From Mistresses To Wives?: Mistress to a Bachelor / His Mistress by Marriage / Accidental Mistress. Susan Napier
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possible, unfortunately, we’re all of us stuck with the mistakes we make. You agreed to do this for my grandfather’s sake, not mine. He’s the one you’d be letting down.’
Jessica bit her lip. ‘All right. I’ll do my best.’
‘Thanks.’ His tone had softened. ‘You’re one in a million, Jess!’
For once she allowed the shortening of her name to pass. There were far more important things to think about.
It was coming up to six o’clock when they finally reached their destination. Lying a couple of miles from the coast, Whitegates turned out to be a converted nineteenth-century farmhouse set within several acres of land. Getting from the car on the wide fronting driveway, Jessica stood for a moment to view the place, loving its timelessness, its air of tranquillity.
‘Not what you were expecting?’ asked Zac, moving back to open the boot.
‘I hadn’t actually thought about it,’ she admitted. ‘I suppose if I had, I might have imagined something built to order.’
‘More suited to a retired elderly couple?’
‘Well…yes. This is wonderful, but it must be a lot of work.’
‘A fair amount,’ he agreed. ‘But help isn’t too much of a problem. They have a daily maid-cum-cook, plus a whole army of cleaners, gardeners, whatever, to call on.’
Silly of her to think otherwise considering the family background, Jessica reflected. Finances would hardly be strained.
The woman who appeared at the top of the steps leading up to a side door fitted no conventional grandmother image for certain. Tall and slim in a pair of tailored blue trousers and matching shirt, her silvered hair superbly cut to frame her face, she looked nowhere near her age.
‘I was beginning to wonder if you were ever going to get here,’ she said. The smile she gave Jessica was strained. ‘It’s so nice to meet you at last.’
‘I’m only sorry it had to be under these circumstances,’ Jessica rejoined, hating herself for her part in this travesty—hating Zac even more at the moment for involving her in the first place.
‘Where is Grandfather?’ asked Zac.
‘In the sitting room waiting for you.’ The faded blue eyes appraised the bags he was carrying, lingering on Jessica’s so much larger suitcase. ‘How long are you planning on staying?’
‘No set plan.’ Zac ignored Jessica’s swift glance. He pressed a kiss to his grandmother’s cheek. ‘How’s he taking it?’
To Jessica, the expression that flickered across the older woman’s face was more reminiscent of discomfiture than distress. Her tone when she answered was oddly evasive.
‘As he takes everything. He’s very much looking forward to seeing you both.’ The pause was brief. ‘He’d prefer you didn’t mention his condition. Just treat him as normal.’
The side door led directly into a big stone-floored kitchen. Apart from the dark green Aga range fitted into a wide recess that had probably once been the fireplace, the room was unmodernised, with solid old cupboards and dressers, its rough plastered walls painted a deep warm terracotta. Exposed beams ran across the ceiling.
The woman preparing vegetables at one of the two Belfast sinks looked round with a smile at their entry.
‘Nice to see you again, Mr Zac.’ The glance she cast Jessica’s way was frankly curious. ‘Congratulations to you both!’
Zac returned the smile. ‘Thanks. Jessica, meet Dulcie.’
Jessica made a suitable acknowledgement of both introduction and wishes, gearing herself for what was still to come. She felt terrible again already, and this was only the beginning. The thought of facing a dying man with the same lies on her lips made her want to throw up.
They left the bags where Zac had dropped them, and followed his grandmother across a wide hall to a beamed sitting room beautifully furnished and decorated in period. The figure stretched out on a sofa beneath one of the mullioned windows appeared to be sleeping. Lean in build, with a full head of white hair above a thin but by no means emaciated face, he looked far from the frail old man Jessica had been anticipating.
‘Don’t waken him,’ she said impulsively as Mrs Prescott reached to touch his shoulder. ‘He must need all the sleep he can get.’
She was too late. He was already opening his eyes. Grey eyes, like his grandson’s, though lacking the steely clarity. She found a smile as they locked onto her face.
‘Hello, Mr Prescott. I’m Jessica.’
‘Welcome to the family, Jessica,’ he said, with none of the confusion that might be expected of someone just woken from sleep. ‘I’ve waited a long time for this.’
‘Let Zac help…’ she began as he made to lever himself upright, breaking off as she recalled his wife’s injunction.
‘I don’t need cosseting,’ he rejoined without particular inflection.
His wife looked as if she was about to make some comment, spreading her hands in a dismissive gesture as he gave her a frowning glance. ‘Pull up a chair for the girl, Zac,’ he commanded.
Zac did so, face revealing little of what was going on inside his head. Jessica could only hope his guilt was eating him up to the same degree.
‘So tell me about yourself,’ the old man invited. ‘You’ve certainly got the looks I’d have expected, but there has to be more to you than that to throw a noose round this grandson of mine.’
Jessica shook herself inwardly. Dying he might be, easy to fool he most certainly wasn’t. She was going to need all her wits about her to make this convincing.
‘I’ve no hidden depths,’ she disclaimed. ‘What you see is what you get.’
The chuckle was unexpected. ‘I’ll form my own judgement. So, how did the two of you meet?’
Forward planning certainly paid off, came the fleeting thought. ‘At a party,’ she said.
‘You were drawn to one another across a crowded room, eh?’
She gave a laugh, drawing on her imagination. ‘Actually, we ran into one another—literally—dancing. I put a heel in Zac’s instep, so it was hardly what you’d call an auspicious beginning.’
‘It obviously made an impression on him.’
‘Like being poleaxed!’ Zac’s tone was light. ‘I’ve been out of circulation ever since.’
‘One good woman is worth a thousand of the other kind,’ his grandfather rejoined. ‘You’ve sown enough wild oats.’
‘A man must do what a man must do,’ Jessica observed blandly, opting for a bold approach. ‘I daresay you did some sowing of your own before you met your wife.’
‘I was married at twenty,’ he said.
She bit her lip. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘No need.’ He was obviously enjoying her discomfiture. ‘How about you? Ever been in love before?’
Jessica met the shrewd gaze head on. ‘I might have thought I was.’
‘But you know the difference now?’
In for a penny, in for a pound! she thought, unable to prevaricate her way around a straight question. She softened both voice and expression. ‘Oh, yes!’
Henry Prescott had subsided back into the cushions, though not, it was apparent, with the intention of drifting off to sleep again.
‘What about family?’ he asked.
‘My parents are divorced,’ she said, reconciling herself to the inevitable. ‘Both of them remarried.’