Three Weeks in Paris. Barbara Taylor Bradford
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known they would end, that she would have a different life when she was older.
And now she did. She had everything she had ever wanted, had ever dreamed about…a husband who was not only young and handsome but an aristocrat, an ancient historic house she called home, a big career as a fashion designer, fame, success…
But no child.
No heir for Ian.
No boy to be the laird of these vast estates and holdings, one day in the far distant future, when Ian was dead and they proclaimed a new Master of Lochcraigie.
She sighed under her breath. It was an old story. After a moment she increased her pace, almost running down to the loch. The body of water was flat and grey, leaden under the wintry sky, and she did not plan to linger long. The air had grown much colder and there was a hint of snow on the wind. But she walked along the edge of the water for fifteen minutes, always enjoying the tranquil view, the sense of peace that was all-pervasive here.
On her way back, she took the paved path which led her past the Dower House where Ian’s mother lived. For a moment she thought of dropping in to see her mother-in-law, but changed her mind. It would soon be four o’clock and Ian would be home; she longed to see him, to assuage her anxiety about him. She had plans for tonight, big plans, and she wanted him to be in the right frame of mind. If she were absent when he arrived, he could be put out.
And so she passed the Dower House and climbed the narrow steps, thinking of Ian’s mother. She was a lovely woman, with impeccable manners, manners bred in the bone, and a kind and loving heart. She had always been her champion, and for that Kay was grateful.
Margaret Andrews had been born a Hepburn, and her family was somehow distantly related to the ill-fated James Hepburn, Earl of Bothwell, third husband of Mary Queen of Scots, who had died a terrible death in Denmark, imprisoned in the dungeons of a remote castle. Kay hated the story of Bothwell’s death. It always upset her; she couldn’t bear to think of that virile, vigorous and handsome man dying in such a ghastly way. And yet the story haunted her…She chastised herself now for her morbid thoughts of Bothwell, and ran across the lawn to the terrace in front of the conservatory. A second later she let herself into the house.
Kay knew at once that Ian was in a good mood as he walked into the conservatory just after four. He was smiling, and when she went to greet him he hugged her close and kissed her cheek. ‘You look bonny,’ he said to her as he moved away, went and stood with his back to the fire.
She smiled back at him. Thank you. Hazel just brought the tea in, Ian. Shall I pour you a cup?’
He nodded. ‘It was a long drive back, and I thought I was going to hit snow, but so far it’s held off.’
‘Not quite,’ Kay said, and pointedly looked towards the window. ‘It’s just started.’
He followed her gaze, saw the snowflakes coming down heavily. But he laughed and said, ‘It looks as if we might get snowed in, Kay.’
‘I don’t care! Do you?’
‘No. Well, let’s have tea then.’
They sat down on the wicker furniture grouped in front of the fire, and Kay poured for them both, looking across at him surreptitiously as she did.
Ian appeared to be happier this afternoon than he had in a while, more lighthearted and carefree than was usual. He also looked younger, unusually boyish today, but perhaps that was because his fair hair was tousled from the wind and he wore an open-neck shirt under a pale blue sweater with a vee neckline. Very collegiate, and vulnerable, she thought, and smiled, thinking of her plans.
Ian said, ‘Actually, I hope the snow doesn’t stick. It really would be quite awful if we had to cancel tomorrow’s birthday lunch.’
Kay nodded in agreement. ‘Let’s not worry about the lunch now. I heard a weather report earlier on the radio, and it’s supposed to be sunny tomorrow, and also much warmer.’
Ian smiled at her, and surveyed the tray of sandwiches and fancy cakes. ‘My goodness, Hazel’s done us proud this afternoon,’ he murmured and reached for a sandwich, bit into it. ‘Mmmmm…this is delicious. I see she’s put out most of my favourite things.’
‘By the way, Ian, what did you end up getting Fiona?’
‘What do you mean?’
Kay gave him a baffled look, and exclaimed, ‘The gift, for her birthday. What is it?’
‘Oh yes…a pair of earrings. Rather nice, I’ll show them to you later.’
They fell into a companionable silence, sipping their tea and eating the little sandwiches and cream cakes in front of the blazing fire. Outside the windows it was snowing heavily now, and settling on the ground, but neither of them noticed, preoccupied as they were with their own thoughts.
Kay couldn’t help feeling taut inside, even though Ian appeared to be so relaxed and at ease with himself and with her.
He was more like his old self, and this was a good omen. She planned to seduce him later, planned a night of lovemaking, and it was important that he was in the right mood. She believed he was…at least at the moment. She prayed it would last. And with a little luck she would get pregnant. She must. So much depended on it.
For his part, Ian was thinking about his trip to Edinburgh. It had been interesting, to say the least, and he was glad he had made the effort to go. And he was happy with the purchases. He hoped Fiona would like his gift, certainly it had been carefully chosen. He looked at his wife, and couldn’t help thinking how beautiful she looked today, and desirable…he let that thought slide away…
Kay broke the silence when she confided, ‘The FedEx envelope I received yesterday was an invitation…an invitation to go to Anya Sedgwick’s eighty-fifth birthday party in Paris.’
‘I don’t have to go too, do I?’ Ian asked, frowning, looking worried. ‘You know how I hate travelling.’
‘No, of course not,’ she answered quickly. She didn’t even bother to tell him that only her name was on the invitation. But she did think to add, ‘I’m not going to go either.’
Ian stared at her, apparently puzzled and surprised. ‘Whyever not?’
‘I don’t really want to see people I haven’t seen in seven years…I lost touch with my friends when I graduated.’
‘But you’ve always admired Anya.’
‘That’s true, she’s the most fascinating woman I’ve ever met, a genius, too.’
‘Well, then?’ He raised a sandy brow.
‘I don’t know…’
‘I think you should go to her party, Kay, just out of respect.’
‘Perhaps you’re right. I’ll think about it.’
By the time they had finished their tea the snow had settled on the ground, and it was continuing to fall steadily. Outside, it was growing darker and darker; the dusky twilight of late afternoon had long since been obliterated, and already a few sparse early stars sprinkled the sky.
But in the snug conservatory all was warmth and cosiness. The fire roared in the great stone hearth, constantly replenished with logs and peat by Ian; the table lamps cast a lovely lambent glow throughout, and in the background music played softly.
Ian had turned on the radio earlier, to listen to the weather report, and after hearing that heavy snow was expected, he had tuned in to a station playing popular music. Now the strains of Lady in Red, sung by Chris De Burgh, echoed softly around the conservatory.
The two of them had been silent for a while, when at one moment