A Marriage Has Been Arranged

by Anne Weale

  ‘You mean they might have killed him?’ Holly asked, shaken.

  ‘Oh, sure. If you were lining your pockets from the bottomless pit of international aid, how would you feel about a guy who was trying to stop you? They hated his guts and they were the kind of people whose enemies wind up feeding the crocodiles or worse.’

  ‘Is he in danger now...on this trip to Africa?’ she asked.

  ‘Probably not. The organisation he founded is too solidly based to fall apart at this stage. There would be no point in wiping him out. Don’t worry: he can look after himself. He’s not a guy who ever takes stupid risks. He might take a calculated chance sometimes, but he doesn’t make careless mistakes. You don’t need to lose any sleep about him.’

  ‘At the moment Pierce and I are just friends,’ Holly said pointedly. ‘The only thing that keeps me awake at night is wondering where my next commission is coming from.’

  But, later, after Ben had left to pick up his grandmother, she knew that what she had told him wasn’t true. She would be anxious about Pierce until she knew he was safely back in London.

  She had put some more logs on the fire and was sitting, with Parson curled on her lap, listening to his rhythmic purr and the sound of the rising wind and rain beating on the curtained windows, when the telephone rang:

  Irrationally hoping it might be a call from somewhere in Africa, Holly was surprised to hear her stepsister saying angrily, ‘What the hell do you mean by telling Pierce what I told you? It’s none of his damn business...or yours, come to that. You’ve no right to go shooting your mouth off about my private affairs. And he’s got no bloody right to come roaring round here, telling me how to run my life.’

  ‘When did he come to see you?’ Holly asked, bewildered and shocked by the rage in her stepsister’s voice.

  ‘Last night. Barged in here as if he owned the place and read me the Riot Act about behaving recklessly and being a worry to you. I tried to keep him out, but anyone would have thought it was a police raid the way he stormed in and started hectoring me. The worst of it was that Eric was in the bedroom. Naturally he wanted to know what the hell was going on.’

  ‘Did Pierce tell him?’

  ‘He didn’t need to. He’d already said enough for Eric to guess that something was up. By the time Pierce had gone, he was spoiling for a row. I lost my temper and shouted back at him. Eventually he slammed out. The chances are, I’ll never see him again...and all because you blabbed to Pierce about something that doesn’t concern either one of you.’

  In the moment before she slammed the phone down, Holly heard her bursting into noisy tears.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THIRTY seconds later Holly rang Chiara’s number, only to hear a recorded answering-machine message.

  After the tone, she said, ‘Chiara, I had no idea Pierce intended to deal with this business as he did. Truly I didn’t. But I can’t deny that I did consult him. He seemed the only person I could turn to for advice. I was worried about you...seriously worried. Bad things can happen to girls who get involved with men they know nothing about. I’m sorry if the way Pierce handled it has made things difficult with Eric, but I have to say this isn’t Pierce’s fault or mine. It’s yours...for two-timing Eric...or at least being prepared to ditch him if a better offer turns up.

  ‘If I didn’t love you, I wouldn’t care what you did. But I can’t bear to see you going down this dangerous road which could end in a sordid story in one of the tabloids. You’ve never been very good at facing unpleasant facts and you won’t get any sensible advice from your mother. Pierce knows the world better than either of us. Please think over what he said to you. Please don’t shut me out of your life. I’m not going to sleep a wink unless you call back.’

  Chiara didn’t call back, nor did Holly really expect her to. After the quarrels of their childhood and teen years, her stepsister had invariably sulked—a trait she had learned from her mother, who had used the same technique with her second husband if he’d made what she’d call ‘a fuss’ about her extravagance.

  It had been an unhappy marriage on every level and eventually they had slept in separate rooms, not only, Holly suspected, because of her father’s heart condition but because the intimacy of sharing a bed had become distasteful to them both.

  She had never been able to understand how her father could have contemplated a sexual relationship with Nora in the first place. But, of course, she had seen her stepmother through the eyes of a child who would have resented anyone usurping her natural mother.

  When she had been old enough to view the situation sensibly, she had realised that at the time of the marriage Nora must have been almost as lovely as Chiara was now. Was it surprising that her father, desperately lonely and needing someone to care for his motherless daughter, had been seduced by Nora’s alluring looks and the winning ways she could adopt when it suited her?

  Holly didn’t stay awake all night, but her restless tossings and turnings caused Parson to remove himself from his preferred position against the small of her back and station himself near the footboard of the pine double bed, a reproduction of a French farmhouse bed.

  It was Pierce’s handling of the matter which had been on her mind during the night and still preoccupied her the next morning as she gave Parson his breakfast before attending to her own.

  She wanted very much to believe that Pierce’s impetuous action, so different from the cool-headed behaviour she would have expected of him, had been prompted by feelings warmer than mere friendship. Could it be—oh, please let it be!—that he was beginning to feel the same way about her as she did about him?

  She had eaten her muesli and was peeling a couple of satsumas when the telephone rang.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘It’s me,’ said Chiara. ‘I’ve cooled down a bit since last night. I’m still furious with you, but I suppose you meant well.’

