Marriage Reclaimed. Sara Craven
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to me that you might try to put a spoke in my wheel. Play dog in the manger.’ A slight acid entered her voice.
‘If it comes to that, the place doesn’t actually belong to me yet,’ Joanna pointed out levelly. ‘Henry Fortescue and Gabriel are joint executors. Presumably they have no objection.’
‘Well, Gabriel certainly doesn’t.’ Cynthia stretched voluptuously. ‘It was all his own idea.’ She looked at Joanna from under her lashes. ‘But I don’t suppose he told you that. After all, it wouldn’t be very tactful—under the circumstances.’
Joanna had the strangest feeling that she’d just been pierced to the heart with a spear of ice.
Her voice, too, seemed to be coming from some far distance. And to belong to a stranger. ‘In other words, it’s more convenient for both of you to conduct your affair under a different roof. No, he’d hardly be likely to mention that.’
Cynthia shrugged again. ‘Naturally, he’d want to spare your feelings, darling. While you’re still officially his wife, that is.’
Joanna recovered herself. ‘But you, clearly, have no such compunction.’ Her tone was dry.
Cynthia laughed. ‘Well, I’d already told you my intentions.’
‘Does Gabriel know that?’
‘Well, hardly.’ Cynthia’s tone was dismissive. ‘Men are such egotists, darling. He wouldn’t want to know you’d given your permission, as it were. I expect, in his heart of hearts, he’d much prefer to think you minded—that you still cared—a little.’
She got to her feet. ‘Now I think I’ll go and have a look round the cottage. It’s partly furnished, I know, but there are things I’ll need to get.’ She smiled slowly. ‘A bigger bed, for starters.’ She paused, allowing that to be absorbed. Then, ‘Tell Mrs Ashby that I won’t be in for lunch, there’s a dear.’
Joanna watched her leave the room. Her whole body ached with tension, and there was a weird drumming in her ears.
Cynthia’s news should have come as a welcome relief, yet its effect had been the opposite. She felt dizzy—crucified with emotional pain. And she knew why, and for the first time was prepared to admit it.
‘I do mind.’ She said the anguished words aloud. ‘God help me, I do care. And somehow I’m going to have to live with this.’
She shook her head. How could she have been such a fool—so blind, so stubborn? How had she failed to see that even the fiasco of their failed marriage could not kill the love and longing that Gabriel had always engendered in her? Pride and a sense of betrayal might have driven it underground, but could never destroy it.
And this was the truth she now had to face. Now, at the very moment that Gabriel had chosen to begin an affair.
Somehow, she told herself, I’ve got to hide the pain and simply pretend—to Cynthia, to the staff, to all our friends and acquaintances. And to Gabriel. She swallowed. Oh, God, particularly to Gabriel. I must never—ever let him know. I’ve told him the marriage is over—if it ever really began—and that’s how it must remain.
She drew a deep breath. He’s creating a new life for himself. And whatever I may think about it, it’s what he’s chosen, she thought, biting her lip until she could taste blood. And I’ve got to do the same. Because hoping that Gabriel might change—that he might love me as his wife in the way that I need to be loved—is a futile exercise.
Oh, he’d take me to bed, if I gave him the chance. He’s no angel, after all, and I must be one of his few failures, so he has something to prove. But it wouldn’t change a thing—because sex without love is meaningless—a travesty, and I couldn’t bear it.
So, by holding him at arm’s length I’ve done something right, at least, even if I didn’t realise it at the time.
She lifted her chin. She’d made believe that she didn’t love Gabriel—didn’t want him—for nearly three years. Up to a few minutes ago she’d even deceived herself. Until another woman—and Cynthia, of all people—had shown her the truth about herself.
She thought, If I can go on pretending for another year.
But she knew, all the same, in spite of her brave thoughts, that ahead of her were the twelve longest, loneliest and most desolate months of her entire life.
WORK kept her going, coupled with the kindness of friends and neighbours. She rode out each day with Sadie, took the dogs for long walks, helped clear the winter debris from the garden, and worked out a regime for spring cleaning the entire house with Mrs Ashby.
They began, as instructed, with the massive master bedroom, packing Lionel’s clothes and personal effects into boxes in a strained and careful silence. The room had been decorated the previous year, so all that was really needed, after a thorough cleaning, was to change the curtains at the windows and around the massive four-poster bed.
Lionel had favoured a rather florid deep red, but Joanna found some much lighter drapes in a subtle olive-green, and these were pressed and hung.
For the bed she chose the best Irish linen sheets and pillowcases, adding a quilted satin coverlet that combined the olive of the curtains with shades of amber and dark brown in an intricate pattern. But she couldn’t bring herself to assist Mrs Ashby in making it up. There was only so much she could reasonably be expected to stand, she thought, beating a hasty retreat on the mendacious grounds that Sadie needed her in the stables.
Not that Gabriel would be spending many nights there anyway.
She found she was spending as much time away from the house as she could, accepting with genuine gratitude the invitations to lunch and dinner that were pressed on her by local people.
Some of the invitations, she knew, were impelled by curiosity too. Rumours of Lionel’s will and its strange provisions had inevitably leaked out, and people, aware of the separation between Gabriel and herself, were bound to speculate—and attempt a little delicate probing.
Joanna stone-walled the questions, and evaded committing herself about the future.
Not difficult, when she herself had no idea where she would go or what she would do.
On the face of it, she could take the easy option. Endure the year, then find a property well away from Westroe and its memories, and live on the income that Lionel had provided for that purpose. But she knew that wouldn’t do.
I’ve hidden from life for too long already, she thought. I need a career—some direction to my existence. Something that will stop me thinking…
But none of the plans she hatched for herself during the restless nights held any appeal in the merciless light of morning.
Get through one day at a time, she adjured herself. That’s as much as you can hope for at present.
Cynthia’s coming removal to Larkspur Cottage had also aroused discreet comment, but again Joanna refused to be drawn.
Anyway, if the local grapevine was working with its usual efficiency, they would all soon know what the score was, she thought unhappily. And then she’d have to endure them all feeling sorry for her.
Their sympathy for her over Lionel she could welcome, but to be pitied because her husband was having a blatant fling with her stepmother was a very different matter.
Cynthia’s preparations were in full swing already. She was rarely at the Manor during the day at all, which, as Joanna silently admitted, suited her fine.
Henry Fortescue was drawing up a lease for the cottage, although he’d looked down his nose at the token rent which Joanna had suggested. But then he probably didn’t realise who would actually be paying it, Joanna reminded herself. And it was not her business to tell him.