'No—it's from Mrs. Gordon. Did I ever tell you about her?' Miranda looked up. 'She used to be my aunt's daily help, and rather a darling. I sent her a piece of wedding cake and a short note and I was beginning to think she hadn't received it. But she's been away,' Miranda returned her attention to the copious flow in Mrs. Gordon's favourite purple ink, 'and just got back last week. She'd been nursing her widowed sister who's had an operation…' Miranda stopped, and read on in silence—Jason would not be interested in the rather revolting details of Mrs. Gordon's unfortunate sister's operation. 'Oh, she got a terrific surprise when she heard I was married and she sends her very best wishes for our happiness and says she can't quite believe it—it seems no time since she was chasing me out to catch the bus for school…'
Miranda glanced up again, to discover that Jason had returned his attention to the Telegraph and she was talking to the air. But the musing smile of retrospect still played about her mouth.
How far away those days at Evesham seemed now. Almost as though they belonged to another age. Yet all less than seven months ago. If she had dithered, played safe by staying in the homeland she'd always known, she wouldn't be sitting here, looking at the darkly etched profile of her husband above the newspaper. As though he felt her regard he closed the paper and sent her an inquiring glance.
She put the letter down. 'I'll have to make arrangements about my things. Mrs—'
'What things?' He frowned.
'Remember? Some furniture and—'
He nodded quickly. 'You want to bring them here?'
'Yes, because Mrs. Gordon wants to have her sister come and live with her, because of her sister's poor health, and she needs the room.'
'Well, what's the problem?' Jason asked. 'We've plenty of spare room upstairs for your childhood treasures,' he grinned, 'if you don't want to part with them. And we can probably find homes for the other items.'
She hesitated, her brow serious. 'Actually, I've been wondering about that. I can't visualize Aunt Hester's stuff fitting in here. It's all cottagey style—you know, old oak mostly. Although there's a beautiful little satinwood side table that would go in that alcove on the first landing. But Mrs. Gordon says the man in the post office is very interested and she's to let him have first chance if I want to sell the stuff.'
'Oh, he does, does he?' Jason folded the paper. 'You'll sell nothing till I've had a look at it. We'd better go down at the first opportunity. Some of it may be extremely valuable.'
How quickly he reverted to businesslike practicality, she thought. Two days later they drove to Evesham, lunched there, and drove out to Upper Mingbury to the home of the suddenly emotional Mrs. Gordon.
When the initial excitement of the reunion abated she showed Jason the well-loved pieces she had been reluctant to let go and he announced that he would arrange for a carrier to pick up the larger items and in the meantime they could take the small stuff that afternoon as there was ample space in the car.
They had to stay to tea, after which they loaded the car, and it seemed the entire village already knew that Hester Grey's niece was back, with her husband. Smiles and waves came over the neat hedge, and from the gardens across the street, and when Jason drove off he remarked dryly: 'Now I know what running the gauntlet means. Villagers!'
'Everyone knew my aunt. She lived here all her life,' Miranda told him. 'I suppose I should have called on a few people.'
'Why didn't you say so?'
'And dragged you round a lot of strange houses?' She was surprised. 'You'd have been bored, so I didn't suggest it.'
'Me? I'd have let Mrs. Gordon entertain me for an hour. She's quite an indomitable character, and I think she was disappointed we didn't stay longer—she wanted to weigh me up and find out if I'm good for you,' he added sardonically.
'Wouldn't I be the one to supply that information?'
'You?' His mouth curved at one corner. 'Since when did any woman know when she was well off?'
'The moment she wasn't.' Miranda settled back to watch the countryside speed by, whisking away the miles to town. The visit to her old home had been all the more joyful for being planned unexpectedly, and the warmth of Jason's teasing mood added a poignant note to her day's happiness.
But it was to be tinged by disappointment when they got back that evening and he broke the news that he would be away the following week.
'Oh no! Not again!'
'Oh yes! And I can't say I'm exactly looking forward to it myself,' he said brusquely. 'Rome will be like a blast furnace if this weather continues.'