  To Holly’s amazement, she heard her stepsister giggle. ‘I’ve just had a huge basket of flowers by special delivery. They’re from Eric. The note says he’s sorry he shouted and swore at me last night. He wants to come round this morning and take me shopping. Reading between the lines, he’s going to buy me something bigger and better than an aquamarine. There’s a bracelet in a shop in Bond Street I rather fancy. It’ll cost him an arm and a leg, but why not? He can afford it.’

  ‘Does that mean you’re going to stay with him and give the aquamarine back when the other man makes contact with you?’

  ‘Not likely! Why would I do that? Honestly, Hol, your ideas are so Victorian, it isn’t true. I suppose it’s because you only earn peanuts yourself and you and whoever you marry will never have any serious spending power. But the men I know are in a different league. A diamond bracelet to them is like a packet of seeds to you.’

  Probably because she was tired, Holly was on a short fuse. She said crisply, ‘Personally, I’d rather have an inexpensive engagement ring from a man who loved me and wanted to marry me than a million pounds’ worth of jewels from a lot of randy older men to whom I was nothing more than a sex object. Excuse me, I have to go and earn another peanut.’

  She rang off.

  The days that followed seemed endless. Holly scoured the columns of The Times, fearful of finding a paragraph about the body of an unidentified European male being found in mysterious circumstances in some part of Africa. That she didn’t even know which part of that vast continent he was in somehow increased her anxiety.

  Every time the telephone rang, her heart seemed to stop beating until the caller identified himself.

  In between times she went over every word Pierce had said to her, looking for nuances she might have missed the first time.

  When, at last, he did ring it was after she had turned out the light and was lying awake, thinking about him.

  Thinking it might be Chiara, with whom she hadn’t spoken since the peanuts conversation, she let it ring several times before picking up the receiver.

  ‘Hello?’

&n
bsp; ‘It’s Pierce. How are you?’

  Holly shot into a sitting position, disturbing Parson, who stopped his drowsy purring and gave a mew of displeasure.

  ‘Pierce! Where are you? Are you all right?’

  ‘I got home five minutes ago. I’m fine. What about you?’

  ‘Fine... great.’ The fact that he had called her so soon after his arrival made her spirits soar. ‘How was your trip?’

  ‘Successful, but I’m glad it’s over. How soon can you give me that day I asked you to keep free?’

  ‘As soon as you wish.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes, if you like.’

  ‘Tomorrow it is. I’ll pick you up about nine.’ He explained where the airfield was and then added, ‘Tell that cat of yours he may have to fend for himself for twelve hours... possibly overnight.’

  ‘Why overnight?’

  ‘Because we’ll be going to Devon and at this time of year weather conditions can worsen quite rapidly. We might need to spend the night locally.’

  ‘OK, I’ll make some contingency arrangements.’

  ‘Until tomorrow.’ Pierce rang off.

  The following morning, Holly had her first experience of flying in a helicopter. She had heard they were difficult to handle, but Pierce seemed to have no problem in keeping the machine smoothly on course for their destination.

  England, seen from a much lower altitude than she had flown at before, presented a fascinating patchwork of fields, villages, woods, major and minor roads, grand and less grand country houses, private swimming pools, flooded quarries and what he told her were fish farms.

  In a fraction of the time it would have taken to get there by road or rail, they arrived on the other side of England, landing at a small private airfield where Pierce had arranged for a car and a driver to be waiting. A basket containing coffee and sandwiches had also been laid on, and Holly began to realise how relaxed and enjoyable journeys could be when masterminded by a man with unlimited resources.

  It was during this stage of the journey that he finally disclosed the purpose of the trip.

  ‘For a couple of years I’ve had one of the best estate agencies looking for a country place for me,’ he explained. ‘I’ve visited dozens of houses all over England but none of them had that special something about them you want in a place you’re hoping to live in for the rest of your life and hand on to your children. The house we’re going to see this morning came on the market a month ago. I’ve already been over it twice. Now I’d like to have your opinion of it.’

  ‘But Pierce, I don’t know about houses. I only know about gardens... and there are people far more expert than myself whom you could consult.’

  ‘Perhaps, but experts tend to be older rather than younger and I want to know how the house strikes someone of your age. Is it a white elephant which ought to be left to moulder into a picturesque ruin, or is it a dream waiting to be realised?’

  ‘Why has it come on the market?’

  ‘The old man who owned it died. He was in his nineties and very short of money. The place has been badly neglected for a couple of decades. He did have descendants, but none of them wants it. Apparently his sons and daughters were all adventurous, as he was himself in his youth, and they settled in places like New Zealand and Costa Rica. They and their children have rooted in other countries and don’t want to be transplanted. So the house is up for grabs; only, it’s so far gone that most buyers don’t bother to view it, or take one look and get back in their cars.’

  By this time Holly had grasped why he had laid on a driver. Clearly the house was well off the beaten track, reached by a labyrinth of largely unsignposted lanes in which anyone unfamiliar with the area would easily lose their way.

