A Wife Worth Investing In

by Marguerite Kaye

  ‘Why is it so important?’

  ‘Aside from the fact that Monsieur Ude is one of the most famous chefs in the world, you mean? We need to understand the competition in London, so that we can then make a judgement on whether we set out to serve the same but better or whether we serve something different altogether. I have always dreamed of a restaurant very much like La Grande Taverne, but what if I’m wrong? What if I discover that the last thing I want to do is serve food that reminds me of Paris and my humiliation.’ Phoebe sighed. ‘If you were not such a culinary philistine I would ask you to go on a—a tasting mission to discover whether it really is as good as they say, or whether it is a case of style over substance, you know?’

  ‘Clearly you don’t consider that I am up to the task.’

  ‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to insult you.’

  Owen got up, picking up both their glasses to put them on the tray, before sitting down on the sofa beside her. ‘I’m teasing, Phoebe,’ he said gently.

  ‘Oh. Am I being tediously intense?’

  ‘You are simply being determined.’

  ‘Determinedly tedious, you mean. I am though, determined I mean. To make a success of our venture. To prove that you were right to believe in me.’

  He shook his head, smiling softly. ‘When I first saw you in Paris, I was dazzled. I’ve seen more classically beautiful women, but you—you were so bright and so full of life. You can be that person again.’

  ‘You rescued me that night. And now you’ve rescued me again. No, that’s not right. I need to rescue myself. You’ve taught me that. Not being able to visit Crockford’s is a setback but I won’t let it defeat me.’ She leaned over to kiss him on the cheek. His skin was fresh-shaved, smooth but rough at the same time. She sat back very reluctantly. A lump rose in her throat. ‘Thank you for being my inspiration.’

  ‘You give me too much credit, Phoebe.’ He touched her cheek, cursed, looked down at his gloves.

  ‘Why do you wear these? Are your hands so very badly damaged?’

  He shook his head. ‘It’s more that they are a constant reminder.’

  ‘I thought you didn’t remember what happened?’

  ‘I don’t, but when I look at them I feel—that I don’t want to remember. That whatever happened—that it’s better for me if I don’t try. So I prefer not to look at them.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, I won’t ask again.’

  ‘But the strange thing is,’ Owen said, still staring down at his gloves, ‘today, after you left me in the gymnasium...’ He looked up. ‘After we kissed, and I realised that I wasn’t entirely dead inside—I took them off. And it didn’t happen, Phoebe. I looked at my hands, and all I felt was—it doesn’t matter what I felt, what matters is that I didn’t feel what I’d always felt before.’

  ‘So you think you really are getting better?’

  ‘I dare not raise my hopes. But—small steps, yes? So perhaps now’s as good a time as any to risk another one.’

  Owen began to take off one of his gloves and Phoebe’s heart began to pound as she watched him. Slowly, he eased each finger free, until his left hand was exposed. He didn’t look at her, his gaze remained concentrated on his hand.

  ‘May I?’ Phoebe, bracing herself, gently took his hand to study it. She traced the fretwork of scars delicately. There were patches of pale new skin, hard patches of darker skin where the scarring was deeper. His middle finger was swollen at the knuckle, giving it an odd shape. Aware of him sitting stock still beside her, holding his breath, she lifted his hand to her mouth, pressing the lightest of kisses to the scars before turning it over and kissing his palm. She gingerly removed the other glove. easing the fingers free, no longer apprehensive, only touched to her heart, seeing the history of his suffering mapped out so clearly, and knowing that he had never before revealed it to anyone save presumably his doctors.

  His right hand bore the same scarring, the same patches of rough and tender skin. His little finger jutted at an odd angle, having obviously been broken and badly mended. Phoebe kissed these scars too. Then she pressed his hand to her cheek. Owen inhaled sharply. His fingers fluttered on her skin, tracing the line of her jaw, her neck, then releasing her, to clasp her hand between his. He stared, frowning deeply, at their twined fingers for a long time. She couldn’t fathom what he was thinking, though she had the oddest impression that he was waiting. Then he released his breath in one long sigh and looked up, meeting her eyes, and smiled.

  ‘Thank you.’ He got to his feet, holding out his hand to help her. ‘I think we’ve had more than enough excitement for one day.’

