Miranda's Marriage

by Margery Hilton

  'Yes, I had an affair with Lissa. It lasted nearly a year, and ended when she chose to marry James Lindsterne, for reasons which are irrelevant at this moment. I thought the affair was over, and I saw her on about three occasions, all strictly social, during the following months. As far as I was concerned, that was the end of our relationship. I'll admit I was bitter—she was the only woman who'd ever got under my skin to the extent that I was no longer in control of the affair—and I reacted pre­dictably by seeking feminine consolation elsewhere. Not very wisely, either.

  'Oh, yes,' a bitterness hardened his mouth as he swirled the spirit in his glass and stared at it for a moment before he drank, 'Lissa has a good deal to answer for in my personal life. Then she suddenly chose the most psychologically dangerous moment to come back into my life.' He looked up. 'Remember the night you camped in my office?'

  She nodded, hoping against hope that he wasn't going to destroy any more of her illusions but knowing in her heart the vainness of that hope.

  'When I left you that evening I'd just got back here when the phone rang. It was Lissa. She'd been to Rome to visit her sister Claire. Through a flight cancellation she got back—came back deliberately—a night earlier than planned. Her husband didn't know. So,' Jason set the glass down, 'she came straight here—and stayed the night.'

  Miranda closed her eyes, an involuntary betrayal of dis­tress.

  His mouth twisted. 'Don't look like that—damn it all! I was in love with her. I hadn't seen her for months. Then she came here, out of the blue, and walked into my arms. I was feeling as wretched as hell that night—she couldn't have picked a more opportune moment. I'd had one flaming row with a two-timing little bitch—Catrina had a heart of stone and a brain like a bank computer,' he interjected disgustedly. 'Lissa just seemed like everything I'd ever wanted and lost suddenly coming back to me. Afterwards, I wondered if that night had been real. Then I wondered how I was going to forget her again, because I knew it had just been one of those mad, impulsive things that happen, and I knew that to pick up our affair again could only lead to trouble.' He paused.

  'Then she rang me a few days later—with the soft entice­ment of a clandestine week-end. James was going to Scotland and she could meet me somewhere quiet in the country. I was tempted, and then suddenly I thought of James. He's a bit of an ass, but he's totally honest. I began to wonder if she'd have taken a lover had she married me. I felt sorry for him, and disgusted with myself and Lissa. The last thing I wanted was to cuckold an old friend. That was the moment when I began to master my desire for her.'

  Miranda stood up, sick at heart, and a shiver ran through her shoulders. Against her will, she was forced to recognize the ring of truth in his statement. She believed he had genuinely in­tended to end the affair when Lissa married—for how could any self-respecting man bear to abase pride to the extent of allowing any woman who refused his proposal of marriage to continue to call the tune—but nothing could hide the other truth now: he still loved her…

  She felt his eyes follow her movement, and giving a small, despairing shake of her head she moved towards the door.

  'Miranda…' His voice halted her. 'I haven't finished.'

  Her head drooped wearily. 'I don't want to hear any more.'

  'Maybe not, but it's a bit late to change your mind.' The coldness returned to sharpen his tone. 'It occurred to me some time ago to wonder how many tales you'd heard about me.'

  The involuntary murmur she made brought an exclamation of grim satisfaction to his lips. 'I thought so. It was inevitable in the circumstances. And it explains quite a few small dis­positions about you which I've noticed since our marriage.'

  She looked round. 'Such as?'

  He shrugged. I'm beginning to know more about you than you know yourself, but I'd be surprised if that was the nature of your concern at this moment.' He came towards her. 'It's over, Miranda.'

  'Is it?' she whispered.

  He put his hands on her shoulders and deliberately turned her to face him. 'Tell me, can you produce one iota of valid proof that I've been unfaithful to you since our marriage? Or do you prefer to believe your own unfounded suspicions—and gutter tales—before my word? Lissa is past. And I have never been unfaithful to you.'

