The Accidental Bride (Black Lace)

by Portia Da Costa

  Perfection. She was perfection. And knowing her, he felt a better man.

  He rose to follow her, but the sound of his phone forestalled him. Tapping his pocket, he considered ignoring it, but almost on auto-pilot, he drew it out to answer it. The mobile number was unfamiliar, but still a chill of unease gripped him. He pressed ‘answer’.

  ‘John Smith.’

  ‘Oh, Jonathan, I’ll never get used to plain “John Smith”. It doesn’t really suit you at all. Too mundane, darling.’

  ‘Clara. Hello. How are you? I didn’t expect to hear from you again so soon.’

  He’d known. That premonition. It was uncanny. He took a deep breath, fighting his instincts. The urge to be curt and rude in a way that wasn’t his style. He mustn’t let her get to him. Especially with Lizzie staring at him, fighting her own fight and trying to look casual. She gave a little flip of her fingers, indicating she’d leave him alone.

  He dived forward and grabbed her by the hand, even as Clara spoke.

  ‘I don’t know why you’d say that, Jonathan. I told you I’d be coming over to the UK soon and you said that we’d have to get together.’ Clara laughed, and John’s grip on Lizzie’s fingers tightened. He had a feeling he might be hurting her, but she didn’t flinch, she just shrugged and stayed where she was. Frowning.

  ‘Indeed I did,’ he said, thinking fast. He didn’t want to see her again. He didn’t trust her, and he knew from their meeting in New York that for him there was probably no way back to just a harmless friendship. And that wasn’t even what Clara wanted. ‘I didn’t realise you’d be over here so soon. Where are you staying?’

  ‘You don’t sound awfully pleased, Jonathan.’ Her voice was warm, but delicately reproving. Flirtatious. Just as she’d once been, acting as if nothing had happened. Nothing at all. ‘I’m staying at Mother’s London house …’ A pause … Was it significant? ‘I’m with Charlie.’

  ‘Charlie?’ With a gentle pull on Lizzie’s hand, John resumed his seat, and she sat down next to him, watching his face.

  ‘My son, silly.’ Clara laughed. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten about him.’

  What the hell do you mean? What are you trying to say?

  ‘Of course not. But doesn’t his father mind you traipsing him about the world?’ Charlie’s father was Robson Hertingstall, an American financier who Clara had been involved with, unbeknownst to John, even while they’d been having their own ‘reunion’ affair. Clara had been ‘punishing’ Robson with time apart, telling him she was unsure about marriage.

  What a fucking idiot I was! I never saw it. Too blinded by hope and infatuation. Idiot. Idiot. Idiot.

  ‘No, not at all, Robson has been very generous and decent. Did I not mention that he’s paying for Charlie to be educated in England? So he doesn’t lose his heritage?’

  The disquiet he’d felt moments ago surged in his gut. There was more to this. He was sure of it. Much more.

  ‘No, you never mentioned it, Clara. It isn’t as if we’ve had much contact lately. Our lives grew apart years ago.’ He tried not to sound too harsh. Or show his unease to Lizzie. Her keen eyes were monitoring him, reading him. She was attuned to his emotions in the way Clara never had been.

  ‘Well, we can rectify that now, can’t we? I’ve left Ernesto for good. I shall be living in the UK for the foreseeable future.’ There was no sadness, no distress in his former love’s voice. She sounded excited and confident. ‘There will be plenty of opportunities for us to become good friends again.’

  Damn her! The way she said good friends sounded exactly like lovers.

  ‘Yes. Friends. Of course.’ His tongue seemed frozen. He, the man who’d always been able to talk his way into any deal, out of any tight spot, and into any woman’s bed. He was devolved almost to stuttering adolescence. Hating, hating, hating his own feeling of weakness, and hating that Lizzie should see him floundering like this. Even though he knew her sympathy would be complete …

  Or would it? She too was only human. All this kowtowing of his, to Clara, must be painful to the woman he loved.

  ‘Perhaps we could all meet up for dinner when I’m next down in London?’ he said, desperately pulling himself together. ‘Lizzie and I, you and Charlie, and Caroline and Ralph? I’m right in the midst of a variety of critical negotiations at the moment.’ He rolled his eyes at Lizzie, silently owning up to the fib. ‘But in a few weeks it would be good to get together. Perhaps you could ask Charlie if there’s any special place he’d like to dine? We could make it a big treat for him.’

