Penny Jordan's Crighton Family Series

‘Well, according to Hillary, who I gathered heard the story from Hugh, she was involved with an American major who was stationed locally, but when your grandfather and her father found out about the relationship they reported the major to his superiors and insisted that the relationship had to end. Apparently an American, in those days at least, wasn’t good enough to marry into their family! And Hillary says that kind of prejudice does tend to be passed on from one generation to the next.’

Appalled and confused, Olivia could think of nothing constructive to say. It was bad enough having to be forced to admit that she knew nothing of any relationship her great-aunt may or may not have had with an American but what was even worse was feeling that a barrier of doubt and mistrust had somehow sprung up between them. Caspar now seemed to believe that her family had some deep-seated dislike of Americans. Troubling, too, was her own inability to be able to do anything to convincingly refute it and thereby undo the damage that Hillary had so carelessly inflicted.

‘But you know how I feel about you, Caspar,’ she offered weakly. It was all she could think of to say as she touched him appealingly on his arm.

‘Do I?’ he responded unforgivingly. ‘I wonder why you’re going out with me, exactly. Is it because I’m American perhaps, because I’m a way of getting back at your grandfather?’

Without giving her a chance to reply, he got out of the car and loped towards the house, leaving Olivia with no option other than to follow him. She knew that once they were inside they would have no opportunity for any private conversation, not with the house soon to be full of visitors and the party only a matter of a few hours away. Yet she desperately wanted them to resolve their argument and make their peace with one another. She must convince him to retract his unjustified accusation about the basis of her feelings for him.

It was both unfair and illogical of him to throw that kind of accusation at her and then walk away without allowing her to defend herself from it. It left her feeling almost as though he had wanted to pick a fight with her; as though … As though what? But if so, then why? It was so unlike him, so alien to the maturity and the deeply grounded sense of himself she so admired and enjoyed in him.

Dispiritedly Olivia followed Caspar into the house. Behind her on the drive she could hear the sound of cars arriving—the Chester ‘lot’ no doubt! Squaring her shoulders she firmly put her own thoughts and fears to one side.

7

A little nervously Jenny smoothed down the skirt of her dress. Jon hadn’t seen it as yet. In fact, no one had seen it apart from Guy Cooke.

She had been initially amused and then very touched when he had announced several months earlier that he was taking her to Manchester in order for her to buy an outfit for the birthday ball.

‘Manchester?’ she had queried, half-inclined to refuse to go, not sure whether he was serious or simply subjecting her to his sometimes wickedly dry sense of humour.

‘What on earth for? Chester is much closer and—’

‘Chester may be much closer but it doesn’t possess an Emporio Armani,’ he had countered, enlightening her obvious confusion by explaining, as though trying to instil comprehension of some arcane adult concept to a very small child, ‘Armani, my dear Jenny, just in case you are the only person on this globe who is unaware of the fact, is a designer—the designer so far as the vast majority of elegant, successful women are concerned. He designs clothes for women—not girls, you will note, not models, not fashion victims, but women with a capital W and there is a branch of his vast network of retail outlets in Manchester selling clothes from his diffusion range.’

‘Thank you, Guy,’ Jenny had retorted wryly, ‘but yes, I have heard of him and as for buying one of his designs or even looking …’ She had shaken her head and laughed. ‘My budget doesn’t run to that kind of extravagance.’

‘An Armani is never an extravagance,’ Guy had corrected her and then added smugly before she could argue further, ‘and besides, this is a diffusion range we are discussing with suitably modest prices. If you won’t come with me, then I shall just have to go by myself,’ he had added determinedly, ‘and choose something for you by guesswork.

‘I mean it, Jen,’ he had informed her sternly, ‘you are not going to this do wearing some dowdy, dull “bargain” bought at the last minute because you haven’t had the time to get anything else and because we both know that if you had you would not spend either it or Jon’s money on something—anything—for yourself. For once in your life you are going to be dressed in something that does you justice and for once in your life, even if you won’t put yourself first, then I’m damn well going to see that someone does!’

