by Penny Jordan
She was appalled by how easily the image in her mind had become transferred to the man holding her in his arms. She knew quite well that it was just some trick of her imagination that had transformed James into her dream lover, but it made her face burn and her mind writhe in humiliated anguish. Unable to stop shaking she sat down in a chair and closed her eyes. It was a mistake: a jumble of pictures flashed past her eyes, memories of the sensations aroused by the caresses of the man in the portrait confused with the reality of James’s kiss.
Had her dream really been a subconscious urge to experience his love-making?
‘No!’ She screamed the denial out loud, her hands over her ears as though somehow she could block out her own soundless thoughts.
Too keyed up for sleep she tried to control her tormenting thoughts. She found some relief in trying to concentrate on the ideas she had been carrying round in her head for work on the house. Perhaps the artist she intended to commission to do the ceiling could incorporate a heron somewhere in the design; if so that would add an individual touch that was hers and hers alone. It pleased her to think of leaving her own individual stamp on the house. She made a note to contact him, and to arrange for him to visit the Hall. Biting her lip she put down her pen and stared pensively at the wall. Organising all the work needing to be done on the old Hall from London was going to prove more difficult than she had envisaged, and yet she needed her London contacts. It seemed as though she would be spending weeks driving to Yorkshire and back.
Concentrating, she tried to work out a timetable. A great deal depended on the surveyor’s report she had commissioned from the architect. He had told James that he believed the house was sound. Angrily Jenna threw down her pen. It had annoyed her that the architect had assumed that they were together, that James owned the Hall. But there was nothing she could do about it, and it was pointless working herself up into a lather. The next time he saw her—alone—no doubt he would realise the truth, she thought rather grimly, reapplying herself to her work.
* * *
‘There’s someone here to see you.’
Jenna frowned, looking up from her overflowing desk as Maggie walked into her office. She glanced at her diary. ‘I don’t have any appointments.’
‘No, I know. It’s——’ Maggie glanced over her shoulder as the office door opened and James walked in. Jenna’s eyes widened fractionally before hardening on his face. How dare he assume the right to walk into her office? She stood up to face him, her eyes and mouth cold.
‘James, I’m afraid I’m rather busy…’ she began, but he overruled her, making her blood boil with his masculinely arrogant assumption of command.
‘It won’t take long. I just called in to drop these photocopies off. You mentioned that you wanted them last night—at my flat,’ he goaded softly.
Jenna stiffened, conscious of Maggie’s curious scrutiny. Despite herself she felt her skin burn and cursed its betraying fairness. She had never learned to control her give-away tendency to blush—ridiculous in a woman of twenty-nine.
‘Yes, thank you, you’re very kind,’ she managed to say disjointedly.
The outer office phone rang and Maggie went to answer it before Jenna could ask her to show her uninvited guest out.
‘How about lunch?’ James asked.
‘Why?’ Jenna eyed him challengingly. ‘We don’t have anything to say to one another.’
‘You think not?’ He smiled, and then his bantering manner dropped from him as he said quietly, ‘Jenna, I’d like you to reconsider about selling the Hall to me. Don’t you think you might have bitten off more than you can chew?’ he asked her, watching her with eyes that registered every single fluctuating emotion that stormed her. ‘It’s no great secret in the city that financially your firm’s none too secure at the moment.’
Jenna felt herself sway. She wanted to deny his quiet, assertive comment, to demand to know how he had come by such information, but pride would not let her.
‘It’s just a temporary cashflow problem,’ she told him through gritted teeth, ‘and no, no way would I ever sell the Hall to you.’
Her eyes defied him to press her further. At that moment she felt all her original loathing and distrust of him come racing back. Was that why he had kissed her last night? Had he hoped to use his sexual mastery to get her to agree to sell him the old Hall? The mere thought drove her into a frenzied temper.
‘Never. Never will I sell the Hall to you, James Allingham,’ she told him fiercely. ‘Now, please leave my office.’
