The Prodigal Wife (23 page)

She looked desolate and he felt guilty, remembering how happily she'd waved at him and her expression of expectation. He thought of her plans to move to Devon and of everything she must have been hoping for. He'd crushed all her future dreams.

‘No,' he answered cautiously. ‘I'm not saying it's too late but I think you're expecting too much too soon.' She was watching him eagerly now, hopefully, and he tried to remember what he'd planned to say.

‘I like Henrietta,' she was telling him, almost pleadingly. ‘She's a lovely girl. I can't imagine why you should think I wouldn't have been pleased.'

‘Look.' He still couldn't bring himself to call her ‘Mum' she was almost a stranger to him. ‘Whether or not you like her isn't the point as far as I'm concerned. The point is that you decided more or less to cut me out of
your
life when I was very young and you can't simply expect to walk back into
my
life now as if nothing has changed. I'm sorry if that sounds brutal but if we're going to start again then we need to know where we both stand. I'm glad you've had a road-to-Damascus experience if it means that we can make a new start but there's a lot of mending to do along that road. We can't just pretend that we've been a close, happy family for the last twenty years – at least, I can't – but it doesn't mean, either, that there's nowhere to go.'

She nodded, drank some coffee, but remained silent. He sat back in his chair and glanced around. It seemed light years since they'd come in and the noise of chatter and laughter struck his ears suddenly as if, until that moment, he'd been deaf.

‘I know what you're saying.' She spoke at last and he turned back to her. ‘And you're quite right, of course. I got carried away. I so enjoyed my last visit to The Keep and seeing you all that I felt we'd made some real progress.'

He watched her warily, refusing to feel guilty, and after a moment she looked away from him.

‘Don't worry,' she said lightly. ‘I shan't do anything rash, like buying a cottage in Staverton. It was a crazy idea, I can see that now.'

He felt as if he'd hit her but he knew that he mustn't back down. ‘It's too soon,' he said, as gently as he could. ‘Much too soon. Can't we take it a step at a time? You're coming down for Dad's birthday, aren't you? Well, that's something to look forward to, and you'll be able to celebrate our engagement with the rest of the family. Until then I'd be grateful if you didn't speak of it to anyone else.' He added as some kind of comfort, ‘Even Kit doesn't know yet.'

‘It'll be odd to see Kit after all these years,' she said quietly.

He felt uncomfortable, but relieved; he'd made his point but he hadn't closed the door on the future. She was smiling at him now, as if she could sympathize with how he was feeling.

‘Penelope's meeting me here for some lunch,' she told him, ‘and if I know her she's probably planning to wheedle you into joining us. She's a terrific fan, you know. I wonder if it might be a good idea for you to make a getaway while you can.'

For the first time he felt a tremor of real affection for her and he nodded gratefully.

‘Thanks for the warning,' he said, ‘and we're all looking forward to seeing you in a couple of weeks. Everyone sends their love.'

She nodded smilingly, quite in control of herself again, and he got up, hesitated and then bent to kiss her quickly on the cheek.

‘Thanks for the coffee,' she said, and he smiled awkwardly and then hurried out.

He almost ran to the car park, dreading that he might see Penelope, relieved that the meeting was over, anxious that he'd messed it up. Once in the car he dragged out his mobile: he needed to talk to Henrietta.

Maria sat on, a little half-smile pinned to her lips lest anyone should think anything might be wrong. Several people had recognized Jolyon and she was so glad that he'd kissed her when he left because nobody would guess at the terrible things he'd said.
I couldn't trust you
, he'd said. And,
Whether or not you like her isn't the point as far as I'm concerned
. It was difficult to keep her little smile in place when she was in such pain but she couldn't bear that any of these people, some of whom still glanced at her from time to time, should suspect for a moment that she and Jolyon didn't have a special relationship.

