His Rags-to-Riches Bride. Susan Stephens
Читать онлайн книгу.
the past had finally been laid to rest, she might be able to find peace—of a kind.
In the short term, something soothing to drink might help, she decided, trailing into the kitchen. Perhaps Mrs Evershott’s tried and trusted remedy for insomnia would be the answer.
She heated milk and poured it into a beaker, adding a spoonful of honey and a grating of nutmeg, wondering, as she did so, what had happened to the housekeeper who’d looked after them all for so long. Hoping that she’d found a family who would value her as she deserved, and not become another casualty of the upheaval that had affected all their lives.
She took the beaker into the room she would now have to think of as hers, and sipped the milk slowly as she prepared for bed. Her final action before she climbed under the covers was to return her address book to her bag.
It would be far better at this stage simply to keep quiet about her return, she told herself. To find a job, keep her head down, and wait for Daniel to finish refurbishing his property and move out before she made contact with any old friends.
It would not be for long, she told herself. Nothing lasted for ever—not joy, not grief, perhaps not love either—and this present situation would also pass—eventually.
She might even be able to make a joke of it. It was hideously awkward, of course. And as he was leaving we agreed it was just as well we didn’t stay married, or we’d have surely killed each other.
Or she could be terribly casual and civilised instead. No, it wasn’t really a problem. We were always friends, you know, long before the marriage thing. And now we’re friends again, so it worked out well, in a funny way.
It might be better not to mention it at all. Pretend it had never happened.
She stifled a sigh. She would decide on her approach as and when it became necessary. And for the time being she had other priorities.
Switching off the lamp, she turned on her side and tried to relax. To compose herself for sleep. But her mind was relentlessly awake and buzzing with images.
With memories as sharp and painful as a knife wound.
Simon’s body, and that of his climbing partner Carlo Marchetti, had never been recovered—even though Daniel had travelled out to the base camp with offers of money and resources to spearhead a renewed search—so it had been a memorial service rather than a funeral that had taken place at their local parish church.
And the days leading up to it had been just as bad as Daniel had warned, or even worse, with Laine’s own grieving process having to be put on hold while she supported her mother through this crisis.
And not just her mother. Because Candida had seemed to take up residence, as if she was Simon’s widow, and Laine had begun to wonder if she had any plans to leave.
At the service Angela had looked ethereal, in a new and expensive black velvet coat, as she’d walked, with Jamie, down the aisle of the crowded church to the front pew. Candida had followed, clinging to Daniel’s arm, thus ensuring that Laine was left to bring up the rear.
Many of the mourners had come back to the house afterwards, and Laine had been kept busy helping Mrs Evershott offer sherry and other refreshments, while her mother had drooped on the sofa, with Candida in close attendance.
And when everyone had gone, it had been time for another ritual—the reading of Simon’s will.
It had been made hurriedly, just before his departure, and he’d only had one thing of real value to bequeath—a flat in Mannion Place, London, which he’d inherited from his father, and left jointly to Jamie and Laine, together with the accruing rent from the flat’s sitting tenants, a Mr and Mrs Beaumont.
‘What is this nonsense?’ Angela was suddenly wilting no longer, but sitting bolt upright, her eyes blazing. ‘That property was part of my husband’s estate. I always understood Simon was to have a life interest only. So it should have reverted to me.’
Mr Hawthorn, the family solicitor, had coughed dryly. ‘No, it was an outright bequest, Mrs Sinclair, and your son was entitled to dispose of it as he saw fit. And his brother and sister are his sole beneficiaries.’
Even in the depth of her bewilderment at this turn of events, Laine was suddenly conscious of Candida’s white face and set mouth, and realised that Simon’s last wishes had not mentioned her either.
Daniel had deliberately stayed away from the reading, and eventually Laine went in search of him, thankful to escape from the house for a while. She found him at the end of the garden, standing on the bank of the river, skimming stones across the surface of the water, his face grim. She said his name with a touch of uncertainty and he turned to look at her, with no lightening of his expression.
‘Is there something you want?’
She tried to smile. ‘Just to get away for a while.’ She paused. ‘I suppose you know about Simon’s legacy?’
It was Dan’s turn to hesitate. ‘He mentioned it—yes. You should be pleased. I gather it’s a valuable piece of real estate.’
‘It must be,’ she said. ‘Judging by the tide of ill-feeling running at the moment.’ She bit her lip. ‘My mother is suggesting that Jamie and I should refuse the bequest and pass the flat, and its rent, over to her.’
‘Well, Jamie must make up his own mind,’ he said flatly. ‘But fortunately any decision is out of your hands until you’re eighteen. And at present I imagine your trustees will take a very different view of the matter.’
‘Maybe Si should have left the flat to Candida,’ she said slowly. ‘After all, she was going to be his wife, and she gets nothing,’ she added, hating herself for not caring more. ‘I suppose he assumed he’d be coming back, and could change things later.’
He turned back to the river. ‘Yes,’ he said harshly. ‘I believe that’s exactly what he thought.’
‘It’s so awful without him,’ she said, in a small, subdued voice. ‘Everything’s such a mess.’
‘More than you know.’ He spoke the words half under his breath, then forced a faint smile as she looked at him in bewilderment. ‘But you’ll soon be out of it, Laine. After all, you’ll be going back to Randalls in a few days.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Is it very dreadful of me to wish I was there now?’
‘No,’ he said quietly. ‘I don’t think so. I think Si would understand completely.’
There was another silence, then she said, ‘The boat’s there,’ nodding towards the elderly dinghy. She added wistfully, ‘Do you think we might go out in it—for old times’ sake?’
‘No time, I’m afraid.’ His voice was crisp and cool. ‘I have to be leaving. I fly to Sydney tomorrow, and I have some stuff to collate before I go.’
‘Oh,’ she said, struggling to hide her disappointment. ‘I see. Yes, of course. And I’d better go back too. They’ll be wondering where I am.’ She hesitated again. ‘Dan—about the flat. Someone should talk to Mother—calm her down like Simon used to do.’ She swallowed. ‘I suppose you couldn’t …?’
‘Too damned right.’ There was real anger in his voice. ‘Get it into your head, Laine. I am not Simon, and I can’t take his place—even if I wanted to. Besides, he couldn’t divert your mother once she’d really got her teeth stuck into a grievance. You know that.’
‘I suppose so.’ She sighed. ‘I don’t know what to do.’
‘Then do nothing,’ he said. ‘She’ll get over it. You concentrate on passing your exams and going off to university next year. You have a career to plan—a future—a whole life. You have to let your mother go her own way, for better or worse.’
‘I’m sorry.’ She was more than sorry. She was mortified. ‘I didn’t mean to impose.’
He