Stronger Than Yearning
PENNY JORDAN
Penny Jordan is an award-winning New York Times and Sunday Times bestselling author of more than 200 books with sales of over 100 million copies. We have celebrated her wonderful writing with a special collection of her novels, many of which are available for the first time in eBook right now.He was the man of her dreams! The same dark hair, the same mocking eyes; it was as if the Regency rake of the portrait, the seducer of Jenna's dream, had come to life.Jenna, believing the last of the Deverils dead, was determined to buy the great old Yorkshire Hall – to claim it for her daughter, Lucy, and put to rest some of the memories of Lucy's birth.Jenna had no way of knowing that a direct descendant of the black sheep Deveril even existed – or that James Allingham and his own powerful yearnings would disrupt her plans entirely.
Stronger than Yearning
Penny Jordan
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Table of Contents
Cover (#ud4ade01f-7949-521c-a82c-d2ba6893607e)
Title Page (#uea9bd9ea-8b7f-5c7b-8224-a326461f19cc)
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#u67eba6e2-f9a6-50e6-9441-3a42e109aed3)
NOW that she was here, she had a curious feeling of anti-climax almost as though an inner voice was warning her not to go on but to bury the past and put it completely behind her. She silenced it using the strength of will she had honed to a fine keenness over the years. ‘Cold’ and ‘hard’ were how some people described her: business adversaries who had learned too late that her cloud of Titian hair and almost breathtakingly feminine features were not signs of weakness, ploys to soothe the male ego, but a banner of her determination to succeed as what she was and not because she was willing to use it.
She had lost count of the number of men who had invited her to their beds. She had left the majority of them with their egos bruised and their desire cooling to resentment. What did she care? Her rejection of them had given her some small measure of satisfaction, but that was not why she rejected them. She was a woman whose emotions ran deep and secret, some so secret that no one knew of them, and the strongest of all those emotions was the one which had brought her here to this remote Yorkshire village, to this house … on this particular day.
Harley, her closest business adviser, had expressed surprise when she told him what she intended to do. He had wondered verbally that she should even have heard of the auction of some remote manor house in Yorkshire, never mind want to attend it with the purpose of buying it. When he had questioned her reasons she had simply shrugged, her cool remote air infuriating him, as it still did on occasions.
‘It will make a good headquarters,’ was all she would tell him, and she said it in a tone of voice that warned him against arguing with her.
A small frown touched Jenna’s smooth forehead. It was annoying that she should feel that small sense of let-down. Today should be a milestone in her life. From the point of view of return on her capital alone she ought to be feeling elated. She shuddered to think what her accountants would say if they knew of the amount she had spent in secret on garnering every scrap of information there was to be garnered about the Deveril family. And at last it had paid off. A hundred yards in front of her stood the house.
The first Deveril to build on this spot had been one of William the Conqueror’s knights. The family had gone from strength to strength until the death of Richard III. All four sons of the family had fallen at Bosworth but they had had wives, and one of those wives had produced a posthumous son whom Henry VII had pardoned and forgiven for his father’s misdeeds. For a while the family had languished, keeping close to their Yorkshire estates, but then one of the daughters had caught the eye of Prince Hal, and whether it was because he retained a soft spot for her or not, the Deverils did extremely well out of the sack of the monasteries during the Reformation.
That was when the original property had been demolished; a fine new house, built with an eye to beauty rather than defence, sprang up on the site of the old.
It was more than fifteen years since she had last seen this house. Then, she had looked back on it as she left the village, swearing eternal hatred to those who lived in it. How very young she had been! Of course, her hatred had faded, and with it over the years the hotly burning need to wreak vengeance on those who had caused it. But Jenna’s desire to exact atonement had never entirely faded. The news eighteen months ago that Alan Deveril and his son, Charles, had both died in a car accident had shocked her into realising the futility of wasting her life in impossibly unrealistic dreams of challenging fate. All she had been left with was a residue of bitterness, intensified by the news she had received later that as there was no direct heir, the house now stood empty.
Out of all the people she had once known in this area, she only kept in touch with one couple, her old headmaster and his wife, and it was they that she and Lucy were staying with now. Lucy! She sighed involuntarily as she thought about her rebellious fifteen-year-old daughter.
Lucy hadn’t wanted to come with her to West Thorpe, but Jenna had insisted and for that insistence had had to endure sulks and silence during the long drive up from London. Lucy! The gulf that had recently sprung up between them pained her. Most parents encountered some problems with their teenage children she knew, but she was not most parents; she was a single parent, and Lucy had been increasingly demanding recently about her right to know the identity of her father. Jenna, of course, had refused to tell her. Her mouth compressed as she reflected wryly that although she might be able to control her own business and a staff of a dozen or so people, when it came to controlling her daughter …
She resumed her study of the house. The main Tudor building with its mullioned windows and fancy brickwork had been added to by a Georgian Deveril, whose rich bride’s dowry had enabled him to employ Robert Adam to design a new wing. She had never been inside the house; the Deverils were not the sort of family to invite the village children into their elegant home. Alan Deveril had been a snob of the first water. It had always been his intention to arrange a marriage between Charles and a wealthy heiress — someone whose parents were eager to trade their money for the Deveril name and title. Her mouth compressed again, bitterness darkening her green eyes to stormy jade.
‘Jenna, there you are.’
She turned at the sound of Harley’s voice, frowning slightly. ‘You must be mad to think of taking on this place,’ he said frankly as he came up to her. ‘It’s riddled with damp … half the windows are rotten. It will cost an absolute fortune to put everything right, and to what purpose? You could get yourself a modern office block in London for a tenth of the cost and far less hassle.’
The petulance in his voice made her smile faintly. Plump and slightly balding, he nevertheless considered himself something of a ladies’ man and dressed accordingly. His expensive pale grey suit and toning silk shirt looked very out of place in the tangled undergrowth of the house’s gardens. He was perspiring slightly, Jenna noticed, something he always did when he was nervous. Poor Harley, he had a hard time sometimes keeping up with her, but he was an excellent administrator, fussy to the point of irritation at times, but fanatically methodical, unlike herself. It had taken a long time for her to build up her interior design business to the standard it had reached; now, although very few people might recognise her name, she could almost pick and choose her clients. It had become something of a cachet to claim that one’s interiors had been designed by Jenna Stevens.
‘It will make an excellent showcase for our craftsmen,’ she said lightly, ‘and besides I’m sick of London.’
Harley Thomas sighed, knowing he wasn’t going to get any more information out of her than he already had. At times infuriating, always calmly controlled, there was still a vulnerability about her that made him anxious. He couldn’t remember when he had seen a more beautiful woman. Her bone structure was delicately feminine, her eyes large and deeply green, her skin porcelain pale, her hair a thick mass of red-gold curls. At twenty-nine, she could easily have passed for twenty-three or -four if it hadn’t been for her air of cool self-possession. Tall and slim, her curves were nevertheless femininely voluptuous, especially her breasts. Unlike him, her clothes did not betray her as a city person, her sleek tweeds fitting her as naturally as though she had worn them all her life.
‘Where’s Lucy?’ she asked him, flicking open the pamphlet outlining the details of the house.
‘Sulking in the car,’ he told her wearily. ‘God, Jenna, have you thought of the trouble she’s going to give you if you do move up here? She’s dead against it.’
‘So she says, but she’ll be at school most of the time.’ School! That was another of Lucy’s grievances and probably a justifiable one, but what alternative had she had? As a busy woman building up her career she had not had the time to devote to a growing child. At first she had managed with a housekeeper and Lucy had attended a local school in London, but then as Jenna’s business had expanded, she was required to be out more and more in the evenings and had been worried about Lucy’s isolation from other children her age. In the end, the decision to send her to boarding school had seemed the only answer, and until recently she had thought Lucy enjoyed her school. It had been carefully chosen, being neither too lax nor too strict, and she was always meticulous about visiting her and keeping time free during the school holidays to spend with her. Only last summer, she and Lucy and two of Lucy’s friends had spent six weeks in the Aegean. It was the old story … she needed to work to support them both and yet by working she was forced to abandon her traditional role as mother.
She made a pretence of studying the leaflet in front of her, not wanting Harley to see her concern. Once he suspected she had doubts, he would do everything he could to dissuade her, Jenna knew that. But it was only a pretence because she knew the facts about the house off by heart. She had never been inside the main part of the Hall, but already she could visualise its rooms, feel its air of timelessness … sense the inbred belief of those who had lived there of their right to be the privileged few. But now, they no longer had that right. If she was successful at the auction the Hall would be hers, and, ridiculous though it was, her need to own it … to possess that which had once belonged to the proud Deverils who had so disdained those lower down the social ladder than themselves that they were not permitted to put a foot inside the place, was a strong motivating force in her life.
‘Well, are you going to go inside?’
She was, but in her own good time and alone. ‘Later,’ she said non-committally, adding, ‘look, why don’t you take Lucy back to West Thorpe, it’s going on for lunchtime. I’ll join her there later.’
‘Would you like me to stay overnight?’
When she had rung Bill Mather to tell him that she and Lucy were coming up to Yorkshire he had instantly insisted that they were to stay with him and his wife, Nancy, but there was no spare room for Harley and to be honest she didn’t want him there, trying to pressurise her into changing her mind.
If she bought the Hall, even at the reserve price, it would take every spare bit of cash she had, and even then she would have to borrow heavily. But it would be worth it. It would be worth every single penny.
‘You go back to London,’ she told him. ‘The Sedgerton contract should be in from the solicitors soon and I’d like you to go over it for me … I’m not sure I trust them completely …’
It wasn’t unknown for some of her wealthy clients to try and wriggle out of paying for her work, and for that reason Jenna was insistent upon watertight contracts.
Harley leapt as eagerly at the bait as she had hoped. ‘I’ll get on to it the moment it arrives. How long do you think you’ll stay up here for?’
‘Just until after the auction.’
So she was still determined to go ahead. He sighed gustily. Privately, he thought she was mad even to contemplate buying such a vast, and undeniably crumbling pile. He shuddered to think what the bank would say, and of course, it would have to be bought in the company’s name, especially if she intended to use it as a showcase for their work. Who on earth would come all the way from London up here, though?
Almost as though she had read his mind, Jenna drawled laconically, ‘They aren’t all devoid of money and taste north of Watford, you know, Harley. There’s a vast untapped market up here and if we get in first, it could prove an extremely lucrative business.’
‘But our contacts, our craftsmen, they’re all in London.’
‘So we’ll pay them to travel — or find more.’
He knew her stubbornness of old, knew it and in many ways admired it. Not many women of her youth and with her commitments would have left a safe, well-paid position with an established firm to set up on her own, but she had. He had first heard of Jenna through a friend whose apartment she had decorated. He had gone to her initially to find out what she could do for a small Chelsea Mews flat he had bought and which he wanted modernising in order to sell at a profit. He had walked into her office to find it in chaos, paper everywhere, and her vivid, haunting beauty had almost robbed him of breath. He soon learned that under the chaos was a very keen business mind, but her untidiness had him itching to put things in order.
When she had let slip the fact that she was looking for a business administrator, he had leapt at the chance to join her, and even to this day wasn’t sure if he had actually angled for the job or if she had simply let him think he had.
Their partnership worked well. She was a generous employer, content to leave the administrative side of the business completely to him, and he took a pride in the neat lists of schedules and work plans he kept locked away in his desk, carefully monitoring the progress of each contract, checking that all flowed smoothly.
Initially he had been almost desperately in love with her, but he soon learned that it was pointless. She was the only woman he knew who seemed to be able to live her life without a man in it. In all the years he had worked with her he had never known whether she had a lover and, if so, who. On balance he rather doubted it, which seemed incredible, given her startlingly good looks and the fact that she had a fifteen-year-old daughter. Proof positive, surely, that once there must have been a man. And that she must have been extremely young …
He wasn’t sure of her exact age, she looked younger than she was. What had happened to Lucy’s father? Had he been married perhaps? Had they quarrelled? Had he perhaps been a boy as young as she must have been? Was it Lucy’s conception and birth that had soured her against men? None of them were questions he would have dared to ask her, and over the years his love had faded to admiration tinged with a wistful yearning that things might have been different.
Left by herself, Jenna walked towards the house. Sharp knives of tension speared her stomach. Those who knew her would have been stunned had they known how she was feeling. Jenna never betrayed any emotion, any weakness and yet here she was, dreading setting one foot inside the house she had come so far to see and yet knowing that she must.
The Hall was rectangular and dark. Someone had painted over the elegant Georgian plasterwork in a revolting shade of brown, so that even the light pouring in through the high windows did nothing to alleviate the gloom. Dust and the smell of damp permeated the air. A double staircase curved up to the first floor, the stairs elegant and shallow. All Jenna’s inborn sense of colour and fitness rebelled at what had been done to this once-gracious room.
Two sets of double doors led off the hall with another two single doors further towards the back of it. This main entrance was in the new wing of the house and, as she knew from the sketch plan she had, contained a large drawing-room, the library, a dining-room, and another room which was described as a ‘back parlour’.
Although badly scratched, the mahogany of the double doors into the drawing-room seemed firm and dry; the brass handles and locks decorating them were probably the originals, Jenna reflected, marvelling at the workmanship that meant they opened outwards easily despite their weight without so much as a squeak.
The drawing-room was at the far end of the new wing, and, from the smell of damp pervading it, had probably suffered the most neglect. A leaking downspout, or a hole in the roof, Jenna decided knowledgeably, studying the betraying mould-stains discolouring the faded silk wallpaper at the far end of the room.
Over the years, the original Adam design had been mutilated as only the Victorians and Edwardians had known how, but she could see how the room once must have looked and how it could look again. Against her will, Jenna found as she walked through the dusty neglected rooms that she was slowly falling in love with the house, the one thing she had made no calculation for at all. Against all reason, its neglect called out to her, making her ache to restore it to what it had once been. Moving from room to room she forgot why she had originally come here, and knew only a powerful feeling that the house had to be hers. It went against all logic and reason, but it was strong enough to blot out everything else, even Lucy, waiting for her at the Mathers’, even the fact that originally she had wanted the house simply because it had once belonged to the Deverils, everything. She had heard of love at first sight, but had never envisaged herself falling so deeply in love with a house that the thought of not owning it caused actual physical pain.
Not even the open evidence of damp and the knowledge that it would need a fortune spending on it could put her off. Already she could imagine how it would look; how it would come to life under her expert care and love.
On the first floor, a galleried landing overlooked the main hall with four doors leading off it. Jenna had already noticed several paintings hanging on the walls — the house was being sold complete with contents — but this was the first one that had caused her to spare it more than a passing glance. The portrait was of a man, dressed in clothes of the late Georgian era. His dark hair was worn unpowdered, curling close to his skull, and the painter had somehow managed to capture on canvas the sitter’s aura of intense masculinity. A cynical rakehell character, Jenna suspected moving closer to the portrait.
The words ‘James Deveril, aged 32, 1817’ were painted on the frame, and it seemed to Jenna as she studied him that the dark blue eyes watched her, coolly mocking her.
As far as she knew most of the Deverils had been fair-haired Saxon types whereas this man was dark, his hair as jet black as a gypsy’s, his skin tanned as though he had spent some time in hotter climates than Yorkshire’s.
