The Englishwoman Trilogy: Box set of: Englishwoman in Paris, Englishwoman in Scotland, Englishwoman in Manhattan

by Jenny O'Brien

“Let’s be positive darling. He’s probably gone off in a huff; Rupert isn’t known for his diplomacy.”

  Rupert, of course! Rupert had been the last person to see him. That’s what had been puzzling her. The report had been wrong.

  “Rupert was the last one to see him, he wouldn’t surely…” her voice a whisper as her imagination took over and came up with the inevitable conclusion.

  “No, he wouldn’t. Rupert’s many things but a murderer?” She gave a little laugh. “You did upset him terribly, but I hear he’s dating a Texan heiress now.”

  “So, he’s not that upset then.” She smiled, despite the bottom having dropped out of her heart.

  “Why didn’t you tell us, Sarah? Your father is most upset.”

  “Tell you what?”

  “About him being a Marquis, silly.”

  “A Marquis?” She faltered, “I thought that was some kind of tent?”

  “Very funny! Your father wants you to contact him, there’s still time for you to get engaged.”

  “Haven’t you been listening? He’s missing, possibly dead and you’re wittering on about me becoming engaged to a what: a corpse,” her voice shaking. “And anyway I’d be the last person in the world he’d think of marrying; not now!” She stared at the phone in silence even as her mother’s tinny voice continued to shout back at her.

  “Dead, he’s not dead. He’s gone away to lick his wounds. He must love you very much.”

  “Must he? I hurt him so badly.”

  “What, a tough bloke like him? Hardly. You might have bruised his ego a little but he’ll bounce back. Now we don’t have much time, Sarah. Where do you think he’s holed up?”

  “How on earth should I know? He could be anywhere?”

  “Mmm, that is a problem.”

  “Mother, do you really think he still loves me?”

  “I really do. He reminds me a little of your father you know; when we split up.”

  “You split up?” Her eye widened. “You never told me?”

  “It was all a very long time ago, darling, before we were even engaged. He disappeared for a month over some silly red roses I’d received. He eventually returned with his tail between his legs and a sapphire the size of Gibraltar.”

  “And what about the roses?”

  “Oh, ahem, well. You know your father, he’s not the most romantic, so I, er, sent them to myself.”

  “Mother, did you ever tell him?”

  “No and don’t you go…”

  “My lips are sealed.” She tried and failed to suppress the giggle bubbling inside at the thought of her stiff-upper-lipped dad being managed so very well. The giggle faded to nothing as her memory flicked back to the cream rose she’d pressed between the pages of one of her heavier music books. She’d never have that problem with Pascal; if only she could find him. If only he wasn’t dead.

  Tucking up her legs she finally let go of her hair and allowed both hands grip the phone. “Where is he? Why would he go into hiding like that?”

  “Well I think he’s waiting it out.”

  “Waiting what out?”

  “Sarah, I know you’re all loved up but get your brain into gear. He’s waiting until after your birthday, which is such a bloody waste.” She heard her heave a sigh and smiled. Her mother was so predictable. “He probably expects to see your engagement to Rupert in The Times…”

  Would he? Yes, of course he would, if he loved her. So he was either lying in some ditch or waiting until she wasn’t an heiress anymore. Staring into the middle distance a grin started to pull at her lips even as she heard her mother screaming down the phone.

  “Darling, are you still there…?”

  “Mother, I have a plan.”

  “Good, at last! Spit it out then, darling?”

  “Do you remember the name of that horrible reporter, the one who did that splash on me and my Sax?”

  “P.P. Latrine?”

  “That’s it! I knew it was something stupid.”

  “Darling, if you’re going to do what I think you are, it’s a very mean trick. He may never forgive you.”

  “If you can think of another way to flush him out in time for my birthday..?”

  “Oh, very funny! Flush him out is it! Okay darling, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  1st July. It’s her birthday, not that it feels like her birthday.

  It feels like the worst day of my life. I feel as if I’ve lost everything, everything that’s of any importance with the shifting of the calendar from one day to the next. Yesterday there was hope; now there is no hope.

