скачать книгу бесплатно
She’d been just thirteen when Thirza had been widowed and returned to take up residence in the village. And it was only a few months later when her stepson Ross had paid her a first visit.
He’d been twenty-one then, and had already embarked on his high-flying and successful career as a photojournalist.
A tall, self-contained young man, black-haired and tanned, with eyes as dark as a moonless night. And as impenetrable.
Nor was he conventionally handsome. His straight nose was a fraction too long and his eyes too heavy-lidded for that. But the high cheekbones and the firm, sensuous mouth were exquisitely chiselled, and when he smiled Jenna, for one, felt her heart turn over.
‘The looks of a fallen angel,’ Aunt Grace had commented privately, her lips pursed. ‘And trouble down to his handmade shoes.’
But Jenna and Christy hadn’t considered him troublesome at all. From the first moment they’d been open-mouthed at the sight of him, bowled over by the aura of easy confidence and sophistication that clung to him. Starryeyed at this answer to all their burgeoning adolescent dreams, who was even—oh, joy—some kind of distant cousin by marriage. Unable to believe that for all this time they had been barely aware of his existence. But Thirza herself had been hardly more than a name to them either.
They’d been more than ready for breathless, unequivocal hero-worship—had Ross Grantham shown any sign of wanting their adoration.
But he hadn’t. He greeted them with a cool civility bordering on indifference, and then appeared oblivious to their existence for the remainder of his stay.
Even after all this time, and in spite of everything that had happened since, Jenna could still wince at the memory of the lengths they’d gone to in their unavailing attempts to attract his attention.
Christy, who been reading Jane Austen’s Emma, had bewailed the fact that all her shoes were slip-ons, and she couldn’t stage an encounter by breaking a lace outside Thirza’s cottage.
Jenna had had notions of persuading one of the amiable hacks they rode at the local stables to bolt with her when Ross was passing, so that he would be obliged to save her.
But before she’d been able to put this daring plan into action Ross had gone. He’d called briefly at Trevarne House to say goodbye, but the girls had been taken shopping in Truro by Mrs Penloe, so they’d missed him. And he had left no message for them either.
‘Beast,’ Christy had said hotly, her pretty face pink with indignation. ‘Well, good riddance to him.’
Jenna had said nothing, aware only of a curious mixture of emotion churning in the pit of her stomach. Her almost agonised disappointment at his sudden departure had warred with an odd relief that such an unsettling presence had been removed, and her life could resume its usual placid path.
Except that, in retrospect she could see it never really had. Ross had remained there, a shadow in the corner of her mind, never completely banished, even though it had been seven years before she saw him again, and when they finally met it had been miles away in London.
He’d been back to Cornwall, of course, during those years. He’d come regularly to visit Thirza—never alone, and rarely bringing the same girl twice, which had set local tongues wagging. But his visits had invariably taken place at times when Christy and Jenna had been away, first at school, then at college, pursuing their respective courses.
She suspected that this had probably been quite deliberate, because they’d made such pests of themselves the first time around, but Ross had always insisted it was just a coincidence.
And she’d believed him, just as she’d somehow convinced herself that someone who so clearly liked to play the field could change and become focussed and faithful.
Because he’d made her think that all that time he’d simply been waiting for the right woman to come into his life. And that she was that woman.
She’d let herself believe too that his wanderlust—the need to be where the action was—could be subdued, that he could be tied down to a desk job, running the agency in London, even though she had the example of her own father to warn her how unlikely this was.
Perhaps if he’d lived he would have uttered a word of caution about how hard it would be for a man who’d enjoyed Ross’s kind of freedom to be suddenly fettered by domesticity.
Her aunt and uncle, when she’d told them the news, had the other concerns.
‘Are you really sure he’s the man for you, darling?’ Mrs Penloe’s brow creased. ‘It’s not just an extension of that silly crush you once had?’
‘Oh, don’t remind me.’ Jenna shuddered, blushing a little. ‘And this is entirely different. As soon as I saw him again—I knew. And it was just the same for Ross. As if we’d always been waiting for each other.’
Her aunt pursed her lips doubtfully, exchanging glances with her husband. They’d enjoyed a happy and tranquil marriage, based on affection, respect and shared interests, and in her heart Grace Penloe believed that was the right basis for a sound relationship.
‘Well, it all sounds very romantic,’ she said at last. ‘But I have to tell you, Jenna dear, that Thirza’s marriage to Gerard Grantham was volatile, to put it mildly, and no one should pretend otherwise.’
Jenna nodded. ‘Ross told me about it—and that’s why he’s waited to settle down. Because he didn’t want the same thing to happen to him. He needed to be sure.’ Her voice quickened easily. ‘And now we’ve found each other—and we are.’
Mrs Penloe looked as if she wanted to say more, but the blaze of happiness in her niece’s clear hazel eyes seemed to forbid any such thing, so she sighed soundlessly and kept quiet.
