The Prodigal Wife (5 page)

‘Watchet,' mused Prue. ‘That's in Somerset, isn't it?'

‘Roger keeps his boat at Watchet,' said Fliss. ‘It's only about twenty minutes from their cottage.'

‘Jo said not to wait lunch,' said Hal, oblivious to this exchange. ‘He said he had other plans.'

‘Yes,' said Prue. ‘I expect he has.'

Driving towards the Quantocks, Jolyon was hardly aware of the familiar journey: through the lanes to join the A38 at Buckfast, past Exeter, past Tiverton Parkway and then off at Taunton. He'd travelled the road many times with his father, heading for a sailing weekend on Roger's boat, but this morning he was filled with an emotion that was quite new to him. Ever since he'd seen her standing in the doorway with the dogs around her, all he'd been able to think about was Henrietta. He remembered every detail: the quiet, dim hall, as they'd stood together, and her pale profile against the dark red curtains. Her hair flowed over her shoulders in tiny waves, as if she'd just shaken it loose from being very tightly plaited, and he'd been fascinated by the different colours amongst the shining strands: topaz, gold, brown, amber, even black.

‘Tortoiseshell,' he'd wanted to say, longing to touch it. ‘Your hair is the colour of tortoiseshell.' And when she'd looked at him, he'd seen that her eyes were the same strange colours; perhaps it was what people meant when they talked about hazel eyes.

He'd liked her reticence, the way she didn't want to gossip about Susan and Iain, and instinct told him that she was wary of relationships; that her parents' divorce had made her cautious. Well, he knew all about that. Nevertheless, he'd felt quite certain that she hadn't wanted him to leave and, although he hadn't had the courage to suggest that he should stay, he'd decided to trust his feelings this morning and telephone her. She'd answered at the second ring, which had cheered him enormously, and sounded delighted at the prospect of another visit. Of course, he'd made sure to explain that he was going to Watchet – he didn't want to frighten her off by sounding too keen – but he'd suggested a pub lunch and a walk with the dogs, and she'd agreed very readily.

He was deeply relieved that nobody at The Keep had questioned the need for this unexpected trip to look at the harbour. Even his father hadn't observed that, after years of sailing out of Watchet, he ought to know the harbour like the back of his hand. He'd muttered things about shipbuilding and other aspects of the new series and hurried away; even the unsettling news that his mother had suggested that she'd like to come down for his birthday hadn't detained him.

‘She's lonely, poor old love,' his father had said with his usual tolerant good humour, and Jo knew very well that he was being asked to acquiesce: to forgive the hurts and betrayals of the past and be kind to his newly widowed mother. This was typical, his father was a generous man, but Jo felt resentment stirring. He knew very well why his mother was suddenly eager to repair her connection with the Chadwicks and it wasn't only because she was lonely, although that was a significant part of it. Ever since that momentous interview at the Chelsea Flower Show, two years ago, she'd begun to show a new interest in him; suddenly he'd become worth acknowledging. At last she could be proud of him.

Jo was seized with a paroxysm of anger; his hands tensed on the wheel. Twelve years ago she'd made no attempt to hide her disappointment when he'd told her his vision for the future of The Keep; back then her contempt had been plain to see.

‘A gardener?' she'd asked disdainfully. ‘Is that the extent of your ambition?'

She'd shown no interest in his idea to convert the gatehouse into his own quarters, or his plans for growing organic vegetables.

Never once in twelve years had she asked about his work, never invited him to stay in Salisbury. He and Dad were one family and she, Adam and Ed were another quite separate unit. Even now the pain of her rejection threatened to disable him. He pulled into a lay-by and switched off the engine.

‘Crazy,' he told himself furiously. ‘Crazy to still be affected by this stuff.'

