For One Night

For the first time it struck her that she had no one with whom she could share her pleasure in the coming child. Her parents and brother were too far away, and even if they had not been, she knew that they would have been shocked at her disregard of all the conventions. They would have loved and supported her of course, but … but they wouldn’t have understood.

She would make new friends, she told herself sturdily. She wouldn’t always be a stranger here.

Her meeting with the builder proved more rewarding than she had dared to hope. Contrary to her expectations he was not full of doubts and criticisms of her plans, but enthusiastically entered into them. It was obvious from his conversation that he considered himself and the men who worked for him to be craftsmen, and he had a craftsman’s pride in his work. He only struck one worrying note, and that was over the large beams upstairs which she wanted to expose.

“One or two of them will have to be replaced,” he told her forthrightly, “and you’ll only be able to do that with original beams of the same period.”

Diana felt her heart sink. She had planned her entire decorative scheme around a very traditional exposed beam and plaster background, and now he was virtually telling her that that was impossible.

“I think I know where you can get some,” he told her, lifting her spirits immediately. “They’ve got some for sale at Whitegates Farm. They’re from a barn that was struck by lightning and had to come down.”

Whitegates Farm—the name rang a bell, and then Diana remembered Mr. Soames telling her that it was the home of his cotrustee.

“Will they sell them to me?” she asked uncertainly.

The builder smiled at her. “I should think so. You’d better telephone first to make an appointment though,” he warned her. “This is a busy time for farmers. I’ll negotiate the sale for you myself if you prefer it.”

In some ways she did, but she was going to be living in this new environment, and it was up to her to make contact with its inhabitants.

“I’ll ring the farm as soon as I get back to the pub,” she promised him.

A woman answered the phone, but when Diana put her request to her she explained that she was only the housekeeper.

“You’ll have to come out and talk to Mr. Simons about that,” she told Diana. “He’ll be here in the morning if that’s any use to you?”

Confirming the appointment, Diana got directions from her and then hung up.

The weather had turned pleasantly mild. She closed her eyes, seduced by the warmth of the sun coming in through the window. Next summer she could sit in her garden and watch her baby crawling on the lawn. She put her hand over her stomach and smiled to herself. The man who had fathered her child had melted into the mists of all those things she preferred not to think about. Before leaving London she had had a doctor’s appointment, and they had frowned over her lack of knowledge about her child’s father. There were medical details they needed for the records, and Diana had been made to feel like a thoughtless and rather stupid child.

The stock owned by the previous owner had been packed away in several large cases, and Diana spent the afternoon checking through them. Apart from a few handfuls of books of curiosity value to collectors there was very little that was salable. Some of the books had very nice leather bindings, though, and she resolved to keep them for display purposes on her own bookshelves.

Before leaving London she had visited various wholesalers to discuss the type of stock she wanted to carry. No firm orders could be given until the restoration and redecoration work was completed, but she had learned the value of good PR work whilst working for the television company, and on her list of things to do was a visit to the offices of the local newspaper, plus a tentative question mark against the idea of an opening party.

In the children’s section of the shop she intended to have a mural painted, depicting a variety of fairy-tale and animal creatures. The same firm she and Leslie had employed to decorate their London flat would attend to that for her … perhaps she would have a mural in the nursery as well.

She was doing it again, she derided herself, she was slipping away into her private daydream, all too content to let the rest of the world slip by. Were all pregnant women like this? She tried to think of the ones she had known, all of them busy career women with homes and husbands to care for. How on earth had they coped with this almost total slowing down, this change to a life at a much different tempo?

With her pregnancy had come a sense of tranquillity quite unlike anything she had previously experienced. She could not even do more than mildly berate herself for the manner in which her child had been conceived; her rare flashes of guilt totally overwhelmed in the following rush of delight that flooded her every time she thought about the baby.

This would be her child, and hers alone, and she was quite happy that it should be that way. This new life had been started accidentally, and she could only look upon it as a god-given gift to show her that death, however painful, is merely another chapter of life, and not its end.

