Joanna smiled drowsily. 'Yes, of course.'
Polly wriggled down under the covers, then turned her face on the pillows towards Joanna. 'What a lovely big bed! Bigger than Mamma's.'
'Is it?'
'Uncle Paul sleeped in Mamma's bed sometimes.'
Joanna swallowed, suddenly wide awake. 'Really?'
Polly nodded vigorously. 'I didn't go in Mamma's bed when he was there.'
'No room, I expect.'
'Mamma said I mustn't.'
'I see,' said Joanna faintly, and changed the subject. 'What would you like for breakfast?'
The morning went by on wings, due principally to Polly's delight at seeing Doris Mills, who in her usual unfussy style handed the child a duster and enlisted her help. Polly trotted round after her all morning, proudly helping while the day's chores were dispatched with Doris's usual efficiency and speed.
When Marc Anstey arrived, dead on the stroke of two, Polly leapt up into his outstretched arms, burying her head on his shoulder without a word. Joanna looked on in dismay. The morning had gone so smoothly with Doris around she'd expected Polly to greet her uncle with a torrent of excited chatter. Instead the little girl clung to her uncle like a limpet as he carried her in the house.
'Hey,' said Marc teasingly, as he detached Polly's clinging arms to give her a big kiss. 'Aren't you going to say hello?'
'Tell Uncle Marc ‑' began Joanna.
'Marco!' interrupted Polly peremptorily. 'I told you.'
Joanna flushed. 'Tell—tell Marco what you've been doing all morning.'
Polly brightened, her face suddenly animated as she told Marc how she'd helped Doris with the housework. Then Jo had taken her out to explore the stables and she'd helped tidy the little house where Jo's horse used to live.
'And I swept the floor, but I got dirty and she -- Jo,' added Polly hastily at the look in Marc's eye, 'Jo made me have another bath because I got muddy. And I had pancakes for lunch,' she finished triumphantly.
'Lucky old you,' said Marc, smiling. 'I didn't. Now then, the sun's come out, so perhaps the lady of the house will take two townies like us for a walk and show us some of the local countryside.'
Joanna smiled. 'Good idea. Come on, Polly, let's change our shoes.'
'How's she been?' asked Marc later, as Polly ran on ahead through the orchard towards the woods beyond the boundary wall, looking as carefree as though the moment of melancholy had never happened.
'She cried for Rosa in the night. But I expected that.'
'What did you do?'
Joanna eyed him caustically. 'What do you think? I cuddled her and mopped her up and gave her a drink. Then I told her a story. Before it was finished she was asleep.'
Marc lifted a shoulder. 'I wasn't criticising, believe it or not. I just wondered how you felt about coping with a situation that's likely to crop up pretty often for a while. The doctor says she'll adjust in time ‑'
'Doctor?' Joanna asked swiftly.
Marc nodded as they resumed their progress towards an impatient Polly. 'Before I brought her down I took her to Rosa's GP. He's known Polly from birth. It seemed a good idea to know what shots she's been given and so on, what illnesses she's had. Unfortunately for you, she hasn't had anything much so far except the odd sore throat and a cold or two.'
'Unfortunately for me,' repeated Joanna. 'Does that mean you've made up your mind about leaving her with me then?'
He stopped dead, his hand on her arm. 'Do you still want her?'
'Of course I want her ‑' Joanna broke off as Polly ran towards her, demanding to know where they were going.
The afternoon was warm, more like summer than the beginning of autumn. Joanna put all her worries firmly from her mind as she took pride in showing off the beauty of her home surroundings to her guests. They crunched their way through woods carpeted with the first multicoloured fall of leaves. Polly paddled happily through them in her green rubber boots, reluctant to leave until Joanna suggested they climb the hill which gave them a view of the village of Swancote below.
When they reached the top, breathless and a little dishevelled after the climb, Marc rested a foot on an outcrop of rock at the summit and leaned forward to look down at the village. 'Is it called Swancote after your family?'
