by Anne Weale
She was still mopping her eyes when he tilted her chin and kissed her as if only by mouth-to-mouth contact could he make sure she was real.
They went on kissing for some time, not with passion but with relief and tenderness. Passion would kindle later. For the moment they were both suffering from shock. The strange thing was that she knew just how he was feeling and she knew he knew what she felt. Suddenly they were communicating on a different level from before. It was as if a private line had opened up with messages going in both directions.
‘You would hate a hovel in Kathmandu...and so would I,’ he said, smiling. ‘Fortunately my grandfather set up a trust fund for my father, which I’ve inherited, and Dad did the same for me. Combined with my own investments, they mean I can afford to support you in whatever style you fancy. Personally, I favour that château in France you saw in my acquisitions file, but first things first. Are you sure...very sure you can cope with being a climber’s wife? I shan’t be doing it all the time, obviously. Most of the mountains I’d like to tackle are only accessible at certain times of year.’
Fran said, ‘Not all climbers die young like your grandfather. Some of them live long lives. Far more people are killed on the roads than fall off mountains.’
‘I might be away for weeks at times when you need me.’
‘But when you come back, it will be like your grandmother said...heaven. Like it is now,’ she added softly. ‘What I don’t understand is why you didn’t tell me how you really felt. You’re not somebody who’s shy and unsure of himself.’
‘No...not in the ordinary way. But when you fall in love, for the first time, at my age, with a girl who was so committed to another man that she resisted all the pressure to experiment with sex, it’s not a situation you know how to cope with,’ he said dryly. ‘When we were on our honeymoon, for the first time in my life I knew what it would be like to be perfectly happy. I saw that, if you loved me, and if I didn’t have to go back to Kennards, the future would be perfect. I could do something about the bank, but I couldn’t make you love me and I didn’t feel it was right to renege on our deal.’
‘Let’s call the deal off and start again...as a love match,’ she suggested, nestling against him.
A long time later there was a tap on the door. Fran wriggled herself off Reid’s lap before he called, ‘Come in.’
It was Mrs Heatherley with a tea tray. He sprang up to take it from her.
‘Thank you, dear...on the table by the window. I thought freshly baked scones with whipped cream and last summer’s raspberry jam might have a restorative effect. Emotional storms leave one terribly hungry, I seem to remember.’ She gave them both loving looks. ‘But all is well, now, I gather?’
‘All is fantastically well...couldn’t be better,’ Reid told her, smiling.
‘I’m so glad. I felt sure it would be. The first time I saw you together I knew you were right for each other. As time goes on, one develops an instinct...’
While they were devouring the scones, Mrs Heatherley said, ‘I have an idea I want to discuss with you—’ her eyes twinkled ‘—when your mouths are a little less full. This house is far too large for one person, and I need more help in the garden. Your mother feels the same way, Fran. We get on so well, she and I, that I’m contemplating inviting her to come and live here. The house would have to be converted into two self-contained parts and the garden divided as well. She would want to bring her favourite plants. What do you think?’
‘I think it’s an excellent plan,’ said Reid. ‘What do you think, pussykins?’
It was the first time he had ever used a pet name. She gave him a loving look.
‘The only possible snag is that Mum has an admirer... a nice man who used to be our driver,’ she explained to his grandmother.
‘That needn’t be an obstacle. Half this house would be plenty of room for the two of them and a nice man around the place is always an asset. Anyway I’ll suggest it to her. Now I’ll go and get the vegetables for supper and you two can make up a bed. Reid knows where the linen is kept. I should have what we call Aunt Prissy’s Room. It gets the morning sun.’
That night, after eating an orchard-reared roast chicken with new potatoes, young carrots, buttered courgettes and fennel from the kitchen garden, they climbed into a four-poster bed made up with the crisp linen sheets of an earlier era, and made love...with the lyrics.
‘God...I love you so much. How did I live without you all these years? Never run away from me again. Promise?’
‘Cross my heart. Oh, it’s so good to be able to say it aloud. I love you...I love you...I love you.’
While from somewhere below a clock chimed eleven, and the ancient floorboards and rafters made the night noises of an old house, they lay in each other’s arms, planning a future quite different from what either of them had foreseen when they made their bargain.
ISBN : 978-1-4592-6307-9
THE BARTERED BRIDE
First North American Publication 1998.
Copyright © 1998 by Anne Weale.
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All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.
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