'I'm as good as,' she hedged her eyes nervously downcast, envying a sparrow its ability to fly from the sound of unfriendly voices. 'My mother deserted me when I was an infant and I'm pleased she did—she is a wicked, selfish, immoral woman!'
'If you were a mere infant when she left, how can you possibly judge?'
She raised puzzled eyes to meet his demanding stare. 'Why… because Granny has told me all about her of course!'
She faltered into silence, faced, the moment the admission was voiced, by her very first doubts about the mother who, by Granny's own admission, had never been made welcome at Ravenscrag.
'Oh, Morva!' he sighed, pinning her shoulders between his hands to administer a gentle shake so far removed from his earlier rough handling she felt pushed to the edge of tears. 'What a confused, bewildered, lost, young creature you are! A mixture of gullible child and composed aristocrat, timid mouse and fearless equestrian… terrified bride, and brazen would-be seducer.' He tilted her chin, forcing her to withstand his softly growled challenge.
'Who am I married to, Morva? How can I decide which one of many complex characters is my wife?'
She stared back dumbly, unable to find words to explain the tumult of mixed emotions that was hiding the answer even from herself.
He released her, looking suddenly weary.
'Forget that question. And please don't worry, the situation will sort itself out. Remember only that patience is a bitter plant, but its fruit is sweet and infinitely delicious…'
CHAPTER SEVEN
The builders had finished. All traces of their occupation had been removed from luxurious bathrooms, from a modernised kitchen fitted with every conceivable appliance designed to increase efficiency and ease of management, and from rooms and corridors made draught proof and warm by a super-efficient heating and ventilating system. Yet on the surface nothing seemed changed, Morva decided as she wandered through ground-floor rooms checking work carried out by newly employed cleaning ladies who had rushed to respond to advertisements posted throughout neighbouring villages. Extra outside staff had also been enrolled, gardeners, gamekeepers, and farmworkers whose job it would be to ensure that a plentiful supply of home-cured bacon, fresh eggs, butter, cream and vegetables could be included in daily menus.
Troy seemed as pleased as a child with a new toy, she smiled, stooping to examine ancient brocade curtains whose bald patches had been expertly darned with gold and silver thread. No expense had been spared, no luxury omitted from the castle whose linen-room shelves were freshly stocked with sheets, pillowcases, napkins and towels; whose cellars were lined with bottles of choice vintage wines from many different countries to appease many different palates; whose servants' quarters were shortly due to be filled to capacity with resident chambermaids, housemaids and footmen—with every grade of helper, in fact, that had been employed in the days when Ravenscrag had been noted among the nobility as a place in which to enjoy generous hospitality, glittering balls, and delicious dinners to round off days spent hunting, shooting and fishing, or simply relaxing in peaceful, comfortable surroundings.
'Morva, honey!' Aunt Cassie's bustling figure intruded into her reverie. 'You did say that it would be all right for Lynda to move into the Rose Boudoir? The girl's taken such a shine to that room! If you've no objection, I'd like to move her things in there before she gets back from London. When is she coming back, by the way? I must say, I was very surprised when Troy raised no objection to your brother's plan to show Lynda the sights of the capital during this breathing space before the Grand Opening. I'm really looking forward to it, aren't you?' She clasped both hands together in an excess of excited anticipation. 'It's such a thrill feeling useful again. I'm not cut out for a life of leisure. My doctor declares he's never seen so much energy contained in one small body. He keeps telling me to slow down, to act my age, but I like to act the way I feel which, at this moment, is rejuvenated by Troy's surrender to my plea to be allowed to stay and help get this show on the road. I'm so grateful to him—and to you, too, honey,' she hastened to add. 'I keep forgetting that Ravenscrag has been home to your family for decades. Are you very upset at the thought of it being turned into a very grand, up-market hotel?'
Morva waited for a break in the old lady's barrage of questions. She had grown used to coping with spates of rapidly fired comments, to her habit of starting on one subject then going off at a tangent, covering a whole spectrum of topics while barely pausing to draw breath.