'Locals say so, but I doubt it. More likely to be a corruption of Swinecote, according to George Lavenham, the rector.' Joanna retied the scarf holding her hair in place at the nape of her neck, one eye on Polly, who was clambering happily over a rocky mound behind them, the other on Marc, who looked far more at home in his surroundings than Joanna had expected. The high-flyer in the expensive suit was missing today, replaced by a relaxed man in a suede bomber-jacket and rubbed corduroys, a red handkerchief knotted at the open neck of his shirt. Even his gypsyish black hair and swarthy skin seemed very much in harmony with the patchwork backdrop of woods and fields in the soft, hazy sunshine.
'I feel like a specimen on a slide,' he said in an undertone, so that Polly wouldn't hear. 'Why the analytical look? Am I dressed incorrectly for a stroll in the country?'
'On the contrary,' said Joanna. 'It was Paul ‑' She stopped, biting her hp.
'Go on,' he prompted. 'Paul what?'
'It seems disloyal to say so, but Paul insisted on wearing a waxed jacket and flat cap if he so much as went outside the door down here.' Joanna shrugged. 'It looked all wrong on him, somehow. Paul was at his best on city pavements—but I shouldn't be saying so.'
'Because he's dead?'
Joanna nodded. 'Yes, because he's dead. And can't defend himself.'
Marc jumped to his feet and held out a hand to Polly. 'Come on, cara. Time to go back.'
Polly protested for a while, but, at the promise of more toasted muffins' when they reached the house, trotted off happily enough, the other two following a little way behind.
'I leave tomorrow,' said Marc abruptly. 'We need to talk.' He glanced sideways at Joanna. 'I'd like to ask you out to dinner ‑'
'Not possible, I'm afraid. I'd need a baby-sitter, even if ‑'
'Even if you wanted to dine with me, which you don't!'
'I didn't say that. And I agree we need to talk.' She hesitated. 'You're welcome to share my supper, if you like. But it won't be anything elaborate tonight.'
He kicked his way through the leaves, his face sombre. 'I could eat at the pub and come back afterwards.'
'As you like,' she said indifferently.
'I don't like,' he said with sudden violence, then checked himself, breathing deeply. 'Look, I don't care a damn what we eat. But I'd like to talk to you without Jim Fowler glowering as if I intended nicking the silver. And I'd like to pay for the meal, organise it. As it is I feel like some bloody gigolo on the make for a rich widow.'
At Joanna's spontaneous giggle Polly turned to come running towards them, attracted by the sound.
'I'm hungry,' she announced.
'Good.' Joanna took her hand, motioning to Marc to take the other. 'Let's see how fast we can run home, then.'
Marc went back to the Lamb and Flag once Polly was in bed and asleep. His male pride appeased by Joanna's offer of bacon and eggs eaten at the kitchen table, he returned to Swan House so quickly that she had barely enough time to get ready before he was back, showered and shaved, and wearing a fresh shirt, but otherwise looking much as he'd done earlier on.
He eyed her well-worn Levis and outsize scarlet sweater with approval. 'Much better. You look approachable like that.'
'It seemed the right outfit for bacon and eggs,' she said lightly, 'but why should it make me more approachable?'
'Last night, in your mourning black, you were very much Paul Clifford's widow.' He strolled after her into the kitchen. 'Tonight it's easier to see the woman behind all that, the one Rosa trusted to take care of Polly.'
'I hope she was right.' Joanna handed him some cutlery and napkins and told him to lay the table. 'Would you like a drink?'
'No, thanks. I must get back to London tonight, ready to
tie up a few loose ends in the morning before I go back to Washington. Shall I cut some of this bread?'
'Yes, please. I shan't be long.'
Marc sat in one of the kitchen chairs, watching Joanna as she moved deftly about her lavishly equipped kitchen. 'You like cooking,' he stated.
'Yes. There's something satisfactory about producing an appetising meal.' She slid sausages and several rashers of bacon under the grill then smiled across at him as she sliced mushrooms and tomatoes. 'In my father's opinion, my real preference, degree or no degree, was marriage, a home—preferably this one—plus a couple of children, a dog or two, a horse if I was lucky, and a room to myself to write my great novel. How do you like your eggs?'
'Any way you care to cook them.' He studied her with narrowed eyes. 'But isn't that, more or less, what Paul offered you?'
