Miranda's Marriage

by Margery Hilton

  'Have you just finished?'

  Startled, she spun round to see the burgundy Mercedes at the kerb and J.S. looking from the window.

  She was too surprised to do anything but nod and exclaim: 'I didn't know you were back!'

  'Didn't you?' A trace of amusement flitted over his face at the pleasure she did not know she had betrayed. 'You must have missed me,' he added dryly.

  A sudden wave of confusion washed over her and made it impossible to meet this statement with equanimity. She could only look down, and an odd expression flickered in his eyes for a moment, to vanish as quickly as it came. His usual cool as­sumption was back in his peremptory order:

  'Get in. I'll run you home.'

  He opened the car door as he spoke, and she stared at him.

  'Thank you, but…' Shyness kept her standing where she was, even as weariness made its instant urge not to miss this chance before it disappeared.

  'Don't argue—it's been one hell of a day.'

  Silently she got in, and without speaking he pulled away quickly. He seemed to have no doubts about directions, and when she turned shyly and ventured a suggestion he said coolly:

  'I remember: Syrian Lane, off Willow Grove.'

  Feeling snubbed, she said, 'I'm sorry—this must be taking you miles out of your way.'

  'You don't know my way.'

  There seemed no response she could make to this curt little statement, other than a return to the retreat of silence. She did not venture to leave it, and the snubbed feeling was nurtured by the silence until it became distinct hurt. When the car swung 'into the long tree-lined road and Jason Steele asked: 'Which turning?' Miranda replied in a choked little voice: 'Second on the right—fourth house along,' and stared steadily in front of her.

  He made the turn and slid to a smooth halt at the fourth gate. Before she could grasp her bag and prepare to get out he cut the engine and nicked on the roof light, illuminating her small set face.

  'What's the matter?' he said quietly.

  'Nothing. Thank you for—'

  His hand came down on her arm. 'I told you, Miranda, it's been a hell of a day. Don't you remember—no arguing?' he reminded her in the same quiet tone.

  'I have no intention of arguing.' She tried to keep her voice steady and expressionless. 'Nor did I ask you to give me this lift.'

  His eyes closed with impatience, then he sighed. 'Don't you know that polite protestations are one of the most pointless and irritating forms of argument?' His grasp slackened and he shook his head. 'All right. You wanted to be polite and I just wanted the quiet darkness of the car and to get the whine of those accursed jets out of my head.' He sighed. 'I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be rude.'

  'Oh—but I didn't know!' She turned quickly to look at him. 'I mean, I didn't understand. Have you just come from the airport?'

  'Practically—I got in a couple of hours ago.'

  She studied him in silence for a moment, and now she saw the tautness of weariness round his mouth and the shadowed hollows over tired eyes. A rush of compassion made her forget the snub, whether it was real or fancied, and want to assuage that utter exhaustion glimpsed in his face. Without stopping to think she said impulsively: 'I would have argued if I'd known that—would you like some coffee?'

  His brows went up. 'Here?'

  'Yes—it'll only take me a minute to make some.'

  Her eyes were wide now with a quaint mixture of concern and eagerness in their depths, and suddenly he smiled. 'I'd love some.'

  'Well, then…' She smiled back at him and looped her bag and carrier over her arm. She turned and fumbled for the car door handle, a strange excitement making her movements quick and jerky. Thank goodness she'd grabbed a few oddments during her lunch hour, and the cupboard wasn't quite bare. And thank goodness Jean hadn't… She scrambled out, sheering away from that gleeful thought concerning the absence of her prospective flatmate. Had she left the place tidy when she came away this morning? It seemed such a long time since she'd set off for the office…

  The ground floor was in darkness. Mrs. Saunders must be out, she thought, conscious of another rush of delight as she opened the front door and groped inside for the light-switch before she glanced back at J.S.

  'My place is on the first floor,' she said, waiting until he closed the outer door.

