The Bartered Bride

by Anne Weale

  By the following morning she had come to a decision. She rang Reid and told him.

  ‘Good,’ he said calmly. ‘We’d better have dinner together. I’ll pick you up at seven.’

  It seemed a prosaic response, but then this was a practical down-to-earth union they were setting up.

  Not knowing where he would take her, but assuming it would be somewhere fairly sophisticated, she wore a white silk-satin shirt and a narrow black wrap-over skirt. She cinched her waist with a wide belt and fixed large rhinestone stars in her ears.

  Reid called for her in a taxi, wearing a Savile Row suit and conventional shirt with an unexpectedly flamboyant tie in wonderful Gauguinesque colours.

  When she complimented him on it, he said, ‘Even bankers have to break out sometimes.’

  The restaurant he had chosen for the occasion was on the south bank of the Thames but high above the river with a panoramic view of the buildings on the far bank through walls made of sheets of glass. The décor was modern and minimalist, very different from the period elegance of his house in Kensington, although of course she hadn’t seen his own part of it.

  ‘You’ve been here before, I expect?’ he said, as they sat down in leather tub chairs.

  ‘No, as it happens I haven’t.’ She hoped the chef wasn’t a minimalist. She had a heartier appetite than many of the people who patronised London’s smart restaurants and tension always made her hungrier.

  They had come directly to the restaurant without stopping off in the bar.

  ‘Something to drink before dinner, sir?’ the wine waiter enquired.

  ‘Do you like champagne?’ Reid asked her.

  Fran nodded. She didn’t like the cheap champagne sometimes served at weddings but she guessed that whatever he ordered would be the best.

  ‘Let’s make our decisions now, shall we?’

  Reid was referring to the menu, but his choice of words reminded her of the momentous decision they were, if not exactly celebrating, at least ratifying. In theory she could back out right up to the moment of official commitment. But she knew she wasn’t going to do that. The die was already cast, her future as his wife settled.

  The champagne came, a bottle of vintage Dom Pérignon.

  ‘Someone called this “psychological magic”,’ said Reid, raising his glass to her.

  ‘We could do with some,’ she said dryly.

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘We don’t have the usual kind of magic.’ She nodded her head in the direction of a couple at another table gazing at each other as if the rest of the world had ceased to exist.

  ‘We can easily conjure some up.’ He reached for her free hand and lifted it to his lips, brushing them against the back of it and then turning it over and pressing his mouth to her palm.

  Fran felt like snatching it back but managed to control the impulse and remove it from him with a semblance of graciousness. ‘I don’t think we should pretend anything we don’t feel.’ After a slight pause, she added, ‘At the same time I’d rather no one else knew that it’s a...a marriage of convenience. I know it would disturb my family if they realised it wasn’t a love match.’

  ‘In that case we’re going to have to put on a show of amorous feelings in front of them,’ said Reid, his expression sardonic.

  ‘Yes... up to a point,’ she acknowledged. ‘When will you make it public?’

  ‘Unfortunately I’m committed to going overseas, leaving tomorrow. I shan’t be back for ten days. When I am, we can meet each other’s families before putting a notice in The Times to let all our friends know.’

  He gave her an unexpectedly charming smile. ‘I would rather not go away just now, but a lot of arrangements are in place and it would cause great inconvenience if I were to cancel the trip. I’m sorry about it.’

  ‘That’s all right. It will give me more time to get used to the idea.’

  ‘Or to change your mind.’

  ‘If I wasn’t certain, I wouldn’t be here,’ she said firmly. ‘Once I make up my mind, that’s it. I’m not a ditherer.’

  ‘Neither am I.’

  She had half expected that he might produce an heirloom ring to seal their bond. But perhaps that rite came after he had presented her to his grandmother and possibly some of the aunts he had mentioned.

  ‘Do you have brothers and sisters?’ she asked. Siblings hadn’t been mentioned in the file on him, although the report on her had referred to her sister and brother-in-law.

