Worthy Of Marriage. Anne Weale
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About an hour later, after passing through a pretty village in an area that seemed to have escaped the urban development of much of southern England, the car entered the grounds of a large old house partially covered with Virginia creeper. Near the house the drive forked, one way leading round to the back of the building, the other opening into a large oval of gravel. Slowly, in order not to splatter the gravel on the surrounding lawn, the chauffeur drove in a half circle, bringing the car to a standstill a few yards from the front door.
About five minutes earlier, Lucia had seen him make a brief call on a mobile telephone. Evidently he had been notifying someone in the house of their arrival. As he opened the door for her, the front door opened and a woman appeared.
Stepping out of the car, Lucia thought at first that the stranger was in her late forties or early fifties. She was wearing a white shirt and blue denim skirt. A braided leather belt circled her slim waist. Her fair hair was brushed back from her forehead and cut in a classic bob. Her only make-up seemed to be lipstick.
‘Miss Graham…welcome. My name is Rosemary.’ She held out her hand, taking Lucia’s in a firm clasp. ‘I’m sure you are longing for some coffee. Come in and relax and I will explain the situation. You must be curious to know why you are here.’
After releasing Lucia’s hand, she took her lightly by the elbow to usher her into the house as if she were a welcome guest.
As they entered a spacious hall dominated by a wide flight of stairs with its lowest steps gracefully curved, Lucia noticed at once that the walls were adorned with numerous paintings.
So were the walls in the large drawing room where coffee things were set out on a table near the open French windows overlooking a terrace and a large well-kept garden.
With a gesture inviting Lucia to seat herself in a comfortable armchair, Rosemary sat down in another and reached for the tall china coffee pot.
‘Miss Harris and I went to the same school,’ she said, referring to the prison governor. ‘She is much younger than I am. She was one of the new girls I had to take under my wing when I was in my last year. We’ve met and talked at several Old Girls’ reunions. If she hadn’t known me, she might not have let me persuade her to have you brought here.’
Lucia said nothing. Compared with the place she had come from, this beautiful high-ceilinged room seemed overwhelmingly luxurious. She felt as if she might be dreaming and, at any moment, would wake up to find it was all an illusion.
The other woman handed her a cup of fragrant coffee. ‘Please help yourself to cream and sugar, if you take them.’
It was then that Lucia realised Rosemary was older than she had thought. The front of the house had been in shade. Here in the south-facing drawing room, the mid-morning sunlight revealed a network of lines round her hostess’s eyes and mouth. She was at least sixty-five.
‘I won’t keep you in suspense any longer,’ said Rosemary, smiling at her. ‘When I left school, I wanted to be an artist. During my first year at art college, I met my husband. He wanted me to concentrate on being a wife and mother. To please him—I was terribly in love—I let my ambitions go.’
She paused for a moment, obviously remembering the time when she had made that decision.
‘Two years ago my husband died. Like most widows, I found it hard to adjust to living alone. I have four very dear children who are enormously supportive. But they have their own lives to lead. One of them thought I should start painting again. So I did. Now I need someone to accompany me on painting trips abroad. I don’t fancy going on my own. I thought you might like to come with me…as a combination of painting companion and private courier. How does the idea strike you?’
From her own point of view, it struck Lucia as a gift from the gods, but also as an act of madness on Rosemary’s part.
‘Why me?’ she said.
‘Because, as I understand it, you have nowhere to go, and you have the right qualifications. You’re an accomplished painter and, equally importantly, a naturally caring person, as you proved by nursing your father so devotedly.’
Lucia stared at her, baffled. ‘How can you trust me?’ she asked.
‘My dear, you were convicted of fraud…not murder. In my view it was unnecessarily harsh to send you to prison. There are situations in which any of us may be driven to acts quite foreign to our normal natures. You found yourself in one of those situations. What you did wasn’t right…but it wasn’t the kind of thing to put you beyond the pale of decent society. At least I don’t think so.’
She had scarcely finished speaking when the door opened and they were joined by a tall, dark-haired man who would have been formally dressed in a city suit had he not taken off the coat, now slung over his arm, removed his tie and opened the collar of his shirt.
As he entered the room, his face showed the smiling expectation of someone sure of finding someone he liked there. This changed to surprise as he took in Lucia’s presence. It was clear that he didn’t recognise her.
She recognised him immediately. How could she ever forget him? This was the man who had played an important part in bringing her to trial and sending her to prison. His contemptuous glances as he stood in the witness box and she sat in the dock, listening to the evidence that had led to her conviction, had haunted her during the long, often sleepless nights in her cell.
‘Oh…hello, darling…I wasn’t expecting to see you today,’ said Rosemary, looking slightly disconcerted. She turned to Lucia. ‘This is my son Grey.’ She introduced him as if they had no previous connection with each other. ‘Grey, this is Lucia Graham.’
Clearly the name didn’t ring a bell with him. At her trial, he had struck Lucia as a man with an excellent memory. But the day of their previous encounter had not been as important to him as to her. Once she had been dealt with, he had probably deleted her from his mental database.
Also she had looked different then. Her hair had been fashionably short and colour-rinsed. Now it was long and back to its natural light brown. She was thinner. Few people would recognise her as the young woman whose face had appeared in both the tabloid and broad-sheet newspapers.
He came towards her.
Instinctively Lucia stood up, bracing herself for the moment when recognition dawned.
‘How do you do?’ He offered his hand.
She felt compelled to respond and to force a smile, but being friendly didn’t feel right. So this was why Rosemary hadn’t given her surname; knowing that, if she had, Lucia would have got to hell out of here.
After releasing her hand, Grey Calderwood turned his attention to his mother, stooping to brush a kiss on her cheek.
Straightening, he said, ‘It’s been a tough week. I felt like a day in the country.’
Someone else came into the room: a grey-haired woman in a plain blouse and skirt. She was carrying a cup and saucer. ‘I saw you coming from upstairs, Mr Grey,’ she said, smiling up at him.
‘Thanks, Braddy.’ He took the cup from her. As she was leaving, he filled it with coffee. ‘I’m not interrupting anything, I hope?’ The question was directed at both his mother and her guest. Then, to Lucia, he said, ‘Mine being the only car outside, I take it you live locally, Ms Graham?’
‘I hope Lucia is going to live here,’ said Rosemary Calderwood. ‘I’ve just offered her the job of being my painting partner.’
‘Oh really?’ Leaving the cup on the table, her son moved to the back of a nearby wing chair and pushed it closer to where they were sitting. As he sat down and crossed his long legs, he looked at Lucia more closely than he had before.
Any moment now…she thought.
And a few seconds later it happened: he switched on a different part of his brain and it processed her name and came up with all the facts it had been ignoring.
His