She'd been so thrilled to meet him in such a public place – Penelope had been green with envy and had dropped heavy hints about how she'd love to meet him – and it had been rather sweet to see that Jolyon wasn't really aware of people staring and nudging one another. And it was fun to see people looking at her and wondering who she might be, but she hadn't expected him to be so hurtful. He'd looked so like Hal. How odd that the little Jolyon, always so eager to please her, to win her love, had grown into this rather tough, focused man. As a little boy he'd dreaded arguments and angry voices, gone out of his way to be the peacemaker; he'd loved her so much – and she'd hurt him so badly.

It was impossible to keep smiling now and she opened her bag and pretended to look inside it. The remains of her coffee were cold but she hadn't the will to go up to the bar and order some more. Anyway, she needed a drink: a serious drink. She felt rather weak, as if she'd been struck a blow, and in a way she had been, yet a part of her knew that nothing Jolyon had said had been untrue or unfair. As usual she'd been looking at things from her own point of view and not thinking properly about anybody else. This plan for moving to Devon, for instance, had been an impulsive idea. With the weekend so fresh in her mind the possibility of moving west had seemed a wonderful opportunity, something exciting to plan. She hadn't thought it through or imagined how the Chadwicks might see it, Jolyon in particular; but then, looking back, she was obliged to admit that she'd never much worried about what Jolyon had felt about things. She'd ignored him, and used him, and cast him aside in favour of Ed and Adam. And now he was getting married and he didn't care whether she liked his bride-to-be or not. After all the years of rejection he was now utterly indifferent to her feelings.

Instinctively, as if to hurry away from the wrenching pain in her heart, she closed her handbag, got up and went to collect a glass of wine from the bar. Waiting in the small queue she reflected on the humiliation of spending that whole weekend at The Keep with everyone else knowing about Jolyon and Henrietta. She felt hot with the shame of it. How they must have laughed behind her back – and how difficult, now, to go for Hal's birthday. How would she manage it? Yet she saw, dimly, that if there were ever to be some kind of reconciliation then she must accept the humiliation and hurt patiently, and work through it. Somehow, Jolyon had conquered his own hurts and her rejection of him, and had become a strong and successful man, loved by his family and by a charming and pretty girl. Now, she must try to win back just a little of the affection he'd once felt for her.

She saw with dismay that Penelope had come in and was looking about with bright, expectant eyes. She was early, damn her, in the hope of catching Jolyon. Maria waved, mimed a drink and pointed to her table. She took a deep breath, summoning her courage and some shred of gaiety; Penelope must never guess that anything was wrong.

 

Neither Angus nor Cordelia answered Hal's telephone call. They'd left the cottage at the same time, in separate cars, and were planning to rendezvous at Angus's house in Dartmouth for a late lunch.

As they reached Kingsbridge, and Cordelia and McGregor turned off towards the car park, Angus flashed his headlights and headed on to Dartmouth. Cordelia drove into the car park with a lightening of heart. Fond of Angus though she was, this moment of freedom was delightful. She hadn't realized how unaccustomed she'd grown to having somebody around all the time and she was finding it the least bit claustrophobic. Of course, she could disappear into her study to work – but each time she was seized with feelings of guilt that Angus was bored and wondering what to do, and she couldn't concentrate. He insisted on going with her even to buy the newspaper in the village and she was beginning to believe that she'd rather take her chance with Simon than continue to endure this feeling of being a prisoner. She was rather shocked at her feelings but, after all, she'd been alone for the last twenty years and her solitary routine was a difficult habit to break overnight. Yet she loved Angus; she'd always loved him.

Enough to live with him? asked the small familiar voice brightly in her head.

‘Shut up,' she muttered and got out of the car and went to the ticket machine. She felt depressed and anxious as she fed money in and scooped out her ticket.

‘Hello again,' said a voice from behind her. It was the tall woman who'd returned her scarf outside the bookshop and Cordelia greeted her in return and stood aside so that she could buy a ticket.

