by Anne Weale
Instead she said lightly, ‘I’ve always liked surprises. By the way, I’d like to read your investigator’s report on me. Is there any reason why I shouldn’t see it?’
‘None at all. I’ll have a copy sent to you.’
After bringing her home, Reid didn’t suggest extending their time together by staying the night before returning to London.
Within an hour of arriving, he was back in the car. Watching him drive away, Fran felt that his goodbye kiss had been almost perfunctory, as if having done what was necessary to bring matters to the point of a public announcement, his mind was now on other things which had nothing to do with her.
The announcement was in the ‘Forthcoming Marriages’ column of two of the serious newspapers next day.
Fran’s mother cut them out and pasted them in one of the two albums she had bought long ago to record the major events in her daughters’ lives.
During the morning an express courier service delivered a package. Fortunately Fran saw it coming from her bedroom window and ran downstairs, calling to Janie that she would answer the door.
She took the package back to her room and read it in private. Much of the information the investigator had unearthed was similar to the stuff in her mother’s album. Not surprisingly, his report said she had been ‘extremely discreet’ in her relationships with members of the opposite sex. He had dug up quite a lot of clippings showing her as a bridesmaid at friends’ weddings or attending fashionable parties, but always laughing and chatting with other women, never tête-à-tête with a man. ‘In London Ms Turner frequents fashionable shops and smart restaurants,’ he had noted.
The report went into considerable detail about her parents and grandparents, so Reid had been under no illusions about her family background when he summoned her to his presence.
The most surprisingly item was a quote from the headmistress of her school. ‘Francesca didn’t always make the best of her time here and, academically, her achievements fell considerably short of our hopes for her. But she left us with the impression that, once she had found her métier, she would do well and become a useful and resourceful member of society.’
How on earth had the author of the report managed to extract that comment from the formidable Miss Watson? Fran wondered. And why ‘resourceful’? Although she knew the word’s meaning, looking it up in the dictionary for a more exact definition, she found ‘ingenious, capable, and full of initiative, esp. in dealing with difficult situations.’
But it hadn’t been her initiative which had resolved the difficulties following her father’s bankruptcy and death, she thought wryly. All she had done in that situation was to grasp the solution offered to her. There was nothing resourceful about that, except in the sense that it took a degree of nerve to grab such a desperate solution. Although there were plenty of women who wouldn’t regard marriage to a rich man who was neither too old for her nor physically repulsive as much of a penance.
At Reid’s suggestion, she went to London again the following week, ostensibly to buy her wedding outfit and trousseau. Actually she went to see him, only to find he had gone to a meeting in Brussels and she was alone with Lady Kennard, Mrs Onslow being in the country with one of her daughters who had just had a baby.
‘I was going down to Devon, but I thought you might not care for being here on your own,’ Lady Kennard said graciously. In fact Fran would have preferred it. She could have spent hours in Reid’s book room, getting to know his library, instead of being forced to take part in conversations designed to make her feel an unworthy addition to the Kennard dynasty.
She bore it as best she could but dug her heels in when Lady K suggested accompanying her on shopping forays. Fran had decided to wear something she already owned and only to buy some glamorous underwear.
On her second night in London, Reid returned, surprised and possibly displeased to find his grandmother still in residence.
After dinner, he asked her to excuse them which left her looking put out while they went up to the book room.
‘How have you been getting on?’ he asked, on the way upstairs.
‘Fine,’ she said brightly. ‘As you know from the report on me, shopping is one of my favourite occupations.’
He smiled and reached for her hand. ‘Then you should be in a good mood, but I sense that you’re not. Having cold feet?’
The clasp of his long strong fingers should have been reassuring, but somehow it wasn’t.
‘Can you honestly say you don’t have any doubts?’
‘If I had I would call it off. You don’t have to go through with this, Francesca. If you really feel you can’t face it...’ He left the sentence unfinished.
Instead of answering that, she said, ‘I want to know why you chose me. There has to be more to it than the reasons you’ve given so far.’
He released her hand and was silent until they were in the book room. Closing the door, he gestured for her to be seated on one of the sofas. But instead of joining her there, he sat down on the other one. For the first time in their acquaintance he looked a little worn and she wondered about the business that had taken him to Brussels and whether the trip had been successful.
‘When you belong to a family like mine, you have special responsibilities. You start learning about them early. I grew up accepting that, eventually, an accumulation of tradition would rest on my shoulders. From a long way back, the Kennards have always married the daughters of other banking families.’
Suddenly he sprang to his feet and began to pace about the room. ‘I think it’s time to introduce some fresh genes into our bloodline. Your father started from nothing and was extremely successful until he overreached himself. I admire him for that. The chances are that his driving force will jump a generation and motivate the children we have.’
‘Couldn’t you have found someone with driving force whose daughters did better at school than I did?’
‘The qualities that make a head girl or a games captain aren’t necessarily what a man looks for in his wife. You have other attributes.’ His hard eyes appraised her figure and legs. ‘Come over here...’
Fran wasn’t sure she liked being spoken to in an authoritative tone which took it for granted she would obey his command. At the same time something within her was excited by his dominance.
