Marriage at a Distance (Presents, 2093)

by Sara Craven

  Cynthia had even persuaded Gabriel to drive her to London, with the plea that she had nothing suitable to wear at the funeral. No doubt she had also coaxed him to foot the bill for the mountain of elegant carrier bags and boxes she’d brought back with her.

  Watching her descend the stairs that morning, dressed from head to foot in black and wearing a hat with a veil, Joanna had hoped he would feel his money had been well spent.

  Perhaps he thought that Joanna herself should have made more of an effort, she’d speculated, hugging the comfort of her navy wool coat around her.

  Back at the house, Cynthia had stationed herself on one of the sofas in the drawing room, looking ethereal and accepting condolences as if she were Lionel’s widow.

  Or Gabriel’s future wife.

  The thought stabbed at Joanna like a knife in the ribs. But she could no longer doubt the seriousness of Cynthia’s purpose. Not having seen her in action over the past few days.

  It doesn’t matter, she told herself steadily. It can’t matter, because when it happens I’ll be long gone and far away.

  In the meantime she had to cope as best she could, accepting the sympathy and good wishes of their friends and neighbours.

  ‘You’re looking very pale, my dear,’ said the wife of the local MP. ‘I’ve told that charming husband of yours that he should take you away for some winter sun. A second honeymoon, perhaps,’ she added archly.

  Joanna, encountering a sardonic look from Gabriel standing only a few feet away, coloured to the roots of her hair and muttered something disjointed.

  People were beginning to drift away, and while Gabriel was outside on the drive saying a few last goodbyes Joanna took the opportunity to go up to her room.

  One more ordeal—the reading of the will—to be faced, and then she could get on with her life, she thought, picking up a comb and running it through her hair.

  Mrs MP, however out of touch with a particular local situation she might be, had nevertheless been right about one thing.

  Joanna did indeed look pale. And subdued, and drab and totally unexciting in her cream lambswool polo-neck sweater and pleated navy skirt, she added silently, pulling a face at her reflection. Although her uninteresting appearance was probably no bad thing, under the circumstances.

  She didn’t want to be noticed, she reminded herself. She wanted to fade into the background and then disappear altogether and without trace.

  Now she lingered at the window, reluctant to return downstairs, even though she knew Henry Fortescue would have been buttonholed by Cynthia by now, and be looking for rescue.

  It had snowed overnight, and a faint powdering still touched the top fields with white. The sky was unremittingly grey, and the whole landscape looked bleak and frozen.

  Like me, she thought ironically. But the weather suits the day. Brilliant sunshine wouldn’t have been appropriate at all.

  With a sigh, she turned away from the starkness of winter and surveyed her room instead.

  She’d started to pack up some of her more serviceable things, sorting them from the smart clothes and cocktail wear, which could go to the local charity shop, and putting them in the old suitcase which she’d arrived with all those years ago. Not in the matched luggage which had accompanied her on honeymoon, she thought, swallowing. That would stay behind with her jewellery, already collected together in its leather case. Only her wedding ring remained, but that was purely temporary.

  And she’d been through the classified ads in the county newspaper, looking for possible posts as resident housekeeper, and had written to several of the most likely. If all went well, she could be gone within the week.

  But she would miss this room, and the refuge it had provided for so long. Not least in the past two years.

  She would probably miss the Manor itself, although it had already begun to change. With Lionel there had always been noise—raised jovial voices, laughter, dogs barking.

  Now the place hummed with a quieter, different kind of energy, as if a powerful dynamo had been switched on. There was a new vibrancy—an edge in the atmosphere.

  Lionel’s study was now unrecognisable. The day after Gabriel’s return, a large van had brought a computer and every electronic aid to communication known to the mind of man. The old desk had been sidelined, and in its place was a vast modern affair, bristling with equipment and reminiscent of Mission Control, Houston.

  Clearly Gabriel planned to use the Manor as an extension of his office.

  So, he won’t be using pressure of work as an excuse to stay away in future, Joanna thought. Perhaps the freedom to do exactly what he wants when he wants isn’t quite so important to him any more.

