* * *
‘I’m not sure about Van Gogh.’ Annie shook her head thoughtfully. ‘He’s too…’ she hesitated, ‘violent. He must have been a very strange man.’ They were strolling by the river now, outside the Gallery. The sun was dipping and the breeze had died a little. The city’s Friday evening traffic was building up.
Richard smiled wryly. ‘Cutting off your own ear and then going mad and shooting yourself couldn’t exactly be considered normal, I suppose,’ he conceded. ‘Even for a foreigner,’ he added with a small grin. ‘But I must say I find his paintings fascinating. Who did you like best?’
‘Degas,’ she said promptly. ‘And Renoir. I didn’t like the Gauguin much. You?’
‘If I had to choose, then it would be Lautrec. It always would be – I’ve told you before, he’s my favourite painter. No one comes near him for me. But Monet runs him a close second.’ He looked at his wristwatch. ‘It’s early for dinner. How do you fancy a real old-fashioned cream tea?’
She eyed him, faintly wary. ‘Is this the talking bit?’
‘It is.’
She shrugged. ‘All right.’
‘I know just the place. And here comes a taxi, right on cue.’
* * *
The large, panelled room was opulently comfortable: heavy curtains, expensive rugs upon the polished floor, deep cushioned armchairs and big, brass-bound wooden tables. The place was fairly full, the air filled with the chink of cup upon saucer, the murmur of well-bred voices, occasional laughter. Annie looked up with a smile as the black-and-white-uniformed waitress delivered tea, scones, thick yellow cream and jam. ‘Thank you.’ The girl bobbed a half-curtsey.
Annie arranged the plates, the gleaming knives, the cups and saucers, the scones, cream and jam, very precisely on the table. She did not look at Richard. She pulled the silver tray containing the teapot, milk jug and sugar bowl closer, rearranged them too to her satisfaction.
Richard watched her, a faint, warm gleam of amusement in his eyes.
‘Sugar?’ she asked politely.
‘Yes, please,’ he said gravely.
She poured the tea. ‘This is a lovely place,’ she said. ‘The jam looks home-made.’
‘It is. The hotel is renowned for it.’
‘Oh.’ Annie set his teacup in front of him, picked a warm scone from the dish and set it on her plate. The silence was not an easy one.
‘Will you start, or shall I?’ Richard asked after a moment, gently teasing.
She ducked her head, reached for the dish of cream. ‘After you.’
He was quiet for a moment, marshalling his thoughts as best he could. ‘I’m not going to apologise for asking you to marry me. I know you think it rash. And despite what I said the other night I do understand why. I took you by surprise, and for that I do apologise. To be utterly honest I rather took myself by surprise.’ He leaned forward, his face intent. ‘But I meant what I said, Annie. I love you. I want you with me. I want to care for you. For you and for Davie. And – given the society in which we live – there’s only one satisfactory way to do that.’
Annie was watching him, uncertainty in her face.
‘I’ve never believed in love at first sight,’ he said, his voice calm, almost analytical, ‘until now. I can’t explain it, but it’s happened. I’ll say it again: I love you. And if I love you it follows that the last thing I want to do is to hurt you. But I will hurt you – and possibly hurt Davie more – if we start something… underhand. Can’t you see that? Can you imagine the salacious gossip, the outrage if… when… people discover what’s going on between us? And they will. Sooner or later they will. You know it.’
She opened her mouth to protest.
He shook his head, held up his hand. ‘You’re going to say you don’t care. You’re going to say that we don’t have to tie each other down. That we’re different—’
She lifted her chin, a touch defiantly. ‘I suppose I was going to say something along those lines, yes.’
He leaned forward. ‘And Davie?’ he asked quietly. ‘What of him? What of the first time he hears the gossip? At school perhaps? From one of his friends? Or – worse – from someone who isn’t a friend? You know how cruel children can be.’