  There was silence at the end of the line. He could imagine Clara trying to re-group, working out how to return the conversation to intimacy. He prepared to steel himself, buoyed up by a sudden gentle caress of Lizzie’s fingers around his.

  ‘Why yes, of course,’ said Clara, finally. He could tell she was juggling her emotions too. Was she disappointed? Or was she hiding an even greater determination? ‘I do know that you’re a busy man, Jonathan. And of course, with a new relationship …’ She let the words dangle. A challenge. John wondered whether to tell her he was engaged, but held back. His parents should know first, and he doubted Clara would keep it to herself. ‘We’ll get together in a few weeks. It’ll be fun! I’m dying for you to meet Charlie. I know you’ll adore him.’

  Charlie again. This Anglo-American boy. There was such an odd note in Clara’s voice when she said the lad’s name. Almost gloating. Smug. John closed his eyes, pushing away thoughts. Lizzie’s fingers tightened around his.

  ‘I’m sure we will. I’m sure we will. But, I’m sorry, I do have to go now, Clara. I have an early lunch appointment with some friends. And a bit of a drive.’ More lies! ‘It’s been good to chat. We’ll talk again soon.’

  ‘Of course we will. And I’m so looking forward to it. Ciao! I’ll see you soon. It’ll be wonderful. Phone me!’

  The line snapped dead. Just like that. It felt as if he’d almost imagined the whole conversation. He let out a long breath as if he’d been holding it. Perhaps he had?

  The fingers of Lizzie’s free hand tingled, filled with the urge to reach out and smooth away the frown from his forehead. His eyes were dark with shadows. He looked torn and troubled. If Clara had been right there with them, Lizzie would have given her a damn good talking to. It was true what she’d said earlier, that she was more sorry for the woman than anything. But her primeval instinct was to nurture her man, and ease his troubles.

  And right now, John obviously had troubles.

  ‘Golly, that was spooky,’ she said, keeping her voice light. No need to show him she was at least as rattled as she was. ‘Fancy us talking about Clara like that, and her actually ringing you at that very moment.’

  ‘Spooky, yes. But then, she always did have a knack for that.’ Lizzie watched him make a conscious effort to banish the frown from his face. He grinned. A quirky grin, but a start. ‘I think she’s probably a witch.’

  Lizzie laughed. Nervously. ‘I think you’re right, love. Er … what did she want? I know it’s not really my business.’

  John raised her hand to his lips and kissed it passionately. ‘My business is your business, Lizzie.’ He breathed deeply. ‘Caroline was right … I think Clara’s got it into her head that she wants me back. And I’m pretty sure she believes she can get me too.’

  ‘She’ll have to fight me for you first!’

  ‘I know, and you’re younger and stronger. If it came down to pure fisticuffs, you’d win, my love.’ He kissed her fingers again. ‘You’ll always win. You and I are it, together now. For good and all. You know that, don’t you?’

  She did. In every normal circumstance, she had no doubt in him. Not a speck of it. But Clara was a wild card and the tension in John’s fine jaw suggested that he suspected … something. Should she pry? Or let him work it out in his own time?

  ‘I do, John. I do.’ She hesitated. ‘But I do think we, or at least you, should meet her, and tell her that face to face, so she stops harbouring
hopes. I think it’d be easier on everybody that way.’

  ‘You’re right, love,’ said John, his face relaxing, his eyes growing lighter. ‘That’s the only way. It won’t be easy, but I should probably meet her privately. A lunch. Somewhere. And lay down the way things are, once and for all.’ He gave her a very level look. ‘Will you be OK with that? With me meeting Clara? If you’re not, we’ll find some other way to handle it. But let’s get Montcalm out of the way first. Let’s make us totally official then I’ll speak to her.’

  Primitive Lizzie screamed, No, no way! But sensible Lizzie knew she should, and could trust John, even if she would never trust this as yet unmet rival of hers as far as she could throw her.

  ‘Yes. Yes, of course. I agree. That’s the best way, John. The only way.’ She didn’t mention issues of trust, except with her eyes. ‘Hopefully we’ll still be able to have that dinner all together, though, for the little boy’s sake. In a week or two, when we’ve been to Montcalm and your family have got over the shock of me, and we’ve started making our wedding plans.’

