Miranda's Marriage

by Margery Hilton

  'I called a doctor in Rome—I never got to Bonn.' He sank down on the bed and swung his legs under the covers. 'Now don't fuss. The worst's over.'

  'What do you expect me do? Not bother? Oh, Jason, you can't stay here. Please be sensible,' she pleaded. 'It's hot and airless, and not very comfortable.'

  'Trying to tempt me?' A ghost of his old challenge glimmered in his eyes. 'Not tonight, Josephine, I'm afraid.'

  She flushed scarlet. 'I wasn't thinking of that.' Almost angrily she began to snatch up the articles of clothing strewn round the room and fold them neatly. This again was untypical of him; normally he was extremely fastidious over personal tidiness, and she had never known him toss a jacket down into an open suitcase wherein sundry toilet accessories spilled from their waterproof holder. She rescued the jacket, tried to shake out the damp creases it had already gathered, and heard him murmur:

  'I know you weren't.' He sighed, and the brief flare of spirit went out of his voice. 'Now don't worry, I'll survive. Just leave me and go and get your own sleep.'

  'No. I'm staying here,' she said firmly, 'to make sure you're all right.'

  His shoulders moved indifferently, and he turned away from the light. 'There's no need, but anything for peace…'

  For a moment she stood there, watching him hunch down under the clothes, then she picked up the tray and went down­stairs to recount her worries to Libby.

  'I've only once known him ill during the years I've worked for him,' Libby said reminiscently. 'He had a cartilage oper­ation on his knee. Put an end to his rugger capers. But he wasn't so much ill then as forced to give in until the trouble was put right. I shouldn't worry too much, it's probably just a stomach upset—too much rich food at all these business dinners,' she added flatly.

  Miranda nodded, but she wasn't too sure about Libby's sur­mise. She made herself a cup of coffee, undressed and donned a housecoat, and made a fresh lot of fruit juice and soda. It was just as well that she did, for when she went quietly into the little bedroom she found him asleep and the first jug quite empty.

  Libby had found some nightlights, packed away with candles and an oil lamp in one of the downstairs store cupboards, and Miranda settled herself with the tiny illumination where it would not disturb the sleeper. He did not sleep very long, and long before the night was over she suspected that Jason was more ill than he admitted. He was very restless, at one time requesting another blanket, and then a little while later pushing the clothes away as though he couldn't bear their warmth. He drank thirstily each time he awakened, complained once that he felt as though he'd been kicked by a mule, and told her three times to get some rest herself.

  The following morning he got up, bathed and shaved as usual, but refused food all day and admitted to a raging head­ache. It was not until the Sunday that he began to look slightly less drawn and ate a little toast at a very late breakfast. During the afternoon he showed further signs of returning to normality when he perused the financial sections of the Sunday heavies and made a lengthy phone call to Sir Charles. When it was over he came back into the lounge and flopped down on the settee with his feet on the arm.

  'Sir Charles sends his regards,' he said, 'and reminds us about the do next Saturday.'

  She nodded, concern keeping her alert for any sign of the fever flaring again. He caught the intent regard, and his mouth curved with sardonic humour.

  'You're looking a trifle wan yourself—you know now why I tried to warn you. Poor Miranda, you haven't had a very restful week-end, either.'

  She shrugged, and the humour continued to play round his mouth.

  'I've always endeavoured to keep out of the way of my women during the odd occasions I've fallen victim to blight. Sort of preserving the illusions,' he added cynically.

  'But I'm not one of your women,' she reminded him gently. 'At least, I hope not.'

  'Had enough already?'

  She wished she could learn to ignore these moments when he reverted back to the rakish J.S. she had first known. But that was the Jason you fell in love with, she reminded herself, trying to mitigate the hurt to which that love was making her increas­ingly vulnerable. For she could not help but reflect on the way he had tried to shut himself away from her during his brief illness, which, even though it had not proved serious, had had a totally opposite effect on her, in that it instantly awakened in her the natural desire to care for him. But he had seemed not to want her gentle ministrations. She sighed softly, remembering his remark that day by the loch, when he told her he wanted to get used to the state of marriage before he embarked on the state of fatherhood.

