‘YOU mean it?’ Lottie’s face lit up. ‘You’ll let me have my wedding reception in the Long Gallery? Oh, Helen, that’s wonderful.’
Helen returned her hug. ‘Well, you can’t squeeze everyone into your cottage—not without appalling casualties and structural damage anyway,’ she added drily. ‘And the Gallery looks terrific now it’s finished. It really needs to be used for something special.’
Lottie hesitated. ‘And you’re sure Marc won’t mind?’
‘Why should he?’ Helen asked with a light shrug. As he’s so rarely here … She thought it, but did not say it aloud.
‘I only wanted a tiny wedding,’ Lottie said mournfully. ‘A few close friends and family.’ She sighed. ‘But that was before our respective mothers presented us with their final guest lists, and a string of other instructions as well. I’ve had to rethink all my catering plans, for one thing, as well as dashing off to the wedding hire place in Aldenford for some ghastly meringue and veil.’
Helen patted her consolingly. ‘You’ll look wonderful,’ she said. ‘And I guarantee Simon will be secretly thrilled.’ She paused. ‘Shall we get some music laid on for dancing? Really test the Gallery’s new floor?’
‘Why not?’ Her friend shrugged lavishly. ‘In for a penny, in for a pound. The whole nine yards.’ She gave Helen a speculative glance. ‘Does Marc like dancing? I mean, he will make it to the wedding, I hope? Or will he be in Bolivia or Uzbekistan?’
‘I—really don’t know,’ Helen admitted uncomfortably. ‘But, wherever he is, I’m sure he’ll do his best. I’ll ask Alan to remind him. After all, he seems to see much more of him than I do,’ she added, with attempted nonchalance.
There was another silence, then Lottie said fiercely, ‘Oh, this is all so wrong—such a mess. Simon and I are so happy—so crazy about each other—and you’re so damned miserable. And don’t argue with me,’ she warned, as Helen’s lips parted in protest. ‘Even a blind person could see it.’
‘I have what I asked for,’ Helen said quietly. ‘And so has Marc.’ She tried to smile. ‘He seems quite content—and you have to admit the house is looking terrific.’
‘I don’t have to admit anything.’ Lottie picked up her bag and prepared for departure. ‘In fact there are times when I wish you’d sold Monteagle lock, stock and barrel to bloody Trevor Newson. So there.’
And there are times when I wish that too, Helen thought with sudden wry bitterness. The shocked breath caught in her throat as she realised what she had just admitted to herself.
She managed to keep a smile in place as she waved her friend off, but her stomach was churning and her legs felt oddly weak.
How can I suddenly feel like this? she asked herself as she made herself turn, walk back into the house she loved. The home she’d always considered worth any sacrifice.
Monteagle’s been my life all this time. My lodestar. And so it should be still—because I have nothing else. Nothing …
She found she was making her way up the stairs, breathing the smell of paint, plaster and wood as she’d done for so many weeks. But, as usual, she encountered no one. The restoration team were busy at the other end of the house, and she was able to enter the State Bedroom once again unnoticed. Where she paused, staring round her, drinking in the room’s completed beauty. And its strange emptiness.
The embroidery from the old bed curtains had been transferred exquisitely to its rich new fabric, and it gleamed in the mellow sunlight that poured in through the mullioned windows. While above the fireplace the other Helen Frayne looked enigmatically down on her descendant.
And, dominating the room, that enormous bed—made up each week with fresh linen, yet still unused.
Helen had stood in this room grieving after her grandfather’s funeral, knowing that she was entirely alone. She’d tried with a kind of desperation to convince herself that it wasn’t true. That she would spend her future with Nigel and find happiness and fulfilment—but only if she could save her beloved home and live there. That had always been the proviso.
No guy stands a chance against a no-win obsession like that. She found herself remembering Nigel’s petulant accusation.
But it wasn’t an obsession, she cried inwardly. It was a dream—wasn’t it? Only now the dream was dead, and she didn’t know why.
Except that she was lying to herself. Because it had begun to fade six weeks ago, when she came back from France.
