Tomorrow's Bride

by Alexandra Scott

  She smiled brilliantly—what else was there for her to do? And she was relieved, after all. 'Goodnight, and thank you.' She had no intention of showing how taken aback she was and yet... perversely she was swept with a sense of regret. After all, he had once been her life... nearly every woman she knew would have given her eye-teeth for just such an opportunity.

  Who could blame them? Standing where she was now, it could only reinforce her earlier opinion that he was the very attractive man he had always been—the scatter of silver at the temples merely added to his appeal. She had the notion that he would go grey very quickly, like his father, she remembered. Silver hair combined with such dark, forceful looks would be quite devast----

  About to leave, he turned back suddenly, making her start nervously. 'Oh, and Leigh.' She had an idea that the Christian name was a mistake; he had meant to be more formal. 'I take back what I said. That girl I spoke of earlier—I see now the resemblance was an illusion. You're really nothing at all like her.'

  His intention to wound was clear—and hadn't she herself handed him the weapon? Staring up into a face that was so cool and detached, she refused to allow him to know exactly how much it hurt.

  'Goodnight.' Casually he turned away from her.

  She saw him disappear into the lift as she went into her flat, slipping the bolt into position by sheer instinct, reaching the bedroom before the first sob burst from her chest; then, careless of her beautiful dress, she threw herself across the room and face down on to the bed, allowing the tears to stream down her cheeks on to the pillow.

  At last they were spent. Exhausted, she turned, went to the bathroom to bathe her burning cheeks, hopelessly got out of her finery and into her nightdress, in the soothing dark with nothing but her own thoughts to disturb her. Because— she had to face facts—for years she had been living in her fool's paradise telling herself she was over it all, congratulating herself on her resilience, but one brief meeting and all that was swept aside.

  One thing had been proved to her conclusively: he had been then, was now, and would be to the end of her life, her only real love. Her first and her last. No matter how bitter she felt towards him, there was no escaping that simple fact, no sense in denying the sheer magic of the short time they had spent together.

  It had been her last term at Oxford when they had first met, though neither of them could explain how they had missed each other for so long. It could have been her fault, though it was a painful confession. Scraping along on a scholarship, she had been under such pressure to get a decent degree that her social life had been restricted until the finals were out of the way. But when they had met at Deborah Fleetham's twenty-first birthday party, a loud and slightly drunken affair, the attraction between them had been immediate and consuming.

  'Tell me about yourself.' Always she had been responsive to voices, and the mellow mid-Atlantic accent was in itself a powerful sexual instrument, especially when used in that imperative style. Add to that the looks of the man, the easy, powerful physique, and any resistance, any sense of discretion simply went.

  'Not a lot to tell.' Her last few shreds of caution slipped from her fingers. 'Leigh Gregory, twenty, reading English and history.' She guyed a TV quiz programme popular at the time.

  'And where do you come from, Leigh Gregory? And-----' reaching out to a passing tray of drinks, he expertly captured two glasses, one of which he handed to her '—more important-----' as the red wine touched his tongue he grimaced a little '—where are you going?'

  'Going?' She shrugged, pursed her lips. 'Who can say? But I come from a little village in Gloucester. My father's the vicar.' She sipped cautiously, for the first time regretting her lack of experience with alcohol and the confidence it appeared to confer. Even the appearance of sophistication would have been a great advantage in dealing with a man like this, older and so obviously experienced. 'But tell me about you. Apart from your name, I'm completely in the dark.'

  'I'm from County Wicklow. After Trinity I went to Harvard Law, then I was with a firm of attorneys in Washington for a few years. I've been here for the past few months doing research, and also to please my father, who was here thirty years ago. You know how fathers are.'

  At that she smiled, knowing that this man, with his air of confident affluence, would have an experience at odds with her own. Her scholarly father was so immersed in the study of obscure crumbling manuscripts that he seemed barely aware of his daughter's existence, while her mother.. .well, she, perhaps forced by boredom or neglect, had taken to enjoying poor health and making unjustified demands on her daughter.

