by Sara Craven
The bravado seemed to ebb out of her suddenly. She leaned against the newel post, staring unseeingly into space.
What price one hollow victory? she asked herself wretchedly. When the war is already lost? And you know it.
And, slowly and defeatedly, she began to climb the stairs towards the loneliness of her bedroom.
CHAPTER EIGHT
‘THE decorator has finished, and my new bed should be delivered tomorrow,’ Cynthia said complacently. ‘So I can move into the cottage later this week.’
She smiled at Joanna across the breakfast table. ‘Which will be much more convenient—for everyone. Don’t you think, my pet?’
‘If you say so,’ Joanna agreed quietly, frowning over her post.
‘It looks very nice now that it’s all been painted. I probably wouldn’t have bothered, as I don’t plan to stay there very long, but Gabriel insisted.’ Her smile widened. ‘He’s incredibly considerate—in every way.’ She sighed nostalgically, then put her head on one side. ‘Why don’t you pop down this afternoon and have a look at the cottage? It is your property, after all.’
‘I’d almost forgotten,’ Joanna returned with cool irony. ‘And I’m afraid I’m busy this afternoon. I promised Mrs Barton I’d help at the hospice shop.’
Cynthia’s eyes glinted maliciously. ‘Still maintaining the fiction that you’re the Lady of the Manor, darling? I wonder what penance you’ll have to do for deceiving the vicar’s wife.’
Joanna folded her napkin and rose. ‘Don’t worry, Cynthia. Living in this house, under these conditions, is penance enough for all the sins of the world, believe me.’ She gathered up her letters and left the room.
In the hall, she paused, drawing a deep, steadying breath. How much more, dear God, was she supposed to take?
The past fortnight had been a nightmare. She had felt all the time as if she was tiptoeing on thin ice. Since their last confrontation Gabriel had treated her with cool civility, and she had tried to respond in the same way.
During the daytime she’d done her best to keep out of the way. It was Gabriel who now rode out with Sadie first thing in the morning, while Joanna deliberately postponed her own ride until later in the day. She even delayed coming downstairs in the morning, to avoid encountering him at the breakfast table.
But some meetings at mealtimes were inevitable, and she’d been forced to observe Cynthia’s blatantly proprietorial attitude towards him—the hand on his sleeve, the whispered asides, the teasing, pouting looks.
She could only be thankful that neither of them chose to dine at the Manor very often, and that they spent their evenings together at the cottage—the lack of the new bed being apparently no deterrent.
Joanna bit her lip. She couldn’t afford to think on those lines, she adjured herself firmly. She had to stay detached—impersonal. It was the only way.
She looked down at the letters in her hand. But for once it seemed as if her avoidance policy would have to be temporarily abandoned. Because she needed to talk to Gabriel.
With a sigh, she crossed to the study door and knocked, waiting for his terse ‘Come in’ before entering.
As he registered who it was his expression became closed, almost wary.
He rose formally to his feet. ‘Joanna—this is an unexpected pleasure.’
She heard the question in his voice—the surprise. And another note, less easy to analyse.
He looked tired, she thought, his eyes shadowed, the lines on his face strongly marked. But then she recalled the reason for his faintly haggard appearance, and hardened her heart against a pain that went too deep for tears.
She said coolly, ‘Don’t worry. This isn’t a social call.’ She put the letters she was carrying on the desk. ‘I’m beginning to get requests from local people—organisations. The Red Cross want to know if they can hold their usual garden party here in July. The Riding Club are asking us—you and I—to present prizes at the gymkhana. The list is growing, and I— I don’t know what to tell them.’
‘Because of our personal circumstances?’ His tone was ironic.
She nodded. ‘It seems wrong to—pretend that everything’s fine and normal, when…’ Her voice tailed away.
Gabriel sighed sharply. He picked up the letters. ‘Would you like me to deal with these?’
‘Thank you. That might be best.’ She gave him a fleeting, wintry smile, and turned away.
‘Jo—wait.’ The harsh urgency in his tone halted her in her tracks.
‘Is something wrong?’