The morning sickness which had plagued her on and off since the start of her pregnancy returned with full force in the morning, and briefly she contemplated canceling her appointment at Whitegates Farm. However, after a cup of tea and two dry biscuits, she began to feel a little better, and by ten o’clock she was quite looking forward to the drive out to the farm.

It was another warm day, with the sun shining and, knowing how hot it would be in the car, she dressed comfortably in a loose white cotton T-shirt top, and a gently gathered matching skirt.

Although to the discerning eye her pregnancy was beginning to be visible, and she herself could certainly see the changes in her body, she was still able to wear her normal clothes. Bright espadrilles, the same deep pink as her nail polish, adorned her feet, and matching sunglasses shaded her eyes.

It wasn’t until the landlady gave her a rather startled second look that Diana realized how very different her clothes were from those worn by the locals. Working in TV she had naturally adopted the same attitude toward fashion and design as her colleagues, and she coordinated and chose her clothes with this in mind almost automatically.

On the way to her car she collected a few more appreciative glances, mostly male. It was rather flattering to be studied with such interest, in London her appearance would have merited no more than the briefest glance.

As she had known it would be, the car was like an oven with the sun beating through the glass, so she opened the windows and turned the fan on to “cold”.

The directions she had been given were easy to follow, and soon she found herself driving along a road bordered by rich farmlands, both arable and pasture. Fields, heavy with crops, and crisscrossed by hedges, stretched away to the horizon, their colorscope of greens and golds occasionally broken up by a sprinkling of cattle.

The farm was larger than she had anticipated, a mingling of Tudor and Queen Anne, and very beautiful.

She had not expected the gardens that surrounded it either, and she realized the moment she turned into the open white gates and drove down the immaculate gravel driveway that this was more than merely a working farm. This was a showplace, she thought breathlessly, as she parked and admired the view in front of her.

The morning sunlight glittered on the mullioned windows set amongst dark beams and sparkling white plasterwork. It turned the red brick of the Queen Anne walls deeply rosy, and shimmered on the surface of the ornamental pond framed by willows and green lawns.

The drive had brought her to the front of the house, but now she could see that it continued around the side, and she frowned, wondering if perhaps she ought more properly to have driven round there. When she set out she had not envisaged that she might be coming to the sort of place where it mattered whether one chose the front or the back entrance.

Just as she was pondering her dilemma the front door opened and a tall stately woman in her late fifties came out, and called her name.

“I saw you drive up,” she said, when Diana stepped forward. “I’m Mrs. Jenkins, the housekeeper. I’m afraid Mr. Simons is going to be delayed for ten minutes or so. If you’d like to come inside, I’ll take you to his study.”

The elegant rectangular hallway was in the older part of the building, the stairs going up from it were dark oak and very warm. A richly patterned carpet in reds and blues emphasized the cream walls and dark woodwork. A refectory table in oak gleamed with polish, reflecting the copper bowl of roses standing on its surface.

“If you’ll just come this way, miss.”

A traditional latched door led down a step to a flagged stone passage. Through a tiny window Diana caught a glimpse of buildings and a cobbled yard, and realized that the passage must lead to the back of the house.

At the end of the passage was another door. The housekeeper opened it and stood to one side to allow Diana to enter the room.

“This is the most beautiful place,” she murmured appreciatively, unable to hold back the comment.

“Yes, it is. This part of the house used to be the old still rooms. It was converted into office space in Mr. Simons’s uncle’s time, but things have changed a lot since those days.”

Diana realized what she meant as she walked into the room and saw the array of modern technology arranged before her.

One entire wall of the room was filled with filing cabinets. On a very utilitarian desk stood a computer terminal with all the ancillary equipment, plus a modern computer-linked telephone.

Like the passage, the floor was flagged, and struck a chill through the thin soles of her sandals. Central heating had obviously been installed at some time, and there was also a huge open fireplace. A modern filter coffee machine stood next to an electronic typewriter.

