by Liz Fielding
‘You said that about buying the house. Actually marriage is a lot easier. Nowhere near so much paperwork. Just ten minutes of your time and a couple of witnesses. But why am I telling you? You’ve married for convenience before and, unlike your last husband, I’m not going to disappear and cause you endless problems.’
‘No, you’re going to stick around and cause them.’
‘Not even that.’ Before she could say the words exploding on her tongue he went on, ‘The registrar is free the Thursday after next. Eleven-fifteen. There’s no need to dress up for the occasion.’
He had never doubted that she would say yes.
‘I realise it’s very short notice, but I don’t have much time. I’m flying back the same evening.’
‘Back?’
‘I still have a job to do.’
‘I understand why you’re going. I was just hoping for rather more detail. As your wife I think I’m entitled to at least be given a little more information than which side of some distant continent you’ll be living in, don’t you?’
He told her exactly where he was going.
‘But…isn’t there a civil war going on there?’
‘You read the newspapers. Good, I don’t have to explain the risks, why I need to tie up the loose ends before I go, why I have to go myself.’
‘Because everyone else has a family? What are we?’ He didn’t have to answer. A nuisance. An inconvenience. A burden. ‘Please, Guy. Leave it. No one should be going into that situation.’
‘You’d be a wealthy widow.’
‘Is that what you think I want?’ She stood up, quite suddenly unable to bear being so close to him. Unable to bear the way he could make a gesture that was fine and noble sound cheap. ‘Go to hell, Guy!’
Unable to even look at him, she turned away, at which point she realised that only the children were watching the view. The rest of the passengers were too busy earwigging their conversation to bother about the panorama of London, the surrounding counties laid out beneath them.
Fortunately Toby, who’d been staring, silent and rapt, at the view as they’d risen slowly up into the sky suddenly shouted, ‘Look, Mummy! There’s a ship!’
And, desperate for any distraction, she looked.
For a moment she only saw the river curving away towards Tower Bridge and the grey bulk of HMS Belfast looking like a toy battleship. Then reality kicked in.
She was standing in mid-air with nothing to hold on to, and marriage, convenient or otherwise, was the last thing on her mind.
‘Oh, no…’ She clawed at the air, in desperation for a handhold. ‘Oh, please…’
Guy was at her side in an instant, blocking out the terror with the solidity of his chest, holding her anchored safely in his arms until the panic subsided. Only then did he ease back, help her to the seat in the centre of the bubble. But he still didn’t let go, holding her against his shoulder, blocking out the sickening emptiness.
‘I’m sorry,’ he murmured into her hair, so close that it felt like a kiss. ‘I’m so sorry. Why didn’t you say? Idiot…’
She didn’t say anything, just stayed there, tucked up safely against Guy’s chest, while her pulse gradually slowed to match the slow, steady thud of his heart.
Then Toby came and wriggled up beside them and Guy put out an arm to scoop him up close.
Holding them all safe.
‘Do you have the rings?’
Rings! She hadn’t thought…
But of course Guy had. He produced a pair of simple, classic matching wedding rings from his pocket and placed them on the velvet cushion in front of them. Then he picked up the smaller of the pair, took her hand and, placing it on her finger, said ‘I call upon these persons here present to witness that I, Guy Edward Dymoke, take Francesca Elizabeth Lang as my lawful wedded wife…’
As she listened to Guy’s low, firm voice clearly affirm his vow, Fran couldn’t believe she was doing this. It had taken her five years to extricate herself from her first ‘marriage of convenience’. An annoyingly inconvenient marriage, as it had turned out, but at least she’d been able to tell herself that her motives had been good.
She’d almost managed to convince herself this time, too. She wasn’t marrying for her own benefit, but to protect Toby, Matty, Connie. But definitely not the stray cat. Even she wasn’t that much of a fool.
Except that now, standing beside him, her hand clasped firmly in his, she knew that she was every inch a fool. She wasn’t just doing this to keep a roof over her family’s head, but for herself. Hoping against hope that her marriage to Guy would somehow evolve from an upmarket house share, a fiscal convenience, into something much more. Something real and true.