  ‘Unfortunately not,’ he said. ‘Tell me about your sister. Do you get on well with her?’

  It wasn’t late when he took her back to the flat. Towards the end of dinner she had begun to wonder if he would expect to make love to her. She wasn’t ready for that. In the taxi, she braced herself for the awkwardness of refusing what he might now consider an entitlement.

  But her apprehension proved unnecessary. He asked the driver to drop them off at the entrance to the gardens surrounding the flats, but told him to wait there. Then Reid walked her to her door, unlocked it for her and switched on the hall light.

  ‘Goodnight, Francesca.’

  He kissed the corner of her mouth. For a fleeting moment she felt the hardness of his chin and the masculine texture of his cheek against her smoother skin.

  Then he straightened. ‘Don’t forget to put the chain on.’

  The day after her return home, when she was still debating how to broach the subject of her impending marriage, two things happened, both unexpected.

  First, a large florist’s box arrived. Her mother was there when she opened it. ‘What gorgeous flowers. Who are they from, Fran?’

  There was only one person they could be from. Fran read the card enclosed with them. In a clear and distinctive hand which it didn’t take a graphologist to recognise as the writing of a strong, perhaps overbearing personality, Reid had written, no doubt in the expectation that the card would be seen by others, I would rather be talking to you.

  ‘They’re from someone I met in London... someone rather special. I think I’ll be seeing him again.’

  ‘What’s his name? Where did you meet him?’

  ‘His name is Reid Kennard.’ Fran knew the surname wouldn’t ring any bells with Mrs Turner, to whom the Financial Times and even the business pages of the popular newspapers were of as little interest as documents written in Sanskrit. ‘We met at a party some time ago.’ A small lie seemed forgivable in the circumstances. ‘He’s had to go overseas on business. I’m not sure when I’ll be seeing him again.’

  ‘Reid...that’s an unusual name. What does he do?’

  ‘Something in the City.’ Forestalling her mother’s next question, Fran said, ‘He’s tall and dark with grey eyes.’

  ‘He must be very taken with you to spend so much money on flowers.’

  Fran made no comment on that. She said, ‘Would you do them for me? You’re better at it than I am.’

  ‘I’d love to. But they need a long drink of water before going into a vase.’ Mrs Turner took them away.

  Soon after this Mr Preston, their lawyer, rang up and arranged to call on them that afternoon.

  ‘He says he has some good news for us,’ Fran told her mother.

  ‘That’ll make a change.’ Mrs Turner’s mouth quivered. ‘It’s been such a dreadful year. I don’t know how I’d have got through it without you, love.’

  ‘That’s what families are for...to stand by each other when the going gets rough.’ Fran put an arm round her shoulders and kissed her mother’s cheek.

  Inwardly she shared some of her grandmother’s impatience with what Gran called ‘Daphne’s lack of spunk’, but she tried never to show it. Some people were natural survivors and some weren’t. Her mother wasn’t. She needed someone to lean on.

  Mr Preston didn’t keep them in suspense. As soon as he’d shaken hands, he said, ‘I’m sure you’ll be relieved to hear that certain developments since I was last in touch have put a more cheerful complexion on your situation, M
rs Turner. I don’t think it’s going to be necessary for you to sell this house until such time as you yourself wish to move.’

  ‘What’s happened to change things, Mr Preston?’ Fran asked.

  ‘To put it in a nutshell, Miss Turner, an offer has been made for the assets of your father’s company...a very generous offer. I must make it clear that before your mother and you receive any benefit from it, the creditors have to be paid. In official order, they are the Inland Revenue, then the secured creditors, which means your father’s bankers, and then the unsecured creditors. But, at the end of the day, there should be sufficient left to cover your foreseeable overheads.’

  Mrs Turner burst into tears. Relief made Fran feel a bit weepy herself, but she controlled her emotions.

  Before she asked Mr Preston to explain the situation in more detail, she took her mother upstairs to lie down and recover.

  That evening Reid rang up. He was in New York where it was still afternoon.