'Yes.' She glanced out of the window at the fiery sunset that promised to tint the clouds with shepherd's delight, that old countryman's portent for yet another fine day. 'How long?' she sighed.
'Two days Rome. Two days Bonn,' he said laconically.
There was a silence, then he moved to her side and dropped one hand on her shoulder.
'Why don't you go down to the cottage for the week?' he suggested. 'Get out of London for a change.'
'We've just come back,' she reminded him.
He shrugged. 'It seems years away already.'
It was true, she reflected. Already those idyllic ten days had receded into the past, their memory enclosed like a distant island.
'Alone?' she murmured doubtfully.
He shrugged. 'Take Libby. She'll look after you, and if I can I'll join you as soon as I get back.'
Abruptly his manner became brisk. 'I've just thought… your aunt's stuff would be ideal down there. I'll contact the carrier first thing in the morning and arrange to have it delivered there instead of here. But you'll have to be there that day—then you and Libby can amuse yourselves changing things round. Okay?'
She murmured assent, but the hint of doubt remained in her expression. 'Supposing I do take Libby, though, and you get back sooner than you expect—who'll look after you?'
'Me?' He laughed shortly. 'I'm not that helpless, darling.'
And so it was arranged. The carrier was to collect the things from Mrs. Gordon on the following Wednesday morning and deliver it at the cottage 'some time later' the same day.
Jason was leaving on the ten o'clock flight on the Monday morning, and at first he suggested rather peremptorily that Miranda and Libby should leave for Hampshire on the Sunday, when he would drive them down himself. But Miranda refused. She would see him off, then travel down by train after lunch. His attitude to this statement plainly betrayed that he considered it foolish whimsy, but he did not argue, and, encouraged by this, she announced she would see him off at the airport.
To this, however, Jason did take exception.
She listened, then said calmly: 'I know. You have this thing about not being seen off or met at airports. But please, just for once, let me satisfy my desire to wave my husband safe journey—and wish you luck and tell you to take care of yourself, like most wives do,' she pleaded a little breathlessly. 'And after this I'll try to content myself with watching you vanish across the square and waiting for the phone to ring telling me you're on your way home.'
'All right,' he sighed, 'but it still seems so pointless to me. All for the sake of a sentimental embrace with a mob of all nations milling around. If you could drive the car it would be different, but you'll have to come back under your own steam. Is it worth it?'
'I think so,' she said firmly. 'Please…?'
'Have it your own way!' He gave her a crooked grin and upturned his palms; his way, she knew by now, of saying: the matter is closed.
She won her sentimental embrace, said those tender little wifely things she longed to say, and a little while later watched the plane take off. But by then the twin agonies of doubt and fear had captured her heart once more.
For, seemingly unnoticed by Jason while he waited, and in their turn apparently oblivious to his presence, two women stood talking animatedly to one another not so far from where Miranda and Jason waited. The Rome flight was called, and the younger woman kissed the older one and made off into t
he stream of departing travellers.
It was Lissa.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
As she watched the plane soar up into the white clouds Miranda tried to convince herself she had made a mistake. She had only met Lissa once, and she had seen her only in profile and then from behind in those moments before the flight was called. It could have been someone very like her…
But she knew in her heart she had made no mistake, and when, as she was leaving the building, she saw Lissa's companion it had the effect of destroying the frail attempt at self-delusion. She could not help staring at the older woman, wondering who she was, and noticed that she had lost the rather brittle air of animation that had been present when she talked to Lissa. The woman turned her head suddenly and met Miranda's gaze, and Miranda moved on hurriedly, conscious of the embarrassment of being caught staring, but not before she had recognized the likeness in features etched more strongly by maturity and realized that the other woman could be none other than Lissa's mother.
And Lissa was on that plane, even now was in the same section as Jason, perhaps talking to him, sharing a drink with him, arranging to meet in Rome, if it all hadn't been arranged already…
Sick at heart, she recoiled from the ugly suspicion. Lissa might not be bound for Rome; she could be going to Paris, or… Feverishly Miranda wished she had scanned the timetables to see if it was a direct flight—but Jason invariably endeavoured to take a direct flight; time was a vital commodity to him.
