by Craven, Sara
‘Gabriel’s gone out, my pet. I really don’t think he could bear to stay in the house with you. I’ve never known him so angry.’ She studied an imaginary fleck on one immaculate nail. ‘But I could always give him a message for you when I see him. Naturally he’ll want to make sure that I’m safely settled in.’
Joanna bit her lip. ‘He’ll need to be here when the vet comes. I’ll talk to him then.’
‘Oh, well—if you’re determined to humiliate yourself even further.’ Cynthia shook her head. ‘Poor, confused Joanna. You just don’t know how to give up gracefully.’
She turned and went out of the room. The scent she was wearing remained, hanging heavily in the air, making Joanna feel faintly nauseous.
She limped doggedly into the bathroom and filled the tub, adding a generous handful of herbal bath salts. Getting into the bath wasn’t easy, but the hot water welcomed and soothed her, and gradually her shaking body began to relax.
She dried herself carefully, patting the towel over her bruises, and put on fresh underwear. The first outer garment that came to hand was the green velvet housecoat, which she dropped as if it had suddenly burst into flames. Instead, she chose a simple navy jogging suit. Safe and sexless, she thought, zipping up its tunic top to the throat.
Then she brushed her hair back from her face and secured it at the nape of her neck with an elastic band.
‘The doctor said you had to rest.’ Grace Ashby met her grimly at the foot of the stairs. ‘And I don’t know what Mr Verne will say.’
Joanna’s heart missed a beat. ‘Is he back?’
‘Just this minute. He’s making a phone call before he goes down to the stables. He’s expecting the vet.’
‘Yes—yes, I know.’ Joanna took a deep breath. ‘I—just want a word with him first.’
The study door was ajar, and she could hear no sound of conversation. Joanna pushed the door fully open and went in. Gabriel was standing with his back to her, staring out of the window. He gave the impression of someone who’d been there for an eternity.
As she entered he swung round, and she remembered what Cynthia had said about his anger.
There was a coldness in him which reached out and touched her, freezing her to the bone.
‘You wanted something?’
‘I need to tell you what happened on the hill. Why I fell. Because it wasn’t Nutkin’s fault.’
She paused, searching his face, but it told her nothing. Biting her lip, she ploughed on. ‘He has one fault, but I think I could cure it. He freaks at white fluttering things. And there was something among the fallen stones at the Hermitage. The wind caught it, and blew it towards us, and it frightened him.’
His look was sceptical. ‘What kind of something?’
‘I don’t know. It’s all still confused, but I think it was a piece of material.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ he said, his tone a mixture of derision and bitterness. ‘Your loyalty to that bloody horse astounds me. You’ll go to any lengths to make excuses for him.’
‘I’m just protecting my property.’ She straightened aching shoulders. ‘I want you to know the deal still stands—and send the vet away.’
He said roughly, ‘The horse is a rogue, Joanna. I haven’t forgotten what happened to my father. And this morning you could have been killed too. Although it would have been your own fault,’ he added grimly. ‘How dared you go off, hell for leather, like that?’
‘Because I wanted to prove I could ride him. And I did. Nutkin getting spooked again was just unlucky…’
‘Oh, stop it, Joanna.’ His voice bit. ‘I found you, remember, and there was no material blowing in the wind, white or any other damned colour. Just you in a crumpled heap on the ground and that fool of a horse dancing round you.’ He threw back his head and looked at her, his face oddly haggard, a muscle working beside his mouth. ‘I thought you were dead.’
She forced her mouth into a travesty of a smile. ‘Yet here I am—alive and kicking in spite of it all. And begging you to give Nutkin another chance—with me. Please don’t let the vet put him down.’
‘Put him down?’ There was genuine astonishment in his voice. ‘What are you talking about? He’s got a strained tendon, that’s all. I want the vet to take a look at it.’
‘But I thought…’ Joanna began, then stopped. So it had all been just another piece of Cynthia’s malice, she realised bitterly. And not something that Gabriel would want to know about. Eventually, she supposed, he would find out what the woman he loved was really like.