  He had taken total control of the house—and only once had she seen that control slip. She had been on her way to bed the previous night when she’d noticed a light in Lionel’s room. She’d walked down the passage and through the open door, had seen Gabriel on his knees beside his father’s bed, his head buried in his folded arms, his whole body shaking…

  For a moment every instinct she possessed had urged her to go to him and comfort him. To pillow his head against her and let him weep out his grief in her arms.

  But of course she had done no such thing, just tiptoed away, choking back her own tears. Because it changed nothing.

  She looked down at her wedding ring, twisting it nervously on her finger. Really, she should remove it now. The conventions had been observed and she had no further reason to go on wearing it.

  She was trying to tug it over her knuckle when there was a brief tap on the door and Gabriel walked in.

  There was no way he could have seen what she was doing, but all the same Joanna found herself flushing as she put both hands defensively behind her back.

  She lifted her chin. ‘I didn’t tell you to come in.’

  ‘So what else is new?’ he asked with cool derision. He saw the half-packed case, and his brows rose. ‘Forward planning, darling?’

  ‘I have to think about my future,’ she returned, keeping her tone even.

  ‘Now that my father’s safety net has been removed?’ He gave her a meditative look. ‘You’ll find it’s a cold, hard world out there, Joanna.’

  ‘Living here,’ she said, ‘hasn’t always been a barrel of laughs.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’ll try and be more amusing from now on.’

  She shook her head. ‘No need. I shan’t be here long enough to care.’

  ‘Will you delay your escape long enough to join us in the drawing room? You’re keeping everyone waiting.’

  ‘Then do please start without me,’ she said with exaggerated politeness. ‘It isn’t an occasion I relish.’

  ‘This whole week has been a pretty good imitation of hell,’ Gabriel said levelly. ‘But you’re coming down to the drawing room, and you’ll listen to Lionel’s last will and testament along with everyone else. Because you’re still my wife and your place is beside me. At least for the time being.’

  ‘I’m glad you said that.’ While they’d been talking she’d managed to work her ring off her finger. She held it out to him. ‘I’ll return this to you now. I’m sure you can find a good use for it.’

  She saw something flare briefly in his eyes, then vanish.

  He said silkily, ‘I came across Dad’s old riding crop yesterday. I could find an even better use for that. Don’t push me too hard, Joanna.’

  The silence between them, the space that divided them, crackled with sudden tension.

  Joanna bit her lip. ‘Careful, Gabriel. That famous charm of yours seems to be slipping.’

  ‘I never remember it cutting much ice with you anyway, darling.’ The endearment was almost an insult. ‘Now, put the ring back on and come downstairs. Be a brave girl for just a little longer,’ he added derisively.

  Shaking with anger, she hesitated, then thrust the ring into her skirt pocket and followed him down to the hall.

  Outside the drawing room door, she halted. ‘There’s something I need to
ask you.’

  ‘Yes?’ He spoke with thinly veiled impatience.

  ‘The letter I left for you. Did you find it?’

  He nodded. ‘Found it and read it.’

  ‘So—what did you think?’

  He shrugged. ‘That what it lacked in style it made up for in content.’

  She hung onto her temper. ‘That was not what I meant, and you know it. I asked you for a quick, no-fault divorce. I’d appreciate an answer.’

  ‘Yes or no? Right here and now?’ His brow lifted.

  ‘Please. If it’s not too much trouble,’ she added icily.

  ‘Not at all.’ He was silent for a moment, observing her flushed face, the mutinous tilt of her chin. ‘The answer’s yes, Joanna. You can have your divorce. And the sooner the better. We’ll discuss the details later.’

  As her lips parted in shock, he took her arm and propelled her into the drawing room.

  She felt suddenly blank, emptied of all emotion. But why should she feel like that? After all, she’d got exactly what she wanted—what she needed. And she should be jubilant. Or as jubilant as the present circumstances allowed, she amended hurriedly.

  She saw Cynthia’s sidelong glance as they passed, and had to repress a malicious impulse to give her a ‘thumbs-up’.

