by Sara Craven
‘You told her off about something?’ Colly asked, feeling a little mystified.
‘That creature thought she was sitting pretty,’ he replied. ‘It was my happy duty to inform her that, shortly before I went on holiday, your father contacted me and made a new will.’
‘My father…’
‘Your father had started to realise that, apart from being very unfair to you, he had been something of an old fool.’
Colly just stared at him. ‘Good heavens!’ she said faintly.
‘As you probably know, he was so besotted with Nanette that he was blind to anything else. But by and by he began to come to his senses and to be appalled by what he had done—the way he had willed his affairs. He came to the club, seeking me out.’
‘But—you’re not his legal representative.’
Henry Warren smiled again. ‘Poor Joseph. He was too embarrassed at realising his foolishness to go back to the firm he had always dealt with. I drew up his fresh will in secret.’ He paused, then announced, ‘He left everything equally between the two of you.’
Colly looked at him disbelievingly. ‘My father left me…’ She could not continue.
‘He left you half of everything. The house, his money, his shares.’
That word ‘shares’ brought Silas to mind, but she tried to concentrate on what Henry Warren was saying. ‘Er—come into the office. I’ll make us some coffee,’ she said, trying to gather her scattered wits. But coffee was forgotten when, in the office, she asked, ‘It’s—legal, this new will?’
Henry Warren gave her a reproachful look. ‘You should know better than to ask such a thing,’ he said with a smile. ‘I made certain it is totally watertight,’ he assured her. ‘It goes without saying that neither your father nor I had any idea that he would so soon depart this life.’ He halted for a solemn moment, as if remembering his friend, before going on. ‘But I know he would want me to look after your interests, Colly. To that end I have taken steps to have all your father’s assets frozen.’
Colly confessed herself little short of stunned. ‘Does Nanette know—about everything being frozen?’
‘If she doesn’t, she soon will,’ he replied cheerfully.
Colly was having difficulty taking it all in, her mind a jumble. ‘Coffee,’ she remembered, but more from some kind of need to do something practical.
It was over coffee that he asked for her new address. She did not want to lie to him, but did not feel able to tell him the facts of her marriage to Silas. Their marriage was private, secret between her and Silas, so she simply gave Henry Warren her new address and phone number.
He assumed she was renting the apartment and jovially told her, ‘You’ll be well able to afford to buy somewhere to live now. For that matter you’ll have funds enough to buy out Nanette’s share of the house, should you want to move back in there.’
‘There’s that much?’
‘Oh, yes.’ He nodded. ‘Given that that woman is going to take half of everything, you’ll be quite moderately wealthy once the estate is settled.’
Several things struck Colly at one and the same time then. One was that she was happier living in Silas’s grandfather’s apartment than she had been living with her father and his second wife. And two, she did not want to go back to that house. Life after her mother’s death had been pretty bleak—she only then realised just how bleak. But more important than anything was the realisation that she had money of her own now. She did not have to use Silas’s money!
‘I’ve no idea how long it will take for my father’s affairs to be wound up,’ she commented, and just had to ask, ‘Is there any chance I might have…?’ She felt embarrassed asking.
‘Of course.’ Henry Warren, as if aware of her embarrassment, cut in at once. ‘I don’t doubt that Nanette has managed to talk your father’s previous executors into allowing her to draw something on account.’
Colly went home that night with her head in a spin from these latest developments. But a week later she was in a position to take action on a matter that had troubled her from the beginning. She had accepted Silas’s ten thousand pounds because of the deal she had made with him. But she had never been truly comfortable about taking his money; it had never seemed right. It had gnawed away at her from time to time, even before Uncle Henry had called at the gallery last week. Since his visit the fact that she had taken that money had started to become untenable.
That night she wrote to Silas, telling him of her father’s lawyer friend Henry Warren, and how he had returned from holiday and had come to the art gallery with the astonishing news of her father’s newest will. She wrote that, while she was extremely grateful to Silas for his support when she had so sorely needed it, she no longer had need of his money. She enclosed her cheque for ten thousand pounds. Added to that she stated how she loved living in the apartment and how, if he was agreeable, she would like to stay on as a rent-paying tenant. She wished him well, and signed it ‘Colly’.
She posted her letter on her way to the gallery on Wednesday morning. She had addressed it to Silas’s apartment, about twenty minutes away by car from where she was living. With any luck, if he replied straight away—say he received her letter and cheque tomorrow—she might have a response from him in the post by Saturday.
His response came sooner than that, and in person. She had finished her evening meal on Thursday and was tidying up in the kitchen when someone knocked on her door. She realised at once that it must be one of the other occupants in the building, otherwise her caller would have buzzed from the outside door so that she could let them in.
So far, apart from exchanging a morning or evening greeting with her fellow apartment dwellers, she had not had anything to do with her neighbours. Ready to be friendly, she went to the door, opened it and stared in quite some surprise. Somehow she had fully expected a written response.
‘You’ve got a key to the outer door?’ she said witlessly.
‘We established that,’ Silas replied, his eyes going over her trim shape in trousers and light sweater. ‘And to this door—but I thought you’d prefer me to knock rather than walk straight in.’
