Jake Howard's Wife. Anne Mather
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for so much more than personality.
Jake's mother had been out of place at the wedding as he had known she would be, just as Helen was out of place with her. Mrs Howard had never been one to mince words and she made it painfully clear that she considered her son could have done much better. Her working-class morality revolted against this thing Jake was perpetrating, for even she could see that his emotions were in no way involved with this cool, haughty girl.
And yet, in spite of the incongruity of its beginnings, the arrangement had worked well for both of them. Jake's work took him abroad a lot and in the three years of their married life they had only spent about three months together. But for all that, Helen was there on those occasions when Jake needed her, and if their relationship had never progressed beyond the bounds of polite strangers, they were at least civil with one another, which was more than could be said for many of their acquaintances.
Jake had discovered that she had exquisite taste in furnishing and decoration, and his house in Belgravia had become quite a showplace. With an unlimited supply of money, Helen had allowed her talent free rein, and Jake was comfortably aware that his friends considered him a very lucky man to have such an accomplished as well as decorative wife.
The train was running into King's Cross now and Jake got to his feet and reached for his sheepskin coat. He put it on and then raked a careless hand through the thick darkness of his hair. He was a big man, tall and broad, yet he moved with the lithe feline grace of a panther. He was not handsome, no one could accuse him of that. His nose had been broken in fights at school and his forty years had carved lines of experience beside his mouth and eyes. Yet for all that, women seemed to find him very attractive, although he was not foolish enough to imagine that his material wealth did not add to the image.
The brakes ground into the iron wheels and the big diesel engine brought its load to a screeching halt at the barrier. Jake picked up his briefcase and emerged into the corridor just as the steward appeared with his cases. Latimer, his chauffeur, was waiting on the platform and he touched his cap politely when he saw Jake.
‘Good evening, sir. Had a good journey?'
‘Fine, thank you, Latimer. Are you well? Your wife?'
It was the usual greeting, the usual small talk as they walked down the platform to where the big limousine was waiting for them. The steward carried the cases, and passed them over to Latimer as they reached the car.
Jake slid behind the wheel and waited, lighting another cigar, tapping his fingers impatiently against the steering wheel. Now that he was here in London he was impatient to be home. It was more than three months since he had left for the United States.
Latimer finished stowing the luggage in the boot and came round to climb into the passenger's seat. Jake always preferred to drive himself unless he had work to do. The big car moved smoothly away and Jake relaxed. The snarl-ups of traffic in the city were of little consequence after the boardroom tactics he had had to face in San Francisco, and it was a relief to put all that behind him and concentrate on more ordinary things.
‘How is Mrs Howard, Latimer?’ Jake changed down rapidly and stood on his brakes as a brilliantly painted Mini shot across in front of him. ‘Did she get my flowers?'
Latimer cleared his throat. ‘Yes, sir, she got them. I believe she's very well, sir. I think everyone's had a taste of cold, though, since the weather changed.'
Jake nodded thoughtfully. ‘And your family are okay? How is that son of yours doing? The one at university. Do you think he'll go in for physics and chemistry?'
‘He wants to, sir.’ Latimer sounded enthusiastic. ‘His results are satisfying so far, I think. He's into his third year now, you know. I'm sure he appreciates your interest, sir.'
Jake's lips twisted a trifle ironically. He doubted whether Alan Latimer shared his father's attitude. Like all young people he was arrogant, and while he might be glad of a chance to work in the Howard Foundation laboratories, he certainly wouldn't beg for such a position. Jake admired his spunk. Alan was like he had been, eager to succeed and impatient of his father's dated ideas of one's station in life.
Jake's house stood in Kersland Square, a tall Georgian building with wrought-iron balcony rails and urns of flowering plants by the door. The door was painted white with a brass knocker, and it was one of a row of such houses all owned by business or professional people. Latimer, whose wife was also housekeeper in the establishment, and his family lived in the basement in a modern self-contained flat that was the envy of their friends and relations.
Jake stopped the limousine at the door and slid out.
‘Will you be needing me any more this evening, sir?’ Latimer had climbed out too and was standing awaiting instructions.
Jake turned up the collar of his coat against the cold night air. ‘I don't think so, thanks,’ he replied, shaking his head. ‘You can put the car away.'
‘Yes, sir.’ Latimer saluted and Jake turned and mounted the steps to the front door, letting himself in with his key.
He stepped into a wide hallway, carpeted in shades of blue and gold, with pale oak-panelled walls and a crystal chandelier suspended overhead. It was a beautiful entrance, its only piece of furniture an exquisitely engraved oak chest on which was standing a vase of dahlias, their closely curled heads providing dashes of colour against the panelling.
To the right and left of the hall, panelled doors gave on to dining and reception areas, and Jake's study. But these doors were presently closed, and Jake frowned as he unbuttoned his coat, throwing his briefcase carelessly on to the polished surface of the chest. Where was Helen? She always came out to greet him. Hadn't she heard the car? Or the door being opened?
He threw off his coat and was about to cross the hall when the door at the back of the stairs which led to the kitchen and basement quarters opened and Mrs Latimer appeared.
She smiled warmly, and took his coat from him. ‘Good evening, sir, and welcome home! Have you had a good trip?'
Jake forced himself to be polite. ‘Fine, thanks, Mrs Latimer. How are you?’ The question was perfunctory, and he glanced round impatiently.
Mrs Latimer answered quietly, her gentle face troubled. She was a small woman, with greying brown hair and a friendly countenance. She had been with Jake for the last ten years, since her youngest child was old enough to fend for itself, while her husband had worked for him for over thirteen years. They knew their employer very well by this time, and she sensed his intelligent query.
‘Where is Mrs Howard?'
Mrs Latimer coloured. ‘I'm afraid she's out, sir.'
The hell she is! Jake suppressed the angry outburst. ‘Where?'
‘I'm not sure, sir. She didn't say. I only know she's with Mr Mannering.'
‘Mannering?’ Jake was astonished. ‘Keith Mannering?'
‘I believe so, sir.’ Mrs Latimer looked uncomfortable. ‘Er—I've dinner ready, sir. I expect you're hungry. If—if you'd like to wash—'
Jake loosened his tie. ‘Tell me,’ he interrupted her, his eyes distant, ‘did my wife know I was expected home this evening?'
‘Of course, sir. Your flowers arrived from Glasgow yesterday evening.'
‘I see.’ Jake narrowed his eyes, the feeling of homecoming, of complacency almost, which he had felt coming here in the car vanishing beneath a tide of fierce resentment. ‘Very well, Mrs Latimer. I'll take a shower. I'll eat in'—he consulted the broad gold watch on his wrist—‘in say twenty minutes.'
‘Yes, sir.’ Mrs Latimer nodded politely, and without another word Jake went up the stairs, taking them two at a time, his temper simmering.
He thrust open the door of his bedroom and entered the room, kicking the door to behind him. It was an attractive room, chocolate brown walls and an apricot bedspread toning well with light oak furniture and deeper apricot drapes. In the light of the lamp by