Without Marc. Without even saying goodbye to Marc. Because he’d already left for the airport when she arrived downstairs that last morning at the Villa Mirage.
Later, on her own homeward journey, she’d asked Louis to stop at a little church she’d seen on the way out of St Benoit Plage, and she had filled the poor box to bursting with the euro notes that Marc had scattered so scornfully across her shocked body, hoping that by doing so she could somehow exorcise the stunned misery that was choking her.
All the way back to Monteagle she’d told herself over and over again that it would all be worth it once she was home. That somehow she’d even be able to survive this agony of bewildered loneliness once she could see her beautiful house coming back to life.
Only it hadn’t been like that. Not when she’d realised that she was actually expected to move into this room—that bed—alone, and had known that she couldn’t do it. That it was impossible. Unthinkable.
An unbearable solitude—worse than any imagining.
So she’d informed Daisy quietly that she’d prefer to sleep in her own bedroom for the time being, and the housekeeper, noting her pale face and tearless eyes, had tactfully not argued with her.
And there the matter rested. In distance and estrangement.
She’d explained, charmingly and ruefully, to anyone who asked that Marc was in serial business meetings and would join her as soon as he was free. But it was an excuse that sounded increasingly thin as a week had passed and edged into a fortnight without a word from him.
She’d found this lack of communication unnerving, and eventually swallowed her pride and approached Alan Graham.
‘I was expecting Marc here this weekend,’ she had fibbed, fingers crossed in the pockets of her skirt. ‘But I’ve heard nothing—and I’ve stupidly mislaid his contact number in Paris. Do you know what’s happening?’
‘I certainly know that he’s not in Paris,’ Alan returned with a touch of dryness. ‘He left for Botswana several days ago, and is going on to Senegal. He’s unlikely to be back in Europe until next week, but even then I don’t think he has any immediate plans to visit the UK.’
‘I see.’ Another lie. She forced a smile, but the architect’s face remained impassive. ‘Well, perhaps his secretary could supply me with a copy of his itinerary—or let me know if there’s an opening in his schedule.’
She expected him to offer an address, a telephone extension and a name, but he did none of those things.
He hesitated perceptibly. ‘Marc is incredibly busy, Mrs Delaroche. It might be better to leave it to him to get in touch—don’t you think?’
In other words, if Marc had wanted her to make the first contact he’d have supplied her with the means, she realised, mortified. And Alan Graham—not just her husband’s friend, but also his employee—had been instructed to block her, to keep her at a safe distance where she could not interfere with the way he lived his life.
‘Yes,’ she said, her voice stumbling over the word. ‘Of course.’
As she turned to leave she saw an odd expression flicker in his eyes—something, she thought, which might have been pity. And her humiliation was complete.
Even now she could remember how she’d gone out of the house and walked round the lake, struggling to come to terms with the fact that her marriage was already virtually over.
Yes, she’d made him angry that last morning. But she’d been upset, and desperately hurt. So how could he behave as if he was the only injured party in all this? If he cared for her at all, wouldn’t he have been concerned more for her feelings and less for his own convenience?
Suggesting she should accompany him to Paris had been an act of brutal cynicism. Surely he must have realised that admitting there was another woman in his life had robbed her of any chance of peace and happiness whenever he was away from her?
Even now, when they were miles apart, she was still racked by jealousy and wretchedness. That last passionate, overwhelming night in France had done its work too well, creating a hunger that only he could assuage. But she was no longer a priority on his agenda.
She’d turned and stared at the bulk of the house through eyes blurred with tears. Her kingdom, she’d thought, where she ruled alone, just as she’d wanted. Her kingdom and her prison.
But even if Marc didn’t want her, his plans for the house were clearly still foremost in his mind.
His team of craftsmen were still working flat out, over long hours, and she could only guess at the size of the wage bill being incurred. Also, the extra staff he’d insisted on were now in place—pleasant, efficient, and taking the pressure from George and Daisy. Far from feeling resentful, they were now talking cheerfully about the prospect of retirement on the pension that Marc had also set up for them.
‘But what would I do without you?’ Helen had asked, startled and distressed. ‘I rely on you both totally. You’re my family.’
