A Trial Marriage

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A Trial Marriage Page 11

by Anne Mather


  When Mr Courtenay’s Mercedes had disappeared, driven incidentally by Mrs Courtenay, Rachel turned at Jake’s suggestion, and preceded him back into the house. It had been an unusually bright day for December, but it was over now, and darkness pressed closely around the old walls of the priory. A gusty wind occasionally rattled the window frames, and the leaping flames of the fire were a welcome sight.

  Jake closed the heavy door and locked it, and then walked lazily across to the fire, kicking a log further into its glowing heart with one suede-booted foot. Now that they were alone, he took off his immaculate morning coat, and tugged his tie free of the collar of his shirt. His skin looked particularly dark against the pristine whiteness of the shirt, the gold chain around his neck visible as he unfastened the top two buttons.

  Rachel stepped delicately across the floor towards him, and he studied her appearance through heavy-lidded eyes.

  ‘Well?’ he said evenly. ‘That’s that. The party’s over.’

  ‘Is it?’ Rachel drew a deep breath. ‘I thought everything went very well, didn’t you?’

  ‘Very well,’ he conceded dryly. ‘You carried it off beautifully. Everyone thinks I’m a very fortunate man.’

  ‘Do you think that, too?’ she ventured daringly, but he moved away towards the stairs, mounting them two at a time to reach the landing.

  He stood looking down at her for a moment, and then he said abruptly: ‘I need a shower,’ and turned towards his rooms in the west wing.

  Rachel waited a few minutes to see if he would come back, but when he didn’t, she too mounted the stairs, standing uncertainly on the landing, wondering whether she was expected to find her own way to his apartments.

  On impulse, she walked into the drawing room again, empty now that the caterers had cleared away the remains of the buffet, but still full of the scent of Havana tobacco; and from there into the small parlour where Dora had laid an intimate supper for two. How the housekeeper must have disliked doing this, Rachel thought with perception, recalling Dora’s animosity towards herself. But if Jake had wanted to marry Sheila, he could have done so years ago, and they shouldn’t blame her because he did not find the older girl attractive.

  The table looked quite romantic. The napkins were red, and matched the centrepiece of glowing poinsettia, that spread its scarlet leaves in a bowl of dark green fern. There were fragile stemmed glasses, and glittering silverware, and two scented candles to light for illumination. Another bottle of champagne nestled in a bucket of crushed ice beside the table, and Rachel touched its frosted neck with hands that were not quite steady.

  ‘Are you hungry?’

  Jake’s rubber soles made little sound on the soft carpets, and she started involuntarily, a hand going defensively to her throat. As she turned to look at him, she saw he had changed his clothes, but the close-fitting corded pants and maroon velvet jerkin were as attractive as his morning clothes had been.

  ‘I—I was just admiring the table,’ she told him, lifting her shoulders in a nervous little gesture. ‘Mrs Pendlebury deserves to be complimented.’

  ‘Dora!’ Jake corrected her flatly. ‘Her name is Dora. No one. calls her Mrs Pendlebury.’

  ‘She might prefer me to,’ persisted Rachel. ‘I mean. I hardly know the woman.’

  ‘That can be remedied,’ retorted Jake levelly. ‘Now, do you want to eat first, or change?’

  Rachel looked down at her dress. ‘Change, I think,’ she decided, trying to sound casual. ‘I—well, I didn’t know where I—we were going to sleep.’

  ‘Come along, then. I’ll show you.’

  Jake escorted her into the west wing once more, passing the door which she knew led to the bedroom he used to use, and pausing outside double doors at the end of the corridor.

  The room they entered was furnished as a sitting room, of medium size, with a comfortable high-backed sofa, and matching easy chairs, in a soft grape-coloured velour. But adjoining it was the bedroom, and Rachel hovered on the threshold half dismayed by its size and opulence. The bed dominated the room, an enormous four-poster, with hanging curtains of beige-coloured silk, and a matching bedspread, whose tassels trailed on to the off-white carpet. It was the kind of room which hitherto she had only seen in the movies, and she simply could not imagine herself sleeping here.