Fascinated by him against her will, Jenna wondered who he was. It shouldn’t be difficult to find out — the Deveril history was well documented in the local library as she already knew.
What on earth was wrong with her? she chided herself, moving away. The moment she entered this house she had been acting in a manner totally foreign to her normal behaviour.
She walked from the Georgian wing into the old, Tudor part of the Hall. Here the rooms were small, oddly shaped, the windows mullioned and the ceilings beamed. The Georgian wing fronted the house and the original Tudor building ran at right angles to it, a good-sized courtyard was at the back of the building enclosed on two sides by the house itself and on the other two by stables and outbuildings. Now neglected and weed-covered, Jenna could already see how attractive this area could eventually be.
Beyond the house lay the grounds, which included a small park planted with specimen trees, collected by an adventuring Deveril who had had business interests in the West Indies, but the rich farmland that lay beyond the house’s immediate environs was being sold separately. Not that she would have wanted it, Jenna admitted, studying the plans at the back of her sale pamphlet, the land that went with the house afforded it plenty of privacy. She remembered as a child cycling past the lodge gates, intensely curious about what lay behind the protective ring of trees that hid the house from sight.
Today wasn’t the first time she had visited the house, though; there had been one other occasion on which she had been here. As she stepped out through the back door into the derelict yard her mouth twisted bitterly. On that occasion she had made the mistake of ringing the front doorbell, and had been sent round to the servants’ entrance for her pains. ‘Servants’ entrance’, dear God, how antiquated it all seemed now, ridiculously so; the hallmark of a family desperate to preserve the old ‘us’ and ‘them’, ‘master’ and ‘servant’ image. Then she had been totally over-awed, embarrassed and humiliated. How naïve she had been! A true product of her remote village upbringing by a spinster great-aunt.
Having finished her inspection she walked back towards her car, lost in memories of the past.
‘Nice car!’ The unexpected intrusion of the deep male voice into her thoughts unbalanced her, and she swung round tensely, colour flushing up under her skin as she found herself being studied by a pair of openly appreciative male eyes. The visual impact of coming face to face with a man so similar to the portrait of James Deveril, which she had just been studying, made her usual cool poise desert her, and she could only glance from him to her scarlet Ferrari in disorientated bewilderment.
‘Sorry if I startled you!’ His eyes crinkled in warm amusement, laughter tingeing his voice as he added, ‘You look as though you’ve seen a ghost! Have you? They do say that one of the wives of one of the Deverils walks sometimes at full moon … though no one’s ever seen her during the day.’
He had a faint accent that she couldn’t place, and angry at herself for her bemused reaction, Jenna threw him a cold look. The laughter died from his eyes immediately, and he sketched her a briefly mocking bow, drawling lightly, ‘Sorry if I spoke out of place, ma’am …’
He was dressed in jeans and a checked cotton work-shirt, his hair tousled, the open neck of his shirt revealing a deep vee of tanned flesh and the beginnings of a tangle of dark hair. Who was he? He was so like James Deveril that he must have some Deveril blood somewhere … but why not? There had been several Deverils in the past who had taken what they considered their droit de seigneur over the village girls; this man could be the descendant of one of them. He couldn’t be a legitimate member of the family; there weren’t any alive.
‘Thinking of buying it, are you?’ He nodded towards the house as he spoke, his eyes lingering on the full thrust of her breasts as she turned to unlock her car.
Seething inwardly Jenna ignored him, hoping that he would take the hint and leave her alone, but when he kept on prowling appreciatively round her car, she began to suspect he was deliberately trying to infuriate her, and she snapped shortly, ‘Look, I can see that you consider yourself something of a local Don Juan, but I’m really not interested. If I were you I’d get back to work before your employers discover that you’re missing.’
She had expected him to be disconcerted by her put-down, but instead he merely laughed, stepping away from the car as she slid in to fire the engine. The car needed servicing and was being rather temperamental. It refused to start, despite several attempts to get it going, and all-too-conscious of his amused scrutiny, Jenna willed herself not to give way to temper.
‘Here, let me.’
His arrogance left her breathless, stupefaction giving way to fury as he opened her door, turned the key in the ignition and the car fired right away.
Closing the door for her he gave her a wide, taunting smile, and said, ‘Some cars are like women; they respond best to a man’s touch.’
Chauvinist! Much as she longed to throw the insult at him, Jenna restrained herself. Why get so het up about the sexual insolence of some village lout who obviously thought of the female sex as no more than male chattels.
She was still fuming when she reached her destination. Although deference wasn’t something she expected to receive from her peers — of either sex — there had been an air of insolent amusement about him, an easy, but none the less distinct, self-assurance that had jarred on her. Mere farm labourer he might be, but for all that he had made it plain that he considered himself superior to her simply by virtue of his sex, and that made her seethe. It had been a long time since she had come up against such blatantly arrogant maleness and it had unsettled her. Implicit in the look he had given her as she drove away had been the suggestion that had he so wished he could have mastered not only her car but her as well. No man could look at her like that and get away with it.
For goodness’ sake, Jenna chided herself as she parked her car in the drive of the old school-house and climbed out, why was she getting in such a state over some country Lothario?
Since she had left the area her old school had been shut down but Bill Mather, the headmaster, had been allowed to purchase the school-house. Built in the Victorian era, it had an air of solid respectability and stability. This was the first house she had ever truly called home, she thought, as she ignored the front door in favour of walking round to the kitchen. She had come here as a frightened, ignorant girl of barely fifteen, having been virtually thrown out by her great-aunt, her clothes in a battered suitcase and a two-week-old baby in her arms. She sighed faintly, anticipating the conflict now to come with that same ‘baby’. Lucy had objected strenuously to coming to Yorkshire, mainly because Jenna herself had been so eager to do so. What had happened to the easy friendship that had once existed between them? Sometimes these days she felt as though Lucy almost hated her. Was she being selfish in wanting to buy the house? Lucy still had several terms to do at school, even if she decided to leave after O levels; she had always complained about the smallness of their London flat. Here she could have as much space as she wanted. Perhaps even that horse she had nagged her mother for last year.
There was no sign of Lucy as Jenna walked into the Mathers’ kitchen. No doubt she would be sulking in her room. Lucy had made her dislike of the Mathers more than plain, because, Jenna suspected, she believed that like Jenna herself they knew the identity of her father and were conspiring with her mother to keep it from her.
Of course Jenna could understand why Lucy wanted to know her father’s identity, but it was something she just could not tell her … She bit her lip wondering how many people living in the village could remember that summer nearly sixteen years ago. She had changed of course. Then, she had been a painfully thin, milk-skinned child with red hair and enormous, frightened eyes. All that was still the same was the colour of her skin … even her hair had turned from carrot to rich Titian. No, she doubted if anyone would recognise her. She hadn’t had many friends. Her aunt had never really mingled with the other villagers, and besides, she had always been content with Rachel’s company.
Rachel … pain pierced through her. Fifteen years her sister had been dead and even now Jenna’s grief was as fresh and sharp as it had been then. Rachel had been everything Jenna had not: three years older, warm and extrovert, with a personality that drew people to her. There had not been an ounce of malice in her nature. Naturally warm-hearted she had naïvely believed that everyone else was the same; trusting and eager to please, she had paid a terrible price for her naïvety …
‘Jenna!’
She tore her thoughts abruptly from the past as Bill Mather walked into the kitchen. ‘I thought I heard your monster of a car arrive. How did it go?’
The grey eyes weren’t quite as keen now as they had been fifteen years ago, but they were still kind and wise.
‘I fell in love with the place, totally and for ever,’ Jenna told him honestly.
He and his wife were her only bridge between the present and her past; she loved them with an intensity that went so deep that it was something she could never talk about. Without them …
The faded grey eyes showed concern. ‘Jenna, my dear, are you sure you’re doing the right thing?’
‘If you’re questioning my motives, I admit that initially it was a macabre need to gloat that brought me here. I wouldn’t be human if I didn’t harbour some resentment.’
Bill Mather smiled wryly. ‘No, of course not, but you mustn’t let your bitterness over the past mar the present, Jenna.’
‘You mean I should forget what happened, forget how the Deverils killed my sister … how they …’
Emotion boiled up inside her, pain reflected in her eyes as they met his.
‘Jenna … Jenna … of course not … but, my dear, Alan and Charles are gone … the family is gone …’
‘Not quite.’ She said it quietly, her face pale and strained as she looked at him. ‘There’s still Lucy …’
‘Yes. Jenna, do you think it’s wise to conceal the truth from her? The child has a right to know that …’
‘That what? That her mother was brutally raped by her father and left pregnant … abandoned and left to die giving birth to the child she should never have had? Is that what you want me to tell her?’ She was shaking with emotion, sick with the force of it. Fifteen years had done nothing to lessen the sense of sick despair she always felt when she thought about her sister. Beautiful, lovable Rachel. ‘I want to buy the house,’ she said quietly. ‘I want to buy it for Lucy, because it is hers by right.’ She remembered with bitter clarity how she had visited the house with Rachel, just after Rachel had discovered her pregnancy. Her sister had been distraught with fear and shame, frightened into telling Jenna about the brutal attack she had endured.
She and Charles Deveril had met by accident. Rachel had been attending college in York and he had seen her waiting at the bus stop and recognised her as someone from the village. He had offered her a lift, and Rachel had naïvely accepted, but instead of driving her straight home, he had taken her down a deserted farm track. There had been tears in Rachel’s eyes and voice as she described the way she had fought against him, only to be overpowered. Terrified by what had happened and too frightened to tell their aunt, Rachel had tried to put it from her mind. Their upbringing had been a strict one and neither girl was promiscuous: at eighteen, Rachel had still been a virgin.
It had been Jenna who had insisted that they must go up to the house, naïvely sure that when he knew what had happened Sir Alan would insist on Charles marrying her sister. But after ringing the front doorbell they had been sent round to the back, and Sir Alan had accused them of making the whole thing up and had even threatened to call the police, claiming that Rachel was trying to besmirch the Deveril name.
It was only later that Jenna discovered that Charles had something of an unsavoury reputation with women, and that he had been expelled from school because of certain allegations made against him by the parents of a girl in the village near to the school.
What had followed had been a nightmare of conspiracy and fear. Rachel had bound her to silence, making her promise to say nothing to anyone. A tall, slender girl, she had disguised her pregnancy with the then fashionable loose clothes, refusing all Jenna’s entreaties to visit a doctor or tell their aunt.
She had started in labour one Saturday afternoon when they were both in York; a passing policewoman realising what was happening had taken them both to hospital. What happened there had been a nightmare to Jenna, bewildered and confused, alone in the waiting-room until a doctor suddenly appeared, grave-faced, questioning her gently, until she broke down and told him the whole story. ‘My sister … please let me see her,’ she had begged when she had told him, and she had known instinctively by his silence and tension that something was wrong.
‘I’m sorry …’
‘She’s dead, isn’t she ..?’ Jenna could remember even now how those words had burst from her throat, panic and pain clawing desperately at her stomach. Rachel could not be dead. She was only eighteen — people didn’t die having babies these days.
But Rachel had. Rachel, whose narrow frame wasn’t built for easy birth, whose life might have been saved had the doctors known what to expect. ‘She should have had her baby by Caesarian section,’ the doctor had explained quietly to Jenna, but because it had been too late, there had been complications.
Complications which had resulted in her sister’s bleeding to death, her life flooding away on a dark red tide that the nursing staff had not been quite quick enough to conceal from Jenna as the doctor gave way to hysterical pleading and allowed her to see Rachel for one last time.
As she looked at her sister, she had heard a faint mewling cry, and had stared, totally stupefied at the tiny bundle held by one of the nurses. Until that moment she hadn’t given a thought to Rachel’s child.
‘A little girl,’ the nurse told her softly.
‘Give her to me.’ Jenna had been barely aware of making the demand, but as she looked upon the tiny screwed-up face of her niece she made a vow that somehow she would find a way to keep her sister’s child, and that somehow the Deverils would be made to pay for Rachel’s death.
It hadn’t been easy — far from it … Painfully, Jenna dragged her thoughts away from the past.
‘I’d better go up and see her,’ she told Bill, referring to Lucy. ‘Oh, by the way, the most curious thing … I saw a portrait in the house — of a James Deveril, quite unlike the rest of the family — very dark … and then just as I was leaving this man came up to the car. He was almost identical to him … the living image in fact.’
‘A trick of heredity,’ Bill told her. ‘It must be. There are no Deverils left. The solicitors made an exhaustive search before putting the Hall up for sale. It happens occasionally.’
‘Yes … After all, Lucy is far from being the only Deveril bastard to be born around here.’
Bill Mather heard the bitterness in her voice and sighed. The effect of her sister’s death had left scars on Jenna that he doubted would ever heal. Fifteen was such a vulnerable age to be exposed to the agony of losing a deeply loved sister, and especially in such circumstances. He had never ceased to admire the way Jenna had shouldered the responsibility of her niece, the way she had forged a new life for herself — and a very successful one at that — but it grieved him that she was still alone, still so wary and sharp with men. They couldn’t know, as he did, that it cloaked a very real fear, a dread of betrayal that had been burned into her soul with Lucy’s birth and her sister’s death.
It would take a very special sort of man to break down the barriers Jenna had built around herself: a man with the strength to appreciate her need to be self-sufficient, to have her career, her escape route from the pain of emotional commitment. He would need patience too … patience to undo the wrongs of the past, and the intelligence to see past the beautiful façade Jenna presented to the world, to the woman beneath.
The kitchen door opened and his wife walked in. They had been married for over forty years and were still as happy together as they had been on their wedding day. Their one regret was that they had no children.
‘Have you spoken to Jenna?’ Nancy asked him. He had met her, a brisk Yorkshirewoman, during his first teaching job near Thirsk. A farmer’s daughter used to hard work and the uncertainties of life in the Dales, she had a down-to-earth common sense that was sometimes worth more than any educational degree.
‘I tried to … but it’s very difficult.’
‘It’s not difficult at all,’ Nancy corrected him crisply. ‘You simply have to point out to her that she must tell Lucy the truth. The child has a right to know. Jenna’s always listened to you before.’
‘She isn’t sixteen any longer, Nancy,’ he said gently. ‘I can only advise her now, not command. She wants to protect Lucy. Think how you would feel learning that your mother had been the victim of a vicious attack by your father.’
‘Jenna should have told her years ago. I mind I told her often enough. Has she made up her mind about the old Hall?’
‘She says she’s fallen in love with it.’
‘Fallen in love with a pile of stones and mortar?’ Nancy Mather snorted derisively. ‘She wants to find herself a man to fall in love with. It’s past time she did. Unplucked fruit only withers,’ she added forth-rightly. ‘You only have to remember that great-aunt of hers to know that. Where is Jenna now?’
‘Gone upstairs to see Lucy.’ He sighed faintly. ‘She’s going to have problems there. Lucy’s determined to oppose her for no better reason than setting her mind against everything Jenna is in favour of.’
‘Well, that’s teenagers for you. I don’t agree with Jenna buying the Hall, though. She’s not still doing it because it belonged to the Deverils, is she?’ she asked sharply.
‘I don’t think so. Oh, I don’t say that wasn’t what originally motivated her, but her desire to buy it now is entirely because she loves it. I could see it in her eyes. By the way,’ he added, ‘do you know anyone hereabouts that looks like James Deveril? You remember, we saw the portrait of him the last time the hunt ball was held there.’