Daisy had patted her gently. ‘Everything changes, my dear. And you’ll be having a new family soon—a proper one, with Monsieur Marc.’
Which, thought Helen, was almost a sick joke—under the circumstances.
She’d tried to keep busy, to stop herself from thinking, but apart from arranging the flowers and deciding what food to eat, there was little to occupy her at Monteagle, she had to admit. The place seemed to run like clockwork. Instead, she spent two days a week helping in a charity shop in Aldenford, and another afternoon pushing round the library trolley at the local cottage hospital.
So she’d been out when the longed-for telephone call had come to say Marc would be arriving the next day.
But her initial relief and elation had been dealt an immediate blow when Alan had informed her with faint awkwardness that this was simply a flying visit, to check on the progress of the house, and that Marc would be leaving again after lunch.
She’d managed a word of quiet assent, then taken herself up to her room, where she’d collapsed across the bed, weeping uncontrollably.
The next day she had departed early for a ceramics auction in a town twenty miles away. It had been purely a face-saving move. She had no particular interest in porcelain and pottery, and no intention of bidding on any of the lots.
She’d arrived back at Monteagle just before lunch was served, and returned Marc’s cold greeting with equal reserve before eating her way through salmon mayonnaise and summer pudding as if she had an appetite, while Marc and Alan chatted together in French.
The meal over, she had been about to excuse herself when Marc detained her with an imperative gesture. Alan quietly left them alone together, standing on opposite sides of the dining table.
‘The new staff? You find them acceptable?’ he’d asked abruptly.
‘Perfectly, thank you.’ She hesitated. ‘Of course it helps that they’re local people.’
‘And the house? The work continues to your satisfaction?’
‘It all looks wonderful,’ she said quietly. ‘But naturally I shall be glad when it’s over.’
There was an odd silence before he said, ‘Then I hope for your sake, Hélène, that they continue to make the same progress and you are soon left in peace from all of this.’ His brief smile did not reach his eyes. ‘Au revoir,’ he added, and was gone.
And that, Helen thought unhappily, had set the pattern for his two subsequent visits—except that Alan’s wife had been invited to join them for lunch. But, as Susan treated her with the same polite aloofness as her husband, it couldn’t be described as the most successful social experiment of the year.
There had never been any hint that he wished to spend the night here. In fact he didn’t even want to touch her, she admitted, swallowing a desolate lump in her throat. It seemed that the beautiful Angeline was supplying all his needs, and that she herself was excluded from any intimate role in his life, however temporary.
Why did he do it? she asked herself. Why did he take me and make me want him so desperately that every day and night without him makes me feel as if I’m slowly bleeding to death?
But she already knew the answer. Because he could, she thought. And how cruel was that?
As unkind as the way he’d suddenly ended that brief interlude on the bed over there, she reminded herself. Her whole body had been singing to the touch of his mouth and hands when he’d stepped back, apparently unaffected by her response—except to be amused by it.
How silly and futile all her subsequent protests must have seemed to him—and how easily they’d been overcome, she thought bitterly. And she knew still that, in spite of everything, if he so much as beckoned to her she would go to him.
Her body was aching—starving for him. Demanding the surcease that only he could give, but which he chose to deny her.
Making it clear that there was no place for her even on the margins of his life.
Perhaps, she thought, wincing painfully, Angeline Vallon doesn’t like sharing either, and has enough power to issue an ultimatum.
Sighing, she walked over to the portrait and stood staring up at it.
‘How did you cope?’ she asked softly. ‘When your royal victor became tired of his spoils and moved on? How many days before you stopped hoping? How many long nights before he ceased to feature in your dreams? And what else must I endure before my sentence is served and I can get out of jail?’
On the other hand, if she did escape somehow, then where would she go?
Her mouth twisted wrily. Bolivia, she thought. Uzbekistan—or any of the places that Marc had been flying between over these long weeks. She’d always secretly yearned to travel, to get to the heart of cities and countries that were only names in an atlas, but she’d given up all hope of that for the sake of Monteagle.
If she could turn back time, she knew now she would have followed Marc downstairs that last morning, held out her hand and said, Take me with you. Because half a life at his side would have been better than no life at all.