  ‘I didn’t expect you to act so fast,’ said Fran, after confirming that the solicitor had been to see them.

  ‘I always act fast whenever possible. Is your mother feeling better?’

  ‘She can’t quite believe the threat of eviction is no longer hanging over us. It’ll take her a few days to get used to it.’

  After he had rung off, she realised she had forgotten to thank him for the flowers.

  Explaining the good news to Shelley and John was more difficult. They couldn’t understand how, when George Turner had been unable to raise the investment capital his business needed, someone should make a good offer after the business had failed.

  Fran managed to blind them with science by tossing out phrases picked up from Mr Preston. But afterwards she wondered if they would put two and two together when she became engaged to a leading figure in the banking world.

  CHAPTER THREE

  A WEEK later Fran returned from walking the dogs to find a sleek black Porsche 911, a car she had always longed to drive, parked near the front door.

  She paused to admire the classic lines of what a man she had dated, although not for long, had told her had been one of the world’s most desirable vehicles since before she was born and was still an object of desire to people who knew about cars and could afford the best.

  Then she walked round the side of the house to the tradesmen’s entrance. In the quarry-tiled lobby the dogs had their water bowls below the hooks for their leads.

  Leaving them slurping, she went into the kitchen.

  ‘Who’s the visitor, Janie?’

  Janie had come to the Turners as a fifteen-year-old nursery maid when Fran was a baby. She had grown up in an orphanage, with the added disadvantage of a stammer.

  She had a flair for cooking and now produced all the meals as well as supervising the three part-time helpers who did the housework and ironing.

  ‘Gentleman to see your mum.’

  Fran knew Janie wouldn’t have asked his name because, except in the family, she was self-conscious about her indistinct diction.

  ‘I took in a tea tray twenty minutes ago. Shall I make a small pot for you?’

  ‘No, thanks, I’ll have a cold drink.’ Fran went to the fridge for a bottle of spring water. Filling a tall glass, she said, ‘Perhaps he’s after the house...heard rumours it may be for sale.’

  ‘If you ask me,’ said Janie, ‘we’d be better off somewhere smaller. It would upset your mum at first, but she could make another garden. When you leave home, this’ll be far too big for just her and me.’

  Fran nodded. She wondered, not for the first time, if Janie was really resigned to a lifetime of living in someone else’s house, never having a place of her own, or a husband and children. It seemed terribly unfair when she would make a much better wife than many women who didn’t have her impediment.

  ‘I’ll go and find out why he’s here,’ she said.

  Crossing the wood-panelled hall, she was surprised to hear her mother talking in an animated way most unlike her usual manner with strangers. Whoever the visitor was, he must have a gift for bringing quiet, reserved people like Mrs Turner out of their shells.

  Fran opened the door and joined them.

  ‘Oh, you’re back.’ Her mother jumped up, looking pleased to the point of excitement. Not since the birth of her grandchild had she looked so radiant with delight.

  Rushing across the room, she embraced Fran and kissed her. ‘What a dark horse you are! Yes, I know you did give me a hint...but you made it sound as if it was just the beginning. I wasn’t expecting to be asked for my consent to your marriage. Not that you need it, of course, but it’s very nice to be asked.’

  She turned round and beamed at Reid who had been sitting in the armchair with its back to the door, but was now on his feet, watching Fran’s reaction to her mother’s announcement.

  The moments of silence which followed were ended by Mrs Turner saying, ‘Well...you two must have a lot to talk about and I need to do some watering. You will be staying the night with us, Reid?’

  ‘Unfortunately I can’t. This is a flying visit.’

  ‘Oh, what a pity. I thought... Still, if you can’t, you can’t.’ She moved towards the door, to be overtaken by Reid who held it open for her. ‘Thank you.’ She disappeared.

  He closed the door and returned to where Fran was standing. Placing his hands on her shoulders, he looked thoughtfully down at her. ‘What was the hint you gave your mother?’

