‘I imagined that would be the case.’
Georgia met the unwavering, pebble-like eyes with respect. This elderly woman—had she ever been married, or was ‘Mrs’ a courtesy title?—was facing redundancy, the loss of her home and very little likelihood of re-employment, all with an icy stoicism that was almost unbelievable. If there was internal, invisible anxiety then Georgia did what she could to relieve it.
‘When that happens, you’ll be provided with a comfortable pension from my stepfather’s estate, enough to retire on. That’s one of the things I’ll be discussing with the solicitor this afternoon.’ And Baines, the gardener. She would make provision for him because Harold hadn’t. And then, of course, there was Blossom and Elijah, and the house on Blue Rock island.
Some of the tension that had been holding her spine rigid eased out of the way. She had done what Harold should have done, and didn’t expect any thanks or protestations of relieved gratitude. That wasn’t Mrs Moody’s way. And then the pain started bubbling up to the surface again, barely containable now, the hurt of old betrayal and cruel loss.
She turned to leave, quickly, before she broke down, and the housekeeper said, ‘I don’t suppose you’ll be staying tonight, or coming back.’
Georgia shook her head, unable to speak because the tears she’d mistakenly believed all cried out years ago were threatening to take over again.
‘Then I have something for you, if you can spare a few minutes.’
Something for her? Georgia turned, fighting the tight ache in her chest, her throat.
Mrs Moody had never given her so much as a smile in the past. What could she possibly want to give her now? The housekeeper had gone to one of the tall, fitted wall cupboards and was pulling out a chunky cardboard box which she carried to the table.
‘When you left home, and stayed with that friend of yours before you went to America, your mother asked me to clear your room. I guessed there’d been a disagreement because I was told to send every single thing you owned to a charity shop.’ She ran her work-coarsened hands over the top of the box, then stood back. And stunned Georgia by confiding, ‘My husband died before we’d been married a year. We never had a child. But if we had I know I couldn’t have wiped it out of my life, no matter what. I thought your mother might relent one day, or, more likely, you might come back, so I put some things aside. Little things. Keepsakes, really.’
Touched more than she could say, Georgia opened the box and found bits of the innocent and gullible creature she had been, slices of the past she had never wanted to see again.
An old exercise book full of romantic twaddle—the vapid love poems written by the child who had imagined herself passionately, eternally in love. Jason’s photograph, taken from a family album and put into a silver frame. Her collection of records, sickly sentimental ballads all. A scarf Jason had worn when he’d visited one bitterly cold winter weekend and left behind. It and the photograph had gone with her everywhere—school, Sue’s, Lytham.
Other things: books that had been favourites, a few trinkets that her gran had given her—inexpensive, but valuable to Georgia because Gran, at least, had loved her, had given her the pretty, sparkly things when she could afford to. There hadn’t been money to spare before her mother had met and married Harold, and by then Gran had been dead for over three years.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘It was thoughtful of you.’
The tears she despised but seemed to have no control over brimmed in her eyes. Mrs Moody was no fool; she would have seen the way the plump, graceless teenager had stuck to Jason like a limpet whenever he visited, mooning over him with her silly calf’s eyes. And she had saved the pathetic mementoes because maybe there was a closet romantic beneath that grim exterior.
Perhaps the elderly woman half believed that Jason would see the new slim Georgia in a different light…
In your dreams! If she could remove herself from this house without having to set eyes on him again she would be more than pleased. She’d be ecstatic.
After the last of the guests had departed Jason closed the main door and leant against it. The silence of the house folded around him. Everything had gone smoothly; the only surprise had been Georgia’s obvious distress. She’d tried to hide it, but he’d been able to see she was swamped by grief.
Even while his mother had still been alive he’d been aware that Harold strayed. Furtive little affairs—a seventeen-year-old without a brain in her head who’d been hired to give Mrs Moody a hand about the place, the nineteen-year-old daughter of the village publican—always young things, fluff-brained. The list, if he thought about it—and he always tried not to—went on and on. So when Harold had accused Georgia of throwing herself at him he hadn’t believed a word of it, had stayed behind to read him the riot act after Georgia had shot out of the room.
But now, for the first time, real doubt had crept in, and he was no longer so sure. She’d corresponded with Harold, met up with him after she’d returned to the UK. He’d left her all his worldly possessions, a very considerable fortune, and her grief today had been real enough to touch.
And he hadn’t known the real Georgia back then. While he’d been defending her against Harold’s accusations, with Vivienne volubly taking her husband’s part, Georgia had been running to her friend, probably already planning an abortion.
The sequence of events ran through his mind like a video tape.
When he’d found the car she’d used had gone he’d guessed she’d gone to Sue’s and would be OK. He’d only planned on staying at Lytham a few hours—just long enough to break the news of their marriage arrangements. He’d had to get back to London, to his apartment, to work. He was briefing a barrister early the following morning, for an important case of alleged fraud.
Back at his apartment, he’d phoned Sue’s home. Her brother, Guy, had answered. Georgia was with them, asleep in bed, and yes, he’d tell her Jason had called.
