The Mother And The Millionaire

by Alison Fraser

  Esme didn’t remember that. She didn’t remember ever having much to laugh about when Arabella was around. Still, now they were adults surely they could manage an easier, more friendly relationship.

  ‘Anyway, I think I’ll just go to bed,’ Arabella yawned extravagantly. ‘The party didn’t end till four.’

  ‘All right.’ Esme made an effort. ‘I’ll help you with your bags.’

  ‘You’re a darling.’ Arabella’s red, pouting mouth stretched into a false smile. ‘I’ll just go up, shall I?’

  Arabella took her assent for granted and went ahead, one small make-up bag in her hand.

  Esme was left with the two large cases. Well, she had volunteered. She carried them up without complaint.

  She was still making an effort the next morning, bringing Arabella breakfast in bed, only to be offered the briefest thanks before Arabella pulled a face at the coffee and rejected the croissants as too fattening.

  She tried again at lunch, preparing a low-calorie salad and calling up to the main house for Harry to join them.

  ‘Doesn’t say very much, does he?’ was Arabella’s verdict when Harry eventually escaped from a monologue on the trials and tribulations of her divorce.

  Esme was tempted to make some word-in-edgeways com­ment but claimed instead, ‘He’s shy.’

  ‘Not very Latin, then.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Doesn’t take after his father.’

  ‘Oh.’ Esme’s young-Italian story came back to haunt her once more. ‘No, not especially.’

  Arabella looked at her curiously. ‘Assuming, of course, he was Italian and not just some spotty-faced groom you met in your horse-mad days.’

  Esme counted to ten to stop herself from saying something. While Arabella’s snobbery appalled her, common sense told her to let it pass.

  ‘At least,’ Arabella continued, ‘your little mistake hasn’t put you quite beyond the pale.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Charles Bell Fox.’

  ‘We’re just friends.’

  Esme couldn’t bring herself to discuss her now defunct relationship with Charles.

  ‘You could do worse,’ advised Arabella. ‘From memory, he’s dull as ditchwater, but he’s rich enough. And, as the old adage says, beggars can’t be choosers.’

  ‘Me being the beggar?’ Esme concluded with an edge.

  ‘Well, not literally,’ Arabella countered, ‘but you’re hardly rolling in it, are you? I mean, look at this place. No wonder Jack wanted out.’

  Her sister cast a disparaging eye round the cottage.

  Esme rapidly lost any ambition to befriend her sister; it was now going to be a case of getting through her visit with­out inflicting grievous bodily harm.

  ‘Speaking of whom...’ Arabella’s expression changed to speculation. ‘You don’t happen to know if he’ll be around today?’

  ‘Jack?’

  ‘Who else?’

  Esme shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘Well, maybe I’ll just take a walk up to the house,’ Ara­bella planned aloud. ‘See what changes have been made.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you wait for an invitation?’ Esme suggested a little sharply.

  Arabella was unconcerned, ‘I’m sure Jack won’t mind. We’re almost family, after all.’

  Esme went goggle-eyed at that, considering Arabella had had their mother evict Jack from his home. She said nothing, however, as Arabella draped a cashmere cardigan over her shoulders before departing.

  Esme tried hard to concentrate on her work but images of Jack with Arabella kept intruding. It was an awful thing, jealousy.

  Wasted energy in this case, too, as Arabella returned within the hour, having found Jack out but Rebecca in and willing to give her the guided tour.

  Esme was a little surprised to hear that her sister had ap­parently hit it off with Rebecca, but that feeling was second­ary to her relief that Arabella hadn’t encountered Jack. Silly, really, because she knew a meeting was inevitable. In fact, she suspected that was the whole point of Arabella’s visit.

  Certainly it wasn’t to spend time with Esme, as she pulled another disappearing act in the evening to dine out with some old friends, slept late again the next morning, then, when Harry reported Jack’s presence in the house over lunch, de­cided to go and pay her respects.

  She came back triumphant. It was the only word for it. Jack had indeed been there and invited her out to dinner.

  ‘More handsome than ever,’ was Arabella’s verdict on Jack. ‘Of course, I should have known that was your little joke. Fat and bald, indeed... I told him, of course.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Esme pulled a face. ‘He is my employer, you know.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Arabella dismissed. ‘He seemed quite amused.’