She began at the beginning. 'No, of course I don't mind your moving Lynda's belongings in the Rose Boudoir, how could I when she's so set upon becoming the first guest to be entered into our official Register? And yes, I do know that she and Percy will be returning in good time for my brother to practise his duties as controller of the wine cellar well before the first quota of guests arrive. Yesterday, during a very brief telephone conversation, I gained the impression that they were both having a great deal of fun,' she confided a trifle wistfully. 'Since his late teens, Percy has lived most of the time in his London flat, paying only short flying visits to Ravenscrag. Consequently, he has become very much a part of the social scene, so I've no doubt that Lynda will be wining and dining at parties given by whichever socialites have not yet joined the migratory flock that heads each July for St Tropez and Monte Carlo. It would have been most unkind of Troy to have attempted to prevent her from enjoying such an experience. And yet,' a thoughtful frown creased her brow, 'Lynda is surprisingly strong-willed, I doubt whether she would allow Troy to dictate her movements.'
'Troy has no wish to dictate anyone's movements!' Her heart leapt, as it always did whenever she caught sight of his powerful frame clad in the rodeo rider's uniform of checked shirt and well-worn denims. 'He's a strong defender of liberty,' he continued rebuking as he strolled into the room, 'who believes in allowing people to make their own mistakes then quickly learn to make them good. If Lynda prefers to spend her time in the company of a sybarite who chooses to live an unreal life among unreal people rather than join the world of harsh reality populated by less-privileged mortals, she is entitled to do so.'
'You're not being fair!' A sense of injustice forced Morva to defend her absent brother. 'I'm certain Percy has surprised himself, as well as the rest of us, by displaying an enthusiasm for the job he has been allocated. He's been studying the Bartenders' Guide in order to add to his already considerable knowledge of cocktails; has made notes of what to Serve if ever he should be asked for a hangover cure, or a pick-me-up, and has even spent time creating decorative effects with lemon, orange, cherries, mint and borage sprigs. Because we'll all be forced to work non-stop once the first lot of guests arrive, he's entitled to a little fun and relaxation during what might be termed the lull before the storm.'
'That's telling him, gal!' Aunt Cassie almost whooped her approval. Then she scowled at Troy. 'That last statement of Morva's makes a lot of sense to me, and if you weren't such a beavering businessman you'd have no need to be reminded that all members of staff work better after a relaxing break—including your wife,' she stressed meaningfully, 'who, from what little I've seen of her this past couple of weeks appears to have been putting as much effort as yourself into learning the hotel business.'
Her inference was so plain Morva blushed, hoping he would not think she had been angling for time off to spend a few hours away from work that had captured her interest to such an extent that even time spent exercising Clio had begun shrinking shorter and shorter.
'Well now. Aunt Cassie, you must have been reading my mind!' he grinned, strolling casually forward until he was close enough to pluck a clipboard and pencil from Morva's nerveless fingers.
'Whatever else you have planned to do can wait,' he instructed in the manner of a masterful husband, 'I'll allow you fifteen minutes to pretty yourself up for a visit to a house across the border belonging to a business colleague of mine. He and his wife are expecting us for lunch. So if you can, wear something light,' he mocked sardonically, 'somethi
ng less like a compulsory school uniform.'
It was a fairly lengthy journey from Ravenscrag to the equally isolated spot just over the Scottish border to which, Troy had told her, his colleague retreated as often as he was able from the noise and turmoil of London's Stock Exchange. But the moment she slid into the plump, leather-bound passenger seat she knew she was going to enjoy every minute of the drive in what must surely have been one of the world's most luxurious motors—a no-expense-spared dream of refinement and superb craftsmanship that had levers that responded at a touch to adapt front seats to individual standards of comfort. Noiseless air conditioning maintained ideal temperatures in both the upper and lower levels of the car, but the ultimate extravagance, so far as she was concerned, was the fitted cabinet containing everything necessary for mixing perfect cocktails.