  She picked up one of the papers which had slid to the floor and curled up in the armchair, pretending to immerse herself in newsprint, as he was doing. But behind the shield of pages her expression grew troubled. How long before she and Jason at­tained that sense of oneness, for which she instinctively groped, believing it to be the true essence of a perfect relationship, of marriage…?

  * * *

  They returned to Byrne Square the following morning and Jason departed again almost immediately for the office. He seemed quite recovered, apart from the slightly drawn look still taut over his cheekbones and the loss of several pounds of weight, about which he was unconcerned, and she was aware again of that well-spring of vitality in him, the source of the power so characteristic in his personality.

  He reminded her casually that evening about the special en­gagement at the week-end, asking her if she'd decided what to wear, and instantly she remembered.

  Her concern over his illness had temporarily banished the other worry, but now all the misgivings rushed back in full spate. For the hundredth time she wished she'd spoken outright that day at the airport, pointing out the presence of the girl who had once played so important a part in his life. He would have been forced to make some comment, and at least the matter would have been brought into the open. But she had lacked die courage, and now it was too late.

  Each day she was tense, half expecting Lissa to telephone or call. For surely she must know that Jason became ill in Rome. Unless she was still there. But James Lindsterne had made it quite clear that he and his wife would be at the Hubards' ruby wedding celebration.

  Suddenly Miranda was dreading it.

  But there was no phone call, and the Saturday dawned to clear skies and a soft stillness on the air which augured a perfect day. That evening she donned the new white dress of sheer silk jersey and long clinging lines that moulded her supple body to perfection. She raised her hands to her hair, the flowing mediaeval sleeves adding further grace to the movement, and encountered Jason's eyes through the mirror.

  'Thank heaven,' he murmured dryly. 'I was afraid you might change your mind.' He held out a flat jeweller's box. 'I got this yesterday afternoon, but knowing women I was quite pre­pared to find you'd decided at the last minute to wear something different.'

  He opened the box and moments later was fastening about her throat a heavy silver chain and pendant in the form of a Celtic cross. It was of antique silver, finely chased, and set with a circle of glowing garnets around the beautiful turquoise at its heart. Before she even glimpsed it through the mirror she knew that once again Jason had demonstrated his perfect taste and his knowledge of feminine adornment. The cross was an ideal complement to her gown and the plain, severely drawn back hair-style she had chosen.

  He looked at her over her shoulder, then turned her away from the mirror so that she faced him. He nodded. 'Yes, I think so, don't you?'

  She inclined her head, suddenly ashamed of all the doubts and suspicions she had harboured those past few days.

  'It's beautiful—thank you. You spoil me, Jason.' Tremu­lously she looked up at him, and impulsively offered her lips.

  He drew her towards him, then checked. 'Better not—I might ruin your make-up—it takes long enough to put on!'

  She wanted to cry: To pot with my make-up—I want to kiss you! then the impulse died as she read the expression in his eyes. Undoubte
dly they held appreciation of her appearance, but they also held the pride of possession. She remembered that there would be some two hundred guests at tonight's cel­ebration, that among them would be some of the wealthiest in the land, people whom it was unlikely she would have met had she stayed in her own quiet, friendly country circle and never comes to the capital to meet and marry Jason Steele.

  As though he read her thoughts he said: 'You're not nervous, are you?'

  'Should I be?' she returned steadily.

  'You've absolutely no cause to be,' he said crisply, 'but there'll be quite a few autocratic old dowagers there tonight, and a newcomer to their scene is often a subject of curiosity—not always the benign variety, either.'

  'I shall have to remain at a discreet distance, then, won't I?' she said evenly, 'and make sure I don't disgrace you.'

  'Little idiot!' he exclaimed with some vehemence, 'I'm trying to warn you—and protect you. The sheltered kind of upbringing you seem to have had provides little protection against the bitchery of high society.'

