A Woman of Substance (87 page)

‘All right,’ she murmured. It would do no harm to hear what he had to say and her curiosity also got the better of her.

‘When I returned to Australia in 1919, the only thing on my mind was seeing my father and then returning to you as quickly as possible.’

Paul paused as the waiter appeared with the drinks. When he was out of earshot he went on, ‘I walked into quite a mess when I arrived in Sydney, but I won’t go into that now. Let me first tell you about the letters. Years ago my father befriended a young girl who worked in our Sydney office. He groomed her to be his private secretary during my absence. After I was demobbed I had to take over the reins of the business at once, because Dad was not at all well, and so I inherited her. Marion Reese was a godsend in those first few weeks. Anyway, for a couple of months I was working very long hours with Marion at my side, guiding me, helping me, and filling me in on most things. My father was gradually getting worse and he was confined to bed. Frankly, Emma, I relied heavily on Marion. I had enormous responsibilities thrust upon me and I was out of touch.’ Paul lit a cigarette, inhaled, and continued, ‘Marion had been like a member of the family before the war. My father was very fond of her and I looked on her as a friend, as well as a valued employee. She was like an older sister in a sense, since she is about four years my senior. One night, after we had been working rather late, I took her to supper, and I confided in her. I told her about you and my plans for the future, my intention of marrying you, once I had sorted out my marital problems.’

A regretful smile played around Paul’s mouth and he shook his head. ‘Confiding in Marion was a terrible mistake, as it
turned out. A mistake I made when I had had a few drinks too many. Of course, I didn’t realize it was a mistake at the time. Marion was most understanding. She promised to help me pull everything back into shape as quickly as possible, so that I could come to London for a few months and—’

‘Why was it a mistake?’ Emma interrupted, frowning.

‘I didn’t know it at the time, but Marion Reese was in love with me and had been for many years. There had been nothing between us ever, and I had never done anything to encourage her. Naturally, the last thing she wanted was for me to leave Australia, and especially to go to another woman, although I was not aware of that then. In any event, I went on furiously reorganizing the business and writing to you, not realizing that my devoted secretary was confiscating my letters to you instead of posting them. I was puzzled and unnerved when you didn’t reply to my letters, other than the first one. I sent two cablegrams, begging you to at least let me know you were well. Of course, they were never transmitted. Marion destroyed them. Still, in spite of your silence, which I couldn’t understand, I was determined to see you and, as soon as I could, sailed for England.’

Emma, who had been listening attentively and digesting his words, knew with absolute certainty that he was speaking the truth. She looked at him alertly. ‘When was that?’

‘About a year later. In the spring of 1920. I wrote out a cable and gave it to Marion before I departed, announcing my arrival, and I prayed you would meet the boat. You didn’t because you never received the cable. The first person I telephoned was Frank. He told me you were on your honeymoon. That you had married Arthur Ainsley just one week before.’

‘Oh my God!’ Emma cried, her eyes flaring open. Dismay swamped her.

Paul’s smile was pained and he nodded his head. ‘Yes, I was a week too late to stop that.
Unfortunately.
’

‘But why didn’t you come before? Why did you wait a whole year?’ Emma demanded, her voice rising.

‘I simply couldn’t get away, Emma. You see, my father was dying of cancer. He passed away about eight months after I had
returned to Australia.’

‘I’m so sorry, Paul,’ Emma murmured, and genuine sympathy was reflected in her eyes.

‘Yes, it was sad. And Dad was very dependent on me in those last few months. Well, to continue. I had hoped to leave immediately after Dad’s funeral, but then my wife—’ Paul hesitated and grimaced slightly. ‘My wife, Constance, became very ill, and I was further delayed. Just when I thought I could get away at last, my son fell sick.’ Paul eyed Emma carefully. ‘I have a son, you know.’

‘Yes, so I heard. You could have told me, Paul. I wish you had,’ she reproached.

‘Yes, I should have, Emma. But Howard, well, he has problems, and I have always found it difficult to talk about him.’ Paul sighed heavily and his eyes dulled momentarily. He straightened up in the chair. ‘Once Howard recovered I was able to leave for England.’

‘And you met with Frank?’

‘Not at first. Frank was a little reluctant to see me. I don’t believe he thought very highly of me. However, he did know how devastated I was when I learned of your marriage and I suppose he took pity on me, especially since I had told him on the phone that I had been writing to you diligently over the whole of the previous year. When he told me that you had never received my letters, and that you had also been writing to me, I was flabbergasted and baffled.’