She rose and crossed to the other sofa, intending to sit beside him but finding herself drawn onto his lap.
Unlike that of many tall men, Reid’s height wasn’t mostly in the length of his legs or in an extra-long torso. She had noticed during their round of family visits that he was in perfect proportion. Usually she had to look up at him. Now, sitting on his thighs, she found their eye-levels almost matched.
‘I’ve just spent forty-eight hours surrounded by powermongers, mostly male. It’s a relaxing change to be alone with someone delectably female.’ He laid one arm across her legs while his other hand moved up her back to bury itself in her hair. ‘Tell me about your shopping. What did you buy?’
‘Things to wear wherever it is that we’re going. But don’t worry, I’m not a person who packs for every conceivable eventuality and routinely exceeds their baggage allowance. I travel as lightly as possible and fill any gaps when I get there.’ She was aware, as she spoke, that it wasn’t easy to keep her mind on what she was saying. Her brain seemed to be closing down leaving only her senses functioning.
‘Good. That’s my system too. I rarely take more than a suit bag and a flight bag.’
She had the feeling that Reid was also on autopilot, the focus of his thoughts quite different from what he was talking about. His right hand was lightly caressing her hip, his left hand shaped to the back of her head with the tip of his thumb moving gently in the soft crevice behind her ear. She knew that very soon now he was going to kiss her. She had the feeling that though he had promised to respect the condition she had set the last time they were in this room, the kiss might still go a lot further than any of his previous kisses.
The next moment two things happened. The telephone started to ring and, at the very same instant, she became aware of his body’s involuntary response to their closeness.
Reid muttered an angry expletive but he didn’t attempt to restrain her when she jumped up to allow him to take the call. The telephone was on one of the end tables flanking the other sofa.
Calls to the Kennards’ number listed in the telephone directory were answered by Curtis, the butler. Reid had given her the ex-directory number for the extensions in his part of the house and also his mobile number.
Whoever was calling had to be on close terms with him. She could also hear that the voice which spoke after his curt ‘Hello’ was feminine.
Wondering if their embrace had been aborted by one of his former girlfriends, Fran listened to his side of the conversation. Soon it was clear that the caller was someone wanting to know why they hadn’t been asked to the wedding. Which seemed to rule out his old flames.
While listening to a long and indignant-sounding statement by the caller, Reid leaned back and closed his eyes, his lips compressed with contained exasperation.
Fran found herself wondering what he would do if, while he was still on the phone, she went over, snuggled up beside him and did something sexy like nibbling the lobe of his ear or running her palm over his washboard midriff. She realised she was longing to see the body beneath the international businessman’s uniform of expensive bespoke suit and shirt.
She had first seen Julian’s body when he was fifteen and she was ten, swimming in the Turners’ pool the first summer after her father engaged Jack Wallace as his chauffeur. Julian had been skinny then but had filled out quite a lot since. He certainly wasn’t anything like a cartoonist’s idea of an academic, four-eyed and round-shouldered. But at no time when they had been alone together had she felt impelled to unbutton his shirt and slip her hand inside to explore his chest: an impulse she had felt more than once in Reid’s company.
He said goodbye to the caller and replaced the receiver. But he didn’t beckon Fran back to his lap. Instead, standing up, he said, ‘As you’ll have gathered, that was one of my cousins wanting to know why we’re having a quiet wedding. I’m feeling a bit bushed tonight. If you don’t mind, I’ll turn in early.’
‘Of course not.’ He did look tired, but not that tired. A few moments ago he had been ready to make love. Clearly it was an excuse to avoid the temptation to go back on his promise.
They returned to the landing, said goodnight and went in different directions.
With her grandmother, mother and sister—but not John who had to stay at home with the children—Fran spent the night before her wedding in a hotel suite booked for them by Reid’s secretary.
They had dinner in the hotel restaurant.
‘So we shan’t be meeting his family till after the wedding,’ said Gran, with a disapproving sniff. ‘If it had been my grandson getting wed, and his bride-to-be’s family having to do all the travelling, I’d have laid on a welcome at my house, small as it is. It seems like his side of the family don’t want to know about our side.’
‘We’re their guests here, Mum,’ said Fran’s mother. ‘This is a lovely hotel but the flowers in our rooms are an extra. That was a very thoughtful touch.’
‘We’re not invited to the house. Where I come from that’s next door to telling you straight you’re not wanted.’
‘That’s nonsense, Gran,’ Fran said firmly, although in her heart she felt there was a good deal of truth in the old lady’s allegation, especially as far as Lady Kennard was concerned. Gran’s grammatical mistakes and north-country expressions wouldn’t go down at all well with that arch-snob. They wouldn’t matter to Mrs Heatherley. She would judge people by the warmth of their hearts, their capacity for kindness.
‘Lady Kennard is older than you are and she doesn’t have your energy,’ she continued. ‘Having the wedding lunch here will be less of a strain for her.’
‘I thought you said she had a butler and other staff? It would have been them doing the work, not her ladyship.’
‘Yes, but it’s still very stressful, having the reception at home, Mum,’ put in her daughter.
