Runaway Bride

by Jane Aiken Hodge

  She nodded.

  ‘Well ma’am — miss, he isn’t in. I’m sorry but there it is. Went off ridin’ ‘bout an hour ago. Whether it’s worth thee waitin’ a bit—’ His Yorkshire voice broke off as a younger, taller man walked smartly through a gate in the drive leading from a field. He must have been well over six feet, and as he drew near Emma felt a stab of surprise — almost shock — seeing how very handsome he was — fair hair licked to brightest gold in the early sunlight, fine-featured, and with eyes so blue they startled her. He was attired fashionably in fawn twill knee breeches and a smartly cut velvet jacket. A silk scarf was knotted loosely, in the manner of a cravat, at his neck. He had a winning smile, slightly tilted to one side, which added to his charm. Obviously a lady-killer, Emma decided after the first impact was over, and one used to getting his way.

  She drew herself up an inch or two higher whilst formal introductions were made. Then, when her business was made clear, he said, still with his magnetic gaze fixed upon her, ‘Father’s out, as you’ve just heard — unfortunate for you perhaps, but damned lucky for me.’

  She flushed faintly.

  ‘I ought to have made an appointment, of course, but—’

  ‘Nonsense. I’m glad you didn’t. He shouldn’t be long. You can wait, I suppose? This business you have with him is important?’

  She nodded decisively. ‘Very.’

  ‘Concerning the local rags. Am I right?’

  ‘Yes. Mr — Bradley. You did say “father”, didn’t you?’

  He grinned. ‘Oh indisputably. I’m Arthur — the one-and-only. Except for Jessie, of course, my sister. But I’m afraid my rich tycoon of a sire does rather concentrate on the importance of having a male heir — however unsatisfactory a one I may be.’

  Unable to decide how much of the statement was made in jest, how much in truth, Emma ignored it, and after a brief look round an ornamental garden at the side of the house, which included a pool overhung by willows and a Japanese maple, they went inside.

  The interior was as massive as the outward facade of the Hall suggested; the corridors were wide, the rooms large with high encrusted ceilings. The furnishing was rich but unimaginative, comprising a good deal of red plush, gilt, and crystal. Ornate glass-faced clocks, probably French, ticked from marble mantel shelves and alcoves. The drapes were heavy, and the air was over-heated. From a reception room on the left into which Emma was shown, a conservatory led through a glass door to a path bordering a shrubbery. The smell of ferns was strong and heady. Emma had an urge to rush round pushing every possible window open; she felt smothered, sensing that she had come on a fool’s errand. Anyone living in such a cloying overpowering atmosphere of ostentatious wealth could not possibly appreciate the wild sweet freshness of Burnwood, or her mission to save Oaklands. The rigidity of her pose, her air of bewildered distaste, didn’t escape the young man’s attention.

  ‘A bit stuffy,’ he commented, ‘I agree. But my mother likes warmth, and the pater’s not here often. Sit down, though. The chairs are comfortable. Like a drink?’

  Emma took the nearest chair which was divided into three back to back, forming a circular design. The seats were low, of rich maroon shaded velvet, and surprisingly comfortable.

  ‘No thank you,’ she said primly, refusing the Madeira.

  His fine arched brows shot up. ‘No? Ah. I forgot. You’re here on business.’ The mocking note had returned to his voice. Emma stiffened again.

  ‘Do you mind telling me — I mean, have you any idea how long Mr Bradley will be?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, I’m afraid not. But I hope it will be a considerable time. Long enough for us to get to know each other.’ Her grey eyes met his squarely, and once more she was impressed by their brilliance. He really was astonishingly good-looking; charming too, in his way, although something about him, a secret assessing quality, mildly intimidated her. Quite obviously he found her fascinating. At odd moments his gaze slid appreciatively over the slender lines in her figure, then back to the provocative features under the perky boat-shaped hat, and dark rich gleam of russet hair. A beauty, begad, he was thinking, and quite a character — one well worthy of adding to his retinue of female admirers. Could one have fun with her? Possibly. But it might be a dangerous game, and if Arthur Bradley considered any woman worth dallying with, he expected his own brand of response. Pride alone demanded it. Could he win this one? After a few speculative moments he decided to take up the challenge, and by the time Jonathan Bradley appeared an hour later, he’d succeeded in at least warming her interest.

