Still Waters (7 page)

‘Why don’t we go for a walk along the river bank?’ Peter had said. ‘I’m sure the air in here is at least twenty degrees hotter than the air outside, to say nothing of being full of cigarette smoke. Or don’t you trust me?’

He had smiled lazily down at her, as though the question of any woman not trusting him was totally absurd, and indeed she had looked up at his open, friendly countenance and thought that both of them were safe enough. He’s likelier to bore me than bed me, she thought. But it would be nice to get out of this hot room.

So she had smiled back and gone with him, down their host’s long lawn to the river which wound its way through reeds and willow copses and meadows, where the scent of wild roses and honeysuckle was brought to them on the breeze, where the milky moonlight cast long black shadows behind them as they walked. And in the darkness beneath the willows, with starshine and moonshine and a gentle breeze their only audience, he had taken her in his arms and kissed her very nicely and just as she was about to suggest that they make their way back to the party he had begun to make love to her with such heat, such passion, that cool, self-assured, rather calculating Marianne Dupré had found herself responding – and responding with ardour and appetite, what was more.

Afterwards, she could scarcely believe the things she had done, the way she had behaved! All her plans had been whistled down the wind because a man had been sweet to her when she was unhappy, and had taken advantage of her, and stolen her most precious possession – for Marianne prized her virginity as a highly saleable item in the marriage stakes. Armand had never come within a mile of intimacy, he had been content with her occasional kisses, and now Peter had simply taken her, as though . . . as though . . .

But her thoughts had broken down in confusion at that point, for she had lain in Peter’s arms, under those willow trees, and begged him to love her, to hold her, never to let her go. And Peter had made love to her so enchantingly, and promised that they would meet often, as often as possible, and helped her to dress, and taken her back to the party as calmly as though nothing at all had happened out there in the windy darkness, far less something as world-stopping as the experience he and Marianne had shared.

He had not tried to meet her again, either. It had been Marianne who had found out where he worked, bumped into him ‘by accident’ in the city, suggested they might meet that evening for a meal. She had named a small hotel, he had agreed – and afterwards, when he took her up to the room he had booked, he had actually had the nerve to say he’d assumed that was what she wanted!

It was not only what she wanted, it was what she had planned, but she had no intention of admitting it. No decent man, she told Peter tearfully, would have assumed any such thing.

‘I am a stranger in your land,’ she said piteously, exaggerating her accent and fixing her huge, dark eyes on his face. ‘I do not zeenk what you say is gentlemanly. I am nineteen . . . I know nozzing about men, only zat I badly need a friend.’

She was a good deal older than nineteen and she had nearly snookered herself with that particular lie because he had promptly apologised and said that he was a bounder and had misread the situation. Of course he wouldn’t dream of taking advantage of her – he was almost twenty years her senior, dammit – and would see her home at once, would cancel the room . . .

Afterwards, she realised that they had both been playing a part, and playing it with considerable aplomb what was more, but at the time she simply burst into tears, threw herself into his arms, and told him that she was in his hands.

‘And zey are gentle, kind hands,’ she said soulfully. ‘You will not harm me, Peter, zat much I do know.’

He hadn’t harmed her, he had given her much pleasure. But he hadn’t wanted to marry her, either, and had made it clear that she could never be anything other than his mistress. And for many months, being his mistress had been so wonderful that she hadn’t wanted anything more. His love-making was tender, but so satisfying that she thought about it all the time they were apart, yet when they were together, she found that she simply enjoyed his company, his sense of humour, his occasional bouts of wanting to explain something to her, even the way he drove the car. I like him as well as loving him, she realised after time had passed and her affection for him had simply deepened and strengthened. There won’t ever be anyone for me but Peter, it no longer matters that he’s neither rich nor handsome. He’s Peter, and that’s enough.

When they had sorted out their relationship into that of two people who enjoyed both each other’s company and each other’s love-making, they had laughed at their early, ingenuous efforts to take control of the situation. Marianne, who had not always found it possible to laugh at herself, knew that she had Peter to thank for a new-found gift which gave her a lot of pleasure. He had told her, gently, that she must try not to take herself so seriously, and she had studied her past and realised that most of her unhappiness could have been avoided had she done just that – laughed, shrugged, moved on – instead of turning everything into a tragedy.