  Apart from her stepmother, and Henry Fortescue, the room was occupied by Mrs Ashby with her husband Tom, who was the head gardener, Graham Welch, the estate manager, Sadie, the groom, and the rest of the staff.

  Joanna wanted to shout her freedom aloud, but common sense told her this was neither the time nor the place. For the next half-hour at least she would continue to play her designated role.

  But then we’ll see, she thought.

  Teeth gritted, she allowed herself to be taken to a chair, managing not to flinch as Gabriel perched himself beside her on its arm, his hand resting on her shoulder in apparent solicitude.

  Henry Fortescue did not waste time on lengthy explanations. The bulk of Lionel’s estate, he said, went to Gabriel, but there were a few personal bequests, and he would begin with the smaller ones.

  Every member of staff, right down to Mrs Kemp, who came in to clean, had been remembered with characteristic generosity.

  ‘To Cynthia Elcott,’ read Mr Fortescue, ‘I bequeath the Victorian oil painting known as Low Tide, which she always admired.’

  Out of the corner of her eye, Joanna saw her stepmother smile complacently and wait to hear the rest of her good fortune.

  But that, apparently, was it. Because Mr Fortescue had moved on. ‘And to my beloved daughter-in-law, Joanna Catherine Verne, I leave the detached house in Meadow Lane, Westroe, known as Larkspur Cottage.’

  Joanna heard Cynthia’s gasp of fury, but her attention was fixed almost painfully on the solicitor, who was telling her that Lionel had also arranged for an annuity of fifty thousand pounds a year to be paid to her.

  Tears stung her eyes, and her throat closed. She thought, Thank God. I can sell the cottage and move as far away as I want. I could even live abroad. Darling Lionel. He did understand.

  But Mr Fortescue hadn’t finished yet.

  ‘Both these bequests are conditional on the said Joanna Catherine Verne remaining married to my son Gabriel Verne,’ his even voice went on. ‘And residing with him at Westroe Manor for a year and a day from the reading of this will.’

  The silence which followed was absolute. Joanna could feel all the faces in the room turned towards her, could sense the discreet surprise, Cynthia’s narrowed eyes, and, above all, Gabriel’s fingers tightening like a vice on her shoulder.

  She wanted to cry out—no—but her throat refused to utter the sound.

  She stared at Mr Fortescue, her eyes pleading with him to say it was all a sick joke. That Lionel couldn’t have imposed such a cruel—such an unworkable restriction on her.

  But the lawyer’s tall figure seemed to be receding, becoming smaller in some strange way, as if she was looking down the wrong end of a telescope.

  She tried feebly to wrench away from Gabriel’s hold and follow Henry Fortescue—appeal to him—but suddenly there was only darkness, and she fell forward into it.

  A voice was saying her name insistently, over and over again. A voice she didn’t want to hear, that made her moan feebly in rejection.

  She opened unwilling eyes and found herself stretched out on one of the sofas. Gabriel was sitting on its edge, facing her, holding a glass of water.

  ‘What happened?’ She struggled to sit up, looking round the deserted room. ‘Where is everybody?’

  ‘I sent them away when you fainted.’ His tone was matter-of-fact.

  ‘Fainted?’ she echoed. ‘But I’ve never fainted in my life.’

  ‘There’s always a first time for everything.’ He paused. ‘Now, lie still, and drink some of this.’ He held the glass to her lips, and Joanna forced herself to swallow.

  ‘Everyone was very understanding,’ he went on silkily. ‘They all realise what terrible stress you’ve been under all week.’

  Her head was swimming unpleasantly, and she leaned back against the cushions, closing her eyes.

  She said wearily, ‘They don’t know the half of it.’

  She felt vaguely nauseous, and made herself drink some more water.

  At last she ventured to look at Gabriel. His face was expressionless, the tawny eyes hooded and meditative.

  She said, ‘I—I’m sorry for behaving so stupidly. It was just such a shock.’ She shook her head. ‘I still can’t believe that Lionel would do something like that to me.’

  ‘You make it sound as if you’re the only sufferer.’

  There was a note in his voice which alarmed her. She realised suddenly that under that cool, detached exterior, Gabriel was blindingly, blazingly angry.

