Marriage at a Distance

by Craven, Sara

  Joanna bit her lip. ‘I don’t think Lionel was considering anyone’s personal wishes when he drew up his will.’

  ‘No.’ Cynthia’s eyes sparked with sudden malice. ‘Or he wouldn’t have put in that absurd clause about Gabriel having to stay married to you for another year. The poor sweet looked positively murderous when it was read out.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Joanna said politely. ‘Then what a pity I only fainted instead of actually dropping dead from shock. Think of the trouble it would have saved.’

  Cynthia’s crimson lips tightened. ‘What nonsense you talk sometimes.’

  ‘Well, you won’t have to put up with it much longer,’ Joanna said cheerfully. ‘Not if you move to Larkspur Cottage.’

  ‘Then you’re willing to rent it to me?’ Cynthia sounded surprised.

  ‘Why not?’

  Her stepmother shrugged. ‘It occurred to me that you might try to put a spoke in my wheel. Play dog in the manger.’ A slight acid entered her voice.

  ‘If it comes to that, the place doesn’t actually belong to me yet,’ Joanna pointed out levelly. ‘Henry Fortescue and Gabriel are joint executors. Presumably they have no objection.’

  ‘Well, Gabriel certainly doesn’t.’ Cynthia stretched voluptuously. ‘It was all his own idea.’ She looked at Joanna from under her lashes. ‘But I don’t suppose he told you that. After all, it wouldn’t be very tactful—under the circumstances.’

  Joanna had the strangest feeling that she’d just been pierced to the heart with a spear of ice.

  Her voice, too, seemed to be coming from some far distance. And to belong to a stranger. ‘In other words, it’s more convenient for both of you to conduct your affair under a different roof. No, he’d hardly be likely to mention that.’

  Cynthia shrugged again. ‘Naturally, he’d want to spare your feelings, darling. While you’re still officially his wife, that is.’

  Joanna recovered herself. ‘But you, clearly, have no such compunction.’ Her tone was dry.

  Cynthia laughed. ‘Well, I’d already told you my intentions.’

  ‘Does Gabriel know that?’

  ‘Well, hardly.’ Cynthia’s tone was dismissive. ‘Men are such egotists, darling. He wouldn’t want to know you’d given your permission, as it were. I expect, in his heart of hearts, he’d much prefer to think you minded—that you still cared—a little.’

  She got to her feet. ‘Now I think I’ll go and have a look round the cottage. It’s partly furnished, I know, but there are things I’ll need to get.’ She smiled slowly. ‘A bigger bed, for starters.’ She paused, allowing that to be absorbed. Then, ‘Tell Mrs Ashby that I won’t be in for lunch, there’s a dear.’

  Joanna watched her leave the room. Her whole body ached with tension, and there was a weird drumming in her ears.

  Cynthia’s news should have come as a welcome relief, yet its effect had been the opposite. She felt dizzy—crucified with emotional pain. And she knew why, and for the first time was prepared to admit it.

  ‘I do mind.’ She said the anguished words aloud. ‘God help me, I do care. And somehow I’m going to have to live with this.’

  She shook her head. How could she have been such a fool—so blind, so stubborn? How had she failed to see that even the fiasco of their failed marriage could not kill the love and longing that Gabriel had always engendered in her? Pride and a sense of betrayal might have driven it underground, but could never destroy it.

  And this was the truth she now had to face. Now, at the very moment that Gabriel had chosen to begin an affair.

  Somehow, she told herself, I’ve got to hide the pain and simply pretend—to Cynthia, to the staff, to all our friends and acquaintances. And to Gabriel. She swallowed. Oh, God, particularly to Gabriel. I must never—ever let him know. I’ve told him the marriage is over—if it ever really began—and that’s how it must remain.

  She drew a deep breath. He’s creating a new life for himself. And whatever I may think about it, it’s what he’s chosen, she thought, biting her lip until she could taste blood. And I’ve got to do the same. Because hoping that Gabriel might change—that he might love me as his wife in the way that I need to be loved—is a futile exercise.

  Oh, he’d take me to bed, if I gave him the chance. He’s no angel, after all, and I must be one of his few failures, so he has something to prove. But it wouldn’t change a thing—because sex without love is meaningless—a travesty, and I couldn’t bear it.

