‘Hamilton was always such a darling, the clever one of the family. Poor Tansy hasn't got two brain cells to rub together.’
‘Brains aren't everything and Tansy is very talented in her own way. We can't all be rocket scientists, can we? What do you do, Julietta?’
‘Me? As little as possible!’ She laughed. ‘Daddy left me a small trust fund and along with a few hours spent at an art gallery along Bond Street, I scrape by. What I'm looking for is a sugar daddy or even a toy boy to keep me in the manner I'd like to become accustomed…’ she added, reaching up to brush his hair off his forehead.
Grabbing her wrist, he forced it away from him and dropped it like a hot potato. ‘Well, good luck with that, I think I'll go and see where my date is.’
‘Oh, she's probably in the garden with lover-boy. You have met her lover, haven’t you? He’s French,’ a malicious gleam in her eye.
Tansy was right, as he put his bottle down on the littered table and headed out the door, the echo of her laughter resounding in his ears. This woman was evil personified and he was the one who’d put her back in her clutches.
He walked into the lounge but there was no sign of her. Making his way through the patio doors he headed into the garden and there she was, just as Julietta had predicted; in a deep clinch with someone. No, not someone. Some man. A stranger.
All he could do was watch. It was as if he'd been frozen just like the life-sized statue of David in the corner. But this was no Goliath up ahead. This wasn’t a battle he could win with the throw of a stone, his eyes fixed on that one spot he couldn't bear to look at and yet couldn't turn away from. This ‘Goliath’ of a man was all over her, his hands in her hair, on her back, on her hips, roaming up her skirt, lips pressed against the side of her neck as he muttered words only intended for a lover’s ears.
He knew it was wrong but he started translating with his school boy French all the same. If he'd been German, or Dutch for that matter, he'd have had no chance but French he could do. Of course, this man was going to be French. He was the Frenchman she'd refused to talk about. He was the Frenchman she’d refused to talk about, saying the words he wanted to say to her; words he should have said to her. He'd repeated them often enough in his head so why not out loud? He’d shied away from saying them in case she hadn't felt the same and now… and now it was too late, far too late.
Je t'aime de tout mon coeur. I love you with all my heart.
Fais-moi l’amour. J'ai besoin de toi. Make love to me, I need you.
He felt like a voyeur. No. He was a voyeur. This was her personal privacy he was invading like someone after a cheap thrill. He couldn’t be here any longer. He couldn’t bear the agony of his heart dissolving into a haze of unfilled hopes and dreams.
Turning on his heel he started walking back up the garden that is until he saw a movement out of the corner of his eye and then a camera flash but not just one camera flash, it was like a thousand bulbs going off in his head and then she was running. She was running towards him, tripping, taking his hand, grabbing and pulling him back into the house, out the front door, down the path and into the street before turning down a narrow unlit lane separating one row of back gardens from the other. Kicking her shoes into the gutter she continued running, tears streaming down her face and all he could do was pick up her shoes and chase after her.
‘Hey stop, your shoes,’ he dragged her to a halt, his hands on her shoulders but she pulled away; her eyes frantic. Her gaze looking everywhere except at him.
‘I'm not Cinder bloody Ella, Tor. I don't care about the shoes. In fact I never want to see them again,’ she added, taking them out of his hand and stuffing them into one of the dustbins lined up ready for collection.
‘I don't understand…’
‘Don’t you? Don’t you, Tor? You have no idea what’s just happened?’ She moved her hands to her legs as she bent forward and tried to catch her breath. ‘Funny, I understand it all but then it’s happened to me before. You’ve never been splattered across the front pages like I have.’
‘That man you were with. The Frenchman. Your boyfriend, I take it?’
‘No,’ she heaved a sigh. ‘That wasn't my boyfriend. But it doesn't matter now, does it?’ She lifted up her skirt, treading carefully over the cobbles. ‘The damage is done. You’ll read about him tomorrow, but all I ask is don’t believe everything you read because none of it will be true. We never… I never…’ She caught his eye and, stretching out a hand went to touch his face only to pull back at the last minute. ‘Tor, I just want to go home.’