  Phoebe nodded, suddenly overwhelmed. ‘Goodnight, Husband.’

  He touched her cheek again. ‘Goodnight, Wife.’

  * * *

  Lying in bed, Phoebe wrapped her arms around herself and snuggled down into the pillow. Something momentous had occurred tonight, much more significant than the kisses they had shared earlier. Owen had changed, had been changing almost every day since their marriage. The moments when he went quite blank were becoming far less frequent, and he seemed more natural and at ease with her, reserving what she had called his acting for conversations with strangers. With her, he was, as far as she could see, himself. His laugh was rarely forced. He teased her. He smiled at her. Today he’d kissed her. And tonight, he had taken off his gloves in her presence. She would not be so foolish as to fall in love—again!—with the man who was pivotal to her achieving her ambition, but the emotions that were now churning up inside her were unsettling.

  Owen was not Pascal, he could not be more different. He had married her when he was by his own admission in the slough of despond, when his glittering aura was tarnished, the flame which had burned so brightly in him before his accident, all but extinguished. When they had married, they had been two lost souls hoping to heal one another. But Owen was no longer a lost soul, and he was healing himself. He had promised to support her in her business venture and he was an honourable man, he would honour that commitment. But one day soon, he would want to take up his position in society again, and society would embrace him like a prodigal son. Then, he’d have little use for a tarnished and food-obsessed wife.

  What was the phrase they used about racehorses? She wasn’t up to his weight. So she’d better make sure that she kept her heart to herself and focus on the reason they’d married, just as he’d said they should earlier. Had that been an oblique warning? When he took off his gloves, had be been trying to tell her that he was ready to go out in the world, ready to leave her behind? It was a deflating thought, but she would do well to bear it in mind.

  * * *

  ‘Mr Forsythe apologises for calling at such an early hour, but he says the matter is urgent.’

  ‘Extremely urgent,’ Jasper said, striding into the breakfast parlour.

  ‘Another setting for Mr Forsythe, if you please, Bremner,’ Phoebe said, raising an enquiring brow at Owen, but he shook his head, clearly as in the dark as she. ‘Won’t you sit down, Jasper? May I pour you a cup of coffee?’

  ‘Thank you, Phoebe. Coffee would be very welcome. Owen, apologies again for the intrusion.’ Jasper took off his hat and gloves, placing them an a spare chair before taking a seat at the table.

  ‘Do you wish to speak to Owen in private?’ Phoebe asked. ‘Shall I...’

  ‘No, don’t get up. I’m afraid the matter concerns both of you.’

  ‘What matter?’ Owen asked, when Bremner arrived with the extra place setting and a fresh pot of coffee.

  ‘Well?’ Owen prompted again, when the butler quit the room.

  ‘You’re looking very well. Marriage obviously suits you.’

  ‘You didn’t come here to compliment me, Jasper. Cut to the chase.’

  Jasper took a sip of coffee, looking utterly wretched. ‘Truth is, I’m not quite sure how to put this. You’re going to be furious with me,
but I swear to you, Owen, I had no idea that the man was a journalist. He gave me the impression he was a relative of Phoebe’s. In fact I’m almost sure that’s what the fellow said, that he knew Lord Fearnoch, though he might not actually have been so specific. I don’t recall. I’m so very sorry, Phoebe.’

  ‘What in devil’s name are you talking about?’

  ‘Jasper,’ Phoebe interrupted, a horrible premonition making her feel sick. ‘What did you discuss with this mysterious relative?’

  ‘I’m so sorry. I had no idea...’

  ‘Just spit it out, dammit,’ Owen said, his mouth set.

  ‘It was about two weeks ago. I was taking a glass at the Cock Tavern in Holborn as usual, to brace myself for dinner with my Aunt Clementine. Terrifying woman,’ Jasper said to Phoebe. ‘She must be about a hundred and twenty-five by now, filthy rich, and I’m her heir as well as the only relative she claims to be able to tolerate, so I have dinner with her every Thursday. My uncle, who has long since departed, was a prominent lawyer, and my aunt still lives near Chancery, which is why I drink at the Cock.’