  She hadn’t forgotten how disturbing he was at close quarters, but remembering it wasn’t the same as experiencing it. The weight of his hands on her shoulders, being so near to his tall, lithe body, being subjected to a searching scrutiny all combined to make her breath catch in her throat. She felt her composure desert her. Why did he have this effect? Other men never had, not even Julian.

  ‘I told her I’d met someone interesting...someone I might be seeing more of. Thank you for all the flowers and cards.’

  ‘My pleasure...but isn’t a verbal thank-you rather formal from a wife-to-be to her future husband? Wouldn’t a kiss be more appropriate?’

  She was wearing an old pair of deck shoes. Rising on her toes, with her palms on his chest for balance, she lifted her lips to his cheek.

  ‘Still too formal,’ said Reid. An arm went round her, drawing her firmly against him in a light but close chest-to-breast, thigh-to-thigh contact. His other hand circled her neck, the pad of his thumb tilting the base of her chin.

  Just being in his arms was enough to make her heart pound. There could be no glancing away from his searching gaze. The only way not to meet his eyes was to close her own, and she didn’t want to do that. It might convey the wrong message.

  ‘Why are you nervous?’ he asked. ‘I’m not going to bite you. Not yet. That’s for later, when we know each other much better...and even then they’ll be very gentle bites. You’ll like them...and so shall I.’

  He had lowered his voice to a deeper, more intimate tone and the look in his eyes was so different from the coldness of his first appraisal the day she had gone to the bank that she found it hard to believe this was the same man.

  He was making love to her, she realised. Using his voice to caress her and make her respond. He was obviously very experienced. How would he react when he found out that she wasn’t? That kissing was as far as she had gone, because everything else she had been willing to wait for until she could share it with Julian.

  Julian. Somehow her memory of him wasn’t as sharp as it had been. Once every detail of his face had been as clear in her mind’s eye as the features of the man looking down at her. But that was beginning to change. She still felt pain when she thought of him. But not as intensely, and not while Reid was holding her and sending little shivers through her.

  ‘I didn’t think you’d be back till the weekend,’ she murmured, postponing the moment when he would bend his head.

  ‘The original plan was to spend it with an American banker and his family. When I explained the c
ircumstances they let me take a rain check.’

  ‘What did you tell them?’

  ‘That’d I’d just become engaged and wanted to get back to you.’

  ‘But now you say you can’t even stay the night.’

  ‘My grandmother’s expecting me to meet her at the airport. She’s been staying in the south of France with my senior aunt. They’re both coming over to meet you. Why don’t you come down by train some time tomorrow? Then the following day I’ll bring you back in the car. We might call on your sister en route...get all the introductions over and done with.’

  ‘How did your grandmother take it? Wasn’t she very surprised?’

  ‘She was delighted. She’s been urging me to marry for years.’

  Before Fran could ask another question, he swooped like a hawk and kissed her, not, this time, on the corner of her mouth but full on the lips.

  Compared with some of the slobbery, tongue-thrusting goodnight kisses she had experienced at parties and on several first-and-last dates, Reid’s kiss was restrained and gentle. Yet it had more effect than any of the hungry, heavy-breathing kisses.

  There had been a few times when men had kissed her nicely, but never as nicely as this. It was actually a succession of mini-kisses, each one a soft momentary pressure in a fractionally different place, sometimes more on her upper lip and sometimes more on her lower. The effect was startlingly enjoyable.

  By the time he stopped, instinct was urging her to slide her arms round his neck. As she opened her eyes, Fran saw that he was smiling.

  For a few seconds she thought he was going to kiss her again, this time with less restraint. Instead he released her and stepped back, causing a twinge of disappointment and making her wonder if he hadn’t found the experience as pleasant as she had.

  ‘You’ve been out with the dogs, I hear. What sort of dogs?’

  ‘A Labrador and a whippet. They were my sister’s until she got married. She and John were living in a minuscule cottage, both working flat out to raise money to set up the nursery, so the dogs were an encumbrance. It was better for them to stay here. It’s where they’ve always lived. When I go, Janie will walk them. She likes them and they like her.’