B004D4Y20I EBOK

by Taylor, Lulu

  Harry had never understood how unalike they were, what different lives they led. He’d been worshipped all his life. His parents adored him, he’d been cherished from the day he was born. He didn’t know what it was to crave approval, to need love, to find it anywhere you knew how.

  My problem, Jemima reflected, is that I never learned how to say no. Not to other people and not to myself.

  She didn’t want to stay in the castle on a day like this. It was always dark and gloomy inside and when the summer came, it felt emptier and lonelier than ever. Perhaps it could have been different if he’d allowed her to make it the home she’d longed for with him. Jemima had envisaged the most glorious parties at Herne. She’d wanted to invite all her friends for weekend after weekend. She’d yearned to throw open the doors, clean out all the rooms and have people to stay. What was this huge house designed for, if not people? Those lords in the Great Hall did not live in this place alone, or just with their wives and children. The place would have been crammed full of friends, relations, servants, staff, animals and all manner of passers-through. That was the nature of these homes. They were never intended to be private houses, they were built to be great and extraordinary public places, where a noble family could be observed going about its life, where dozens of people were fed and housed each day. They were not supposed to be shut up and closed off, with no one to admire the brilliance of the stonework, the ornate plaster, the rich tapestries and fine damask curtains; the paintings of long-dead people were staring out in their galleries at nothing.

  Harry did not agree. He was desperate to preserve the house and that, for him, meant closing it away, mothballing it. No one would be allowed in save the honoured few, his friends from school and university, his close-knit little circle.

  That was his way of saving Herne: cutting back, shutting down. The house was hardly heated in winter. The interior, save for Jemima’s own room, had not been touched in nearly twenty years. Money went on immediate and urgent repairs and just getting through another year. Harry would not hear of opening the house to the paying public.

  ‘They’d destroy it,’ he’d say stubbornly. ‘Besides, who’d want to see it in this state? It would be more trouble than it’s worth.’

  Jemima had always felt that was a shame. There were so many treasures that no one ever saw. It was like Karl Lagerfeld designing his latest collection and then shutting it away for no one to see, enjoy and applaud. To her, beautiful things were made to be looked at. What else were they for?

  She wandered through the deserted house. At the door to the estate office, she stopped, remembering the day almost two years ago when she’d gone in that fateful afternoon. She pressed her ear close to the door and listened. There was no sound from inside. Once, the door had stood open most of the time, Guy’s merry voice coming loudly from within as he chatted on the phone or to his assistant. Harry would bound in and out all day to chase up bits of estate business or just for a bit of time to relax and banter with Guy. Guy always made him smile. He was a ray of light in the house. Everyone gravitated towards him. Even Teri, whose favourite had always been Harry, couldn’t resist taking him cups of tea and plates of biscuits.

  Now the office was closed up and deserted. The new estate manager must work off site, Jemima realised. Harry didn’t trust anyone any more, it seemed.

  She let herself out of an external door and into the gardens. On this side of the house were the kitchen gardens, still faithfully tended by the gardener of twenty years, and they produced mounds of delicious fresh fruit and vegetables. It was too early in the year for the harvest to have really begun, but the signs were there: soon there would be strawberries, raspberries, blackcurrants and redcurrants. The vegetable gardens would be teeming with lettuces, tomatoes, courgettes, peas, beans, corn and more. The greenhouses would provide yet more: grapes, cucumbers, peppers, Italian bell tomatoes, basil … There was far too much for the household to use. Harry sent most of it to local farm shops. Every little scrap of profit helped.

  She walked up and down the pathways between the beds, savouring the fresh, green scent of the gardens, the earthy, peaty smell of plants soaking up sunshine and feeding their fruit with it. The red-brick walls were reflecting the morning heat. She pulled off her pink cashmere jumper and found it was plenty warm enough to wear only her little white Comme des Garçons T-shirt. From the gardens, she walked towards the old stable block, now empty. Harry kept two hunters but he no longer stabled them here. He didn’t have the time or staff to manage their upkeep, so they were at stables a couple of miles away where they could be cared for and exercised properly.

  The stables were cool and dark, scented with hay and the faint tangy aroma of manure. Old tack hung on the walls and bits of ancient farm machinery had been dumped here too.