He can’t live in Cloud-Cuckoo-Land for ever, she thought painfully. But he’s not going to hear the truth from me.
‘What did you think?’
She shrugged. ‘I knew you weren’t impressed with him, and I heard he’d been injured, so I put two and two together and made thousands. I’m sorry.’
Gabriel nodded abruptly. ‘I can’t make an immediate decision about our deal. I’m still not happy about it.’ He paused, a small, hard smile playing about his lips. ‘But you make out a good case, Joanna. Maybe it’s a pity I’m not a horse. You might have given me another chance too.’
And he went past her out of the room, leaving her staring after him, one hand pressed to her trembling mouth.
‘You could have been killed,’ Sylvia said reproachfully.
It was the following day, and the older woman had arrived for coffee and ‘a look at the walking wounded’, as she put it.
Joanna sighed. ‘I know. It was a genuinely stupid thing to do, and I’ve no defence.’ She paused. ‘I was just so—needled by everything that I didn’t stop to think. To weigh the consequences.’
‘Well, we’ve all done that,’ Sylvia said comfortably. ‘But not usually on the back of an edgy thoroughbred.’
‘No,’ Joanna admitted. ‘Anyway, it was good of Gabriel to tell you what had happened, and very kind of you to come over.’
‘Nonsense,’ Sylvia said robustly. ‘Naturally, I’m concerned about you both.’ She put down her coffee cup and studied the younger woman with a frown. ‘You’re still very pale. How are you feeling?’
‘Stiff as a board,’ Joanna said with a grimace. ‘But that’s what a close encounter with the hill does for you.’ She hesitated. ‘And it worries me that I can’t remember much between coming off Nutkin and finding myself back here.’
‘What does the doctor say?’
‘To stop worrying and let nature take its course.’ Joanna’s brows drew together. ‘I can remember someone bending over me at some point.’
‘Well, that would be Gabriel, of course.’ Sylvia gazed pensively at her rings. ‘I gather he carried you down here.’
Joanna bit her lip. ‘So I believe,’ she said neutrally. ‘But it isn’t just the accident. I have this feeling that there’s something I should remember—something that’s been said to me since that’s important.’
‘Oh, that’s maddening.’ Sylvia directed a searching look at her. ‘Could it be to do with whatever needled you into your headlong flight? May I know what that was?’
Joanna’s expression was troubled. ‘It’s pretty much an open secret. I’d heard that Gabriel’s planning to sell the Manor to Furnival Hotels.’
‘I think the possibility exists.’ Sylvia nodded. ‘But why should the idea upset you so much?’
Joanna gasped. ‘You—of all people—to ask that.’ She gestured around her. ‘This is his home—his heritage.’
‘It’s certainly a beautiful old house, or Furnivals wouldn’t want it,’ Sylvia said drily. ‘I think Gabriel’s attitude to it is rather more ambivalent.’
‘What do you mean?’
Sylvia considered for a moment. ‘You speak of it as his home. Well, it hasn’t provided much of a home life for him over the past three years—and I’m not apportioning blame here,’ she added quickly. ‘Gabriel’s no angel, and never has been.’
‘Yes, but all that is going to change.’ Joanna’s voice sounded small and suffocated. ‘Once we’r
e divorced.’
‘Divorce causes a pretty dramatic change in peoples’ lives,’ Sylvia agreed. ‘As to the heritage point— Gabriel has no son to whom he can hand on the estate, nor any likelihood of one.’
Joanna made a business of refilling the coffee cups. ‘But that’s not necessarily true,’ she said with constraint. ‘When he remarries…’
Sylvia shook her head. ‘Not so. He’s entirely ruled out the possibility of having a family. He told me so himself. So you can see why his inheritance no longer has much relevance for him. A home without children becomes simply—a house.’
Joanna mechanically busied herself with the cream jug, her mind whirling.
How could Gabriel possibly have accepted such a drastic denial of a basic human need? she asked herself. Cynthia was still a comparatively young woman—and, anyway, having children in the late thirties, and older, had become a commonplace these days. If there was some physical problem, there was a whole range of treatment for which Gabriel could easily afford to pay.