  So, by holding him at arm’s length I’ve done something right, at least, even if I didn’t realise it at the time.

  She lifted her chin. She’d made believe that she didn’t love Gabriel—didn’t want him—for nearly three years. Up to a few minutes ago she’d even deceived herself. Until another woman—and Cynthia, of all people—had shown her the truth about herself.

  She thought, If I can go on pretending for another year.

  But she knew, all the same, in spite of her brave thoughts, that ahead of her were the twelve longest, loneliest and most desolate months of her entire life.

  CHAPTER SIX

  WORK kept her going, coupled with the kindness of friends and neighbours. She rode out each day with Sadie, took the dogs for long walks, helped clear the winter debris from the garden, and worked out a regime for spring cleaning the entire house with Mrs Ashby.

  They began, as instructed, with the massive master bedroom, packing Lionel’s clothes and personal effects into boxes in a strained and careful silence. The room had been decorated the previous year, so all that was really needed, after a thorough cleaning, was to change the curtains at the windows and around the massive four-poster bed.

  Lionel had favoured a rather florid deep red, but Joanna found some much lighter drapes in a subtle olive-green, and these were pressed and hung.

  For the bed she chose the best Irish linen sheets and pillowcases, adding a quilted satin coverlet that combined the olive of the curtains with shades of amber and dark brown in an intricate pattern. But she couldn’t bring herself to assist Mrs Ashby in making it up. There was only so much she could reasonably be expected to stand, she thought, beating a hasty retreat on the mendacious grounds that Sadie needed her in the stables.

  Not that Gabriel would be spending many nights there anyway.

  She found she was spending as much time away from the house as she could, accepting with genuine gratitude the invitations to lunch and dinner that were pressed on her by local people.

  Some of the invitations, she knew, were impelled by curiosity too. Rumours of Lionel’s will and its strange provisions had inevitably leaked out, and people, aware of the separation between Gabriel and herself, were bound to speculate—and attempt a little delicate probing.

  Joanna stone-walled the questions, and evaded committing herself about the future.

  Not difficult, when she herself had no idea where she would go or what she would do.

  On the face of it, she could take the easy option. Endure the year, then find a property well away from Westroe and its memories, and live on the income that Lionel had provided for that purpose. But she knew that wouldn’t do.

  I’ve hidden from life for too long already, she thought. I need a career—some direction to my existence. Something that will stop me thinking…

  But none of the plans she hatched for herself during the restless nights held any appeal in the merciless light of morning.

  Get through one day at a time, she adjured herself. That’s as much as you can hope for at present.

  Cynthia’s coming removal to Larkspur Cottage had also aroused discreet comment, but again Joanna refused to be drawn.

  Anyway, if the local grapevine was working with its usual efficiency, they would all soon know what the score was, she thought unhappily. And then she’d have to endure them all feeling sorry for her.

  Their sympathy for her over Lionel she could welcome, but to be pitied because her husband was having a blatant fling with her stepmother was a very different matter.<
br />
  Cynthia’s preparations were in full swing already. She was rarely at the Manor during the day at all, which, as Joanna silently admitted, suited her fine.

  Henry Fortescue was drawing up a lease for the cottage, although he’d looked down his nose at the token rent which Joanna had suggested. But then he probably didn’t realise who would actually be paying it, Joanna reminded herself. And it was not her business to tell him.

  ‘How does Mrs Elcott intend to earn her living?’ Henry Fortescue had looked sternly over his glasses. ‘You’ve been extremely generous over the rent, but she will still have the local tax to pay, and heating bills.’ He paused. ‘The allowance which Lionel paid her as your companion ceased on his death, of course.’

  Joanna looked at the floor. ‘I believe Gabriel intends to continue it.’ She kept her face and voice expressionless.

  ‘Quite extraordinary,’ Mr Fortescue said dourly.

  Not when you knew the facts, Joanna thought unhappily, although Gabriel must be totally besotted to let her manipulate him like this.

  He’d telephoned each evening while he was away, and Cynthia had taken the calls. Try as she would, Joanna could not avoid the sound of her voice, speaking softly and intimately, with the occasional husky giggle, although thankfully she could not make out exactly what was being said.