Jenny had had to sit down.

‘But why?’ she had asked him, honestly bewildered by the obvious strength of his resolution.

‘Why? If I said because you deserve it, you’d find some way of arguing me out of it,’ he had told her frankly, ‘so instead I’ll say because even if you yourself don’t recognise it, you owe it not just to yourself and to Jon but to me, as well, and to this business and before you come up with any more arguments, the business is going to pay for it. No, I mean what I say, Jenny,’ he had repeated. ‘Either you come with me or I’ll go by myself and—’

‘And you’ll what?’ she had teased him gently. ‘Make me wear whatever you choose or send me to bed in punishment instead with a glass of water and some dry bread?’

She had only meant it as a joke but she saw the look in his eyes as he told her oh so gently and oh so quietly, ‘If I ever got the opportunity to send you to bed, Jenny, it most certainly wouldn’t be in punishment and as for making you wear it … Well, let’s just say I don’t imagine it would be beyond my powers to work on Jon to ensure that he persuaded you to wear it.’

Bravely Jenny had met the look in his eyes.

There had been odd occasions before when her woman’s instincts had told her that Guy wanted more from her than just friendship, instincts that she had dismissed as the over-active imagination of a middle-aged woman. Now she knew she had been wrong, or rather that she had been right.

But they had still gone to Manchester, mainly because Guy had already preempted her by going behind her back to inform Jon of his plans and to get his assistance.

Jon, Jenny suspected, had little idea who or what an Armani might be but Guy’s comments had struck an unfamiliar raw chord within her, reminding her of how she had felt at the annual family get-together at Christmas dressed in the familiar security of her ‘good suit’ and humiliatingly conscious of how different she looked, not so much from Tiggy but from the other women present there, as well, women who were probably no more physically attractive than she was herself and certainly no younger but who seemed to have a confidence, a pride in themselves, that she had always lacked. Even Ruth had been more trendily dressed than she was herself, a fact that Joss had pointed out to her at the time.

She had been unnerved at first on stepping into the solidly built King Street building that housed the Armani store. The female assistants, every one of them impeccably dressed and groomed, all seemed to possess the same Italianate good looks. They exuded a certain air that initially she had found slightly intimidating but that, on closer inspection, melted away to reveal a genuine helpfulness that soon had her forgetting her doubts and allowing herself to be coaxed into trying on clothes that ten minutes beforehand she would have totally refused to even consider wearing.

In the end she had bought the dress she was wearing tonight—a handful of cream crêpe in the simplest of styles that fell from a sort of Empire-style bodice to her ankles in a swathe of material that owed nothing to the vagaries of fashion and everything to the eye of the master who had designed it.

It was, as the enthusiastic saleswoman pointed out to her, a dress designed to complement and flatter a woman’s figure. Without a single frill or flounce and without coming anywhere near fitting tightly to her body, it somehow still seemed to subtly emphasise all her good points, Jenny had realised as she stared at her own reflection in silent astonishment.

It was a dress that made her look and feel very much a woman; a dress that brought back all her teenage yearnings and longings to be seen as desirable … yearnings and longings that she thought she had packed sensibly away with all her other memories of those years. Yearnings and longings that she had told herself sternly were most certainly not appropriate to a woman of her age. And yet, she had still bought the dress and a trouser suit, as well, which she was saving for the family lunch they were having the next day.

The dress went beautifully with the pearls that Jon had given her for their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, reflecting their creamy colour and satiny texture. She held her breath a little as she fastened them.

The phone was ringing as Olivia walked across the hall on her way to join the others in a predeparture drink in the drawing room. She answered it automatically, asking the caller to wait as she went to find her father.

‘There’s a call for you,’ she told him. ‘The Cedars Nursing Home.’

David could feel himself starting to sweat and he knew that his heart was beating far too fast. He could feel the tension invading his chest, tensing his muscles, his whole body, and with it the accompanying nausea of fear.

His palm was so damp he had to wipe it as he picked up the receiver and cleared his throat. ‘Yes, David Crighton here.’ His jaw was aching again. He massaged it with his free hand, turning his back towards the half-open drawing-room door as he listened to what his caller had to say.