'I certainly thought so when he proposed.' Joanna turned her back to supervise the food under the grill, then took out a frying-pan for the eggs. 'What I actually got was quite a bit different. Paul made it possible for me to keep the house, of course. But I found he hated dogs. He wouldn't let me look for a job, yet he regarded my Snowbird stories as a waste of time. Until the first one was accepted. He changed his mind then; stopped being so patronising. But I could have coped with all that. The real damage was done because he was so wrapped up in his rage and anguish over the miscarriage that he never gave a thought to the fact that I was suffering too. He left me alone, took off to London, and you know what happened after that.'
Marc looked grim. 'Yes. None better.'
Joanna took warm plates from under the grill and began to serve out their meal, making a face as she eyed the finished results. 'Very definitely not in the health-food bracket, but rather nice now and again, just the same.'
Marc received his plate with relish. 'Absolutely. Besides, better a dinner of herbs ‑' He stopped abruptly.
Joanna smiled brightly. 'Not quite in context, but I know what you mean. Now then, it's your turn. You've heard all about me. Talk about yourself for a change.'
Marc Anstey, plainly aware that she needed a change of subject, began to talk about the work he did in Washington for the Sentinel. Joanna listened, fascinated, as he opened a window for her into a world which sounded frenetic and glamorous to someone based in a quiet Oxfordshire village. Marc Anstey was in constant contact with people in the world of diplomacy, politics, business, with a sprinkling of the arts and entertainment industry as icing on the cake. Joanna was reluctantly impressed to hear that he spent a lot of time making use of a substantial expense account to wine and dine contacts, and travelled all over the United States to cover stories, as well as writing a weekly feature column for his newspaper.
'It all sounds a far cry from Swancote,' said Joanna wryly, as they sat over coffee at the kitchen table. 'Do you have a house or a flat of your own there?'
Marc shook his head. 'The perks of the job mean my own office, a car and a company apartment in return for my services.'
'You must be very well up in your profession!'
'Not as high as I intend to be, I assure you.' He smiled. 'I've been in the business a long time. In a couple of years I'll be forty. Sometimes I feel I've missed out on certain things in life.'
Joanna laughed. 'Not many, by what you've been saying.'
'I've never had a wife and family,' he said very quietly. 'Regular visits to see Rosa and Polly are the nearest thing I've 'ever managed in that direction.'
'No girlfriends?' Joanna couldn't help asking.
'Lady, I'm perfectly normal!' he retorted. 'Of course I've had girlfriends. I even considered a permanent relationship with one or two—but not for long.'
'Very wise,' said Joanna lightly. 'Saves a lot of wear and tear on the emotions, I assure you.'
'Some people have very successful, happy marriages,' he said, his eyes on the coffee he was stirring.
'I know. My best friend has one of those. Luck of the draw, I suppose—I got the short straw in mine.' Joanna jumped up to stack the tray, in sudden need of occupation.
'Since I couldn't pay for the meal, at least let me wash up,' said Marc.
'No need. The dishwasher Paul insisted on does that,' said Joanna cheerfully. 'I'll just load it up and we can go into the drawing-room—unless you mean to rush off straight away.'
'I don't,' said Marc emphatically, watching her as she moved about the kitchen. 'We haven't really touched on the points which need discussion.' He got up as she came towards him, looking at her in a way which flustered her a little. 'You know, don't you, that I find it hard to remember we met such a short time ago?'
Joanna's heart gave an errant thump as she led the way to the drawing-room, and she was thankful her face was hidden from him for a moment. By the time she'd curled up on the sofa and waved Marc to a chair she had herself well in hand again.
'It's only natural that you would feel like that,' she said reasonably. 'The circumstances which brought the meeting about were so traumatic it would be useless to pretend we're normal, polite acquaintances. Especially as Polly provides a constant reminder of—of the link between us.'
'You admit to a link, then?' he asked swiftly.
Joanna looked at him. 'I could hardly fail to, with Rosa and Paul to haunt us.'
He grimaced. 'Do you think one day you might bring yourself to think of me as just an ordinary guy? Not Rosa's brother or even Polly's uncle? Hell, Joanna, I possess an identity of my own, in case you hadn't noticed.'
Joanna smiled a little. 'Oh, I'd noticed.'
His eyes lit with an unsettling gleam. 'Good. Because although you bracket me with Rosa, there's no way I can think of you as Paul's wife.'