  She saw his gaze rove the neat hallway with its white paint­work, rose-red carpet, and the rosewood occasional table which Mrs. Saunders kept polished like a mirror. But he made no comment and followed her up to the flat, appearing not to notice as she furtively shoved a small froth of blue lace and nylon under a cushion. She'd meant to sew the broken strap of the slip last night and forgotten it, so she'd left it out so that she wouldn't forget tonight. Apart from that the flat was neat and spotless.

  Somehow the room seemed smaller when he was standing in the centre of it. She switched on the fire and said rather shyly: 'Please sit down, Mr. Steele—I'll make the coffee.' She flitted to the opening in the room divider, then stopped. 'Would you like something to eat? A Danish sandwich, or something on toast? Or I could make an omelette—I usually make something for myself at this time if I'm not out,' she rushed on rather feverishly.

  'Don't make anything special for me—just the coffee or whatever you're having,' he said from the depths of the arm­chair.

  She stood for a moment in the tiny kitchenette, then set to work briskly. Perhaps it took her considerably longer than the 'minute' originally stated, but the tray looked very attractive when she finished a quite reckless raid on her small store. The open sandwiches of salami topped with tomato rings, sliced cucumber, egg and cress looked all right—what if he didn't like cucumber? She'd better leave one without it—and it was lucky she'd bought those cheese straws to nibble herself. She hesitated over the cherry cake; better not. She'd had it since last week­end and though it seemed all right it might be a bit sandy by now. Anyway, men didn't go for sweet stuff very much… She put the coffee-pot on the tray and carried it carefully into the lounge.

  'Good heavens—is this a party?' He stared at her handiwork. 'Who's going to eat all this?'

  She shrugged. 'Black or white?'

  'Black, please.'

  Despite his casual response about 'just coffee' a few minutes previously, he helped himself to the salami specials three times and quite a few cheese straws. He seemed disinclined to make small talk, and Miranda was content to sit in the other chair and sip her coffee in silence. Presently he moved and reached for the coffee-pot, and instantly she sprang up.

  He waved her down and refilled his cup, then leaned back and regarded her somewhat enigmatically.

  'I take it there are no rules here about entertaining gentlemen friends,' he said dryly.

  'I don't know—this is the first time.' She looked down, then up at him. 'But you're my boss,' she said simply.

  He pulled a face. 'That making a difference, I suppose.'

  She gave a small shake of her head and stared down into her cup. There was a sense of unreality in having J.S. sitting there, sharing a hastily rustled-up meal and leaning his head back as he rubbed the tips of finger and thumb into tightly closed eyes. The brief gesture betrayed the tiredness she had noticed before, then he blinked and gave her an unexpectedly sweet smile.

  'I enjoyed that—it's brought me back to life.'

  'I'm glad.' She put the dishes on the tray, murmured, 'I'll get rid of these,' and took the tray into the kitchenette. There, she set it down on the tiny bench, intending to return to the fireside and her guest, but she stayed where she was, staring unseeingly at the dishes.

  It was strange the way things happened when one least ex­pected them, and it was impossible not to feel a little awe of J.S., but she could not help wishing she had known this un­dreamed-of meeting was going to happen. She hadn't even stopped to tidy her hair or touch up her make-up before she left the office, and she would have preferred to have been wearing something crisp and fresh instead of this pink thing that was plainly tir
ed after a twelve-hour day…

  She sighed and looked at herself in the small mirror on the ledge of the partition. It was doubtful if J.S. noticed or cared whether she looked bandbox fresh; he looked dead on his feet tonight. She sighed again and went back into the main room.

  It was strangely silent, and when she reached the fireside she knew why: J.S. had succumbed to the warmth of the fire and exhaustion. He was sound asleep.