Memo to self, Jenna thought, biting her lip as she remembered the exchange. Stop thinking I know best and occasionally listen to the people who love me, like Uncle Henry, Aunt Grace, and Christy. And Tasha, of course, who’d had reservations from the first about Jenna’s new relationship.
Tasha maybe most of all, she thought. Because I owe her so much.
They’d met originally through work. Her art course completed, Jenna had found a job in a smart London gallery, where Natasha Crane was already working. She was several years older than Jenny, tall and slim and striking, with black hair drawn severely back from her face. At first Jenna had found her manner faintly chilling, and had been in awe of her new colleague, but eventually there’d been a thaw and they’d become friends. So much so, indeed, that, both unhappy with their flatsharing arrangements, they’d moved into a place of their own together.
The gallery had been a successful one. The owner, Raymond Haville, had had a sure eye for talent, and a good commercial sense, but he’d been nearing retirement and basically indolent, preferring to leave the day-to-day running of the business to his assistants. In many ways this had been a baptism of fire for Jenna, but she’d soon found herself gaining confidence and enjoying the challenge.
‘We make a good team,’ she’d once said buoyantly to Natasha, who’d nodded thoughtfully.
‘Something we should bear in mind for the future, perhaps,’ she’d returned.
But shortly after that Ross had come back into Jenna’s life, and it had seemed as if her future was certain—settled, and all else had been forgotten.
Until, of course, her new world had come crashing down in ruins around her, and then, suddenly, Tasha had been there for her, strong and supportive, and offering a different kind of hope.
Raymond Haville was finally giving up, she’d told her, and her elderly godfather had also died, leaving her his antiques business, which had seen better days but was based in excellent premises.
‘So why don’t we go for it?’ she’d urged. ‘Pool our resources and open our own gallery. Raymond will let us use his contacts, and we know more than he does about the admin side.’
At first Jenna had been reluctant, unsure whether she was ready to cope with such hectic demands on her time and energy, but Tasha had been firm.
‘I think it’s exactly what you need,’ she’d said. ‘Something to take your mind off—everything else. I know you still need to grieve, honey,’ she’d added, more gently. ‘But you won’t have time to brood. So, let’s give our team a chance.’
So, almost before she knew it, Jenna had found herself a partner in a modest gallery, selling paintings, pottery and small sculptures. And discovering success.
Ross had moved out of the house they’d shared, and disclaimed any financial interest in it, so Jenna had sold up. Impossible to remain there alone, haunted by her delusions of happiness. She’d bought a smaller place, investing the surplus funds in the business and giving herself an equal stake with Natasha.
So now, two years on, she had a home and a career, for both of which she was inordinately grateful. Professionally, her life was fulfilling. Socially too she kept busy. She went to the theatre and the cinema, with Natasha and other friends. And as her circle of acquaintance had widened she’d begun to attend dinner parties. She smiled and chatted to the pleasant men who’d been invited to partner her, and, watched with wistful anxiety by her hostesses, politely evaded the inevitable follow-up invitations.
There would come a time when her personal life would need fulfilment again; she was sure of it. But that time was not yet. At present, celibacy seemed much the safer option.
And right now she had another choice to make. Should she stay, or should she run? Her primary instinct told her to get out, and fast. She had suffered enough already at Ross’s hands.
But reason advised caution. Maybe this meeting, so long dreaded, was the very catalyst she needed in order to close the lid on the past once and for all. Achieve some kind of closure on a relationship that should never have existed in the first place.
And there were other factors to take into account—Christy’s disappointment at losing her matron of honour not being the least. It would be selfish and unkind to upset arrangements that had been months in the planning. And it was improbable that anyone else could possibly wear the slender sheath of primrose silk that she planned to wear as she followed Christy up the aisle.
Besides—and this was important too—Ross would doubtless be expecting her to vanish back to London—to take the coward’s way out, she thought, her mouth twisting. And why should she oblige him by being so predictable?
Far better to let him see how little she cared about the past by standing her ground and toughing it out.
After all, it was only three days to the wedding, and then she could quite legitimately return to London—although she knew her aunt and uncle had been hoping she might stay on for a few days.
I, she thought, can survive three days.
‘Jenna.’
Over the boom of the surf, and the mourning of the wind, she heard her name spoken.
For a moment she was very still, telling herself with a kind of desperation that it couldn’t be true. That it was just a figment of her imagination, conjured up because she had allowed herself to think about Ross—to indulge memories that were best ignored.
‘Jenna.’
She heard it again, and knew there could be no mistake—and no respite either. The moment she had feared all these months was upon her at last.
Because no one else had ever said her name with quite that same intonation, the first syllable softened and deliberately emphasised.
There was a time when that sound alone had had the power to melt her bones, as if she felt the touch of his hand, the brush of his lips on her naked skin.
Now it seemed as if a stone had lodged, hard and cold, in the pit of her stomach. Her hands tightened briefly, convulsively, on the back of the bench, and the roar of the sea was no louder than the thunder of her own pulses as slowly she turned to face him.