‘Aye, I remember,’ Nancy agreed with a smile. ‘I doubt any woman looking on that face could forget. A right tearaway he looked. Dark as a gypsy with eyes as blue as cornflowers. No, there’s no one hereabouts who looks like that. Plenty with the Saxon Deveril looks, but he was a one-off, as I recall it.’
‘Yes, something of a black sheep of the family,’ her husband agreed. Since his retirement he had amused himself by studying the Deveril family with a view to writing about them, and he remembered that when he had questioned Sir Alan about his mysterious ancestor, his host had responded with thin-lipped displeasure.
‘Not a true Deveril at all. It was said at the time that his mother had been unfaithful to her husband, and he was the result. I have her diaries in the library. It seems she cared more for him than she did for her other children, although in the end she had to pay. He was caught poaching on a neighbour’s estate and shipped off to the West Indies. Bad blood always tells,’ he had added pompously.
Poor lady, Bill had reflected, listening to his host, if her husband had been anything like as dull as the present holder of the Deveril title, no wonder she had been unfaithful. Sir Alan took a pride in the Deveril name which far exceeded its actual importance — at least that was Bill’s view. Personally, he found both Sir Alan and his son unpleasantly Victorian in their attitudes to life. Charles in particular had an arrogance that was intensely jarring. Bill had never liked him and had always considered there was something slightly shifty about Charles … something that aroused an atavistic dislike, and he could not deny that both the Deverils, father and son, had behaved extremely badly over Rachel. The poor girl had been too ignorant and young to realise that the law would have been on her side, and Sir Alan had managed to terrorise her into keeping her pregnancy a secret, claiming that no one would believe her story, and that she had been the one to entice Charles.
Had he ever suffered any guilt? Bill wondered. The girl’s death had been a nine-day wonder in the village, especially when Jenna returned from York, with a baby she said was her dead sister’s, refusing to name the father, but insisting stubbornly in the face of her great-aunt’s outrage that the child was not going to be adopted. Both of them would have ended up in council care if he and Nancy had not stepped in. Jenna was like a daughter to them, Lucy a granddaughter, for all that they had not seen her since she was a child. He knew that Jenna was concealing Lucy’s parentage from her with the best of motives, but it was still wrong. He would have to try to talk to her again … Nancy would let him have no peace until he did so.
CHAPTER TWO (#u67eba6e2-f9a6-50e6-9441-3a42e109aed3)
OUTSIDE Lucy’s room Jenna paused, gathering together all her self-control before she knocked and opened the door. Lucy was lying on the bed reading a comic. She turned her head sullenly in Jenna’s direction, scowling fiercely as she looked at her.
‘I don’t care what you say,’ Lucy burst out defiantly, ‘I won’t live here. I won’t!’
Sighing, Jenna sat down on the bed and studied her niece’s turbulent features. Lucy took after her mother in looks, her hair the same warm, dark brown that Rachel’s had been. She also had Rachel’s grey eyes, but whereas Jenna remembered her sister’s expression as being a placid one, Lucy’s was normally defiant. She looked towards the window, not seeing the view beyond it, wondering why it was that she and Lucy seemed to be so constantly at loggerheads. Of course, she could understand Lucy’s desire to know more about her father, it was a quite natural one, but how could she tell her the truth?
Perhaps it would have been wiser to have made up a father for Lucy when she was too young to question what she was told too deeply, but now it was too late for that.
‘Darling, you’re forgetting, you’ll be at school,’ she said in a placatory voice. ‘And you can always spend part of the holidays in London. I’ll probably keep on a flat there.’
‘School!’ Lucy’s voice was thick with loathing. ‘I hate that place, I hate everything about it. Why do I have to go there?’ She turned to face Jenna, anger turning her eyes almost black. ‘But, of course, we both know the answer to that, don’t we? If I wasn’t at boarding school you wouldn’t have so much time to devote to your precious career, would you?’
It was an argument they had been through many times before and once again, patiently, Jenna explained to Lucy that she needed to earn a living for them both, that she needed to go out to work.
‘Yes, but there was no need to send me away to school, was there?’ Lucy challenged. ‘You could have sent me to a day school. I don’t suppose you ever really wanted me anyway, did you?’ she threw out bitterly. ‘If you’d been able to have an abortion in those days, I suppose that’s what you’d have done, isn’t it?’
Genuinely shocked by Lucy’s outburst, Jenna could only stare at her. ‘Well, isn’t it?’ Lucy challenged fiercely.
‘Lucy, Jenna, lunch is ready,’ the calm interruption of Nancy’s voice cut through the tension in the small room.
‘You’re quite wrong, Lucy,’ Jenna said, fighting to appear calm, and not to betray the dreadful shaking that was threatening to overcome her. ‘But now isn’t the time to discuss this. We’d better go down and have lunch, otherwise Nancy will wonder what’s wrong.’
‘You mean she hasn’t already guessed?’ Lucy laughed bitterly as she got up off the bed and sauntered towards the door. Before she pulled it open she turned and stared defiantly at Jenna. ‘You needn’t think I’m going to leave it like this because I’m not. Somewhere I have a father, and one day I’ll find out who he is and nothing you can do will stop me!’
She had gone downstairs before Jenna could call her back, and although over lunch Jenna made an effort to respond to Bill’s interested questions about the old Hall, her mind was not on them. There was, of course, no real way Lucy could find out about her parentage, but Jenna’s heart ached for the pain of the younger girl wishing more than anything else that she could tell her the truth, but fearing that she had left it far too late. The relationship between herself and Lucy was so delicate now that she half feared that if she did tell her the truth, Lucy would not believe her.
And what good would it do, anyway? None that she could see.
‘So, what do you think the old Hall will go for?’ Bill asked when they were drinking their after-lunch coffee. ‘The reserve price?’
Jenna grimaced, ‘I’m hoping so. Even at that it would take more than my existing cash resources.’
Bill put down his cup and looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Jenna, are you sure you’re doing the right thing? I accept that you’ve fallen in love with the house, and I can quite see that it would make an excellent headquarters from which you could expand your business, but in view of the fact that Lucy doesn’t want to move up here, and, well, the past …’
‘I’ve made up my mind,’ Jenna told him curtly. ‘Don’t ask me to explain why, Bill. I don’t really know myself.’ She made a tiny helpless gesture, oddly heart-tugging in a woman normally so invulnerable, and Bill could not help but be touched by it. ‘All I do know is that I must own the old Hall. For it to be mine will satisfy some need in me. I can’t explain it any better than that.’
‘Mmm, well … You know best.’
‘Dear Bill.’ Jenna got up and ruffled his grey hair. ‘What would I have done without you and Nancy to support me?’ He was the only member of his sex with whom she allowed herself to be herself — the only man she did not either dislike or despise.
‘We only did what any caring human beings would have done in the same circumstances, Jenna. It was your misfortune that in both your aunt and in Alan Deveril you came across two of the less attractive specimens of human kind.’
Jenna shrugged. ‘I suppose I can’t really blame my aunt. After all, she was very much a product of her time. She’d done her duty as she saw it, by taking in Rachel and myself in the first place.’
Bill watched her, noting the brief flash of pain that crossed her face. He had never been able to understand how Helen Marsden had been able to turn her fifteen-year-old great-niece from the door, especially when she had been carrying a two-week-old baby in her arms. Helen had known that the child hadn’t been Jenna’s, but that had made no difference. Thank God he had happened to be out walking the dog that night and had seen Jenna trudging down the lane, tears cascading down a small face that had been oddly fierce and determined despite her plight, even then. Lucy had been clutched in one arm, a battered suitcase in the other.
At first Jenna had refused to stop and talk to him, but he had managed to coax her into the house and once there, Nancy soon had the whole story from her. She hadn’t wanted to stay, but Nancy had insisted. The next morning, while Jenna was still deep in an exhausted sleep, he and Nancy had sat down and talked about the situation. Jenna was flatly refusing to give up her sister’s child, and there was no reason why she should, at least in Nancy’s eyes.
When Jenna eventually woke, they had put it to her that she stay with them, at least for the time being. At first she had been reluctant to agree. She knew Bill only as the headmaster of the local school and Nancy not at all and she was patently truculent — reluctant to trust them — but gradually Nancy had persuaded her.
Still too young to leave school herself, Jenna had had to leave Lucy with Nancy during the day while she attended her classes. She had always been a hardworking girl, and intelligent, but then she worked like someone driven, Bill remembered. He had found her one night in the sitting-room poring over her books. When he had questioned her as to why she was still working at that time of night, she had told him fiercely that she needed to leave school as quickly as she could with as many qualifications as she could get, so that she could find a way of supporting herself and Lucy.
‘And what will you do about Lucy, Jenna?’ he asked her quietly now, coming back to the present. ‘I’m afraid she isn’t going to accept coming to live up here very easily.’
‘No, I know, I’m hoping when she goes back to school she’ll settle down a bit better.’ Jenna bit her lip, an endearing childish gesture in so polished a woman, and frowned quickly. ‘When I was upstairs with her just now, she said she hated school. She even accused me of sending her to boarding school because I wanted to be rid of her. It wasn’t like that at all, Bill.’ She turned to him, her eyes appealing for understanding. ‘I could have sent her to a day school, yes, but that would have meant her coming home sometimes to an empty flat, crossing London alone, I didn’t want that for her. I thought at least at boarding school she would be safe and secure, with other girls of her own age.’
‘Lucy’s a teenager, Jenna,’ Bill reminded her, ‘and like all teenagers, she’s going through a very painful growing period — something I know you missed out on.’
‘I didn’t have time for growing pains.’ Jenna admitted wryly. ‘I was too busy fighting to prove I was grown up enough to keep Lucy. I was terrified the authorities would take her away from me. And so they would have if it hadn’t been for you and Nancy, agreeing to stand as our foster parents until I was old enough to adopt her legally.’
‘Well … we wanted to do all we could to help you, Jenna, but as far as Lucy’s concerned, now, today, I think the root cause of the problem is this conflict between you concerning her father.’
‘Yes,’ Jenna agreed quietly, ‘but what can I do, Bill? I can’t tell her the truth now. I just can’t. Perhaps I should have made up a mythical father for her years ago, but somehow I never thought about it. I ask myself, what would Rachel want me to do, and I can’t help feeling she would want me to protect her daughter.’
Bill sighed, knowing that Jenna’s refusal to tell Lucy the truth sprang from a genuine desire to protect her but not sure that he agreed with her. If she wasn’t told the truth, Lucy would go through life constantly wondering about her father. He accepted that to be told the facts now would cause her considerable distress, but Lucy had more of Jenna’s strong nature than either of them realised — enough he was sure, when the initial shock had died down, to accept what she had been told. He felt that in the long run it was better for Lucy to have the anguish of knowing the truth now, rather than the unhealed wound of not knowing her true parentage.
‘I hope there isn’t going to be a lot of competition for the house,’ Jenna commented, changing the conversation. ‘When I originally found out it was going up for auction I wanted it because it had been their house, but now I’ve been round it, seen it …’ She shrugged and smiled wryly. ‘Ridiculous, I know, but I want it so badly, Bill. Too badly, perhaps. When I went inside I … it was the strangest feeling, as though somehow I had come home.’
‘I haven’t heard that there’s been much interest locally.’ Bill was avoiding looking directly at her, and Jenna guessed that he was more affected than he wanted her to know by her brief revelation. She had never found it easy to talk about her feelings — Bill knew that. Jenna loved both Bill and Nancy with a love almost as strong as that she felt for Lucy, but she had never been able to put her emotion into words. She knew that people often found her cool and unapproachable and she preferred it that way. Not for the world would she have wanted to admit to anyone how frightened she was of emotional commitment, of laying herself open to pain and betrayal. Strange, she had not thought so deeply about her own innermost feelings for years, and now was hardly the time to become involved in the complexities of self-analysis, she reminded herself wryly.
‘Of course,’ Bill went on, ‘one never knows about out-of-the-district buyers. But I shouldn’t think you’ll have anything to worry about. After all, the building is extremely run-down and in a rather remote part of the country. Large houses such as the Hall are notoriously expensive to run. What time is the auction?’
‘Eleven o’clock tomorrow morning,’ Jenna told him. ‘I had intended to take Lucy with me, but in view of her present mood I was wondering if you and Nancy could keep an eye on her for me?’
‘Don’t worry about Lucy, she’ll be fine with us.’
Jenna bit her lip. She hadn’t missed the way Lucy had taken to watching Bill, and remembering her own early teenage years, she suspected that, like her, Lucy was suffering from the lack of a caring male presence in her life. Would Lucy also grow to womanhood seeing men as an alien and somehow threatening sex? That wasn’t what she wanted for her. So what could she do about it? she derided herself mentally. Marry?
Who? Harley? She repressed a brief grin at the mental picture conjured up by her thoughts. Poor Harley. There had been a time when he had fancied himself in love with her, but she suspected that if she made any romantic overtures to him now he would run a mile. Marriage wasn’t for her. She could never envisage herself giving up her freedom; her right to remain in control of her life and her career … and yet … seeing the looks Bill and Nancy sometimes exchanged, the depth of understanding and caring that existed between them, there had been instances when she had felt deeply envious.
Bill and Nancy were lucky, she told herself. She only had to think of half a dozen or more of her close acquaintances to remind herself of the disillusionment and pain that marriage could bring. She was right to remain contemptuous of the male sex. She would be far better employed worrying about what her accountants and the bank were going to say when she broke the news of her latest acquisition to them. She repressed another grin as she visualised herself telling them that she had bought the house because she had fallen in love with it. Hardly good business practice. No, somehow she would have to convince them that with the acquisition of the Deveril house her business would flourish, as indeed she believed it would.
It had been hard work to go from being a shorthand-typist, working in a pool with other girls, to owning her own business. It had been her good fortune that she had soon grown bored with the humdrum routine of the typing-pool and had applied for another job. That job had been the first stepping-stone to her present career. She had been exultant when John Howard took her on as his personal secretary, and had made an excited telephone call to Bill and Nancy to tell them all about it.
‘An interior designer?’ Nancy had been inclined to be slightly disapproving, thinking that Jenna would have been wiser to stay with the insurance company, but Bill had supported her. Her plans for going to university had been abandoned when Rachel died. Bill had tried to argue her out of it, telling her that he and Nancy would take care of Lucy for her, but she had been adamant. Lucy was her responsibility, her only link with her dead sister. If she went to university Lucy would be five or six before Jenna was qualified. … Lucy would not be Rachel’s child but Nancy’s and Bill’s, so instead Jenna had concentrated on gaining some secretarial skills, determined to find a job and a home for them both just as soon as she possibly could.
Getting a job had been relatively easy. In those days, secretarial jobs weren’t that hard to come by, and by studying the national papers she had managed to secure an interview with a London-based insurance company without too much trouble. Finding somewhere suitable for herself and Lucy to live in London was a different matter. And who would look after Lucy while Jenna was at work? Her salary was small … not large enough to support both of them, but instinct told her that if she was going to succeed anywhere it would be in London, and not the quiet local market town in Yorkshire. So she had been forced to agree with Nancy’s view that Lucy should stay with them. It had been hard, those first six months in London, saving every penny she could from her salary, living in a dismal but cheap women’s hostel so that she could travel back to Yorkshire every weekend to see Lucy … And then had come the job with John Howard. He had paid her well, delighted to discover that she had an almost instinctive flair for colour and design. It had been at his suggestion that she had attended night school, and she had learned a good deal from him, sensing that he was not a man who represented any threat to her.
