Everything To Gain

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  At first glance, her clothes looked like a gypsy's odd assortment, but as my eyes swept over her swiftly, I realized there was a degree of coordination about them. At least as far as the colors were concerned. She wore a long, full, green wool skirt, topped by a short bomber jacket made of red, green, purple, and yellow patches. Joseph's coat of many colors. Or so it seemed to me. Long scarves of yellow, purple, and red were wrapped around her neck and trailed down her back. Her boots were red, her handbag yellow.

  I did not have to be introduced to this colorful woman.

  I knew exactly who she was.

  Gwendolyn Reece-Jones in person.

  My father's mistress.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  We stared hard at each other, she and I. And for a split second neither of us spoke.

  I was aware from the expression in her eyes that she knew who I was, had recognized me as Edward Jordan's daughter, but I doubted that she would acknowledge this. Certainly she would not confide her relationship with my father or even say that they were friends. I knew this instinctively.

  She spoke first.

  Moving closer to the bottom step, she said, "I'm looking for Mrs. Keswick. Rude. To come without calling first. Tried. Your phone's been engaged for a long time. Is Mrs. Keswick in?"

  I shook my head. "No, I'm afraid she isn't, she went off to do a few errands. But she should be back any moment. Would you like to come in and wait for her?"

  Gwenny bit her lip, and an anxious expression crossed her angular face. "Don't want to impose."

  "I'm sure Diana won't be long. I know she'd be very upset if she missed you."

  "Frightfully kind. Yes, well, er, thank you. Perhaps I will hang around for a few minutes." She began to mount the steps. Drawing level to me, she held out her hand. "Gwendolyn Reece-Jones."

  "Mallory Keswick," I answered, shaking her hand. Immediately I swung around, stepped up to the front door, opened it, and ushered her into the small entrance foyer. "Can I take your jacket?" I asked politely.

  "Just the scarves, thank you," she replied, unraveling the three of them from around her neck.

  After hanging these in the coat closet, I took her into the parlor next door to the dining room. This was a small, comfortable room, rather cozy, with a Victorian feeling to it, a sort of den, which we used all the time. It was there we watched television and usually had afternoon tea and drinks in the evening.

  Parky had turned on the lamps and started the fire. This burned merrily in the grate, and the room looked inviting.

  "Please make yourself comfortable," I said. "If you'll excuse me, I'll go and take off my boots and tell Andrew you're here. He'll come and join us. If he's off the phone."

  "No rush. Take your time." She reached for the current issue of Country Life which lay on the tufted ottoman and sat down in an armchair next to the fire.

  Once I had shed Diana's barbour and Wellingtons and put on my shoes in the mudroom, I went in search of my husband. Andrew was still on the phone in Diana's office, but this time when I opened the door he saw me, smiled, and raised an eyebrow questioningly.

  "We have a visitor," I said rolling my eyes to the ceiling.

  "Just a minute, Jack," he murmured into the receiver and looked across at me, frowning slightly.

  "Who is it?" he asked.

  "You'd never guess in a million years, so I'm going to tell you. Gwendolyn Reece-Jones. She's here looking for your mother. She tried to phone first, but she couldn't get through." I laughed. "For obvious reasons."

  "Gwenny!" he exclaimed. "I'll be damned! Since Ma isn't back yet, offer her tea, and I'll join you in a few minutes. I'm just finishing up with Jack."

  I nodded. "Give him my best."

  "I will."

  As I turned away I heard him say, "That was Mal, she sends her love. Well, that's about it, old buddy. Just wanted to run all this by you."

  Parky was in the kitchen putting cups and saucers on a large tray; she glanced up as I walked across the floor and hovered next to the table where she was working.

  "Hi, Parky," I murmured. "You'll have to add another cup and saucer. A friend of Mrs. Keswick's has just arrived. Miss Gwendolyn Reece-Jones. I'm sure you know her. Anyway, she'll be having tea with us."'

  "Oh." Parky pursed her lips. "Miss Reece-Jones can't have been expected, or Mrs. Keswick would have told me before she went out. She's very precise about things like that, Mrs. Keswick is."

  "She wasn't expected, Parky."

