'No?' Jude said. 'Didn't he at least warn you to expect that sickening photograph in the papers yesterday, alongside the announcement of their engagement? Apparently,' he added drily, 'it was a whirlwind romance.'
She didn't care what kind of romance it had been, and if Jude was right and the lady in question was a bitch then she wasn't about to waste her sympathy on her behalf. And she was about to say just that when he forestalled her again, levering himself away from the table, his face expressionless.
'I thought, with Fenton out of your reach, we could talk things through, lay out the guidelines for our future, our marriage. Because, believe me, he won't want to continue with your relationship if he's got his hooks into another heiress—one who's free to marry him.'
And with that he strode from the room, leaving her gaping. He must have decided to borrow the cottage, to fetch her away from Slade House, when he'd learned of Fenton's engagement. What he'd said hadn't been flattering, but at least he was willing to talk things through, try to make their marriage work. And he would listen to what she had to tell him, and they could begin again.
She could understand his initial revulsion when he'd walked in on what must have appeared to be a torrid love scene between herself and Fenton. But she hadn't been able to understand why he had refused to hear her defence. After all, it wasn't as if his emotions were involved...
Her hands shook a little as she washed the salad they would eat with the steak, her insides wriggling around with what she recognised as nervous excitement. If theirs had been a normal marriage she wouldn't be feeling this way. She would have been desperately hurt by his total lack of trust, her love for him terminally ill by now because the type of mistrust he harboured couldn't co-exist with love.
But he had never loved her, never pretended to. The love was all on her side, and she'd known she would have to be the one to make their marriage a workable thing. And now, at last, she was going to be able to work on it again.
Reaching the steaks out of the fridge, she paused, undecided. She could still hear the regular sound of the axe and it looked as though Jude was all set to split enough wood to last through a month of chilly evenings. That being so, the meal could wait for the time it would take her to freshen herself up.
Her mind made up, she was already at the door to the stairway when Jude came in from outside, a pile of logs in his arms, and she halted, uncertain of what to do.
'Would you like me to put the steaks on now, or have I got time to change first?' she asked, her colour rising as his blue eyes lazily swept her slender jeans and shirt- clad figure. There was a hint, just a hint, of the old warmth in the look he gave her and her heart flipped over with love for him. Everything was going to be all right; she had never been more certain of anything.
'You look good to me as you are.' His gaze lingered on her rumpled hair. 'But if it makes you feel better, go ahead and change. But don't take all night about it, we've a lot of talking to do.'
And that was vastly reassuring. He had said he'd listen to what she had to say, and at last he was talking to her as an equal, his voice softer than she'd heard it for weeks—not bitingly bitter, as it had been, coming out as if he hated her, felt her to be beneath contempt.
She shot him a grateful look, unable to stop herself, to disguise her love. Not that she wanted to, not now, not ever again.
After showering quickly in the tiny bathroom, she rummaged through her suitcase, making a mental note to unpack before going to bed. But, for now, she picked out fresh oyster satin lace underwear and a fine wool sweater dress. Although the day had been bright and warm, the evening, as Jude had prophesied, was turning chilly. The very thought of him made slow colour bum over her skin as she wriggled into the soft wool dress.
The shade of muted peacock green suited her and the garment fitted her perfectly, skimming her slender body without a wrinkle or ruck. The deep V
of the neckline created a shadowy cleft between her breasts and, unconsciously, she twisted in front of the mirror, running the palms of her hands over the flat plane of her stomach.
There was no sign of any swelling, but then there wouldn't be yet, and she bit softly on her full lower lip, filled with an unfathomable love for the tiny life she carried, for the man who had fathered her child. Then she turned away quickly, heading out of the room, filled with an emotion so intense it threatened to explode inside her unless something was done about it, and quickly!
She would tell Jude about the baby over dinner—if not before! She couldn't wait a moment longer to share this wonderful secret with him. Explanations about Robert Fenton could wait until later—she had to tell Jude about the baby they had made, because nothing could be as important as that.