She realised the registrar was looking at her expectantly. ‘I call upon these persons here present,’ he prompted, as if he’d said it before.
Fran opened her mouth, but she couldn’t speak. Couldn’t go through with it. It was a lie. False. She couldn’t do it again. Must not do it.
She began to breathe much too fast as panic swept over her, certain that at any minute someone would burst into the room and expose her, expose them both as frauds.
‘Francesca?’ Guy’s face was grave, his eyes steady as a rock. And then, as if he could read her mind, he gently squeezed her hand as if saying, It’s okay. I understand. You’re not doing this for yourself…
And finally she picked up the larger ring, her heart hammering hot and fast in her chest. She felt dizzy, light-headed, her voice seeming to come from a long way off as she placed it on his finger and slowly repeated the words. Carefully weighing each one, she began, ‘I call upon these persons here present…to witness that I, Francesca Elizabeth Lang…take Guy Edward Dymoke to be my lawful wedded husband…’
She’d done this before, but on that occasion only her head had been engaged. This time it was important. This time she meant it and maybe that did make it all right.
Because, even if he never knew it, she was making a true vow with her whole heart.
Then it was done and she was looking up at Guy, forcing herself to look as if this was just another meaningless ten-minute wedding, her expression saying nothing more than, Okay, what next?
It was the registrar who answered her unspoken question as he smiled and said, ‘You may kiss the bride.’
No… Yes… There was an agonising pause that seemed to go on for ever before Guy bent, touched his lips to hers.
They clung momentarily to hers, scorching not just her body but her soul until she thought she would faint—but whether from joy or from despair she could not have said as, with a little gasp, she drew back before she betrayed herself.
The kiss was for the registrar, to add the mask of reality to the pretence, nothing more. As Guy had so regularly reminded her, she’d done this before. A kiss was no big deal. And then, nineteen years old and with ideals rather than love burning in her heart, it hadn’t been.
This time they felt like the most solemn, the most important words she had ever uttered.
Unable to look at him, deal with the absence of any emotional response, she left him to sign the register, turning instead to the two women who’d abandoned their computer terminals for ten minutes to act as witnesses, to thank them. Blushing like any ordinary bride as she accepted their congratulations.
‘Francesca?’ Guy handed her the pen and she added her own shaky signature to the book as he took the certificate that made her, officially, Mrs Guy Dymoke, tucked it away in his inside jacket pocket and thanked the registrar as he added his good wishes for their future happiness. Then Guy took her arm and led her, almost fainting, outside to the steps of the Town Hall.
CHAPTER EIGHT
‘FRANCESCA? Are you all right?’
She shook her head, unable to answer, as she took in huge gasps of air.
‘Take your time.’
‘I’m sorry. That was…’ She didn’t even attempt to finish the sentence. There wasn’t a word to express the way she was feeling. To ha
ve the one thing you most wanted in the world. Yet not have it. To know that you could never have it.
‘I know,’ he said.
‘No, Guy,’ she said. ‘I promise you, you don’t.’
His gaze met hers and for one brief, shocking moment she saw his pain. Remembered the woman he loved but could never have because she loved someone else. And she laid her hand on his arm.
‘I’m so sorry. You deserve better from me than that.’
He looked down at her hand, pale against his sleeve, and the bright new gold of the wedding ring gleamed as it caught the sun.
‘I do understand how hard it must have been for you. I wish there had been more time.’
‘It wouldn’t have made any difference.’
‘No. I suppose not,’ he said, apparently missing her allusion to his own unattainable love. Then, ‘I’m surprised you didn’t bring Matty and Connie with you. As witnesses.’
She let it go, allowed him to take her hand, walk her to his car, open the door for her, ease her into the passenger seat.
‘I didn’t tell them,’ she said, as he slid behind the wheel. She was already missing his hand in hers. The warmth of it. The strength of it. ‘About this. I don’t want them to feel…’ She stopped, unable to say the word. But he had no problems filling the void.