A fly had appeared from nowhere, and was grumbling vainly against one of the windows. Helen walked across the room and opened the casement to allow it to escape, and stood suddenly transfixed, staring across the lawns below.
A woman was standing, a hand shading her eyes as she looked up at the house, her long red hair gleaming in the late summer sunlight.
No, Helen thought with disbelief. And, as the anger began to build in her, No.
Has Marc allowed this? she asked herself. Has he dared to let her invade my territory? And is she going to spend time here—with him—forcing me to move out for the duration? Why else would she be here, spying out the land?
Oh, God, she thought. How could he hurt me—insult me—like this?
She closed the casement with a bang and ran from the room, and down the stairs, almost flinging herself out into the open air.
As she reached the grass she saw the other woman walking rapidly towards the side gate.
She is not getting away with this, Helen told herself grimly. She’ll stand her ground and hear what I have to say.
‘Wait!’ she called, cupping her hands round her mouth. ‘Attendez, madame!’
The other woman paused, turning as if surprised, then waited awkwardly, hands thrust into the pockets of her cream linen trousers, as Helen came running towards her.
She only stopped, breathless and shocked, when she realised that, apart from hair colour, her quarry bore no resemblance at all to the woman whose magazine picture still haunted her mercilessly.
She was considerably older, and thinner, and her face was pleasant rather than beautiful—although at the moment she looked embarrassed and wary.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘The house isn’t open to the public any more, is it? And I’m trespassing.’
‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’ Helen struggled to control her breathing. ‘Did you want anything in particular?’
‘Not really.’ The other woman shrugged. ‘Just a final glimpse, really. I went round with the guided tour a few times before the restoration work started, and I was curious to see if much had changed.’
Helen stared at her. ‘You’re quite a devotee.’
‘I feel I’ve known the place all my life. You see, my great-grandmother was in service here years ago, and my grandmother too, and they loved it. I grew up with all these stories about Monteagle—felt as if I was part of them. Daft, I know, but we all have our dreams.’
She paused. ‘You’re Helen Frayne, aren’t you? But you confused me when you called out in French. I thought that was your husband’s nationality.’
‘It is. I—I thought you were someone completely different. I’m sorry.’ Helen hesitated. ‘May I know who you really are?’
‘Why not?’ Another almost fatalistic shrug. ‘My name’s Shirley—Shirley Newson. You know my husband, I think?’
Helen said slowly, ‘Yes—yes, I do.’
‘And wish you didn’t, I dare say.’ Shirley Newson’s smile was affectionate, but wan. ‘Trevor’s a good man, but when his heart’s set on something he turns into a bull in a china shop. I know full well he ruined any chance we had of buying the place. All those stupid ideas about theme parks and the like.’ Her eyes flashed. ‘As if I’d have allowed that.’
She sighed. ‘But I suppose he thought he could make my dream come true, bless him, and turn a profit at the same time. It’s what he’s always done, so I can hardly blame him. But all I wanted was to live here quietly, doing the repairs bit by bit. Making it just like it was years ago, when my family worked here. Loving it, I suppose.’
She looked at Helen, biting her lip. ‘Now I guess you’ll call your security and have me thrown out.’
‘Actually,’ Helen said gently, ‘I was going to offer you a cup of tea, Mrs Newson. And another guided tour—if you’d like that.’
It had been an oddly agreeable couple of hours, Helen decided when her unexpected guest had left. Shirley Newson had spoken no more than the truth when she’d said she knew the house. She was as accurate about its history as Marion Lowell, but she was also a fund of stories—amusing, scandalous and poignant—about the Fraynes and their guests, which her relations had handed down to her, and which Helen, thoroughly intrigued, had never heard before.
Perhaps, she thought wryly, if the wife had come to conduct negotiations a year ago instead of the husband there might have been a different outcome. Perhaps …
Anyway, she thought, it was all too late now. And she sighed.
‘You did give Marc my message—about Lottie’s wedding?’ Helen tried to hide her bitter disappointment as she spoke. ‘Because it starts in just over an hour, and he’s cutting it incredibly fine if he intends to be here.’