He said grimly, ‘Just about everything, I’d say. Will you sit down for a moment, please? We need to talk.’
She paused, then took the chair by the fire, perching tensely on its edge.
‘What is it now?’ She lifted her chin. ‘More rules for me to obey? I’ve tried to follow your regime.’
‘I’m sure you have.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘The fact is, Joanna, it was never feasible—for either of us. Sharing a roof like this is an impossible situation.’
She was very still. ‘As I’ve tried to tell you.’
‘Indeed you did.’ He bent his head almost defeatedly. ‘So I’m looking for a way out—for both of us. I thought you’d want to know.’
‘Yes,’ she said, dry-throated. ‘Yes, I’m—very grateful.’ She hesitated. ‘May I know what’s made you change your mind?’
It was Gabriel’s turn to pause. He said reluctantly, ‘Let’s say I’ve had time to think. And I’ve been made to see how unfair this situation is to you.’
In other words, pressure from Cynthia, she thought with a pang. She told me herself she wasn’t planning to stay long at the cottage. No, she wants to take over here, and for that she needs to be rid of me.
Aloud, she said, quietly, ‘So—what do you suggest?’
‘I don’t know yet. There are all kinds of ramifications that need going into thoroughly.’ The tawny eyes were sombre. ‘But I’ll make sure you don’t suffer, Jo.’
Ah, but I am suffering, she cried out in silent anguish. More than you can ever know. Because, although living here has been purgatory, leaving—never seeing you again—will be the worst kind of hell. And how will I bear it?
‘Thanks again.’ She got to her feet. Her voice was bright. ‘It will be good to make some plans at last—to decide what to do with the rest of my life. I’m sure you feel the same.’
His mouth twisted. ‘My plans are already made. All I need is the freedom to carry them out.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, of course.’
He said, ‘So that’s that. Shall we shake hands on a bargain?’
Startled, Joanna hesitated, then slowly put her hand into his.
A half-forgotten line of poetry came into her mind. “‘Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows.”’
But it wasn’t until she saw his brows lift in mocking acknowledgement that she realised she’d spoken aloud.
He said, ‘Ah, but remember how it starts, Joanna.’ He quoted softly, “‘Since there’s no help, come let us kiss and part.”’
She looked up at him mutely, mesmerised by the sudden intensity in his tawny gaze. Then he bent his head, and gently, even tentatively, put his mouth on hers. He did not take her in his arms, or try to impose any other intimacy upon her. It was a breath of a kiss, a sensuous brushing of lips, hauntingly sweet, but with a kind of sad finality. It drew them into a tiny, shaken vortex of feeling. Held them rapt, in total thrall to each other, motionless, deaf and blind. Until some slight sound—a log, perhaps, crumbling in the grate—made them draw apart.
Gabriel was breathing rapidly, the warmth in his eyes turned to a dangerous flame.
His voice was low, savage. “‘Nay, I have done: you get no more of me.”’ He threw back his head in an oddly defensive gesture. ‘You’d better get out of here, Joanna.’
Without another word, she obeyed.
The hospice shop was only open on a part-time basis, so it was invariably busy.
Joanna, aske
d to take charge of the nearly-new clothing section, found herself too occupied to brood—a blessing in itself. But the memory of that kiss and its aching sweetness stayed with her like a shadow, no matter how hard she tried to put it from her mind.
She’d left the study and gone straight up to her room, remaining there until she was sure that Gabriel, and then Cynthia, had left the house.
But when she was alone, the house seemed strangely oppressive, and she’d taken the dogs up onto the hill. It was a cold, clear day, and she’d sheltered from the wind by the Hermitage stones.
She’d looked down at the Manor, standing below her, absorbing every detail, imprinting it on her memory for all the long, lonely days ahead. Saying goodbye for ever.
Then she’d walked slowly back, changed, and driven into Westroe, pale but composed, for her stint at the shop.
Towards the end of the afternoon, she was approached by a harassed Mrs Barton.