He’d spent the next few days trying to contact Georgia, to reassure her that he was there for her and their coming child. But he’d got no reply. Frustrated by his need to be at his office, he’d ended up phoning Vivienne, saying no one was answering at Sue’s number.
‘Guilty conscience, darling?’ she had responded tartly. ‘And you sounded so self-righteous when you were calling poor Harold vile names! Georgia phoned me late that night and told me about her pregnancy. If it’s true, and frankly I don’t give a damn, it proves she came on to Harold, not the other way around as you so nastily suggested. If it is yours, then she must have thrown herself at you, and you didn’t display Harold’s good sense and tell her to get lost. In any event, the problem needn’t give you sleepless nights. It’s sorted. She’s got rid of it, and you’ve me to thank for giving her that sound piece of advice.
‘You won’t be able to reach her. That friend of hers and the brother collected my daughter from a private clinic early this morning and took her off to their holiday beach home to recuperate. As I said, problem sorted, and that’s the end of it. I haven’t mentioned any of this unsavoury mess to Harold, and I’d be grateful if you never mentioned the little hussy’s name in my hearing again.’
He hadn’t. He hadn’t visited Lytham again, and he had cut Georgia Blake, and what she had done to the child he had surprised himself by wanting so badly, right out of his life, right out of his head.
Until, out of necessity, she’d come back into it.
But it would soon be over, he told himself tightly. He’d just check she intended to speak with Harold’s solicitor—he’d given her the telephone number first thing this morning—assure himself that she would make adequate provision for Baines and Mrs Moody, then drive back to London.
He hardened his jaw. He might even contact Sylvia, suggest dinner. They’d been dating, occasionally, for almost a year now. A journalist, forcefully attractive, she was married to her career. They enjoyed each other’s company, enjoyed sex, and neither of them was interested in long-term commitments.
&n
bsp; Which suited him just fine. He’d lost the inclination, and probably the ability, to get emotionally involved with any woman since—
He strode in the direction of the kitchens. First he’d let Mrs Moody know he was leaving, then find Georgia, say what he had to, and get the hell out.
He met Georgia as she exited the kitchen regions. She was carrying a cardboard box and her face was wet with tears, her eyes huge, tormented, her wide mouth clamped as if she was refusing to let herself speak to him.
He should have said what he wanted to say, then left it, kept everything cool, walked away and made it final.
Instead he found his eyes marking every feature, as if committing it to memory, skimming the glorious tousle of hair that tumbled to her shoulders, the tear-spiked dark lashes that framed those golden eyes, the delicate arch of the cheekbones that had emerged from the roundness of adolescence, the fragile creamy throat rising from the white thing she wore around her neck. Found himself actively pushing contempt into his voice as he slid his hands into his pockets, rocked back on his heels and drawled, ‘My goodness, Georgia, you look as if you’re mourning a lost and passionately adored lover, not an elderly stepfather you saw just occasionally.’
He really should have left it. He immediately despised himself, as he would despise anyone who was deliberately cruel, wishing the mocking words unsaid as he saw her face crumple, heard the harsh tug of her breath. He began to make an apology but she cut across him.
‘You never could see it was all lies, could you? The things Harold said that day.’ Her voice was raw with all the pain, the long memory of it. She hated the man in the elegantly tailored dark grey suit, the man with the severe, forbidding face and taunting, merciless eyes.
Hatred and pain spurred her, and she hissed at him, ‘Or maybe you just preferred to believe those lies because they gave you a let-out you could take without compromising your notion of bloody duty! You turned your back on me and our baby and thanked your lucky stars you didn’t have to marry a fat teenager and make yourself a laughing stock. You didn’t care at all.’ Her eyes were wide, feral with deep loathing. ‘I wanted our baby, more than anything. But you weren’t even interested enough to ask what happened then—so why should I bother to explain myself now?’ She jerked her head up, pushed past him as he would have detained her. ‘You’re in my way. I have an appointment in Gloucester.’
She walked stiffly away, controlled, distanced. She had spilled out the pain, told him. Reminded him of how foul he was.
It was the only consolation she had.
Luck was with her, she decided as she put her foot down on the way back to Birmingham. A scant five minutes after that final confrontation with Jason she’d left Lytham without seeing him again. Her meeting with the solicitor had been smooth, and now traffic was light.
And she knew exactly what she was going to do, what she needed. Decorating the apartment, hanging those curtains, fixing shelves could wait.
She would spend the rest of her holiday on Blue Rock, among the Windward Islands in the eastern Caribbean Sea. She would leave the bleak English winter behind, forget the man with the harsh grey eyes, lie on powdery white sand and bake in the sun, swim in crystal blue waters, breathe the scent of oleanders, stuff herself with Blossom’s fantastic cooking and rebuild her breached and battered defences.
She was going to the island.
She was going to be all right.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE hot white sand was burning her bottom through her denim shorts. Georgia got to her feet and brushed away the clinging grains. She had been on Blue Rock for three days and had already acquired a light tan.
But nothing else. Certainly not the peace of mind she’d come all the way out here to regain. How could she hope for that when she couldn’t get Jason out of her mind? When he walked through her dreams and edged his way into practically every waking thought she had?