  ‘Another waste,’ muttered Jemima to herself. ‘It’s all falling further into rack and ruin.’

  She looked at her watch. Surely Harry would be back by now. She wandered slowly to the house, reluctant to leave the peace and quiet of the old stable block and carriage houses. They were so picturesque, with their quaint arched doorways, battered wooden gates and flagged floors. But she knew she couldn’t put off seeing Harry much longer.

  She was coming back to the side door when she heard the roar of an engine and the crunch of gravel in front of the house. Harry had returned. Inside the house, it seemed gloomier than ever in contrast to the bright day outside. She walked along the corridor towards the hall. Suddenly, a dark shape appeared in front of her. She blinked.

  ‘Hello, Jemima,’ said Harry quietly. ‘Good to see you.’

  He came towards her, his outline resolving in the full, flesh and blood Harry she remembered so well.

  ‘Hi, Harry.’ She tilted one cheek up for him to kiss.

  ‘Have you had lunch?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then let’s go and do that. Teri’s laid something out for us on the terrace.’

  They went out to the terrace. It was beautifully warm, sheltered from the breeze, the old grey stones already toasty from the absorbed rays of sunshine. Teri had put on a spread of cold ham, chicken, cheese, salads and fresh brown bread. A Pouilly-Fumé was chilling in a bucket beside two crystal wine glasses.

  ‘This is very nice,’ Jemima said, sitting down.

  ‘It feels like summer’s really here, doesn’t it?’ Harry joined her. ‘God, I love this time of year.’

  ‘Even though you can’t shoot anything.’

  ‘Plenty of other things to keep me occupied.’ He passed her a plate.

  ‘How is everything at Herne?’

  As they ate, Harry told her how the estate was progressing: the farm was doing well, the yields were high. The price of wheat was helping, of course, and he was glad he’d stuck to arable when people were urging him to turn more land over to dairy production. Rents were good and steady. But the house was still sucking away most of his income. The bequest from Jemima’s mother was earmarked for the roof, and just that one job would use almost all of it.

  ‘So there’s still a lot to do here. As soon as one problem gets cleared up, another raises its ugly head,’ Harry said. He sipped at the cold white wine. ‘And you? How’s the Trevellyan project going?’

  ‘Things are certainly quite different to how they used to be,’ Jemima said almost wistfully. ‘We’re progressing well but I’m afraid I will have to sell my flat.’

  ‘What, Eaton Square?’ Harry looked concerned. ‘Really?’

  Jemima nodded. ‘It’s worth a lot. I’ve got to free up the cash. We desperately need it.’ She told him briefly about the situation they’d found themselves in, about the way that the French department store managers had been so dismissive of her, and how their English counterparts had been much the same when she had tried to approach them, if a little more friendly in the way they did it. She explained about the cost of launching a new perfume and of her struggle to come up with a famous face for the brand. And the fact that unless they could brea
k into the American market, they were doomed to remain just a small-time niche perfume house for ever.

  By the time she finished, Harry was smiling at her.

  ‘What?’ she said, slightly cross. ‘It’s not funny, you know.’

  ‘I know, I know. It’s just so strange to hear all these things coming out of your mouth. Not so long ago, it was all about your society friends. I mean, what’s Tiggy up to? And Martha? And Gigi de Monte Carlo, or whatever that ridiculous princess’s name was?’

  ‘They’re all fine.’ Jemima shrugged. ‘I haven’t seen anyone for ages. Just my closest friends, really. And my sisters. We seem to spend all our time together these days. I’m too exhausted after a day in the office to go out much.’

  ‘You look different too.’

  ‘Oh, don’t …’ Jemima rolled her eyes and blushed slightly. ‘I’m hideous, I know. I haven’t had my eyebrows threaded for weeks. My hair hasn’t been touched for a fortnight. I’ve had to give up my usual treatments. There’s just no time. It doesn’t matter all that much, though, as I’m not seeing anyone or going anywhere. Still, there’s a big party next week so I’ll be able to justify a bit of spit and polish for once.’

  ‘Whose party? Anyone I know?’

  ‘Oh no. It’s business.’

  Harry laughed out loud, rocking back in his chair.