He let down the window on the passenger's side. Beyond the hedge the cattle stood together beneath the sheltering, shadowy waterfall of a willow's branches, their tails twitching against the tormenting flies, and the sunlight casting dappled shade upon their broad creamy backs. Gradually the pain receded and he deliberately schooled his thoughts back into the former channels of happiness. He brought the image of Henrietta's face into his mind: the fine, winged brows, the high, wide cheekbones, and the way her lips curved into a smile. There'd been recognition between them; a kind of exchange. He guessed that she too carried with her a similar form of emotional baggage: the fear of a permanent relationship and the knowledge of what terrible damage failure can do – to yourself and to other people.

Yet, for the first time, he was tempted towards the experiment. No other girl had made him feel like this – and after such a brief acquaintance. He shook his head, bewildered, and turned the key in the ignition.

Maria stood at the window and stared out into the garden that belonged to her dear friend Penelope. The sight of so much beauty depressed her: the perfection of the flower borders, the cunning sweeps and curves of trees and bushes – ‘
leading
the eye on, d'you see?' Penelope would cry – the symmetry of colour and shape. Even now she could see Pen's gardener, dear old Ted, ‘loyal and simply
wonderful
, Maria', chopping savagely away at some poor tree down near the wild garden. And even the wild garden wasn't allowed to be properly wild; oh no, Penelope's idea of wild was a very clear one. None of this ‘a weed is a flower in the wrong place' for old Pen. Her wild garden was full of strange and exotic – and very expensive – plants, and woe betide any poor buttercup that dared to put a tendril in it. Dear loyal old Ted gave it very short shrift.

Maria made a face; she'd never liked gardening but she'd kept up the pretence to her friends and let Adam do all the hard work. Adam had enjoyed it. Suddenly, thinking of him, she couldn't prevent a burst of tears. These unexpected attacks of loss were uncontrollable simply because they
were
unexpected: the oddest thing could set them off. She blotted the tears with her handkerchief. To be honest, she was glad to be out of the big house that had been so empty and lonely without Adam – but he could never have guessed the circumstances that had dictated her leaving.

He'd warned her, very tactfully, of course – he knew how defensive she was about Ed and was always careful when he talked about his ‘instability' – but he'd warned her against encouraging Ed's wild schemes; worrying about how she'd manage financially if he were to die first and hinting that she'd need to keep a tight hand on the purse strings. Well, he had died – now here, now gone – keeling over whilst he was washing the car and rushed to hospital in a screaming ambulance whilst she'd followed, trembling and terrified, in the car. How she had hated it all: the echoing noise, the hurrying feet, the tubes and dials, and the busy, curt nurses. The terrible A & E waiting room full of uncouth, uncaring, overweight people who stared at a suspended television screen and never stopped eating; a wounded child who had screamed continuously, held by its terrified mother; puddles of some horridly smelling liquid under the chairs. And then the Sister, long-faced and portentous, calling her name.

She'd known at once, of course, but the whole thing had seemed so unreal, so
impossible
, that she hadn't been able to take it all in. Then Penelope had come – capable, kind Penelope and dear old Philip, putting their arms around her and taking her home; making her a hot drink and being sweet and tactful, arranging things and telling her that in future she must always telephone the minute she needed anything; she
mustn't
be lonely. It was Pen who'd phoned Ed, voice low, throbbing with sympathy, explaining that something had happened and that his mother wanted to speak to him.

She'd taken the phone and waited – rather pointedly – until Pen and Philip had left the room, and then she'd burst out suddenly weeping and poor Ed had been quite alarmed. Of course, Adam hadn't been Ed's father, though he'd lived with him since he was twelve, so she'd been shocked by Ed's very real grief. She hadn't really given much thought to how Ed might feel; she was more concerned with receiving comfort from him. He'd come hurrying down from London, darling Ed…

Maria turned away from the window, into the charming, tastefully decorated living room of Penelope's perfect little annexe and stared around her. It was due to darling Ed that she was here. Ed had conceived a brilliant plan that had needed a bit of financial backing – ‘Nothing to worry about, Mum, it's purely a formality, I promise' – and she'd signed the document that he'd needed, trusting him and his clever friend who worked the money markets and who'd assured her that it simply couldn't fail. How plausible they'd been; how excited: ‘This time next week we could all be millionaires!' And the plan
had
failed. Oh, the terror of that moment when Ed had telephoned to tell her and to warn her that things had gone terribly wrong and that the house would be repossessed: the sick fear that disabled her and haunted the long night hours, the terrified disbelief that this could happen, and the absolute necessity that nobody – especially dear old Pen and clever old Philip – should know the truth.