He was, she discovered, startled, only a few yards away from her. How could she not have known—not been aware of his approach? Her emotional antennae must have been dulled by all those false alarms in the past.
Striving for composure, she balled her hands into fists and thrust them deep into the pockets of her jacket. If they were going to start shaking it was no one’s business but her own, she thought, and she made herself meet his gaze.
Although it was not easy to do so. His eyes went over her, slowly, searchingly, the straight black brows drawing together in a slight frown.
She knew exactly what he was seeing. The brown suede covered a tawny jersey. A silk scarf was knotted at her throat, and her long legs were booted to the knee under a brief skirt in pale tweed.
A successful, even affluent look—casual, but confident.
And she needed every scrap of confidence that was at her disposal.
He, she saw, was wearing black. Close-fitting pants that stressed the length of his legs, a roll-neck sweater and a leather jacket.
Belated mourning? she wondered bitterly, as the block of stone inside her twisted slowly. Agonisingly.
He said abruptly, ‘You’re thinner.’
It was so totally typical of him, Jenna thought, almost stung to unexpected laughter. None of the niceties or formalities of polite conversation for Ross. No cautious breaking of the ice between two people who had parted badly and never met since.
Well, if that was how he wanted to play it …
She shrugged. ‘Then I’m in fashion.’ She kept her tone cool to the point of indifference.
He smiled, that familiar, ironic twist of the mouth. ‘Since when did you care about that?’
‘Perhaps I’ve changed,’ she said. ‘People do.’
He shook his head slowly, his eyes never leaving hers. ‘You haven’t changed so much,’ he said. ‘Or how would I have known where to find you?’ He gestured towards the sea. ‘This was always your favourite place.’
‘You came—looking for me?’ She could not suppress the note of incredulity, but managed a tiny laugh to cover it. ‘And I thought it was just a ghastly coincidence.’
‘I thought perhaps we should—talk a little.’
‘I really don’t think we have anything left to talk about,’ Jenna told him crisply. ‘Our lawyers said all that was necessary quite some time ago.’
‘However, they’re not here,’ he said softly. ‘But we are. And that’s the problem.’
‘Is there a problem? I didn’t realise …’
He sighed. ‘Jenna—do you want to play games or talk sense?’ He paused questioningly, and when she did not reply went on, ‘Can we at least agree that this isn’t a situation either of us would have chosen?’
‘Your stepmother clearly thinks differently.’
‘Thirza is a genuinely kind woman,’ he said. ‘But sometimes her kindness leads her in strange directions.’ He shrugged. ‘What can I say?’ He was silent again for a moment. ‘Please believe that she didn’t see fit to mention to me that Christy was to be married at this time—or that you would be attending the wedding. Otherwise I would not be here.’
‘Well,’ Jenna said, trying for crisp lightness, ‘no one told me about you either. You’d almost think they were playing a late April Fool on us.’
‘And I think, unless we are careful, we could both end up looking like fools,’ Ross returned tersely. ‘So, if you’re thinking of doing a runner back to London, I advise you to forget it.’
Jenna gasped. ‘May I remind you that you no longer have the right to dictate my actions?’
He said gently, ‘And may I remind you that it was never a right I chose to enforce, anyway?’
She bit her lip. ‘You realise the local gossips will have a field-day if we both stay.’
‘They will have even more to enjoy if we leave.’
‘Why?’
‘Because they will think it means that we still matter to each other—when we know that’s not the case.’
‘On that,’ she said, her tone gritty, ‘we can agree, at least.’
‘Good,’ he said. ‘We’re making progress.’ He paused. ‘Unfortunately, it will be equally harmful if we each pretend the other does not exist—and for the same reason.’
‘Ye-es,’ she acknowledged, slowly and reluctantly. ‘I suppose so.’
‘Then I suggest that for the duration of the wedding celebrations we maintain a pretence of civility with each other.’ He spoke briskly. ‘Not for my sake, of course, or even yours, but for Christy.’ He paused. ‘I don’t want her big day to be marred by the spectacle of us making ourselves ridiculous—or an object of speculation for the whole community, either,’ he added grimly. ‘I’m sure that’s a point of view you can share.’
‘How reasonable you make it sound,’ Jenna said with a snap.
‘Fine,’ he threw back at her. ‘Then go back to London. Let them think that you still care too much to be near me, even in public.’
‘Now you really are being ridiculous,’ she said coldly. ‘As a matter of fact, I’d already made up my mind to stay. But I admit I hoped you’d have the decency to keep out of the way.’
‘Decency was never one of my virtues.’ His drawl taunted her. ‘And I gather Thirza has already told the Penloes that I will be escorting her to the wedding. So I think we’re going to have to—grin and bear it.’
‘By taking refuge in clichés?’
‘By doing whatever it takes.’ He paused again, and she was uneasily aware of that intent, assessing stare. ‘So, shall we each take a deep breath and declare a temporary truce—for the duration of the wedding?’