  ‘Get to the point, for the love of God!’ Owen exclaimed. ‘Phoebe isn’t interested in your Aunt Clementine. She would far rather hear, as I would, what it is you’ve been saying to her relative.’

  ‘I’m nervous. I always talk to much when I’m nervous. The chap wasn’t Phoebe’s relative, that’s the point. Came up to me in the Cock, knew my name, shook my hand and bought me a drink before I had said a word. “You’re a good friend of Owen Harrington,” he said, “who has married a relative of mine.” Or he implied as much, as I said. Mentioned Lord Fearnoch. I had no idea you were so well connected, Phoebe, and I said. It turns out that your sister is a countess.’

  ‘I think you’ll find she’s aware of that,’ Owen said, pouring his friend another cup of coffee.

  Phoebe, by now feeling as if she was about to lose her breakfast, picked up her own tea, but her hands were shaking too much. ‘My sister Eloise, the Countess of Fearnoch, she is in the country, in Lancashire. What did this man have to say about her?’

  ‘Nothing at all,’ Jasper replied, much to Phoebe’s relief. ‘He didn’t seem much interested in her. He was much more interested in how you and Owen had met, so I told him that it had been in Paris, two years ago. I didn’t think that it mattered—I mean it’s the truth, isn’t it?—and I must confess that I found your story—well, I’m not the romantic type—or not usually—but anyway...’

  ‘You told him that we’d met in Paris,’ Phoebe said, her relief short-lived. ‘What else did you tell him?’

  ‘Nothing, I swear. I didn’t know there was anything else to tell until this morning.’ Jasper reached into his pocket and pulled out a newspaper. ‘My man drew my attention to it. I don’t read the scandal sheets, but he does. I’m so very sorry.’

  Owen took the newspaper from him. ‘The Town Crier,’ he said, eyeing it with disgust. ‘Shall I do the honours?’

  Phoebe nodded, feeling rather like an aristocrat waiting for her turn at the guillotine. She had never heard of the Town Crier, and knew that her sister wouldn’t read such rubbish, but she didn’t doubt some kind thoughtful soul would send a copy to her. At least it sounded as if they had not actually tracked Eloise down. Which was a very small consolation.

  ‘“Speculation has been rife,”’ Owen read, ‘“since the rather restrained announcement in the press informing the world that Mr Owen Harrington has tied the knot with Miss Phoebe Brannagh. Though we all know the reclusive Mr Harrington as one of London’s most successful investors and speculators, of his new bride, next to nothing was known—save that she was not the bride we all expected him to marry!”’ Owen broke off to curse before continuing.

  ‘“As you know, it is our mission at the Town Crier to keep you fully informed. When we discovered that Miss Phoebe Brannagh is the sister of the Countess of Fearnoch, what joy we felt on Mr Harrington’s behalf that he had made such a well-connected alliance. Alas, our joy was short-lived. Dear reader, if you are of a delicate disposition, we would suggest that you read no further, for what we have to reveal is of a most scurrilous, scandalous and shocking nature.”’

  Once again Owen broke off, cursing fluently while Phoebe, horribly conscious of Jasper’s presence, wished that the ground would open up and swallow her.

  ‘“Miss Brannagh and Mr Harrington first encountered each other in Paris. It was, we were told by the groom’s close friend, love at first sight.”’

  Jasper groaned.

  Owen continued reading in clipped tones. ‘“Following our own investigations in Paris, we can reveal that alas, these two hearts who longed to beat as one were denied a happy ending at this point by a prior claim. Not, we hasten to add, the well-known arrangement which Mr Harrington’s parent had agreed for him, but a claim of a foreign nature! Oh, là-là, Miss Phoebe Brannagh had given her heart to a Frenchman. A common cook, no less, though Monsieur Pascal Solignac does not charge common prices at the restaurant where the former Miss Brannagh peeled potatoes, we hasten to add, lest any of our readers are tempted to sample his wares for themselves.” Which means,’ Owen said viciously, ‘they must actually have talked to Solignac.’

  Phoebe, now mute with horror, watched as he turned the scandal sheet over, wondering how much more if it she had to bear.