  'And explain to me——' Patrick Cavour put a hand on her elbow, guiding her in the direction of a more secluded corner '—just where you've been hiding yourself for the past few months.' He smiled down at her, unaware that simultaneously her insides turned to water, his glance narrowing as it took in the tumble of fine dark hair, the wide mouth, the vividly expressive eyes; then he bent his head and kissed her. 'While I've been searching for you.' His action and words caused a positive ferment of emotions.

  The impact was devastating, overwhelming them both with that first contact, so that from then on being apart was exquisite torture; being together was the sole purpose of then* lives. When he asked her to move in with him there was nothing to consider. Blithely she embarked on a course which just days earlier she would have considered both risky and quite irrational.

  On the day they held their own private ceremony, just the two of them, dedicating then* lives to each other—at least that was how she saw it at the time. They exchanged gifts which she thought of as pledges, his a slender Victorian chain, beautifully wrought in silver filigree, supporting a gleaming crystal in the shape of a tear. Long afterwards she wondered if that had been an omen, a warning of all the tears the relationship would bring her, but she had never been superstitious. Even with something as notoriously unlucky as an opal she would have had no sense of foreboding.

  As if it were yesterday she could recall each detail of the day. She was checking on her appearance, pleased with the hyacinth-blue dress, with the elegant fitted line and low neck, when he came up behind her, so tall and distinguished, dressed formally for the occasion in a dark suit, his white shirt emphasising his tanned good looks and the pink rose suggesting that there was something quite special in the planned celebration.

  As their eyes met in the glass her heart was all at once beating fiercely, then one of his hands was circling her neck, touching her cheek, turning her to face him. He looked at her with great intensity before bending to put his mouth on hers. A moment later she felt the cool metal touch her skin, looked back at the glass then raised the crystal to her lips.

  'Thank you.' She was unexpectedly shy. 'Thank you, Patrick. It's beautiful.'

  'With this silver chain I thee worship.' There was a thread of amusement beneath the main impression of firm purpose and integrity. 'I wonder if you know how much I love you? It's so hard for me to tell you.'

  'I think...' She shook her head, mystified by the sheer power and depth of her emotions. 'I think I know exactly how much.' And the kiss they shared was passionate and impatient and tender, a clear demonstration of mutual need and dependence.

  They had dinner in a country hotel, where after they had eaten they could dance, but that plan was defeated by their impatience. After drifting round once or twice while the band played smoochy music they found they could wait no longer. They went back to his flat, and he swept her up in his arms and carried her inside.

  Nothing in her life had prepared her for that idyllic time spent with him, so short in spite of her conviction that it would last forever. Magical delight, intoxication and passion, which on the one hand had her soaring up to the stars and on the other brought so much warm laughter, so many shared interests—perfect friendship.

  Her gift to him, a slim volume of love poems, a first edition picked up in one of Oxford's second-hand book-dealers, was something he received with awe, passing his fingers ov
er the faded limp leather, over the worn gilt lettering, as if it were the rarest treasure.

  And both gifts brought laughter as well as pleasure. She lost count in the days ahead of the times he teased her, laughing at her blushes when he told her that their gifts were the only things they wore in bed.

  Now, with the tears aching at the back of her eyes, it was so easy to remember how she had giggled. And blushed. How they had made love. And read the sonnets aloud to each other. How they had done all the silly little things which lovers had always done, and all the while she had been dreaming of, if not actually planning, the day when it would end with all the protocol of a wedding in the church where she had been baptised, surrounded by friends and relatives from both families. And that was one of the things which had made it so difficult to believe when it had ended so abruptly in bitter recrimination.

  Recollection of that day was burned into her soul, deeply etched with acid. Having met one of her professors in college, she had come into the flat, bursting with the good news she had been so anxious to share with Patrick. She had opened the door just as he put down the telephone and he had turned, and his face had lit up as it always did with the pleasure of seeing her. She could recall each detail with perfect clarity. He had been doing some work at home, and was dressed in pale chinos and a checked shirt, but somehow he had always maintained an immaculate appearance, unlike so many of the men she knew— professors and tutors just as much as students. 'Good news, darling...' And he had held wide his arms.

  'Oh, Patrick. And I have too.' She had run forward, her mouth to his, revelling in the pressure of his body against hers. 'But mine will keep... You first...'

  ‘They want me to go to Ashala for three years—help set up a large relief project.'

  'What?' She frowned, her mind still unfocused, but clearly she was misunderstanding. 'What on earth do you mean, Patrick?'

  'You're surprised, of course you are.' His arms were about her slender waist, pulling her still closer into the curve of his body, and he was rubbing his chin on the crown of her head. 'I've been hoping it might be a possibility but I didn't want to say until I heard something definite, and-----'

  'Ashala, did you say?' She pulled back, staring up into his face for elucidation. 'Where on earth is that?'

  'It's in Bangladesh, with some of-----'

  'Bangladesh?' Now panic and indignation were threatening to run out of control. 'But...haven't you always said...? I thought you meant to practise in London. Or Dublin, you said.'

  'Eventually, that's on the cards.' Some of her feelings were clearly reaching him, for his arms slackened. 'Only this is what I'm going to do first.' Later she recalled how implacable he had sounded.

  'Go to Bangladesh?' At the time—inexplicably, she confessed in retrospect—it had seemed incredible and even slightly ludicrous. 'Am I to understand, then, that highly trained western lawyers are in demand there? For heaven's sake!' she added scathingly, aware of little but the desperate need to change his mind.

  'It's not as a lawyer I'm going, though I doubt if the training will be a handicap. I'll be going as administrator for the aid agency and to do whatever is needed. I'm as capable of digging ditches and building huts as the next man, if that's what I 'find is needed when I get there.'

  'But why, Patrick?' She pulled herself away from him. 'That's what I can't understand.'

  'Why?' His eyes narrowed as he watched her walk across the room, return with her arms wrapped about her body in a despairing, hopeless kind of way. 'Because I feel I want to put something back, for God's sake. Surely that's easy enough to understand...?' 'No, I'm sorry, but I just can't see it.' 'So all those times when you've reminded me how privileged I've been all my life, when you've enjoyed all those little digs at my expense-----'

  'Those were-----' Aware of handling things badly, she still found it impossible to adapt. "Those were quite simply jokes—you know they were.'

  'Jokes,' he agreed grimly. 'But none the less true. I know how incredibly lucky I've been, and now I think it's my turn to try to help other people, if that doesn't sound too incredibly pompous.'

  'You said it.' The words were out before she could stop them, and at once she was overcome with a shame which made her long to deny them. 'Oh, I'm sorry.' She raked a distracted hand through her hah-. 'Of course I didn't mean it.'

  'No?' His expression was impassive, detached in a way that struck terror into her heart, brought her back to the core of her need: the determination to change his mind.

  'But there's so much to be done in this country if you have a social conscience.'

  'We're not talking about a social conscience. We're talking about a part of the world where there is real, desperate need, Leigh. Don't forget I've seen a fan: amount of that in South America, and Bangladesh is one of the poorest countries in the world.'

  'But-----' her voice was thick with unshed tears ' —but what about me?' This was the bottom line. 'What about me?'

  'Oh, you silly little fool.' Quite miraculously his face cleared. With two steps he had crossed to her, his arms were about her again, swinging her above the ground, and his voice held relief. 'Surely you didn't imagine...? Or maybe you did, because stupidly I didn't explain properly. You don't imagine I'm going to leave you here, do you? You're coming with me, of course. We're both going to Bangladesh.'

  For just a few minutes it was possible to rest there, head above his heart, dreaming, pretending, however briefly, that what he was suggesting was possible. But then, wearily, she had to pull herself away, distance herself from his power. 'But what makes you think, Patrick— what possible grounds do you have for thinking— that I have the slightest intention of going to Bangladesh?'

  For a long time he stood there, arms at his sides, simply challenging her, while she could hardly bear to look into his face. 'Because I want you?' he suggested quietly in the end. Then, since she showed no sign of answering, he went on, 'Can't you see, Leigh, what a worthwhile thing it would be for us to do this together? After all, I'm not the only one who has had advantages— every one of us here has privileges most people can only dream of... I'm asking you to come with me, Leigh.'