'Probably because for the past four years Paul couldn't, either ‑' Joanna stopped dead, turning her head away, furious to find herself close to tears. She sniffed hard, blinked violently, but it was no use. Suddenly the tears won, and she put her hands over her face in shame at her lack of self-control.
Marc crossed the room swiftly and took her in his arms, encouraging her as she sobbed without inhibition into his shirt front. She heard his voice, deep and husky as he murmured comfort, felt his hand on her hair, smoothing the heavy strands away from her forehead, and shut her eyes tightly as he put a fingertip under her chin to raise her face. She felt his lips brush her forehead, felt his arms tighten, then his mouth was hard and warm against hers and her quivering lips parted in surprise to the kiss which began as a caress meant to comfort, but metamorphosed into something different with alarming speed. In seconds Marc's arms were threatening to crack her ribs, and she was kissing him back, her tears drying on her burning cheeks.
Joanna pulled away, staring with drenched blue eyes into Marc's taut, astonished face as he reluctantly dropped his arms.
'I suppose I should say I'm sorry,' he muttered. 'Could I have a drink?'
'Yes.' Joanna cleared her throat. 'Yes, of course.'
'It won't affect my driving—just one finger of Scotch. I need it.' He got up without looking at her and went over to the tray of decanters Paul had insisted Joanna keep in readiness for visitors who rarely came to Swan House when he was there. 'Would you care for something?'
Joanna smoothed back her tumbled hair with an unsteady hand. 'Yes. Sherry, please. Dry.'
Marc handed her a glass, then went back to his chair, looking shaken. 'It was never my intention ‑'
'No, I realise that.' She downed half the sherry like medicine. 'I didn't mean to cry, either. I haven't much since—since Paul died.'
'It's no sin to cry.' He shrugged, staring down into his glass.
'Unless it's for the wrong reasons.'
He looked up sharply. 'What do you mean?'
Joanna looked bleak. 'What tears I've shed have been for myself, not Paul. At the funeral everyone thought I was grieving like a good widow should, and I felt sick inside at my own hypocrisy.'
'Stop it,' he said sharply. 'Paul was hardly the epitome of the normal, loving husband, was he? Why the hell should
you grieve? Because it's the done thing in your particular social circles?'
'Don't talk rot,' she snapped, then glared at his sudden grin.
'That's better. Your eyes look beautiful when they smoulder. Much better than drowned in tears.'
Her eyes went on smouldering for a moment, then Joanna smiled reluctantly. 'I admit it's a relief to be able to explain to someone who knew—knew the truth. Of course I'm deeply sorry that Paul died in such a horrible way, but I just don't feel any great sense of personal loss. The real tragedy is that in the process of killing himself Paul had to kill Rosa too, and leave Polly motherless.'
'Is that why you agreed to take her?'
'No, not entirely.' Joanna hesitated. 'My reasons are less altruistic. I was shattered when I found I'd never have more babies after my accident. It may sound melodramatic, but taking on Polly fills a void nothing else can.' She jumped up restlessly. 'Enough soul-searching. Like some more coffee?'
Marc was tactful enough to go upstairs to check on Polly while she made it. By the time he rejoined Joanna in the drawing-room she was in full command of herself again and was able to greet Marc with a composed little smile, as though the kiss had never occurred.
'Polly all right?'
'Fine.' Marc looked at her searchingly. 'Are you all right, too?'
She nodded. 'Though why some people enjoy a good cry beats me. I feel like a wreck.'
He smiled. 'A very beautiful wreck.'
Joanna's lips twitched. 'Such tact!'
'Not at all. It's the truth.' He took a cup from her, his eyes meeting hers. 'Believe me, Joanna, I'm sorry I annoyed you last night. About the remarriage bit.'
She shrugged. 'When I'd calmed down a bit I could see your point.'
'How do you feel about marrying again?' he asked very quietly.
Joanna finished her coffee and replaced the cup on the tray with precision. 'To be honest, my experience of marriage, both my parents' and my own, has left me with a profound reluctance to repeat the experiment. Ever.'
'It could be different with another man.'
'Possibly. If I meet anyone likely to change my mind I'll let you know.'
Marc jumped up, unsmiling. 'Time I was off, I think.'
The Perfect Solution Page 6