Joanna stared miserably at the ceiling, watching the changes of light as clouds played tag with the moon outside. Why me? she thought for the hundredth time. Were there no suitable relatives? And, even if there weren't, surely there was enough money from the sale of PCP to provide the child with suitable care? But Rosa had evidently wanted more than that. She'd wanted Paul's wife to take over responsibility for his child. Which was madness. How did she know Joanna Clifford wouldn't make Polly's life a misery? Unless she'd instructed her brother to make regular inspections, satisfy himself that Polly was being treated properly. It all seemed very unlikely—Joanna lay suddenly still. Unless, of course, Paul had told Rosa about the accident.
Joanna got up very early next morning, had a hot bath, dithered for a while, then pulled on a scarlet sweater with the same faded Levis of the night before. Feeling on edge and irritable, she passed the time until ten by making muffins, wondering if they were the sort of thing little girls liked. She fidgeted about, tidying up, arranging and rearranging sprays of leaves in a copper jar, until by the time her visitors were due Joanna's nerves were as taut as piano-wire.
Pulling herself together impatiently, she ran upstairs to brush her hair. She eyed her reddened eyelids and pale face, then shrugged and went downstairs. Marc Anstey could take her as she was.
She was at the window when the car turned into the drive. Prey to a sharp attack of nerves, she opened the door and stood under the portico as Marc Anstey, still in his formal suit, helped a small girl from the car and led her towards the house.
Sleeping, Polly had looked like a sad little angel. Awake and unwilling, she was a sturdy little creature with bright black eyes in a round face still blotchy from weeping, her dark curls untidy. She wore navy shorts and a white T-shirt and clung to her uncle's hand, shrinking against him as he tried to pull her forward. Something eased inside Joanna as she realised that together Marc and Paola Anstey could have been taken for father and daughter. The child bore no resemblance at all to Paul Clifford.
'Hello,' she called casually.
'Good morning,' said Marc Anstey, picking up his niece bodily. 'This is very kind of you, Mrs Clifford. You must excuse Polly. She's in a very unsociable mood.'
'Never mind. Come in and have some coffee. I'm dying for some.' Joanna led them to the bright, cheerful kitchen, waving Marc to a chair at the table. He set Polly on his knee, where she snuggled against him, thumb in mouth, her eyes fixed on Joanna.
All fingers and thumbs under the black, unblinking scrutiny, Joanna made coffee and carried a tray to the table, then sat down in a chair opposite her visitors, smiling brightly.
'How was breakfast at the Lamb and Flag?'
'Difficult.' Marc sighed wearily as he shifted the child more comfortably on his lap. 'Polly wasn't in an eating mood. And after twenty minutes of intensive coaxing neither was I.'
Joanna poured hot, strong coffee into two tall mugs, then looked enquiringly at the child. 'How about you, Polly? Do you like coffee?'
No response.
'Milk? Orange juice?'
A flicker of interest lit the dark eyes. Taking it for assent, Joanna poured juice from a carton into a beaker and set it within the child's reach.
'I don't suppose you'd fancy a muffin, Mr Anstey?' she asked casually.
Marc Anstey's eyes brightened. 'English muffins? Wonderful! I haven't tasted one in years.'
Battening down the hatches on her emotions, Joanna applied herself to toasting and buttering. She kept up a light, superficial conversation with Marc Anstey, making no attempt to talk to the little girl as she handed out plates and napkins. Marc Anstey polished off two muffins at flattering speed, while Polly, finding no one was taking any notice of her, warily tasted the fragment of muffin her uncle tossed on her plate for her to try.
'I like it,' she said in a hoarse, weary little voice.
Joanna smiled. 'Good. Shall I toast a fresh one for you?'
Polly nodded mutely, then as Marc sent her a meaning look she muttered, 'Yes, please.'
While the adults drank more coffee the child ate her muffin to the last crumb, then drank a second beaker of orange juice.
'The catering seems more popular here than the Lamb and Flag,' said Marc lightly, then gave Joanna a significant look. 'We must be going soon.'