  For a moment Miranda looked down at him, expecting those grey eyes to flash open, but they didn't, and she bit her lip, framing the words to rouse him. They didn't come, and after a further hesitation she sank down into her own chair. It was almost impossible not to study him now that there seemed no risk of meeting that disconcerting smoke-grey stare or the sar­donic twist of his mouth that invariably preceded his quelling pronouncements, and she gave full rein to the desire to search those dark, well-defined features with their hint of saturnity which could attract as easily as they commanded—or sub­dued. Yes, they betrayed a strength of will and ruthlessness that could intimidate a weaker nature, she thought; they also conveyed a certain magnetism he would not hesitate to use in order to get his own way. But now, in repose, he looked younger and strangely defenceless, and she had the strange sensation of a switch of power, as though she were in command…

  A silly little fancy! She smiled to herself and reached for her library book on the shelf behind her chair. She would read quietly and let him rest for a short while, then she would tiptoe into the kitchenette and do those few dishes. The sounds would wake him and he wouldn't realize any time had passed… With the instinctive knowledge that this would spare him any embar­rassment, she opened her book and began to read…

  But it didn't work out quite according to plan. She found it difficult to keep her attention off him and on her book, and she was sitting in her own light which didn't make reading very easy. At last she simply let the book rest on her lap while she stared at the glow of the fire and let her thoughts wander where they would. Where did he live? He wasn't married… who looked after him? Did he have a large house with a staff or did he live in one of those fabulously expensive penthouses where you simply rang a bell for service? She stole another look at him. Were the stories true, the tales that were bandied along the office grapevine? Was he a womanizer? Was it true he broke off an affair the moment the girl started getting serious? But they pursued him, or so Rena said, and if they hadn't enough sense to learn the rules they'd only themselves to blame if they got hurt… But what rules…? Surely the ultimate was a full and enduring relationship… a thing of love… not a continual hopping from one affair to another that left emotional dissatisfaction and a bruised heart in its wake…

  In that strange way of it, sleep came to Miranda without her knowing it. Her head drooped and turned against the cushion, much as Jason Steele's had turned against the wing of the high-backed chair at the other side of the fireside. She did not hear the sound of a door closing downstairs—the house was too sturdily built and Edwardian in its size for much sound to penetrate—nor did she hear the flurries of rain begin to beat on the window and the stormy wind stir through the plane tree that cast its branching shadow against the front of the house. She slept on until her book slid from her lap and landed against her toes, bringing her awake with a start.

  She sat up, momentarily still out of touch with reality, then saw Jason Steele regarding her with disturbing steadiness.

  'Why didn't you wake me?' He moved, snapping back to life with a brusqueness she might have expected and stretching his wrist free of his cuff. 'Good God!' he exclaimed. 'Look at the time, girl!'

  Already her dismayed glance had sought her own wristwatch and looked at it unbelievingly. It couldn't be one o'clock! He stood up and was staring at her accusingly.

  'I—I'm sorry,' she faltered. 'I didn't realize… I went to sleep myself, and—'

  'Yes, but surely.' He slicked his hair back with impatient hands, and settled his tie, making an irritable movement of his head as he did so. Your hospitality was very pleasant, but do you always let your guests sleep it off?'

  'No.' She looked down. 'But you seemed very weary. I—I hadn't the heart to wake you up,' she added in a low voice.

  The expected riposte did not come. Instead he shot her a sharp glance. 'That was very thoughtful of you, Miss Meake, and I do appreciate it, but I dislike the thought of causing you inconvenience, especially after what has been, by all the ac­counts I heard earlier this evening, a trying week.'

  'It doesn't matter,' she returned guardedly, seeking a sign of derision in his expression. There was none that she could detect and she relaxed, giving him a small smile. 'It's over now, and it's Saturday tomorrow so I can sleep late if I want to.'

  He seemed about to say something else, then changed his mind. Giving her a nod, he turned towards the door, pulling his car-keys from his pocket. She hurried forward.

  'I'd better see you out—so I can lock up again after you.'

  Again that small nod, and he stood back to let her lead the way. Automatically, she walked silently, trying to be as quiet as possible when she opened the glass door to the outer hall.

  Mrs. Saunders was nervous about security and besides the normal lock on the door there were two large bolts on the heavy front door. Miranda drew the bottom one, but the top one was stiff and a shade too high and for her to reach easily. After a moment or so of watching her wrestle with it J.S. touched her shoulder and motioned her to stand aside.

  'Let me,' he said.

  The bolt gave, with a screech that set Miranda's teeth on edge. 'Hasn't she heard of the silent deterrent?' J.S. said in a whisper, and Miranda felt an uncontrollable desire to giggle.