‘How did you discover the letters had been stolen?’ Emma asked, her face as grim as Paul’s.

‘It struck me immediately, and most forcibly, that someone had been tampering with my mail. Several letters going astray was one thing, but not a dozen or so. It didn’t take much to deduce it was Marion. She was the obvious culprit, since she handled my correspondence in both Sydney and at the sheep station in Coonamble. And she also mailed all of my personal letters as well.’

‘It’s a pity you didn’t post them yourself, isn’t it?’ Emma said quietly, cursing Marion Reese under her breath. Her penetrating eyes focused on Paul.

‘Yes, that’s true. I admit I was careless. On the other hand, I
had no reason not to trust her. Also, I was facing monumental problems. I was overworked and preoccupied.’

‘I presume you confronted her when you returned to Sydney,’ Emma ventured.

‘I did indeed. She denied it at first. But eventually she broke down and confessed. When I asked her why she had done it, she said she had hoped to sabotage our romance, so I would not leave.’

‘She succeeded,’ Emma said drily, and thought of the wasted years.

‘Yes.’ Paul searched Emma’s face, which was unreadable. He reached into his inside breast pocket and pulled out an envelope. ‘This is a letter from her solicitors. In it they acknowledge her guilt, on the understanding that I would not prosecute her, which I had threatened to do. Theft of mail is a felony, you know. I demanded this,’ he explained, tapping the envelope, ‘because I hoped one day to have the opportunity to show it to you, to prove that I am not the blackguard you undoubtedly think I am.’ He handed her the envelope and finished. ‘They also returned my letters to you, and yours to me, by the way.’

Emma looked at him askance. ‘You mean she kept them! How peculiar!’ she exclaimed.

‘I thought that, too. Please, Emma, read the letter from her solicitors. The story is so incredible it has occurred to me that you might think I have invented the whole thing.’

Emma was reflective for a moment, and then she took the letter out of the envelope and perused it rapidly. She returned it to Paul, smiling faintly. ‘I would have believed you without this letter. Nobody could invent such a yarn. Thank you for showing it to me, though. And what happened to Marion Reese?’

‘Naturally I fired her at once. I’ve no idea where she is today.’

Emma nodded. She pondered, looking down at her hands, and then she lifted her head and met Paul’s gaze directly. ‘Why didn’t you wait for me to return from my honeymoon four years ago, so that you could tell me you had written, Paul?’

Paul gave her a swift glance. ‘What would have been the
point of that? It was too late, Emma. I didn’t want to interfere with your marriage. Besides, you might not have believed me. Remember, I was only speculating on what had happened to the letters. I had no proof until I returned to Sydney.’

‘Yes, I understand. However, I am surprised Frank never told me.’

‘In all fairness to him, he did want me to stay and meet with you. And he even wanted to tell you himself. I asked him not to do so. I thought it pointless. I felt you were lost to me.’ Paul shrugged. ‘At the time, it seemed wiser for me to simply disappear, quickly and quietly.’

‘And why are you telling me now, after all this time?’

‘I have always wanted to explain, Emma. To exonerate myself with you. The knowledge that I caused you suffering has haunted me. I’ve seen Frank on previous trips to London and he’s kept me informed about your life. But I thought it was inappropriate to come to you, under the circumstances, although I longed to. Last week, when I first arrived, I lunched with Frank. Almost at once he said your marriage wasn’t working. When I heard you were unhappy with Arthur and spending a lot of time alone in London, I decided I would no longer be upsetting anything if I saw you. I insisted Frank arrange this meeting. I did want the chance to vindicate myself,’ he finished, praying fervently that he had.

Paul leaned across the table, his face tensely set. ‘I know you were shocked to see me, and perhaps it
was
a little unfair of me to spring myself on you without warning, but quite honestly, I didn’t know what else to do. I hope you’re not angry with me, or with Frank.’

‘No, I’m not. And I’m glad we met.’ Emma looked down at the table contemplatively, and when she raised her head to meet Paul’s unwavering gaze her face was grave, her eyes moist. ‘I was as unnerved and as perplexed as you were, when I didn’t hear from you, Paul. And very hurt. Heartbroken, in fact,’ she found herself admitting. ‘It helps knowing the facts, even now so long afterwards.’ Emma smiled wryly. ‘I suppose, really, we are both victims of circumstances—and of Marion Reese’s possessiveness. How different our lives might have been if she had not interfered.’ She shook her head. ‘Why is it
some people want to play God?’ she asked, her face wreathed in sadness.