  It would be a relief, she thought, when Cynthia actually moved herself to the cottage and she no longer had to see or hear what was going on. And if she could have her imagination removed by some kind of lobotomy, that would be a bonus too.

  ‘By the way, darling,’ Cynthia said casually over breakfast, a few days before Gabriel’s projected return. ‘You don’t mind if I take some things with me to Larkspur?’

  ‘What did you have in mind?’ Joanna was going through the post, dividing bills and official communications from personal letters.

  Cynthia waved an airy hand. ‘Oh, just home comforts. The picture Lionel left me, of course, and a few of the bits and pieces from my room.’

  ‘I presume you’ve already cleared it with Gabriel.’ Joanna slit open an envelope with precision. ‘So why ask me?’

  ‘Well, you are the mistress of the house.’ Cynthia paused. ‘Nominally at least.’

  ‘So I am,’ Joanna agreed drily. ‘How could I forget?’ She looked down at the letter in her hand. ‘Oh, the Osbornes are back from Portugal. I’d better go over there this afternoon and see Sylvia. She’s obviously terribly upset that they weren’t here when it happened.’ She picked up the pile of correspondence. ‘Do you want to come with me?’

  Cynthia studied her nail varnish. ‘Absolutely not. Sylvia Osborne’s the dullest woman in the neighbourhood, and I can’t stand any more weeping and wailing.’

  ‘She’s also Gabriel’s godmother, and he’s very fond of her,’ Joanna reminded her levelly. ‘And you can hardly call a highly successful landscape painter dull.’

  Cynthia shrugged. ‘Well, you rush round and admire her latest daub. I’ve got better things to do.’

  ‘The hairdresser?’ Joanna suggested lightly on her way to the door.

  ‘Beauty parlour, actually. A whole day’s pampering from my head down to my toes.’ Cynthia gave her a cat-like smile. ‘I want to be looking and feeling my best when Gabriel returns.’ Her smile widened. ‘Of course, you don’t have to worry about things like that. You do your bit by keeping the dogs and horses happy.’

  ‘I know my place,’ Joanna agreed equably, and went out of the room, followed by the dogs. She phoned Sylvia Osborne and left a message on the answering machine, suggesting that she would call over during the afternoon. Then she went out to the stables.

  Sadie emerged from the tack room. ‘Morning, Jo. Shall I saddle up Minnie for you?’

  ‘Change of plan today.’ Joanna gave the elderly mare, who was her usual mount, a consoling pat, and moved on to Nutkin’s box. She ran her hand down his handsome nose. ‘I’d better give this lad some exercise today. Heaven knows, he needs it.’

  Sadie hesitated. ‘Mr Gabriel said no one was to ride him but himself,’ she offered uncertainly.

  ‘Nonsense,’ Joanna said briskly, relegating her own doubts about handling the chestnut to the back of her mind. ‘Nutkin can’t stand around waiting for him to get back from his European tour. Let’s get him tacked up.’

  Sadie still held back. ‘Mr Gabriel was quite definite about it, Jo. He’s not sure about Nutkin’s temperament.’ Her eyes brimmed suddenly. ‘Poor Mr Lionel. I know it wasn’t the horse’s fault…’

  ‘No,’ Joanna said briskly. ‘It certainly wasn’t, and I won’t allow him to be demonised because of it. Don’t look so worried, Sadie,’ she added more gently. ‘Mr Gabriel isn’t here, and, anyway, I’ll take full responsibility. I’m just going to hack him quietly round the lanes.’

  Sadie looked as if this was little consolation, but together they saddled Nutkin, who was inclined to take exception to their attentions.

  As Joanna had expected, he was lively in the extreme, and not easy to hold, but he didn’t drop his head, or buck to try and unseat her as she eased him, sidling and dancing, out of the yard, the dogs following behind.

  ‘It’s all right, my beauty,’ she told him softly. ‘You and I are going to be friends.’

  It wasn’t the most comfortable ride she’d ever had. Nutkin was suspicious of everything, and an approaching cyclist had him rooted to the spot, eyes rolling.

  Joanna spoke gently and reassuringly, but kept firm control as she urged him past this apparently alarming hazard.

