To Be the Best (37 page)

Stepping into a pair of high-heeled, black-satin mules, she went through into the sitting room where she stood for a moment warming herself in front of the fire. And then she stretched out on the Chesterfield sofa to wait for her husband.

As the minutes ticked by, Arabella began to realize she was anxious for Jonathan to return, looked forward to seeing him, even though he had only been gone for a couple of hours. She hoped he would want to make love before they went down to dinner.

Startled by these thoughts, she sat upon the sofa with a jolt, frowned, reached for a cigarette, lit it.

As she smoked, her mind turned over at a rapid pace, and it dawned on her how much she liked Jonathan’s blond good looks, his lovely manners, the finesse with which he did things, his very Englishness. It was such a change, such a relief, to be with an Englishman after the foreigners she had known. She also enjoyed the avid attention he paid to her, his passion for her, his sexual prowess. Jonathan Ainsley, her husband, was as good a lover as she had ever had, if not, indeed, the very best.

She suddenly suspected she was falling in love with him, and she was further surprised at herself.

Fifteen minutes later Jonathan hurried into the sitting room. It was dimly lit, but the logs blazing in the hearth cast a roseate glow throughout. Arabella was standing in front of the fireplace, and he
thought she looked quite extraordinary tonight. This brought him to a standstill.

He paused in the centre of the floor, staring at her, appreciating her beauty, her sensuality. How inviting she was in the black-chiffon negligée. He could faintly make out parts of her body through the delicate fabric…the high, full breasts, the slender waist, the blonde mound of Venus below. Black was a colour that suited her well. It brought out the creaminess of her incomparable skin, the silver lights in the cascade of glorious, shimmering hair.

She held out her arms to him, half smiling.

Her black eyes seemed to burn right through him, and they held an expression he had never seen reflected there before. But curiously enough, whatever the expression meant, it excited him. As he moved forward he felt his desire for her stirring.

‘I’ve missed you, darling,’ she murmured in her low, husky voice as he came to a stop next to her.

‘I’ve not been all
that
long,’ he replied. Nevertheless he was pleased. He reached for her, took her in his arms, kissed her on the mouth. When they finally drew apart, he held her away from him, gripping her shoulders firmly with both hands, gazing deeply into her face.

‘What is it?’ she asked at last.

‘You are so very,
very
beautiful tonight, Arabella. More beautiful than I have ever seen you, I do believe.’ ‘Oh Jonathan…’

He leaned into her, kissed the hollow in her throat, and as he did he slipped the peignoir off her shoulders. It slid to the floor. Next he pulled at the narrow nightgown straps tied in bows, and as they came undone this garment, too, fell in a swirl of chiffon at her feet.

She stood before him naked except for the black pearls encircling her slender throat.

Jonathan stepped back. Of all the women he had ever had,
she was the most experienced sexually, and therefore the most exciting, the most desirable…Of all the objects of art in his collection, she was the most beautiful thing, the biggest prize of all…His greatest possession. She was perfection itself. And he owned her. Owned every part of her. No, that was not quite true. She was still withholding. This continued to surprise him. But soon she would give herself up to him completely, abandon herself fully. He was confident of his powers…and his power over her.

Arabella said slowly, ‘Jonathan, is something wrong? You’re looking at me oddly.’

‘No, of course there’s nothing wrong,’ he replied. ‘I’m just admiring you, thinking how lovely you look…wearing only my black pearls. How white your body is in contrast.’ As he spoke, he reached out, ran a finger down one of her breasts.

He thought he would explode. The blood rushed to his face, and he trembled as he moved closer to her, put his hands around her neck, unclasped the necklace.

‘There, that’s much better,’ he said, slipping it into his pocket. ‘You need no adornment, Arabella. You are perfect as you are…like a Grecian statue exquisitely chiselled out of the finest alabaster.’

He removed his sports jacket, threw it on a chair. Then, taking hold of her hand, he led her towards the sofa. ‘Come let us lie here together for a while. Let us love each other, enjoy each other,’ he said. ‘I want to know you more intimately than I already do, possess even more of you. And then more…and more. Will you let me, Arabella?’

‘Yes,’ she whispered huskily. ‘If you will do the same.’