  ‘If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a dozen times, my family will adore you!’ he cried, giving her hand a reassuring rub. ‘But yes, we will still do that dinner. Clara is nothing if not resilient. And in a bizarre sort of way, I’d like you two to meet.’ He laughed wryly. ‘God knows, you might even like each other. Now, come on, we need to get ready for lunch with your parents now. I think I’ve made a good impression there, but I don’t want to spoil it by being late today.’ He winked.

  Lizzie rose and they walked swiftly inside, still hand in hand. Solid. Together.

  The lingering worm of doubt still wriggled, but she told it very firmly that it didn’t stand a chance. Happy couples dealt with exes all the time, and she and John were as happy as any. Happier – and tougher – than most.

  Getting past the ‘Clara’ issue would be uncomfortable. Might even be painful. But they could do it, and then move ahead, facing new challenges, stronger than ever.

  And next weekend, Montcalm was the first.

  20

  Montcalm

  ‘Turn the music off now, please. I need to prepare myself.’

  Frowning and clicking off the Beach Boys on the iPod, John slid the Bentley to a halt. They’d just been let through the main gate at Montcalm, and greeted with enormous enthusiasm by the gatekeeper there. The sight of the wayward Lord Jonathan was clearly a source of huge excitement and novelty. Especially as he had a woman with him.

  With the engine turned off, John turned to Lizzie. ‘There’s no need to prepare, love. Just relax. Enjoy yourself. Nobody’s going to be judging you. You’re a most honoured and welcome guest.’ He leant across and kissed her cheek. ‘And it’s not a state visit. Hardly anybody’s here. George and Rosemary are away sailing with some friends and Helen’s in London.’ Indeed, he’d done everything to keep their first visit to Montcalm as low key as possible, picking a time when his older brother and his wife weren’t in residence, and their daughter, his niece, was away too. ‘It’s just my mother and father, and Tom, who you know already. And Brent’s invited to lunch too, so you’ll have one of your best friends in all the world on hand as well.’

  I’m being silly. I can do this. John sailed through meeting my lot, didn’t he? And that was a big birthday bash, not just Mum and Dad.

  Yes, last weekend had been a triumph. It’d been clear that John had been accepted at the party, and that everyone had loved him.

  As they were leaving, her father had said:

  ‘In principle, I still abhor both the aristocracy and the plutocracy of money, but personally, Elizabeth, I like John very much and I thoroughly approve of him for you.’

  Her mother had said:

  ‘I still think he’s too old for you, darling, but if you’re going to be with an older man, he’s the one I want you to be with.’

  Her sisters had no qualms.

  ‘Are you sure he’s not a movie star?’ Nikki had enquired.

  Judy had said, ‘Well, anybody who buys you a pair of diamond earrings the size of two birdbaths is all right by me!’

  The only black spot in the whole weekend had been Clara’s phone call. And despite what she’d cheerfully agreed to, Lizzie still wasn’t sure she ever wanted to meet John’s ex. The idea daunted her even more than meeting his parents.

  ‘Yes, I know. I’ll be OK,’ Lizzie said, snapping back to the present, and smiling at John. There was tension in his handsome face too, the faintest of dark shadows beneath his eyes. Goddamn Clara had affected him, Lizzie knew it, and today had to be as much a pressure situation for him as it was for her.

  His father.

  There was a big difference between the buffer of correspondence, or even a phone call or two, and the reality of the last black sheep coming home to meet his parent face to face.

  ‘You’ll be OK too,’ Lizzie said softly, matching his cheek kiss with one of her own. ‘Remember, you’re bringing them what they want. Well, after a fashion … The prospect of a healthy young wife, at least.’

  John gave her a despairing look. Over the course of this last week, they’d gone over and over again how the class issue did not matter. Lizzie still felt that it might, but she tried not to make too big a deal of it. It was certainly easier for John to ignore it; as the one born to privilege, it was a part of him, no matter how he tried to deny it.

  But he smiled. ‘One look at you and every fatted calf on the entire estate will be slaughtered. I’m bringing home a magnificent prize.’

