Marriage on the Agenda

by Lee Wilkinson

  It was after five when Loris got back to her flat. She felt unsettled and dispirited. Her appointment had proved to be disappointing, as it had soon become apparent that, rather than being serious about a commission, all the owner of the penthouse wanted was free advice. Which meant that the time she had put aside the following day to do preliminary sketches was now time wasted.

  And, as if that wasn’t bad enough, she had been unable to get Jonathan Drummond out of her head. Over and over again some mental video had replayed the afternoon’s events.

  The way he had forced her to confront Mark… The way he had defended her in the foyer… The way he had kissed her… The way he had succeeded in putting fresh doubts in her mind…

  Not for the first time, she found herself wondering what he hoped to gain by throwing a spanner in the works.

  It was clear that he disliked Mark and wanted to prevent her from marrying him. But why? There had to be more to it than mere dislike. Despite all that had passed between them, it couldn’t be because he had any romantic interest in her. He’d admitted to having wedding plans of his own.

  Thoroughly disgruntled, wishing she’d never set eyes on Jonathan Drummond, she went through to the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea. While she drank it, she listened to the messages on her answering machine.

  The first one added to her gloom by cancelling an appointment she had made for the next day, and that was followed by several that were merely run-of-the-mill. Only the last one was of real interest. The caller was a Mrs Marchant who, having seen and admired some of Loris’s work, wanted her to look over a small manor house near Fenny Oak.

  After a brief description of the twelve-roomed property, the friendly-sounding voice went on, ‘We’ve just recently bought Fenny Manor. It’s only partially furnished, and the whole place has been badly neglected, so it all needs refurbishing. To be honest I’ve neither the time nor the talent for such a project, so we’d like to know as soon as possible whether you’d be interested? If you could fit in a visit tomorrow, or even better tonight, we’d be very grateful.

  ‘By the way, money’s no object, and if you did decide to accept the commission, you’d be given a completely free hand. Perhaps you’d let us know?’

  She had left a telephone number.

  It sounded exactly the kind of big, exciting project Loris had always hoped for, and being busy tonight would take her mind off other things.

  Her spirits rising, she tapped in the digits, and after a couple of rings the same pleasant voice answered, ‘Hello?’

  ‘This is Loris Bergman.’

  ‘Oh, Miss Bergman, it’s very kind of you to call back so quickly. I’m only too aware of how short the notice is, so I dared hardly let myself hope you’d be free tomorrow.’

  ‘As a matter of fact I can get over tonight,’ Loris said.

  ‘Oh, that’s absolutely wonderful! But we’re a little way out of London. I don’t suppose you’ve ever heard of Fenny Oak? It’s a small hamlet not very far from the village of Paddleham.’

  ‘As a matter of fact I know the area. It’s only a few miles from where my parents live.’

  ‘Excellent. Do you happen to know Watersmeet? Well, Fenny Manor stands on the strip of higher ground between the River Fenny and the River Mere. It’s the only house on the island, so you can’t go wrong. At the bottom of Watersmeet Lane, which is signposted as a private road, there’s an old stone bridge over the Fenny… You do have a car, by the way?’

  ‘No, I don’t. With most of my work being in London, and taking into account the traffic jams and the difficulties of parking, it’s easier to use taxis.’

  ‘Well, if you come by taxi we’ll be more than happy to meet your expenses. Oh, and before I forget, the recent floods have weakened the bridge to the point where it may be unsafe for vehicles, so you’ll need to ask the taxi to wait on the far side and walk over. But it’s only a hundred yards or so to the house. If you can tell us roughly what time you expect to arrive, I’ll watch out for you.’

  Wondering when they had their evening meal, Loris asked, ‘What time would suit you best? Seven-thirty? Or later perhaps?’

  ‘Make it seven-thirty if you can, and if you’ve no other plans why not have dinner with us? Get the feel of the place…’

  ‘Thank you, that would be nice.’

  It was a pitch-black night and the rain was still falling steadily as, just before seven-thirty, Loris’s taxi drove through the picturesque hamlet of Fenny Oak and turned down Watersmeet Lane.