A little to her surprise, he did. When Maggie came in ten minutes later, Jenna could see that she was curious, but she was too well trained to pry. However, she did comment lightly, ‘That will be more fodder for the gossip press if he was seen. I take it there is nothing in the rumour currently circulating that the pair of you are an interesting item?’
‘Nothing whatsoever,’ Jenna told her shortly.
She was too wrought up and angry to worry about the gossip press. What did concern her was how James had found out about her financial position.
Stop being so naïve, she told herself grimly. Men like James always had ways of discovering what they wanted to know. And owning what they wanted to possess, a tiny inner voice warned her, but she shut it away refusing to listen to it. This time he would learn different. There was no way he was going to get the old Hall, no way at all.
His visit seemed to have set the seal on her week, and it went from bad to worse. Two prospective clients telephoned to cancel contracts she had thought secure and had proved strangely reluctant to tell her why. She also discovered that one of her clients had defaulted on payment and, according to his accountants, had left the country and could not be contacted.
All in all she was glad when Friday came, even though her daily paper did carry an item in the gossip column commenting on her visit to Yorkshire with James. It also mentioned James’s connection with the Hall and went on to suggest that marriage might be in the air. There was even allusion to a supposed long-ago romance between them, so ridiculously far-fetched that Jenna threw the paper down in disgust.
She was still uneasy about Lucy, who had been truculent and unforthcoming the night she rang her. Suddenly it seemed as though her life was becoming unravelled, falling apart around her, and it all seemed to date from the time she met James Allingham.
She could hardly blame him for Lucy’s behaviour, she told herself wryly. In fact, the only thing she could think of that pleased her was that she had had no more dreams featuring Regency rakes—or their modern-day equivalents—and her painter, after going up to Yorkshire, had reported to her that he would be delighted to take on the commission and had produced some initial sketches that looked extremely promising.
She was just about to clear her desk when Richard knocked on her half-open office door and walked in.
‘Jenna, I’ve got something to tell you,’ he announced, sitting down without waiting for her to invite him to do so.
When she looked at him, his eyes slid away from her own, and apprehension started to curl through her stomach. Whatever Richard had to say, it obviously was not going to be good. Please God, don’t let us have lost another contract, Jenna thought despairingly, enough things had gone wrong this week already.
‘Yes?’
‘I’m leaving,’ Richard said flatly. ‘I’ve had an offer from…from someone to set me up on my own.’
For a moment Jenna was too stunned to take in what he was saying. Richard was a good assistant, but he lacked individual flair, and as far as she knew had never had any ambition to set up in business on his own. And then, as she absorbed what he was saying to her, various things began to click into place.
‘And you’re taking with you some of our clients?’ she accused, getting up and walking over to her window.
She saw him colour uncomfortably, his voice faintly aggressive as he demanded, ‘Why shouldn’t I? They were contracts I got in the first place. If they choose to come with me…’<
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‘Did they?’ Jenna asked coldly. ‘Or were they bribed—my designs used, but at a lower price? Oh come on, Richard, I’m not that naïve, I know it’s done,’ she said heatedly, ‘but have you thought what’s going to happen when they discover you’re incapable of any innovative work of your own, excellent copyist though you might be?’
Jenna could see from the expression on his face that she had now totally alienated him.
‘God, typical of a woman,’ he exclaimed, jumping up out of his chair. ‘You damn career types, you all think you’re so wonderful! Success doesn’t keep you warm in bed at night though, does it?’ Richard sneered, looking at her in a way that made Jenna long to strike him.
