‘No,’ he said with sudden violence. ‘I want to be your husband—as you damn well know. But if you won’t go for that, then I’ll settle for being your friend, lover—anything you want. I’m so much in love with you, Joanna. I can’t sleep, can’t concentrate on any damn thing other than wanting to be with you.’ His mouth twisted. ‘These weeks without you have been utter hell. Hetty’s worried about me, and so is Cal. Even Rufus is worried about me—which is a first.’ March paused, looking at the motionless figure in the chair. ‘Say something, for God’s sake,’ he said in desperation. ‘When a man tells a woman she’s his consuming passion he’s entitled to some reaction.’