Her feet were light as she ran downstairs to the kitchen, her heart even lighter, but her face fell as she realised Jude already had their meal in the final stages of preparation. She felt cheated, she had wanted to make the meal—a labour of love! Then, smiling at her own silliness, she advanced into the room, sniffing at the delicious aroma of grilling steak and Jude looked up from the crusty granary loaf he'd been slicing and caught her smile, returning it, but guardedly.
'You look good enough to eat,' His eyes swept appraisingly over her lovingly encased body. 'But I couldn't wait. I missed breakfast, too.'
'Can I help?' Suddenly, Cleo was unaccountably shy and was almost relieved when he shook his head, a lock of dark, rumpled hair falling over one eye, giving him a rakish look that set her heart tipping wildly.
'Nope. It's all done. We'll eat in the living-room—go through and pour the wine. There's not room for both of us in here—but you can take the bread with you.'
If the words were clipped in a dismissive tone, she didn't really mind. In his mind nothing had changed and there was still a lot of talking to do, his so-called guidelines for their future to be mapped out. He didn't know, as she did, that there was nothing to worry about and never had been.
He had spread a red-checked cloth that matched the curtains over the table, and the glow from the crackling log fire and the single side-lamp darkened the sky outside the windows to amethyst. She put the bread on the table, near the salad in its shallow glass bowl, smiling as she noticed the careful place settings, the wineglasses, the unlit candle in a porcelain holder shaped like a rose.
He had gone to a lot of trouble and, still smiling softly, she lit the candle and poured the wine, taking her own glass to stand near a window, looking out.
The first stars were beginning to blink in the darkening sky, the land shadows merging into a dusky pall, and she knew that before the sun rose again she and Jude would be embarking on a marriage that would certainly have real meaning for her and, hopefully, for him, too.
'Come and get it.' His voice, behind her, startled her into turning quickly and she almost spilled her wine. In the softly diffused glow of light that illuminated the little room his features looked more mellow, his mouth gentler. But his eyes were unreadable, deeply shadowed, and she didn't know what he was thinking.
The steaks were perfectly cooked, but Cleo's appetite had deserted her and she toyed with her food as she watched him hungrily eat his. She was going to have to tell him about the baby, she could contain the secret no longer.
And his pleasure would be her pleasure. No, more than pleasure—a deep and ecstatic happiness.
He had talked of children before. Getting children had been the only reason he had married at all. But she had seen their children as abstract things, mere shadowy ideas. But now—this was different. Jude's child was within her, real, living, already loved, and as alive to her as her own flesh, her blood.
And she had to share this miracle with him. Now. 'Jude,' she blurted impulsively, nervous excitement making her voice thin, 'we're going to have a baby. I'm pregnant.'
She hadn't known quite what his reaction would be, but she hadn't expected the blank, shuttered expression that met her as he raised his eyes and looked at her levelly, full in the face, across the
table. Nor did she understand the brief flash of pain she saw in his eyes before he laid aside his cutlery and remarked distantly, 'Congratulations. But excuse me if I don't share your dewy-eyed enthusiasm. How can I be sure it's mine, and not Fenton's?'
And something died inside her at that moment. It was hope. All hope was dead. It had struggled gallantly against all the odds and now, with those few words, it had finally expired. There was a bitter taste in her mouth, a tight pain around her heart. This was the end.
'Go to hell,' she said flatly, an indescribable pain pulling her to pieces, and he looked at her once, before thrusting his chair back and standing up, his mouth twisted downwards before he turned away.
'I've just been there.'
CHAPTER ELEVEN
JUDE slid the car to a halt outside the house in Belgravia, his features set in the tight mask he'd worn since she'd told him about the baby.
'I'll drop you off here while I garage the car.' It was the first thing he'd said during the drive home, and his words registered heavily on a mind that was still in shock.
