Marriage Reclaimed. Sara Craven
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‘I was perfectly calm,’ she said, off the edge of her voice, ‘until you started your—rotten insinuations.’
‘Mea culpa.’ His tone was almost casual. ‘Consider yourself absolved—of that particular crime anyway. And don’t throw any more coffee about,’ he added, as her head lifted in shock and she glared at him.
‘Is this your idea of preserving the decencies?’ she demanded.
‘That’s in public,’ he said. ‘This is private—just between the two of us. Husband to wife.’
‘Is that how you still regard us?’ Joanna perched tensely on the edge of the sofa.
He shrugged. ‘It happens to remain a legal reality, however regrettable.’
‘But not for much longer.’ Joanna swallowed. ‘Gabriel, we married each other for all the wrong reasons, but it doesn’t have to be a life sentence. Not any more.’
‘What do you suggest?’
‘A quick divorce,’ she said. ‘Then we can both get on with our lives.’ She paused. ‘Actually, I—I wrote you a letter with my proposals. It’s on the desk in the study.’
‘How very efficient of you,’ he said slowly. ‘You certainly didn’t waste any time.’
‘It seemed to me we’d wasted enough already.’ She forced a smile. ‘And there’s nothing—no one—to keep us together any more.’
He said coldly. ‘I do not need to be reminded of that, thank you.’
She winced. ‘I’m sorry. But you know it’s true.’ She drew a deep breath. ‘We married each other because it was what Lionel wanted, and we made a wretched mess of it all.’ She hesitated. ‘I think he regretted it too.’
‘I know he did.’ Gabriel’s tone was dry.
‘Well, then,’ she prompted.
He got up and went over to the table to pour himself some more coffee.
‘I don’t think we should file for divorce before the funeral,’ he said, without turning. ‘It might look rather pointed.’
She stiffened. ‘I wasn’t suggesting that. And it’s not a joke.’
‘Bloody right, it isn’t,’ he said with sudden violence, and she jumped.
‘You were the one who wanted to talk,’ she said defensively.
‘I did not, however, choose this particular topic of conversation,’ he retorted, returning to his seat. ‘Maybe we should postpone it until we’re both feeling a little less raw.’
Her voice was uncertain. ‘But you said there were things to settle.’
‘About the funeral, mainly.’ His firm lips tightened. ‘One of the reasons I came back today was so that you wouldn’t have to handle things all by yourself.’
‘That was thoughtful of you,’ she said stiffly. ‘I made a list this morning of everything there was to do. Perhaps you’d better look through it and see what I’ve forgotten.’
‘I don’t think I dare,’ he murmured.
‘Gabriel—this isn’t easy for me. Lionel wasn’t just my father-in-law. He was my dearest friend. Whatever our personal feelings, we should—respect his memory and try to work together.’
‘That’s a good speech,’ he approved. ‘Did you think of it all by yourself?’
She got to her feet in one swift, angry movement. ‘Oh, this is impossible. Maybe I’m the one who should move to Midhampton.’
‘No.’ He rose too. ‘No—I apologise. You’re right. We’ve got to shelve our own problems and unite this last time for him. We both owe him that.’
‘Yes.’ Joanna bent her head. ‘It’s been rather a long day. I think I’ll go to bed.’
‘I’ll come up as well, once I’ve seen to the dogs. Do they still sleep in the rear hall?’
Joanna nodded. She’d pleaded tiredness, but she knew she would not sleep. Her stomach was in knots and her pulse-rate was going haywire.
She took the coffee tray back to the kitchen and then went upstairs. Gabriel caught up with her as she reached the gallery.
‘Where have you put me?’ His mouth curled slightly. ‘Not in your room, I’m sure.’
‘That’s hardly likely.’ She felt defensive colour invade her face.
But Gabriel wasn’t looking at her. He’d turned to stare down the length of the gallery to the door which led to the master suite. His voice sounded abrupt—almost remote. ‘And not in there, I hope.’
‘No,’ she said quickly. ‘I thought for the time being—your old room.’
He was very still, his gaze fixed on the closed door as if nothing else existed in that moment. His face was haggard, suddenly, and the tawny eyes were filled with a pain too deep for words.
The leopard, Joanna thought suddenly, was wounded. No longer the cool, invulnerable conqueror, but someone she wasn’t sure she recognised any more.
She felt her own hurt, her own grief well up inside her in response. Her hand went out to touch his arm. Her lips parted to say his name.
Then a door halfway down the gallery opened and Cynthia came out. She was wearing a white satin dressing gown, and her hair was loose on her shoulders. She had no make-up on and her eyes were red, as if she’d been crying non-stop for hours.
She looked, Joanna thought, about twenty years old.
Cynthia stared at Gabriel, her mouth trembling. ‘I thought I heard your voice,’ she said huskily. ‘Thank God you’ve come. It’s been so awful.’ Her voice broke. ‘So terrible. Oh, Gabriel, darling.’
She ran to him, burying her face in his shoulder, her whole body shaking as she pressed against him. And his arms closed round her, holding her.
It was, Joanna thought dispassionately, a brilliant performance. But somehow she had no desire to see any more of it.
She turned and went into her own room, shutting the door behind her, wishing, as she did so, that she could shut out the image of Gabriel and Cynthia together with equal ease.
And knowing, with heart-chilling certainty, that it was impossible.
IT WILL all be over soon. Joanna, smiling, shaking hands with departing mourners, heard the words echoing in her head over and over again like a mantra.
It was her own personal act of faith, she thought defiantly. Something to cling to in the ongoing nightmare of the past few days.
It had almost been a relief to lose herself in the beauty of the funeral service that morning. The ancient parish church had been crowded, the affection and emotion from the congregation almost tangible.
She had walked composedly up the aisle with Gabriel at her side, and if significant glances and whispered comments had been exchanged she hadn’t noticed them.
The only distraction from the age-old words of sorrow and farewell had been Cynthia’s ostentatiously muffled sobbing. But then her behaviour had been over the top all week, Joanna thought wearily.
Her stepmother, constituting herself chief mourner, had plagued the staff with constant demands for service. She’d also criticised all the arrangements for the funeral, from the choice of hymns to the food being served at the buffet, but without offering any alternatives or assistance.
And she had barely let Gabriel out of her