  “Ah there you are, hen. I’ve got a nice wee potato cake and some of that black pudding you’re so fond of. You just sit yourself by the window and admire the view. I’ll be back in a tick.”

  “Er, thank you, Mrs McCloud.”

  “The newspapers have just arrived by the front desk if you’d like to…?”

  “No, I don’t think so, maybe later.” he added, managing a brief smile as he spread his tartan napkin across his lap. He’d have to see the newspapers: newspapers he’d been avoiding for the last four weeks, just as he’d been ignoring his phone. In fact, spacing his knife and fork wider, it wasn’t just his phone or the news he’d been deliberately avoiding, it was life itself.

  He could barely remember the first few hours after he’d left the hospital. He found himself at a railway station asking for a single for the train pulling into the station, which happened to be the 10:10 to Aberdeen. He couldn’t quite recall where that was, but it didn’t matter, nothing really mattered anymore. Using his rucksack as a pillow he must have slept. Before he knew it, the train had pulled into Glasgow’s Queen Street Station where, apparently, he had to change. Looking about at the heaving platform he’d nearly turned on his heel, and he probably would have except for a fat woman in florals poking him in the back with her tartan walking stick.

  Why was he even here when he could be by her side? But she didn’t want him, she didn’t want his child; their child as he headed into Starbucks and automatically ordered a double espresso to go. There was no point in anything anymore, he thought, cradling his cup in hands as cold as the expression on her face the last time he’d seen her. Was it only yesterday? Was it only yesterday she’d sent him away? He didn’t know. He didn’t know anything anymore as he started on the next leg of his journey.

  He didn’t sleep now, he wanted to but, placing his bag by his feet, his mind, his heart wouldn’t let him. Like the view screaming past his window, he recalled the first time he’d seen her. The sense of wonder, surprise even that, at last he’d found her. He’d found something, someone he didn’t even know he was looking for.

  “There’s a fine thing, laddie, on the front of the newspaper, which you may like to read,” her eyes twinkling.

  “Yes, Mrs McCloud?” He glanced up from the pile of toast she obviously thought he needed. In truth he felt sick, but she’d be offended if he didn’t at least make some sort of an effort.

  She’d looked after him better than any mother could ever look after her son; a stranger who’d landed on the doorstop of the Ship Inn with only a rucksack to his name. He wasn’t even sure where he was. Stonehaven was delightfully pretty and quiet so he’d stayed because he hadn’t anywhere better to go. He’d only planned on staying a couple of days in the best front room they had but days had quickly turned into weeks and before he knew it he’d been here a month, a whole month and today was the day he’d been dreading.

  “Yes, that heiress, you know the one. Lady Sarah Cosgrave. Oh are you all right, laddie?”

  He’d dropped the marmalade at the sound of her name, a name he hadn’t heard in weeks except in the dark recesses of his mind. He didn’t see the glass dish roll onto the floor, bouncing along the highly polished parquet with a clatter before landing the right way up with a final dull thud. He didn’t see her grab a cloth and start mopping up the globs of orange gloop splattered in a starburst formation;
all he saw was Sarah.

  Finally he managed to shake himself back to the present and went to help.

  “No, no you just sit there and I’ll bring you some…”

  “No, I’m fine, more than fine,” he interrupted, patting his stomach. “You’ll be making me fat.”

  “What, a great big hulk of a man like you? Shush away with you now and I’ll be bringing you back some more toast, and what about a few potato cakes?” she paused, suddenly awkward; her gaze flickering wildly from side to side. “Er, I shouldn’t be calling you laddie, you being a Marquis and all.”

  Folding his napkin, he stood up and placed a light kiss against her cheek. “Laddie is just fine, in fact,” he added. “I prefer it.”

  He wanted to ask how she knew but he was pretty sure he was about to find out. “It’s been a great holiday, but it’s about time I went back to France.” He smiled down at her pink cheeks. “If you could let me have the bill, I’m sure to be back.”