He had not, as many people had suspected, been her lover, but his wife had been suspicious and jealous enough for him to tell Jenna after she had worked for him for two years that he felt it best that she looked for a job elsewhere. She had been stunned, shocked, gripped with a furious sense of disbelief. She had worked hard for him, and for herself, saving, scrimping, putting as much money on one side as she could so that she could move out of her hostel and find a small flat for herself and Lucy. She had it all planned out. Lucy could attend nursery school while she worked. She would find herself a neighbour with small children who would be glad to earn a few extra pounds a week taking Lucy to and from school, and now, all because of a spoilt woman’s wholly irrational jealousy, her plans would have to be changed.
Sensing how distraught she was, but not knowing the reason why, it was then that John Howard had tentatively suggested that she go into business herself. He would help her financially in the early stages, he had offered awkwardly, and although pride had urged Jenna to refuse his guilt-induced offer — after all, she had done nothing to warrant being dismissed, nothing at all, no matter what his wife might think — caution had whispered to her to wait. How she had hated Marian Howard, she remembered grimly. Although they had never met, she had seen photographs of John’s spoilt, beautiful wife. They had no children, and from what John said Marian seemed to spend her life in a ceaseless round of shopping and socialising. Now, because she was jealous of Jenna, Marian was forcing John to dismiss her … and because of his wife’s insecurity she would lose her chance to have Lucy with her.
‘I could put quite a lot of business your way, Jenna,’ John had offered, warming to his idea, unaware of the battle going on inside her.
Jenna thought rapidly. She knew quite well what business John meant. As an established, socially prominent interior designer, he was often approached by women who wanted to boast that their living-room or bedroom had been designed by John Howard, and yet these same women, when told how much it would cost them to drop his prestigious name into the envious ears of their friends, often had a change of heart; when they did go ahead and commission him they were always difficult to please. Jenna had had the unrewarding task of soothing more than one of them. But it would be a start, a chance to prove just what she could do, an opportunity to establish herself financially, to have Lucy living with her, and although her pride was outraged and demanded that she refuse to be bought off, she heard herself saying coolly that it sounded a good idea.
Of course it had not been easy. There had been problems … snide remarks … whispered comments that John had backed her financially because she had been his mistress, but she had weathered it all and had long since paid back the small capital John had loaned her, with interest, and now …
Now she was a successful, prominent interior designer herself, as courted and fěted as John had been. One of the reasons for her success had been her ability to keep ahead of the trends, and now she sensed a mood in people to return to the past — a desire for craftsmanship rather than gimmickry — so she had slowly set about building up a pool of craftsmen and women, each an expert in their own field.
If she moved to Yorkshire she would have to start again, she told herself later that evening as she prepared for bed. Of course, she could retain many of her contacts but others … A tiny thrill of excitement curled upwards through her stomach. She wanted the challenge of a new venture, she admitted to herself, and more than that she ached to start work on the old Hall: to restore it, to cherish and love it. Half hysterically she reflected that while other women her age had love affairs with the opposite sex, she was embarking on a love affair with a house. But what about Lucy? Guilt and despair mingled inside her. Initially everything she had done had been for her sister’s child, for Lucy, so that she wouldn’t suffer as she and Rachel had done. She had wanted so much for her … had wanted her to have the security of love and money as she and Rachel had not. She had never quite lost the conviction that had Rachel come from a more moneyed background, from a family where there was someone to stand up for her and support her, that Alan Deveril would not have been able to browbeat her as he had, that Charles would not have got away with what had been a violently brutal rape. But instead of protecting Lucy all she seemed to have done was alienate her. How could Jenna explain now to Lucy how she had been conceived … who and what her father had been?
Lucy was so achingly vulnerable, and although she tried to hide it from her, Jenna was acutely aware of her vulnerability. Sometimes she ached inside for her niece, but it seemed nothing she did could make Lucy happy. She could of course always agree to stay in London. Should she? But London was too full of pitfalls for a young and rebellious teenager. If she gave in to Lucy on this issue, all too soon there would be others. Staying in London was not really the crux of the problem between them: it was Jenna’s refusal to discuss Lucy’s father with her, and at the moment she could see no way of solving that problem without causing her niece pain and possible emotional damage. She drifted off to sleep with a frown on her forehead, still worrying about Lucy.
When Jenna first opened her eyes, it took her several seconds to remember where she was. She shook her head, wonderingly, a bright skein of hair clouding her vision until she pushed it away. It had been years since she had slept so heavily or so well. Must be something to do with the cool, crisp, Yorkshire upland air coming in through the open bedroom window, she thought wryly.
It had also been years since she had woken up in the morning possessed by the faintly breathless sense of excitement she was now experiencing. A sense of excitement she suspected most women would equate with the appearance in their lives of a new man. Her mouth curled derisively. Jenna was no fool. She knew that her attitude towards the male sex was an unusual one, just as she knew that in many ways it sprang from what had happened to her sister. She also knew that all members of the male sex were not like Alan or Charles Deveril, but knowing that had never stopped her from freezing off any attempts men made to make contact with her. It wasn’t that she hated the male sex; it was more that she felt nothing for it in terms of sexual responsiveness. Or had trained herself to feel nothing for it, she thought rather wryly.
What had come over her? It wasn’t like her to be so deeply self-analytical … and that she should be now was faintly disturbing. Unbidden, an image flashed across her mind: a man, tall, with a dark shock of hair and amused blue eyes. The man in the portrait at the old Hall. Quickly she dismissed the image and its disturbing nuances. What was the matter with her? She was as nervous and on edge as a teenager facing her first date. Excitement, that was all, she told herself as she slid out of bed.
A narrow beam of sunlight barred her body, penetrating the fine silk of her nightgown, making her glance briefly downwards to frown slightly over the slender gold of her body where it was revealed by her nightgown. Her own body was something she rarely gave much attention to. She was as slim and as supple as Lucy, and yet her body was quite unmistakably that of a woman and not a girl, her breasts full, her curves feminine. Another image slid into her mind and with a cold shock she realised she was visualising how yesterday’s dark-haired stranger had looked at her.
Too intelligent to practise self-deception, Jenna acknowledged as she banished the image, she suspected that her contempt for the male sex sprang from a deep-seated need to protect herself from the same sort of agony her sister had known. Where sex itself was concerned, her feelings were even more confused. She had never met any man who aroused in her a sexual desire that was strong enough to overcome all her deeply buried fears. Perhaps because she equated sex with what had happened to Rachel. Whatever the case she had been scrupulous about not passing on her own feelings to Lucy. She desperately wanted Lucy to have everything she herself had never had. That was why it hurt so much when Lucy had flung her heedless adolescent accusations at her.
As she dressed, an unusual surge of optimism swept through her, banishing all her doubts. Who could tell? Perhaps once Lucy had accepted the fact that Jenna intended them to move to Yorkshire, she would grow to love the old Hall as much as Jenna herself did. Lucy was at a difficult age, Jenna reminded herself fairly, but in another few years she would be an adult. Perhaps then they would be able to talk about Rachel, Jenna thought contemplatively, acknowledging that she would like to talk about her sister with someone, to share her memories of her, and who better than Lucy? As it was, only Bill and Nancy had known Rachel, and could share her memories with her. Maybe that was why she was so afraid to let a man into her life, she reflected. Because if she did so, she would have to tell him about the past, about Rachel and Lucy …
What was she really afraid of? she asked herself, as she tugged a brush through her hair and studied her reflection pensively in the mirror. That a man might reject her because he thought she had had an illegitimate child? Or that if she cared deeply enough about someone to tell them the truth they might not share her view of the enormity of the crime against her sister. It had been a long time since she had examined her own deep feelings so intensely, perhaps too long.
In London, with a growing, demanding business to take up all her time and Lucy to worry about, there never seemed to be an opportunity to sit down and think about herself. Or was it that she didn’t want to dwell too deeply on her own emotions or lack of them? Harley had accused her on more than one occasion of being a-human. Who knew? Perhaps he was right. A self-mocking smile curved her generous mouth. What would they say, all those men who had striven so hard to get her into their beds, if they knew the truth? That far from being a cool, composed, experienced woman, she was in reality no more than a frightened, inexperienced virgin. The thought was ludicrous enough to make her laugh. What did it matter? No one was ever likely to know the truth, apart from herself.
Once again, irritatingly, a mental image of the man who had admired her car with words and her body with his eyes flashed across her mind, the blue eyes taunting, the curl of his mouth suggesting with arrogant maleness that he knew everything there was to know about her sex. Why had she allowed him to antagonise her so intensely? The man was a stranger, someone she had never met before, nor was ever likely to meet again. Shrugging aside the memory of how he had looked at her, Jenna went downstairs.
‘Sorry I’m so late,’ she apologised to Nancy as she walked into the kitchen. ‘I can’t think what happened.’ She wrinkled her nose ruefully. ‘I haven’t slept so deeply for years. Where’s Lucy?’
‘Gone out,’ Nancy informed her drily, adding bluntly, ‘I know you won’t like my saying this, Jenna, but it’s high time you told her the truth. If you don’t ——’ She broke off as they heard a car outside.
‘Funny!’ she exclaimed, her forehead puckering in a frown. ‘I wasn’t expecting Bill back so soon. He’s driven down to the village to get some more bread. There’s nothing wrong with young Lucy’s appetite, whatever else might be ailing her.’
But it wasn’t Bill who came to the kitchen door. It was Lucy, her eyes shining, her cheeks flushed, and with her, to Jenna’s complete consternation and shock, was the man whose features had so annoyingly impressed themselves upon her mind, to the extent that twice during the last half an hour she had recalled them in vivid detail. As she looked at him, she realised that her memory had not played her false. His eyes were as intensely blue as she remembered, his skin as healthily tanned.
‘Lucy, where on earth have you been?’ she asked her niece frostily, dragging her attention away from the male figure lounging in the open doorway and forcing herself to concentrate instead on the teenager’s flushed and rebellious features. What was Lucy doing with this stranger, a stranger whose overt sexuality made her mouth compress in bitter contempt? He flaunted his sexuality like a banner and it disgusted her, riveting her attention until Lucy spoke.
‘Out!’ The pert toss of the dark hair which accompanied the defiant challenge only increased Jenna’s perturbation, but she managed to mask her fear with a coolness she was far from feeling.
How many times had she warned Lucy against the folly of talking to strangers; any strangers. It made no difference that every instinct she possessed told her that this man was definitely not the type who needed to waylay young girls in order to obtain sexual satisfaction.
‘I’m afraid the fault lies with me.’ His words fell into the thick pool of silence, stagnant with antagonism, that had fallen on the kitchen after Lucy’s defiant remark, and it goaded Jenna unbearably to know that beneath the conventional apology he was probably laughing at her.
‘I met your daughter down at the Hall and offered to give her a lift back here. It seems that you and I are going to be in competition at the auction this morning.’
Jenna’s eyes left his face and darted to Lucy’s. What had Lucy been doing down at the old Hall? For now her concentration on her niece was something she could use as a defence mechanism to block out the shock of what she had just been told. He wanted to buy the Hall. Her mouth curled unwittingly into a bitter smile. So much for her initial assumptions about him.
‘And what exactly were you doing down there, Lucy?’ she questioned curtly, trying to blank out the feeling of tension invading her veins. What had happened to the excited euphoria with which she had woken up? It was gone, banished by the presence of this dark, mocking man.
‘I just wanted to see what it looked like.’ Lucy’s reply was sulky.
‘Without telling anyone where you were going?’ Jenna knew she was overdoing her chastisement, and that it would be wiser to keep her criticisms until they were alone, but something about the enigmatic scrutiny of the man watching them was driving her on. It was as though somehow they were locked in some sort of secret battle … If that was the case, establishing her parental authority over Lucy was hardly likely to win it, Jenna reflected, slightly ashamed of the way she had spoken so sharply to the younger girl. She wasn’t so far removed from her teenage years herself that she could not remember how touchy and vulnerable a teenager’s pride was. Her voice softened slightly. ‘I’m sorry, Lucy,’ she apologised, curling her fingers into her palms and refusing to look in the direction of the sardonic stranger. She didn’t want to see him gloating over her apology. ‘I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that but …’
‘She shouldn’t have accepted a lift with me.’
Once again the cool drawl raised tiny goosebumps of prickly resentment on Jenna’s sensitive skin. ‘My fault again, I insisted. It seemed foolish to let her walk when I was coming this way …’ He shrugged powerfully broad shoulders, this morning encased in a thick navy jumper that added to his ruggedly masculine appearance.
‘Really?’
The moment she spoke the coolly dismissive word, Jenna knew that she had fallen into a carefully baited trap.
‘Yes.’ He ignored her cool withdrawal and smiled instead at Nancy. ‘If I might come in for a second?’
He was still standing just by the door, and Jenna watched with narrowed eyes and a prickling sense of foreboding as Nancy coloured slightly and said quickly, ‘Oh, my goodness, of course! Please do.’
He was a charmer all right, Jenna thought critically, but even if Nancy was not immune she was. She was looking at him, studying him as he walked into the room, watching the lean, long-legged way he moved, his movements as fluid as those of a great jungle cat — and just as dangerous — when suddenly she was conscious that she was staring and that, worse, he was aware of it. The look he gave her as their eyes clashed made her feel as though he could see right into her mind and read every thought in it. He knew how antagonistic she was to him. A fine shudder of apprehension rippled through her body. An outright reaction to her antipathy she could deal with, but somehow his deliberate refusal to show any response at all was unnerving.
‘Well, thank you for bringing Lucy back for us, Mr ..?’ Jenna paused and he obligingly filled the space for her. ‘Allingham,’ he told her laconically, ‘James Allingham.’
His name meant nothing to her, but the smile that curled his mouth without reaching his eyes chilled her.
‘Lucy tells me you’re hoping to buy the Hall and use it as a headquarters for your business interests,’ he commented, observing her, Jenna noticed, with eyes that were suddenly almost frighteningly watchful.
‘Yes,’ she agreed, not knowing what else to do. Who was this man? Obviously not the farm labourer she had originally supposed. He might be wearing casual clothes — a checked shirt, a thick sweater and a pair of cords — but they were expensive casuals. It irritated her now that she had allowed his blatant sexuality to blind her to the fact that he was a potential rival for possession of the Hall. ‘And you, Mr Allingham,’ she challenged, lifting her head and looking directly into his eyes, letting him know that she wouldn’t be easily intimidated, ‘what is your purpose in wishing to acquire the property?’ It crossed her mind that he could quite possibly refuse to tell her, but he didn’t.
His smile widened, but still did not reach his eyes. ‘Well, as to that,’ he drawled, making her remember that she had previously thought that his heritage wasn’t entirely British, ‘my ancestors originally came from here and I kinda thought it would be rather nice to keep the property in family hands.’