Upstairs in his attic bedroom, Caspar grimaced as he finally managed to knot his bow tie and reached for his jacket. He wasn’t looking forward to the evening ahead and not just because of his quarrel with Olivia who, in his opinion, had been wrong to blame Hillary for it even if it had been her revelations that provoked it.

He had noticed a change in Olivia over the past few days; suddenly the family that, at a distance, she almost disdained had become all-fired important to her. Suddenly he and his views were no longer apparently of any value to her. Look at the way she had dismissed his advice over her mother’s obvious need for professional help and counselling.

‘It doesn’t matter how much they quarrel with one another, in the end they always stick together,’ Hillary had warned him this afternoon. ‘They stick together and they shut you out,’ she had added emphatically with a bitter look in the direction of her husband.

‘I suppose I should have seen the writing on the wall when Hugh told me about Ruth,’ she had added, ‘but at the time I didn’t realise exactly what he was telling me, any more than I realised exactly what it meant when I discovered that it was part of Ben’s grand plan for the family that ultimately Saul should marry Olivia.’

Saul should marry Olivia! Caspar frowned his lack of comprehension. Olivia had never said anything to him about there being any family hopes that she might marry her father’s cousin. But then she had never mentioned the fact that her great-aunt had apparently had an extremely passionate relationship with an American major who, according to Hillary, had virtually been co-erced into giving her up.

How much more was there about her family, about herself, that Olivia hadn’t told him?

* * *

‘You look just as I’ve always known you could look, should look. You look wonderful, perfect. You look … you.’

Strange how such words, such emotions, when expressed by one man, the wrong man, could mean so little and could cause more embarrassment and self-consciousness than pleasure and yet the same words when said by the right man …

Logically, of course, Jenny should have expected, anticipated, that Guy would be the one to praise and admire her appearance, take a long look at her as she welcomed him and then seek her out at the first opportunity to take hold of her hand and draw her close to him as he told her what he felt. But for some reason she was still idiotically hoping that …

The meal was over and the band had started to play. Several couples were already dancing.

‘Jenny! Goodness! You do look—’

Jenny tensed as she saw the look Tiggy was giving her and heard the critical edge in her voice, but before she could say anything more, Ruth interrupted firmly, ‘You look wonderful, Jenny. I love your outfit.’

There was no mistaking the sincerity in Ruth’s voice, or the warm approval in her eyes as she, too, studied her, Jenny recognised, and even David, who was standing slightly behind Tiggy, was looking at her now, his eyes widening slightly and then lingering on her.

‘It’s Armani, isn’t it?’ she heard Tiggy demanding as she self-consciously forced herself to break the eye contact David was maintaining with her. Ridiculous of her to start blushing like that. David was her brother-in-law, that was all, even if once …

‘Yes, yes, it is,’ she answered Tiggy hastily.

‘What on earth made you buy it?’ Tiggy persisted. Her eyes had narrowed, her voice was slightly shrill and she looked almost unhealthily pale, Jenny noticed. ‘It isn’t you at all.’

‘Mother …’ Olivia upbraided her mother warningly, giving Jenny an apologetic look as she started to draw Tiggy away.

Jenny frowned as she watched them. It wasn’t like Tiggy to be bitchy or unkind and her comments were making Jenny have second thoughts about the advisability of wearing her new outfit. Perhaps Jon hadn’t said anything about it not because he simply hadn’t noticed that she looked any different but because he had not wanted to upset her by criticising her appearance.

‘Tiggy’s wrong, you know….’ Her head came up as she heard David’s voice. He smiled warmly at her. ‘It does suit you.’

As tongue-tied as a small child, Jenny could only stand there and shake her head mutely.

‘Tiggy’s just jealous of you, that’s all.’

‘Jealous of me?’ Jenny stared at him. ‘She can’t possibly be,’ she protested. ‘Not when she’s …’

‘Not when she’s what?’ David prompted, taking hold of her arm and starting to draw her towards the dance floor.