Yet now . . . how could she laugh if he truly meant to cast her off? But the ice which had seemed to turn Peter into a figure of stone was melting, she could see it. He stood there, staring down at her, and suddenly he took her hands and held them up, just beneath his chin.

‘A baby? You’re sure, Mari?’

‘I’m sure,’ Marianne said tremulously. She did not have to act a part now, she was truly terrified that he might continue to insist that marriage was out of the question, that a baby made no difference. ‘The baby will be born in the spring, all being well.’

Peter nodded, then carried her hands to his mouth, uncurled her fingers, and kissed both her palms. Then he folded her fingers round his kisses and tilted her chin until they were looking straight into each other’s faces.

‘Would you like us to marry, then, Marianne? You know I can’t offer you much, but what I have I’ll share with you. And you must love Tess, because she’s been my life now for eight years. But she needs a mother, even though she’s not aware of it yet. Could you be that mother, sweetheart?’

He meant it. He would marry her, share his life with her, but if she didn’t play fair, if she was a wicked stepmother rather than a loving mother to his small daughter, then he would contrive to get rid of her. She didn’t know how she knew, but she was certain she was right. He wouldn’t threaten, he was telling her plainly the terms on which he would marry her, and she would tell him, equally plainly, that she would do her best by the child.

‘I’ll try. I’ll really try, Peter,’ she said earnestly. ‘When can I meet her?’

‘When she comes back from the seaside,’ Peter said unhesitatingly. ‘As soon as possible, in other words. Look, Marianne, are you sure marriage is what you want?’

She could have sung for joy but she assured him, sedately, that in the circumstances marriage had to be what she wanted. He shook his head at her, pulling a rueful face.

‘I know that, but is it truly what you want? If circumstances had been different . . .’

She hesitated, thinking about it. Should she tell him that the sum of all her desires was marriage to him? It might be unwise to put all her cards so plainly on the table, to give herself no possibility of an orderly and dignified retreat. Yet if she was not honest with him he might not think her commitment sufficient.

‘Oh, Peter, doesn’t every girl want to marry the man in her life?’

Compromise of a sort; would it be sufficient, or would he demand total capitulation, would he expect her to plead for marriage, for respectability?

They were still standing in the kitchen, with the kettle steaming on the range behind Peter and the back door slightly ajar behind Marianne. Peter sighed and carefully took off his spectacles. He produced a small leather case and pushed the glasses down into it, then slid them into his pocket. Then he smoothed back his hair, including the lock that had dangled over his forehead. Then he took her hand and led her across the kitchen and into the small, square hallway.

‘I shouldn’t have asked you that, should I? After all, circumstances aren’t different. You’re having a baby, that’s not something which can be discounted.’

‘It could,’ Marianne said slowly. ‘There are ways . . .’

She hated saying it, feared suddenly, with a cold, deathly fear, that he would swing round, offer to pay . . . He did not. Instead he shook his head and flung open the nearest door, gesturing into the room before him.

‘Living-room. Looks nice when the fire’s lit, but we don’t spend much time in here in summer, Tess and myself.’

Marianne looked around the large, well-proportioned room with french windows leading on to a small terrace, a huge fireplace which took up most of one wall, and comfortable, rather shabby furnishings. ‘It’s nice,’ she said, and heard the breathlessness in her own voice and knew it was because he was showing her his home without holding anything back, without saying ‘if you behave, this could be yours’, even if that was what he meant.

He crossed the hall in a couple of strides and threw open another door.

‘Dining-room. Used half a dozen times a year at the most, I suppose. Tess and I eat in the kitchen, as a rule.’

Another room, as large as the first, but with two ordinary windows, curtained in red velvet. A long, dark dining-table, gleaming like still water, with a silver candelabra in the centre and a number of long-backed chairs drawn up to it.

‘Not cosy,’ Peter said. ‘But functional.’

‘Marvellous,’ Marianne breathed. ‘Stately, impressive – oh, Peter!’

But Peter was shutting the door, leading her across the hallway again, opening another door.

‘My study.’

A smaller room this time, dominated by a large desk, the walls lined with shelving upon which stood innumerable books.

Marianne nodded. ‘Not cosy, but functional,’ she said. She grinned up at Peter. ‘Bedrooms?’

