The Secret Life of Lady Gabriella
Page 15
‘I’ve seen it,’ he said, his eyes no longer a sun-filled blue, but the colour of wet slate. ‘And then?’
She didn’t answer.
‘You didn’t stop at the house, did you, Ellie?’
‘No.’ The word was little more than a drawn-out breath. ‘No, I didn’t stop there. You’re right. I used you, but it wasn’t deliberate. Intentional. You just slipped into the role I’d written. Or maybe it was the other way around. You were the man I wanted him to be. Warm, generous…’ She was already in so much trouble that there seemed little point in holding back. ‘The kind of man who’d build his kids a treehouse. Who’d take pity on a rabbit.’ Then, remembering the half-grown red setter in the kitchen, ‘Or a dog.’ So much for the hard man who wouldn’t give a dumb red setter house room. And, gaining confidence, she went on, ‘A man who’d bind up some sorry woman’s knee and give her a lift, even when she was causing him all kinds of trouble. Who’d lead a rag-tag group of refugees through the mountains to safety.’ She’d had time to waste, had surfed the net, read the reports…‘A hero, Ben. Not some fictional character but a man who lives what he is. Knows himself through and through. You walked into my life and filled the vacancy.’
This time the silence went on so long that she forced herself to look at him.
‘Did you really walk into Jennifer Cochrane’s office and try to convince her that you were Lady Gabriella March?’ he asked.
‘I wore my sister’s suit,’ she said. ‘I looked quite…normal. Honestly.’ Then, because it was important, ‘You weren’t in that first column, Ben. Not even in my imagination. I thought you were some doddery old bloke…’ She stopped. No point in dwelling on what he’d turned out to be. ‘I didn’t mean to go through with it. I started writing it as a pastiche, then sort of got carried away. For heaven’s sake, who’d have thought someone would buy it? No one wanted my novel, and I was taking that seriously.’
She glanced at him, realised that he was trying not to laugh. ‘Go ahead,’ she said. ‘It’s okay. Laugh your head off.’ The whole thing was clearly risible.
‘Hey,’ he said, hunkering down beside her. ‘Why would I do that?’
‘Why, indeed? You’re clearly in anything but a laughing mood.’ She shook her head. ‘It’s okay. I don’t blame you. The sad thing is that I was going to tell you. Before this…’ she made a vague gesture that encompassed them both ‘…us…went any further.’
‘Oh?’ And somehow he was on the sofa beside her.
‘I’ve been sitting by the river trying to think of a way to explain what happened.’
‘You’ve done that.’
She shook her head. ‘Not just the column, but what happened to my life. How I got to be here.’He took her hand, held it in his, and somehow that made it easier. ‘How,’ she said, ‘if I’d gone back to art when Sean died it would have been admitting that everyone was right.’
‘That he was jealous of your talent?’
‘He wasn’t jealous. He didn’t have my choices. He was gifted, wrote the most incredible poetry, but his father had a small business. In the summer before Sean should have left for university his father had a heart attack and he had to stay and take care of things. No university for him. No gap-year. No time to dream of becoming a poet, a novelist. Just the monthly meetings of the local writers’ circle. He was their star, the one who had poems published in lofty literary magazines.’
‘I’m sorry, Ellie, but I don’t understand. Why did you give it up so completely? You could have taught that as easily as English.’
‘No!’ She yanked her hand away from his. ‘He said that, but I couldn’t. Art wasn’t something I wanted to give to other people. It was something I did for me.’ Hand clenched, she struck at her breast. ‘It was all about me. It was a totally selfish thing…’
‘All or nothing?’
She closed her eyes.
‘So you chose nothing and stayed in Melchester to be with him.’
‘I couldn’t leave him, Ben. He needed me.’
‘When he was alive, maybe. But you can’t live his life for him, Ellie. You have to be who you are. Let go…’
As she made to repeat the gesture, Ben caught her hand, turned her into his arms, held her while she sobbed for the loss not just of Sean, but of dreams she’d buried so deep that she’d forgotten them.
Held her, gentled her with meaningless sounds, comforted her with his body, his mouth, with the words that she needed.
Later, much later, when her cheek was pressed against his damp shirt, he said, ‘So, sweetheart, what are you going to do?’
‘About the column?’
‘About your life.’ Then, ‘Your life. Don’t think about anyone else. Just you. Selfish as you like.’
‘Make a bonfire,’ she hiccupped. ‘Burn the novel. Complete my contract with Milady magazine-I got the feeling Jennifer Cochrane might sue if I didn’t.’
‘She’s one tough lady. You won’t take up her offer?’
She shook her head. ‘I’m going to be too busy. I’m going to apply to Melchester Art College, see if they’ll take me as a mature student.’
‘You don’t want to try for London?’
‘It would be a tough commute.’
‘Commute?’
‘I’ve got an extended family to consider. Millie, Roger, Nigel…’
‘And Rufus. Have you met Rufus?’
‘I thought you didn’t do dumb red setters?’
‘He’s from a broken home, ended up in the rescue centre. I thought it was time we had a dog and I knew you’d pick him.’
‘Thanks.’ Then, ‘We?’
‘I’m your hero, Ellie. You said so.’
‘I’ve got a big mouth.’
‘You’ve got the most perfect mouth I’ve ever kissed, but if you want London, they’ll be safe here with me.’
‘Are you telling me to go?’
‘I’m telling you to do what you need to do.’
‘Setting me free? Like Natasha?’
‘No, Ellie. Not like Natasha. If you become the world’s greatest artist, I’ll trail in your paint-spattered wake to the ends of the earth. Stay here and keep the waifs and strays fed, raise the kids-’
She put her hand over his mouth. ‘You said I could be as selfish as I like.’
‘I meant it.’
‘Then I’m staying here. It’s where I want to be. With the waifs. The kids. You.’ Then, because that kind of declaration was embarrassing, ‘Are you hungry?’
‘Starving.’
She suspected he wasn’t talking about food, but dragged him to the kitchen anyway, checked the fridge. ‘We’re a bit Mother Hubbard.’ Then, ‘What’s this?’
‘Wedding cake.’
‘I’d forgotten all about the wedding,’ she said, taking the plate from the fridge, unwrapping the rich fruit cake. ‘How was it?’
‘Exactly what you’d expect. Lots of silly hats and tears. The bride liked her goat, by the way. Said to tell you it was her absolutely favourite present bar none.’
‘Excellent.’ Then, ‘I bought a silly hat. Nothing but feathers and ribbons. In crushed raspberry.’
‘I’m sorry I missed it.’
She shrugged. ‘There’s always another wedding.’
‘Why wait? Let’s have our own.’
‘Wedding?’
‘Isn’t it traditional? We get married, ride off into the sunset in a superannuated sports car. We’ll honeymoon in Italy. You’ll paint. I’ll speak Latin. We’ll have an enormous amount of fun making a start on extending the family-who’ll have a ready made treehouse-and live happily ever after. You’re the expert on romance novels. You must know how it ends.’
‘Not too many of the great romances end that way, Ben.’
‘Who wants great when we can have this?’ he said, putting the plate on the table and taking her in his arms. ‘Don’t let’s wait too long, hmm?’ he said, not waiting for her answer but taking up where they’d left off when the phone had rung
and interrupted them.
Behind them there was a crash as Rufus took advantage of the fact that they were completely absorbed in what they were doing and finished off the cake.
Liz Fielding
***
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