She would have been far better off cancelling her leave and getting back to work, she thought with a stab of annoyance. Since she’d hauled herself together, long months after losing her baby, her work and the steep climb up the ladder of promotion had become the most important things in her life, so by throwing herself back on the treadmill she might have found it easier to shut the past right out of her head again.
From the corner of her eye she saw Elijah take the boat out from the small natural harbour at the other end of the sheltered little bay, caught the dull chug of the diesel engine. She lifted a hand to shade her eyes from the glittering light that bounced off the crystal blue waters and wondered whether he was simply out on one of his regular fishing trips or going over to the market on Blue Rock’s larger sister island, San Antonio.
Georgia wished she was with him. Either activity would have taken her mind off Jason, and the way seeing him again had affected her, bringing back the pain, as raw and savage as it had ever been.
Following the small boat’s progress, she felt the burn of the morning sun on her shoulders and heard Blossom’s voice floating down over the low coral cliffs. ‘You get right back here, Miss Georgie, and get a hat on that head of yours. You hear me?’
The bossy, stentorian tones broke through her mood, had her turning, acknowledging the instruction with a wave and a wide grin.
Little had changed since she’d visited the island with Harold and her mother, eighteen months after their marriage. Blossom still thought it her duty to order everyone around, ‘For their own good’, as she righteously termed it, and Elijah, her long-suffering yet devoted husband, still jumped to obey her smallest command. The only difference Georgia could detect was the way Elijah’s crinkled hair had turned white and Blossom’s ample girth had grown even more ample.
She picked her way back up through the white flowery fronds of frangipani and bougainvillea that hazed the low cliffs, and Blossom said, ‘You want to look like a boiled lobster? Get along inside with you. I have an ice-cold lemon drink waiting in the house.’
‘You are, as ever, perfectly right,’ Georgia conceded. Her face was very straight but her eyes were dancing. If anyone else had spoken to her as if she were a child they would have got the sharp edge of her tongue!
After the snow and ice of England, the Caribbean warmth was fabulous, but in spite of the moderating trade winds the effect of the sun could be fierce. She would slosh on more sunblock and find a shady hat before she went out again.
But Blossom had other ideas.
‘You have time to tidy yourself and make a start on sorting through your poor mother’s things before your guest arrives. This is your place now; you take charge. It’s up to you to do things right. Mr Harold never came back to do these things. Too many bad memories waiting.’
Blossom was already crossing the emerald sward, kept lush and beautiful by Elijah’s daily watering, and Georgia caught up with her, frowning. ‘Run that past me again, Blossom—I’m not expecting a guest.’ The housekeeper must have got her wires crossed somewhere. Either that or she had misheard what had been said.
But there was no mistaking the mild derision in the older woman’s dark eyes, the way she turned, planting her hands on her wide hips, scolding, ‘Course you are, Miss Georgie. What’s got into you, forgetting a thing like that? Mr Jason phoned through from St Vincent a little while ago. The air taxi comes into San Antonio in a coupla hours. Elijah’s gone to fetch him back and bring home some good fish.’ She turned back to the low, sprawling colonial-style bungalow. ‘So, like I just said, you’ve got time to make yourself respectable and start on your poor mother’s room. It isn’t proper to leave it, and you surely can’t do it while you have Mr Jason to entertain.’
Georgia’s blood ran cold, and a frisson of something nameless shot clear through her body. Jason had followed her here, and had obviously led the housekeeper and her caretaker husband to believe he’d been invited. She couldn’t understand it.
He’d seemed no more enamoured of her company than she’d been of his. In fact, mutual loathing had produced a c
rackling tension, practically colouring the air between them while she’d been staying at Lytham.
And she couldn’t hop on a bus and get the hell out of here. Getting to and from Blue Rock was a logistical nightmare. So she’d be stuck with him until she could rearrange her return journey for an earlier date.
Stuck, with no place to hide.
Part-way up the shallow flight of steps that led to the deep, shady veranda that skirted the entire building, Georgia stopped, threw back her shoulders and gritted her teeth.
What the hell was the matter with her? The instinct to run and hide from unpleasantness had been the old way, the way of an insecure, too-eager-to-please teenager.
The new rules were very different. She stood her ground. She could face whatever had to be faced. And that included Jason.
As the De Havilland Twin Otter came in to land Jason looked down into the turquoise-blue waters that surrounded the small island of San Antonio and felt his stomach muscles clench.
Nothing to do with the way the aircraft was banking, the way the tiny airstrip seemed to be leaping towards them. Everything to do with facing Georgia again, facing the past and finally, yes, finally, putting it to rest.
After what she’d said about their baby the instinct to follow her, insist on clearing the air, find out if he shared the blame—if only for believing her to have been more mature than she actually had been at that time—had been utterly compelling.
Maybe if he’d made doubly sure she’d known she had his total and willing support, explained the poleaxing certainty of wanting both her and the child, then she wouldn’t have panicked and rushed into an abortion.
But the wanting had been so new to him he’d hardly been able to understand it himself at that time, so how could he have made her understand what he himself had found to be inexplicable?
Mistress for a Night Page 5