‘Mrs Delaroche.’ Alan Graham’s voice had an edge to it. ‘Does it occur to you that there could be—circumstances which might make it difficult for Marc to leave Paris right now?’
Helen bit her lip. ‘Meaning Madame Angeline Vallon, I suppose?’ she challenged, too hurt and angry to be discreet.
Alan stared at her in open bewilderment. ‘You know about that?’ he asked incredulously.
‘Yes,’ she acknowledged curtly. ‘After all, it’s hardly a secret.’
‘You know?’ he repeated slowly. ‘And yet you carry on with your life as if it didn’t matter?’ He’d never been friendly, but now he sounded positively hostile.
Riled, Helen lifted her chin. ‘Marc makes his own choices,’ she said. ‘They have nothing to do with me. My world is here.’
His laugh was derisive. ‘And so as long as it’s looked after you don’t give a damn about anything else. I’d hoped that, all appearances to the contrary, you might actually care.’
Care? she thought. Care? Can’t you see I’m in agony here—falling apart?
She said freezingly, ‘You may be my husband’s friend, but that gives you no right to criticise me like this.’
‘Mrs Delaroche,’ he said, ‘you are perfectly correct about that, and you can have me removed from this project any time you like. I have other more worthwhile proposals in the pipeline.’
He paused. ‘I’m sure Marc will be at this wedding if it’s humanly possible. No matter what it may cost him. Because you’ve asked him to do it. Is that what you want to hear?’
And with a final scornful glance at her, he walked away.
Helen wasn’t sure if she had the power to fire him, but she knew she shouldn’t let the matter rest. That she should go after him—demand an explanation for his extraordinary behaviour.
Except she had a wedding to dress for, she thought, pushing her hair back from her face with an angry, restless hand. And if she had to attend it alone, she would do so looking like a million dollars.
Because no one was going to accuse her of wearing a broken heart on her sleeve.
She’d decided, after a lot of consideration, to wear her own wedding outfit again. After all, Marc had once suggested that she should do so at a party of their own, she remembered unhappily, and under the circumstances Lottie’s wedding reception was probably as good as it was going to get.
But once today was over, she told herself grimly, she would develop some attitude of her own—and deal with Alan Graham.
The service had already begun when she was aware of whispering behind her, and at the same moment Marc slipped into the pew beside her. She turned to look at him, lips parted, delight churning inside her—along with an almost savage yearning.
‘I—I didn’t think you’d be here,’ she breathed.
‘I had an invitation.’ His whispered reply was cool and unsmiling.
Helen sank back into her seat, her heart thumping painfully. What had she been hoping? That he’d kiss her, murmuring that he could not keep away when all the evidence was to the contrary?
She hadn’t been to many traditional weddings, and she’d almost forgotten the timeless resonances of the Prayer Book ceremony. Now they came flooding back with a kind of desperate poignancy, making her hands clench together in her lap and her throat tighten.
She watched Simon and Lottie with painful intensity—his unhidden tenderness, her glorious serenity—knowing that was how it should be when you were safe and loved.
If only Marc had looked at her like that, adoring her with his eyes, when they’d stood together to receive the same blessing the Vicar was pronouncing now, she thought passionately. And if only she’d been free to whisper the oldest vow of all—I love you as he bent to kiss her.
Because she knew now with terrible certainty that this was the truth she’d been fighting since she met him. That it wasn’t simply the beguilement of sexual union that she’d feared, but the deeper spiritual and emotional commitment that she’d tried to reject. The recognition that in this man—this stranger—she’d somehow met the other half of herself.
Everything else had been a blind—the bargain they’d made, even Monteagle itself.
But only for me, she thought, pain lancing her. Not for Marc. To him it was never more than a deal, and now he has what he wants he’s moved on.
She sent him a swift sideways glance from under her lashes, silently begging him to turn towards her—take her hand. But Marc sat unmoving, his profile like granite, his expression as remote as some frozen wasteland.
And she knew that if there’d been a moment when she might have captured his heart it was long gone. All she was left with was loneliness, stretching out into eternity.