She'd told them that she was selling, that she couldn't manage another minute all alone in the huge house, and that she'd rent something until she'd decided what to do and where to go. It was Pen who had suggested she should stay in the annexe until she found the little cottage or flat of her dreams. She'd nearly snapped Pen's arm off in her eagerness to accept her offer; oh, the relief of having somewhere decent to go, with old friends close at hand, whilst she tried to regroup. And here she was, fielding their suggestions of this delightful house or some penthouse flat that had just come on to the market. She'd dither, find something wrong with whatever the property in question was; twice she'd been to view houses simply to keep up the pretence. How they laughed about it; suggesting that Maria must be a millionaire now and could afford a luxury pad. Philip was always popping in with the latest offering from the internet, and only her quick wits were keeping the truth hidden. If only they knew that she'd be hard-pressed to afford Pen's annexe, let alone some fancy property in the Cathedral Close!

Maria sat down in one of the armchairs and hugged herself, rocking a little. She'd managed to persuade them that the last thing she wanted was another big house, that she was thinking
really
small and cosy now. Pen had protested when she'd realized that so much furniture was being sold, but she'd been understanding too, and sympathetic that Adam's death had precipitated such changes. Maria closed her eyes against the shrivelling humiliation of Pen's sympathy, and prayed that nobody would ever discover the truth.

Thank God for the Chadwicks. It was a real possibility that they might rescue her. If she played her cards right she might be able to stay with them for a while – there was enough space, after all, in that rambling great place – and then perhaps she'd be able to afford a tiny cottage close to The Keep where she could see something of Jolyon – and Hal. Hal had been so sweet when Ed had decided to go to the States with his partner, Rebecca. Maria braced herself against the pain in her heart. She felt that she'd somehow lost Ed; Rebecca had taken him away from her much more completely and successfully than the move to America could. In her mind's eye she saw Rebecca: short, tiny, perfect. Strong, well-muscled little legs; black hair so smooth it looked as if it were painted to her skull, and a laptop grafted permanently to her tiny, clutching little fingers. Maria's heart lurched again with loss and terror; how could her beloved Ed be happy with such an unemotional, professionally driven girl?

‘We're fine, Mum,' he'd said once, impatiently, when she'd tried to question him about his happiness. ‘Just fine.'

She'd been warned off – but now, whenever Ed hugged her, she could see over his shoulder Rebecca's cool gaze, so that her pleasure in his affection was diminished. She'd been utterly gutted when, four weeks after the house had been repossessed, Ed had announced that he and Rebecca were moving to New York; that Rebecca had been offered a job she simply couldn't refuse.

‘And what about you?' she'd asked – meaning, as well, ‘What about
me
? How can you leave me alone now, of all times?' – and he'd said, ‘Oh, I'll find something. You know me. This is much too important for Becks to turn down. You know how brilliant she is, and this job's the absolute cream.' He'd looked embarrassed then; put on his small-boy expression. ‘The trouble is, Mum, she found out about this last little enterprise and it's a bit of a final chance for me. Take it or leave it. She's got some very good contacts out there and she thinks I'll be able to settle down to some serious work. I'm really gutted that our little scheme didn't work out, Mum. But you'll be OK, won't you? I mean, there's still a lot of investments, aren't there, and there was some money left over when the house sold? God, I'm just so sorry, Mum. Look on it as my inheritance. I promise you I'll never ask you for another penny, ever.' And he'd looked so pathetic and so miserable that she'd forgiven him utterly, and he'd hugged her and that was that.