  She wanted to be convinced, and she desperately wanted to believe that the shadow of Lissa would dim into the past, that the time would come when her memory ceased to exist for him. But she needed time to adjust, and tenderness to heal the hurt that was holding her very near the verge of tears. When he put his arms round her she stood passive, without desire, and was totally unprepared for the sudden upsurge in him of passion. His mouth came down hard, parting her lips and forcing her head back, and when the rough strength of his hand bruised the softness of her breast she experienced a wave of rejection. The face of Lissa swam before her eyes, here in this very room. 'The only woman who ever got under my skin…'

  'Don't touch me!' She flung away from him.

  His face darkened. 'Why shouldn't I? You're my wife.'

  'That's all you married me for, isn't it?' n 'Is that what you think?'

  She whirled to face him, her eyes brilliant with unshed tears. 'What else am I to think? You made it plain enough when you asked me to marry you. If I'd been willing to have the affair you wanted would you have married me?'

  His mouth set grimly. 'A man doesn't marry only for sex, Miranda. I could have had a dozen girls.' He took an angry pace forward and his hands clenched. 'Tell me, just what do you expect from me? I've tried to meet your needs. Material, physical, and social. How much more do you want? To own me; body and soul?'

  She recoiled. 'I don't want to own you at all, but neither will I share you.'

  'You haven't been expected to share me—with another woman,' he retorted. 'That's what you mean, isn't it?'

  She raised one hand, then let it fall despairingly. She shook her head, then looked at him, her eyes dull. 'Jason,' she said slowly, 'why did you marry me?'

  He seemed startled, as though he had expected her to say something else. 'What makes you ask?'

  She shrugged wearily. 'I've often wondered. Because I've always known that it wasn't because you were in love with me.'

  He hesitated, and when he started to speak he did not look at her. 'I thought you'd already worked it out to your own satis­faction. Or perhaps dissatisfaction would be a more apt de­scription. I've never attempted to analyse my reasons, but since you say so,' his mouth went down at the corners, 'yes, it's true in that respect. I knew I'd never get anywhere with you without marriage. So, on impulse, I married you. To be strictly honest, I suppose it was on the rebound—isn't that the classic way of describing it?'

  The silence lengthened after his voice died away. He poured another slug of whisky, splashed soda into it, took a mouthful and abruptly set down the glass. He made a grimace of distaste and sighed. With even paces he crossed the room, and as he neared her she watched him with wary eyes.

  He stopped, and his expression was hard. 'However, you've made your opinion of me perfectly plain tonight, so what else is there to say?'

  The rift yawned wide, deep and cold. Across it she met the grey ice of his mocking glance, and could find no answer to his question. Her head bowed, and a moment later the soft draught from the door stirred a fold of her dress. When she looked up the room was empty.

  * * *

  The next three days were the longest and unhappiest she had ever experienced.

  Jason remained cold and remote. She saw him only at break­fast and late in the evenings when he returned, grim-faced and taciturn, and suddenly she was haunted by the fear that he didn't care if the rift remained permanently unbridged.

  During the lonely dragging hours when sleep eluded her and she lay wondering if he too were lying wakeful in the next room the memory of the Saturday night stayed doggedly in her brain. Over and over again she relived those hours and their miserable climax, and each time she asked herself despairingly how much of the blame lay on her con
science.

  Did she seem too possessive? Did she expect too much of a man's faith in this day and age? Did he love her in the only way he knew? 'I've tried to provide for your needs. Material, physi­cal, and social…' In this case, was she throwing away every­thing for the sake of a dream? Was her long cherished idea of love simply devotion to a myth? Did that kind of love ever exist, except in the imagination of poets and story-tellers?

  By the third morning Miranda had gathered her courage together. They couldn't go on like this much longer. She re­hearsed what she was going to say, schooled herself for a quiet practical attitude, and made sure she was first down to break­fast on the Wednesday morning. And then all her careful inten­tions fled.

  In cold horror she saw him bring down a suitcase.

  Her cheeks blanched as she saw him set it down beside the hall chair on which his executive case rested. If he noticed her fear-filled glance he gave no sign, and in silence he ate break­fast, unhurriedly, giving no indication if he noticed that she ate not a mouthful. At the toast stage he took up the Telegraph and there was not a tremor or an untoward rustle to betray any inward perturbation he might be feeling.