Paul sighed. ‘I don’t know, Emma. In her case, I imagine it was a truly sick mind at work. You know the old saying, “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.” But I will never understand what she hoped to gain. I did not display the slightest interest in her as a woman.’

‘People can always hope,’ Emma murmured. ‘And fantasize.’

‘That’s so,’ Paul acknowledged. He scrutinized Emma closely for a few seconds and then said quietly. ‘Do you still hate me, Emma?’

A look of surprise flashed across her face. ‘I never hated you, Paul!’ She half smiled. ‘Well, at least only fleetingly, when my emotions overcame me. You can’t blame me for that.’

‘I don’t blame you at all.’ Paul shifted in the chair and lit a cigarette to hide his nervousness. ‘I wondered—would it be possible—could we be friends, Emma? Now that the air is cleared between us. Or is that too much to ask?’ He held his breath.

Emma dropped her eyes, feeling suddenly wary. Dare she expose herself to him again, if only in friendship? She had been acutely conscious of him as a man from the moment he had arrived. He was just as dangerous to her as he had been in the past. Despite her inherent caution, she finally said slowly, ‘Yes, Paul, if you want that.’

‘I do,’ Paul responded firmly. He looked at her in his old appraising way, his eyes admiring. She was composed and as beautiful as always. Time had not marked her exquisite face, although he detected a certain sadness in her eyes when her face was in repose. He had to curb the compelling desire to take her in his arms and kiss her. He did not even dare to touch her hand. He must be careful if he was to win her back and possess her completely again. He saw her glance at her watch and his heart sank. He said quickly, impulsively, ‘Have dinner with me, Emma.’

‘Oh, Paul, I can’t,’ she said, flustered.

‘Why not? Do you have another engagement?’

‘No, but I—’

‘Please, Emma. For old times’ sake.’ He smiled engagingly
and his brilliantly blue eyes danced. ‘I’m not afraid. Are you?’

‘Why should I be afraid?’ Emma countered defensively, staring at him. Her heart missed a beat. He was hard to resist.

‘You have no reason at all, I can assure you,’ Paul chuckled, relaxing for the first time. As the tension slipped away he took command with his usual panache. ‘Then it’s settled. Where would you like to go?’

‘I don’t know,’ Emma said, feeling curiously weak and so overpowered she was incapable of declining the invitation again.

‘Let’s go to Rules across the street in Covent Garden. Do you know it?’

She shook her head. ‘I’ve heard of it, but I’ve never dined there.’

‘It’s a charming old place. I know you’ll like it,’ he said, and motioned to the waiter for the bill.

They were halfway through dinner when Paul said, somewhat abruptly, ‘Why did your marriage go wrong, Emma?’

Emma was so startled by the unanticipated question she did not answer for a long moment. Because I still loved you, she wanted to say. Instead she murmured, ‘Because Arthur and I are incompatible.’

‘I see. What’s he like?’ Paul questioned, riddled with curiosity and not a little jealousy.

Emma said carefully, ‘He’s handsome, charming, and from a good family. But he’s also a little weak. And rather vain.’ She glanced back at Paul and said quietly, ‘He’s not the type of man you would have much in common with.’

Nor you apparently, my love, Paul thought, but said, ‘Are you going to get a divorce?’

‘Not at the moment. Are you?’ she retorted, and caught her breath, regretting the question.

Paul’s face changed, settled into harsh lines. ‘Well, I asked for that one, I suppose,’ he responded quietly. ‘I want a divorce, Emma. I have for many years. However, I have some serious difficulties with Constance.’ He paused, ruminated briefly, and went on. ‘My wife is an alcoholic. She was a heavy
drinker before the war. That is one of the reasons the marriage broke up. By the time I returned to Sydney she was a lost cause. I put her in a nursing home at once. She ran away, just after I had buried Dad. It took me five weeks to find her and she was in a pretty ghastly state. Physically debilitated and mentally deranged as well. That was why I couldn’t come to England when I wanted to—I had to see her settled first. Believe me, I was infuriated. I don’t want to sound callous, but I have tried to help Constance over the years, to no avail. She won’t help herself. I lost my patience a long time ago.’