'And Cleo--' this as her numb fingers were fumbling to release her safety belt
'—have Meg move my things into the guest-room.'
A logical request, since their marriage was dead, she thought drearily, but bitterness still lived on and it surfaced in her tone as, staring straight ahead, she said tartly, '1 thought we were going to talk things out. That was the point of going to the cottage, wasn't it? I thought I was going to be allowed to put my point of view, for once.'
'Everything changed when you told me you were pregnant.' From the corner of her eye she saw his hands tighten on the steering wheel, making the knuckles white, and she thought she could detect a thread of emotion in his voice. But his tone was as before, flat, when he added, 'With Fenton off the scene, about to be married, I'd thought we might pick up the pieces, make something— no matter how superficial—of our marriage. Every time I look at your child I shall wonder if it's mine, or Fenton's, and not even I could live with that.'
'Fenton and I were never lovers!' The words came quickly, spilling out; they just had to be said, even though she knew she and Jude were finished.
He said wearily, 'Don't lie, Cleo. There's no point,' and she felt tired beyond belief, utterly drained.
Automatically, she moved out of the car and into the house, her feet somehow carrying her to the roomy kitchen where Thornwood was cleaning silver and Meg- was putting vegetables through the blender for soup.
'Oh, madam! We didn't expect you home today!' Meg put a hand to her plump bosom. 'Walking in like a ghost!' And then, her startled reaction receding, her eyes narrowed in concern. 'Are you all right, madam? You're very pale.'
'I'm fine.' Cleo's smile was automatic, too. She felt numb. 'I thought I ought to let you know we're back.'
She was talking as though she and Jude were still an entity. But it wasn't the case. They had never been further apart. Even during the time when he'd looked at her with contempt, yet possessed her body with nightly, passionate savagery, there had been the unmistakable bonding of deep, racking emotion. Now there was nothing. Nothing at all.
'No, I won't have coffee, thanks,' she replied to Thornwood's offer. 'But Mr Mescal might like a tray.'
She left the room as silently as she had entered it, feeling like the wraith Meg had likened her to. The Thornwoods had been married a long time. They had grown together. Cleo couldn't imagine one without the other. Would they be able to understand the tragedy that her brief marriage to Jude had become?
Probably not. For them, love and marriage would only be seen as a comfortable, comforting, easy thing.
She wouldn't ask Meg to move Jude's things, of course. That was something she had to do herself. An exorcism, perhaps. And it was what she had wanted, she reminded herself as she took formal suits and casual wear in methodical armloads from his half of the enormous hanging cupboard. She had tried to tell him she wanted to sleep alone, at least until he was willing to give her a hearing. But then, of course, there had still been the hope that having listened to her, realised his suspicions had been entirely without foundation—then, and only then, would they have been able to try to rebuild their relationship.
Now, of course, there was no hope left, and the action of clearing his things out was so completely final. It was the end, finis, nothing more to be said.
The thought made her want to cry, but she didn't have the energy. The empty, defeated feeling had grown, depleting her mental resources, ever since he'd cleared the uneaten food from the table last night and had told her she might as well go and re-pack as they'd be leaving first thing in the morning.
Still shattered by what he had said about the questionable paternity of the child she was carrying, she had dragged herself upstairs, staring at her reflection and thinking how silly she looked in the pretty, clinging dress, her face a white mask punctuated by the deep dark holes of her eyes. She hadn't unpacked, so there had been nothing to do but curl up on the bed, pulling the soft eiderdown over her cold body, saying goodbye to her marriage.
Later, she had heard him leave the cottage and she'd lain awake all night, her eyes burning and dry as she'd stared into the darkness. At dawn, he had come back and she'd gone downstairs, still in the dress she'd slept in, dragging her suitcase. He had given her one hard look from empty eyes, the strain lines around his mouth making him look older. He must have been walking all night, judging by the way he looked, and immediate concern for him came to life in the emptiness of her heart, and she'd said quickly, 'Jude—sit down, let me make you some breakfast—and let's try, for pity's sake, to talk this thing out. Things are nothing like you believe them to be--'
'Forget it.' He was walking away from her. 'I don't want breakfast, and there's nothing to be said that would - make any difference to the way things are.'