  ‘What?’ pouted Jemima. ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘It’s business! You should see your face – all wide-eyed, as if you’ve never gone to any other kind of party in your life. Honestly, Jemima, usually you’d be rabbiting on about who’s shagging whom, and how much money Toto Boringville is spending on his birthday bash, and where you’re going to spend your next holiday – where are you going this year, incidentally?’

  Jemima blinked at him. ‘Are you mad? I can’t go anywhere. We’re launching in November. It’s so close and there’s so much to do.’

  Harry leaned towards her, his blue eyes serious. ‘Well, well, I do believe you’ve found a purpose in life. At last. And do you know what? It suits you.’

  Jemima felt affronted. She had always had a purpose in life. Perhaps it wasn’t so obvious as Harry’s – he had this house to maintain. But hers had been to live happily and well and to enjoy herself. She had to admit, though, that these last months had been absorbing and interesting. She had learned so much … ‘Perhaps you’re right,’ she conceded.

  ‘I am right. You know what? You look younger, without all that gunk on your face and that perfectly glossy hair. You look natural, pretty … and you’ve got a spark about you that says you actually do something with your brain.’

  Jemima stared at him. She couldn’t pretend it wasn’t very nice to be complimented by Harry. But really – what was the point? It was ironic that he was starting to respect her now, wasn’t it? When it was all too late.

  ‘Is my spark as interesting as Letty Stewart’s?’ she asked quietly.

  Harry said nothing but stared out towards the lawns that stretched away to the dark woods beyond. Only his knee twitching gave away his inner turmoil. She watched and waited, the silence between them stretching out until she was desperate to break it herself. At last he spoke.

  ‘It’s true that Letty has visited me here a couple of times. She came with Rollo and Emma. She’s a very sweet girl. Lots of fun.’

  ‘I’m sure she’s simply masses of fun,’ Jemima said tartly. ‘But I can’t say I found her terrifically amusing.’

  Harry shot her an agonised look. ‘Please, Jemima. Let’s talk about this sensibly without getting snide or nasty or upset or rude.’ He took a gulp from his wine glass. ‘I asked you here because we need to talk about where we stand, about what’s happening between us. We need to talk about the future of our marriage.’

  ‘Is there any future for our marriage?’

  ‘That’s what we have to find out.’

  ‘Are you in love with Letty Stewart?’ she demanded. She realised that the question had been drumming away inside her head for weeks now and that she was desperate to know the answer. She had come prepared for Harry to make a great declaration of his new passion, of his desire to divorce her at once. The fact that he’d been so friendly, that he’d talked to her about the estate and about Trevellyan had wrong-footed her. Now she remembered how badly she needed to know.

  He stared at her, his gaze skimming her face and body. He looked down at her white T-shirt, straining tightly across her chest, the slim jeans, the striped canvas and cork sandals on her feet. He looked at her soft blonde hair, longer now, falling in loose waves over her shoulders. For a moment, she thought he was going to reach out to her, but he didn’t.

  ‘You sent me to her,’ he said at last. ‘Remember? You told me to go to her bed.’

  ‘So I suppose you went and screwed her, did you? How you must have hated that! Don’t pretend it was my fault; you were slavering over her all bloody evening! You didn’t need much encouragement.’

  Harry took a deep breath. ‘Look, I promised myself I wouldn’t let this degenerate the way it usually does. We always get furious with each other and then call each other names, then someone storms out and that’s the end of rational discussion for another six months. Not this time. We have to get past that.’

  ‘How can we?’ whispered Jemima. A soft breeze blew her hair across her face and she brushed it away. ‘You’re sleeping with someone else.’

  There was a long pause. Harry seemed to be struggling with himself. Then he said slowly, ‘But, Jemima, look at what you’ve done …’

  Her temper flared up again. ‘Oh, I knew it wouldn’t be long before we got on to that!’

  ‘We have to talk about it!’ exclaimed Harry. ‘We have to talk about the fact that you’ll shag anything that moves. Do you know how that feels for me? When I walk into a room and know that you’ve had half the men in it and will probably have the other half before too long? I know you cheat on me, and I know you get pleasure from it, from knowing I know. You want to punish me, and I don’t even know why. Christ!’ He buried his head in his hands. When he spoke his voice was muffled. ‘I even had to see it with my own eyes.’