  "A bit rude, if you ask me," Parky sniffed, "dropping in like that." She marched into the pantry and came back with an extra cup and saucer. "Most people telephone first."

  "She did try to get through," I explained, hiding a smile, amused at Parky's irritation. But then, she was a stickler for good manners; I always remembered that about her. For a reason I didn't quite understand, I felt I had to defend Gwenny, so I now added, "Mr. Andrew's been on the phone to New York for well over an hour, Parky, that's why Miss Reece-Jones was unable to get us."

  "Hurrumph," was all Parky said as she went on fussing with the teapot and the other things she needed for afternoon tea. But after a few seconds she threw me a warm smile, and leaning closer, she said, "I've made a luvely caraway-seed cake for tea, Mr. Andrew's favorite. And nursery sandwiches. He did enjoy them when he was little. Four sorts today. Tomato, cucumber, watercress, and egg salad. Homemade scones, too, with homemade strawberry jam and Cornish cream."'

  "Goodness, we're not going to want any dinner!" I exclaimed, before I could stop myself. "So much food, Parky."

  "But it's what I always serve, Mrs. Andrew, and I've been doing so for thirty years," she announced, taking a step back and staring at me. She looked slightly put out.

  Realizing that I might have hurt her feelings unintentionally, I said quickly, "The tea sounds wonderful. I just know Mr. Andrew is going to enjoy it, and so will I. Why, my mouth's watering already."

  Mollified, she beamed. "In any case, dinner's a simple meal tonight, Mrs. Andrew. Just Morecombe Bay potted shrimps, cottage pie, and a green salad."

  "No dessert?" I teased.

  Taking me quite seriously, she cried, "Oh, yes! I always make a dessert for Mr. Andrew. You know how he loves them. But I haven't decided which one to make yet-English trifle or custard flan."

  "It'll be delicious, whatever it is," I muttered and hurried to the door. "I'll go and keep Miss Reece-Jones company. By the way, Parky, did Mrs. Keswick say what time she'd be back?"

  "She's never later than a quarter to five for tea. Never."

  "As soon as she arrives perhaps you can serve it," I suggested.

  "I will that. And I expect Mr. Andrew'll be needing a bit of sustenance by then, working all afternoon the way he has, poor thing. On a Saturday too."

  "Yes," I agreed and slipped out.

  Gwenny Reece-Jones was leafing through the magazine when I returned to the parlor. "Andrew will join us in a minute," I told her, closing the door behind me. "And Diana's expected back imminently, so I hope you'll join us for tea, Miss Reece-Jones."

  "How nice. Love to."

  "Good."

  As if she felt she needed to explain her sudden and unexpected arrival, she. cleared her throat and said, "Working in Leeds. Doing A Midsummer Night's Dream. At the Theatre Royal. Sets. I design sets."

  "Diana told me you were a theatrical designer."

  "Oh." She looked momentarily taken aback. "Came over to Kilburn today. Know it, do you?"

  "I think so. Isn't that the place where there's a giant-sized horse carved into the side of the hill?"

  "Correct. On the face of Roulston Scar. Wanted to order a hall table from the Robert Thompson workshop. The great Yorkshire furniture maker and carver. Dead now. His grandsons run the workshop. Continue his work. Thought it a good idea to stop on my way back to Leeds. Say hello to Diana."

  "I'm glad you did. As a matter of fact, Diana mentioned you to me only the other day."

  "She did?"

  I took a deep b
reath and plunged in. "She told me that you know my father, Edward Jordan, that you're a friend of his. A very good friend."

  Startled, Gwenny gaped at me. A bright pink flush spread up from her neck to flood her face. "Good friends, yes," she admitted. She glanced away swiftly and stared into the fire.

  I had a terrible feeling that I had embarrassed her, which I hadn't meant to do at all. I simply wanted to have everything out in the open. I said quickly, "I'm glad you and Daddy are friends. I worry about him, worry that he's lonely. It's comforting to know he has some companionship when he's in London, Miss Reece-Jones."

  "Call me Gwenny," she said and bestowed a huge smile on me.

  I thought I detected a look of relief on her face as I smiled back at her.

  At this moment the door flew open and Andrew came in. "Hello, Miss Reece-Jones, remember me?" he said, grinning from ear to ear. "You used to bounce me on your knee when I was a little boy." He strode over to her and shook her hand.