  Jonathan was shorter in height than his son — broader, of burly build, with a square high-coloured face, and determined chin. His eyes were shrewd and fiery below thick brows, lit by sparks of vitality suggesting a hot temper and considerable physical strength. Beneath his well-cultivated voice the north country accent was still strong. In age Emma judged him to be somewhere in the late forties. He was, actually, forty-seven, and Arthur, his son, twenty-five.

  Introductions were cordial but brief. During his first few words, following Arthur’s departure, Emma sensed she had no more chance than her father of success in her mission, although his appraising glance at the exotic spirited young creature confronting him was appreciative, even a little warm.

  ‘I’m glad to meet you, young lady,’ he said, ‘relax now and be at ease. Maybe a Madeira would help, eh?’ He fetched a decanter and glasses from the cupboard.

  ‘Oh no, thank you,’ Emma protested, ‘your son did ask me, but—’

  ‘Arthur?’ Jonathan laughed shortly. ‘This is my house, Miss Fairley, and if I’ve a mind for you and me to get down to business in a cosy way, I don’t think you’ll object. Come now.’ He was pouring the wine. ‘You’ve already mentioned business, so shall we start?’ As she mutely accepted the glass, he added, ‘I can guess what it’s about, of course. The Echo.’

  ‘Yes.’ Her voice and manner were defiant. She had meant to be so tactful and subtle in her approach, but his bluntness, air of command and obvious assumption that he held all the cards before any discussion was begun, stirred her to reckless honesty.

  ‘I don’t expect concessions from you,’ she said, ‘I haven’t come to beg or plead with you—’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘I just think if you could see another’s — my father’s — point of view, without prejudice,’ she continued quickly, ‘it could be to the advantage of both.’

  He regarded her thoughtfully during a short pause, while a tinge of amusement touched his hard mouth. ‘And what makes you think that?’

  Her colour deepened to a becoming rose. ‘Because I’ve lived all my life near Charbrook. I’ve grown up knowing of the newspaper’s problems, I know what the public want. It’s a — well, in a way, a family publication. People look for personal tit-bits and gossip as well as more general news. It could have a wider circulation of course, but with money invested this could be easy. Don’t you see, Mr Bradley, to change its character could be a great mistake? Almost a disaster—’ Her voice had changed, softened. The luminous brilliance of her grey eyes affected him in a way he was quite unprepared for.

  ‘Miss Fairley,’ he said more quietly, ‘I understand your reasons for coming here. You’re echoing very much what your father said. He knows, as you must, that I’m quite willing to sink a good deal into what is after all — a very minor provincial daily. But it must be on my terms, girl. I’m a businessman. D’you think for one moment I made all the brass I’ve got from old-fashioned dreams?’

  ‘I—’

  He raised a hand. ‘No. Hear me out. I can understand your loyalty to Fairley. He’s been a good man in his day, but—’

  ‘What do you mean in his day? My father’s still an active, intelligent editor. And popular—’

  ‘Maybe, maybe. But he needs help, new ideas to face the challenge of the future. And I can give it. Another thing — you could brighten your own little ladies’ columns up a bit — get around more, mix with the
right set. Your job’s safe if you go along with me. You c’n write. I could make you into something — something better than a scribbler on birds and trees. Now think about it. I’ve given a time limit to all of us. Use it and get facts square.’

  ‘Meaning give you the overall power? Fifty-one per cent of the shares in the Echo?’

  ‘That’s right. And believe me you’ll find it’ll not be half as bad as you think. Fairley will still hold the reins in the office. I shan’t interfere except to expand a bit when necessary.’

  ‘But it won’t be his paper.’ Her manner was mutinous.

  ‘Not entirely. He can’t afford it, can he?’

  She winced, then got up and walking towards the door, said coldly, ‘I can see I’ve wasted my time.’

  ‘Not at all. Best for all of us to have things straight. We’ll be meeting again, I’ve no doubt.’

  She was passing through into the hall when a plump yellow-haired woman appeared from a room on the opposite side. She was made up rather badly, with over-rouged cheeks, and was attired fussily in pink; her smile was forced, a little tremulous. A distinct odour of perfume and alcohol tinged the air as she approached.