  ‘Great.’ Esme imagined the two of them laughing together at Esme’s peculiar sense of humour.

  ‘Anyway, I’m sure he’ll forgive you,’ Arabella ran on, ‘if I ask him.’

  ‘Don’t bother.’ Esme would sooner go unforgiven.

  But Arabella was no longer listening. She was preening herself as she announced, ‘It’s quite apparent he’s still got a soft spot for me.’

  Soft in the head, Esme thought as she wondered if Jack had forgotten his last disastrous outing with Arabella.

  ‘And I certainly wouldn’t be averse,’ her sister continued, ‘should he fancy rekindling some old embers.’

  It might have been speculation but Esme was ready to take Jack’s interest as fact and it left a bitter taste in her mouth. What had she been these last months? A pale substitute?

  ‘I thought he was too common for you.’ She reminded Arabella of how she had once dismissed Jack.

  ‘Did I say that?’ Arabella laughed aloud. ‘Well, one must move with the times.’

  Now Jack was rich. Was that what Arabella meant?

  ‘I think I’ll go for a long soak, then start getting ready for tonight,’ she continued, stretching languidly before making for the stairs. ‘Oh, by the way, Jack says you can tag along if you like. The Wisemans are going and they’ve arranged a babysitter for the boys and Jack’s invited this architect chap for you, I believe.’

  ‘No, thanks.’ How dared he pair her off with someone just because Arabella had appeared? ‘I’m washing my hair.’

  Arabella raised a brow at the excuse even as she looked pleased, ‘I can hardly tell him that. I’ll say you have a head­ache.’

  Esme shrugged, not caring either way. It was true enough—a dull ache had settled between her eyebrows.

  While Arabella disappeared for her bath she sat slumped in a chair, wrestling with jealousy at the thought of Jack taking up with her sister again.

  She felt no better when Arabella descended later in an evening dress that left little to the imagination. She managed a brave face right up until Arabella departed for the main house, then it was a test of willpower not to cry.

  She was glad she hadn’t when Rebecca appeared at the door some ten minutes later, holding a glass in her hand.

  Esme blinked as Rebecca thrust it at her, muttered, ‘Here,’ and followed it with two white tablets. ‘You have a headache, right?’

  There was no sympathy in her tone, just bossiness.

  ‘I... Yes.’ Esme was taken aback.

  ‘Well, wash them down!’ Rebecca commanded, briskly stepping inside. ‘Then we’ll go find you something to wear.”

  ‘Look, Rebecca,’ Esme protested weakly, ‘I don’t really want to go.’

  ‘No? What a surprise!’ Rebecca took the glass and tablets back from her and dumped them on the hall table, before grabbing her by the arm. ‘Tough, you’re going anyway, be­cause I refuse to sit back while your bitch of a sister tries to pinch Jack from under your nose.’

  ‘You think my sister’s a bitch?’ Esme said, a little shocked.

  ‘Doesn’t everyone?’ Rebecca threw back, already march­ing Esme to her room. ‘Now, what have you to wear? I suggest casual elegance. A n
ice contrast to over-exposed glamour, I’d say.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Rebecca.’ Esme decided to stand her ground, ‘I know you’re trying to help but I refuse to go in for some vulgar competition with my sister.’

  ‘Because you don’t think you’ll win?’ Rebecca’s frankness was stinging.

  Esme found herself compelled to be similarly honest, ‘I... Yes, I suppose.’

  ‘Well, I’m backing you,’ Rebecca announced, ‘so put this and this on, then I’ll do your hair and make-up.’

  Rebecca gave her little choice as she handed her a sleeve­less shift dress in pale mauve silk and waited while she un­dressed and re-dressed before submitting her to a quick make­over.

  She wasn’t given a chance to draw breath until they were in Rebecca’s car, driving to the restaurant.

  ‘Won’t Jack think it odd,’ Esme queried, ‘my sudden re­covery?’

  ‘Who do you think sent me to fetch you?’ Rebecca coun­tered. ‘He’s not a fool. A headache, I ask you. Couldn’t you think of a better excuse?’

  ‘If he was that bothered,’ Esme muttered, ‘why didn’t he come down himself?’