  'There's bitchery in all society, at whatever level you try to categorize it.' She added the final touches of scent to pulse spots with a calmness of manner she did not feel and swung round to face him. 'You're making me nervous, Jason. Of whom have I to be afraid tonight?'

  'I can't answer that because I don't know. Perhaps only your­self,' he said strangely, then glanced abruptly at his watch. 'Come on, we don't want to be too late.'

  He was silent most of the drive to Maidenhead, where Sir Charles and Lady Hubard had their home in a gracious, ram­bling old mansion overlooking the river, and again Miranda felt the stir of foreboding. She wondered feverishly just what he had tried to warn her against, and decided sceptically that it was not the reason he had put into actual words. The only possible reason could be that of Lissa's presence—what else could it be? By the time Jason turned the car into the drive entrance she was chill with nerves and almost wishing the evening was over.

  The wide tree-lined drive was already lined with parked cars, and at the curve half-way along they caught up with the tail of a line of slow-moving cars. At the head of the drive a manservant was directing the vehicles.

  Jason stopped the car. 'You'd better get out and wait for me inside.'

  She wanted to protest, to say that she didn't mind walking back from wherever Jason had to park the car, but the man­servant was standing by the side of the car, and other cars were drawing up at the rear. She got out, holding the fullness of her white skirt lest it got marked, and went slowly up the three stone steps to the open door. Light, music and voices spilled out with that indefinable air of special celebration, and through open doors at each side of the spacious hall she saw people mingling, calling excited recognitions, and servants unob­trusively busy. The smell of opulence was all around, in light furs carried carelessly over bare arms—the evening was still pleasantly warm—elegant gowns, the sparkling battery of bril­liance from jewel-swathed throats and bosoms, the high languid voices, the worldly assurance of the men, and the wafts of ex­clusive perfumes in blatant competition with one another.

  Miranda looked round. There didn't seem to be a soul she knew, and she clutched the jewelled cross at her throat as though it were a talisman. In the moment while she wondered if she should move forward a voice spoke at her side and Lady Hubard was taking her hands and greeting her warmly.

  'Now would you like to leave your wrap, my dear, while you wait for Jason—such a tiresome business tucking the car some­where until it's wanted again.' She smiled and beckoned to an elderly maid hovering nearby. 'Marie will look after you—oh, and thank you so much for your beautiful gift. We will always treasure it,' she added. 'Charles and I are positively crazy over our collection of Venetian glass.'

  What a marvellous memory, Miranda reflected as she fol­lowed Marie to the room which had been set aside for the ladies to leave their wraps in. Lady Hubard and her husband must have had well over a hundred gifts and yet she could remember instantly who had given what.

  After depositing her light wrap and making an anxious check of her appearance she found her way back downstairs and saw Jason in an animated group near the foot of the stairs. He put out his hand, drawing her into the circle in the way that made her heart leap with the love he had evoked in her, and procured a drink for her. People were still arriving, and Sir Charles was greeting the new arrivals, jovially informing everyone that in­formality was the order of the evening.

  'All we ask,' he declaimed, 'is that you wend your ways into the dining-room at eight o'clock. Afterwards my niece is going to dance for us—I'm not sure whether we should give her anything to eat! What do you think?' He put his arm round the shoulders of a slender, elfin child of about twelve and looked inquiringly at the guests.

  'Shame,' said someone, and the elfin child dimpled mis­chievously at her uncle.

  She was one of several children present, and as the guests began to move into the big dining-room, seeking their place cards and being guided by catering hostesses specially engaged for the occasion, Miranda saw more people whom she had met since her marriage. There was no sign of Lissa and her hus­band, and when the entire party was assembled at the long horseshoe table there were occasional gaps, almost inevitable with so large a guest list. Almost ashamed of the growing relief that was relaxing tension and bringing a joyous sense of in­tegration with the festivities, Miranda appreciated the exquis­itely decorated table. The main motifs were pink and silver, masses of tiny roses cascading from candelabra, silver twisted candles, silver lustre dinner ware, and a series of miniature fountains playing in which pink blossoms floated. The toasts brought the poignancy of sentiment into many hearts and there were the sounds of many throats being unashamedly cleared when the toastmaster finished his well-chosen words and the company raised their glasses to their hosts.