Jenny shook her head again. ‘I can’t dance with you now, David,’ she told him huskily. ‘The caterers—’

‘Of course you can,’ he told her. ‘The caterers can wait, but I can’t. Mmm … you feel good,’ he murmured as he turned her into his arms and began to dance.

Helplessly Jenny realised that David wasn’t going to let her go and that it would cause less fuss to give in and dance with him than to go on protesting.

Unlike Jon, David had always been a good dancer, a natural dancer, and her face grew hot in the darkness of the subtly lit dance floor as she remembered what was said about men who were naturally good dancers. Too good, she decided shakily as he ignored her efforts to keep a respectable distance between them and pulled her closer to him.

‘What’s wrong?’ he whispered against her hair. ‘You used to enjoy dancing with me like this once.’

Jon was standing on the opposite side of the dance floor talking to Ruth. He didn’t appear to have seen them.

‘You look wonderful tonight,’ David told her softly, his hands sliding up to caress her back. ‘You look wonderful, you feel wonderful … you are wonderful, Jenny, and I wish to hell I’d never been stupid enough to let you go.’

‘David …’ Jenny protested, finding her voice at last.

‘David what?’ he demanded roughly.

His breath smelt faintly of drink, which must surely be why he was talking to her like this, Jenny decided.

‘How many years is it since we last danced together like this, since we last held each other like this?’ he asked her.

Jon had seen them now, and out of the corner of her eye Jenny could see him frowning slightly as he watched them. Max had seen them, as well, and there was no mistaking the expression in his eyes as he glowered at David’s dinner-suited back.

‘Do you know what I’d like to do right now?’ David was murmuring to her. ‘I’d like to—’

‘David, we really ought to get back to the table.’ Jenny almost gabbled the words in her haste to bring the situation back to normality. ‘There are still the speeches and the toasts.’

‘And the congratulations and the kisses,’ David agreed, turning his head to look right into her eyes. ‘You haven’t kissed me yet, Jenny.’

‘Yes, I have,’ she corrected him. ‘I kissed you earlier when you arrived.’

‘No, you didn’t,’ David denied. ‘You gave me a dutiful, sisterly peck on the cheek, yes, but you didn’t kiss me. I can still remember the first time you kissed me, Jenny. You tasted of blackberries and fresh air….’

‘David …’ Jenny protested. ‘Stop it.’

‘You tasted of blackberries and fresh air,’ he repeated, ignoring her, ‘and it was the most delicious kiss I’ve ever had. You were the most delicious …’

To Jenny’s relief the band stopped playing.

‘We must go back to the table,’ she told David firmly. Her heart was beating far too fast and her face was far, far too flushed. She felt … she felt …

The last thing, the very last thing she needed tonight was to be reminded of how she had once felt about David or how … When he finally let her go with obvious reluctance, Jenny made her way quickly back to their table, but she knew that the damage had already been done.

‘I can still remember the first time you kissed me,’ David had told her. Well, so could she, although her memories of it were, she suspected, different from his.

It was true that she had been picking blackberries and no doubt her hands and her mouth had been stained with their juice, but it had been David and not she who had instigated the kiss, David who had teased and challenged her by guessing that she had still not been properly kissed, demanding, when she denied it, that she prove it to him by showing him just how expert and experienced she actually was.

She had put down her basket of blackberries and walked slowly towards him, her head held high, her pride refusing to allow her to back down and inwardly feeling more terrified than she had ever felt in her whole life.

From before the previous Christmas the other girls in her class had been boasting about their new-found skills in the art of snogging and whilst she had smiled and pretended not to care that she was excluded from this new game, in private she had secretly studied every kiss she’d seen in films, endlessly wondering and worrying how she would fare when a boy finally kissed her. And now that that day had come it wasn’t just any boy; it was him … David Crighton.

Screwing up her courage as tightly as she had already screwed up her eyes, she pursed her lips and made a despairing dart in David’s direction and then stopped, her face burning with humiliation as her lips made contact only with thin air.