She smiled at him, realising with more surprise just how very pleased to see him she was. ‘Come in,’ she invited. And, as he crossed the threshold, ‘You received my letter?’
‘I did,’ he confirmed. But did not seem too ecstatic about it. In fact he sounded quite tough as he demanded, ‘You’re saying you want to divorce?’
Colly stared at him, her jaw dropping. ‘When did I say that?’ she gasped, startled.
‘You wrote in terms of ending our agreement!’
‘No, I didn’t!’ she retorted, facing him on the sitting room carpet. ‘I merely mentioned that I’ve money of my own now. And, to be blunt, I have never felt very comfortable about taking yours.’
‘You agreed—’
‘I know. I know!’ she butted in, feeling all het-up suddenly—and who wouldn’t with those dark blue eyes glittering at her? ‘But I’m no longer in need of your financial support.’
‘But you otherwise intend to keep to our agreement?’ he demanded.
‘Of course,’ she replied, and, a grin starting to break because he looked so fierce, ‘It’s sheer bliss being married to you.’
‘We seldom, if ever, meet,’ he commented and, his eyes on her sparking eyes, his lips twitched. ‘The perfect marriage,’ he endorsed.
Her heart gave a peculiar kind of leap. ‘But since we have met—and you are here,’ she took up, striving to be sensible, ‘is it all right for me to stay on here now that…?’
‘I find it offensive you need to ask!’ he replied curtly.
Pardon me for breathing! ‘Will you allow me to pay rent, then?’ she tried.
His answer was sharp and unequivocal. ‘Not a chance!’ He chopped her off before she could finish.
‘At least think about it!’ she bridled.
‘It doesn’t need thinking about. We made a contract, you and I. Paying ren
t never came into it.’
‘But I didn’t know then—’
‘No!’ he said, the matter closed as far as he was concerned, his tone brooking no argument, and, before she could try anyway, ‘You’re comfortable here?’
‘Who wouldn’t be? I love it here.’
‘Good.’
‘And that’s your last word on the subject?’ she protested.
‘It is!’ he returned brusquely.
That did not please her. She turned and led the way to the door. ‘I would have offered you coffee,’ she informed him shortly, but opened the door so he would know he could die of thirst before she would make him a drink.
‘I would have refused it!’ he answered in kind. And she just did not know what it was about the wretched man—she just had to laugh.
‘Bye, Silas,’ she bade him.
She saw his glance go to her laughing mouth—and she felt her knees go weak when he smiled. ‘Bye,’ he said, and added, ‘Wife.’ And, before striding away, he bent down and lightly kissed her.
He was much in her head after that. She quite liked his light kisses, she discovered. Not that there had been so many of them. Only two, in fact. One possibly to seal the deal of their marriage. And the other probably to pay her back for not making him a coffee. It was, she owned, quite a nice punishment.
She then scorned such a ridiculous notion. But recalling his ‘You’re saying you want to divorce?’ and his ‘You wrote in terms of ending our agreement,’ she then realised the reason he had called in person in preference to writing. It was their agreement he was concerned about. He needed to establish, now that she no longer needed his help, exactly where he stood with their agreement and their marital state, with regard to his future concerns in connection with his grandfather. Why else would he have called in person for goodness’ sake? She had invited his visit by breaking their unwritten ‘no communication’ clause and writing to him.
Colly decided the next day that she was thinking far too much about Silas, and determined not to think about him any more. To that end she accepted a date with Tony Andrews.
Tony was in public relations, and was quite amusing with his various anecdotes, but she was not sorry when the evening was over.
He tried amorously to kiss her—much too amorously. She had been kissed before, but discovered a sudden aversion to being kissed—amorously or any other way. ‘Goodnight, Tony,’ she bade him, pushing him away. For goodness’ sake!
‘Never on a first date, huh?’
Nor second or third. She went indoors half wishing she had not gone out with him—and wondered how mixed up was that. Then saw that she had gone out on a date more because she thought she should than because she wanted to.
Tony asked her out again, several times, but she told him she didn’t consider it a very good idea. ‘I’ll behave myself,’ he promised. She told him she would think about it.
Colly still found herself drifting off to think about Silas. It was two weeks now since she had last seen him. She wished he would allow her to pay rent, but had to accept that free use of the apartment was part of their agreement. She had to accept also that Silas was the kind of man who disliked being indebted. In the circumstances, she supposed she must be grateful that he had accepted her breaking their agreement to the extent of returning that ten thousand pounds.
Only the very next day she discovered, when another bank statement arrived, that Silas had not accepted it. Her bank balance was ten thousand pounds better off than it should have been. Silas had not cashed her cheque!
Feeling winded, Colly stared at the figures on her statement as if to magic the removal of that money. But, no, it was over two weeks ago now. She rang her bank; perhaps the transaction was in the pipeline. It was not.
She heaved a sigh. She did not feel like writing to Silas a second time, and went to the gallery wondering what, if anything, she could do about it.
‘I’m just popping out for an hour,’ Rupert said when he came in.