  ‘Do you like it?’

  Jake’s voice was vaguely sardonic, and she turned to look at him warily. ‘I—it’s beautiful,’ she said politely, and he pulled a wry face.

  ‘This is my mother’s idea of a honeymoon suite,’ he remarked mockingly. ‘The bathroom’s through there, and you’ll see that she’s had all your belongings transferred to the wardrobes here.’

  Rachel licked her dry lips. ‘I—I see.’

  ‘I’ll leave you to change,’ he continued, straightening from the indolent slouch he had adopted, and a few moments later the outer doors closed behind him.

  The bathroom was just as luxurious, with gold-plated taps, and a creamy-yellow sunken tub. Wall mirrors were embarrassing, frankly reflecting her slender body from all angles, and she was glad when the steam misted them over and hid her blushes.

  Back in the bedroom again, Rachel opened the doors of a tall wardrobe and surveyed the contents hanging there. Her clothes, brought from the hotel, fitted into less than half its width, but the new garments Mrs Courtenay had bought her helped to fill the empty space. Among them was a filmy green chiffon, and it was this that Rachel took out and laid reverently on the bed.

  Her make-up took little time, although she gave some attention to her eyes, stroking mascara on to her lashes, and a luminous green shadow to her lids. Then she slipped the filmy gown over her head and allowed its sinuous folds to settle lovingly about the slender curves of her body. Surveying her reflection in the long mirrors of the wardrobe, she had to admit that she had never worn anything that gave her such a sensuous appeal.

  Trembling a little, she turned from the mirror and ran unsteady fingers over her hair. She was ready, and in spite of the confidence the gown had given her, she was still nervous. The things Della had said kept coming back to torment her, and Jake’s own attitude of detachment did not help matters.

  Leaving the bedroom, she crossed the lounge and emerged into the corridor. Although the whole of the building was centrally heated, the corridor felt cooler as the wind outside probed every crack in the stonework, sending ice-cold fingers of chill to penetrate the gauzy folds of her gown. It quickened her step towards the lighted doorway of the drawing room, and she was glad to step inside and close the doors behind her.

  Jake must have heard her coming, for he came out of the parlour to meet her. She waited breathlessly for his reaction to her appearance, and felt a sense of anti-climax when his eyes moved over her and slid away as he said: ‘Would you like some champagne, or shall we eat first?’

  Rachel shrugged her slim shoulders. ‘Whichever you want to do,’ she said breathily. ‘Jake——’

  ‘We’ll have some champagne,’ he cut in on her, and she was forced to follow him into the parlour. The candles Dora had provided had been lighted, but they were supplemented by the light from the branched chandelier suspended above the table, and Rachel wondered whether Jake’s earlier mood was responsible for this lack of intimacy.

  While he uncorked the bottle, she seated herself at the table, resting her elbows on the white napery, cupping her chin in her hands. Her nervousness was giving way to other emotions, and she wished she knew how to break down the barrier he was deliberately building between them. She attracted him, who could doubt that? But could she overcome whatever it was that was causing that unsmiling reserve?

  Using what little guile she possessed, she tipped her head on one side and said: ‘You haven’t noticed my dress.’

  Jake gripped the champagne bottle between his thighs as he bent to draw the cork. ‘I noticed,’ he responded flatly, and she felt her nails digging into her palms.

  Refusing to be deterred, she added: ‘Do you like i
t?’ and was somewhat chastened by the look he directed towards her.

  The cork came out with a bang, and foaming liquid overran the sides of the bottle. ‘Have some champagne,’ Jake advised, filling her glass, and she permitted herself a half-suppressed sigh of frustration before tasting the wine.