The woman smiled and then looked at her more closely. ‘Are you OK? You're looking rather glum this morning and you were so happy the last time we met.'

Cordelia summoned a smile, touched by her enquiry. ‘I'm fine. A bit of a problem, nothing much.'

‘I'm sorry to hear that.' The woman hesitated. ‘Would a cup of coffee help? I'm just going into Mangetout to have one myself.'

‘Thanks,' said Cordelia, surprised. ‘That would be nice.' She waved her ticket. ‘I'll just put this in the car and I'll be right back. I'll meet you on the corner.'

They went together into the delicatessen and sat at a table at the far end of the café. They ordered coffee and Cordelia glanced around. It was here that she'd sat the last time she'd met Angus and suddenly she remembered something else.

‘I think I saw you in here a few weeks ago,' she exclaimed. ‘You were sitting on one of the stools. I knew I'd seen you before.' She smiled. ‘Shall we introduce ourselves?'

‘Oh, I know who you are,' the woman said, looking at her intently. ‘You're Cordelia Lytton, the famous journalist.'

Cordelia raised her eyebrows. ‘Hardly famous, unfortunately. How did you know that? Oh, I know. It was Pat Abrehart, wasn't it? When you picked up my scarf in the bookshop. Pat and I are old friends.'

‘Oh, I knew all about you before that,' she answered.

‘Don't tell me that you've read one of my books,' Cordelia said lightly, embarrassed – and was relieved when the coffee arrived so that she could change the subject. ‘You haven't told me your name.'

The woman put sugar in her coffee, smiling to herself as if she were considering her answer.

‘How about Elinor Rochdale?' she suggested.

Cordelia was puzzled by the way she phrased her answer. ‘It sounds familiar,' she answered slowly, unsettled by the woman's amused expression. She began to feel uncomfortable. ‘
Have
we met before? I'm not talking about seeing each other in the town but somewhere else. I feel that I'm being stupid and that you're waiting patiently for the penny to drop.'

‘We haven't met before. Not officially. But I know a great deal about you.'

Quite suddenly the penny
did
drop and Cordelia experienced a tiny tremor of fear. Elinor Rochdale. She glanced round; all the tables were full and the shop was busy. She was quite safe and it would be foolish to panic.

‘Elinor Rochdale,' she repeated. She looked directly at the woman, determined to appear quite calm. ‘Very clever. I like it. So you are Simon's wife. Or…' she hesitated, less sure of her ground, ‘in light of the name, should I say his widow?'

The woman stared back at her. ‘Neither,' she said. She drank some coffee and set the cup back in its saucer. ‘I was his mistress.'

Cordelia was silent. She refused to be jockeyed into either sympathy or curiosity. ‘In that case, why “Elinor Rochdale”?' she asked calmly. She wondered if her hand would tremble if she lifted the cup and chanced it anyway. ‘Surely that was the heroine's name in
The Reluctant Widow
? That's the book you put on my lectern, isn't it? Along with
Simon the Coldheart
? What was all that about?'

The woman rested her elbows on the table, staring at Cordelia with light grey eyes. ‘He wouldn't marry me,' she said. ‘I was crazy about him and he was crazy about you.'

Cordelia's composure deserted her a little. ‘Do you mean he wasn't married at all? But he told us that was why he was cutting all communication with Henrietta. Because he was going to Australia to have a new life with a new family.'

Her
vis-à-vis
shook her head. ‘No wife, no children. Just me. He told me all about you until I felt that I knew you almost better than I knew him. You were an obsession.'

‘But he left me.' Cordelia leaned forward, keeping her voice low. ‘
I
didn't want to break up our marriage. It was he who decided to go. If he loved me so much why did he leave me and Henrietta?'