And then suddenly it hit her. Richard had mentioned an offer from someone else to help set him up—that could only mean an offer of financial assistance. Her body felt hot and light, and yet at the same time she was shivering. James must have offered him the money. James must have done this to her because he knew that without those contracts, without Richard’s assistance, she simply could not continue her business and hold on to the old Hall as well. The office seemed to recede and swing dizzily round her. She must not faint now, she must not, not in front of Richard. Somehow, she found the concentration to tell him to go. He looked sulky but triumphant, she noticed absently. James would have to be prepared to lose whatever money it was costing him to back Richard, she reflected in unexpectedly vicious delight, because ultimately Richard would not be a success. What she had said to him was true: he was an excellent copyist but no innovator. James had done this to her.
She was overwhelmed by a need to cry, but she couldn’t let herself. Thank God Maggie had asked to leave early and there was no one to see her like this. She managed to make her way to her small private shower-room and once there, stared in mute disbelief at her white face and huge eyes. She looked at least ten years older. She started to shake, the movements of her body, normally so graceful, jerky and unco-ordinated.
What was she going to do? The bank would not lend her any more money—she knew that. Slowly she made her way back to her office and dialled Harley’s number. He had been away on holiday since she bought the Hall but he was due back today, and would be in the office this morning.
He answered on the fourth ring. Tensely, Jenna explained to him what had happened. He was silent for a moment and then whistled tunelessly. ‘You’ll have to sell the Hall, Jenna,’ he told her quietly at last. ‘If you don’t, it’s going to pull everything else down around you. I warned you not to buy it.’
‘I won’t sell it.’ She hadn’t told him of her suspicions about James primarily because she had known that his answer would be to sell him the house and get rid of it, but she wasn’t going to part with the Hall no matter what James did.
She spent all Friday night lying awake, desperately searching for a solution to her problems but none was forthcoming. She had virtually no assets to mortgage. With Richard leaving and taking contracts with him the work she had in hand scarcely merited the bank loan she already had. There must be some way, she thought exhaustedly just before sleep finally claimed her, her final thought being that surely nothing else bad could happen this week—it would be impossible to top this latest blow.
On Saturday she discovered that she was wrong. She was reading her paper, her attention caught by a photograph of James entering the hospital where his step-sister had been receiving treatment, and a few brief lines saying that he was arriving to take her home. There was then a hint of speculation as to how he intended to look after her, the implication being that perhaps marriage might be the answer. Once again her own name was mentioned, but Jenna ignored it. Let the gossip columnists write what they wanted; she had far more important things to worry about.
The phone rang and she put the paper down, frowning as she picked up the receiver. The last person she expected to hear on the other end of the line was Norma Goodman.
Her normally calm voice was fractured with anxiety as she told Jenna that Lucy was missing from school.
‘We can’t pinpoint an exact time, but we believe she left during games yesterday afternoon. She hasn’t taken her clothes. I’ve talked to all the girls in her set and none of them knows anything about it. At first I thought she might just have been playing truant, but she’s been missing for three hours now and I thought I ought to let you know.’
Jenna swallowed. ‘Have the police…?’
‘I haven’t informed them yet,’ Mrs Goodman told her, anticipating her query. ‘I wasn’t sure whether you’d want me to.’
Jenna thought bleakly of all the pitfalls waiting for a young girl on her own and said huskily, ‘Please do. Of course, I’m hoping that she intends to come home—I blame myself for what’s happened. I knew she wasn’t happy at school.’
Visions of Lucy alone in London, vulnerable to a variety of unpleasant fates, tormented her mind agonisingly. Lucy would not come home, Jenna was sure of that.
But why had she run away from school? There had been no quarrel with anyone, no criticisms on the part of a teacher which might have precipitated her departure. She had been withdrawn and quiet, Norma Goodman told Jenna, but then that was not unusual for Lucy.
‘I’ll contact the police at this end,’ suggested Mrs Goodman. ‘It will probably be easier for them to institute enquiries. No doubt they’ll be in touch with you.’
‘I’ll stay by the phone until they do,’ Jenna confirmed.
When she had replaced the receiver she sat, simply staring into space, her head in her hands. Dear God, Lucy…How could she have failed Rachel’s child to this extent? Her whole body ached with weariness and misery.