  After that it became much easier. The lanes were quiet on a chill, grey morning, and the rest of the ride passed without incident. Until Joanna turned for home.

  She noticed something large and white in the hedge ahead of them, and by the way Nutkin began to fidget and toss his head he’d seen it too. As she got closer she realised it was a sheet of newspaper. As they drew level, with Nutkin snorting in protest, the wind caught it and it suddenly ballooned upwards.

  Nutkin whinnied in fright and reared upwards, with Joanna clinging onto him for grim death as he plunged and skittered, his hooves sliding on the frosty road.

  She heard a shout, and saw a young man—a stranger—running towards her.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Getting there,’ Joanna returned breathlessly.

  He grabbed the bridle, and, between them, Nutkin came back under control.

  Once Nutkin was quiet, the newcomer walked over to the hedge, seized the offending newspaper and crushed it into a ball which he thrust into the pocket of his quilted jacket.

  He came back to Joanna’s side and looked up at her. He was tall, with fair hair, and blue eyes which crinkled at the corners when he smiled. He said, ‘Thank God you’re all right. I really thought you were coming off there. You could have been hurt really badly.’

  ‘But I didn’t, and I wasn’t.’ Joanna was more shaken than she cared to admit, but she returned his smile with an effort. ‘But from now I’ll ride him up on the hill, where there aren’t any stray newspapers or other white flapping things to spook him.’ She paused. ‘And thank you for your help, too.’

  ‘You didn’t really need it. You’re one terrific rider.’

  She shook her head. ‘If I was, I might have seen the problem coming and avoided it.’

  It occurred to her that she’d never seen him before, which was unusual out of the holiday season.

  She said, ‘Are you staying locally?’

  ‘I’m actually living here now. I came down to visit old friends, found they’d moved on, and decided to stay anyway.’ He held out his hand. ‘I’m Paul Gordon.’

  ‘Verne—Joanna Verne,’ Joanna said as they shook hands.

  ‘Is that Miss or Mrs?’

  She felt her cheeks warm under the frank appraisal in his blue eyes. ‘Mrs,’ she returned briefly.

  He gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘Just my luck. And I was hoping I’d met someone who could show me around—maybe have dinner wit
h me.’

  Joanna laughed. ‘Sorry about that—but I’m sure you’ll soon make friends.’

  She heard a rumbling noise and glanced down. Jess and Molly were standing menacingly, legs stiff and hackles raised, as they growled at the newcomer.

  ‘Hey, you two,’ Joanna admonished them. ‘Everything’s fine. Don’t be silly.’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m rather nervous of dogs,’ Paul Gordon said, grimacing. ‘I expect they can sense that.’

  ‘Possibly.’ Joanna frowned. ‘Yet they’re usually very friendly.’ She hesitated. ‘Well, I’d better be getting back before someone raises an alarm. Thanks again for your help, and—I’ll see you around.’

  ‘You can count on it.’ He stepped back, lifting a hand in a cheerful salute.

  The dogs gave a final throaty bark, and followed her.

  ‘I’m ashamed of you both,’ she told them severely. At the corner, she realised she hadn’t asked where he was living. She glanced back, but Paul Gordon had disappeared.

  As she rode into the stableyard the dogs dashed past her, whimpering joyfully and uttering short, staccato barks of excitement.

  With a swift lurch of the heart, she saw Gabriel standing at the door of the tack room waiting for her, his hands thrust into the pockets of his navy overcoat.

  Her lips began to curve involuntarily into a smile of welcome, but there was no answering warmth in his expression.

  Instinct told her that he was very angry.

  She leaned forward, patting the gelding’s neck to hide the swift colour which had risen in her face.

  Her voice sounded high, and rather brittle. ‘Surprise, surprise. You weren’t expected back for several days yet.’

  ‘Evidently.’ His tone was icy. He looked past her to an apprehensive Sadie, just emerging from one of the loose boxes. ‘I gave orders that only I was to ride this horse. Why have I been disobeyed?’

  Joanna said quickly, ‘It’s not Sadie’s fault. She told me what you’d said, and I—I overruled her.’

  She saw his face darken, and added, ‘If you want to talk about it later, then I’ll listen. But, for the moment, Nutkin’s needs take priority.’