‘But what about?’
‘Please,’ her eyes imploring, beseeching and finally begging him to stop questioning her. ‘I can't deal with this now. Tomorrow, I’ll call you tomorrow.’
But tomorrow was too late.
Chapter Seventeen
‘OMG, you've really blown it now,’ her brother said, walking into her bedroom and throwing a pile of newspapers down on top of the duvet.
‘What are you talking about, Hamilton? All I need is a couple of paracetamol for this headache, and to have you wittering on about something I already know about is unbearable,’ she said, her hand on her brow.
‘Something you know about? Are you sure about that, really sure? So you know all about being cited as co-respondent in a divorce then,’ he mumbled, turning towards the door.
‘What!’
‘That's right. That poncy French chef, whatever his name is. There are photos all over the newspapers of him with his hand up your skirt and his tongue down your throat. His wife's lawyers are having a field day. It's just the ammo they needed for her to divorce him and, if the article in The Mail is right, you’ll be receiving an official letter in the post any day soon. Well done, sis, very well done. You had Tor dangling from the end of your rod and you let him go. I don't know what the parents are going to say. It's unlikely they'll be able to magic up another suitor for your hand, not after this fiasco.’ He paused at the door. ‘I’ll drop you up some paracetamol and some tea and then I need to think about a way of running the gauntlet.’
‘Running the gauntlet,’ her voice a thread of sound.
‘Yes, we have the whole of the British press camped outside my door thanks to you. Apparently, according to The Sun, it’s Notting Hill all over again. They’re just waiting for me to do a Spike on the doorstep in my Y-fronts and then their day will be perfect.’
‘Oh.’
‘Oh indeed. The only thing I can say is it’s a good job I don’t wear them.’
‘You don’t wear underpants?’ Her eyes wide. ‘You mean you go commando?’
‘No. I’m a banker.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘I mean, I wear boxers.’
‘At least that’s something,’ she muttered, brushing the papers away before hopping out of bed. ‘There's nothing I can say as an apology but I can get you out of the house without anybody seeing you.’
‘How can you?’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘We’re surrounded.’
‘No we’re not. They won’t think about the back gate, it’s well hidden behind next door’s laurel hedge. I'll get the Kowalczyk’s from the garden flat to let you out.’
‘How do you know the names of the people on the ground floor?’
‘I've met them a couple of times although I don't know him but his wife is lovely. She makes a mean rye bread…’ She reached up and dragged him into a deep hug. ‘I'm sorry for causing any embarrassment. I'll head back home later and face them.’ She paused. ‘If Tor gets in touch, although I can't believe he will for a minute, just tell him I don't want to see him. Not now.’
Chapter Eighteen
But he did want to see her. He wanted an explanation. No. He wanted to understand, his eyes on the newspapers, all of them, as he read page after page of gossip, innuendo but little or no fact.
She'd stayed at Louis de Gerai’s house in Paris. His wife had looked after her like her own daughter until she’d betrayed her friendship; until she’d walked in and found them in bed. W
as that the truth? He’d thought her different. He wouldn't have thought her capable of such deceit. But what did he know? He’d seen her with his own eyes but what had he actually seen, as he brushed the waiter away with a wave of his hand. He'd seen the Frenchman from the back and the flicker of her dress, that’s all. He hadn’t seen her. He’d heard the soft mellifluous tone of his voice just as he’d heard his honeyed words, words he’d never have the nerve to speak.
He picked up his cup and took a sip of the cooling coffee with a grimace before opening The Sun. He’d already devoured the broadsheets, all of them before throwing them aside much to the chagrin of the head waiter. He might as well know the worst as he read the headlines.
It all goes tits up for Lady Titania.
Not the most original of captions but eye catching all the same as he examined the photo. In truth there was little to see. A hand on a leg – he was right about her having great legs. An arm around her waist but her face was averted. He wanted to see her face, to see her expression; to read her eyes. He’d see the truth in her eyes but in each shot she’d turned away just in time.