'Not yet!' Joanna looked up with a smile of relief as Doris arrived. 'Morning, Doris. This is Mr Marc Anstey, and the lady on his knee is Polly.'
'Pleased to meet you,' said Doris, beaming at the little girl.
Polly favoured Doris with one of her unwinking scrutinies, then her orange-rimmed mouth curved in a faint suggestion of a smile. She slid down from her uncle's knee. 'Loo, please,' she said imperiously.
Doris held out her hand. 'Right you are, young miss. Will you come with me?'
Polly nodded serenely, surrendered her hand to the firm, rough grasp, and trotted off without a backward glance.
Joanna looked at Marc in astonishment. 'Well!'
'Three cheers for Doris.' He leaned forward, his face suddenly urgent. 'Look, since we're out of Polly's earshot so unexpectedly, can you tell me how you feel now you've met her? Or is it too soon?'
She looked at him, defeated. 'I lay awake all night wrestling with my conscience.'
He tensed, his face colourless with strain. 'And?'
'I decided the best thing was to have Polly to stay for a day or two before we come to any hasty decisions.'
Marc's eyes narrowed. 'It could mean quite a hold-up for the sale of PCP.'
Joanna's eyes smouldered. 'Mr Anstey, you can do whatever you like with Polly's inheritance. As I told you last night, I don't need ‑' She bit her lip, as it suddenly occurred to her that if she had a child to bring up and educate this was not exactly true.
'If you do take Polly,' he said swiftly, 'provision—generous provision—would be made for her, and for you.'
They looked at each other in silence for a moment, then Joanna nodded reluctantly. 'I'd have to accept it, for Polly's sake—if she stays with me.' She eyed him curiously. 'Mr Anstey, what I find so extraordinary is that you don't have anyone else who could take Polly.'
'If I had, do you think I'd have come to you, Mrs Clifford?' He turned away, grimacing. 'I'm sorry. I could have put that more gracefully. What I mean is that our parents are dead, Rosa and I the only children. My father's family washed their hands of him when he married the orphaned Sicilian girl he found wandering the streets of Naples towards the end of the war. I do have relatives, yes. But I've never met any of them, nor do I wish to.' He swung round suddenly. 'And you know Paul had no one, either. Or no one he'd admit to.'
Joanna's eyes narrowed. Something in his tone suggested Marc Anstey and Paul Clifford had never been soul-mates.
'Nevertheless, Mr Anstey, I'm still surprised that your sister thought I'd take Polly.'
Marc Anstey's black eyes shuttered. 'If you want the truth, Mrs Clifford, I'll give you her reasons verbatim—even at the risk of alienating you completely. Rosa said you lost a child, and couldn't have any more. She seemed to think that by handing Paul's daughter over to you she was making up for that. I thought it was a lousy idea. But I couldn't say so—not when it was damn near the last thing I was ever going to say to her.' He swallowed convulsively and turned away, his fists clenched at his side.
Joanna's hand went out to him, then dropped hastily as Doris ushered in a washed and tidied Polly. Joanna's heart contracted at the tenderness in Marc Anstey's smile as he greeted the little girl.
'Polly would like a walk in the garden,' announced Doris. 'Is it all right if I take her round the stables, Mrs Clifford?'
'You'd like that, Polly?' asked Joanna.
The child nodded vigorously. She went off with Doris, chattering in a hoarse little voice, leaving Joanna with a wistful feeling she identified with some surprise. She wanted Polly's approval, too.
'Are the stables in use?' asked Marc.
Joanna began clearing away, her back to him. 'No. Not
any more.'
'It was you who used to ride, I take it. I can't see Paul on a horse.'
She shot him a glance over her shoulder. 'You obviously disliked Paul.'
One shoulder lifted in a very Latin shrug. 'Not exactly. I disapproved.'
'Because of Rosa?'
'Exactly.' He smiled without mirth. 'Most of the time I behave like your average Brit, but the Sicilian in me rose up in revolt when Paul Clifford set my sister up as his mistress.'
'An old-fashioned word.'
