Stronger Than Yearning. PENNY JORDAN
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had been so traumatic that it had somehow frozen her ability to grow to full womanhood. Inside she was still a frightened teenager, Jenna told herself as she stepped out of the lift, and the only way she could ever contemplate marriage would be if it were merely a business arrangement, excluding any form of physical contact.
She closed her eyes briefly in a surge of mental torment as she imagined the reaction of the men who knew her in her business life if they were ever to discover the truth. She would instantly lose all her credibility and be demoted to the role of ‘frigid spinster’. That was the reason why she had always been at such pains to cultivate the glamorous sophisticated image she had been surprised to find herself labelled with when she first started working for John Howard. It made a very safe barrier to hide behind and she had played the part for so long now that it was almost second nature.
The receptionist behind the desk greeted her with a respectful smile and buzzed through on her intercom as Jenna sat down. She wasn’t kept waiting long, and as she was shown through into the partners’ office Jenna noted that it was Craig Manners, the senior partner, who held open the door for her and pulled out her chair.
‘Jenna … what can we do for you?’ he asked her once his secretary had poured their coffee.
‘Not an awful lot on this occasion,’ Jenna told him, crossing one slim leg over the other as she watched him quickly mask his disappointment. In the past, she had put several good contracts their way. Sometimes her clients wanted more than mere interior redecoration and once they started talking about structural alterations Jenna was always firm about insisting they sought qualified advice. She herself was no architect or builder and while design-wise she could often help her clients to crystallise their somewhat vague ideas, she was scrupulous about telling them that she had no qualifications in those other fields.
‘I was hoping you might be able to supply me with the name of a good architect in Yorkshire,’ she told him.
‘Yorkshire — rather far afield for you, isn’t it?’
Briefly she explained the situation to him.
‘So you intend moving your business up there as well?’ He frowned slightly. ‘Are you sure that’s a wise move in these recessionary times?’
‘I will be keeping on an office and staff in London,’ Jenna informed him, half resenting his almost paternalistic criticism.
‘Well, you know best …’ His hurried backing-off made Jenna suppress a faint smile. ‘And as to giving you the name of an architect, quite by coincidence an old friend of mine has a partnership in York.’ He jotted down a name and address on his notepad and handed it to Jenna.
‘They’re a first-class firm, and they have a department specialising in restoration work. They should be able to find you a good builder — but if you have any problems …’
Jenna got up shaking her head. ‘No … I …’
Craig got up too. ‘Before you leave London, Jenna, we must have lunch together … or dinner,’ he added speculatively.
‘That would be lovely, but I doubt that I’ll have the time, I’m afraid,’ Jenna replied diplomatically, avoiding his eyes. She was always wary when male colleagues proffered dinner invitations, and had a rule that she always refused them unless they included other people.
Why was it that even the most domesticated of the male species could never seem to resist trying their luck? Was it male instinct to pursue almost every unattached female that crossed their path?
She had several more meetings that morning, culminating in lunch with her bank manager. This was the appointment she was most dreading. She could, with patience and charm, just about manage to persuade Harley and her accountants that she had sound business reasons for what she was doing, but Gordon Burns was another matter.
She had used the same bankers right from the start of her career, although it was only more latterly, since her business had been successful that her branch’s most senior manager, Gordon Burns, had taken charge of her banking affairs.
He was a stooping, grizzled Scot, with an extremely shrewd mind and a dry sense of humour, which she enjoyed, and Jenna suspected he would prove far more difficult to convince than Harley had been. She had already endured one rather uncomfortable telephone call with Gordon Burns when she had had to increase the amount of her proposed loan. He hadn’t turned her down, but Jenna had sensed a cautious note of censure in his voice when he reminded her of the heavy financial burden she would be taking on.
He greeted her warmly enough, taking her coat and smiling at her. In his late fifties with a wealth of banking experience behind him, he always treated her with an olde-worlde masculine courtesy that was something of an anachronism, and yet, strangely enough, out of all her male colleagues and advisers he was the only one, who, when it came down to business, treated her exactly as he might another man.
Once they were seated he got briskly down to business, shaking his head a little as he studied the computer figures spread out on his desk. ‘Your turnover for the past couple of years,’ he told Jenna indicating the figures to her, and shaking his head slightly. ‘You don’t need me to tell you just how finely you’re cutting things, Jenna, and I won’t mince matters with you, I don’t like it.’
‘But you still gave me the loan?’
He grimaced faintly. ‘From the bank’s point of view it’s good business. The money’s out on loan to you at an extremely profitable rate of interest to us, and it’s well secured by the deeds on your London apartment and the old Hall itself. No, my concern isn’t for the bank’s money,’ he told her rather grimly, ‘but for your ability to repay it. You’ve taken on one hell of a burden. The interest repayments alone are going to amount to …’ He named a figure that made Jenna wince. ‘I know you’re doing very well at the moment, but what you’re talking about doing now is virtually to start again and new ventures are notorious for swallowing up money — oh, I’m not saying you won’t be successful in the North, only that you might find yourself with a cashflow problem and that’s if you’re lucky. If you’re not lucky, you could lose the lot.’
It was no more than Jenna knew herself, but to hear it said out loud so pragmatically made her stomach clench and her throat close up.
‘What monies are you likely to have coming in over the next six months?’ He turned to some cashflow forecasts Harley had drawn up for her and studied them thoughtfully.
‘Umm … not too bad, but I’d like to see at least a couple more large, guaranteed contracts.’ He frowned, and tapped thoughtfully on his desk. ‘I’ll be honest with you, Jenna. On paper it looks viable but my banker’s nose warns me against it.’
Jenna felt her heart sink. Bankers were notoriously cautious, she comforted herself a little later over lunch, and yet she knew that Gordon Burns had paid her the compliment of being honest with her, and that if she were wise she would listen to what he had to say. But she was committed now, she reminded herself. It was too late to change her mind, even had she wanted to do so. Just for a moment the image of James Allingham’s grim face rose up before her. He would probably buy the house from … But no! She wasn’t going to sell it. She didn’t want to sell it, least of all to him!
By the time their lunch was over she had managed to persuade herself that the picture was not as black as Gordon Burns had painted it. True, financially she would be rather stretched … but she would survive. It was in a mood of optimism that she returned to the empty apartment later in the afternoon. Lucy was still out, and after making herself a pot of tea, Jenna settled herself at her desk and gave herself up to the pleasure of planning out the restoration to its former glory of the old Hall.
Because it had two wings it would easily adapt to the dual purpose she had in mind of business premises and home. The Georgian wing would be her business showcase, with the older part of the building restored and adapted as a home for herself and Lucy. Once she had started, enthusiasm gripped her, and it was the growing dusk that eventually made her stop, massaging her cramped fingers as she put down her pen.
She