‘Eight people! You call that a reception?’ Gran was in one of her tetchy moods.
She went on niggling until Fran, exasperated, said, ‘You’re upsetting me, Gran. Getting married is nerve-racking enough without you finding fault with everything. Tomorrow is my big day...even if it’s different from your idea of a wedding. Can we please talk about something else?’
Later, while she was getting ready for bed in the twin-bedded room she was sharing with her sister while the others were in single rooms on the far side of the sitting room, Shelley said, ‘When you said getting married was nerve-racking, you were only trying to make Gran shut up, weren’t you, Franny? You aren’t really jittery, are you?’
‘Isn’t that normal with brides? Weren’t you, the night before you married John?’
‘I was in bed with John,’ her sister said, with a grin. ‘We’d been making love whenever we had the chance. When everyone else was in bed, I sneaked out and joined him in his room. His parents were in the room next to his, so we had to be as quiet as mice. It was actually better than the next night when I was tired from being on show all day. Big weddings are fun for the guests, but they’re a terrific strain on the couple getting married. No matter what Gran thinks about it, I reckon you and Reid have got it right. When you get to wherever you’re going, you’ll be in much better shape than John and I were. Although he hadn’t had a stag night, I remember him saying on the plane that he felt totally knackered... not the ideal state for a bridegroom.’
Fran laughed, which she knew was her sister’s intention.
Not wanting Shelley to know how worried she felt, she said, in a cheerful tone, ‘I wonder where we are going? I’ve packed a swimsuit and a beach wrap, with my cashmere shawl in case it’s a place where it gets cold after dark.’
‘I wonder if it’ll be overtly ritzy, or one of those resorts I’ve read about where the visitors are all seriously rich but like to play Robinson Crusoe in a thatched hut with all mod cons and miles of perfect private beach?’ Shelley speculated.
‘Who knows? Reid’s idea of a perfect honeymoon place could be game fishing, or something equally way-out. Maybe it was a bit reckless to give him carte blanche.’
‘As long as it isn’t bungee jumping. That’s one of John’s madder ambitions,’ said Shelley, pulling a face. ‘Anyway this time tomorrow night you should know the worst...or the best.’
In more senses than one, was Fran’s thought.
They went on talking for a while after they’d put the lights out. Then Fran, wide awake, said something and got no reply. Her sister had gone to sleep.
She gave a deep sigh, longing for sleep to blot out the turmoil going on in her mind. She reminded herself that in many parts of the world people married for other reasons than love and, on balance, it seemed to work out just as well as it did in the countries where love was considered the best, the only motivation.
But it still felt as if, tomorrow, she would be committing herself to a bond which had more chance of going wrong than going right.
CHAPTER SIX
FRAN’S wedding outfit had been bought for evening parties. It consisted of a short-waisted jacket of white silk gabardine over a crepe de Chine chemise with a flaring white chiffon skirt. Like the edges of expensive Christmas ribbons, the hand-rolled hem of the skirt had a fine wire threaded through it, making the filmy fabric form undulating ripples. It was the pretty frothy hem that had prompted an impulse buy, the last one before her father’s crash.
To go with it, instead of white shoes, she had chosen a pair of pale grey sling-backs and a small matching clutch purse. Palest grey lace-topped stay-ups made her feel ultra-feminine.
She had decided to ignore the traditional ‘something old...something borrowed, something blue’ as being inappropriately sentimental for this particu
lar wedding.
In her ears and round her neck she intended to wear the discreet cultured pearls chosen by her mother for her sixteenth birthday. At the time Fran had thought them boringly demure. At that age she had been into bold kooky pieces. Now that she had outgrown the fashion victim phase, she wore the pearls more often.
They were all having breakfast in bed and when the floor waiter wheeled in their trays, on Fran’s there was a parcel.
‘From Reid of course,’ said Shelley, when her sister wondered aloud where it could have come from.
She was right. Inside a satin-lined leather case was a necklace composed of many strands of small matched dark green beads, clasped by a carved oval of paler green stone. The matching earrings were a combination of the two colours. With them was a card with the jeweller’s name engraved in small gold type at the top and a handwritten message below.
I hope these will please you. R
The initial consisted of a thick bold upward slash and a thinner downstroke with a long flowing tail.
‘Gran will say green is unlucky,’ said Fran, putting the breakfast tray aside and throwing back the bedclothes to go to the dressing table.
‘They’re nice, but I thought he would give you diamonds,’ said Shelley.
Fran had spent more time looking in the windows of the leading jewellers than her sister. The name on the card was arguably the most exclusive establishment in Bond Street.
‘The beads are emeralds and the clasp is jade, probably antique and probably madly valuable,’ she said dryly.
The skein of beads made a cool collar round the base of her throat. The beautiful clasp made it possible to wear it in several ways, with the clasp at the front or resting on one of her collarbones.
It looked incongruous with the long T-shirt she was leaving for her mother to take home. But it would look wonderful with her white outfit. She replaced the jewellery in its box and went back to bed to drink her orange juice and eat a kipper followed by toast and marmalade.