His eyes flickered over the words but there was nothing new. His wife had known all about their little affair and, now she had evidence, she was all set to take him to the cleaners. The press conveniently turning up was all a little contrived, as he took an absentminded bite of his toast. The wife must have set detectives on him. Either that or someone had tipped the media off, someone like Julietta.
‘Have you finished, Lord Brayely? Perhaps I could bring you more toast, or another newspaper?’ the waiter said, his expressionless face wandering over the crumpled pile.
‘No, that’s fine. Thank you,’ he added, his smile brief. ‘If you could arrange for my bill to be sent up? I’m leaving at once.’
He’d pick her up from Hamilton’s and bundle her back to Scotland and marry her, his mind in overdrive. Pulling out his phone he put a call through to Toddy while he took the stairs two at a time. He’d pack, pay the bill and then kidnap her if she didn’t want to go with him.
But he couldn’t kidnap someone who wasn't there. He couldn’t hijack her up to Scotland when he couldn’t even find her. She’d disappeared. She’d disappeared into thin air despite every newspaper man (and woman) across the kingdom having her within their sights. The family on the ground floor told him in halting English she'd snuck out the back gate about ten minutes before he'd arrived. Hamilton hadn’t been forthcoming and, when he’d finally phoned her parents, the conversation with her father had been difficult. They knew nothing or, at least, that's what they were admitting. His father was distraught but, apart from advising him to hire a good lawyer for breach of promise there was little he could say. Where could she hide? Where could she go with her face splashed across every newspaper in the country? She was hiding, that's for sure but nobody seemed to know where. The obvious answer was she’d left the country but her passport was sitting in the top drawer of her dressing table where she’d left it.
Flinging his case into the back of his car, he revved the engine and headed for home because he had nowhere else to go. They’d had something special and yet they’d both blown it, although he’d blown it first. He should've told her right from the beginning he'd fallen in love with her but he couldn’t. At first he hadn’t realised and when he had, he’d been too scared history would repeat itself. He crunched the gears. History had repeated itself. He’d been cuckolded for the second time; not a pretty thought but the truth all the same. His first wife had cheated on him and now Tansy had cheated on him. If only she’d been honest. If only she’d told him the truth about Paris.
He still didn't know for sure but the smug expression on the middle-aged chef’s face said a lot, more than any words. If Tansy had slept with him, it wouldn't have been Tansy’s fault. He would have manipulated her into bed and it wouldn't have been the first time as a trail of other women, other former employees and protégés, started coming out of the woodwork to add to his wife's testimony of his infidelities. He was the proverbial lech and Tor felt sick to his stomach that this man had ever laid his big greasy hands on his beautiful girl. He felt sick he'd doubted her even for one second as he raced up the M6 heading north. But he only had himself to blame. He shouldn't have let her go. He should've stayed with her. He should have made her explain.
He arrived at Castle Brayely just after midnight having telephoned ahead to Toddy to leave the outdoor lights on. Her ladyship was away on another one of her jaunts so he didn't expect anybody to be waiting for him. Just like last time, he walked into the kitchen with only the ghost of a memory to greet him; the ghost of a girl with snow-white skin and hair as black as night. There was no leftover toad in the hole waiting for him in the fridge and no freshly baked bread in the larder, only a choice of sliced white or sliced brown, which caused him to wrinkle his nose up before selecting a couple of thin slices. Slapping his cheese sandwich down on the bare wood alongside a bottle of whisky, he plonked himself into a chair and placed his head in his hands. He didn't know what to do anymore. He had no idea where to find her or even if she'd speak to him. Without her, he was less than nothing.
Finally, ignoring both the sandwich and the whisky he made his way up to his cold empty room; cold and empty despite Toddy having set up a heater in the corner. He didn't bother to get undressed. Instead, he dropped his leather jacket where it fell on top of his boots before flopping himself across the bed, face down and wished himself to sleep.