  ‘I only do it because you don’t love me!’ she cried. Then she stopped suddenly, abruptly. What did I just say? What the hell did I just say?

  He looked up at her, and rubbed his hand through his fair hair, leaving it spiky and dishevelled. ‘How can you say that, Jemima?’ he said in a small voice. Then, loudly, ‘I fucking adored you! You said you loved me too. We got married, we promised to be faithful to each other, and I believed we meant it. And then you slept with Guy!’

  She stood up, her voice trembling. ‘You didn’t understand about that, you’ve never tried to understand. I tried to explain –’

  ‘What was there to understand?’ he demanded. His eyes were angry now. ‘I walked in on my wife and my best friend, and he had you up against the wall, fucking you. I could see his bare arse moving while he pumped into you, and your face … you were in fucking ecstasy. It was only when you realised I was there that you stopped looking like a pig in shit. Don’t try and tell me that you didn’t enjoy it, that he made you do it.’

  ‘He didn’t make me do it!’ she protested. ‘But he gave me no choice! He set out to seduce me, he knew exactly my weak points, he made it his mission to charm me, to get me …’

  ‘But Jemima, you did have a choice. You could have said no. You could have said “I’m married and I love my husband, I belong to someone else”, but you didn’t. You said yes! You let it happen.’

  ‘I know, I know …’ Her hands were trembling now, her legs felt weak underneath her. I’m usually so strong, so capable. Why do I feel like a child? She knew why it was: she had been in the wrong. She needed forgiveness. She longed for his pardon, but she didn’t know how to ask for it and she was terrified that the answer would be no. She was afraid that Harry would turn his back on her and banish her, just as her father had turned his back on her all those years ago. So she had decided to s
how him that she didn’t care, that she wasn’t sorry, that she didn’t love him. But the truth?

  She couldn’t face the truth, even now. She knew that. It was too painful, too dreadful. She turned towards the house and started to stumble away.

  ‘That’s right, Jemima! Run away, just like you always do,’ cried Harry.

  Her eyes filled with hot tears. She heard up him stand and come after her. She began to hurry towards the terrace doors but he caught up with her and grabbed her hand, turning her round.

  ‘Please,’ he said in a desperate voice. ‘All I’ve ever wanted to know is why. We were in love, I know we were. I would never, ever have cheated on you. Why did you sleep with Guy?’

  She couldn’t meet his gaze. She stared down at the grey-green stone of the terrace. It was blurred by tears. They spilled over and ran down her cheeks. ‘I don’t know,’ she said, her voice cracking. ‘I’m so sorry.’ The words seemed so feeble, so incapable of expressing the bitter regret she felt over a moment’s weakness. ‘He flattered me. He paid attention to me. When you were out, hunting or fishing or working, he was always there, ready to talk and laugh. He sympathised with me because you left me alone so much, and I was bored in the house all day with nothing to do. It was such a change from my life in London. But Guy was there.’ She sniffed and tried to wipe away the tears that were falling faster and faster. ‘I can’t really explain how powerful he was, he knew exactly how to charm me. He was jealous of you, I realise that now. He wanted to win me from you, even if only for a moment. I think he just wanted to know that he’d had your wife. He couldn’t have your title or your money or your house, but he could get you where it would hurt you most.’

  ‘But you let him,’ whispered Harry. ‘How could you know all that and still let him?’

  ‘I know it now. I didn’t know it then. I didn’t realise how stupid I was being, how easily I was falling into his trap.’ She stared at him, straight in the eye. ‘You know that all my life I’ve yearned for affection. I’ve always expressed it physically. I realise you’re not the same as me, that you don’t treat sex the way I do. For me, it was always fine to sleep with partners, friends, strangers … as long as you’re both happy it’s OK. I was young, I didn’t really understand what a marriage meant. I didn’t anticipate how seriously you took it. I didn’t appreciate how deeply what happened with me and Guy would wound you. But now, when I think about you and that … that Letty …’ She began to sob. ‘I’m so jealous! It hurts so much. Now I realise how you must have felt. I don’t know how to tell you how sorry I am. I was stupid and selfish, and I wish, wish, wish it had never happened.’