  He was leaving her!

  There couldn't be any other explanation. There had been no mention the previous week of any more business trips, and usually Jason had everything, all appointments and journeys, arranged well in advance.

  For the first time in three days she forgot the ridiculous state of 'not speaking' in this fresh spate of horror.

  'Where are you going?' she faltered.

  The paper went down a few inches. He looked at her over the top. 'I beg your pardon…?' he said coldly.

  Her lips were dry. 'I—I asked: where are you going?'

  'Bonn.'

  The paper went up again, but in the painful surge of relief she scarcely noticed. 'Oh, of course! You—you never got there, after Rome. You were…' Her voice trailed off. She wanted to ask how long he would be away, but obviously the moment was not yet propitious for asking questions. She reached for the coffee-pot and with a quivering hand poured out a cup for herself. As she took the first mouthful he stood up.

  He said, 'I'll be back on Saturday. We'll talk then—if you've come to your senses.'

  The tentative words to wish him a safe trip died on her lips, and before she could form protest or denial he had gone, leav­ing her to make what she could of his parting words.

  Long before the day was over she was convinced that there was only one thing he wanted to talk about; the ending of their marriage.

  Suddenly she couldn't bear to stay in the house a moment longer. Without any conscious idea of where she would go, she shouldered into the first jacket that came to hand, grabbed her handbag, and hurried out. She wandered round the shops, finding no joy or temptation in the cosmetic departments she normally loved, and felt as though some invisible wall isolated her from the throng of shoppers sauntering past the fashion displays. It was not until she went into her purse for her fare home that she missed her compact, and immediately she felt panic: had she lost it?

  A sense of tragedy swept over her and she could scarcely suppress the need to weep. It was not only the material value of the compact—like all Jason's gifts it had been expensive—but the fact that it was one of his gifts that mattered. She thought of getting out at the next stop and rushing back to the places she had visited that afternoon, only to realize that by then they would be closed. And then she remembered: it was still in her evening purse. She had never taken it out since the previous Saturday. But when she got home, running upstairs in a fever of impatience to reassure herself, she discovered that the compact was not in the white and silver brocade purse.

  She sank down on the edge of the bed, trying to remember when last she had used the compact, and the unhappy memory surfaced: she had used it when she ruined her make-up and left it there.

  There was no reply at the Hubard home when she went to telephone, and it was not until the following morning she succeeded in making contact. Then Lady Hubard herself answered the phone.

  She was instantly concerned. 'But of course I'll inquire, my dear. How distressing for you. To tell you the truth, there were several things left—two scarves that I know of, and an earring, and someone left a bottle of brilliant pink pills! Now just wait a moment. I'll ask Marie.'

  There was the hollow sound of the receiver being laid on its side, and then the sounds of voices in the distance. Then Lady Hubard came back.

  'Yes, my dear, there is a compact. Quite small. A silver one with a rather beautiful inset of butterflies—are they lapis-lazuli? I'm not—'

  'Yes, that's the one,' Miranda said thankfully. 'I thought I'd lost it.'

  'No, it's quite safe,' Lady Hubard soothed. 'Now, shall I send it to you? Or ask Charles to give it to Jason…' She checked with a soft exclamation. 'Perhaps not—it's never wise to let our menfolk know when we've been just a trifle forgetful! But I've had a better idea—if you aren't too busy this week why not come over? We'd love to see you.'

  As Miranda hesitated Lady Hubard suggested:

  'Why not make it tomorrow, my dear? Come for the day and stay overnight. Then you can go with Charles to the airport on Saturday to meet Jason.' Carried away with her own enthusi­asm, Lady Hubard made it impossible to refuse. Times were arranged, and she rang off, leaving Miranda looking forward with mixed feelings to this unexpected invitation. Although she liked the older woman very much the association with Jason was too close to face with equanimity at this time. Miranda had never been very good at dissembling, and the thought of having to speak of Jason as though nothing had happened filled her with foreboding. For if Lady Hubard should happen to be in one of her motherly moods the temptation to confide might overcome all other scruples.