  It bubbled from her as she fumbled for the Yale catch and tugged the door open. She sensed that J.S. was grinning too, and she turned to see, only to freeze as the sound of a door slamming reverberated through the silent house.

  'Who's there?'

  The thin, alarmed cry came from the stairhead.

  Miranda looked up and dismay widened her eyes. Mrs. Saunders stood up there, clutching a pink candlewick dressing gown round herself with one hand and hanging on to the ban­ister rail with the other.

  Jason Steele muttered, 'Here we go!' under his breath and pushed the door shut again on the rain-laden wind that was sweeping in.

  Miranda said quickly, 'It's all right, Mrs. Saunders. It's just me.'

  'You…?' Mrs. Saunders moved slowly down two stairs, bending forward uncertainly. 'But how did you get in? I locked up myself and—'

  'No—We—that is, Mr. Steele is just going. I'm sorry to disturb you, but we—'

  'Just going?' Mrs. Saunders was taking in the tall male figure standing in the shadows behind Miranda, and a very different expression was darkening her face. 'You mean you're not com­ing in? You mean that you and this—man have been—' She seemed to struggle for words. 'You were sneaking down­stairs at this time of the morning? How dare you?' She ad­vanced another step. 'I saw the strange car outside when I came home, but I never—'

  'No! Wait!' Miranda started forward, incredulity rushing over her as she realized just what was the conclusion Mrs. Saun­ders had jumped to. 'Listen, it's all right, Mrs. Saunders, I can explain. Mr. Steele is my boss, of Carona-Steele. He brought me home, and he's just got back from—'

  'I don't care who he is or where he's come from,' Mrs. Saun­ders broke in. She was descending the rest of the stairs now, all trace of her former alarm gone, leaving her face grim with anger. 'Whatever he is to you is no business of mine,' she grated, 'or what you are to him, but I'd prefer it kept out of my house. And don't try to tell me it's business at this time of the night.' She drew a deep aggrieved breath and rushed on: 'Oh, they warned me what I was risking if I let strangers into my house, and I didn't believe them. I'm shocked and disappointed in you, Miss Meake. I thought you were a decent, quiet girl, and after the tale you told me about where you used to live, and the way your aunt brought you up, I felt sorry for yo
u. Well,' her mouth tightened, 'I won't be taken in again, that's for sure, nor will I stand for any more of this sort of thing. Men coming and going from my house at all hours of the night. It isn't right!'

  'Mrs. Saunders!' Miranda fell back, shocked by the tirade. 'You—you're quite mistaken. I can explain, if only you'll—'

  'I don't think it's necessary,' Mrs. Saunders interrupted. 'As I said, it's no business of mine. But I'll have to ask you to leave, I'm afraid. I have Jean to think of, you know, and it just won't be suitable.' She turned away, looking fixedly at the stairs. 'You'd better make other arrangements as soon as you can.'

  Miranda gasped. All the colour had drained from her cheeks, and a sick fear tightened in her stomach. Her flat. Her lovely little flat. It couldn't be true! She had to make Mrs. Saunders listen, make her understand. She started to speak, and felt Jason's hand grip her arm.

  'Just a moment, Mrs. Saunders,' he said quietly.

  The angry woman turned, almost unwillingly.

  'Your imputations are not only unpleasant,' he said clearly, 'they are unfair, and they are also unfounded. However, I assure you I shall certainly see that Miss Meake does leave. After this I would not allow her to stay.'

  'What!' Mrs. Saunders stared at him, and Miranda gasped. She looked up at him, more dismayed than ever by his unex­pected interference, and then forgot what she was trying to say as his arm went round her shoulders and deliberately drew her close to his side. The protectiveness in the gesture rendered her speechless, and his next statement made her wonder if it were all a dream.

  'Miss Meake is going to marry me,' he said in the same clear tones. 'If you've anything further to say you will address it to me.'

  There was a moment of stunned silence. Miranda thought she had imagined it, then a wildness possessed her and she spun to face him, seeking confirmation that it was all a dream. But Jason's hard arm across her shoulders was no dream, nor was his crisp order: