by Betty Neels
She mumbled her own goodnight and sat down by the fire, looking composed. She even smiled, but too late, he’d already closed the door behind him.
Then she sat there, doing nothing, although there were still a few presents to wrap, and even last minute Christmas cards to do. She had forgotten them entirely while she tried to decide what to do. Obviously the matter couldn’t rest; she and Gideon would have to have a talk. Something could be worked out and in a sensible fashion; she didn’t think that he wanted to be rid of her, he had wanted a mother for Eleanor and she knew without conceit that she had more than come up to his expectations. On the other hand, if she hadn’t fallen in love with him, she would have taken Barbara as a matter of course and not minded over much, although he should have told her that he was in love with her, she frowned, but when they had married, he hadn’t known about Barbara’s return from America, had he?
She went upstairs to her room and got ready for bed. She had made a fine mess of everything, now how to put it right? No amount of thinking helped; she slept at length, her head a kaleidoscope of highly colourful fancies.
Morning brought common sense and pride to the rescue, as well as a nagging fear at the back of her mind that Gideon might have wondered why she had suddenly become such a weepy, waspish young woman, quite unlike her most normal calm, quiet self. Something which must be nipped in the bud at once.
He was coming into the hall from the kitchen, the dogs at his heels, as she got downstairs and she didn’t waste a moment in putting her resolution into effect. Her good-morning was cheerful, friendly and brisk; she followed it up with a remark about the weather, a grey stormy morning which didn’t merit mention, anyway, and then sat herself down to breakfast.
Gideon had wished her good-morning, accepted his cup of coffee and begun on his post. She began on her own breakfast in silence, thinking sadly that she might just as well not have been there and then telling herself bracingly that self pity wasn’t going to do her a ha’p’orth of good, so she opened her own letters and read them through several times until he put the last of his mail down and passed her several cards.
‘More invitations—we had better accept these, I think, and give a party after Christmas.’
‘So I’ll accept them all?’
‘Yes, if you will. And we still have to decide about Christmas. Eleanor has always stayed either with Peggy or my mother and I’ve joined her for a few days, but we shall have to change that, shan’t we?’
Here was an opportunity for her to let him see that she was still the sensible, undemanding girl that he had married. ‘I expect you took the opportunity to visit your friends—well, I’ll be here with Eleanor—I mean, she need not stay with Mrs Beaufort or Peggy and I expect you’ll be here for some of the time…’ Her voice trailed away under his ferocious stare.
‘You talk arrant nonsense Deborah.’ He gathered up his letters and got up and stalked out of the room, leaving her to stare at her plate. She discovered that she wasn’t only angry, but that she was very unhappy too. After a few minutes’ thought she got up quickly and marched across the hall and flung the study door open without knocking.
Gideon was standing at the french window, staring out into the garden. He looked over his shoulder with a frown and then raised his brows in surprise, but before he could speak, Deborah said very flatly: ‘I’m going to see Mother, I’ll take the presents and stay for lunch.’
She flew out again and galloped up the stairs, fearful that he might come after her, but he didn’t and she felt quite irrational disappointment.
She put on her splendid coat, found scarf, handbag and gloves then went almost stealthily downstairs, anxious not to meet Gideon. But before she went she would have to see Mrs Buckle and arrange for his lunch; she went to the kitchen and Mrs Buckle, asked to produce lunch for her master, nodded uncertainly. ‘So he won’t be going with you madam?’
‘Well, no, Mrs Buckle—he has some work he wants to finish.’
‘I see madam—and Christmas? What will the arrangements be? There’s not much time?’
Deborah said hastily: ‘Yes, I know—I’m sorry Mrs Buckle, but we’ll let you know this evening—I’ll be back this afternoon and we’ll talk about it then.’
‘Right, madam,’ said Mrs Buckle and glanced out of the window. ‘Nasty weather blowing up if you ask me, will you be driving the Mini?’
‘Yes it’s quite a short trip and I know the road very well.’
She smiled and went through the door into the back lobby of the house where everyone kept their macs and wellies and dog leads hung on the wall; out of sight were the keys for the Mini and the Buckles’ car.
Deborah stretched out a hand. There was only one set of keys and they weren’t for the Mini. They were not on the floor either, she got down on her knees to make sure.
‘They are in my pocket, Deborah,’ said Gideon behind her, and she scrambled to her feet, furious at being found grovelling. She put out a hand wordlessly, but he didn’t give her the keys, instead he caught her hand in his and held it fast. ‘I’ll drive you, Debby. There’s bad weather on the way, and even if the sun were blazing from a blue sky, I would still drive you.’
‘Why?’ asked Deborah and seeing his face, caught her breath, closed her beautiful eyes and opened them again just to make sure. He was looking at her as though she were something precious to be cherished; there was no mockery in his face now only an intentness and a question. Suddenly all the things she had longed to say and had kept bottled up, came pouring out; she didn’t care any more what he might think or say, if only he would go on looking like that for ever.
‘I’ve made a fine hash of things,’ the words tripped off her tongue and she made no attempt to stop them. ‘I truly didn’t mean to, you know and it would have been all right if I hadn’t fallen in love with you, I mean I wouldn’t have minded about you always being away and looking at me as though I wasn’t there and Lady Barbara Inge…’
She choked to a stop because Gideon’s great chest was heaving with laughter. ‘Oh, you…’ she cried and thumped him with her free hand, to have it caught and gently held. He had both her hands now, she tugged at them, but he pulled her close and put his arms around her, holding her very tightly.
‘Hush,’ he said in a voice as gentle as his hands had been. ‘Listen to me, my dearest girl. I don’t know when I first discovered that I loved you; I suppose it must have been from the first moment we met, only I didn’t realise—you grew on me, slowly, until you were with me all the time, wherever I was. Most disconcerting it was, I can tell you. And the more I loved you the more difficult I found it to say so; I tried teasing you to be met with your most nannyish airs, I tried telling myself that I would get over what was no more than an infatuation, only my God it wasn’t—it isn’t. I’ve never loved anyone in my life as I love you, darling, my darling. There isn’t a woman who can hold a candle to you.’
He bent and kissed her hard and then gently, and Deborah slid her arms round his neck and kissed him back. When she had her breath she started: ‘Lady Ba…’
‘Oh, lord, not her again,’ declared Gideon, ‘unwitting bait, sweetheart, to try and trap you into letting me see your real feelings.’
‘You never guessed?’
He shook his head. ‘No, but just once or twice I hoped…’ He kissed her again and Mrs Buckle opened the door, gave a surprised squawk and began to retreat. Gideon didn’t loosen his hold on Deborah. ‘Ah, Mrs Buckle—we shall both be out for lunch, and while we are gone, you may start making plans for Christmas and don’t tell me that there isn’t enough time. Spend what you want to. My wife and I will arrange the details while we are at her mother’s and let you know this evening.’
Mrs Buckle nodded speechlessly and disappeared as Deborah said: ‘But Gideon, darling, how can we at the last minute…’
‘Say that again my love.’
‘At the last minute…’
‘Quite easily. Say that again, darling.’
&nbs
p; ‘At the last minute?’
‘Not that bit…’
‘Gideon, darling,’ said Deborah and was kissed for her pains.
ISBN: 978-1-4268-7501-4
YEAR’S HAPPY ENDING
Copyright © 1984 by Betty Neels
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