‘Ah Arabella, we are so alike, you and I, in every conceivable way.’ He chuckled softly. ‘A couple of sinners, I do believe.’

Jonathan held her with his eyes. A knowing look crossed his face. He pressed her down onto the cushions with one hand. With the other he began to unbutton his shirt.

‘I’m not quite sure how to tell you this,’ Alexander began, looking from his sister, Emily, to his cousins, Paula O’Neill and Anthony Standish, the Earl of Dunvale.

The three of them were seated on the two sofas in front of the fire, sipping the drinks he had poured for them a short while before.

‘In fact,’ Alexander went on, ‘I’ve racked my brains for weeks now, seeking the right words, the best way of explaining –’

Breaking off, he rose from his chair, walked across the drawing room, stood at the huge, bow-shaped window that soared to the ceiling, overlooked the small garden behind his Mayfair house.

He suddenly wished that he hadn’t asked them to come over, that he didn’t have to tell them…
fervently
wished that he could simply…let it happen. But that would be unthinkable. Unfair of him. And besides, there were too many things to be decided, too many legalities involved.

Alexander was tense, held himself stiffly, his shoulders hunched underneath his jacket. He took a deep breath, summoning his courage. This was perhaps the most difficult thing he had ever had to do in his entire life.

Emily, watching him intently, had detected the strained note in his voice when she had first arrived at the house. And now she noticed how taut he was. They had been unusually close throughout their lives, and she knew him as well as she knew herself. Intuitively she felt that something was radically wrong.

Pressing back her alarm, she said, ‘You sound awfully serious, Sandy.’

‘Yes,’ he responded, continuing to stare out of the window, wondering how to begin. In the gathering dusk of this January evening, the patch of garden looked sad and bereft with its blackened skeletal trees, empty flower beds frosted with old snow turned grey by London soot. It seemed to him that this bit of earth echoed his bleak mood.

The three cousins were waiting for Alexander to continue, to explain why he had invited them here, had actually
insisted
they come tonight. And they exchanged concerned glances behind his back.

Paula swung her head, focused on Anthony, lifted a brow questioningly.

The Earl shrugged, half-raised his hands in a helpless gesture, indicating his own considerable bafflement.

Paula peered at Emily on the sofa opposite. Emily tightened her lips, shook her head rapidly, expressing her own puzzlement. ‘I don’t know what this is all about either,’ Emily mouthed silently to Paula. After a moment, she cleared her throat, ventured aloud, ‘Sandy dear…Gran always said that if a person had something difficult to explain, or unpleasant to say, the best thing to do was simply to blurt it out. Why don’t you do that?’

‘That’s not as easy as it sounds,’ her brother answered quietly.

‘Whatever problems you have, you know you have our full support,’ Anthony volunteered in his most reassuring voice.

Alexander pivoted on his heels, stood with his back to the great window, regarding the three of them thoughtfully, ‘Yes, I do know that, Anthony, and thanks,’ he said at last. A faint wavering smile touched his mouth, then faded instantly.

Paula, studying him alertly, saw something strange in the back of his light blue eyes, the emptiest of expressions, and it made her heart tighten. ‘There’s something awfully wrong…it’s…it’s bad, isn’t it, Sandy?’

He nodded. ‘I’ve always prided myself on being able to handle anything, Paula. But this…’ He discovered he was unable to finish his sentence.

Paula remembered then, remembered the telephone conversation she had had with him at the end of August last year. She had sensed he had a problem that particular morning, had then dismissed it as being merely her vivid imagination at work. But she had been right after all, she was sure of that. She clasped her hands together tightly, feeling unaccountably nervous and filling, unexpectedly, with apprehension.

Alexander said slowly, ‘I asked the three of you to come round this evening…because of our closeness over the years, the special relationship I have with each one of you.’ He waited, took a breath. ‘I do have certain problems. I thought we could discuss them rationally, and that perhaps you would help me to come to a few decisions.’

‘Of course we will,’ Anthony said. His cousin was behaving out of character and he was desperately worried. He fixed his clear, steady gaze on the other man, wanting to convey his affection and devotion. They had helped each other over some rough terrain in the past, and would no doubt do so again.