For the better part of an hour Troy drove in silence, allowing her to revel in the pleasure of cruising silently and smoothly along deserted moorland roads, through quiet country lanes lined with trees meeting overhead to form cool green tunnels, dappled with sunshine and filled with the scent of wild flowers massed along verges. Then when the sun had reached its noonday peak, he delighted her by pressing a button to activate motors which stealthily slid back the roof until they were driving with only-clear blue sky overhead, fully exposed to the sounds and smells of the countryside and to a breeze that felt like a gentle hand brushing past glowing cheeks, ruffling through a long mane of hair left loose to tumble past her shoulders, a shiny, velvet brown stream with strands tinted red, gold and amber by probing fingers of sunshine.
At the sound of an ecstatic sigh Troy cast her a smiling sideways glance that encompassed every detail of her pleasantly relaxed body, looking cool and curvaceous in a pink-and-white candystripe dress made of slightly outmoded seersucker, with tiny cap sleeves and a plunging, V-shaped neckline made prim where it should have tantalised by a row of tiny buttons fastened into scalloped edging reaching down to a narrow white belt clasped around an incredibly slender waist.
'It takes so little to please you, Morva,' he teased, 'I hardly dare dwell upon your likely reaction to a gift of diamonds or exotic furs!'
'Which would be much the same as old Tom's, Clio's regular blacksmith, I imagine,' she giggled, feeling wickedly spoiled but utterly contented.
'Some misguided person was moved to offer an old smithy a gift of diamonds or furs?' he encouraged in a tone of mock astonishment.
'Of course not!' Her giggle escalated into a trill of spontaneous laughter that sparked an appreciative glint into his watchful eyes. 'Tom was merely commenting with customary sourness upon the imminent invasion of his territory by the newly rich who, in his opinion, are disciples of the devil sent to fill Ravenscrag with "muckle din and gigglin" hizzys—sparsely clad women, and men who've neither thought nor care for the Sabbath when they lust after sportive leisure.'
Her smile faded when suddenly she realised the dangerous direction into which her tongue had strayed.
'I'm sorry,' she winged a fleeting glance over his inscrutable features, 'it was very tactless of me to repeat the remarks of a bigoted old countryman who fears his long-established peace is about to be destroyed by hordes of jaded tourists determined to squeeze some sort of thrill from their wealth.'
'You speak as if you despise riches, as if you consider wealthy people an unfortunate minority deserving of compassion,' he mused dryly, almost as if he were thinking aloud. 'If wealth is a wasting disease without any known cure,' he continued deliberately, 'why does the creed that you live by dictate that the main object of marriage should be financial gain?'
She coloured, shrinking as small as she was able into the leather-bound cocoon.
'But not necessarily personal gain,' she reminded painfully, 'and only when family circumstances warrant such a drastic course of action.'
For thoughtful seconds he remained silent then, in the same casual way in which he steered the purring car around an awkward corner, he challenged.
'Tell me truthfully, Morva. Given another time, another existence, could you ever envisage being happily married to a Canadian backwoodsman with nothing to offer except the wages of hard graft and a powerfully strong yearning for children?'
'No, never,' she blushed, unhappily convinced that even in another existence her luck would deny her any such blessings, then lapsed into tongue-tied confusion, puzzled by the frown that had descended upon his features, making his out-thrust jaw seem cast from a mould of iron.
As if eager to adapt to his morose mood, the sun disappeared behind a patch of grey cloud so that a frown seemed suddenly to have been cast over the countryside. When a raindrop, heavy as a solitary tear, splashed on to the back of hands held trembling in her lap he glanced sideways, then with a muttered imprecation that caused her to curl tighter into her seat, he pressed a button to activate the roof back to its previous position, shutting out scents, sounds and all sensations of movement.
Feeling as if a door had been slammed, enclosing her within a tomb of brooding silence, she turned her head aside to concentrate her attention upon a blurred impression of fields and hedges that began racing faster and faster as he increased pressure on the accelerator. She shivered, miserably aware that she had somehow managed to offend him, but completely at a loss to understand a mood that seemed to deepen with the deterioration of the outside atmosphere—a gradual massing and lowering of clouds that grew darker and more oppressive as they drove nearer to the border.