  Picking up the newspaper from the front desk he strolled across to the beach opposite before dropping on to the slipway, his feet dangling over the side. He’d rolled the paper into a tube and now, the thought of unfurling the words he knew would greet him on the front page was almost too much to bear. Heaving a sigh, he twisted the paper until it mangled in front of him before unfolding it. He didn’t need to see the print to know what it said, but somehow he couldn’t prevent himself from lowering his gaze to the headlines.

  Staring at the words in almost disbelief, his hands smoothed over the picture of Sarah, the same picture he stared at every night before curling up and trying to sleep.

  The whereabouts of the Marquis de Sauvarin are of increasing concern. His fiancée, Lady Sarah Cosgrave…”

  He didn’t read anymore, he couldn’t. Scrunching up the paper into a ball he flung it into the nearest bin and headed back to the guesthouse at a run.

  Chapter Fourteen

  1st July. It’s my birthday, not that it feels like my birthday. It feels like the worst day of my life. I look the part in my designer dress and designer shoes but I don’t feel the part. I feel as if I’ve lost everything; everything that’s of any importance.

  It was the early evening now, and she was back at Cosgrave Manor sitting under the shade of the weeping willow that pierced the side lawn like a palm tree marking a desert island. This was her place, the place she’d always come as a child, at first chewing the end of a pencil as she puzzled over her algebra. Then, older as she’d hidden away with one of the books her mother used to squirrel under her mattress. She’d even carved a few initials into the bark only to hack at them as she tried to change the letters like some reject trying to eradicate the tattoo of a former lover. Now she sat still, her bare feet stretched out, a pair of high-heel, midnight blue stilettos beside her. Her dress was midnight blue to match, almost the colour of her eyes. But it wasn’t the fifties style, wide silk skirt she stared at but her ring, his ring as it flickered brightly in the light of the gently fading sun.

  It was the early evening, and he hadn’t phoned; he hadn’t texted, he hadn’t emailed. It seemed as if the rest of England; no, the world, had been in touch and, wherever she looked all she saw was his face butted up next to hers like those wanted criminal notices on Crime Watch.

  She was losing hope, her hands resting across her lap, her eyes closed. She should be happy, gloriously happy. She was officially engaged and now the organiser of her own destiny. She had the money to do whatever she wanted, but without him it was a hollow victory, without him her life was dust.

  Looking up her eyes slid to the marquee as she remembered just how miffed her father had been earlier. He’d probably been the most miffed she’d ever seen him when he’d told her over afternoon tea that a Marquis was higher up in the Royalty rankings than a mere Earl. Gobbling like a chicken she watched in silent amusement as he continued wittering on as they munched their way through cucumber sandwiches and scones about the likelihood of having to bow to his own son-in-law.

  It would be funny if it wasn’t so bloody tragic.

  Where was he?

  The party was small; intimate friends and family coming together to celebrate her good fortune in actually managing to become engaged just in time for her twenty-third birthday. She wasn’t in the mood to celebrate her birthday, just as she wasn’t in the mood to celebrate her mess of a life. She was alone and pregnant, not to mention being in possession of a fortune she had no entitlement to. What was there to celebrate?

  So Instead of celebrating, she hovered on the edge, refusing any offers to dance while she watched and waited.

  She heard the whispers flowing around her like a rampant rash as to the whereabouts of the missing groom-to-be. She heard the sudden silences as she moved into hearing range but she ignored them all. They weren’t really here to see her anyway and, apart from Cara huddled in the corner with Aaron, she’d be quite happy for them all to disappear in a puff of smoke. Her eyes snagged on Rupert: Rupert in a ridiculous tie and with a ridiculous girlfriend. He’d gone from one extreme to the other. This one old enough to be his mother, but a very rich mother who’d seen off at least two very wealthy husbands, She wondered, with the sliver of a smile whether he’d be husband number three.