  At that moment there was something authoritarian about him, almost paternal, as if he had little doubt that in the end he would compel her to concede. She turned away before her judgement could be swayed, walked into their bedroom and began to hang away some blouses she had ironed earlier, very aware that he had followed, was lounging in the doorway, intent and determined.

  'I'm not coming, Patrick.' She spoke before glancing across at him, knowing how much more difficult it would be to refuse if he wore a certain very persuasive expression, then made a great play of adjusting a silk blouse on its hanger. 'And even if I wanted to it would be impossible for me to go so far with my mother's health as it is.' As she had known it would, this remark caused him to sigh heavily and, possibly because it was such a predictable response, she chose to see it as a deliberate slight against her mother, ignoring the reality of the problem which they had discussed many times and from every angle. 'Oh, yes.' Did her voice perhaps sound the least bit querulous? 'It's all right for you. It must be wonderful never to have known-----'

  'You know what I think about that.' Which was undeniable, as was the fact that for much of the time they had been in total agreement that many of her mother's illnesses were, if not entirely imaginary, certainly less serious than she liked to pretend, and likely to evaporate completely if something came along to tempt her from them.

  'Yes. I do know what you think.'

  'Your mother has your father with her. It would be quite different if she were on her own.'

  'You don't understand.' The unfairness of it all struck at her. 'How could you have any idea what it's like to be an only child? But anyway, this is all beside the point because I'm not going to Bangladesh—in the first case because I'm convinced I'd be nothing but an encumbrance, and in the second...' Her voice wobbled as the spectre of a future without him wavered in fro
nt of her eyes; white teeth caught at her lower lip as she forced herself to go on. 'I... notice you aren't showing a great deal of interest in my piece of news.'

  'No, I'm sorry. I was about to ask you about that.'

  'I told you, didn't I, that Dr Acheson said he'd heard of something which might suit me? Well, it's a post for a researcher at Westminster, and if I want it the job's mine. I just met him and he told me. Naturally I assured him it's exactly what I want. It's as simple as that.'

  'Is it?' All at once his nerves, his patience were beginning to show signs of wear and tear. 'And what if I beg you to come with me? If I tell you it won't be at all the same without you, that it's an experience we ought to share together, something as worthwhile, as tremendous as this? It's something we'll remember for the rest of our lives, light-years away from a dogsbody doing tinpot research in the House of Commons.'

  The silence as they stared at each other seemed endless. Each of them was angry, desperate with misery, disappointed that the other could be so wrong, determined not to be the one to give way. When at last Leigh spoke she made no effort to hide her weariness. 'I think that just about says it all, don't you? What to me is a wonderful opportunity is nothing at all to you. You couldn't have been more dismissive if I'd said I was going to work on a supermarket check-out.' Her hurt and mortification grew. 'All right, you go off to Bangladesh if you must, ease your social conscience in any way that seems appropriate to you, only, don't expect me to stand quietly on the sidelines while you satisfy your burning ambitions.'

  Recollection of those precise words caused more than a touch of shame and embarrassment when she had cooled down. She hadn't meant them, and taken purely at face value they could have indicated, to anyone who didn't know her, that was, that her own ego was in dominant mood...

  And Patrick, too, had an opinion about that. It was obvious in the narrowing of his dark eyes as well as in his stony expression, in the tightness of his jaw and lips. 'You're not hinting, are you, Leigh, that I'm off on some kind of self-serving jaunt? If that is in your mind, then...' His shrug was a mark of contempt which made her shrink. 'And as for the idea that you might stand quietly on the sidelines... I have far too much respect for you to think along those lines. You're not the kind of woman I would ever see simply as an adjunct.' In spite of all the contrary indications his voice was light, just a tiny undertow of steel recognisable to someone who knew him as she did. 'So in that respect you could hardly have got it more wrong. Not that it matters now. Not in the very least.'