Lightning, warning that a storm was imminent, flashed from a brassy sky and flickered over the roofs of solitary farmhouses and dark green forests as they drove through the Scottish lowlands. Thunder echoed around mist-shrouded hills and rolled across acres of grassland dotted with sheep huddled in groups, seeking the comfort of fellow creatures as they bleated timid mistrust of threatening elements.
Envying them their warm animal contact, Morva remained still and quiet, watching large coindrops of rain splashing on to the bonnet of the car, then jerked with alarm when Troy broke his silence with the terse observation.
'We've almost arrived at our destination. The house is hidden from the road by a belt of trees, but any minute now we should see a sign indicating our approach to a concealed drive. Keep a sharp look-out just in case it should be missed—I don't relish the thought of being lost in stormy, unfamiliar countryside.'
Flicking the windscreen wipers into action he slowed down to a crawl, then a few minutes later nodded approval of her vigilance when she spotted a warning notice rendered almost invisible by rambling briars and creeping stems of honeysuckle.
'Slow down, there's an opening about fifty yards to the left!'
At first sight, the house that loomed at the end of a long, carefully tended drive appealed to Morva as the most welcoming sight she had ever seen. Even with a backcloth of lowering clouds and rain falling like a veil across bellied chimneypots and heavy ornamental gutters, its appeal remained, heightened by windows with curtains drawn back to create a bright golden flare path for the guidance of visitors. The old grey stone manse had an aura of family unity, a beckoning, arms-open-wide encouragement to enter that seemed amply borne out by the woman who flung the door open wide, whose breathless, almost sobbed greeting, seemed to indicate that their appearance had heralded the climax to hours of nail-biting anticipation.
'Troy, at last! How lovely to see you!'
'And you, Bunty!' He stooped to kiss the cheek of their hostess who was staring straight past him, her gaze fixed unwaveringly upon Morva's shy, hesitant approach. Troy beckoned her forward. 'Bunty, I'd like you to meet—'
'Morva…!' She heard her name escape softly as a sigh from their hostess's lips, and grew even more puzzled when she waved Troy to silence and concluded simply. 'I would have known her anywhere!'
Then as if making a tremendous effort to regain her composure, she added hastily. 'From your description, of course. Come inside out of the rain, my dear.' She held out a beringed, elegant, manicured hand towards he
r. 'My husband, Alan, is dying to meet you—and please call me Bunty, everyone does.'
Morva did not need to try to relax, but lost her shyness completely in the company of the mature, smartly dressed woman and her equally charming though rather more elderly husband who appeared seconds later to shake Troy by the hand and to kiss Morva's cheek immediately introductions had been effected.
'Welcome, my dear,' he smiled kindly, 'I hope that this is just the first of many frequent visits to our home.'
The instant affinity Morva felt at first meeting grew stronger during an interval spent pleasantly chatting over a delicious lunch, and intensified to surprising proportions when Troy and Alan absented themselves in order to discuss the business matter that had made their meeting necessary.
She and Bunty made their way to a cosy sitting room and relaxed into armchairs set either side of an old-fashioned log fire.
'Ah, that's better!' Bunty kicked off her shoes and stretched luxuriously. 'Now, my dear, we can really get down to the business of making friends.' She , hesitated, then seemingly encouraged by Morva's' expression of contentment, proceeded cautiously. 'I hope you won't think me presumptuous if I ask you a rather personal question?'
Her look was so anxious, so genuinely kind, that Morva did not hesitate.
'I'm certain your sensitive nature would not allow you to ask personal questions without a very sound reason. What do you wish to know?'
Eagerly, Bunty leant forward. 'Whether you are happy,' she asked simply. 'Whether your marriage to Troy has surrounded you with love and security—has compensated a motherless, abandoned child for a lack of sympathy, understanding and deep affection?'
Morva jerked rigid, her brown eyes stunned by the shocking realisation that her whole life, past, present and most probably future, had been analysed by Troy and the woman who, up until a couple of hours ago, had been a complete stranger. Intolerable hurt welled up inside of her, an unbearable feeling that she had been betrayed by a husband who had proved himself heartlessly indifferent to any embarrassment caused by casual gossip.
Bride by Contract Page 9