He took the stairs two at a time, leaving her to follow more sedately. The upper landing had four doors leading off, as had the lower hall. They must be very large bedrooms, Marianne thought, but then the first door was opening and she saw that the room revealed wasn’t very large at all, was, in fact, cosy.

‘Tess’s room,’ Peter said briefly. ‘Good thing she tidied round before she left.’

Marianne thought the room untidy and rather ill-planned, but dared not say so. She also saw that it was pretty, with honeysuckle wallpaper, dark-yellow curtains and a square of fudge-brown carpet on the linoleumed floor. She moved forward, to take a peep round the door, but Peter was already on his way out. He closed the door firmly, opened the next.

‘Spare room. The bath’s in here. I keep meaning to make it official, but you know how it is. Tess and I manage.’

‘Oh! No lavatory, either?’ The words were out before she could prevent it and Marianne could have kicked herself for the implied criticism, but Peter just said, ‘Been meaning to have one installed as well as a bath. I’ll do it if you’d like it. Otherwise it’s a chamberpot during the night and a run down to the end of the garden during the day.’

‘I’d like it,’ Marianne said feelingly. She had no urge for the simple life, not as regards plumbing, at any rate. ‘But I could manage, I suppose.’

He nodded, then opened the third door.

‘Spare room. We don’t have many visitors, but when I’m away Mrs Rawlings sleeps here.’

It was a pleasant room, though it seemed chillier than the rest of the house, possibly because the walls were ice-white and the curtains and bedspread a very pale blue. But Marianne nodded approvingly. It was fine for visitors. And what she wanted to see was where Peter had slept – alone – for the last few years. She realised as the thought entered her head that she had no idea when the first Mrs Delamere had died, but there were some things, she decided, that you simply didn’t ask Peter. It wasn’t that he was secretive, exactly, simply that he was rather a private sort of person. He would tell you things in his own time, you couldn’t hurry him.

‘My room.’

He opened the door and Marianne looked almost furtively through the doorway, then heaved a sigh of relief. She did not know what she had expected, but it certainly wasn’t what she saw. A beautiful room with low windows set into the thick old walls overlooking the land and the woods beyond, a very large double bed spread with a warm, gold-coloured counterpane and curtains, a dressing-table and matching wardrobe in some very pale wood . . .

‘Like it?’ Peter sounded almost embarrassed, Marianne thought, as she turned to smile up at him.

‘I love it! It’s a beautiful room and tastefully furnished, too. I love the colour scheme, the view . . . everything, in fact.’

Peter walked into the room. He sat down on the bed and patted the counterpane beside him, inviting Marianne to follow suit. She came, and perched. He put an arm round her.

‘What about this bed? Cosy, would you say?’

‘I can’t judge without trying it,’ Marianne said demurely. ‘Oh, Peter . . . no, Peter! What if . . .’

‘We’re alone. We’re going to get married.’ He put a hand around the nape of her neck, caressing the soft skin with a gentle, hypnotic movement. ‘You’re sure you can cope with a little girl of eight, as well as with a new baby?’

Honesty, as well as caution, forbade over-confidence here. ‘I
think
I can,’ Marianne said. ‘I
hope
I can. But no one can foretell the future, Peter. Tess may not like me.’

‘Liking has to be earned,’ Peter said. ‘Just as love has to be. She’s a good, sensible girl, my Tess; she won’t dislike you on sight, but she’ll stand back a little, give you space to prove yourself. All you have to do is show her you’re prepared to be a proper mother to her.’

‘I’ll try,’ Marianne said earnestly. ‘I really will try, Peter.’

‘Good. Then in that case, why don’t we have a kiss and a cuddle, just to show willing?’

Marianne left the house late that evening. She was extremely happy and very relieved, and she sang little French songs as she cycled along the flat country roads. She was going to be Mrs Peter Delamere, she was going to be very good indeed to her little stepdaughter, and she would be the best mother in the world to her new baby when it was born. Already she loved the house, its garden, the location. She would make changes, of course she would, starting with a bathroom. She would divide the room in two, so that the lavatory would be separate, paper the walls with suitable paper, enjoy buying the various fixtures and fittings. And then there was the kitchen. Shining cream paintwork would help and lots more working surfaces and an Aga instead of the old range. Then she would get some bright linoleum for the floor and light-coloured curtains for the windows. She had no intention of trying to run a house from a kitchen which resembled something from the dark ages!