Leaning forward with a degree of urgency, Anthony asked, ‘Is it to do with business? Or is it a family matter?’

‘Personal really,’ Alexander answered.

He moved away from the window, walked slowly across the elegant, period drawing room, lowered himself into the chair he had vacated a short while before. He knew there was no point in putting it off any longer. They simply had to be told.

Alexander let out a deeply weary sigh. He said, in a controlled voice, ‘I’m very ill…I’m dying, actually.’

Emily, Paula and Anthony gaped at him. None of them had expected to hear anything as devastating as this. They were stunned.

Alexander went on hurriedly, ‘I’m sorry to have told you in such a blunt manner, but I took Emily’s advice. And Gran
was
right, you know. It
is
the only way…best to blurt it out, get it said without too much preamble.’

Paula was so shaken she was unable to respond. Blindly, she groped for Anthony’s hand.

He took it, enfolded it in his comfortingly. He was as stupefied as she, at a complete loss. There were no words. Anything he said to Sandy would be cold comfort. A great sadness flowed through him. What an appalling thing to happen to poor Sandy, who was in his prime. Sandy had been such a good friend, a source of strength during his own travails over the years. And most especially at the time Min had been found drowned in the lake at Clonloughlin. Anthony reached for his glass of scotch-and-soda on the end table. He suddenly needed a drink.

Emily was ashen with shock.

She sat perfectly still, staring at her brother in disbelief, her eyes dark with sudden pain. She felt as though all blood had drained out of her. Then taking hold of herself, she got to her feet a bit shakily, and went to him. Kneeling down next to his chair, she took his hand in hers, clung to it.

‘Sandy, it’s not true! It can’t be!’ she cried in a low but vehement tone. ‘Oh please say it isn’t…’ Emily’s voice quavered, came to a stop, and her green eyes brimmed. ‘Not you, Sandy, oh please,
not you.’

‘I’m afraid so,’ he said in the steadiest voice imaginable, ‘and there’s not much I can do to change this one, Dumpling. It’s out of my hands.’

His use of her old nickname made her choke, and long forgotten memories came rushing back unbidden, evoked their childhood years together; she remembered how he had protected her, looked after her, and her throat suddenly ached and her heart felt as if it was being squeezed in a vice. She closed her eyes for a split second, striving to come to grips with her brother’s tragic and frightening news.

‘You say you’re d-d-dying.’ She stumbled on this last word, had to take several deep breaths before continuing, ‘But of what? What’s wrong with you, Sandy? You seem perfectly well to me. What are you suffering from?’

‘I have leukaemia…it’s known as acute granulocytic leukaemia.’

‘Surely that can be treated!’ Anthony exclaimed, sudden hope leaping onto his worried face. ‘Tremendous strides have been made in medicine today, especially in the treatment of cancer, and perhaps –’

‘There is no cure,’ Alexander interrupted.

‘But what actually is it?’ Emily demanded, anxiety making her voice rise, giving it a shrillness abnormal for her. ‘What on earth
causes
it?’

‘A malignant change in cells that produce granulocytes, one of the types of white blood cells made in the bone marrow,’ he explained, so well educated about his disease the details were now readily on the tip of his tongue. ‘They multiply and survive longer than normal cells. Very simply put, they destroy. As their numbers increase, they invade the bone marrow, enter the bloodstream and eventually attack the organs and tissue.’

‘Oh God, Sandy –’ Paula began, and came to a halt. Her feelings got the better of her. The words she had been about to say strangled in her throat. She steadied herself; somehow she managed to hang onto her self-possession. After a few moments, she went on, ‘I’m so sorry, so very sorry, darling. I’m here for you, we’re all here for you, whenever you need us, day or night.’

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I know you are. I’m counting on it, actually, Paula.’

‘Isn’t there any chance of at least
arresting
the leukaemia?’ Paula probed, her manner gentle, her sympathy and compassion reflected in her eyes.

‘There really isn’t,’ Alexander replied.

With sudden fierceness, Emily said, ‘I realize you must have been to the best doctors in London, but we must go farther afield. We really must. What about the States? Sloan-Kettering in New York, for instance? We can’t just stand by and
allow
this to happen, Sandy. We must do
something.’