‘But… we’d be careful—’
‘No!’ His suddenly raised voice attracted attention from a nearby table: a plump woman in tweeds and pearls turned her head, eyebrows raised. Richard took a breath, spoke more quietly. ‘No,’ he said again. ‘Annie, don’t be so naive. You know that, sooner or later, there’ll be talk. Curtains twitching. Knowing looks and raised eyebrows every time my car turns into the street. And I won’t – I will not – play that kind of hole-in-the-corner game with you. Hotel rooms and weekends in Brighton? No. I can’t. You’re worth better than that—’ Abruptly he stopped, and laughed with infectious amusement. ‘Who the hell wrote this script, do you suppose? Aren’t these supposed to be your lines, my darling?’
She was watching him uncertainly. ‘I… suppose so, yes. But—’
The laughter died. ‘But you don’t love me?’ he asked.
‘Yes! I do! At least’ – she spread helpless hands – ‘I think I do…’
‘Not good enough,’ he said softly. ‘Annie, what are you afraid of?’
She laughed, a little shakily. ‘Deep water,’ she replied.
Richard half-smiled, acknowledging the point. ‘And commitment?’ he asked.
Annie fiddled with her napkin, not looking at him.
‘Annie?’
She shrugged a little but would not answer.
Again he leaned forward, his face intent. ‘Annie, listen to me. I love you. I mean it. And the other night was wonderful. But I won’t go on like that. If you’re frightened to commit yourself to me, then you don’t love me. And if you don’t love me’ – it was his turn to shrug – ‘then best we call it a day before one of us gets hurt.’
‘No! Richard – please – won’t you try to
‘I do understand.’ He pushed his cup to one side, reached for her hand. ‘Look at me.’
She raised her eyes to his. ‘I want there to be no secrets and no lies between us or around us. I want utter trust and utter commitment…’
‘Is that all?’ Her voice was wry, her face very sober. ‘Don’t we all have secrets? Don’t we all lie sometimes?’
He ignored the words, his hand tightened on hers. ‘Utter trust. Utter commitment. From both of us. I will not live a lie. I want you to marry me.’
She was quiet for a moment. ‘Tell me something? Honestly?’
He raised enquiring brows.
‘Has this’ – she paused, searching for words – ‘has this got anything – anything at all – to do with Isobella?’
Very subtly his face changed. He studied her for a long moment. Then, ‘No,’ he said shortly. ‘I can see that it might seem so to you, but no, it hasn’t.’
‘Are you so sure?’
He took a breath, then shook his head. ‘All right – no – I suppose I can’t swear to that with my hand on my heart. Does it make a difference?’
‘I’m… not sure.’
‘If you’re looking for an excuse, Annie,’ he said quietly, ‘then surely you can come up with a better one than that?’
She flushed a little.
‘Drink your tea,’ he said, letting go of her hand and sitting back in his chair. ‘It’s getting cold.’
They drank their tea in a pensive silence. Annie crumbled a scone and picked at it.
Richard waited, watching her. ‘You need time,’ he said at last, gently.
She looked at him quickly. ‘Yes. Please.’
He shook his head, his straight mouth unsmiling. ‘I shouldn’t have rushed you the way I have. I’m sorry. It’s only that I feel so very strongly – not only about you but about Davie too. I already love him as if he were my own, Annie. To lose you both—’ He stopped, sudden undisguised pain in his eyes.
‘Richard, please, don’t! There’s no reason why
you should lose either of us—’
‘It seems to me that there is.’
Her heart wrenched. At that moment, to make him smile again, to bring back the warmth into his eyes she would have done anything. She opened her mouth.
‘I meant what I said.’ He spoke before she could. ‘Tuesday night was wonderful. If you never give me anything else I thank you for that.’
‘Richard—!’
He raised his hand. ‘Enough, my darling. You’re right. You need time to think. Perhaps to talk to Davie. I’ll be as patient as I can. But please – don’t take too long. And while you’re thinking, think on this. It’s so simple, really. I want you to be mine, openly and honestly mine. I want you on my arm, in the sunlight. I want to say, “This is my wife.” Is that so bad?’
She shook her head. ‘Of course not.’
‘We’ll leave it at that for now, then, shall we?’
Annie nodded.
‘But you haven’t forever to think about it. I need an answer.’
‘Yes.’
‘And now, just to confirm your low opinion of me, I have some bad news, I’m afraid.’ His face was rueful.