  Her parents had gone to a lot of trouble and even now were holding court, a bottle of champagne open in front of them. She’d played their game. She’d played at eating the food Beverley had prepared and she’d admired the giant cake made in the shape of her sax, but that was all. Now, with a headache pressing behind her eyes, she had to escape. No one would miss her now; now she’d cut the cake like some blushing bride minus the bridegroom, which was exactly how she felt. Wherever he was - he wasn’t here.

  Heading outside, she felt the cool breeze lift her hair off her face even as her shoes sank into the freshly mown grass. Kicking them off and allowing the soft turf embrace the soles of her feet was the first real pleasure she’d had today. The grass felt slightly damp now the sky had turned from blue, red and then finally to black. She’d probably end up with green feet, she thought on a laugh, but green feet were the least of her worries.

  Those same feet took her towards her tree; her sanctuary, her escape for if she headed back towards the house they’d be sure to find her. She didn’t want to be found, she didn’t want people, she didn’t want anyone or anything; only him.

  She’d reached the tree now and, raising her hand to the firm, almost black wood ran her hands over the names she’d carved into the bark earlier, the flesh strangely white in the glimmering light cast from the fairy lights Hopper had streamed between the branches. Wrapping her arms around the trunk she sank her forehead against the timber almost in despair; this engraving was all she had left to mark their romance.

  “Bonjour, Sarah.”

  She heard the words, but only in her head and thought she was going mad. She must be mad, her eyes following the curls and grooves of the bark only millimetres from her lashes. She heard the words and then she felt his hands on her shoulders as he turned her round to face him, but she couldn’t look. She’d open her eyes, and he’d be gone. It had happened before, it was happening again. Squeezing her eyes tight she felt hands move up to span her face and then pressure as his lips touched hers. A groan escaped; a deep plaintive sound as she was still unable to believe what her hammering heart was trying to tell her.

  “Sarah, ma chérie.”

  He was kissing her forehead, her eyelids, her cheek, even her chin before tilting it up. “Look at me Sarah, after all, we are engaged, although I seem to have forgotten the proposal?”

  She blushed, the heat coursing up her cheeks even as she pulled away. “We’re not actually engaged,” she mumbled, only to be interrupted.

  “Au contraire, ma petite.” His hand fumbling for hers as he raised the ring to his lips. “You’re wearing my ring after all.”

  “Pascal, I was desperate.”

  “D’accord, that will of your aunt’s. Well, I’m pleased to
have been of use.” He stepped back, his eyes glinting in the darkness. “So, what are you going to spend all your money on then because, when we’re married you’ll be spending mine?”

  “Money? Yours? What?”

  “It’s quite simple, Sarah. I’m quite able to afford a wife, even one with expensive tastes like yours.” His eyes flickering over her dress with a look she didn’t like.

  “This was a present from my parents,” her hand floating to the neck of her low-cut gown.

  “And very charming it is too, but in future I’ll be buying your clothes.”

  “Well, I need some new knickers so next time you’re in town if you wouldn’t mind…”

  “Don’t push me, Lady Sarah,” a muscle flickering along his jaw.” I’m not some Rupert to be trifled with. You can buy whatever you want,” his eyes brushing over her cleavage. “Especially if it’s for my benefit. So how is Rupert?”

  Her eyes widened at the change of topic. “Rupert?”

  “Yes, Rupert; that tosspot of a former lover.”

  “He was never my lover.”

  “No, perhaps not,” he said, raking his hand through his hair, his eyes now on her stomach. “Let’s not argue, it’s the last thing I want to do. I couldn’t bear the thought of you with him,” his voice dwindling to a whisper as he gently pulled her down on the ground to cradle her on his lap, his hands smoothing themselves over the planes of her body.

  “I’d never have married Rupert.” She stared across the lawn to the marquee framed in the distance, the muffled tones of some dance tune or other just audible in the distance.

  “So when do you want to get married then, I believe it’s the bride’s prerogative to choose?”

  Something wasn’t right. She’d been dreaming of this night for so long and now… and now he seemed different, alien almost.

  “Pascal?”

  “Mmm?” His voice soft as he continued tracing his hands up and down her arms.