Jenna went white, a small gasp escaping her lips before she could stop herself from betraying her shock. James Allingham was a Deveril! No wonder she had felt so antagonistic towards him, she reflected bitterly. Her senses must have known what her mind had not. Don’t be ridiculous, she chided herself mentally, her antagonism had initially sprung from the fact that he was so overpoweringly and blatantly male, and nothing else. Even so, it was a shock to discover that he was related to the Deverils.
Suddenly she remembered the portrait she had seen in the house and how stunned she had been on first seeing James Allingham’s resemblance to it. Just for a moment all her old hatred of the Deverils surged up inside her, but she had herself under control almost immediately.
‘Really,’ she exclaimed in a marvelling voice. ‘You do surprise me. I had heard that the solicitors made extensive enquiries and had decided that the Deveril family had completely died out.’
‘So, I believe, it has,’ James Allingham agreed, with mocking urbanity. ‘But there is a connection none the less. One of my ancestors was born here in this village. His mother was the wife of the then Sir George Deveril.’ His mouth twisted slightly as he added, ‘Unfortunately, he fell into disgrace and was packed off to the Indies. Once there he married the daughter of a wealthy sugar planter.’
Jenna froze, and as though sensing her disbelief James Allingham said coolly, ‘Oh, it’s all quite true, I can assure you, but the father of the girl whom James Deveril married insisted as part of the marriage contract that James change his surname to Allingham.’ He shrugged. ‘The story goes in our family that James wasn’t all that reluctant to part with a surname he despised.’
‘A most romantic story, Mr Allingham,’ Jenna said crisply, suddenly understanding why James Allingham would want to possess the house. No doubt like her he harboured a feeling of resentment against the Deveril family, but she must not start feeling sympathy for him, she told herself sharply. That was what he wanted … what he was angling for.
‘Yes, isn’t it?’ he agreed, giving her a bland smile, the glint in his eyes telling her that he was amused rather than annoyed by the coldness in her voice.
Bright patches of colour stained her high cheekbones as she happened to glance at Lucy and saw that the younger girl was enjoying seeing her bested by James Allingham. Hard on the heels of her initial anger came pain. What had happened to her and Lucy? They had once been so close. But she knew what had happened. Lucy resented her refusal to discuss her father with her.
It was infuriating that James Allingham should so easily have got the better of her and in front of Lucy too, but what was more infuriating was that he was making it clear to her that he felt he had a greater right to the Hall than she did. Her chin went up, her eyes unknowingly flashing warning signs at him. ‘Well, it’s a most interesting story, Mr Allingham,’ she conceded graciously, ‘and I can quite understand why you should want to buy the old Hall.’
‘The auction is due to begin in half an hour,’ he commented briefly, glancing at what Jenna could easily recognise as an extremely expensive gold watch. What she could see of his wrist beneath the cuff of his woollen shirt was well muscled, covered in fine dark hairs and extremely masculine. For some reason the sight of it disturbed her, setting off tiny flurries of sensation in her stomach.
‘Why don’t I give you a lift down there?’
His arrogant assumption that she would want to travel with him infuriated Jenna, her fury fuelled by the unfamiliar sensations she had just experienced. Part of her realised, or at least suspected that he was deliberately trying to get her off balance, and yet even knowing this, another part of her still reacted to what she suspected was a deliberate encouragement of her anger. No doubt her red hair had already betrayed to him her quick temper, and perhaps he hoped to push her into some sort of hasty hot-headed reaction which would unnerve her before the auction. She had come across this sort of tactical manoeuvre before and thoroughly despised it. Her upper lip curled slightly. He was everything she most detested in the male sex, she thought furiously. Arrogant, an overweening belief in himself, a masculine air of superiority that she longed to challenge, but most of all, an amused and slightly taunting manner towards herself, as though she, like Lucy, was little more than a child. He could not be more than thirty-six or so: the seven-year age-gap between them was scarcely large enough to warrant his almost paternal mockery of her. It was on the tip of her tongue to refuse him when Nancy suddenly interrupted, ‘Oh, what an excellent idea. You know you said your car wasn’t behaving very well,’ she reminded Jenna.
‘Then it’s all settled.’ The smile James Allingham gave Nancy was pure sexual coercion, Jenna told herself distastefully, refusing to admit to the strange feeling she experienced when she saw the warmth in his eyes as they rested mischievously on the older woman’s plump face.
She had already noticed that Lucy seemed ready to hang on his every word and she was not very pleased when the girl burst out impulsively, ‘Oh, Mother, surely you aren’t going to go ahead and bid for the house now? Not when you can see how much James wants it. After all, it did once belong to his family.’
Jenna had to grit her teeth together to stop herself snapping at Lucy’s mock-virtuous tone. No doubt it would suit Lucy very well indeed if she were to back out of the auction, but she had no intention of doing so. And as for the house once belonging to James’s family … Anger and pain — both were there inside her. Oh, Lucy, if only you knew, she thought wryly. But Lucy did not and how could she tell her? Her smile for James Allingham was tight and slightly bitter. ‘Yes, I can quite see that Mr Allingham has a valid claim to the house, Lucy,’ she agreed, ‘but as I’m sure he is aware one can’t allow oneself to be clouded by emotion when it comes to business matters.’
As she swept towards the door, Jenna thought she heard Lucy mutter rebelliously, ‘Or when it comes to any matters …’ but even as she stiffened and was about to turn, she heard the inner door slam as Lucy walked into the hall.
‘A very attractive young lady, your daughter,’ James Allingham remarked a few seconds later as he settled her into his car — a Mercedes saloon, she noticed absently as she fastened her seat-belt.
‘I think so.’ Her cool voice was meant to warn him not to trespass any further, but James Allingham refused to take the hint.
‘There’s just the two of you, or so she tells me,’ he persisted. That he should ignore her warning and continue with his line of questioning angered Jenna even further.
‘That’s right,’ she agreed, knowing as she did so that her voice sounded brittle, defensive almost, and that angered her even more.
‘She also tells me that she doesn’t want to come back and live in Yorkshire.’
Impossible not to miss the amused, half-victorious sidelong glance he gave her as he put the car in motion.
‘You and Lucy seemed to have had an extremely enlightening conversation,’ Jenna said tartly. ‘At least, enlightening as far as you were concerned.’
He shrugged and met her cold glance with an easy smile. ‘I bumped into her as I came out of the Hall. We got chatting.’ He shrugged again. ‘She seemed to be in need of someone to confide in. Sometimes strangers make the best listeners. I take it you do still intend to bid?’ Another sideways glance.
Jenna was infuriated. ‘Why shouldn’t I? Because of that little sob-story you’ve just told us?’ She managed an arctic, derisive smile. ‘Oh, come on, Mr Allingham, I wasn’t born yesterday, even if Lucy was.’
‘Meaning?’ His voice was as cold as her own now, and somehow slightly intimidating, making Jenna uncomfortably aware of the fact that she was alone with him in his car. Wild thoughts of his kidnapping her … holding her captive somewhere until the auction was over, flooded into her mind, only to be dismissed as more rational reasoning took over.
It gave Jenna a brief sense of satisfaction to know that she had got under his skin and broken through that air of easy confidence at last.
‘Oh, it’s not that I don’t believe you’re telling the truth,’ she told him, her own confidence restored.
‘I’m relieved to hear it.’
The sardonic inflexion beneath the words momentarily rang warning bells but Jenna ignored them.
‘Then why the antagonism?’ he questioned, throwing her off balance by the unexpectedness of his question.
‘Surely I don’t need to spell out for you the fact that you used what you learned from my daughter in an effort to dissuade me from bidding for the house?’ Jenna said by way of explanation, hoping that he would not probe any further.
‘Meaning that you don’t give a damn whether your daughter wants to move up here or not?’
The injustice of his calmly delivered comment stung. That wasn’t what she had meant at all, but she was too honest to be able to refute completely what he had said. ‘Of course I do,’ she snapped, ‘but I happen to believe that at fifteen Lucy is not old enough to know where she does or does not want to live. I don’t consider that London is exactly an ideal environment for an impressionable teenager.’
‘She tells me you sent her to boarding school,’ he commented, changing tack.
Dark colour flamed in Jenna’s cheeks.
What else had Lucy told this threatening stranger? And he was threatening … every instinct Jenna possessed told her so.
‘That’s right.’ Her curt, clipped voice warned him against any further intrusion, but, as before, he ignored it.
‘Do you think that’s wise, for a mother to completely abandon the upbringing of her child to others?’
For a moment Jenna was so angry that she had to clench her hands tightly against the leather of the seat to stop herself from coming out with the first biting retort that sprang to her lips.
‘I am a single parent, Mr Allingham,’ she said at last, ‘and in common with other single parents I have to earn money to support myself and my daughter. Much as I would love to spend more time with Lucy it just hasn’t been possible.’ Inwardly she was shaking with temper. How dared he? How dared he criticise her like this?
‘Oh, come on now, I don’t believe that.’
Against her will Jenna felt her glance drawn to his. His eyes were cold and watchful where her own were hot with resentment. ‘A woman with your … assets,’ he said softly ‘would never have any problem in finding a man to support her … and her child.’
His implication stunned her. There were a thousand things she could have said: that she loathed his sex and would never, ever allow herself to be dependent on a member of it, that she preferred to be independent, that —— Bottling up the violent emotion clamouring for release inside her, she gritted through her teeth, ‘But I happen to prefer paying my own way through life.’
Now he smiled at her, but it wasn’t a pleasant smile. ‘A rather masculine way of looking at things, wouldn’t you say? Most women prefer to have a husband to lean on for both emotional and financial support.’
‘Yes, no doubt,’ Jenna agreed crisply, ‘and a good many of them discover later in life just how fragile that support is when their husbands leave them for someone else. Someone younger and fresher. I have no desire to marry, Mr Allingham,’ she told him in brittle tones, too carried away by her feelings to watch what she was saying, ‘even if that means that I don’t have as much time to spend with Lucy as I would wish. She’s a teenager and at the moment, as all teenagers are wont to do, she’s apt to feel herself hard done by.’
‘Umm. Lucy told me that she didn’t have a father.’
A sensation of pain lanced through Jenna. She could feel him watching her. ‘Are you widowed, divorced?’
She longed to refuse to answer his impertinent questions, but pride would not allow her to do so. ‘Neither.’
‘So …’
The way he murmured the word made Jenna suspect that he had already known what her answer would be. ‘You must have been very young when Lucy was born.’
‘Old enough.’ She wasn’t aware of how much bitterness there was in her voice, only a profound sense of relief as the Hall lodge gates came into sight.
‘And that’s why you hate my sex so much, is it?’ he pressed. ‘Because Lucy’s father deserted you. Left you to bear the burden of parenthood alone?’
As they went up the drive, all Jenna wanted was to escape from his questions and his proximity. ‘Is that what you think?’ she snapped at him. ‘It fits neatly into all the psychiatrists’ theories, doesn’t it?’
She was conscious of the glance he gave her, but because of the other cars parked ahead of him, he had to stop, and the moment he did so, Jenna unfastened her seat-belt and got out of his car without waiting to see if he was following her.
The cool morning air soothed her flushed cheeks and. her temper. It had been foolish to let him get to her so easily. She shrugged dismissively as she walked towards the house. After today, once the Hall was hers, she would never see him again. But would it be hers? The doubts she had refused to give weight to since he had first made her aware of his intentions now surfaced.
For all that it needed a good deal of money spending on it, the old Hall was not being auctioned cheaply. James Allingham would be as aware of the reserve price as she was herself. In order to buy it, he would need to be a reasonably wealthy man. Without false modesty Jenna knew that many people would consider her to be very comfortably off, but for her to buy the Hall and restore it she would need to employ her company’s assets. Hence her decision to use it as the company headquarters.
What line of business was James Allingham in, she wondered. He had mentioned that his ancestors had included a sugar planter, but with the abolition of slavery the finances of these once-wealthy men had waned. His accent was American — but only faintly so. Shrugging impatiently she cautioned herself to put him out of her mind and to concentrate instead on the coming auction. But James Allingham and the house had become strangely intertwined, and it was becoming impossible to think of one without the other. Straightening her spine, Jenna vowed mentally that she was not going to let him best her.
There was a martial glint in her eyes that Harley would have recognised — and deplored. Normally extremely cool and level-headed when it came to business matters, Jenna could occasionally be provoked into a certain rashness — the curse of her red hair and turbulent temperament, she acknowledged as she walked into the house.
CHAPTER THREE (#u67eba6e2-f9a6-50e6-9441-3a42e109aed3)
THE auction was being held in the large Georgian drawing-room in the newer part of the house. When Jenna made her way there, she found the room less than half full, which was reassuring. The auctioneer was already in place, studying some papers in front of him, and Jenna suspected that the small group of bystanders gathered together to one side of him were probably more curious than actively interested in bidding.
Jenna had already been in contact with the firm of estate agents, who were acting as auctioneers, on several occasions in connection with the house and up until this morning she had felt that she stood every chance of securing the property at the reserve price. She saw James Allingham come into the room and saunter across it to stand almost opposite. There was no smile in his eyes now, and Jenna felt as though they were two opponents facing one another prior to joining battle. She wondered if anyone else in the room was as aware of the animosity between them as she was herself. She was in little doubt that James Allingham had sought her out so that he could gauge the competition he might have in the bidding, and she was aware of a tiny frisson of fear running over her skin as the bidding began.
Gradually as the minutes ticked by the more halfhearted bidders dropped out. Soon it was down to Jenna, James Allingham, and one other, a bluff beefy Northerner, who, Jenna heard someone next to her whisper, was a builder.
When they reached the reserve price her stomach nerves knotted in tension. The builder dropped out, and Jenna felt herself tense as she saw James Allingham coolly raise his hand.
Dare she try to outbid him? She bit her lip worrying at it, knowing down to the last thousand pounds how high she could go, and then desire overrode caution and she raised her rolled pamphlet, forcing herself not to glance across the room at James Allingham as she did so.
She was conscious of a stir of interest around her as the bystanders began to realise they were witnessing a tense duel between the dark-haired man and the redheaded woman. Caution vanished as Jenna was urged on, both by her desire for the house and her desire to triumph over James Allingham.
The price crept inexorably upwards and Jenna’s heart sank as she realised she could not continue bidding for much longer. Already she was way, way over her self-imposed limit and Harley would be having a fit if he was here with her.
She saw James Allingham’s brief nod to the auctioneer after her own latest bid.
‘Another thousand … am I bid another thousand?’ The auctioneer looked encouragingly at her and Jenna knew she should bow out, but she couldn’t do it … not with so many speculative pairs of eyes watching … not when she wanted the Hall so desperately that she was ready to mortgage her very soul for it … not when losing meant James Allingham winning. She raised her hand, curling her fingers into her palm to prevent them from trembling. Out of the corner of her eye she was aware of someone approaching James Allingham and touching him on his shoulder.
The auctioneer was declaring her bid. Unlike her he probably could not see the smaller man standing almost behind James Allingham and whispering urgently to him.
‘For the last time … at one hundred and eighty-five thousand pounds … going. …’
Jenna saw James Allingham frown and turn towards the dais, but his companion was still talking to him. He frowned again, very deeply, his attention distracted from the auctioneer. Jenna held her breath, waiting to hear James Allingham interrupt the auctioneer with a raised bid, but suddenly for some reason all his attention was concentrated on his companion.
