Marriage at a Distance (2 page)

Not that their marriage breakdown had been the only point at issue, she reminded herself wearily. Lionel’s relationship with Gabriel had always been a volatile one. As father and son, apart from the shrewd business brains they shared, they had always been chalk and cheese.

They didn’t even look alike. Lionel had been ruggedly built and fair-haired, with a florid complexion. Gabriel was equally tall, but his body was lean, like whipcord. And his dark, saturnine good looks were wholly derived from his Italian mother.

Temperamentally, they’d been poles apart too. Lionel had been bluff, outspoken and sentimental. A man who enjoyed life openly and always had a good word for his neighbours.

Gabriel, on the other hand…

Ah, she thought. What was Gabriel? Had she ever really known?

There were the surface attributes, of course. The quiet, rather drawling voice, the attractive, crooked smile, the athleticism, the raw courage he displayed on the polo field and riding in point-to-points, the icy nerve he brought to his business dealings. But none of these gave any real clue to what was going on in his mind.

He seemed, she thought, to watch the world from behind a screen of faint amusement. There’d always been a reserve, a control in his behaviour, even when he’d made love to her—after the first time, at least, she thought, her throat tightening harshly, and this had forced her, in turn, further behind her own barriers of shyness and tension.

Not that she could altogether blame him, she made herself concede. He hadn’t wanted to marry her. The situation had been forced on him.

Lionel had just retired as chairman of Verne Investments and he’d needed Gabriel to succeed him, but only on his own terms.

Joanna had always been aware of their constant conflict over Gabriel’s hedonistic lifestyle, the partying, the high-profile sport, the procession of spectacular girlfriends. The head of Verne Investments needed a more sober, stable image, Lionel had declared sternly. And becoming a married man would be the first step in his rehabilitation.

And I was there, Joanna thought bitterly. Already groomed for stardom, though I didn’t know it. And with a stupid, schoolgirl crush on Gabriel that I conveniently mistook for the real thing.

And for Lionel it solved two problems at once— Gabriel’s need for a suitable wife, and his own wish to see me provided for in the future.

No wonder he’d swept them into it, she thought painfully. His motives, as always, had been of the purest, but the pressure was there just the same. And Gabriel’s ambition coupled with her own agonising
naïveté
had set the seal on the whole disaster.

She had been eighteen. He was ten years older. And from the day, four years earlier, when she’d gone to live at Westroe Manor, he’d been her god—a magical being who would suddenly arrive and turn her life to radiance.

He’d taught her to ride, played tennis with her, forcing her to improve her game, drunk her first champagne with her, swept her off to London to have her soft, straight brown hair properly cut, bolstered her uncertain dress sense and nursed her, straight-faced, through her first hangover.

He had also shielded her from Cynthia’s occasional ill-tempered or patronising jibes, turning them aside with some cool, cutting rejoinder.

Looking back, Joanna thought that had probably had more to do with his dislike of Cynthia than any feeling of protectiveness towards herself. Yet at the time she’d seen him as her own white knight, riding to the rescue.

And she’d been too dazzled to realise that he was treating her just like the younger sister he’d never had.

Instead I thought I was Cinderella, she mocked herself, and that Gabriel was Prince Charming. And that Lionel, my fairy godfather, would somehow turn this cold-blooded business arrangement into a love-match, and we’d live happily ever after.

But her honeymoon in the Mauritian villa hired for them, had sent all her illusions crashing round her ears.

Beginning, she thought, hugging her arms defensively round her body, with her wedding night that wasn’t.

At the time she’d thought he was just being considerate. That he’d realised the demands of the wedding and the subsequent long flight had exhausted her when he’d told her quietly to go to bed and get some sleep, while he used an adjoining room. She’d even been grateful.

They’d spent the following day quietly at the villa, relaxing at the side of the pool under sunshades. But when evening came, Joanna had been able to feel tension beginning to build inside her.

She’d mentally told herself off for being an idiot. She knew what the mechanics of sex entailed, of course, but nothing of the sweeping emotions that transformed it into love.

They’d had a late and lingering dinner on the verandah overlooking the garden. Joanna had refused the brandy Gabriel offered her with their coffee, and instantly regretted it. Maybe it would have dispelled the colony of butterflies which had taken up residence inside her.