  When the noise of chatter broke into the silence afterwards Wally Ambrose, who was on Miranda's left, nudged her and said mischievously:

  'Wait for the day when you two are forty years on.'

  Miranda shook her head. She couldn't imagine it at all. Jason turned his head inquiringly, and again she shook her head, whereupon Wally obligingly repeated his remark. Jason's mouth curved down at the corners. 'I'm not sure my wife's patience will last forty years,' he said dryly, and Wally chuckled.

  'It's a virtue I haven't particularly noticed in you, my boy. Maybe you should—'

  Miranda did not hear the rest of his chaffing remark. The double doors at the end of the long room had opened and two people entered. Lady Hubard had left her place and was going to greet them, concern in her face, and then murmuring to one of the waiters who escorted the newcomers to their places. The commiserations passed along the tables almost instantly: 'Cars! Always break down at the most crucial times! Ghastly nuis­ance! Still, they got here!'

  Lissa and James had arrived.

  She looked more beautiful than Miranda remembered, even though-traces of annoyance still marred her almost flawless features. She and James were placed on the other curve of the horseshoe table, out of range of Miranda's vision, but as soon as the meal was ended and the replete guests began a somewhat languid amble from the scene of eating she threaded her way deliberately towards Jason.

  She flashed a brilliant smile of greeting at Miranda, then turned it on Jason. 'Are you quite recovered, Jason?'

  He nodded, his eyes enigmatic. 'I'm fine, thank you.' He turned, obviously with the intention of introducing James Lind­sterne who was just catching up with his wife, to Miranda, but Lissa forestalled him. She made the briefest of intro­ductions, then went on: 'You had me really worried that even­ing you and Mike dined with us. I do believe'—she gestured artlessly—'that if I hadn't insisted on calling Claire's doctor you'd have gone off to Bonn next morning and probably col­lapsed.'

  Miranda was silent. She could not look at Jason. All she could think was that Jason hadn't told her…

  'What's this? Who's collapsing?'


  Wally Ambrose had joined the group in the doorway and had to be told.

  'Jason? But he's indestructible,' Wally chortled.

  'Famous last words,' said James Lindsterne.

  'We're in the way here,' Jason reminded them, as the cater­ing staff moved into the dining-room to clear away the tables and chairs.

  Lissa dismissed this with a careless gesture, sidestepping gracefully as someone passed. 'Oh, have you seen the presents? We must go and see the presents.'

  'They're in the morning-room,' said Jason, his hand touching the centre of Miranda's back.

  Automatically she moved forward, into a general drift towards the morning-room where a tremendous array of gifts marking a great milestone in a marriage was displayed.

  But Miranda hardly took in what she was seeing, even as her lips formed appropriate murmurs of admiration. Why hadn't he told her? Desperately she tried to persuade herself that it hadn't been important enough to him, that the fact of Lissa's making no secret whatsoever of the meeting should confirm this, but the effort was not successful. She looked at him now, seeking to read an answer, but Jason had donned his suave, polished party style and its façade was unassailable.

  Lissa was openly envious of an exquisitely carved bowl of translucent green jade.

  'Chinese, I'm sure. I hope you're not breaking the tenth com­mandment, Jason,' she teased.

  'I leave that sin to the feminine sex,' he retaliated dryly.

  Wally chuckled, and James Lindsterne remarked: 'I hope they've got this lot well insured.'

  'We have,' Lady Hubard's sweet voice broke in. 'Now can I tear you all away? Diane is going to make her little contribution to the occasion and she'll be so disappointed if I don't round up an audience for her. After that I promise you there'll be no more organization,' she smiled, shepherding them firmly away. 'There'll be dancing and a cabaret later and the mid­night barbecue for the youngsters, but we want you all just to make free of the place—wander down to the river if you want air—and just enjoy yourselves.'