  Their lights made a bright tunnel between bare hedges and waterlogged fields, and gleamed on the surface water that covered the roadway to a depth of several inches.

  Prewarned on booking that it might entail waiting for a couple of hours or more, the driver, a chatty, middle-aged man who owned his own cab, had said with cheery unconcern, ‘Don’t worry, love, I’m used to it. It’s all part of the job. A packet of sandwiches and a newspaper help to pass the time. And if I wasn’t sitting waiting I’d be battling with the London evening traffic. So what’s the odds?’

  Now, as the road dipped, and the level of the water rose correspondingly, he said judiciously, ‘Let’s hope it doesn’t get any deeper, or we might have a job getting back.’

  They approached the end of the lane to find that it opened out onto a wide, cobblestoned area lit by two old-fashioned streetlamps.

  A stone bridge crossed the river at this point and a little way beyond, set on higher ground, Loris could see the bulk of a house, its lighted windows a welcoming sight.

  The River Fenny, little more than a gentle stream in the summer, was now swollen and fast-flowing. Its brown muddy water, swirling along branches and other storm debris, battered at the bridge supports and, filling the arch, surged against the old stonework.

  Coming to a halt on rising ground that formed the approach to the bridge, the driver suggested, ‘If you jump out here, you shouldn’t get your feet wet.’

  ‘Thanks. Sure you’ll be OK? It won’t be very warm, just sitting.’

  ‘I’ll be fine. If I do get chilly I can always run the engine a bit.’

  Loris tightened the belt of her mac, pulled on her sou’wester-type rain hat, and stepped out into the downpour. Slamming the cab door behind her, she hurried across the bridge.

  The force of the water seemed to shake its very foundations, and in the light from the lamps she could see where some of the mortar between the stones that formed the roadway was starting to crumble away. It was quite scary, and she was glad to get to the other side.

  The drive, running between sloping green lawns, was paved and well-lit, and as she climbed the steps to the terrace a door opened, spilling golden light onto the flagstones.

  A slim, attractive woman, about her own height, with grey eyes and fair curly hair, was waiting in the doorway. She appeared to be in her late twenties or early thirties.

  ‘Hello, Miss Bergman, I’m Jane Marchant.’ She smiled with real warmth, and, drawing Loris into a large panelled hall with a beautiful old staircase running up the centre, exclaimed, ‘What absolutely dreadful weather! Let me take your wet things.’

  Hanging Loris’s raingear and her shoulder bag on the hall stand, she added cheerfully, ‘Dinner’s almost ready, but before you sit down to eat suppose I just quickly show you over the house? That way you can get some first impressions.’

  Though the signs of neglect were only too obvious, Fenny Manor was both charming and spacious, a house of character, with thick walls and mullioned windows.

  By the time the brief tour was completed and they had ended up in a big, homely kitchen, with oak settles and a flagged floor, Loris knew it was just the kind of place she’d love to work in.

  Standing in front of the glowing stove, surveying the white plaster walls and black-beamed ceiling, she said as much.

  ‘I’m pleased you like it.’ Jane Marchant smiled her relief. ‘It would have been a pity if you’d hated the sight of it, after being brave enough to turn out on
such a miserable night.’

  Returning her smile, Loris said, ‘Door to door hardly counts as being brave. It’s the taxi driver having to wait in the cold I feel sorry for.’

  ‘Well, there’s no need for the poor man to sit outside in the cab. I’ll pull on my coat and go and ask him to come in.’

  Hurrying to the door, she paused to say, ‘By the way, that archway leads to the dining-room, if you’d like to go through…’

  The dining-room was the only room Loris hadn’t yet seen, but, deciding to wait for her hostess to return, she stayed where she was, wondering idly if there was a Mr Marchant.

  There had seemed to be no one else at home, but Jane Marchant had said have dinner with us and, in the only bedroom that was furnished, Loris had noticed a man’s hairbrush and a neatly-coiled tie.