Had she really been so unapproachable that Lucy had been driven to running away? Jenna could see no chance of the proud, stubborn teenager voluntarily getting in touch with her. Where would she go?
She got up and rushed into Lucy’s bedroom. What was the surname of her friend? Lucy had, of course, taken her address book with her. Jenna remembered seeing her writing in it just before they left. Tears scalded her throat and eyes as she thought back to that occasion. Dear God, please keep her safe, she found herself praying as she searched feverishly through her memory and finally came up with the family’s surname.
Fortunately, Jenna knew where they lived, and with that information it was relatively easy to find their number. It seemed an eternity before the phone was answered, and she knew instantly from the surprise in Emily Harris’s voice that Lucy was not there.
There was no place in her life for pride now. Quickly she explained to Emily Harris what had happened. She was so instantly and overwhelmingly sympathetic that Jenna—who never cried—found herself close to tears again.
‘Janet’s just come in,’ Emily told her. ‘Let me talk to her and then I’ll ring you back. Look,’ she added suddenly, ‘don’t think me interfering, but would you like me to come round? I can’t do anything, but it must be hell to be alone with something like this.’
Jenna knew instinctively that the offer was made through genuine concern, but she was still amazed to hear herself accepting. She had never leaned on anyone, not even Bill and Nancy. Even when Rachel had died she had stood on her own two feet.
‘I’ll be round as soon as I’ve spoken to Janet. Try not to worry too much. You know what teenagers are like, it’s probably all blown up over a row with a boyfriend or a squabble at school. God preserve me from ever being fifteen again!’
As she replaced the receiver, Jenna wondered feverishly if Lucy could have gone to Bill and Nancy. She professed not to like Yorkshire, but up until recently she had been fond of the older couple.
Nervously she dialled the Yorkshire number. Nancy answered the phone. Barely able to articulate Jenna poured out her story.
‘Well, she’s not here,’ Nancy told her. ‘But try not to worry. I’ll get Bill to drive to York and wait at the station in case she arrives. She’ll be all right, Jenna,’ she said reassuringly, but Jenna knew they were both frightened
that she might not. Horrific stories of children being assaulted and murdered stormed her mind—and Lucy was still only a child, for all her fifteen years. If only she had tried to explain to her about her parents. If only she had not ignored her demands to know more. This was all her fault, all of it…Rachel, how can you forgive me? Tears blocked her throat, but she was too overwrought to weep.
The sound of the doorbell brought her back to reality. She went to open it and admit Emily Harris. Jenna had met her only once before briefly, but now they were united in a bond that all parents share.
‘Come and sit down and I’ll make us a cup of tea. Has there been any news yet?’
As she spoke the phone rang, and Jenna tensed instinctively, staring at it, unable to pick it up. In the end Emily did it for her, holding the receiver out to her.
It was Mrs Goodman on the phone.
‘The police have just been on to me,’ she told Jenna. ‘Apparently Lucy was picked up by a woman from whom she hitched a lift a couple of miles from the school. She told her that she was on her way home for the weekend and asked to be dropped at the station in Bath.’
Lucy hitchhiking! Jenna’s heart started to thud rapidly. How many times had she warned her? She bit her lip, gripped with foreboding and despair.
‘Unfortunately, no one can remember issuing her with a ticket, although the police suspect it’s a safe bet that she’ll go to London.’
To London, but not to me, Jenna reflected bitterly.
‘They’ll be getting in touch with you, Jenna, to talk to you about Lucy. Of course they’ll do a check on the stations, but it might already be too late, she’s had ample time to get to London now.’
Too late. The most mournful and poignant words in the English language, Jenna reflected hollowly as she put down the phone.
Emily tried to coax her to eat, and sat with her, listening sympathetically while Jenna talked about Lucy. She got out the photograph album and showed her photos of Lucy as a baby, a toddler…always smiling in those simpler sunnier days.