‘Mrs Verne, could you possibly stay on and lock up for me? My husband’s just rung to say that Sarah’s fallen and hurt her wrist, and one of us should take her to Casualty.’
‘Oh, poor kid.’ Joanna grimaced sympathetically. ‘You go straight away. I’ll cope.’
‘That is good of you.’ Mrs Barton rolled expressive eyes at the ceiling. ‘Children—there’s always something.’ She patted Joanna’s arm. ‘As you’ll soon find out, I expect.’
Joanna felt the smile freeze on her lips. So many people blithely assumed that she and Gabriel were reconciled, she thought unhappily. They were the focus of a lot of genuine goodwill.
She only hoped that he would find a solution to their problems soon, and release her from this treadmill of other people’s expectations. And her own unfulfilled longings, she thought with a little sigh.
As closing time approached Joanna cashed up, and then took some unwanted carrier bags and packing materials out to the dustbins at the rear of the shop, then went into the little curtained changing room to retrieve some dresses which had been tried on but not purchased.
‘Well, I think it’s a proper scandal.’ It was the tart voice of Mrs Golsby, one of the regular helpers and an inveterate gossip. ‘He must be years younger than she is, and he’s round there at that cottage with her all the hours God sends. I feel heart-sorry for Mrs Verne,’ she added self-righteously, and there was a brief murmur of assent from her two colleagues. ‘It can’t be nice for her—her own stepmother carrying on like that.’
Joanna shrank into the corner of the cubicle. It was what she’d feared. Gabriel’s affair with Cynthia was becoming common knowledge. But, as a result, her own departure wouldn’t cause quite as many shock waves, she reminded herself without pleasure.
She tiptoed back into the rear passage, then came back noisily, rattling the clothes hangers she was carrying. She gave the other women a smiling goodnight, as if she didn’t have a care in the world, and watched them leave.
Then she hung the discarded dresses back on the rail, and bent to take the shop keys from their hook under the counter. As she did so the doorbell tinkled.
Joanna straightened. ‘I’m sorry. I’m just closing. We’ll be open again on Friday,’ she began, then stopped abruptly.
‘I know.’ Paul Gordon smiled at her. ‘I’ve been hanging round outside for ages, waiting for you to shut up shop.’
‘Why?’ Joanna stared at him.
‘Because I spotted you when I was passing earlier, but you were obviously too busy to interrupt.’ He paused. ‘So I decided to let the rush die down, then ask you to have dinner with me.’
‘That’s very kind of you.’ Joanna was taken aback. ‘But I couldn’t possibly.’
‘Why can’t you?’
‘For all kinds of reasons. We hardly know each other.’
‘And we never will, if you keep turning down my invitations.’ He looked at her with a half-smile. ‘So what’s the problem? Do you have to rush home like a good little wife to dish up your husband’s dinner?’
‘No,’ Joanna returned, nettled. She already knew she was destined for another solitary meal tonight. Unless…
Paul Gordon was not what she wanted, and never would be, but as that was beyond her reach anyway, why shouldn’t she take him up on his offer?
With which slightly muddled reasoning she accepted. ‘All right. I’d like to have dinner. Shall I go home and change, and meet you later?’
‘You look fine to me. And this—’ he indicated his jeans, roll-neck sweater and elderly tweed jacket ‘—is as good as it gets. My wardrobe down here is strictly limited, I’m afraid. But I’m told the wine bar in the High Street doesn’t operate a strict dress code.’ He gave her a hopeful look. ‘And perhaps we could go for a quiet drink first. Get acquainted.’
In spite of herself, Joanna was amused. ‘You have the whole evening planned, I see.’
‘Not all of it,’ he said softly.
Joanna caught an audacious gleam in the blue eyes and knew a flicker of misgiving, which she firmly crushed.
She said, ‘I’ll get my coat.’
They went for a drink to the White Hart. Paul ordered beer for himself, but could not talk Joanna out of her request for a mineral water.
‘I’m driving,’ she reminded him. ‘But I’ll have a glass of wine with the meal.’
He was an amusing enough companion, she was forced to admit. He seemed to have had a variety of jobs, including writing advertising copy and working in some minor production capacity for an independent television company.