No one could have been more surprised at the bright shards of light sneaking through the curtains or the fact his watch told him it was 10 am. He didn't know what time he’d finally drifted off but it must have been when daybreak was peering over the horizon. Heading for the shower he stripped off the rest of his clothes and allowed the hot water to revive him before putting on his oldest jeans and t-shirt. After breakfast he'd have to think again. He could always ask Nanny or even Mary if she had any idea where she’d gone, but first he needed to eat as he leapt down the stairs with more energy than he’d had in a long time. If he’d been braver, he’d have attempted to slide down the highly polished bannisters, something he used to do with boring regularity until adulthood demanded a different set of behaviour. He’d almost decided to give it a go and had even hitched up his jeans in preparation when he eyed Todd watching him from the bottom.
‘Any chance of breakfast? I know it's a bit late…’
‘It'll be a few minutes; I'll just go and wash my hands,’ he said, placing his fingers around the newel post. ‘You should have, you know. I’d have picked you up if you’d fallen off.’
‘Always there to get me out of difficulties,’ Tor replied, clapping him on the back. ‘Did you manage to find out about…?’
‘Aye, I’ve left the information beside your side plate.’
‘Great, thank you. I’ll follow, if I may? There's something I want to ask you, and Mary if she’s about or has she gone with my mother?’
‘She’s away with your mother. I've just been to collect the eggs so scrambled on toast alright?’
‘I'm not sure I can stomach the plastic bread.’ He pulled a grimace as he placed his hand on the older man’s shoulder. ‘She spoilt us for bread.’
She spoilt me for more than bread. She spoilt me for any other woman, he added silently.
‘That she did,’ he said, holding the baize door open to let Tor go first.
Chapter Nineteen
‘How can you not believe me?’ She watched her father shoot her mother a look from behind the security of The Evening Standard. ‘What? What aren't you telling me?’
‘Nothing, darling, it's you who've been keeping secrets, not us.’
‘I don't believe you. Louis, or that bitch of a wife of his has been here, I just know it. You've struck some kind of deal, or something,’ as she flitted between their embarrassed glances. ‘There's something, I just can’t put my finger on…’ She flopped back in her chair, her gaze now on the guilty blush snaking acr
oss her mother’s cheek and she felt sick to her stomach at the sudden realisation as to what they’d done.
‘You knew, you knew all along this was going to happen,’ her look incredulous. ‘Those photographs were only incidental. You were happy to sell me off to the highest bidder. He'd have known nothing about me being cited as co-respondent until the headlines struck. How could you do this to your own daughter, how could you? It’s like something out of Jane Eyre.’
‘Hodd, if you could leave the room and close the door?’ her mother said with an imperious hand wave. She only continued speaking when the door had settled back on its well-oiled hinges.
‘Marielle came to see us and warned us what she was going to do as a curtesy to our friendship so, yes, we did know you were going to be cited and, yes, that did prompt, or should I say, hasten the meeting Tor’s dear mother and I had planned. He has been married before, you know, so, in a way he's second-hand goods too.’
‘Second-hand goods. How dare you.’ She pushed herself back from the table and studied her parents. Her father, his neat balding head still hidden behind the paper, but she knew he was on tenterhooks the way his hands hadn't turned a page in well over five minutes. Her mother, in her powder blue twin-set and pearls, pearls that had been handed down through generations of Nettlebridges’. Surely she must have been adopted? Surely to goodness she couldn't be related to this pair? No, she shook her head. It was indisputable; she'd seen the baby photos. She was part of this pair with their supercilious ways and inconsiderate behaviour. She was tied to them by her birth certificate, bank account and title but at least now she knew the truth. At least now she knew it was as she’d thought all along; they were a conniving pair of manipulative old fogies who placed their own interests above that of their daughter’s.
The Englishwoman Trilogy: Box set of: Englishwoman in Paris, Englishwoman in Scotland, Englishwoman in Manhattan Page 33