Annie was startled. ‘Oh?’
‘I’ve been called away. To Paris. I have to leave tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow?’ she asked blankly. ‘Saturday? But—’
‘Yes, I know. I was supposed to take you to pick Davie up on Sunday. I really am sorry. But this is business. Lucrative business. A—’ he hesitated, ‘—demanding client.’
‘How long will you be gone?’
‘Three… four days.’
‘Davie will be terribly disappointed.’
‘There’ll be other trips. Tell him we’ll take him to the seaside next weekend; that’ll cheer him up.’
Annie set her cup carefully upon its saucer, not looking at him. ‘When are you sailing exactly?’ When he did not reply she lifted her eyes to his.
He was watching her with quizzically understanding eyes. ‘I’m taking the early morning boat train. The ferry sails at about noon, I think. Annie – don’t worry—’
‘I can’t help it.’ She shook her head, impatient at herself. ‘I know it’s irrational. I know it’s stupid. But I simply can’t help it.’
He leaned forward, took her hand again. ‘It is irrational. It isn’t stupid. Marry me, Annie; you’ll be safe with me, I promise, and between us we’ll beat this fear of yours. You and Davie will walk aboard a ferry with me. You’ll walk the streets of Paris holding my hand.’ He tightened his fingers on hers, then laughed. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve already broken my promise not to push you. You see what you’ve done to me? Come on, time to go.’ He lifted a finger to summon the waitress. ‘There’s a taxi rank outside the hotel.’
The taxicab wove its way through the busy streets. As it turned onto the bridge to cross the Thames, Richard’s warm hand found Annie’s and he linked his fingers through hers, his thumb gently and rhythmically stroking her knuckle. The simple gesture almost stopped her heart. She kept her head turned, looking out of the window, apparently watching the busy traffic on the river. Then, sensing that he was looking at her, she glanced at him. His narrow eyes were watching her with an expression of such intensity that she could not look away. The silence between them lengthened; then she cleared her throat. ‘You’ll… come in for a drink?’ she asked, not nearly casually enough.
He did not answer for a moment; then, his eyes still on hers, he shook his head. ‘No.’
Her eyes widened, startled and disappointed.
He shook his head again. ‘No, Annie,’ he repeated gently. ‘I’ve told you, I won’t do that. You aren’t the only one who needs time to think, you know.’ He smiled suddenly, trying to lighten the moment. ‘Anyway – I have to be up early in the morning.’
The depth of Annie’s disappointment appalled her. ‘You wouldn’t have to stay,’ she found herself saying quickly, almost pleading.
Wordlessly he shook his head yet again. She turned away from him. The busy world beyond the car window was suddenly just a little blurred. Fool! she berated herself, fool!
The touch of his hand was like fire on hers.
She would not ask again.
The rest of the journey continued in silence. As they drew up outside the house Richard pulled her to him and kissed her. ‘Don’t sulk, darling. It doesn’t suit you.’
‘I’m not sulking.’ The words were stiff.
‘Then kiss me properly.’
She did.
He smiled. So did she. ‘That’s better. Look – I’ll be in touch just as soon as I’m back. Oh, and…’ He drew out his wallet, extracted a couple of cards. ‘I do think it’s time you could get in touch with me if you needed to, don’t you?’ He handed them to her. ‘My address and telephone number, both at home and at the office. If I’m not around Miss Brownel will take a message.’
‘Who’s Miss Brownel?’
‘My secretary. She’s an absolute tyrant,’ he said cheerfully. ‘She frightens the life out of me sometimes, but she’s very efficient.’
‘She sounds terrifying.’ Annie was making conversation, she knew, and did not care. Anything to prevent his leaving.
‘She is.’
‘Richard?’
‘Yes?’ He was still holding her hand.
‘You will be careful, won’t you?’
Impulsively he pulled her to him and kissed her again. ‘Annie, Annie, don’t worry so! I’ve been to Paris a thousand times! What makes you think that the boat’s going to sink this time? Annie?’ His voice was suddenly full of concern. Her face had drained of colour; she had snatched her hand from his. ‘Annie… I’m sorry—’ He was full of contrition. ‘It was only a joke. A joke in very poor taste.’ He put his arm about her shoulders and drew her to him. ‘Come on, now. I’ll be back next Tuesday or Wednesday. I’ll see you then.’