She was wan and preoccupied during the train journey to Hampshire that afternoon, unable to forget the slender graceful girl in pale green linen walking ahead of Jason's tall, dark-clad figure and hating herself for being unable to banish her fears. Desperately she clung to the thought that he would telephone her at night and the sound of his voice would bring the magic of reassurance. But as the hours passed and the phone stayed silent she was denied that longed-for consolation.
The days ahead seemed to stretch like an eternity. Because of Libby's presence she was forced to assume an air of normality she was far from feeling, and several times she wished she had insisted on Libby remaining at Byrne Square. Alone, she could abandon pretence while she existed through the long empty days, but not under Libby's shrewd and practical survey. There was also something she wanted to do, an idea that had flashed into her worried brain during the journey down, but one that she could not carry out when there was a chance of Libby overhearing.
It wasn't until the Wednesday morning when Libby announced she was going to walk down to the village to collect bread and a few oddments that Miranda had the opportunity of half an hour free from interruption.
She watched Libby set off with the shopping basket and round the bend of the lane before she took the card out of her handbag and sat down by the phone. For a moment she looked at the printed name and address, and the small note in Lissa's neat writing which added a second number—'My mother's home number', and heard the echoes of Lissa explaining that she could be reached there when she was in town, which was quite often.
After a long hesitation Miranda dialled the Hampshire number, and found she was shivering while she waited for the dialling notes to cease abruptly with response from the other end. When it came, sooner than she expected, she couldn't make her voice frame a calm reply instantly.
The male voice at the other end of the line repeated rather testily: 'Yes, Lindsterne here. Speak up, please.'
She had a wild impulse to put down the receiver without answering. She resisted it and said unevenly: 'Could I speak to-Mrs. Lindsterne, please?'
'I'm afraid you can't. She's in Rome.' The voice changed perceptibly, losing the tone of anonymity and gaining a trace of curiosity. 'Can I help?'
Miranda's throat tightened and the familiar chill settled in the pit of her stomach. 'No,' she managed, 'it isn't important at all. I'm sorry to bother you, Mr. Lindsterne.'
'Not at all. Lissa rushed off on Monday—Claire's been feeling under the weather lately, first baby coming and all that, and the heat's pretty atrocious just now.' He paused. 'I'm afraid I don't recognize your voice—should I be able to?'
'No, we haven't met.' Miranda swallowed hard and wished she hadn't started this; there was nothing now but to introduce herself.
For a moment there was a silence, then a surprised exclamation. He made the conventional responses, then went on: 'I'm sorry you couldn't make it that week-end. We were looking forward to meeting Jason's wife—still are, of course. But it takes a while to settle down and get acquainted with each other's crowd.'
He was talking pleasantly and easily now, the first trace of irritability gone. She tried to picture him, imagining him as a country type, more at home with dogs and a gun and the wind in his face than with the hothouse set or the arto-intellecto trend followers. Suddenly she wondered if he suffered the same agonizing uncertainties as herself. Was he ever tormented by the suspicion that his beautiful wife might regret turning down his best friend in favour of himself when she chose her marriage partner? Did he torture himself wondering if the old love affair had never really ended…? Suddenly she became aware of him saying: 'But you wanted to talk to Lissa… I don't know when she'll be back, but is there any message?'
With another stab of dismay she wished she had prepared a valid excuse for calling. She stammered, 'No, it was just that she left me her number and I just decided to ring…'
'Glad you did,' he said heartily.
In a moment he would suggest a visit as soon as it could be arranged, and she wondered how she could stall for time while she prayed Jason wouldn't get to hear of it. With the next breath James Lindsterne was doing exactly as she feared, but luck was on her side. Some sound must have disturbed him, for he broke off and remembered that he'd left the garden door open and the dogs would be rampaging in the kitchen.