  ‘But I,’ he went on, mockingly, ‘chose not to faint.’

  Joanna gasped. ‘I didn’t do it deliberately. That’s not fair.’

  ‘Very little is.’ His voice bit.

  ‘You don’t have to worry,’ she said quickly. ‘I’ll refuse the bequest. I’m allowed to do that.’

  ‘Then you’d be a fool.’ His tone was brusque. ‘And anyway, there’d be no point.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ She stiffened.

  ‘I mean, my dear wife, that I’ve rethought our marital arrangements. I’ve decided to obey Lionel’s wishes, so our divorce is off.’

  Joanna sat up, her startled eyes widening, aware of a pounding in her temples.

  ‘But you can’t do that.’

  ‘On the contrary. I can, and just have,’ he returned. ‘In a year and a day we can think again. But for now we’ll just have to make the best of it.’

  ‘There is no “best”.’ Her voice rose. ‘It’s an impossible situation.’

  ‘Not if we lay some ground rules in advance.’

  ‘Rules of your making, naturally.’ She glared at him.

  ‘I’m prepared to be reasonable,’ he said. ‘However, I’ve no intention of fading into obscurity for the next twelve months simply to indulge your sensitivities. My exile is over. This is my home, and I’m going to live in it.’

  ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Then you won’t object if I move into Larkspur Cottage.’

  ‘I’m afraid I must. The terms of the will stipulate that you live here.’

  She bit her lip. ‘But we could come to some private arrangement about that, surely.’

  ‘Unfortunately the bequest is already public property. We seem doomed to share a roof—but not for eternity.’

  ‘Think again,’ she advised curtly. ‘As it happens, I’ve already made my own plans. I wasn’t expecting a legacy on that scale from Lionel, and I don’t need it. I mean to earn my own living.’

  ‘Doing precisely what?’

  She said, with a touch of defiance, ‘I’m applying for a post as a residential housekeeper.’

  Gabriel’s brows lifted. ‘Aren’t you a little young for that?’ he enquired gently.

  ‘I’ve b
een running this house for the past two years,’ Joanna reminded him defensively. ‘I’m hardly without experience.’

  ‘But you’ve no references,’ he pointed out softly. ‘And without them you haven’t a prayer of finding a residential job. People have a right to know who’s moving in with them.’

  Joanna’s brows drew together. She said slowly, ‘But you, surely, would…’

  Her voice trailed away as she saw him shaking his head.

  ‘No way, my dear wife.’

  ‘Don’t call me that.’ She was trembling again.

  ‘No?’ His mouth curled. ‘But you are my wife, Joanna, and the next twelve months seem set to cost me very dear, so it seems appropriate.’

  She took a deep breath and leaned forward. ‘Gabriel—stop playing these games. You don’t—you can’t want me here. And I don’t want to stay. I promise I won’t ask you for a thing. So why not just—let me go?’

  ‘Because it isn’t what my father wanted. He cared about you, Joanna. He clearly wanted you to have a breathing space. A period of reflection while you make some sensible decisions about what to do with the rest of your life. I’m damned sure he didn’t envisage you as a skivvy for some stranger. I intend to respect his wishes. It’s that simple.’

  ‘And if I just—go, anyway?’ She stared her defiance at him.

  ‘Then you can forget the cosy divorce.’ His tawny gaze returned her challenge. ‘Because I won’t consent. I’ll make you wait for every long year the law allows, and even then you’ll have a fight on your hands.’ He paused. ‘So what are you going to do, Joanna?’

  She said tautly, ‘It would be nice to think I could make a genuine choice. But you seem to have thought of everything.’ She looked at him scornfully. ‘Tell me, Gabriel, what’s it like to always get your own way?’

  ‘If you think this is the way I’d have picked, then your fainting fit must have addled your brain.’ He rose to his feet. ‘Live here, Joanna, behave yourself, and when the year and a day is up I’ll give you your divorce and the most glowing reference you could ask for. Is it a deal?’

  ‘I—guess it has to be.’ She swung her feet to the floor and stood, too.