She lay against him for a moment, then drew away. ‘Fine,’ she said, brightly. ‘Oh – it’s all right…’ Richard had reached for the door handle. ‘I’m a grown woman, you know. I’m perfectly capable of seeing myself to my own door.’ She dropped a light kiss on his cheek and got out of the car. ‘Bye.’
She stood on the pavement and watched as the cab drew away and turned the corner. Then she walked up the path and fitted the door key into the lock.
The house was very quiet; it had never felt so empty. She sighed, restlessly dispirited. For almost the first time in her entire life the thought of her own company did not appeal. The evening – and the night – stretched ahead endlessly.
There was, of course, now nothing to prevent her from going to Southwold tomorrow, a day early. Her mother would welcome her, there was nothing more certain than that.
The problem was that honesty demanded she acknowledge the fact that, suddenly, the company she truly craved was not in Southwold.
Chapter Ten
‘So – you see the problem?’ Annie set down her glass of lemonade on a small, somewhat rickety table and leaned back in the deckchair, closing her eyes. ‘He says he loves me. I think I believe him. And I’m crazy about him, I can’t deny it. But we’ve only known each other for a few weeks, and for some reason he’s absolutely insisting that we get married. Now. Right now. Which seems an incredibly big step to take so soon, don’t you think? Why rush things so? How do we know what we feel isn’t infatuation? It would be so awful to make a mistake. I really, really don’t know what to do. What do you make of it?’ She and her mother were sitting in fresh, clear sunshine in the cottage garden.
Jane, who was knitting, laid her work on her lap and was silent for a moment. ‘I grant you it does seem a little strange for him to be so insistent,’ she said at last, thoughtfully, looking at her daughter over the top of her glasses. ‘I don’t know him well, of course, but Richard didn’t strike me as being – well – that impulsive a person. On the other hand—’ She laughed a little. Annie opened her eyes to look at her enquiringly. ‘Well,’ Jane said, delicately, ‘whilst I suspect tha
t most men wouldn’t be pressing so soon to marry you, they might well be pressing for… some other arrangement, shall we say?’
Annie’s face was already sun-reddened; she could only hope that her mother could not see how it now burned. She could tell Jane a lot of things, but she had not been able to bring herself to say that she and Richard had already made love. That this, indeed, was the greatest of her problems: it was as if their lovemaking had opened a door within her, a door through which light, laughter and breathtaking excitement streamed, a door of promise that she could not bear to close again. But if she refused to marry him, Richard was ready to close that door, of that she was certain. She shifted in the deckchair, straightening her back and leaning forward, her elbows on her knees. Above them a gull wheeled and called; the gentle sound of sea and shingle was soothing. ‘He lived with someone in Paris,’ Annie said quietly, after a moment. ‘An artist – a girl called Isobella.’
Jane cocked her head. ‘That’s relevant?’
‘I think it might be, yes. She wouldn’t marry him, you see. Wouldn’t commit herself. I gather she didn’t believe in marriage. Thought it bourgeois. Unnecessary. She hurt him badly, I think. To be truthful she sounds to me like a thoroughly nasty piece of work. She had affairs. And she was a liar. Richard can’t bear deception—’
‘Can any of us?’ Jane’s voice was quiet.
Annie did not for the moment reply. Then, without looking at her mother, she asked, suddenly sombre, ‘Don’t we all lie, or deceive, sometimes? Can any one of us truly say we don’t? Aren’t there times when it’s better to deceive than to tell the truth? What if the truth is unbearable? What if the truth can only cause hurt? Aren’t there times when deception is the kindest thing?’
Jane was watching her, brow faintly furrowed. Annie did not look at her. ‘Annie?’ her mother said at last, half-smiling, mildly questioning. ‘You make it sound as if you’re harbouring some dark and guilty secret yourself?’ The words were light, but her eyes were bright and searching on her daughter’s face.
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