  ‘Oh!’ she gasped, with one small plump beringed hand at her breast, ‘I’m sorry, I really am. I didn’t know thee had company, Jonathan.’ She teetered slightly on her feet.

  Bradley frowned. ‘My wife, Miss Fairley,’ he said.

  ‘Really? I’m delighted.’ The broad face smiled, and Emma realised in one quick moment that when young she must have been pretty. Her eyes, half hidden now by puffed lids, gleamed china-blue. Obviously the son, Arthur, had inherited her colouring and one-time good looks. She was trying hard — painfully almost — to be welcoming and lady-like. Her feigned mimicry of the well-bred county accent was not only farcical, but pathetic. It was quite clear to Emma that she was in awe and a little frightened of her husband who was doubtless a bully in his domestic as well as business life.

  Emma smiled encouragingly. ‘I’m pleased to meet you,’ she said.

  ‘You must come over for tea one day,’ the older woman said, more naturally. ‘Our cook, Mrs Maggs, is a dab hand at cream cakes. Well — in Yorkshire we pride ourselves on our cooking, thee knows — you know,’ she corrected herself quickly.

  ‘Now, Amelia,’ Bradley interrupted warningly, looking for an instant quite furious, ‘Miss Fairley didn’t come for a lecture on cookery.’

  His wife’s brief spell of vitality died out of her suddenly, like air from a pricked balloon.

  ‘No, no, Jonathan. Well then — bye bye, luv — Miss Fairley.’

  She turned, and with a rustle of silks disappeared like an immense ruffled pouter pigeon into the rosy glow of what was obviously a drawing room.

  Minutes later Emma had extricated herself from the unsuccessful encounter with Jonathan, and was cantering on Lady down the drive to the lane. She had just turned the corner when another rider, Arthur Bradley, approached her at a smart pace. He reined alongside, showing fine teeth in a wide smile. His eyes caught the glint of sun, emphasising their blue brilliance. Her heart quickened, not entirely pleasurably; although it was clear to her he had been waiting for her, which was flattering, there was something — an indefinable quality about him — intimidating — that she found disturbing. Yet his manners were impeccable. He attempted no undue familiarity, expressing only the pleasure it had given him to meet her and the hope that she would pay another visit soon or allow him to call on her at Oaklands.

  Her reply was ambiguous.

  ‘Perhaps. But at the moment I think it’s better to keep things on a business footing. It’s my father, you see—’ The lovely eyes raised to his were suddenly alight with warmth and emotion. ‘For his sake I need desperately to get the paper’s affairs settled.’

  ‘I understand. And if there’s anything I can do,’ he assured her, ‘let me know. Promise?’

  She smiled. ‘Very well, of course — and thank you.’

  As she kicked Lady to a canter she didn’t notice the sudden, almost imperceptible tightening of the lips, or the cold ice-blue quality of his stare. Blue — yes, but remote and chilling as the shadows of snow peaks in brilliant sunshine.

  He wanted her; to have her under his control as neatly scheduled as the butterflies, pinned in his special collection under glass. A proud young madam, he thought, but he’d have and tame her.

  That same evening he surprised his father by announcing calmly, ‘The girl you had here — Miss Fairley—’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I want to marry her.’

  ‘You — what?’ Like a bullet from a gun the last word shattered the air.

  ‘I want her for my wife.’

  ‘Then you can damn well want,’ Jonathan said roughly. ‘When you take a wife it’ll be someone of class, and with a good dowry. I’m having no cheeky little nobody in the Bradley family. It wasn’t for that you went to Public School and Oxford, so just get that idea out of your head once and for all, lad. It won’t be long before the right girl appears, to eat out of your hand when she knows how lucky she is.’

  ‘This one will,’ Arthur stated calmly, ‘and she’s the one I want.’

  Eventually Bradley was forced to the conclusion that his heir — a stubborn and odd character, if ever there was one — really meant it.

  Well if that was the case, he could do worse, he supposed. He didn’t need a woman with cash, and marrying Emma might solve a number of problems.

  So the matter was left in abeyance, and as it happened something occurred the following week which tragically solved everything.

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