  ‘Ew! I’m not so sure about the calves, but I get what you’re saying.’ She shuffled in her seat, feeling as if she was atop a Soyuz about to take off. ‘Shall we proceed to Manderley, then?’ She nodded to the wide, winding drive ahead, flanked by trees. It was the big daddy of the long and lovely drive at Dalethwaite Manor. Montcalm would be huge compared to their own little domain, but Lizzie was glad she’d had the preparation of living at Dalethwaite, with staff and a domestic ‘establishment’. It was a much easier transition this way, than if she’d still been pigging along in a semi in St Patrick’s Road.

  ‘I think you’ll find Montcalm is more like Downton Abbey than Manderley,’ remarked John, firing the engine and setting the Bentley rolling. ‘It’s actually built very much in the style of Highclere Castle. What they call Jacobethan revival. Victorian built, but as an over the top fantasy of Elizabethan and Jacobean influences.’

  ‘I know that!’ Lizzie shot back at him, grinning. ‘I’ve looked at the website and Wikipedia and all that. I wanted to be ready so I don’t make a twit of myself.’

  ‘I’ve told you. Don’t worry.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘I think you are.’

  ‘A bit, then. But I’ll try not to.’

  This went on a little longer while the sleek car sped up the drive. The way to Montcalm was far longer and far twistier than the drive at Dalethwaite, and they passed in and out of the natural tunnels formed by mature trees several times. It was just when Lizzie was wondering whether they were ever going to emerge that the Bentley burst out of the shadow into light, still with a long, winding way ahead of it.

  ‘Bloody hell! It’s huge!’

  ‘It is a bit, isn’t it?’ Despite the magnificent house ahead of them, tall and towered, standing on a rise, dramatically silhouetted against the skyline, Lizzie still turned to John. There had been such a note of yearning in his voice, something that sounded like both happiness and sorrow.

  The car slowed. And for once, John’s eyes weren’t scrupulously on the road. He was staring at the house, hungrily, eating it up with his eyes. As she watched, he bit his lip, as if containing great emotion, then huffed out a breath, applied foot to accelerator and returned his total attention to driving.

  He’s missed it. He’s really, really missed it. All that talk about his heritage being meaningless. That was all bollocks. He loves his old home, and he loves his family.

  ‘It’s beautiful, John. Picture
s don’t do it justice at all. The way the light hits it makes the stone glow.’ The house was mellow, but fancy. Tall windows glittered. ‘I love Dalethwaite with all my heart, but Montcalm makes it look like a garden shed by comparison.’

  ‘I’d forgotten how breath-taking it can be,’ said John quietly. ‘Even though I grew up here. It’s as if I dreamed it, somehow, being away.’

  Poor John. Life was weird. And bloody fucking Clara, she was to blame. If she hadn’t done what she’d done, that night so long ago, driving under the influence of drugs, this need never have happened. John would never have been estranged. Would never have had to give up the joy of this lovely house.

  But then, you’d never have been here with him.

  For a moment, Lizzie felt tearful and confused, not sure if she was happy or sad. But then, suddenly, as they saw a dark-dressed figure appear outside what was obviously the grand front door, she pulled herself together.

  You’re here now, Aitchison, you idiot. Things happened this way, you’re with John, and he loves you.

  Clara was both her arch enemy, and the woman she should be most grateful to in all the world. How bizarre was that?

  As they neared the door, a couple of other men appeared, running smartly from around the corner. Footmen? Did Montcalm have footmen? Lizzie was quite relieved that they were wearing dark trousers and waistcoats and white shirts, not some elaborate Ruritanian livery. That would have fazed her. The butler wore a dark, sober suit and a black tie, no tailcoat.

  When the Bentley was at a halt, and before they’d even unbuckled their seatbelts, the car doors were opened for them, the butler stepping back respectfully at her side, yet clearly alert to assist her should she require it.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Lizzie, emerging. ‘Thanks very much.’

  ‘Welcome to Montcalm, miss. I hope you had a pleasant journey.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, thanks, we did. We don’t live very far away, though.’

  ‘Indeed, miss.’

  John appeared at her side. ‘This is Brewster, Lizzie. He’s a genius. He can do anything.’ A strong arm slid around her waist; her love, giving her strength and bolstering her up. ‘Brewster, this is Miss Elizabeth Aitchison. You’ll be seeing her here regularly from now on. With me.’