Gabriel, too, had been quiet over their meal, and was sitting, staring into the velvety darkness, cradling his glass in one hand.

For a moment she’d wondered if he was nervous too, then dismissed the idea. Gabriel, after all, was hardly a novice in these matters, she’d told herself, swallowing.

At last, she’d pushed back her chair. ‘I—I think I’ll go to bed,’ she said.

‘Fine.’ His smile was abstracted, as if his thoughts were far away.

‘Are you going to stay here?’ Her voice quivered a little.

He turned his head slowly and looked at her. He was frowning slightly, and there was a faint hardness about the lines of his mouth.

He said quietly, ‘For a while—yes.’

Her throat seemed to have closed up, making speech impossible, so she made herself smile and nod, then escaped to her room.

She showered, and put on the nightgown bought specially for this momentous occasion—crisp and delicate in white broderie anglaise—then slid under the sheet which was the bed’s only covering to wait for Gabriel.

The minutes ticked by—became half an hour—and then an hour. In spite of herself, Joanna could feel her eyelids becoming heavy, her body sinking down into the mattress.

No, she thought, sitting up. I’m not going to sleep.

She allowed another fifteen minutes to pass, then left the bed and padded barefoot to the door. The passage outside was in darkness, but she could see a glimmer of light shining under the door of the next room.

Swallowing, she turned the handle and walked in.

Gabriel was in bed, reading, propped up by a mountain of pillows, the sheet pulled to cover his hips, his olive skin in dark contrast to the whiteness of the linen.

Something clenched inside her at the sight of him. Something alien—dangerous—exciting.

There was a ring on her hand telling her that she was his wife. But he seemed in no hurry to be her husband.

His smile was edged, almost wary as he looked at her. ‘What is it, Jo?’

‘I—I wondered where you were.’

‘Not very far away, as you see.’

‘Yes.’ The drum of her heartbeat was almost painful. ‘But why here?’

He said gently, ‘It’s late. Let’s talk tomorrow.’

She walked forward and stood beside the bed, her eyes fixed on him as if she was seeing him for the first time, observing the strength of bone and muscle beneath the smooth skin. The way the shadowing of body hair on his chest narrowed to a vee over his abdomen. And, she realised, how he’d positioned the book he was holding to conceal the fact that he was physically aroused.

‘Go to bed, Jo.’ There was a snap in his voice.

She reached out and touched his bare shoulder, feeling the muscles bunch under her fingers.

She said softly, ‘Won’t you kiss me goodnight first?’

And she leaned forward and put her mouth on his, softly, almost experimentally.

For a moment he was completely still, then, with a sound like a groan, his arms went round her, pulling her roughly down to him so that she was cradled across his body.

His lips were parting hers without any of the usual gentleness he showed her. She felt the graze of his teeth against her bottom lip, the heated thrust of his tongue.

Excitement warred with apprehension inside her.

Gabriel tossed the covering sheet away and lowered her to the mattress, kneeling over her. He took the hem of her nightdress, tugging the garment upwards and over her head, then throwing it aside.

She wasn’t used to being naked in front of anyone, and she was paralysed with shyness. She wanted Gabriel to hold her. To kiss her and reassure her. She wanted him to tell her he loved her.

But he did none of these things. Instead, he began to touch her, his hands shaking as they cupped her breasts, traced the curve of her stomach and swept downwards to her thighs.

Joanna felt a faint stir of wondering response deep within her. She looked up at him and suddenly saw the face of a stranger, harsh and strangely remote, with eyes feral as a jungle cat’s. As he entered her, her body resisted momentarily the breach of its innocence, and she gave a sob of mingled pain and fright.

He checked suddenly, looking down at her with something like horror. He whispered harshly, ‘Oh, dear God…’

Then he began to move inside her, to some stark, driven rhythm of his own, until, at last, his release was torn from him.

He rolled away from her and lay with his back turned to her while his ragged breathing steadied. Then he got up and went into the bathroom, and she heard the shower running.

A ritual cleansing, Joanna thought, to wash away all contact with her. And she turned her face into the pillow and wept.

She supposed she must have cried herself to sleep, because the next time she opened her eyes it was sunrise. She was alone in the bedroom, but she could see Gabriel sitting on the balcony, in his robe, watching the sun come up, a dark silhouette against the passionate sky.