  What she hadn’t noticed, and it only now struck her as strange, was any real sign of feminine occupation. Jane Marchant must be one of those tidy women who put everything away…

  Bringing her mind back to practicalities, she turned her attention to the kitchen. The stove was standing in what had once been a huge fireplace—judging by the rough outline on the plaster—and set in the wall close by were two small oak doors to what, she guessed, was an old salt cupboard.

  If the fireplace could be opened up again…

  There had been no sound, but, suddenly convinced that someone was watching her, she swung round.

  Standing silently in the archway, casually dressed in corduroy trousers and a black polo-necked sweater, was Jonathan Drummond.

  As, hardly believing her eyes, she gaped at him, he said easily, ‘I was wondering what was keeping you.’

  ‘What on earth are you doing here?’ she croaked.

  ‘I live here. Or at least I will when everything has been sorted out.’

  Advancing on her, he put a light hand at her waist, and urged, ‘Do come through. Otherwise the meal will be past its best.’

  Stunned and speechless, she allowed herself to be shepherded into a candle-lit dining room and seated at a long refectory table.

  Watching her host—presuming he was her host—start to open a bottle of white wine, Loris realised with a strange sinking feeling that Jane Marchant must be the woman he wanted to marry.

  She had introduced herself as Mrs Marchant, and when talking about his plans Jonathan had said the woman he was hoping to marry was involved with someone else at the moment.

  And when she’d asked what he was doing here, he’d answered, ‘I live here. Or at least I will when everything has been sorted out…’

  So were they just waiting for Jane Marchant’s divorce to come through before they officially moved in together? She had said, ‘We’ve only recently bought Fenny Manor…’

  It was clear that on his salary Jonathan could never have afforded to buy a place like this, so if they were partners she must be the one with money.

  But after all his taunts about marrying for money, unless he was the world’s biggest hypocrite, she couldn’t imagine him getting married for that reason. He must love Jane Marchant…

  Though if he did, and was so close to marrying the woman of his dreams, why had he taken her to bed?

  The answer had to be that he was a red-blooded man who had seen the opportunity and seized it.

  Much as Mark had with Pamela.

  A one-night stand, with no feelings on either side.

  Yet there had been something tender and caring about Jonathan’s lovemaking. Something that had seemed to make the whole thing special.

  Or was it simply her own response that had made her think so? Perhaps all he’d done was pretend he was making love to the woman he loved…

  It shouldn’t matter. But somehow it did.

  As though following her thoughts, he asked, ‘So what do you think of Jane?’

  Loris swallowed. ‘I like her very much.’ Then, driven by the need to know for sure, she asked huskily, ‘I suppose you love her?’

  ‘Yes,’ he answered simply.

  Staring down at the white damask tablecloth, she wondered why, when she loved Mark and was about to marry him, the knowledge that Jonathan loved another woman was so bitter.

  But did she love Mark? Wasn’t it more that, she having decided she wanted a husband and a family, he’d been the only man to attract her? Until Jonathan…

  No, she mustn’t think like that. It was much too late. After wearing Mark’s ring for three months, and with all their wedding plans made, there was no way she could change her mind now.

  In any case, the whole thing was probably nothing more than pre-wedding nerves. Once they were married, she would know she’d done the right thing.

  She was consoling herself with that thought when a little demon of doubt reared its ugly head to ask, but what if, when it was too late, she knew she’d done the wrong thing…?

  ‘I hope you like Spanish food?’ Jonathan’s voice made her look up with a start.

  Endeavouring to pull herself together, she answered, ‘Yes, I do.’

  Having filled first her glass and then his own with Chablis, he lifted the lid from a skillet keeping warm on a hotplate.

  Watching as he began to serve the steaming rice dish, she became aware for the first time that the table was set for only two people. Puzzled, she asked, ‘Isn’t Mrs Marchant eating with us?’

  The candle flame picking up a little glint in his eye, he answered, ‘Jane doesn’t like Paella.’

  With a sudden realisation of how long her hostess had been gone, and remembering the state of the bridge, Loris asked urgently, ‘Do you think she’s all right?’