Ever since that he had treated her as though she didn't exist. She probably didn't, not to him, she thought as she slid the last of his shirts into the top drawer of the chest in the guest-room.
He had never pretended to love her, and as far as he was concerned he had made a bad error of judgement when he'd decided a marriage between them could work. And now he was cutting his losses, cutting her out of his life.
The process, she knew, had only just begun.
'Is that the lot?' He had come into the room quietly. 'I'd have given you a hand if you'd said you weren't asking Meg to do it.' He didn't look as tired as he had done, although he was still pale beneath his tan. Meg's coffee must have helped.
Cleo hunched one shoulder, not knowing what to say. What could one say in such a situation? She wouldn't go down on her knees and beg him to listen to her. She had her pride, if nothing else.
He moved further into the room, unbuttoning his shirt, and she edged back towards the door. 'I'm going to shower and change,' he told her. He looked at her as he spoke but his eyes were empty. The light had gone out of them. 'I won't be back for dinner, so don't wait up. Let Meg know, would you?' he said dismissively, and Cleo slipped out of the door and went to her room.
Tomorrow, after she'd slept, she would think of what was best to do; emulate her husband and try to cut her losses, or try to go on.
* * *
But no amount of sleep or concentrated hard work helped her to reach a decision over her future. Her days fell into a pattern she hadn't the will to break. Always, after a solitary breakfast, Thornwood, drove her to Eastcheap and collected her at six. An evening working, her papers spread out on the table in the drawing-room, followed a lonely dinner which she forced herself to eat for the sake of her child. Sometimes Jude joined her for the meal and then shut himself away in his study for the rest of the evening, but more often than not he stayed away. He didn't say where he went, or what he was doing, and Cleo didn't ask. She didn't think she cared. There was no communication between them now, not even anger, and one day soon Cleo was going to have to answer the questions she could see building up behind Meg's eyes. The housek
eeper was fond of them both, particularly of Jude, and even if she hadn't sensed the frigid atmosphere—and she would have to be blind and deaf not to—she was well aware that they used separate bedrooms, that Jude left the house before eight each morning and was rarely back before midnight.
So sooner or later the questions would come, Meg wouldn't be able to help herself. And what could she answer? Cleo wondered tiredly. She could hardly tell Meg the truth, tell her that Jude had seen her sprawled out on the floor, semi-naked, with Robert Fenton, that he believed the child she carried was Fenton's!
It was the thought of the child that finally woke senses that had been entombed in a dull, unfeeling limbo. She had hoped to make her marriage a good thing, to teach him, eventually, to love her as she had loved him. But that hope had died and she'd be a fool if she ever thought of trying to bring it to life. And there was her unborn child to consider. No child could be expected to thrive in a house where its parents rarely met, hardly exchanged two words from one week to the next!
There would have to be a separation, or a divorce. Cleo didn't care which.
And if Jude wouldn't agree then she would just have to take matters into her own hands.- Move out, and soon.
Thus decided, she settled herself to wait for him. He had, apparently, told Meg he wouldn't be in for dinner, and as far as Cleo knew he hadn't yet spent the entire night away from home. But when the clock struck two in the morning she began to think there was a first time for everything, and it was then she heard the sound of the hall door closing, his footsteps, dragging, as if he were bone weary—or drunk.
Twenty-four hours ago she would have been able to face him with a dreary kind of equanimity. But her emergence from the limbo she had inhabited meant that her emotions were alive and kicking again, torturing her. All through the long waiting hours he had prowled through her mind. A silent, mistrustful, austere image. And, she had to face it, a much-loved image.
A Secure Marriage Page 14