She slipped out of bed, put on the crumpled nightgown rescued from the floor and went to him.

‘Gabriel.’ Her voice barely rose above a whisper, and she saw his back stiffen in awareness.

‘Go back to bed.’ He didn’t look round at her. ‘You’ll catch cold.’

‘I don’t understand.’ She forced the words through a throat aching with tears. ‘What have I done wrong?’

‘Nothing,’ he said quietly. ‘The fault is all mine. I should have stopped this bloody marriage at the outset—never allowed it to happen.’ His sigh was harsh, almost anguished. ‘Dear God, what a mess. What a total—damnable shambles.’

It was as if he’d turned and struck her. She went back into the bedroom, pulled the sheet over her head, and lay like a stone until the servants started moving about.

And then she got up quietly, to pull the remnants of her pride around her and face the first day of the rest of her life.

J
OANNA
stirred in the chair and shivered. The hopeful fire had burned down, and she replenished it with a couple of fast-burning beech logs.

But the real cold was inside her, in her bones. In her heart.

She shook her head in irritation. Why was she thinking these things—allowing herself to remember—probing into old wounds?

Perhaps, she thought, grimacing, because they’d never properly healed the first time. Now there’s a dangerous admission.

Wrapping her arms across herself, she began to walk slowly up and down the room, head bent. Her hair brushed her cheek and she combed it back with impatient fingers. She was still wearing it in the same sleek mid-length bob. A change, she decided abruptly, was well overdue.

Something short, she thought, and businesslike, be-fitting her job-seeking status.

She had filled in for the secretary more than once at the estate office, so she knew the rudiments of word-processing and the preparation of spreadsheets.

What she should look for, she thought detachedly, was a position similar to the one she’d filled here, but minus the personal involvement. Housekeepers who could drive and had basic secretarial skills would surely be in demand. And didn’t the National Trust employ people to live in their properties and care for them?

I would like to do that, she thought. I would like to care for the fabric of another old house, as I’ve looked after this. It’ll be handed back to Gabriel in good shape.

She had marked time for the past two years, but if that led to a career then the time would have been well spent after all. It was only a pity she couldn’t find a suitable post before she was forced to confront Gabriel again.

Gabriel. Every pathway in her mind seemed suddenly to lead back to him, she thought angrily. But that was understandable, in a way. After all, in another forty-eight hours he would be here, taking possession.

Another uncontrollable shiver went through her as the words lodged in her brain. For a brief nightmare second she could almost feel his physical presence. She could feel his hands touching her, as if she were some rare and delicate object which had taken his fleeting interest but which he would decide, in the end, not to buy. Her head seemed to fill with the scent—the taste of him.

And she remembered his face, stark, almost pagan in the golden Mauritian moonlight, as he’d lifted himself above her. The way he’d suddenly become some fierce, dominating stranger, obsessed with an emotion she did not share or even understand.

But he had never treated her like that again.

Nor had either of them referred to what had happened, or the bitter words which had followed. Instead, by some tacit agreement, they’d treated the honeymoon as if it was just another holiday. They’d swum, gone sightseeing, bargain-hunted in local markets and sampled the Mauritian specialities in the restaurants like all the other tourists.

In the daytime, he’d seemed to revert to the Gabriel she’d always known, so that she’d been able to relax, even enjoy herself a little. Except that she’d known the night would always come and she would find herself lying alone in the enormous bed, listening to the gentle swish of the ceiling fan as it revolved above her and wondering if he was asleep.

It was their last night on the island when he’d eventually turned to her again.

This time he’d been gentle, almost objective as he’d touched her. There’d been no pain when he entered her, but she’d been rigid in his arms, wanting to respond—longing to share this ultimate secret with him—but not daring to. Because she’d known from his own words that it was a mistake—that he didn’t really want her. He needed sexual release and she was just an available female body. And that knowledge had imprisoned her in a constraint that this polite, controlled,
dutiful
coupling could not release.

At one point, she’d heard him ask quietly, ‘Do you want me to stop?’

And her own stilted reply. ‘No, it’s all right—really.’

For a moment he’d been very still, staring down at her, then he’d closed his eyes and begun to drive towards his climax.

In a way things had become easier when they returned home. For one thing they hadn’t been in each other’s undiluted company any more.

But there had been inherent problems in the situation—Cynthia’s almost prurient interest in their relationship for one, and Lionel’s jovial hints about grandchildren for another.