‘Guilty?’ He started the car, pulled out into the traffic.
‘Responsible. All I’ve told them is that you’ve bought the house and will be moving into the top floor flat when it’s been converted.’
‘And they’ve accepted that?’
Fran recalled the look of relief on her cousin’s face. Uncharacteristically, she hadn’t asked what was going on. Grateful that she’d avoided a difficult interrogation, she hadn’t elaborated. Matty, she realised belatedly, hadn’t asked because she hadn’t wanted to be told anything she didn’t want to hear.
‘You only went through with this for them, didn’t you?’ he said. ‘Nothing else would have persuaded you.’
She glanced across at him. He was concentrating on the traffic and all she had was his hard, unyielding profile. She wondered what he’d do if she told him the truth. Recoil in horror, in all probability… ‘What would you have done if I’d said no?’
‘It was Steve’s dying request. I don’t think you’d have denied him anything, let alone that.’ For a moment he met her gaze head-on. Then, as the traffic moved, ‘And, even if you were inclined to, I wasn’t about to let it happen.’
‘No?’ she challenged him. ‘No, of course you weren’t. Steven told me that you’d only backed down once before in your entire life. What was it, Guy? A charging rhino?’
‘Something equally obdurate,’ he assured her. ‘The human heart.’ She stared at him. The woman he’d loved? He’d walked away? Let her go without a fight? ‘Something that isn’t involved on this occasion,’ he said so coldly that she shivered. Then, as they were temporarily halted at the lights, he turned to look at her. ‘Which is why I wasn’t prepared to take no for an answer, Mrs Dymoke.’
And she knew he’d added the ‘Mrs Dymoke’ just to demonstrate how obdurate he could be.
‘It’s Miss Lang,’ she snapped back at him. ‘It will always be Miss Lang…’
She looked down at the circle of polished gold around her finger. It was bright and pure, a burning a brand on her finger, and she tugged at it, desperate to be rid of it. Wrenching at it when it refused to slide over her knuckle.
After a moment he pulled up and closed his hand over hers, stopping her. ‘Leave it, Francesca.’ And for a moment something in his voice made her look up, made her hope… ‘You’ll hurt yourself,’ he said, removing his hand as if stung.
And realising that she was just fooling herself, she gave the ring another tug, just to show him that she didn’t care how much it hurt, she just wanted to be free of it. ‘It’s too damned tight,’ she declared, ignoring the fact that it had slipped on as if made for her.
‘It’ll come off easily enough with some soap when you get home.’
‘There is no way I’m going home wearing this!’ His head went back, as if she’d punched him on the jaw. ‘I don’t want Matty or Connie to know,’ she said, pleading with him to see. Wishing she hadn’t said it. He was only doing what he thought was right. For the best. He had no way of knowing… ‘It’s so soon…after Steven. They wouldn’t understand.’
‘No? I believe they would. I think they have more faith in you than you have in yourself.’ And for a moment it was there again. An unexpected gentleness… ‘But it’s your business, not mine. And, speaking of business…’ He leaned across her, opened the glove box and took out a large envelope. ‘These are your new credit cards. Everything you’ll need.’
‘But…’
‘Why don’t you indulge yourself in a little retail therapy? Treat yourself to lunch in Harvey Nicks or Claibournes? I’m sure their powder room will supply all the soap you need to wash away the last hour,’ he said.
‘Don’t! Please! I can’t bear it.’
When she didn’t take the envelope, he said, ‘You’re my wife. Whatever I have is yours,’ he said, brushing away a tear that had spilled on to her cheek. ‘Take it.’
For a moment they seemed so close. She felt as if all she had to do was reach out to bridge the chasm, go into his arms.
‘I really do have to go,’ he said, dropping the envelope into her lap. And the gulf was wider than ever.