  "Never forgot you." She laughed, staring up at him, affection softening her face. "Mischievous." She glanced across at me. "Mischievous boy."

  Before I could make any kind of comment, the door opened again, and Diana walked in, obviously not at all surprised to see Gwendolyn Reece-Jones sitting in her parlor. Undoubtedly she had seen the car in the drive.

  "Hello, Gwenny dear," Diana said, crossing the room to the fireplace.

  Gwenny jumped up and the two women embraced, then Gwenny said, "Rather rude. Dropping in like this. Wanted to say hello."

  "Please don't apologize, it's lovely to see you," Diana said in a warm voice. "You must stay for tea. I'll just pop into the kitchen and tell Parky to bring it in. Excuse me for a moment."

  "I'll come with you," I exclaimed, moving toward the door. "To help."

  Diana looked at me curiously but made no comment, and we left the parlor together.

  Of course later in the evening, after Gwendolyn Reece-Jones left and went on her way to Leeds, we held a little postmortem on her. It was only natural, I suppose, given the circumstances.

  "She has such an odd way of speaking," I said to Diana, shaking my head. "It's sort of staccato."

  "I know, she talks in little sharp bursts, and she has a predilection for using one-word sentences. But she's a good sort, awfully kind and considerate, and she doesn't have a bad word for anybody, or a bad bone in her body, for that matter," Diana answered.

  "I liked her very much," I murmured.

  "And she liked you," Diana replied. "Furthermore, she was rather relieved that you know about her relationship with your father."

  "I hope I didn't embarrass her, I just wanted to level with her, let her know I knew." I gave Diana one of my piercing looks. "Did she say anything when you went out to the car with her, Diana?"

  "Only that you'd taken her by surprise when you'd mentioned Edward, and what a lovely young woman you were, so pretty. She was very admiring of your beautiful red hair."

  "I thought she was rather attractive, too, and I can just see her and Daddy together. I approve; she is very nice."

  "But as eccentric as hell!" Andrew exclaimed. "A genuine character. And whenever I hear the name Gwendolyn, I think of scarves. She's always worn masses of them, rain or shine, all kinds of weather, and as far as I remember they've been made of every type of fabric. Gwenny's a regular Isadora Duncan, if you ask me." He laughed and stood up. "Would you like another glass of wine, Ma?"

  "Not at the moment, darling," Diana said, "I've still got half of this one left."

  "I think I will," he said and walked across the parlor to the skirted table in the corner, where Parky had put a tray holding a bottle of white wine in an ice bucket and a syphon of soda water. "How about you, Mal?"

  "I'm fine, Andrew, and listen, you two, before we have supper I want to show you my finds."

  "Finds? What do you mean?" Andrew asked, turning around and smiling at me fondly.

  "I was poking around in the library this afternoon, and I found a diary by one of your ancestors, Lettice Keswick, which she wrote in the seventeenth century. Actually, what I found was a copy of the original, and it was in the most beautiful copperplate handwriting. It was done by Clarissa Keswick, who copied it in 1893 in order to preserve it."

  "Good Lord! So that's what you were doing all afternoon, digging around amongst those moldy old books. Better you than me, my love." Andrew squeezed my shoulder as he came back to the fireplace, bent over me, and kissed the top of my head. "And trust you to come across something unusual."

  Diana cut in, "But you said finds, Mal, in the plural. What else did you unearth?" She had a puzzled expression in her eyes as she looked at me across the room.

  "I actually found the real diary, as well as Clarissa's copy of it," I said, and I went on to explain what I had done earlier in the day. Then, standing up, walking toward the door, I finished, "Let me go and get them; they're in the library. Once you see both books, you'll understand what I'm talking about."

  Firelight danced on the walls and across the ceiling, filling our bedroom with a rosy glow. There was no other light in the room, and I felt relaxed, drowsy, encased in a cocoon of warmth and love as I lay within the circle of Andrew's arms.

  Earlier, a high wind had blown up, and now I could hear it howling over the moors. In the distance was the sound of thunder, and lightning flashed spasmodically, illuminating the bedroom with a bright white brilliance for a moment or two.