‘You’ve only just got here!’ She made the effort to rib him. There was a new woman on his scene.
‘Busy, busy, busy!’ he chortled, and was off.
They were not particularly busy, as it happened, and, after doing a few chores, Colly, with Silas in her head, went and made some coffee and took up the newspaper Rupert had discarded before going out.
She was several pages into it when, with alarm shooting through her, she saw a possible reason for why Silas had not banked her cheque. He had been out of the country. He had been in the tropics on business—but had returned home and was now gravely ill.
Shocked, stunned, and with fear in her heart, she read on. Apparently Silas had been struck down with some tropical bug and was hospitalised in an isolation ward. It gave the name of the hospital. She felt dizzy with fear—and had to ring the hospital. As did everyone else, it seemed—press included. She learned nothing.
Colly just could not settle, and when Rupert returned she had her car keys at the ready. ‘I have to go out,’ she told him without preamble, and guessed he could see that she was going to go whether he gave permission or not.
‘Will you be long?’ was all he asked.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Take as long as you need,’ he replied, and she was grateful to him that he did not ask questions but simply held up her coat for her.
Never had she felt so churned up as she did on that drive to the hospital. She afterwards supposed that it must have been sheer determination that got her as far as the doors of the isolation unit.
‘Can I help?’ enquired the stern-looking nurse who blocked her from going any further.
‘Silas Livingstone?’ Colly queried. ‘How is he?’
‘He’s doing well,’ the nurse replied, her eyes taking in the look of strain about Colly, her ashen face.
Tears of relief spurted to Colly’s eyes. ‘He’s getting better?’ she asked huskily.
‘He’s doing well.’ And, a smile thawing the nurse’s stern look, ‘And you are?’
‘Colly Gillingham,’ Colly replied. ‘He really is doing well?’ She had to be sure.
‘Are you and Mr Livingstone—close?’ the nurse wanted to know before she would disclose more.
Married was close. ‘Yes,’ Colly answered.
And then learned that they had been able to sort out the bug and, while Silas would continue to be hospitalised, once that morning’s test results were through they were hoping to release him from the isolation unit to another part of the hospital. Colly let go a tremendous sigh and a little colour started to return to her cheeks.
‘Thank you,’ she said quietly, and turned away.
‘Would you like to see him for a few minutes?’
Colly turned swiftly about. She knew she should say no. Against that, though, she experienced a tremendous need to see for herself that he was better than that ‘gravely ill’ that had scared the daylights out of her.
‘May I?’
‘You’ll have to wear a gown and all the gear,’ the nurse warned. It was a small price to pay.
To be swamped by a cotton gown, wearing a cap and face mask, was insignificant to Colly when, with the nurse showing the way, she entered the isolation room.
Colly’s heart turned over to see Silas, his eyes closed, propped up on pillows. ‘A visitor for you, Mr Livingstone,’ the nurse announced—and stayed to make sure that they really were known to each other.
Colly went forward. Silas opened his eyes as she reached his bed and just stared at her. He looked washed out, she thought, but, realising that dressed as she was she could have been just about anybody, ‘It’s Colly,’ she told him.
‘Who else do I know with such fabulous green eyes?’ he returned. Her green eyes were about the only part of her visible.
The nurse was convinced. She went from the room.
‘Sorry to intrude on your illness,’ Colly apologised primly, much relieved to see Silas looking better than she had anticipated. ‘I saw a report in
the paper that you’d picked up some tropical bug and…’ she racked her brains for a reason ‘…and I thought I’d better come and check that I’m not a widow.’
She had no idea where those words had come from. But, to her delight, Silas thought her comment funny, and as he leaned against his pillows—washed out, exhausted as he seemed to be—he laughed, he actually laughed—and Colly accepted at that moment that she was heart and soul in love with him.
‘I’d better be going,’ she said, wanting to stay and to stay and never to leave him. ‘Your nurse said I should visit for only a few minutes. You should be resting.’
‘I’ve done nothing but rest since I got here.’
‘You’ll be on your feet in no time,’ she encouraged.
‘Why did you come?’ he asked, but his eyelids had started to droop. Colly thought it was time to tiptoe out of there.
She did not go to see him again. She wanted to. Days trickled by, and some days she did not know how she held back from going to the hospital to see him. But to go to see him again was just not on. The only requirement in their agreement was that she stand with him in front of a registrar and make the appropriate responses. No way could she go to the hospital a second time and risk Silas again asking, ‘Why did you come?’
So she stayed away, though she fretted about what sort of progress he was making. She daily scanned the paper for some sort of progress report, but saw nothing in the pages of print about him.
Then suddenly, early on Friday evening—a week since she had been to see him—her telephone rang. Silas, she thought! But that was because Silas was always in her head. Both Uncle Henry and Rupert also had her address and this phone number.
‘Hello,’ she said down the instrument. It was neither Henry Warren nor Rupert Thomas.
‘I’ve a bit of a problem!’ She would know that voice anywhere. Silas! Her heart started to thunder.
‘Where are you?’ she asked, striving hard to take the urgency out of her voice.