If they’d been in love, passionately and physically involved with each other, they could have laughed about it. As it was, Joanna had found it acutely embarrassing. What Gabriel thought he’d kept to himself.

He had begun to stay overnight in London instead of driving down, and she’d had to find excuses not to join him.

When he was there, in bed with her in the room they’d shared for form’s sake, she’d lie awake half the night, dreading he was going to touch her, then fretting because he’d simply wished her goodnight, turned on his side and instantly fallen asleep.

When he wasn’t there, the darkness she’d stared into had been filled with images of him, the challenging grace of his naked body arched above some other woman.

And there had to be someone. Painful common sense had told her that. Gabriel was not a natural celibate, and the spaces between their lovemaking—if it could be called that—were becoming longer.

She remembered the very last time with painful vividness. They’d been to a party—someone’s twenty-first birthday—and she’d drunk too much champagne. For once Joanna had felt her inhibitions slipping away. She’d laughed, flirted, and danced with everyone, suddenly aware as she did so that Gabriel was watching her, leaning against a wall, drink in hand. For a moment, she’d faltered, bracing herself for his disapproval, then realised that he was smiling faintly, his eyes hooded, speculative. She’d laughed back at him, and, obeying an impulse, spun around on the ball of her foot so that the skirt of her indigo crêpe dress billowed round her slim legs, blowing him a kiss as she faced him again. And she’d seen him, in return, lift his glass in a silent toast.

In the car going home, she’d kicked off her high-heeled shoes and slid down in her seat, allowing her head to droop towards his shoulder.

She’d half expected him to move away, but he’d stayed where he was and so had she, watching the passing hedgerows through half-closed eyes, moving her cheek gently against the smooth silky texture of his jacket, and humming snatches of the music she’d been dancing to.

They hadn’t talked, but that in itself had imposed a kind of intimacy, as if there was no need for words.

Or, she’d thought afterwards, as if they had been in a dream.

When they’d got back to the Manor, Gabriel had parked by the front entrance and come round to open Joanna’s door. She’d been scrabbling around on the floor.

‘I’ve lost my shoe.’

‘Look for it tomorrow.’

‘But the gravel—’ She stopped abruptly as he lifted her out of the car into his arms, and carried her up the short flight of stone steps into the house.

She expected him to set her down in the hall, but he kept going up the stairs, then along the gallery to their bedroom.

She could feel her heart hammering suddenly. The effect of the champagne had dissipated and she was sober again, half-frightened, half-excited.

Gabriel carried her across the room and put her on the bed, following her down onto the yielding mattress. For a moment he lay beside her, one hand cupping her face, making her look at him. His eyes were lambent, intent, as if, she thought, he was looking into her soul. The silence that surrounded them was charged. The light from the shaded lamps seemed to shimmer and dance.

Joanna was trembling inside, almost dizzy with expectancy. She lifted her own hand and stroked his cheek lightly with her fingertips, and she saw him hesitate, the lean body suddenly tense, the dark face unfathomable.

And she remembered, just in time, as he must also have done, the bitter truth about their marriage, and that to yield to the sweet, potent forces in her blood—to draw him down into her arms—into her body—would be an unendurable complication.

Because nothing’s basically changed, she thought, her throat tightening. He’s had a good time at the party tonight and he wants to end the evening in the traditional way. That’s all.

And I—I can’t let myself want him. I couldn’t bear to be hurt like that—to spend the rest of my life waiting for him, needing him, and being disappointed. Being betrayed.

It’s better the way it is. At least I still have my pride.

She moved abruptly, pushing herself away from him.

He reached for her. ‘Joanna.’ His voice was gentle, almost rueful.

She said in a small, high voice, ‘I—I’m sorry. I’m not feeling very well.’

She slid off the bed, a hand pressed to her mouth, and ran across to the bathroom, closing the door and bolting it behind her.

It wasn’t altogether a lie. She felt sick with self-betrayal.

She ran the taps in the basin and splashed water onto her face and wrists. After a decent interval she flushed the lavatory and emerged from the bathroom, dabbing her lips with a tissue.

Gabriel, still fully dressed, was standing by the window, looking out into the darkness. He turned, brows raised, and surveyed her.

Joanna gave him a tremulous smile. ‘That was awful. It must have been the champagne.’