“The men are in and out of this room constantly, that’s why Mr. Simons uses it. It’s convenient for them, and they don’t have to worry about treading muck and dirt in. Farming isn’t what it used to be. Would you like something to drink while you’re waiting. Tea … coffee?”

All her adult life Diana had been a coffee fiend; now all she could tolerate was tea—weak tea.

“Mr. Simons won’t be very long,” the housekeeper promised her as she withdrew.

Alone in the room, Diana was conscious of the thickness of the walls and the stillness of the air inside. She sat down on a leather chair and looked out of the window.

In the yard outside were several pieces of farm machinery. She saw a man trudge out of one of the barns; he was small and gnarled, and she watched his progress as he swung himself up into one of the tractors and then trundled off.

Obviously not the man she had come to see. The phone chirped, and was answered somewhere else in the house. The housekeeper returned with her tea and a selection of what looked like homemade biscuits.

“Sorry about the delay,” she apologized, “only Mrs. Simons needed me.”

She must have frowned, Diana realized, because the housekeeper explained, “Mrs. Simons is confined to a wheelchair. She caught polio when she was twenty-seven.”

Poor woman, Diana thought compassionately. She knew for herself what pain could do to the human spirit; she had seen at first hand what it could do to a person to lose their mobility and independence. And for a farmer’s wife, even an obviously wealthy farmer’s wife …

She thanked the housekeeper for the tea and sat down again. The cold was beginning to make her shiver. Her thin top and skirt, so suitable for the heat of the sun, were not suitable attire for this stone-flagged room.

She drank her tea, sipping it, and giving in to the temptation to eat one of the biscuits. They tasted as good as they looked. Once she was over her morning nausea, she was beginning to get so hungry; the weight she had lost during the long months of worrying about and nursing Leslie would soon be regained if she carried on like this. Not that she couldn’t afford to put on half a stone or so, she reflected, remembering the doctor’s warning to her that she must eat properly.

She was sitting staring out of the window, lost in her own thoughts when the door opened. She felt the draught of air, even before she heard the firm masculine footsteps and turned round.

The cup tilted crazily in her hand, the room blurring out of focus as the shock hit her. He stood in the doorway, frowning down at her, his recognition as complete and instantaneous as her own.

“You …” Diana said at last. How, how had this happened? How on earth could this man standing here be that same man from the hotel bedroom in London? It was like the worst kind of nightmare; stretching the long arm of coincidence far too far. And he obviously thought so too.

“Well, well, congratulations on your detective work,” he jeered, sarcastically, overcoming his shock faster than she had controlled her own. “So you managed to track me down. I suppose I ought to have expected it.”

He was dressed in worn jeans and a plaid shirt, open to the waist to show the leanness of his chest. Tiny beads of sweat clung to his kin, and there was a streak of mud across his cheekbone. His hair was ruffled, his eyes bitingly dark, his stance that of a man who knows he’s threatened but is determined not to give way.

Diana noticed all these things without really being aware of doing so, her mind only registering the meaning of his words minutes after she had heard them.

“What do you mean?” She stood up, trembling with shock and rage. How dared he appear like this, ruining all her plans, ruining all her happiness! She wanted to close her eyes and make him disappear. She couldn’t believe he was real; she didn’t want him to be real. She was ready to stamp her foot like a petulant child, only he wasn’t going to go away. He was still standing in that doorway, watching her with brooding resentment, and he thought …

He actually dared to think she had deliberately sought him out … had actually and deliberately tracked him down! She froze with bitter resentment, and then another and even more appalling truth struck her. He was a married man, and she was carrying his child. No wonder he was so resentful of her appearance. A married man who cheated on his wife. Her mouth curled disdainfully as she controlled her shock.

“Mr. Simons,” she said firmly, “I think there’s been some mistake.”

“You’re damned right there has,” he agreed, cutting through the polite facade of her words. “And you’re the one who’s made it. I don’t know what you think you’re doing following me down here, but you can just turn right round and go back where you came from.”