Or did Cynthia simply not wish to be burdened with the responsibility?
Whatever, it confirmed once more the depth of Gabriel’s feeling for her, if he was prepared to forgo fatherhood for her sake.
She said, half to herself, ‘What a terrible—tragic waste.’
‘I agree,’ Sylvia said levelly. ‘But he’s totally adamant. It grieves me to say it, but I think he can’t get rid of the place quickly enough.’ She paused. ‘I understand that your stepmother has finally moved out?’
‘Yes. She’s now living at Larkspur Cottage.’ And Gabriel didn’t come home last night, indicating that, to all intents and purposes, he’s moved in with her.
‘Well, I hope she proves a more reliable tenant than ours,’ Sylvia said tartly. ‘He’s just given notice, right out of the blue.’ She snorted. ‘Not that Charles and I are sorry. Engaging young men with no visible means of support are not favourites of ours.’
Joanna frowned, glad that the conversation had shifted to a less personal and thus less painful topic.
‘But he’s a writer, isn’t he?’
Sylvia gave her an old-fashioned look. ‘I believe he tells some such story. But his rent is paid by the local social security office. Not that he allows that to cramp his style particularly,’ she added austerely. ‘Crates of wine, and hampers of food from Fortnum’s and Harrods. Nice work if you can get it.’
‘But how can he afford that if he’s unemployed?’
Sylvia’s smile was cynical. ‘We imagined he had someone else to foot his bills.’ She paused. ‘At one point we were afraid it was going to be you.’
‘Because I had dinner with him once?’ Joanna asked. ‘For which he paid—or at least I thought he did.’
‘I expect the cheque is still bouncing.’ Her gaze was shrewd. ‘Not sorry to see him go, I hope, my dear?’
‘On the contrary.’ Joanna remembered the mean, pinched expression on the good-looking face. The veiled threat. ‘We didn’t part on good terms.’
‘What a relief,’ Sylvia said robustly. ‘Although I told—’ She stopped, looking dismayed, then rallied. ‘But it’s not important.’
Joanna forced a smile. ‘You told Gabriel precisely what, Sylvia?’
Sylvia sighed heavily. ‘That you had far too much sense to be taken in by such an obvious fraud.’
‘Thanks,’ Joanna said, with something of a snap. ‘It would be good if everyone would stop treating me like a child.’
Sylvia drank the rest of her coffee and replaced the cup in its saucer. She said quietly, ‘But isn’t that what you’ve always wanted, Joanna? Firstly from Lionel and later from Gabriel. To be a little girl, petted and protected, instead of a woman?’
‘Is—that really what you think?’ Joanna was stunned.
‘It’s the impression you’ve given.’ Sylvia reached for her bag and rose. ‘Perhaps Gabriel is right, after all. Perhaps you do need to get away from here—to find your own space and stretch your wings. To realise your full potential.’ Her smile was kind and sad. ‘I’m only sorry we shan’t be around to witness the transformation.’
She dropped a kiss onto Joanna’s hair. ‘In the meantime, if life here gets more than you can bear, you can always escape to us. I love you very much—you and Gabriel—as if you were my own. It’s hurt me to watch you tearing each other apart.’ Her voice broke. ‘I just wish it could have worked out differently.’
She gave a quick, sharp sigh, and was gone.
Joanna lay on her bed, staring up at the ceiling.
Sylvia’s parting words still echoed and re-echoed in her mind. ‘…a little girl…instead of a woman.’ Was that really how people saw her? If so, she should have made her bid for independence a long time ago.
But how could I leave? she asked herself wearily. When I was waiting for Gabriel? Hoping that he would return one day—and love me.
Because, no matter how much he had hurt her, that had always been the secret truth locked in her heart.
The demand for a divorce had been camouflage—a bit to protect herself against further wounds, to armour herself against another rejection.
But she knew now there was no safeguard strong enough to shield her from that kind of heartbreak. Within twenty-four hours of his return she’d had no defences left.