‘Gone! At one hundred and eighty-five thousand pounds!’
Jenna was so engrossed in watching James Allingham that she was barely aware of what the auctioneer was saying. Across the width of the room he lifted his head and looked at her, but somehow his gaze was unfocused, as though he wasn’t really seeing her … as though he wasn’t even really aware of where he was. What on earth could his companion have said to him to take his attention so completely away from the auction? Jenna knew that whatever it was she ought to be grateful to the other man but, strangely, she felt cheated, as though somehow her victory was unfairly won — by default almost.
The auctioneer was heading towards her, claiming her attention, and when Jenna looked again James Allingham had disappeared.
The old Hall was hers! Even now Jenna could hardly believe it. She had spent the rest of the day sorting out all the formalities connected with the purchase. A telephone call to her bank had secured for her the increased mortgage facilities she would require and Jenna quailed a little as she contemplated the financial burden she had taken on. She was in no doubt about her ability to pay off the mortgage eventually, but initially it would be a struggle.
She gave a brief mental shrug. She would just have to hope for some good commissions locally in the early months.
A small voice inside her reminded her that fortune was seldom so kind. Harley would go mad, she acknowledged as she took a taxi from the estate agent’s office back to Bill’s and Nancy’s.
Instead of feeling excited, enthusiastic, she was conscious of a flat, let-down feeling. Telling herself it was merely reaction she walked towards the front door.
Lucy was sitting sulkily in front of the television. She barely glanced up as Jenna walked in.
‘Well, how did it go?’
Thank heavens for Bill, Jenna thought, sinking into the chair he indicated. ‘I got it.’
‘You don’t sound too pleased about it.’
‘I had to pay over the reserve price.’ That was the excuse she was using to herself to cover her lack of enthusiasm and it certainly seemed to deceive Bill.
‘I hope you haven’t taken on more than you can handle,’ he warned her worriedly. ‘Old houses like the Hall gobble up money.’
‘I know, but as I intend to use it as a showplace for the craftsmen I employ, I’m hoping to be able to set a certain amount of the cost off as a business expense.’ Jenna hoped she sounded more confident than she felt. Her accountants had cautioned her against hoping for too much when it came to convincing the tax authorities of the authenticity of her claim.
‘Even so …’ Bill was still frowning, but he smiled briefly as Nancy came into the room carrying a tea tray.
‘I heard you come in,’ Nancy told her. ‘How did it go?’
‘She got it,’ Bill answered for her.
‘Oh. What happened to James Allingham then? He didn’t strike me as a man who would easily give up something he wanted.’
Jenna agreed with her, but she only shrugged. There had been something odd about the way James Allingham had suddenly lost interest in the bidding … no … not lost interest, she corrected herself … it had been as if something more important had demanded his attention. But what could have been more important than securing the house he had told her in no uncertain terms he intended to have?
‘I wonder where he comes from,’ Nancy mused. ‘He had a faintly American accent.’
‘I doubt that we’ll see him again,’ Jenna interrupted. Lucy had turned round to look at her and a spasm of alarm shivered down her spine as she saw the look of bitter disappointment cross the girl’s face. Was Lucy in danger of forming a crush on James Allingham? The thought was distinctly disquieting even though Jenna knew that it was unlikely that they would see him again. However, she had enough problems with Lucy already without adding any more.
‘So … what do you intend to do now?’
It was two days since the auction and Jenna was sitting in the kitchen with Bill, drinking coffee. She cupped her hands round her mug and stared thoughtfully at it.
‘I’ll have to go back to London — I intend to keep an office going there. Richard Hollis, my assistant, will run it. We’ve got several contracts on at the moment but nothing that Richard can’t handle.’ As she talked, she was mentally going over the work they had in hand. None of it was threatening to prove difficult and she felt that she could with perfect safety hand it over to Richard.
‘I can’t move in to the Hall — not yet. Far too much needs to be done, but on the other hand it’s going to be hard work supervising everything from London.’
‘Why not stay with us?’ Bill suggested.
Jenna shook her head. ‘No. It wouldn’t be fair on you and Nancy,’ she told him. ‘I’ll be coming and going all the time, using the telephone. One of the first things I’ll have to do when I get back is to find out if any of my craftsmen have contacts up here.’ She would also need a good architect, she reflected, and a sympathetic builder. Until she knew the Hall was hers she hadn’t allowed herself to think too much beyond the auction but now the auction was over and …
‘And Lucy?’ Bill questioned, watching her.
‘I took her out of school to bring her up here with me. She’s due back next Monday.’
‘She won’t like it,’ Bill warned her.
Jenna nibbled worriedly at her bottom lip. ‘I know she won’t, Bill, but what else can I do? A London day school is out. I’ve seen what those kids get up to, you haven’t. The way she’s behaving at the moment I couldn’t trust Lucy not to get in with some wild crowd.’
‘Perhaps that’s what’s wrong,’ Bill suggested quietly. ‘Perhaps you should trust her, Jenna.’
He watched her shrug and persisted. ‘Yes, I know you only want to protect her, but can’t you see? In her eyes, by refusing to talk to her about her father, by refusing to listen to her grievances, you’re refusing to believe her worthy of trust, and her views worthy of being respected.’
Bill had taught teenagers for many years, Jenna recognised, and she could also see that what he was saying made sense.
‘I don’t know, Bill. Perhaps at the end of this term, in the summer … There’s nothing I want more than to see her happy, but she says she hates Yorkshire. More to spite me than anything else, I suspect. At least at school she has her friends. I just don’t know what to do.’
She was more worried about Lucy than she wanted to admit. The way her niece had sprung to champion James Allingham had reminded her that Lucy was balanced very precariously between childhood and womanhood. With the problems that existed between them at the moment it would be all too easy for Lucy to decide to throw off the yoke of childhood and seek solace for her grievances in open rebellion.
‘She lacks a man’s presence in her life. You both do, Jenna.’ Bill’s quiet criticism wounded her, and she put down her mug, getting up and pacing angrily up and down.
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Bill,’ she exclaimed. ‘Don’t you start! What am I supposed to do? Go out on the streets and grab the first man who walks past?’
‘Don’t fly up at me,’ Bill chided her. ‘Sit down and we’ll talk about this calmly.’
Unwillingly she did so.
‘You know I’ve never interfered in your life, Jenna, but I hate to see what’s happening to you. You should have a husband and children of your own. I …’
‘Bill, the days are long gone when a woman wasn’t complete without a man at her side. I don’t want a husband, and as for children … I have Lucy. For heaven’s sake, at Lucy’s school more than half the girls are from single-parent families. It means nothing nowadays.’
‘Does it?’ She could feel Bill watching her.
‘Perhaps to you, Jenna, but not to Lucy. If you’re not careful she’s going to start looking for a father substitute for herself and I hate to think where that could lead. Look, I’m not suggesting you marry the first man who comes along simply for Lucy’s sake, I am telling you that she needs a male influence in her life that she can identify with, whether that man is her actual father or someone else, and the person best equipped to provide her with the right sort of male influence right now is you. I know that what happened to Rachel hurt you badly, Jenna, but all men aren’t like that.’
‘I know that.’ She got up again, pacing tensely. ‘I’m not a complete fool, Bill, it’s just that … well, I’ve never met any man who I would want to give up my freedom for. Sometimes I wonder if I’m capable of sexual love,’ she added bleakly.
She heard the scrape of Bill’s chair as he got up, and then the weight of his arm round her shoulders. ‘With that hair, and your temper ..!’ His eyes were laughing at her. ‘You’re capable of it all right, but somehow you’ve managed to train your mind to tell you that you’re not.’
Three days later, back in London, Jenna found that she couldn’t get what Bill had said out of her mind. On Sunday she was taking Lucy back to school, and although Jenna had tried on several occasions to talk seriously to her niece, Lucy had proved extremely unco-operative. Every time Jenna asked her if she had a moment to spare, Lucy was either on the point of going out, or she had to speak urgently to a schoolfriend, or there was something else of equal importance she had to do. Jenna was no fool, she knew that Lucy was deliberately punishing her because of her refusal to discuss her father, but what could she do? As she waited for the coffee to perk, Jenna heard the newspaper plop through the apartment’s outer door. It was Thursday and she had several appointments that morning, most of them connected with the Hall in one way or another. Richard had proved a marvellous help, taking all the work on hand off her shoulders so that Jenna could concentrate on organising the initial work on the Hall.
Harley had proved at first disbelieving and then disapproving when she told him how much she had paid. Like Lucy, he was sulking with her. Sighing faintly, Jenna opened the kitchen door and called out to Lucy. The younger girl was spending the day with a schoolfriend who, coincidentally, had also been off school, and they were going shopping together.
Jenna’s first appointment of the morning was with the firm of architects she normally used for any major reconstruction work required by her clients; she was hoping they would be able to recommend a Yorshire-based firm of architects to her. She had already unearthed a professional guide that listed builders qualified to work on restoring period buildings, and she was slowly going through it, writing down the names of those within reasonable travelling distance of West Thorpe.
‘Lucy, come on, you’re going to be late!’ she called again, pouring out a cup of coffee and walking into the small hallway to get the paper.
The front-page headlines were familiarly depressing and Jenna glanced at them briefly before turning to the gossip column. The previous evening she had attended a party thrown by one of her clients to show off her new décor, and her hostess had told Jenna that she had invited several society columnists. The moment she opened the paper on the society page a photograph caught Jenna’s eye. She stared blankly at it for several seconds before reading the caption beneath it. ‘Millionaire James Allingham returns to Britain following the deaths of his father and step-mother in car crash!’
There was no mistaking the dominatingly masculine features of the grim-faced man in the photograph, even with his expression stripped of all emotion save for a certain dark bleakness.
Several days ago James Allingham flew to New York, following the tragic news that a car driven by his step-mother, Lorraine, had been involved in a multiple pile-up on a New York freeway. Allingham, who was in Yorkshire at the time, arrived in New York just in time to see his father before he died. His step-mother, Lorraine, died later in hospital, his step-sister, Sarah, being the only survivor of the accident. A millionaire in his own right, James Allingham shares an inheritance from his father of the latter’s large art collection and a chain of hotels throughout the Caribbean. Allingham’s own fortune was founded on the holiday and marina complex he developed on the Caribbean island of St Justine which he inherited from his grandfather when he was twenty-one. Since Allingham is not married, and has always led a somewhat peripatetic life, it will be interesting to see if he now succumbs to the blandishments of one of his many female ‘friends’ and takes the plunge into matrimony. His step-sister, Sarah, who is fourteen years old was severely injured by the accident, and it is rumoured that James Allingham is her sole guardian. However, he has returned to his Knightsbridge house alone.
Grimacing with distaste Jenna put the paper down. So now she knew why James Allingham had left the auction so abruptly. She shivered slightly. No matter what she felt about him personally, she couldn’t help but be torn by compassion for his step-sister. The speculatively coy tone of the article sickened her, with its covert intrusive curiosity and she pushed the paper on one side in disgust, getting up to call Lucy yet again.
Her niece appeared several seconds later, touslehaired and still sulky, her answers to all Jenna’s too-bright questions monosyllabic to the point of rudeness.
‘I’m going now, Lucy.’ Jenna made herself sound cheerfully unaware of Lucy’s attitude. ‘I’ll be back about five.’ On a sudden impulse she hesitated and added, ‘Look, how would you like to go out to dinner tonight? Just the two of us, we’ll go somewhere glamorous and ——’
‘I’m eating at Janet’s.’
Recognising that she had been snubbed, Jenna pressed her lips firmly together. ‘Well, perhaps another time then,’ she added brightly. ‘Have a nice time.’
It was ridiculous that a woman who could run her own business successfully should quail beneath the resentment of a fifteen-year-old, Jenna told herself wryly as she stepped outside. Even though she hated to admit it to herself, it would be a relief in a way when Lucy was back at school. At the moment having her in the house was like living with a time-bomb. But simply because Lucy was back at school didn’t mean their problems had disappeared, Jenna reminded herself. Somehow, she and Lucy were going to have to find a common meeting ground. Without knowing why, she found herself thinking about James Allingham. How was he coping with his step-sister? Compared with him, her problems were minimal, Jenna told herself, but, then, no doubt man-like, he could hand over the care and comfort of his step-sister to others without any of the guilt she as a woman had to endure for abandoning her allotted female caring role.
On several occasions during the day Jenna found her thoughts returning to James Allingham. Each time she made a conscious effort to dismiss him from her mind, blaming his intrusiveness on the intense antipathy she had felt towards him. But now that antipathy was tempered with compassion, especially for his step-sister.
Jenna had been too young to remember anything about her own parents — her father had worked for one of the major oil companies and both he and her mother had been killed during a tribal uprising when he was working in a remote desert area. She had had to rely on Rachel’s dim memories of their parents to form an impression of them. Her aunt had never spoken about them, grimly dissuading the two sisters from doing so as well. Jenna had grown up with the uncomfortable feeling that, for some reason, her aunt had disapproved of their parents. Although their father had been her sister’s only child she had never talked to the girls about his childhood or his parents. If she hadn’t had Rachel …
Abruptly, Jenna came to a full stop in the street, appalled to realise the parallels that could be drawn between her aunt’s attitude and her own. But she would gladly have talked to Lucy about her parents if it had been possible …
But how was Lucy to know the reason why she was so evasive about her father? Shaking off the chilly sensation of despair running down her spine, Jenna straightened her shoulders and hurried on. It was pointless regretting her omissions of the past now. Lucy was far too vulnerable at the moment to accept the truth.
As she stepped into the building which housed her architects Jenna remembered Bill’s suggestion that she marry and provide Lucy with a substitute father-figure. Her mouth compressed slightly, her body instinctively shrinking from the thought of the sexual intimacy marriage would bring. No matter how much she analysed her own emotions or how logically she tried to look at things, Jenna was forced to admit that what had happened to Rachel had left its scars on her too. In some way that went deeper than logic could she was frightened of committing herself to a sexual relationship with anyone. She had seen what had happened to her sister, and even though she knew quite well that all men were not rapists the effect of Rachel’s death had been so traumatic that it had somehow frozen her ability to grow to full womanhood. Inside she was still a frightened teenager, Jenna told herself as she stepped out of the lift, and the only way she could ever contemplate marriage would be if it were merely a business arrangement, excluding any form of physical contact.
She closed her eyes briefly in a surge of mental torment as she imagined the reaction of the men who knew her in her business life if they were ever to discover the truth. She would instantly lose all her credibility and be demoted to the role of ‘frigid spinster’. That was the reason why she had always been at such pains to cultivate the glamorous sophisticated image she had been surprised to find herself labelled with when she first started working for John Howard. It made a very safe barrier to hide behind and she had played the part for so long now that it was almost second nature.
The receptionist behind the desk greeted her with a respectful smile and buzzed through on her intercom as Jenna sat down. She wasn’t kept waiting long, and as she was shown through into the partners’ office Jenna noted that it was Craig Manners, the senior partner, who held open the door for her and pulled out her chair.
‘Jenna … what can we do for you?’ he asked her once his secretary had poured their coffee.