  ‘It’s a long way from the nearest railway station and over an hour from the motorway. For anyone work-based in London the only practical transport is by air,’ Pierce went on. ‘However, at the moment the grounds are in such a shambles, there’s nowhere to land. Anyway I wanted you to see it from the ground. We’re nearly there now. The main gate is round the next corner.’

  The iron gates which came into view a few moments later had, judging by their design, been beautifully wrought by a master craftsman at least two hundred years ago. Now, flanked by ornamental lodges not large enough to be called cottages, the gates were long overdue for a fresh coat of paint. Chained together and padlocked, they barred the way to a wide drive lined with ancient beeches, their massive branches now leafless.

  As the driver got out to unlock and open the gates, Holly had a curious feeling that she had seen this gateway before. Yet she knew she couldn’t have done so because she had never set foot in Devon.

  The meadows on either side of the drive were being grazed by sheep, those near the fences raising their heads to stare impassively at the passing car.

  Then, as it rounded a bend, the house came into view, and again she had an uncannily strong sensation of déjà vu.

  ‘I wonder if it’s been featured in Country Life?’ she said, half to herself. ‘It seems so familiar. What is it called, this house?’

  ‘Not something you would expect in this part of the world,’ said Pierce. ‘It was built in 1815 by a colonel who’d been invalided out of Wellington’s army. He’d been badly wounded in some of the fiercest fighting of the Peninsular campaign. Like many veterans of that war, he called his house after a battle he’d fought in. Talavera. It’s an odd name to find in the wilds of Devon, isn’t it?’ Something in her expression made him ask, ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Nothing. It’s just that Talavera is a very familiar name to me.’

  ‘How come? Did you do the Peninsular War in your history lessons at school?’

  ‘No, it was reading novels set in the Regency, not history lessons, which taught me about that period. But that’s not why the name Talavera strikes a chord. One of my favourite vases for very small flowers like primroses and violets is a little yellow pottery jar. On the bottom is written, in Spanish, “Made by hand—Talavera.” I found it in a charity shop. I suppose the previous owner brought it back from Spain as a souvenir.’

  By now the car had drawn up in front of the house and the driver was opening the rear door on Pierce’s side. He sprang out, turning to offer his hand to Holly.

  Even though most of her attention was focused on the house they had come to see, the contact with his palm and fingers sent a frisson of pleasure feathering along her nerves.

  ‘The style is called Picturesque Gothic,’ said Pierce as they stood side by side, looking at the fade of a substantial mansion which, in spite of its size, had a cosy, almost cottagey air about it. Perhaps this came from the windows with their pointed-arch glazing bars, or from the mock battlements along the roof-line and the ornamental turrets at each angle of the building.

  ‘The central block was built first and then the wings added on as the family expanded,’ said Pierce.

  The driver, who was evidently under instructions from the Devon office of Pierce’s estate agents, was unlocking the front door for them.

  As she entered the hall, lit by sunlight streaming through French windows at the far end and through a large window at the turn of the graceful staircase, Holly was aware that the house was in dire disrepair. Yet instantly, in her mind’s eye, she could see it as it had once been and could be again.

  As Pierce showed her round, no one with eyes in their head could have ignored the evidence of galloping decay. In the small bathroom part of the sprung floor had collapsed. In the attics, a score of buckets were positioned to catch drips from holes in the roof.

  ‘Have you worked out what it would cost to put it in order?’ she asked him.

  ‘Only roughly, but it’s a daunting amount,’ he said, his mouth wry. ‘Don’t tell me what you think of it until we’ve looked round the grounds.’

  To Holly, neglected gardens had a beauty all their own. When they came to the walled kitchen garden, it evoked powerful memories of sitting in the
circle of her father’s arm while he read her the stories he had loved as a small boy, his first favourites being the little books by Beatrix Potter about families of rabbits, and mice who could do fine embroidery.

  It was in a corner of the kitchen garden that Pierce turned to her and said, ‘Do you think I’m mad even to contemplate taking it on?’

  Above a serpentine wall of mellow old bricks could be seen the chimneypots of the house and the tops of many fine trees.

  ‘I don’t think I should say what I think,’ she said slowly. ‘It’s a purely emotional reaction, completely divorced from common sense.’

  ‘Are you saying that you like Talavera?’

  ‘I feel the same way about it as I did about my yellow pot. That was love at first sight and so is this,’ she admitted. ‘If I had the money—which I haven’t—I could spend the rest of my life putting Talavera to rights. It may be falling to bits, but for me it has everything a house should have. Atmosphere... charm...character...all those intangible factors which have nothing to do with practicality and everything to do with being happy in a place.’

  Pierce turned away and took a few paces along the weedstrewn brick path. Then, returning to where she was standing, he said, ‘I feel the same way. My head tells me I must be mad. My heart says otherwise. I do have the means to do it, but I wanted someone whose judgement I value to tip the balance for me.’

  ‘I can’t think why you should value my judgement. What I know about high finance would fit on the head of a pin,’ she said.