  ‘He was going to,’ Rebecca told her. ‘I stopped him. He was kind of annoyed.’

  ‘Oh.’ That didn’t sound very promising, Jack in a mood, ‘I suppose he’s cross because I’ve mucked up his seating plan.’

  Rebecca sighed loudly and shook her head. ‘You’ve no idea, have you?’

  Esme agreed she probably didn’t, but she wasn’t so sure Rebecca did either. She didn’t know that Arabella and Jack had a history. Or how Esme had, arguably, messed him about since his return. It occurred to Esme that Jack might want her there to witness his reunion with Arabella—revenge for the night he’d come to her cottage and she’d let him make love of sorts, only to spurn him afterwards.

  No, too convoluted, Esme decided, and returned to the odd-person-at-dinner theory.

  She didn’t repeat it to Rebecca, however, changing sub­jects instead to ask who was looking after the boys, and, satisfied by the answer, concentrated on giving Rebecca di­rections to the hotel that housed the restaurant.

  ‘Now, go in there and scintillate,’ Rebecca instructed when they reached the dining room.

  Scintillate? Esme felt more like escaping, but couldn’t with Rebecca’s hand firmly at her elbow, moral support as they were shown to the table where their party was already seated.

  Jack was the first to spot them, and half got to his feet. Did he look pleased to see them? Or merely amused as he slanted her a smile?

  Amused, definitely, as he drawled, ‘I take it the aspirin worked.’

  ‘I—I, yes, something like that,’ she mumbled.

  ‘A remarkable recovery, in fact,’ chimed in Arabella, look­ing daggers from her place on Jack’s left.

  ‘Sit beside me, Esme,’ Sam invited, ‘and make my wife jealous.’

  Esme complied, sitting on Sam’s left, and Tom Burton, the architect’s, right rather than next to Jack.

  ‘You should be so lucky.’ Rebecca laughed at her husband. ‘Why would a beautiful girl like Esme fancy a middle-aged married man—other than out of pity, of course?’

  Sam grimaced but took no offence. ‘Less of the middle-aged, thank you.’

  ‘Esme’s already spoken for, anyway.’ Arabella bestowed the semblance of a fond smile on her younger sister.

  Esme looked what she was, bewildered.

  ‘Haven’t you told them about Charles, Midge, darling?’ Arabella directed at the table in general, but Jack in partic­ular. ‘I know it’s not official yet, but my mother couldn’t be more delighted. The Bell Foxes are such a good family, land­owners round here for generations... Not that that sort of thing really matters nowadays. Well, not to me, anyway.’

  The latter was declared with a smile and some judicious eyelash-batting for Jack’s benefit.

  Esme couldn’t believe Jack would be taken in by Arabella or her lies.

  Yet the eyes that briefly met and held hers were cool and distant as his tone. ‘I suppose congratulations are in order.’

  Esme wanted to reply, No, they aren’t, but others were chiming in their congratulations, before Arabella swiftly re­claimed attention with an anecdote about her own engage­ment and subsequent marriage.

  Rebecca flashed Esme a quizzical look, but all she could do was give a helpless shrug and take the menu being offered by a waiter.

  She ordered quickly, conscious that she was holding the party up, then entered into conversation with Tom Burton, who was renovating Highfield.

  She tried to block out the sound of her sister’s voice but it was hard. On form, Arabella could be very amusing and she heard Jack’s deep laugh several times before she made the mistake of glancing up, to see her sister’s hand resting on his arm. She curled her own fingers into her palms, raising welts, as she fought a losing battle against the green-eyed monster.

  Somehow she survived the meal, withdrawing into herself even as she smiled, robot-like, at remarks made by Sam or Tom or Rebecca. If someone had asked her afterwards what was said or what she’d eaten she would not have been able to recall a single thing.

  When finally they moved to the lounge for coffee and af­ter-dinner drinks she made her excuses and escaped to the powder room, Rebecca hard on her heels.

  ‘What are you playing at, Esme?’ Rebecca’s exasperation was evident. ‘I said scintillate, not hibernate. And who the hell is Charles Double Barrel when he’s at home?’

  ‘Someone I was sort of dating.’

  ‘Sort of?’

  ‘I wasn’t sleeping with him.’ Esme realised that was what Rebecca wanted to know.