Maybe it was true. Perhaps he’d always seen her as the child he’d first known. And that was why he’d turned to Cynthia, who was all woman—beautiful, worldly and experienced.
And a Grade A, first-class bitch as well, Joanna reminded herself. But didn’t they say that sex was the great deceiver? And great sex was probably the ultimate deceiver.
She wrenched her mind back from that line of thought.
At least she could make it obey her to that extent, although it still barred the way from the time of her accident to when she’d found herself here in this room.
Which was a pity, because it meant she couldn’t remember being carried in Gabriel’s arms. Held against his heart for the last time.
Or was her brain simply being merciful?
Faces, she thought wearily, bending over her. But the first one—the only one she’d wanted—the one she’d looked for—had been his.
Her head was aching, so she took another couple of painkillers and settled back.
What a shame her amnesia wasn’t retrospective, wiping out the last three years. Giving her the chance to start again. To do everything so differently.
Only that wasn’t how it worked. You got one bite of the cherry, and if you messed up there was no reprieve. No second chance.
Better not to think about that either, she told herself firmly. If she closed her eyes and tried to sleep, she might wake up with a clear head. She might remember the hill, and Gabriel’s face when he found her. She might even be able to figure out what had been niggling her all day.
She was awoken an hour later by Mrs Ashby’s hand, gentle on her shoulder.
‘It’s lunchtime, madam. I’ve brought you some chicken broth.’
‘Oh, how lovely.’ Joanna hadn’t wanted much to eat over the past twenty-four hours, but now the fragrant aroma of the soup, thick with vegetables, barley and chunks of chicken, set her mouth watering.
‘And here’s the newspaper.’ Mrs Ashby laid it beside her. ‘I thought you might take a look at the crossword while you’re resting.’
‘You think of everything.’ Joanna gave her a grateful smile as she began her soup.
She ate every mouthful, and most of the slice of mushroom quiche, still warm from the oven, which accompanied it.
Grace had even remembered to bring a pen for the crossword, she saw with amusement as she put the tray aside and reached for the paper. As she unfolded it the centre sheet came adrift and fluttered to the carpet.
‘Damn.’ Joanna leaned over the side of the bed to retrieve it, and stopped dead as the puzzle which had been tormenting her suddenly clicked into place.
Cynthia, she thought, recalling their conversation
of the previous day. Cynthia knew that Nutkin had been spooked by a newspaper. But how? I never told her. I never told anyone. The only person who knew about it had been there at the time.
And, as if a key had been turned into her brain, another door opened into her memory.
She remembered lying bruised and winded on the short grass, her head swimming, dimly aware of someone standing over her.
Gabriel, she’d thought thankfully, turning her head slightly. Trying to find words to tell him she was all right. Forcing her reluctant eyelids open so that she could see him.
Only it hadn’t been Gabriel at all.
Joanna sat bolt-upright on the bed as she recalled exactly whose face had been looking down at her.
My God, she thought numbly, her stomach churning. It was Paul Gordon.
CHAPTER TWELVE
SHE wasn’t supposed to be driving. The doctor had specified a couple of days’ inactivity to give her battered frame time to heal.
But there were questions to which she needed answers, and she wasn’t prepared to wait.
She drove straight to the Lodge. There was no smoke coming from the chimney today, Joanna noted as she parked the car and got out.
She rapped on the front door, but there was no reply. After a brief hesitation, she tried the handle, and, to her surprise, the door swung open.
She walked into the living room and looked round, stripping off her gloves. There were dead ashes in the grate, and a number of half-filled cartons in the room, indicating that Paul Gordon’s departure was already under way.
She stood for a moment, listening intently, but there was no sound except a tap dripping in the small kitchen.
Wherever he’d gone, he’d left in a hurry.
She knew exactly what she was looking for, but there was no sign of it downstairs, so she went up to the bedroom to hunt, wrinkling her nose at the wrinkled, frowsty sheets on the unmade bed.
Wherever he is, he has it with him, she concluded.
As she descended the stairs the front door opened and a man came in, his figure a dark outline against the pale wintry sunlight flooding into the hall. Joanna checked instantly, a hand flying to her throat.