The woman raised her eyebrows a little. ‘Who said we were talking about love?' she asked softly. ‘Obsession isn't love. Obsession is all about insecurity and neediness and wanting to possess. It drives you crazy. It drove Simon crazy. He cursed himself sometimes for walking away from it, though he made sure he'd ruined your chances of happiness first. When the satisfaction of that began to pall he decided to ruin Henrietta's – and put the boot in for you at the same time. He guessed that it would be just as devastating for you if she knew exactly why he'd left, and by that time he'd gone beyond having any real feelings for her.' She shook her head. ‘Poor bastard. Yet there were times when we were so happy, and I'd really believe that he was getting over it, but there was always something that would set him off again. What a waste.'

Cordelia stared down into her coffee cup. ‘I gather that he's dead?'

‘Yes. He died from cancer in April. My family's still in England, in the Border country, so I decided to come home. I needed to see you. To find out exactly who it was that destroyed his life. And mine.'

‘So you stalked me?'

The woman snorted with amusement. ‘It was so easy,' she said reflectively. ‘Of course, having a coastal path a few feet from your front door was a godsend. I could always be coming or going or looking as if I were at the tag end of a group of ramblers. I used to watch you through binoculars; see you out in your little garden. I followed your car a few times, took a few photos. And then there was your habit of leaving the door unlocked. After a while I decided to get a bit closer.'

Cordelia clasped her hands in her lap; she was determined to show no sign of the clammy fear that trickled down her spine and crept in the roots of her hair.

‘What did you hope to achieve?' she asked coolly. ‘Did you want to frighten me?'

The woman considered the question. ‘Possibly,' she said at last. ‘I just had a need to be near you. You've got to remember that I felt I knew you already. Simon talked about you so much that I felt we were a threesome. It was very odd, after all those things he'd told me about you, to be so close to you physically. After a while, tracking you lost its charm and I decided to chance my arm and come into your cottage – of course, I had excuses ready if you caught me in the hall. “Sorry, I knocked at the door but you didn't hear me” kind of thing, but I wasn't certain I'd get away with it. That was part of the thrill of it, of course. I tried it first when I knew you had someone with you, out in the garden. I just opened the door and slipped in. I knew which room your study was and I went in and fiddled with your computer. A few days later I followed you in here and put the koala bear in your basket.'

‘But I saw a man going out?' Cordelia was confused. ‘He tapped me on the shoulder.'

The woman shook her head almost reprovingly at her naiveté. ‘That's such an old trick. Look. I'm standing on your right, beside you at the counter. I reach behind you and tap your left shoulder. You turn round and see a man leaving the shop while I'm putting the bear into your basket. Easy.'

‘And the other bear and the books. Was that easy too?'

‘I'd begun to gain confidence by then. I saw you go down the steps to the beach so I knew I had plenty of time. I'd brought copies of the books with me, just in case. But Simon had told me that you were an absolute devotee of Georgette Heyer and had all her books so I thought it would be more interesting to use yours. He told me how you called him Simon the Coldheart and I thought that
The Reluctant Widow
was the closest I could come to really giving you a clue.'

‘So you were hoping that I would discover you?'

The woman shrugged. ‘It was getting a bit boring,' she admitted. ‘I wanted to get close to you. Can you understand that? We'd been three in a bed and I wanted more than just following you and frightening you a bit. I needed you to see me and for there to be some communication. I thought you'd begin to guess but I didn't want to make it too easy. You did, didn't you?'

‘I thought it was Simon,' said Cordelia. ‘I thought that it was you – or, rather, his wife – who had died and that he'd come back hoping for a reconciliation. It would have been an odd approach, I agree, but it was Simon's style somehow.'

She looked genuinely pleased at this. ‘I thought so too. He always had an oddball take on life.'

‘So the scarf,' Cordelia prompted her. ‘Was that genuine?'

‘I was looking for an opportunity to speak to you so I just edged it out of your basket while you were talking to the woman in the bookshop and when you'd gone out I picked it up off the floor and hurried out after you.' She paused, frowning.