‘Go?’ Fran forgot all about her desperation to remove his ring, her hurt at his suggestion that she might even consider doing anything as mindless as shopping. ‘Go where?’ she asked. Then, realising that he meant go, get on a plane, fly away to the other side of the world, ‘So soon? Without saying goodbye to Toby or Matty?’
‘I said my goodbyes yesterday. While you were at the office.’
‘They didn’t tell me.’ It was as well that her eyes were already full of tears. ‘Toby was very quiet last night. I should have known something had upset him.’
‘I promised him that I’d come back as soon as I could.’
‘You’d damn well better—’ She fought back the sob in her voice. There was no reason in the world for her to cry. This was a marriage of convenience. No heart involved. He’d said so. ‘Small boys don’t understand when people go away and don’t come back,’ she said. ‘I’ve told him his Daddy is with Jesus, but I’m afraid he thinks it’s just like one of his business trips. That he’ll be back after a week or two.’
Guy was dying inside. He felt torn in half. In one moment he’d gained the one thing he had wanted most in the world. And lost it. He’d actually planned to take her to lunch, spin out for as long as possible the moment when she wore his ring, when he could make believe that she was his. But he couldn’t do it. Not after the kiss he should have resisted had burned itself into his brain so that he could think of nothing else. He could only pray that it would replace the dream that had haunted him for so long, because it was all he’d have of her.
She’d loved Steve. Stayed with him. Had been prepared to commit herself to him for life. Even now she didn’t blame him for what he’d done to her. Only pitied him, blamed herself.
His plane didn’t leave until early evening, but the sooner he put himself safely on the far side of the check-in barrier the better.
‘I won’t let Toby down,’ he said. ‘You have my word.’
She blinked, looked away, out of the window and up at the apartment block, then out across the Thames.
‘Is this where you live?’ she asked.
‘Lived. Someone will pick up the few things I’m sending over to Elton Street. If you’ll store them until the conversion is done?’
‘Oh, yes, of course.’
‘I just have to pick up my bags, then drop the keys in at the office. You can take the car, keep it,’ he said, handing her the keys. ‘It’s insured for you to drive.’
‘But how are you getting to the airport?’ she asked. Then, not waiting for him to tell her, she opene
d the door and got out. ‘What am I saying? I’ll take you.’ She forced a smile. ‘That’s what wives do, isn’t it?’
Guy, quite unable to help himself, looked at her across the roof of the car and said, ‘You might not want to go into what wives do, Francesca.’ Then, taking pity on her as she blushed, he said, ‘It’s okay. I really don’t expect you to morph into the perfect wife. There is, after all, no one either of us has to convince and I really can’t see you as the kind of woman who’d get up at the crack of dawn every morning to run her man to the station every morning with her coat over her pyjamas.’
‘Don’t you?’
She was wearing a pale grey designer suit, sexy high-heeled shoes and her pale hair swept up in the height of sophistication. Steve had turned her into his ideal. The kind of woman who never had to wash a dish or iron his shirt. Just look good and display his success to the world. But her eyes told a different story and oh, dear God, yes he could see her all too clearly, hair mussed, no make-up, soft, warm and with the imprint of his body still on hers…
He was nearing the end of his tether.
He’d been through an emotional bombardment. Swearing death-us-do-part commitment to the woman he loved, while having to convince her that it meant nothing more to him than honouring a debt to his dead brother, had taken a painful toll because, unlike Francesca, he’d meant it. Every word. She couldn’t wait to see the back of him, while he was wrecked at the thought of leaving them, leaving her, and he knew, just knew, that Steve was looking on somewhere, watching, laughing, saying ‘Got you!’ as he taunted him with what he most desired, all the while knowing that it was impossible for him to take it.
He’d only fully understood how difficult it would be since that moment on the ‘Eye’ when she’d surrendered briefly, let him hold her safe and, in the most bittersweet of moments, he’d realised that he’d both won and lost.
That she would marry him for the sake of her family, no other reason. That any chance of allowing her time to grieve, to come to see him as someone special, someone she might in time grow to love, was lost to him.