  ‘I’m sure she is.’ He appeared calm, unconcerned.

  Shaking her head, Loris said, ‘You don’t understand—she went out to speak to the taxi driver. Surely she should have been back by now?’

  ‘She won’t be coming back.’

  ‘What do you mean, she won’t be coming back?’

  ‘I mean she’s going home.’

  ‘Going home?’ Loris echoed blankly. ‘Doesn’t she live here?’

  ‘No, she lives over at Harefield.’

  ‘Oh, but—’

  ‘Please make a start on your meal before it gets cold,’ he broke in firmly, ‘and after we’ve eaten I’ll be happy to tell you anything you want to know.’

  Seeing by his face that she was going to get nowhere until she’d complied, Loris picked up her fork.

  When their plates were empty, and she’d refused a piece of torta, he poured coffee for them both and suggested, ‘Why don’t we drink our coffee in front of the living-room fire?’

  He pulled back her chair and ushered her into the adjoining room, which had oak-panelled walls and an arched door through to the hall.

  It looked cosy and intimate, with a single standard lamp casting a pool of light and a log fire blazing cheerfully in a wide stone hearth.

  In front of the fireplace was a thick, white sheepskin rug, and in a semicircle around it a comfortable-looking three-piece suite and an oval coffee table.

  When Jane Marchant had briefly shown it to her Loris had thought it a most attractive room, and a second look served to confirm that conclusion.

  ‘Let me take your jacket; it’s warm in here.’ Before she could demur, Jonathan had slipped her bilberry-coloured jacket from her shoulders and hung it over a chair.

  Taking a deep breath, she began, ‘Now perhaps you’ll tell me—’

  ‘Why don’t you make yourself comfortable first?’ he broke in smoothly, indicating the couch with a long, well-shaped hand.

  Biting her lip, she reminded herself that, for the moment at least, he was calling the tune. Determined to keep as much space as possible between them, however, she avoided the couch and took a seat in the nearest armchair.

  Smiling at her choice, he sat down on one of the wide arms of the chair and cocked an eyebrow at her expectantly.

  All her awareness focused on the man by her side, Loris took a nervous gulp of her coffee. Then, trying t
o hide how disturbing it was to have him so close, she said as calmly as possible, ‘Would you mind telling me why Mrs Marchant thought it necessary to mislead me?’

  ‘I asked her to,’ he admitted unrepentantly. ‘I told her exactly what I wanted her to say… Though as it happens she had seen and admired some of your work, so that bit at least was true.’

  ‘It must be the only bit that was.’

  He sighed. ‘She disliked having to mislead you, and only did it to please me.’

  ‘I fail to see why it was necessary,’ Loris said stiffly.

  ‘Would you have come if I’d asked you to? Of course you wouldn’t. The way things are at the moment you’d have run a mile first.’

  ‘If you were so sure of that, I don’t know what you hoped to gain by bringing me here under false pretences.’

  His eyes on her face, he asked, ‘Do you like the house?’

  ‘Yes,’ she admitted.

  ‘Wouldn’t you like to work on it?’

  Of course she would—if he had no connection with it. As it was… ‘No, I wouldn’t,’ she said flatly.

  He raised a fair brow. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Why not? You must be joking! Mark and I are getting married in a week.’

  ‘You told me you intended to keep working at least until June.’

  ‘I do. But not for you. So I’m afraid you’ve wasted your time, and mine.’ Feeling suffocated by his nearness, she struggled to her feet.

  ‘Going somewhere?’

  ‘Home,’ she said succinctly.

  ‘How are you planning to get there?’

  ‘Just in case you’ve forgotten, I have a taxi waiting for me.’

  Above the black polo-neck his hair looked bleached of colour, and his heavy-lidded eyes gleamed green as a cat’s. ‘I think not.’

  Loris glanced at him sharply, then in response to his quiet air of certainty she hurried over to the window and, parting the curtains, peered out.

  The living-room was at the front of the house, overlooking the river and the cobbled area where the taxi had drawn up to wait.