'Rosa was old-fashioned. She never looked at another man from the first day she went to work for Paul Clifford. He was the one great love of her life.' One black eyebrow rose sardonically. 'I don't think he felt the same about her, by any means.'
Joanna turned to face him. 'Since she gave him a child I imagine he cared for her a lot. Paul wanted a family very much.'
Marc examined his fingernails intently. 'Polly owes her existence to the fact that it was Rosa whom Paul turned to when you lost your child. She offered comfort, and because she'd been in love with him for years the inevitable happened. They became lovers. She became pregnant.'
'Whereupon Paul moved her into the Chelsea house and engaged a new secretary.' Joanna tried to smile and failed. 'From then on my marriage was virtually over. When Paul learned I couldn't have any more children, I think ‑' She thought for a moment. 'I think Paul felt cheated. As though he'd made a bad bargain.'
'Bargain?'
Joanna nodded. 'He made it possible for me to keep this house. In return I married him and promised to provide him with children.'
Marc frowned. 'Did you love him?'
'I thought I did. I wouldn't have married him otherwise. I'd just lost my father, and Paul—well, I suppose I looked on Paul as the ideal person to take his place. But I was never in love with Paul. He was twenty years older than me. In the beginning the gap didn't seem to matter. He ‑' she stopped, flushing.
'Enjoyed having a young, beautiful bride,' said Marc drily.
Her eyes frosted over. 'Quite so. Perhaps we should go outside. No doubt you'll want to satisfy yourself that my house and garden are suitable as a home for Polly.'
He nodded distantly. 'Thank you—Mrs Clifford.'
They went out into the damp, misty morning to find Polly helping Doris pick blackberries from the thornless bushes in the orchard beyond the stables. She ran to Marc, flushed and very different from the woebegone child of earlier on.
'Marco! Look—they've got apples on trees here!'
He laughed and picked her up, kissing her cheek. 'Of course they do, you little townie.'
'Can we stay to lunch?' demanded the child.
Marc shook his head. 'We ought to be going.'
'Would you like to stay, Polly?' asked Joanna.
Polly nodded, smiling at Joanna for the first time. 'Yes.'
'Please!' prompted Marc.
The child repeated it obediently, wriggling to get down.
'I'm helping Doris,' she said importantly. She ran off without a backward glance, leaving a strained silence behind her.
'She seems to like it here,' said Marc, as he strolled with Joanna towards the stables.
'I hope so.'
'When shall I leave her with you?'
Joanna opened the top half of one of the doors, gazing into the empty manger. 'Whenever suits you, Mr Anstey.'
He was silent for a moment, leaning beside her. 'I'm due back in Washington next week. If I brought Polly here the day after tomorrow, I could put up in the Lamb and Flag for a couple of days, stay within reach in case ‑'
'I'm beating her regularly?'
'No,' he said wearily. 'In case I'm needed. If the arrangement doesn't work I'll just have to engage a full-time nanny and find a bigger flat.'
Joanna thought about it in silence. If Marc Anstey was on hand for a time at the beginning it might ease the initial stages of her relationship with Polly. As yet the little girl was far more taken with Doris than her dead father's wife. Joanna squared her shoulders.
'All right. Let's do that.'
Marc turned to her. 'Are you sure?'
'Yes.'
He held out his hand formally. 'Let's shake on it, then.'
Joanna smiled coolly and put her hand in his for an instant, then detached her fingers hastily, horrified to find her pulse racing at his touch. She turned back to the empty stable, saying the first thing that came into her head. 'I had a horse called Saladin who used to live in here.'
'Did you sell him?'
'No. Paul had him destroyed.'
Marc shot a startled glance at her. 'Why?'
'I had a fall when I was riding him. It was my fault, not Saladin's. But I lost the baby. Paul went berserk, took his anger and disappointment out on the horse. I was told I'd have miscarried anyway, fall or no fall, but by the time I was discharged from the hospital Saladin was dead.'
They stared into the dark stable for some time in silence.
'Couldn't you have bought another horse?' Marc asked at last.