  It was delicious, and she swallowed what was in her glass quite quickly in an effort to give herself more confidence. Jake, who had taken his seat, leant across to refill her glass, and it crossed her mind that if she was not careful, she would overdo it. She wasn’t used to alcohol in any form, and she had eaten little enough today to absorb an abundance of fluid.

  The meal was a simple one: a cold consommé was followed by sliced meats with salad, and the gateau to finish was oozing with cream. Throughout the meal, Rachel drank as little as possible, although it was difficult to get anything down her parched throat without liquid However, the soup went down quite freely, and the gateau displaced her discomfort at not doing justice to the salad.

  Jake spoke little as they ate, and Rachel’s efforts to introduce a lighter note into the proceedings all went unacknowledged. But at last it was over, and Jake brought to the table the jug of coffee which had been keeping hot over a small burner.

  ‘A liqueur, I think, would not come amiss,’ he remarked, uncorking another bottle, but Rachel looked up at him apologetically.

  ‘Not for me, thank you,’ she refused, forcing a smile to her lips ‘Are you trying to get me drunk?’

  Jake’s eyes narrowed. ‘That would be a futile exercise, wouldn’t it?’ he challenged, and she was forced to look away.

  ‘I just thought——’

  ‘I’d like you to try this liqueur,’ he persisted. ‘Won’t you? For me?’

  It was the nearest he had got to saying anything personal to her all evening, and Rachel drew a trembling breath. ‘Well—all right,’ she conceded unwillingly. ‘But—just a little.’

  ‘Of course.’

  The glasses they used were thimble-size, and Rachel relaxed. No one could get drunk on so little alcohol. But its fiery quality burned her throat, and the first mouthful had her coughing ignominiously.

  ‘What is it?’ she exclaimed huskily.

  Jake lifted his glass and studied its contents. ‘Just a liquorice root liqueur,’ he assured her evenly. ‘Don’t you think it’s rather a beautiful colour?’

  Rachel looked at the lucid green liquid in her glass. ‘Liquorice?’ she echoed faintly. ‘I thought liquorice was black.’

  ‘It is.’ Jake regarded her half mockingly. ‘Drink it up. It’s good for you.’

  Rachel’s head felt strange. There was an awful swimming sensation if she moved it too quickly, and her eyes felt heavy as lead. Oh, God, she thought impatiently, she must have had too much to drink in spite of her precautions.

  ‘Shall we adjourn to the drawing room?’ Jake inquired, still watching her, and she nodded her head with deliberate care and got to her feet.

  He thought she was drunk, she decided angrily. Well, she would show him that she was not. She had read somewhere that it was only a matter of time before the effects of alcohol wore off. If she could just sit down quietly for a while, she would soon feel normal again.

  She turned from the table, loath to leave the security of her chair. Perhaps she should have refused to go into the drawing room. Maybe if she stayed at the table and tried to eat a little more of the meat that still nestled in its bed of celery and diced melon. But the thought of food right now was nauseating, and the idea of being sick and ruining her beautiful gown didn’t bear thinking about.

  Jake was standing a little way away from her, the glass he held casually between his long fingers still quite full. Of course, he had told her, he should not imbibe too freely, and the way he stood there, feet apart, regarding her with almost inimical detachment, was indicative of his own sobriety. And she resented it …

  The door leading into the drawing room wavered before her eyes and she steeled herself for the seemingly endless stretch of floor that divided her from remembered couches where she might lay her aching head. Her wedding day, she thought with some self-pity! And she had almost ruined it. Or was that Jake? She tried to think coherently. What was it he had said earlier, before that wall of indifference had descended between them?

  ‘Do you need some help?’

  Jake’s cool voice seemed to come from a great distance, and she was shocked to find him standing right beside her.

  ‘No,’ she declared vehemently. ‘I’m all right. I can manage.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  Was that concern in his tones? Did he actually reveal a little anxiety now? Rachel blinked and stared at him defensively. ‘I’ve told you. I’m all right. That—that liqueur—it—I didn’t like it.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  He was polite, but the dryness was back in his voice and she wished she could think of some politely sarcastic retort which would wipe that cool detachment from his face.