  ‘But you’re getting married to him?’ Rebecca said in dis­belief.

  ‘Actually, no,’ Esme denied, ‘I’m not seeing him any more.’

  ‘You’re not?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you say so?’ Rebecca demanded.

  She obviously thought Esme a hopeless case. Maybe she was, Esme reflected. ‘There didn’t seem much point. You can see he’s more interested in Arabella.’

  ‘No, what I see,’ Rebecca replied heavily, ‘is your sister practically, throwing herself, not to mention her overblown assets, at Jack. That’s not the same thing.’

  ‘You don’t understand,’ Esme sighed, and went on to give a potted history of Arabella and Jack’s previous relationship.

  ‘So.’ Rebecca was unimpressed. ‘That was then and this is now. Do you honestly think a man like Jack is looking for someone like your sister?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Esme admitted.

  ‘Well, I do,’ Rebecca insisted, ‘so get in there and stop behaving like a mouse.’

  It was hardly a flattering description but it had a ring of truth. Enough for Esme to rise to the challenge and rejoin the party in the hotel lounge.

  Drinks were being ordered. Rebecca beat her to her chair of choice and this time she ended up sandwiched between Sam and Jack.

  Having virtually ignored her throughout the meal, Jack gave Esme a long, hard stare before prompting, ‘Drink?’

  ‘Bourbon for me,’ Rebecca chirped out.

  About to refuse, Esme thought, Why not? A little Dutch courage. ‘Gin and tonic’

  He gave their orders to the hovering waiter before address­ing Esme again. ‘How are you?’

  What exactly was he asking?

  ‘Your headache?’ he reminded her. ‘Still gone?’

  Oh, that.

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ she murmured politely. Rebecca was right. She sounded like a quiet, colourless mouse.

  He stared at her a moment longer.

  She thought desperately for something scintillating to say but was already too late, as Arabella distracted him with some remark.

  So she went back into hibernation-mode, and, when her gin arrived, drank it rather quickly. She might not have ac­cepted Sam’s offer of another if she hadn’t caught Jack’s sideways glance.

  She til
ted her head, daring him to disapprove. He confined himself to a slight tightening of the lips.

  Killjoy, she mouthed silently, noting that he was on orange juice. Well, she wasn’t driving.

  By her second drink she had become slightly more talka­tive, but only as far as Sam and Tom Burton were concerned. She resolutely refused to fight Arabella for Jack’s attention.

  Jack, on his part, certainly didn’t discourage Arabella as she flirted openly with him, and Esme had to give her sister credit. Witty as well as glamorous, she shone in company.

  Even Rebecca laughed at her more outrageous comments, before taking exception to Arabella’s view that having chil­dren rarely improved women’s lives.

  ‘I don’t agree.’ Rebecca spoke up. ‘Having Eliot improved my life immeasurably.’

  ‘Perhaps, but most women—’ Arabella shook her head and suddenly took notice of Esme ‘—my little sister for one. It messed up her life, as I’m sure she’ll admit.’

  Esme, not about to admit anything, shot her sister a look that clearly said be quiet.

  An awkward moment followed before Tom Burton put in, ‘I didn’t realise you had children. How many?’

  His tone was pleasant enquiry and Esme answered, ‘Just the one—Harry.’

  It was Jack who added, ‘You might have seen him round the house.’

  ‘Yes, of course, the blond boy,’ Tom guessed through looking at Esme. ‘How old is he?’

  Esme was caught. She remembered lying to Jack in the first place but Harry had since had a birthday, and Rebecca certainly knew Harry’s real age.

  ‘He’s ten, isn’t he?’ Arabella was determined to involve herself in this new turn of conversation. ‘I remember him being born around the time of my twenty-first and that was in the May... Of course, you weren’t at the party,’ she di­rected at Esme, before relaying to the rest of the company, ‘Poor Midge was sent away to preserve the family honour. Futile, really, since she kept the baby and chose to slum it in some high-rise instead. Our mother was livid.’

  Esme stared at her sister, open-mouthed at her indiscretion, then glanced sideways towards Jack. She’d hoped to find him uninterested, or at least sufficiently so not to be doing any calculations in his head.

  His eyes suggested otherwise, burning into hers, as he asked point-blank, ‘Who was the father?’