‘Not an awful lot on this occasion,’ Jenna told him, crossing one slim leg over the other as she watched him quickly mask his disappointment. In the past, she had put several good contracts their way. Sometimes her clients wanted more than mere interior redecoration and once they started talking about structural alterations Jenna was always firm about insisting they sought qualified advice. She herself was no architect or builder and while design-wise she could often help her clients to crystallise their somewhat vague ideas, she was scrupulous about telling them that she had no qualifications in those other fields.
‘I was hoping you might be able to supply me with the name of a good architect in Yorkshire,’ she told him.
‘Yorkshire — rather far afield for you, isn’t it?’
Briefly she explained the situation to him.
‘So you intend moving your business up there as well?’ He frowned slightly. ‘Are you sure that’s a wise move in these recessionary times?’
‘I will be keeping on an office and staff in London,’ Jenna informed him, half resenting his almost paternalistic criticism.
‘Well, you know best …’ His hurried backing-off made Jenna suppress a faint smile. ‘And as to giving you the name of an architect, quite by coincidence an old friend of mine has a partnership in York.’ He jotted down a name and address on his notepad and handed it to Jenna.
‘They’re a first-class firm, and they have a department specialising in restoration work. They should be able to find you a good builder — but if you have any problems …’
Jenna got up shaking her head. ‘No … I …’
Craig got up too. ‘Before you leave London, Jenna, we must have lunch together … or dinner,’ he added speculatively.
‘That would be lovely, but I doubt that I’ll have the time, I’m afraid,’ Jenna replied diplomatically, avoiding his eyes. She was always wary when male colleagues proffered dinner invitations, and had a rule that she always refused them unless they included other people.
Why was it that even the most domesticated of the male species could never seem to resist trying their luck? Was it male instinct to pursue almost every unattached female that crossed their path?
She had several more meetings that morning, culminating in lunch with her bank manager. This was the appointment she was most dreading. She could, with patience and charm, just about manage to persuade Harley and her accountants that she had sound business reasons for what she was doing, but Gordon Burns was another matter.
She had used the same bankers right from the start of her career, although it was only more latterly, since her business had been successful that her branch’s most senior manager, Gordon Burns, had taken charge of her banking affairs.
He was a stooping, grizzled Scot, with an extremely shrewd mind and a dry sense of humour, which she enjoyed, and Jenna suspected he would prove far more difficult to convince than Harley had been. She had already endured one rather uncomfortable telephone call with Gordon Burns when she had had to increase the amount of her proposed loan. He hadn’t turned her down, but Jenna had sensed a cautious note of censure in his voice when he reminded her of the heavy financial burden she would be taking on.
He greeted her warmly enough, taking her coat and smiling at her. In his late fifties with a wealth of banking experience behind him, he always treated her with an olde-worlde masculine courtesy that was something of an anachronism, and yet, strangely enough, out of all her male colleagues and advisers he was the only one, who, when it came down to business, treated her exactly as he might another man.
Once they were seated he got briskly down to business, shaking his head a little as he studied the computer figures spread out on his desk. ‘Your turnover for the past couple of years,’ he told Jenna indicating the figures to her, and shaking his head slightly. ‘You don’t need me to tell you just how finely you’re cutting things, Jenna, and I won’t mince matters with you, I don’t like it.’
‘But you still gave me the loan?’
He grimaced faintly. ‘From the bank’s point of view it’s good business. The money’s out on loan to you at an extremely profitable rate of interest to us, and it’s well secured by the deeds on your London apartment and the old Hall itself. No, my concern isn’t for the bank’s money,’ he told her rather grimly, ‘but for your ability to repay it. You’ve taken on one hell of a burden. The interest repayments alone are going to amount to …’ He named a figure that made Jenna wince. ‘I know you’re doing very well at the moment, but what you’re talking about doing now is virtually to start again and new ventures are notorious for swallowing up money — oh, I’m not saying you won’t be successful in the North, only that you might find yourself with a cashflow problem and that’s if you’re lucky. If you’re not lucky, you could lose the lot.’
It was no more than Jenna knew herself, but to hear it said out loud so pragmatically made her stomach clench and her throat close up.
‘What monies are you likely to have coming in over the next six months?’ He turned to some cashflow forecasts Harley had drawn up for her and studied them thoughtfully.
‘Umm … not too bad, but I’d like to see at least a couple more large, guaranteed contracts.’ He frowned, and tapped thoughtfully on his desk. ‘I’ll be honest with you, Jenna. On paper it looks viable but my banker’s nose warns me against it.’
Jenna felt her heart sink. Bankers were notoriously cautious, she comforted herself a little later over lunch, and yet she knew that Gordon Burns had paid her the compliment of being honest with her, and that if she were wise she would listen to what he had to say. But she was committed now, she reminded herself. It was too late to change her mind, even had she wanted to do so. Just for a moment the image of James Allingham’s grim face rose up before her. He would probably buy the house from … But no! She wasn’t going to sell it. She didn’t want to sell it, least of all to him!
By the time their lunch was over she had managed to persuade herself that the picture was not as black as Gordon Burns had painted it. True, financially she would be rather stretched … but she would survive. It was in a mood of optimism that she returned to the empty apartment later in the afternoon. Lucy was still out, and after making herself a pot of tea, Jenna settled herself at her desk and gave herself up to the pleasure of planning out the restoration to its former glory of the old Hall.
Because it had two wings it would easily adapt to the dual purpose she had in mind of business premises and home. The Georgian wing would be her business showcase, with the older part of the building restored and adapted as a home for herself and Lucy. Once she had started, enthusiasm gripped her, and it was the growing dusk that eventually made her stop, massaging her cramped fingers as she put down her pen.
She glanced at her watch. Nearly nine. Where was Lucy? Frowning slightly, Jenna went to the phone and looked up the number of her friend’s parents, quickly dialling it.
It was several seconds before it was answered, a brief spasm of time during which Jenna tried hard not to dwell on how late Lucy was and all the dreadful fates that might have befallen her.
When the phone was answered and she spoke to Janet’s mother she learned that both girls had gone to a party being held by the daughter of one of their neighbours.
‘Didn’t Lucy ring you?’ Emily Harris asked. ‘She said she was going to?’
‘She may have tried to. I was out until four o’clock,’ Jenna told her, thinking though that Lucy had not tried very hard to get in touch with her. Lucy was old enough to be aware of how much she worried about her, and Jenna wondered if Lucy was still deliberately trying to punish her. She sighed as she replaced the receiver, her earlier optimism banished. Her head had started to ache slightly and suddenly she was overwhelmed by a desire to breathe in the clean, cool air of the moors. Funny how, until now, she had never realised how much she missed the solitude and peace of Yorkshire.
Was she being entirely fair to Lucy in uprooting her? But she wasn’t being completely uprooted, Jenna reminded herself. Many of her schoolfriends lived out of London; indeed they came from all parts of the country. Lucy could invited them to stay with her during the school holidays and could visit them in turn. Jenna had always been scrupulous about not being over-possessive with Lucy, encouraging her to make friends and spend time with them, worried that as an only child she might grow up lonely and introverted without company of her own age.
And yet now, as far as Lucy was concerned, nothing she could do was right. Her head really aching now, Jenna wandered into the kitchen to make herself a drink, suddenly aware of a deep sense of depression. What was she going to do to put things right between herself and Lucy? Perhaps it was just as well that Lucy was returning to school on Sunday, although Jenna was loath to part from her in her present mood. Maybe it would do them both good to be away from one another for a while?
CHAPTER FOUR (#u67eba6e2-f9a6-50e6-9441-3a42e109aed3)
‘YOU’RE early.’
Jenna grimaced at Maggie Chadwick, her secretary, and gestured to the large pile of mail already on her desk. ‘With good reason so it seems.’
‘Mmm. Things did rather mount up while you were away.’
Maggie was an excellent secretary and had been with the company for the last three years. Watching her frown, Jenna wondered if something was troubling her. She knew that she was deeply involved in an affair with a foreign news correspondent for one of the national papers and also that their relationship was an extremely stormy one. Thinking perhaps that her secretary’s lack of good spirits might be the result of a quarrel, she enquired gently, ‘Maggie, is something wrong?’
Almost immediately the other woman’s forehead cleared. ‘Well, I know it’s none of my business,’ she began, ‘but we do seem to be having problems with cashflow at the moment. Some of our clients are being very slow to pay.’ She gnawed worriedly at her bottom lip. ‘I know I don’t have any right to say this, but —’
‘But what Maggie?’ Anxiety sharpened Jenna’s voice, her conversation with Gordon Burns still very fresh in her mind. There were always clients in this business who jibbed at paying their bills: some of them, those with the reputation and standing to do so, even got away without paying them at all, but they were in a minority and Jenna was meticulous about investigating the reliability of those clients with whom she took on large contracts. Only the previous month she had turned down a contract from a Greek millionaire to revamp his huge London apartment because she had discovered by discreet enquiry that he was not over-zealous about meeting his bills.
She saw the apprehension darken her secretary’s eyes and realised that she had probably sounded more brusque than she had intended, but then, Maggie didn’t know how concerned she was about the loan she had taken on to buy the Hall.
‘I’m sorry,’ Jenna apologised, smiling at her. ‘I know I sounded snappy but it wasn’t intended for you. I’m having problems with Lucy at the moment.’
The admission was made before she could stop it, leaving Jenna surprised at herself. She never discussed her personal life with any of her staff, not even Harley, and although she liked Maggie and considered her as much a friend as an employee, it would never normally have occurred to her to confide in her. She had grown so used to making her own decisions and relying on herself that she never sought the advice or help of others on a personal basis. In her heart of hearts much as she liked Maggie, she also faintly despised her.
Maggie was a very attractive girl, who was held fast in the throes of a relationship which, as far as Jenna could see, had no advantages for her at all. Rick Forbes was well known to have a roving eye, and Jenna doubted very much if he remained faithful to stay-at-home Maggie when he was away covering stories for his paper, and yet Maggie put up with his fickleness. The flat they lived in was Maggie’s bought with some money she had inherited from her grandparents; she washed, cooked and cleaned for both of them, and if she was lucky, in return for all that, Rick took her out for the odd meal whenever he returned to London. Maggie excused him on the grounds that when he did return home he was too tired to want to do anything other than mooch around the flat, sleeping and working.
Was it any wonder that men rode roughshod over the female sex when women were so weak with them? Well, no man would ever do that to her! If she ever married … Startled, Jenna stared unseeingly through her office window. If she married? But, of course, she wasn’t going to! All that male pressure was beginning to get to her, she reflected, dismissing her thoughts and turning her attention back to Maggie.
‘It’s okay, I know you’re under a lot of pressure at the moment,’ her secretary smiled, accepting the apology. Many of her peers flatly refused to work for a woman boss, saying that they were far worse than men. Men could be coaxed and flattered into giving way if need be, women could not. They were notorious for refusing to give their own sex a hand up the career ladder, but Maggie had never once regretted her decision to come and work for Jenna. For one thing the work itself was fascinating, and Jenna often gave her the opportunity to exercise her own judgement, praising and encouraging her when she did so. It was unlike her to be snappy.
Maggie frowned and wished she could find a way to put her fears over to Jenna without making any direct accusations. Over the last few months she had seen how Richard Hollis had taken on contracts that were not always as financially sound as they might be. He was a very ambitious young man, though Jenna did not seem to see that, perhaps because in her presence he was always obsequious and obedient. Maggie, however, had seen a different side of him. When Jenna was away, Richard enjoyed ruling the roost. Short with mousy-brown hair, he was not the sort of man who made an impression at first sight, and perhaps because of that, Maggie sensed in him a driving ambition that he kept in check when Jenna was around.
Maggie was well aware of Jenna’s contempt for and dislike of the male sex. There were men Jenna respected, businessmen, but for their professionalism, not their maleness. Maggie had heard one or two sneering remarks Richard had made behind Jenna’s back which made her suspect that he wouldn’t always be content merely to be Jenna’s assistant. Not that there was anything wrong with that … but it was the way he hid his ambition and his feelings from Jenna, assuming a deference Maggie suspected he did not really feel, that alarmed her. Accounting was not Jenna’s strong point, but surely in time she would realise that they were taking on more and more unprofitable contracts and would trace them back to Richard. Resolving that it was probably better to say nothing, Maggie picked up the diary.
‘You haven’t got any appointments today, but there’s a cocktail party tonight at the Billingtons’ — Margery Billington wants to show off her new décor.’
Jenna groaned. ‘Dear God, that’s all I need!’ She chewed her bottom lip, thinking rapidly. Could she get out of the party? She certainly didn’t want to go. She had promised herself that tonight she would talk to Lucy, but the Billington contract had been an extremely profitable one. Margery Billington was American by birth with a wide circle of friends both her own and her second husband’s. Vincent Billington was a well-known racing stable owner. An awful lot of influential and wealthy people had horses in training at the Billington stables and Jenna knew that she ought to attend the party.
She was just drinking her mid-morning cup of coffee when Richard walked into her office, doing a brief double-take when he saw her there.
‘I thought you were working at home today?’
She remembered intimating to him that she might, and something in his manner puzzled her slightly. She sensed a certain tension about him as though, somehow, finding her in her office had thrown him a little.
‘Well, I came in instead. Now that I’ve bought the Hall, I’ve got to make some money to pay for it.’ She said it jokingly, but it was, of course, the truth, and saying it reminded her of something she wanted to discuss with him.
‘Richard, there’s a returned contract in my mail this morning from Victor James — I thought we agreed that we wouldn’t do that one? You know the reputation he’s got. He’s parted company with three designers already.’
Richard shrugged. ‘Well, he came on to me when you were away, virtually pleading with us to do it. The money’s right …’
Jenna frowned slightly.
‘Look, Jenna, you were away and a decision had to be made. I’m sorry if I made the wrong one but …’
Once again, she sensed a slight hostility in his tone, and then told herself that she was imagining it. No doubt he was on the defensive because she had queried his decision. Men hated their decisions being questioned by a woman, but she was the head of the company and if she had been here … But she could hardly blame Richard for her absence.
‘Well, it’s done now,’ she agreed, forcing a smile, ‘but no more contracts unless I’ve okayed them, mmm?’
‘You’re the boss. It’s the Billington bash tonight, isn’t it?’ Richard added carelessly, ‘Want me to go in your place?’
It wasn’t unusual for him to stand in for her at various social functions, but even though ten minutes ago she had been thinking of asking him to do so at this one, for some reason she found herself shaking her head.
‘No. I’ll go myself. What did you want me for, by the way?’
‘Oh … there’s going to be an unforeseen delay with the carpet for the Holmes contract — you remember it had to be specially dyed …’
‘How long a delay?’ Jenna frowned. As she remembered it, that carpet had been ordered months ago. The Holmeses’ daughter was getting married shortly, and when they had originally contacted Jenna some time ago, they had stressed that all the work must be finished in time for that event.
‘Six weeks … maybe eight …’
Jenna thought rapidly. That was far too long a delay.
‘Leave it with me,’ she said crisply, Richard’s presence all but forgotten, all her attention given to the new problem. ‘Thanks, Richard,’ she dismissed him briefly. I’ll have to try and sort something out. I want to talk to you about the new contracts we’re taking on, but I’ll arrange something later.’
Once he had gone, she buzzed through to Maggie and asked her to bring in the Holmeses’ file.