  She couldn’t. It was no use. Her brain was muzzy along with the rest of her faculties, and clenching her fists, she started across the floor. But the floor was behaving in a most unusual way, too, dipping and weaving so that the pattern on the carpet swam into a haze of green and gold that made her eyes ache with weariness. Oh, to close her eyes, she thought longingly, and wondered at the hard hands that reached for her before unconsciousness claimed her …

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  JAKE’S London apartment was the penthouse suite of a block in a square near Hyde Park. In fact, it was possible to see the whole of the metropolitan area from its windows, and Rachel had not been immune from the sense of space the view generated.

  The apartment itself was no surprise to her after the magnificence of the Priory, although the overall effect was less opulent and more modern. A split-level lounge and dining area was an architectural attraction, and the kitchen was all steel and gleaming formica. There were four bedrooms, each with its own bathroom, and a study where Jake told her he was used to spending his leisure hours. Every amenity for ease and efficiency of operation had been installed, and the place was run very competently by a married couple who themselves had a flat in the basement.

  The Madigans, as they were called, treated Rachel with respect, and with none of the hostility of Dora Pendlebury. She was relieved about this, even though their attitude left no room for familiarity either. They seemed to keep themselves very much to themselves, and she found herself wondering whether that was why Jake had felt so little attraction to his home in the past. But the whole aspect of her life had changed to such an extent that she had little enthusiasm in those early days to ponder other people’s relationships. Besides, what experience had she in such matters? She had thought she knew Jake, but she was beginning to wonder.

  She had awakened on the morning after her wedding to find herself alone in the enormous wastes of cream silk sheets, with the imprint of only her head on the pillow denoting the solitary night she had spent. That her clothes had been removed and that she was naked in the bed had given her a momentary thrill of apprehension, but she had not needed any self-examination to know that Jake had not violated her unresisting lack of consciousness.

  Bathed and dressed, she had gone in search of her husband, only to discover he was not in the house, and only Dora was about, clearing their dishes from the night before, and tidying the living rooms. She had given the girl a frosty greeting, and although she offered breakfast Rachel had refused everything but coffee.

  When Jake eventually came in from the stables, he had found his new wife curled up on a sofa in the drawing room feeling very much alone and abandoned. And his first words had not been reassuring to her: ‘Did you sleep well?’

  At this, Rachel had swung her legs to the floor and got to her feet. She had been eager not to let the night’s events determine their future relationship.

  ‘I’m afraid I must have passed out,’ she said apologetically. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘You w
ere tired,’ he corrected her, moving to the hearth where Dora had re-lit the fire.

  In close-fitting denim pants and a grey knitted shirt he was disruptively attractive, and she wanted to go to him and put her arms about him and show him how much she loved him. Two days before she would not have hesitated, but somehow something had changed, and now she found herself wondering what he would have done if she had followed her instincts.

  ‘Jake,’ she had said instead, unconsciously appealing. ‘Jake … can we talk?’

  ‘Are we not?’ he countered, and she felt the same sense of defeat she had felt the night before. But she would not let him get away with it.

  ‘Jake … since yesterday afternoon——’

  ‘After the wedding?’

  ‘Yes.’ She paused. ‘Jake, has something happened? Is something wrong? Why are you treating me this way?’

  Her outburst at least had the effect of bringing a little more colour to his unnaturally sallow cheeks. But his eyes remained bleak as he surveyed her. ‘I tried to tell you how it would be,’ he spoke at last, slowly. ‘You knew it wasn’t going to be easy, but believe me, it is the only way.’

  ‘The only way?’ Rachel shook her head helplessly. She felt as if she was confronted by some enormously complicated puzzle, and as yet she had no clue to its solution. ‘The only way to—what?’

  Jake sighed now, his patience thinning. ‘Rachel, I’m talking about you—and me! I told you, we need time to get to know one another——’

 

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