‘There aren’t many media opportunities round here,’ Joanna remarked lightly.
‘Which is probably a good thing.’ Paul wrinkled his nose. ‘Because it’s freed me for the serious bit. I started a novel some time ago, and now I’ve got an agent and a publisher definitely interested, so I’ve come down here to finish it in peace and quiet.’
‘I thought you were looking for a social life,’ Joanna remarked, sipping her mineral water. ‘Yet writing’s supposed to be a solitary occupation, isn’t it?’
He shrugged expansively. ‘Well, of course. But I don’t intend to devote every waking moment to it.’ He smiled at her with what she felt was conscious charm. ‘You know what they say about all work and no play.’
He paused. ‘But that’s enough about me. Tell me about you. Was that your husband who passed us the other afternoon? He looked rather fierce.’
‘His father died last month,’ Joanna said quietly. ‘It’s not a particularly joyous time—for either of us.’
‘God, I’m sorry.’ He looked genuinely remorseful.
‘You weren’t to know.’
‘Have you been married long?’
Hardly at all, thought Joanna. Aloud, she said, ‘Three years, but Gabriel’s been away much of the time. He has a very successful investment company.’
‘And you don’t accompany him on his travels?’ The blue eyes sharpened. ‘How can he let you out of his sight?’
Joanna looked down at her glass. ‘We have an arrangement that works,’ she said. She forced a smile. ‘I’m getting hungry. Shall we go and see what the wine bar has to offer?’
They reached it down a flight of stone steps. It was a long room, with a polished wooden floor and a low ceiling. One wall was taken up with wine racks, and a blackboard displayed the day’s menu, which seemed to specialise in seafood.
Joanna decided on sea bass, with scallops wrapped in bacon to start, while Paul chose game terrine, followed by steak.
He wanted to order two bottles of wine, one white and one red, to complement their respective meals, but Joanna hastily dissuaded him, saying firmly that one glass of the house white would suffice for her.
He seemed disposed to argue the point, so she excused herself and went to the women’s cloakroom.
She looked reasonable, she thought, viewing herself critically in the big mirror above the basin. Not glamorous or exciting, but reasonable. She was wearing a flared black skirt, with the new cream silk shirt, and a patchwork waistcoat
in jewel colours.
I seem like someone about to have dinner with an attractive man, she thought detachedly. That’s if you don’t look too deeply into my eyes. And as long as he doesn’t expect too much.
I ought to have watched Cynthia, of course. Observed the body language. Practised that husky note she puts into her voice.
Although Paul Gordon might then think she was marginally interested in him, and that simply wasn’t the case.
Except that he puzzled her slightly, she amended inwardly. He claimed to be a struggling writer, yet while his shabby clothes bore out his claim, his wallet was brand-new, and stuffed with money.
And the dogs, she remembered suddenly, hadn’t liked him.
She gave herself a wry glance as she turned away. Was she simply inventing a mystery to get her through what could prove to be a sticky evening? Very probably. Well, she would eat her dinner, thank him nicely, and make sure their paths didn’t cross again.
When she got back to the table the wine had been served, and the waitress was just bringing their first courses.
It was easier once the food arrived. It was good, so it could be praised, and reference made to likes and dislikes, and other meals enjoyed elsewhere. Far safer topics than any further interrogation over the state of her marriage.
The main course had been brought, and the vegetable dishes were being placed on the table, when the outer door opened, bringing in a sudden gust of cold air.
Joanna glanced up casually, then stiffened in incredulity as Gabriel came into view. Eyes widening, she watched him slip off his overcoat and hang it on the rack by the entrance before walking across to the bar. Judging by his reception, he was clearly a regular and valued customer.
Of all the gin joints in all the world, she thought dismally. Although he had to eat somewhere when he wasn’t at the Manor, she supposed, and Cynthia was certainly no cook.
‘Is something wrong?’ Paul leaned towards her attentively.
She shrugged. ‘It seems my husband has decided to dine here tonight as well.’