'I must go and hoof them out,' he said quickly, 'but we're bound to meet at the Hubards' celebration next week and we can arrange something then. Lissa will be delighted.' With an apology he rang off, and she stared at the phone for some moments before she put it back on the rest.
'And he'll let out that I telephoned him,' she murmured distractedly, remembering the result of her first and only contact with Lissa Lindsterne. Had Jason's anger that night been born of guilt? There seemed no other logical explanation.
Listlessly she wandered out into the heat-laden garden. The fears that subterfuge invariably brings in its train paled quickly beside the certain knowledge she now possessed. Lissa was in Rome; Jason was in Rome; neither could fail to be aware that the other was present also. Even if they were lovers no longer some intangible thing remained to be resolved between them; until it was resolved there could be no peace of mind for Miranda, nor in her marriage.
She lived through those days in an agony of dread, made more frightening by the fact that Jason failed to telephone. In a half-hearted way she helped Libby to polish everything in the cottage and find new homes for the familiar treasures that the van delivered late on the Wednesday afternoon. On the Friday the heatwave broke with a violent thunderstorm, and in torrential rain Jason drove down to arrive without warning at ten o'clock that night.
His greeting was brusque and he made no attempt to embrace her when she ran to the door, surprise parting her lips. His thin jacket was soaked in the short journey to bring in his case and lock the garage door, and it was Libby who exclaimed suddenly:
'Are you all right, sir?'
With a sense of shock Miranda forgot her personal feelings and saw the drawn, shadowy hollows in his face and the pallor beneath his tan.
'Jason, what's the matter?' she cried.
'Nothing. I'm all right, just dead tired.'
'You don't look all right.'
'Don't fuss—I'll be okay by tomorrow.' He avoided her searching gaze and shrugged out of the wet jacket.
'What will you have?' Libby hovered by the door, ready for flight kitchenwards. 'There's some cold fresh salmon—I was going to do a mousse fo
r tomorrow. Or I could grill a cutlet—it wouldn't take long—and there's raspberry crumble.'
Jason gave a visible shudder. 'Nothing, Libby. I'm not hungry. I—'
'Did you have something before you came down?' Miranda interrupted.
'I've scarcely eaten for two days.' He raked a hand through his damp hair and reached for his case, turning towards the stairs. 'Something I ate, probably.' Without a glance at the two alarmed faces upturned to him he went wearily upstairs.
Miranda looked at Libby, and the older woman shook her head. 'It's not use forcing food on him if he's had a gastric upset,' she counselled, 'but you should persuade him to take plenty of fluid, Mrs. Steele. Shall I mix some fruit juice and soda water?'
'Yes—no, I'll do it myself,' Miranda decided.
While Libby watched anxiously she filled a jug with orange juice diluted with soda water and put it on a tray with a glass. She hurried upstairs, to find the main bedroom empty.
There were four bedrooms in the cottage, one an airy, spacious room, two somewhat smaller, and a fourth that was little more than a box room. It was uneven in shape, tucked partly under the overhang of the thatch with a tiny dormer window, and, because it faced south, trapped and held a great deal of heat during warm weather. It was here that she found Jason, his things spread haphazardly over the bed and tiny chest of drawers, and the half-unpacked suitcase on the floor.
She stared at him in the shadowy light of the small lamp, her expression incredulous.
'Don't look so aghast.' He shrugged into his pyjama jacket and turned the bedcovers back. 'I'm going to spare you a disturbed sleep.'
He took the glass from the tray she still held and tipped the jug towards the light. 'What's this?'
'Orange and soda—but, Jason—'
'It's warmer in here as well.' There was a small bottle of tablets on the ladderback chair by the bed, and he took two, gulping a mouthful of the orange juice.
'What are those?' She started forward.
'Antibiotics.'
Alarm began to flare. She looked round for somewhere to set the tray and seeing no space in the small room bent impatiently and put it on the floor. 'You can't sleep in here,' she protested, 'and you should have the doctor if you—' She reached out to place her hand on his brow and found it hot and damp. 'You've got a temperature,' she exclaimed. 'I think we should call the doctor.'
Miranda's Marriage Page 17