As she studied it, frowning, she turned to her own original notes, jotted down after her initial visit to the Holmeses’. They had been remarkably clear about what they wanted. They had just moved into a large 1930’s house in Wimbledon, previously owned by an Arab family, which in Helen Holmes’s view needed completely redoing. A pleasantly plump ex-general’s daughter in her mid-forties, she had know exactly what she wanted. Colefax & Fowler fabrics, Osborne & Little papers. In short, typically country-house furnishings, but her chief request had been for a carpet all through the house which would suit a variety of colours.
In the end she had settled on a very subtle shade of peachy-pink, which would have to be specially dyed, and aware of the delay which might arise, Jenna had put in hand immediate instructions for the order and dyeing of the carpet. Bierley’s was a company that she used regularly: completely reliable and producing a first-class result. She closed her eyes, leaning back in her chair, aware of the beginnings of a tension headache in the base of her skull. She could already imagine Mrs Holmes’s reaction when she learned that the carpet might not arrive in time for the wedding. She picked up the file again, looking for the original order note. Although it might not do much good, at least if she could point out to the company doing the dyeing that they were way, way over the time limit agreed, it might help her to get rid of some of her tension. It was rather late in the day to find someone else to do the job now — especially someone reliable. Dyeing carpets to an exact shade as delicate as the one the Holmeses had chosen was a skilled business …
She traced through the file, locating the memos she had done putting various orders into effect, remembering briefly that she had been away for several days at the time the contract commenced, visiting a client in Spain who had just bought a villa there. A frown pleated her forehead as she looked at the date on her memo and then compared it with the date on the carpet order. Six weeks … why had there been that delay? It was a glaring error on their own part, and yet she could see no reason for it. Well, it was pointless crying over spilt milk, she reflected tensely, picking up her phone and asking Maggie to get the managing director of Bierley’s for her.
He was sympathetic when she explained her position to him. Yes, of course he could see that her client would want her carpet down for her daughter’s wedding, but, he explained, the delay was the usual one, the normal time-lapse between receiving an order and completion of it — three months, as it was in this case. However, he told Jenna much to her relief, because she was one of their better clients, and because they were presently just about to mix the dye for another large order which was not required urgently, he felt they might be able to reschedule things and get her carpet done in time. Thanking him Jenna hung up, and then frowning again she rang through to Richard’s office. His secretary answered the phone and put her through to him. Quickly she told him about the delay in the original order. ‘Obviously someone’s slipped up somewhere,’ she said crisply. ‘We can’t afford errors like that, Richard. Fortunately, the carpet will be ready in time after all, but its delay could have cost us the whole contract.’
There was a brief pause, and then he said heartily, ‘Well, thank God you managed to get it all sorted out. I can’t think what went wrong, although you know I’ve never been keen on your method of sending out memos. You know, I feel that we should each take on certain contracts and see them through to the finish instead of splitting the responsibility as we do now.’
Jenna let him finish and then said, ‘But if we did that, Richard, you would be my partner and not my assistant. People who use this firm as their designers are using it because of my reputation and have a right to expect me to be fully involved in what’s going on.’
She let him digest her comments and then rang off, still frowning. Problems with Richard were the very last thing she needed right now. Her phone rang, and Maggie informed her that there was a call for her. Banishing Richard from her mind, Jenna got back to work.
The backlog on her desk was far greater than she had realised: at least a dozen telephone calls were outstanding and there had been a rash of minor problems with their existing contracts that took time to sort out. Of course they would all happen now, just when she needed life to run smoothly, she reflected grimly, suddenly remembering something else she had to do, and jotting a note down on her pad to call in at a shop she knew, which specialised in reproduction mouldings for ornamentation and also copied or made up brass and wood motifs to order. She wanted to talk to them about copying the Adam plasterwork at the Hall which was badly damaged and also to discuss brass doorplates for the mahogany doors to match the Adam décor. Adam, she knew, would often use a central motif all through his work, so that it was echoed in minute detail all through a room. She reflected fleetingly that it was a pity there was no record of Robert Adam’s original designs for the new wing of the house, and then grimaced as the harsh purr of her phone broke into her thoughts.
It was gone six before she was free to leave her office. Everyone else had already gone, and as she stepped out on to the street, she realised that for the first time she had not paused to enjoy the thrill of pride the nameplate outside the main door gave her.
She was overtired, she told herself, and worried about Lucy, but she also knew that her heart was not in London. She was aching to get back to Yorkshire and the old Hall.
There was no Lucy to greet her when she got home. Instead, there was a message on the answerphone announcing that she was staying another night with her friend. The flat seemed empty and sterile and as she made herself a cup of coffee all her old guilts came flooding over her. What sort of a parent was she really to Lucy? There had been a hurtful degree of truth in the accusation that Lucy had thrown at her, but what was the alternative? How could she have kept Lucy without the financial means to support them both? She could have given her up for adoption, of course … Putting her coffee down, she prowled restlessly into the drawing-room, pacing up and down tensely. Would Lucy have been happier if she had? It was all very well telling herself that all teenagers were rebellious but there was a lack of communication between them that hurt as well as worried her. She knew its roots were in her refusal to talk to Lucy about her father. It was all very well for other people to be full of good advice, Bill, Nancy, James Allingham …
Her mouth hardened. Why on earth had she thought of him? A playboy millionaire who had inherited and not earned his wealth, a man who typified qualities of his sex she particularly disliked, rampantly male and arrogantly pleased by the fact, she thought unkindly, using his sexuality about as subtly as a caveman with a club. To denigrate him mentally released some of her tension and, she reflected sardonically as she headed for her bedroom to change for the evening, having a sick step-sister to care for would certainly cramp his style.
She showered quickly, putting on clean underwear before sitting down to do her make-up and hair. Her underwear was white and plain, pristinely immaculate, her taste quite different from Lucy’s who tended to go for pretty pastel cottons with embroidery and bows. Jenna despised even the idea of dressing to please a man, of using her body to gain male favour. The male sex as a whole was worthy only of contempt, she thought as she applied her foundation, so vain and egotistical that it honestly believed all the tricks of the feminine repertoire were motivated by desire rather than necessity. It constantly amazed her how the shrewd business brain behind a successful business could genuinely believe that his pretty secretary flattered him because she found him sexually desirable. Men were past masters at deception — especially of themselves. Take James Allingham, for instance. No doubt in twenty years’ time he would still be believing that it was his body and not his money that drew beautiful women to his side. Maybe now that was the truth, but like so many other men before him he would never be able to admit that he was ageing, less attractive. Women, unfortunately, were not able to be so self-deluding.
She got up and opened her wardrobe. What should she wear? She had several elegant formal dresses especially bought for these sort of dos and eventually selected a plain black silk skirt topped with a white silk jacket. The jacket had wide revers and a fitted waist. The skirt was straight with a discreet pleat at the back. To go with it, she chose very fine silk tights. She styled her hair in an elegant French pleat and then stood back to study her reflection with approval. Elegant and businesslike. No one looking at her tonight would mistake her for someone’s wife — or someone’s mistress.
The invitation had been for eight-thirty and it was just gone nine when she rang the doorbell of the Billingtons’ apartment.
Margery Billington greeted her, hugging her theatrically. ‘Jenna, darling. I’m so glad you’re here! Everyone adores your décor.’
Jenna smile diplomatically and followed her hostess into the drawing-room. It was full of dinner-suited males and designer-clad women. Margery had specified something eye catching and different that also looked expensive and Jenna had done her best to oblige. The walls had been dragged in a soft aqua greeny-blue effect and then veined in gold to produce a delicate shimmer almost like a translucent pearled marble.
The carpet echoed the base colour of the walls; the furniture a matt off-white — to Jenna’s critical eye the scheme was rather theatrical but Margery had loved it. As she acknowledged several people she knew, she edged her way over to the fireplace to study the huge giltwood mirror she had commissioned from a young student at the Royal College of Art. He had done an excellent job, she noted approvingly, seeing that the cherubs holding the frame had Margery’s features. The mirror had been expensive, but …
‘Jenna, I absolutely adore it. You must do something similar for me.’
She turned away from her contemplation of the mirror to talk to the woman who had come to join her. She was the owner of an extremely successful New York-based boutique which sold British designs at a horrendous mark-up.
‘I’m thinking of buying a pied-à-terre over here … Just something small to use while I’m here on buying trips.’
They chatted for a while, Jenna making a mental note to follow up their talk.
‘Jenna, I’m so thrilled,’ effused Margery. ‘Maison want to do a feature on the apartment. One of the directors has a filly with us, and they’re contemplating a horse-racing issue — You know … noted trainers and their lifestyle, owners, races, that sort of thing, and he wants to feature us.’
Jenna knew the magazine, an upmarket glossy which would do her no harm to be seen in.
‘It would be fantastic advertising for you,’ Margery pressed. She looked sly as she added. ‘We’re thinking of redoing the cottage. I’d like you to do it for us, but you know what men are … he’s kicking a bit over the cost. With the business that will come your way from the Maison feature I’m sure you could see your way to, well … compromising a little.’
Jenna didn’t let any reaction show on her face. The Billingtons were multi-millionaires and could well afford a designer four or five times as costly as herself, but she had no wish to offend Margery, and she thought wryly that there were ways and means of offering a discount that was not always what it seemed. She never had, and never would, seek to make outrageous profits, and charged what she considered to be a reasonable fee for her services. That way she believed she was preserving both her integrity and her reputation, but people like the Billingtons were so used to being ripped off that it probably never occurred to them that she wasn’t jumping on the bandwagon.
‘I’m sure we can work something out,’ she agreed with a smile. ‘Why don’t we get together after the Maison feature is finalised?’
A subtle way of letting Margery know that she hadn’t been born yesterday: no feature, no discount!
She came up against a good many Margery Billingtons in her work and had learned to accept that to succeed she often needed to employ a degree of subtlety.
There were quite a lot of people at the party whom she knew. In the dining-room, hired staff were serving a buffet — the fashionably de rigueur wholefood-cum-nouvelle-cuisine type, Jenna noticed, accepting a glass of wine from a passing waiter. She had nothing against wholefood per se, and indeed was extremely particular about what she and Lucy ate, but most of the people at the party had probably dined well at lunchtime and would go on to consume another hearty meal later. Gluttony for food was like gluttony for sex, she thought distastefully, wondering as she did so why it was she who always seemed to stand apart from the rest of the human race.
Bill and Nancy were the only people she was really close to, and she kept even them at a distance. Sometimes she suspected from the sharp looks that Nancy gave her when she was particularly scathing about the male sex, that the older woman was about to take her to task. There was no one with whom she could share her innermost thoughts and fears — no one at all. She frowned, wondering why she should have such a depressive thought. Her lack of intimate relationships had never bothered her before, in fact she had deliberately cultivated it. The crowd round the buffet table thinned and her frown deepened as she caught sight of a familiar dark head. James Allingham — here?
She was just about to dismiss her suspicion as the product of an overworked imagination when he turned round and she realised she was right. He was looking straight across at her, and she flushed, knowing that to ignore his pointed scrutiny as she wanted would be both rude and gauche. There was a girl with him, a tiny blonde, with a carefully tousled mane of blonde hair, and the sort of immaculate make-up that shrieked model. She might have guessed he would go for that type, Jenna reflected, allowing herself a cool smile before letting her eyes slide away. However, she was not allowed to escape quite so easily. As she made for the drawing-room, Margery came up to her with James and his pocket Venus in tow.
‘Jenna, darling, let me introduce you … James …’
‘Jenna and I have already met.’
Jenna was aware of the hard speculation in the blonde’s eyes and grimaced inwardly. The girl had nothing to fear from Jenna, if she did but know it.
‘James has a horse with us, darling. He’s just moved into a new apartment. James …’ she turned towards him, ‘you simply must get Jenna to decorate it for you.’
Jenna saw the look in his eyes as they studied the drawing-room, and seethed inwardly, recognising it. How dare he sit in judgement on her? Didn’t he realise that a good interior designer always took note of the client’s own taste? She had never sought to impose her own taste on anyone and never would.
‘Jay, darling, there’s Naomi … do let’s go over and talk to her.’ The blonde’s pointed determination to ignore her only amused Jenna, as did her affected, breathy way of speaking. As she watched them go, it gave her quite a degree of pleasure to be able to reflect scathingly on James Allingham’s taste in women. Somehow it reduced him to the ranks of other members of his sex whom she also despised, making her feel … safer. Safer? What possible danger could he be to her? It was probably a hang-over from her fear of losing the Hall to him, she reflected, sipping her wine slowly.
At ten-thirty she was ready to go. Cocktail parties bored her in the main. She recalled that Nancy had been shocked to hear her say so. ‘You’re getting too high-falutin’ ideas about yourself, my girl,’ she had told Jenna bluntly. ‘You’re only human like the rest of us, you know.’
Even Bill had remonstrated gently with her, reminding her that she was a member of the human race. ‘You can’t always remain aloof from life, Jenna,’ he had told her quietly.
But Jenna had learned the hard way that by remaining aloof she remained safe. If Rachel had been more aloof … less naïve …
‘Ah, there you are, Jenna …’ It was too late to escape, being thoroughly embraced by the man bearing down on her, although Jenna held herself rigid beneath his embrace, turning her face so that his kiss landed on her cheek instead of her mouth.
‘Roger …’ Her eyes and voice were cool, but he appeared not to register that fact. Roger Bennett, supermarket entrepreneur extraordinaire was probably too used to riding roughshod over people to be put off by anything less subtle than a sledgehammer, Jenna thought, asking sweetly, ‘Maria not with you?’
Maria was his long-suffering wife, to whom he was constantly unfaithful with a parade of starlets and pseudo-débutantes. Jenna detested him, loathing his arrogance and the way he had of reducing every member of her sex under forty to a sex object. Roger Bennett had never respected any woman in his life and would have laughed himself sick if anyone had suggested that he should. He was everything Jenna most disliked in a man, and her mouth curled disparagingly as he said, ‘Saw you talking to James Allingham. Now there’s a pretty piece he had with him. I bet she keeps him warm in bed at night.’
‘I’m sure.’ Jenna’s voice was cold. ‘Excuse me, Roger, but …’
‘No, don’t go yet, I want to talk to you. I’m moving into the property market — apartments abroad — upmarket stuff, and I could be in a position to put some business your way. Why don’t we go into the study and talk about it?’
Little though she wanted to, Jenna felt she had to agree. A contract like that was something she couldn’t afford to turn down right now. Since her talk with Gordon Burns, the burden of the loan she had taken out to buy the Hall was weighing heavily upon her.
She glanced at her watch and said coolly, ‘Well, I was just about to leave, but I can manage half an hour.’
Men like Roger were impossible to deal with once you let them get the upper hand. Jenna had had to learn to deal with many Rogers during the course of her career and she had found that a schoolmistressy bossiness was the best answer. For some reason it always de-sexed her in their eyes and once that had happened they became far less of a nuisance. She preferred to work for married couples and even then with the woman, but one couldn’t always choose one’s contracts.
The study was decorated in the traditional manner complete with a mock fireplace. Roger went to stand by it, one foot on the fender, his arm on the mantelpiece. Jenna stayed several feet away from him as she listened to him talking about the proposed contract. It sounded extremely promising, and whether because of that, or because her mind was still on the burden of the loan hanging over her, she failed to notice that Roger had moved, until she felt his arm slide round her.
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