Oh yes, he would like that. Diana was seething. How dared he infer that she was chasing after him! Her eyes flashed warning signals, her lungs expanding as she fought for self-control.

“Unfortunately, you’re wrong,” she told him crisply. “This is now my home.”

She saw the shock glitter in his eyes, and if she hadn’t been so angry she might almost have felt hurt. After all, when they had made love he had been glad enough to have her in his arms … more than glad. She clamped down fiercely on the memories.

“I’ve just bought a business down here,” her chin tilted aggressively, “that’s why I’m here, in fact. My builder told me that you have some beams for sale.”

“A business?” His frown had deepened. “My God, don’t tell me you’re the one who’s bought Alice Simms’s shop?”

“As a matter of fact I am.”

She heard him groan and push strong fingers into his hair.

“I learned it was for sale through my solicitor, Mr ….”

“Soames,” he finished wearily for her. “Christ, of all the coincidences. I don’t think I believe this.”

“You know him?”

“Know him?” He laughed harshly. “Didn’t he tell you that I was his cotrustee in Alice’s estate?”

For a moment Diana was completely dumbfounded. Of course Mr. Soames had mentioned his cotrustee and she had even known that he lived here at Whitegates Farm, but the shock of coming face-to-face with the very last person on earth she had wanted to see had driven that knowledge out of her mind.

Her white face and strained eyes must have told their own story, because suddenly his attitude changed.

“Look, coming face-to-face like this has obviously been a shock—to both of us.” He reached out as though to take her arm, but Diana wrenched away from him furiously.

Oh, he wanted to placate her now that he realized he was in the wrong—and no wonder. No doubt he was terrified that she might spill the beans to his wife. God, what sort of man was he? She had never dreamed that he might be married. More fool her for not immediately guessing the truth.

“A minute ago you were convinced that I’d pursued you down here,” she reminded him bitterly.

“We have to talk ….”

Oh yes, he wanted to talk to her now that he realized they were going to be neighbors, no doubt to ensure that she kept her mouth shut about their night together. He made her feel grubby and deceitful, she realized miserably. She hated the very thought of what had happened between them now that she knew he was committed to another woman.

“We have nothing to talk about,” she told him curtly. “As far as I’m concerned we are two complete strangers, meeting now for the first time.”

There, that should make her position clear enough to him; that should soothe his fears. The thought that he had actually surmised that she had pursued him … that she might actually try to make trouble for him with his wife, regardless of the latter’s feelings, sickened her.

He was looking at her in a way she found hard to define; a mixture of rueful comprehension and masculine amusement.

Oh yes, now that he knew he had nothing to fear from her, he no doubt felt he was in a far more powerful and safe position. She hated the thought that they were conspirators in something she considered morally wrong. She had never been involved with a married man. She was fiercely glad now that she had adopted the mantle of widowhood. He would never know that she had conceived his child. Never.

He was shaking his head slightly, and grinning ruefully at her. “I never imagined when I asked Derek Soames to sell Alice’s place that this would happen.”

“No, I’m sure you didn’t,” Diana agreed crisply, heading for the door. “However, it has. Oh, and for the record, Mr. Simons,” she told him from the open doorway, “I do not run after any member of your sex, but most particularly those members of it who happen to be married. I hope I make myself clear.”

“As mud,” he told her with a frown. “You and I need to talk.”

“No!”

She’d done all the talking she intended to do. For a moment, she thought he actually intended physically to prevent her from leaving, but at the last moment he seemed to change his mind, and he let her walk through the still open door.

More by good luck than anything else she found her way back to the front door. She was still shaking five minutes later when she drove her car out of the open gates.

At the first stopping place she parked her car and sat there, willing her lacerated nerves to heal.

Of all the most appalling coincidences. What trick of mischievous fate had brought them together like this? That Mr. Soames—that most correct and proper of men—should be the innocent author of their dual misfortune, only increased her sense of disbelief. It was almost stretching coincidence too far. Almost as though fate had decided that what had happened was meant to be. Quickly she pushed the thought away, not liking its implications.

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