Opening her eyes she saw that David had moved to one side and was watching her in amusement, his mouth curled into a wide smile.

‘You really haven’t a clue, have you?’ he had told her, shaking his head.

‘Yes, I have,’ Jenny had fibbed.

‘Liar,’ he had chided her softly, adding with a smile, ‘It doesn’t matter, though. In fact, I rather like the idea of being the one to teach you.’

‘I don’t need anyone to teach me anything,’ Jenny had stormed at him.

‘No?’

She had turned round, intending to retrieve her basket and walk away, only David moved faster, planting himself between her and the blackberries, walking towards her slowly as she backed away from him until she could back away no longer. He had, she discovered, trapped her very neatly between his body and the stone wall behind her.

What happened then was, of course, inevitable. He had kissed her tightly closed lips once briefly and then a second time less briefly and then … and then he had bent down and picked up a handful of blackberries from the basket, popping one into his own mouth before offering one to her.

Naïvely she had opened her mouth for it—and for him. The fate of the rest of the blackberries he had removed from the basket was something that left her trembling and weak-kneed for weeks afterwards every time she thought about it, although the sensual intimacy of it was spoiled for ever for her when illuminatingly she later overheard another girl describing David’s favourite trick of passing sweets from his own mouth to a girl’s.

She had ended up with her mouth ripely stained by blackberries, a fact that gained her a scolding from her mother for eating the fruit she had wanted for a pie but that thankfully, at the same time, helped to disguise her tell-tale swollen lips.

Odd, but she never ate blackberries these days, blaming her aversion on the seeds.

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Jon shifting uncomfortably in his seat; the toasts were about to begin. Apart from that one small hiccup when David had insisted on dancing with her, everything had gone perfectly and according to plan. Even Ben had praised the food and Jenny had lost count of the number of guests who had come up to her and praised the décor of the marquee and in particular the richness of Ruth’s floral arrangements as well as doing a very gratifying double take as they noted her own appearance.

The quartet engaged to play through the meal had been an excellent if expensive idea and the cream backdrop had provided exactly the right touch of quiet elegance for the women’s gowns and the men’s dinner jackets. Even the younger members of the family had behaved impeccably. So why did she have this dull, heavy feeling, of emptiness almost, of … disappointment …?

David was getting to his feet whilst the eagle eye of the catering manager checked that everyone had a full glass of champagne; Jenny could see the look of pride and love in Ben’s eyes as he watched his heir, his most loved son; and she knew without having to check that the same look would be mirrored in Jon’s eyes. The feeling of heaviness intensified.

David cleared his throat. He knew his speech off by heart and had no need really of the notes he had placed on the table in front of him; that had always been one of his gifts, the ability to memorise whole tracts of written material.

He glanced round the marquee. His shirt collar felt tight and he was hot, too hot, his stomach muscles tense, the meal he had eaten lying like a millstone in his stomach. That damned phone call. A spasm of pain ripped through him, paralysing him with its intensity. It seemed to spring out of nowhere, forking through him like lightning and with the deadly speed of a poised snake. First came the sharp sting of its poisoned bite and then the burning flood of its deadly aftershock; it was a pain like no other he had ever experienced or dreamed of experiencing. All around him he could hear noise but it no longer seemed to touch him; only the pain could touch him.

Someone was screaming. It was Tiggy, Jenny recognised sickly as she and Jon struggled to get David into a recovery position, his body a leaden weight in her arms. She must not use the word ‘dead’. Not yet … please God, not yet.

‘What is it … what’s happened …?’

That was Ben, his voice querulous and shaky, the frightened voice of an old man, as he stood helplessly watching the chaos erupt around him.

Someone—one of Hugh’s sons, she couldn’t see which one—was trying to calm everyone down, to stem the panic that had flooded the marquee when David slumped across the table just as he was starting to give his speech.

‘The ambulance is on its way.’

Jenny turned gratefully towards Neil Travers. ‘Thank God you were here,’ she told their doctor simply. ‘If you hadn’t been …’ Unable to stop herself, she asked anxiously, ‘How is he? Will he …?’