  I shivered slightly, despite the warmth of the bed, and put my arm around my husband, drew closer to him. "I'm glad we're not out in that. Quite a storm's blown up since we came upstairs."

  He chuckled. "Yes, it has, and we're in the best place, you and I. Snug as two bugs in a rug. But you know what? When I was little I always wanted to be out in it, in the rain and the wind and the hail, don't ask me why. I just loved storms. Maybe the inherent drama of such dreadful weather appealed to something in me. And once, when I was about seven, my father told me that it was our ancestors in their armor crashing about up there in the heavens, that their ghosts were riding out to conquer their enemies, as they had done centuries ago. I'm certain that must've sparked my imagination when I was a kid."

  "And did you go out in the storm when you were a boy?"

  "Sometimes I managed to sneak out of the house, but not if Ma could help it. She was always a bit overprotective."

  "What mother isn't? Anyway, I don't blame her; storms can be dangerous. People have been struck by lightning-"

  "Like I was, when I first met you!" he interrupted, putting his hand under my chin and turning my face to his. He kissed me softly, tenderly on the mouth, then broke away. "The French call it a coup de foudre, that instantaneous falling in love just like that." He snapped his thumb and a finger together. "In other words, struck by lightning."

  I smiled against his chest. "I know what it means."

  There was a small silence. We were content to lie together like this, so at peace with each other.

  After a few minutes I said, "It's been such a lovely weekend, Andrew, I'm glad we came to Yorkshire, aren't you?"

  "I am, and anyway, it's not over yet. We still have Sunday here. We can go riding tomorrow morning if you like, up on the gallops as I promised. And then we can' take it easy for the rest of the day, be lazy. We'll have a good Sunday lunch, read the newspapers, watch television."

  "You're not going to do any work?" I asked, my voice rising a fraction in my surprise.

  "Certainly not. Anyway, I've done as much as I can. Now I've got to wait for Jack to come in from New York next week."

  "I have a feeling you've discovered something about Malcolm Stainley, something awful."

  When he was silent, I went on, "Something… unpleasant, unsavory, perhaps?"

  His answer was simply a long, drawn-out sigh.

  "What is it? What's he done?" I pressed, riddled with curiosity. I turned my face to look at his in the firelight, but it betrayed nothing.

  "I don't want to go into
it now, darling, honestly I don't." He sighed again. "But always remember: Beware of guys selling snake oil."

  "He's crooked, Andrew! That's what you mean, isn't it?"

  Pushing himself up on one elbow, he bent over me, smoothed the hair away from my face, and kissed me full on the mouth. Then he stopped and stared deeply into my eyes. "I don't want to discuss it. I've got other, more important things on my mind right now."

  "Such as what?" I teased.

  "You know what, Mrs. Keswick," he murmured, a half smile playing around his mouth.

  I looked up into his face, that beloved face which was so dear to me. His expression was intense, and his extraordinary blue eyes had turned darker, almost navy in the firelight; they overpowered me.

  "You," he said at last. "I've got you on my mind. I love you so much, Mal. You're my whole reason for being."

  "I love you, too." I stroked his face. "Make love to me."

  Bending over me, he brought his mouth down to mine and kissed me for a long time, gently at first. But his desire overtook him, and his kisses became wilder, more passionate.

  "Oh, Mal, oh, my darling," he said between his hot kisses. Then pulling the bedcovers away, he slipped off the straps of my nightgown and released my breasts, stroking them. "Oh, look at you, darling, you're so beautiful, my beautiful wife." Lowering his head, he kissed my nipples, and his hand slid down my thigh, along the silky length of my nightgown until he caught the hem of it in his fingers. He raised it to my waist, began to kiss my stomach, then my inner thighs. And all the while his hand stroked my body in long caresses, and I trembled under his touch.

  Eventually, his mouth came to rest at the center of me, and I felt myself stiffen with pleasure. I was swept along, lost in my love for him. He came and knelt between my legs and brought me cresting to a climax, then he stopped suddenly and slid inside me, filling me. We clung together, and as always we became one.

  The fire had burned low, and the shadows had lengthened across the bedroom walls. Outside, the wind howled and rain slashed violently against the panes of glass. It was a wild November night here at the edge of the moors, and growing wilder, by the sound of it.