  When the taxi swept up the drive just after eleven the next morning Miranda found it difficult to credit that less than a week had elapsed since she drove with Jason up this same drive. It felt like aeons. She paid the driver and turned to see Lady Hubard hurrying across the lawn. Her hostess wore a volumin­ous green linen apron over her dove-grey summer dress, and a businesslike pair of gardening gloves which she pulled off before she took Miranda's hand and stooped to kiss her cheek.

  'Welcome—and do forgive my earthy state!' She brushed traces of her recent activity from one knee and laughed. 'It isn't our week for the gardener until next week and Charles has been complaining of his back these past few days —I say it's a con­venient excuse when there's weeding to be done! Now let us go in—I think I've earned my coffee this morning!'

  One didn't have to worry about making conversation with Lady Hubard; she made it very easy just to smile and pick up the conventional cues. But Miranda knew instinctively that the two older people had taken a genuine liking for her, and this knowledge strengthened her resolution not to betray that any­thing was amiss. The last thing she wanted was to cause the embarrassment of alienation in a rather difficult situation. However, as the day passed, it became easier, and suddenly she was tremulously glad not to be spending another lonely, mis­erable day at Byrne Square.

  After coffee she helped her hostess finish weeding the big circular rose bed outside the morning room window, and at lunch time Sir Charles arrived home. There was only one awk­ward moment, when he teased her about missing her husband, and then the subject of conversation turned to the wedding celebration, and then to Diane.

  It wasn't until breakfast the following morning that Sir Charles said ruminatively: 'Did he say what time he'd touch down?'

  Miranda shook her head. 'No, just that he would be back on Saturday,' she said carefully.

  Her host's eyes widened. 'Well, that's useful. How typical of Jason! If he doesn't tell his wife who is he going to tell?'

  Fortunately Lady Hubard instantly thought of a perfectly convincing explanation, and saved Miranda the awkwardness of responding.

  'He probably didn't know until the last moment,' Lady Hubard said calmly, 'and he probably telephoned Mira
nda last night, not knowing she is here. It's quite simple.'

  Sir Charles nodded. 'Didn't think of that.'

  'You wouldn't,' said his wife sweetly. 'I sometimes wonder how men run businesses and countries at all. It isn't surprising that the world's in its present state of chaos.'

  'Meaning the ladies might have done better?' he teased.

  'No might about it,' she retorted. 'We would.'

  His eyes twinkled. 'Now, now! I think you're a little too mature for Women's Lib, my dear.'

  'Nonsense.' She turned a mock frown on her husband, then looked at Miranda. 'Would you like to telephone home and ask Libby if he rang last night?'

  'Yes,' put in Sir Charles. 'We don't want to miss his flight.'

  Miranda swallowed. 'It's very kind of you to offer to drive me to meet him, Sir Charles, but I don't think Jason will have rung—he doesn't like being met or seen off at airports, and so I…' She forced a smile and gave a tiny shrug.

  'And so you respect his wishes instead of making an issue out of a small male foible; very wise of you, my dear,' Lady Hubard concluded for her. She raised fine brows at her hus­band. 'See how we defer to our lords and masters?'

  For once Sir Charles failed to follow through the badinage which seemed to flow good-humouredly between them most of the time. 'Doesn't like being met…? I never heard such non­sense. That boy is becoming a shade too arrogant for his own good. Well,' he stood up and cleared his throat a trifle pomp­ously, 'I'm afraid I'm going to risk displeasing him—there is a certain matter I must inquire about which I'd rather not have to wait until Monday to confirm.'

  Still 'hrumphing', he went from the room, and his wife smiled secretively at Miranda.

  Had she felt happier Miranda could have smiled at the chair­man of Carona-Steele's reference to his managing director. At thirty-seven, Jason was scarcely her idea of a boy! Although she could understand that in Sir Charles' venerable eyes he might still appear that. A few minutes later Sir Charles returned.