‘Naturally,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing else, after all, that could have turned your stomach.’

She halted uncomfortably, disturbed by his unwavering scrutiny.

‘I hope you’ve never had leanings towards becoming an actress,’ he went on conversationally. ‘You’re not very good at it.’

She felt colour invade her face. ‘I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Your recent performance as the dying swan,’ he said derisively. ‘But you won’t have to sink to any more of these undignified ploys to keep me at bay. Enough is quite enough.’

He paused, the tawny eyes sweeping her contemptuously. ‘I think I’ll do us both a favour, and find some other form of entertainment.’

He walked past her to the door. ‘I’m going back to London. You can tell my father I had an early meeting, or make up what story you like. It really makes no difference.’ His smile flickered at her like a cold flame. ‘Goodbye, my sweet wife.’

Joanna realised dazedly that she was standing in the middle of the study with her eyes shut and her hands pressed tightly to her ears, as if—two years on—she could somehow shut out the sound, the image of that night, and by doing so reduce its pain.

But that, she reminded herself bleakly, had never been possible. And with Gabriel’s return it would all begin again. The day after tomorrow, Henry Fortescue had said. Forty-eight hours, maybe less, and she would have to face him.

Yes—on the positive side—forty-eight hours and the official dissolution of their marriage could begin.

She would leave the letter she had written him on the desk for him to find.

She took a long look around her. The chances were she would never enter this room again. The house that had been her home was hers no longer.

I have to move out, she thought. Move out—and move on.

And, whatever emotional furore Gabriel’s return would cause, there were still practical details to be dealt with.

She went out of the study, crossing the big panelled hall to the dining room, where Mrs Ashby was laying the table for dinner.

The housekeeper’s elderly face was drawn, her eyes red-rimmed. Joanna remembered with compassion that she had lived at Westroe in one capacity or another for over thirty years, arriving when Gabriel was still a baby.

The smile she sent Joanna was a travesty of her usual cheerfulness. ‘Will Mrs Elcott be down for dinner, madam? Or should I prepare a tray?’

‘I honestly don’t know, but I’ll find out.’ Joanna paused. ‘Mr Verne will be here for the funeral, Grace. Would you get a room ready for him, please?’

Grace Ashby shook her head. ‘What a sad home-coming for him, madam.’ She hesitated awkwardly. ‘I suppose it should be Mr Lionel’s room, but all his things are still there. I—I haven’t had the heart to touch anything, and that’s a fact.’

‘Just prepare the room he used to have for the time being,’ Joanna said gently. ‘He can decide for himself what he wants to do once things—settle down a bit.’ She sighed. ‘Now, I’ll go and tackle Mrs Elcott.’

The lamps had been lit in Cynthia’s bedroom, and she was reclining against her pillows in a pale blue wrap, watching television. A copy of
Vogue
was open on the bed beside her, together with a half-eaten box of chocolates.

‘Hi.’ Joanna smiled at her, trying not to wince at the over-heated, perfume-laden atmosphere. ‘How are you feeling? I came to see if you felt like coming down to dinner this evening.’

‘I’ll have a bowl of soup up here.’ Cynthia gave her a tragic look. ‘I’m afraid I can’t face anything more solid.’

And nor could I if I’d eaten my way through nearly a pound of chocolates, Joanna thought with irony.

Aloud, she said, ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘It’s not your fault.’ Cynthia waved a hand. ‘Some of us are just more sensitive than others. It’s the burden we have to bear in life.’

She thought of another one. ‘And how many more visitors can we expect today?’ she demanded peevishly. ‘The doorbell seems to have been ringing non-stop. It’s been quite impossible for me to rest.’

‘It’s natural for people to express their condolences,’ Joanna said levelly. ‘Lionel was very much loved.’

‘You think you have to tell me that?’ Cynthia snatched a handful of tissues from a box and applied them to her perfectly dry eyes. ‘Really, Joanna, you can be so tactless. I sometimes wonder if you have a heart at all.’ She paused. ‘I notice none of them came up to see me. I suppose I can expect to be disregarded from now on.’ She sighed. ‘And things might have been so different.’

‘They’re going to be.’ Joanna cleared a handful of lingerie and filmy stockings from a chair and sat down. ‘My last visitor was Henry Fortescue.’