'No.' Joanna cleared her throat. 'Paul held the purse-strings. I had no money of my own.'
Marc Anstey turned to watch his niece running about on the grass in the distance. 'Couldn't you have got a job—earned some money of your own?'
The open disapproval in his tone stung Joanna. 'That's a very personal remark! As it happens I did find a way to earn money. Eventually. But not enough for luxuries like horses.' She paused, shaken to find herself so angry. 'Mr Anstey, I think we should get certain things straight. The only thing you and I have in common is Polly. You have my assurance that if she stays with me I'll do my utmost to give her a good home and make her happy. But I want everything legally sorted out beforehand, including your rights where she's concerned— reasonable access and so on. Beyond that, you and I need have nothing to do with each other.'
Marc Anstey said something under his breath, a leap of dislike in his eyes as they clashed with hers. 'Rosa was wrong. This just isn't going to work.'
Joanna shrugged disdainfully. 'I don't see why not. The equation's obvious. Polly lost a mother. I lost a child. I lay awake most of last night thinking it over, and came to the conclusion that Rosa was right. It's the perfect solution.'
He looked at her moodily for a long, tense moment. 'I'll reserve judgement until this trial period's over—but, whichever way things turn out, keep one thing very much in mind,' he added, with sinister emphasis. 'Polly might lack a mother, but she's not alone in the world. Anyone who harms a single hair of her head will have me to contend with. And I can fight dirty, Mrs Clifford. Believe me.'
CHAPTER THREE
Joanna's home was late Georgian, quite small, and classically simple in design. A single pillar supported the porch. Above it a half-moon window formed a pleasing note of contrast among the oblong sash windows flanking the main door of Swan House, which stood in three acres of land mainly given over to woodland and orchard. As a child Joanna had run free there with her friends, and was convinced that in time Polly could be just as happy in the same surroundings.
But much as she loved her home, the day Joanna was expecting Marc Anstey with Polly it felt like a cage. After her sudden tirade at the stable door Marc had called his niece to him and taken her away at once, deaf to the child's pleas to stay for lunch, and Joanna's last view of Polly had been a forlorn little hand waving from the back window of the car. Marc Anstey had made it plain that diplomatic relations between himself and Paul Clifford's widow were at an end. Not, Joanna assured herself, that she minded. Her view of the entire male sex was somewhat jaundiced after her experience with Paul.
As the time grew closer to Polly's arrival Joanna began to get cold feet, more convinced by the minute that she'd been mad even to think of trying to bring up someone else's child. It wasn't as if she had experience of motherhood in any form herself. Her own mother had taken off with a lover before her daughter could walk, leaving Joanna to the loving but eccentric care of a father who looked on dogs, horses
, music and literature as the only necessities in life other than food. Urged by relatives to send his child away to school, Richard Swan had refused point-blank. In his view the local schools and his own efforts could provide his child with all the education necessary right up to university entrance, and his pleasure was enormous when Joanna proved him right by gaining a first-class degree in art history.
Joanna smiled wryly. Instead of art-history and her subsequent secretarial course she'd have done better to train as a nanny for her present undertaking.
She tensed as she heard a car crunch to a halt on the gravel outside. When the bell rang she made herself wait for a moment or two, then opened the door, her smile of welcome fading when she found Marc Anstey alone, looking even more haggard than before.
'Good morning, Mr Anstey,' she said formally. 'Where's Polly?'
'Good morning, Mrs Clifford.' He shrugged, nodding in the direction of the car. 'She fell asleep on the way down. I thought we might have a word out here before I wake her up.'
'By all means.'
He thrust his hands into his pockets, eyeing her warily. 'I suppose I should have rung. To ask if you'd changed your mind.'
Joanna looked past him towards the row of wallflowers she'd planted on the day Paul died. 'I never change my mind once it's made up.'
'I admire your certainty.'
'Obstinacy, my father called it.'
His eyes, black-ringed with weariness, studied her coolly. 'You were pretty frank last time I was here -- regarding any personal dealings between you and me. So I've a suggestion to make.'
The Perfect Solution Page 3