  ‘“Broken-hearted,”’ Owen continued to read, ‘“Mr Harrington fled Paris and at some point prior to his return to England, as London society is all to well aware, met with a tragic accident which deprived him of the use of his legs. His heart, however, remained true to Miss Brannagh, and she, it seems, finally saw the error of her ways, abandoning her garlic-infused paramour for a slice of English roast beef.”

  ‘“How much did Mr Harrington’s fat purse have to do with her change of heart? A little bird, with an ear to the ground in the London property market, tells us that despite Miss Brannagh’s singular lack of talent in the kitchen—a fact on which Monsieur Solignac was most vociferous—now she is reincarnated as Mrs Harrington, she will be making an assault on London’s stomachs at her own restaurant some time in the new year. Yes, dear reader, you heard it here first. Rejected by Paris, the gourmet capital of the world, Mrs Harrington, nothing daunted, is currently looking for premises in which to set herself up as the doyenne of British cooking, right here in London. What dish will she serve? It is to be hoped that it will not contain any trace of garlic.”’ Owen crumpled up the scandal sheet and threw it in the fire. Phoebe dropped her head into her hands.

  ‘I cannot apologise enough,’ Jasper said.

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ Phoebe said, lifting her head. ‘It’s mine.’

  ‘If there is anything I can do,’ Jasper said, looking helpless. ‘Anything.’

  ‘Don’t speak to any more journalists.’

  ‘That goes without saying. If I’d had any idea...’

  ‘But you didn’t. Stop apologising, man, it’s not your fault.’ Owen tugged the bell, demanding a fresh pot of tea for Phoebe as soon as possible.

  ‘I don’t need...’

  ‘You do.’ He pulled his seat closer to her, putting his hand on her knee. ‘It’s disgusting and slanderous, but it’s not a tragedy, Phoebe.’

  ‘But it’s not slanderous it’s true, Owen—well, aside from the bit where they refer to Pascal as a “common cook”. It’s all true.’

  ‘Good lord. Beg pardon, but—all of it?’

  Jasper looked quite astounded. Mortified, Phoebe could only nod and hang her head.

  ‘I don’t know what to say. None of my business of course, but—well, none of anyone’s business what you did before you married Owen,’ Jasper said, the tips of his ears burning bright red. ‘But they must have made up the bit about opening a restaurant, surely?’

  ‘No, it’s true enough,’ Phoebe said dejectedly. ‘That was our intention, but now...’

 
‘That remains our intention,’ Owen said firmly.

  ‘How can we, after this? Owen, you must see that this changes everything,’ Phoebe said wretchedly.

  ‘I don’t see why. You’ve done nothing to be ashamed of.’

  ‘As I said, nobody’s business but yours, what you did before you were married,’ Jasper added valiantly before catching Owen’s eye, holding his hands up and mouthing, Sorry.

  ‘You’re very kind, Jasper, but this rag has made it everyone’s business,’ Phoebe said. ‘Now my sister’s name and more importantly Owen’s, have been dragged through the mud because of me.’

  ‘My name’s been dragged through the mud so many times I have lost count and long since stopped caring.’

  ‘Scrapes you got into when you were younger, no doubt. This is very different.’

  ‘Phoebe, I was never anywhere close to being a saint. Was I, Jasper?’

  ‘Nowhere near. But this...’

  ‘We can turn it to our advantage,’ Owen said firmly.

  ‘How?’ Phoebe asked.

  ‘I don’t know, but we will.’

  ‘Owen, you must see...’

  ‘In a moment, Phoebe. Drink your tea, and you’ll feel better. Jasper, could I ask a favour of you?’

  ‘Ask away. Anything to make amends, old chap.’

  ‘Would you visit Olivia and let her know about this unfortunate development? That rag doesn’t mention her by name, but it’s best she is aware of it. Sorry if it is a bit of an imposition.’

  ‘It’s the least I can do, in the circumstances. And no imposition whatsoever. Seeing her later today anyway, as it happens. Drive. Fresh air. That kind of thing.’

  ‘Fine. Good.’ Owen got up, pressing Phoebe’s shoulder. ‘We’ll talk, but I’ll just see Jasper out.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Phoebe. If there’s anything...’

  ‘I’ve told you to stop apologising, and I’ve told you what you can do to help. Now go and do it.’