A High Price to Pay
Sara Craven

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Former journalist SARA CRAVEN published her first novel ‘Garden of Dreams’ for Mills & Boon in 1975. Apart from her writing (naturally!) her passions include reading, bridge, Italian cities, Greek islands, the French language and countryside, and her rescue Jack Russell/cross Button. She has appeared on several TV quiz shows and in 1997 became UK TV Mastermind champion. She lives near her family in Warwickshire – Shakespeare country.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

COVER

TITLE PAGE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

ENDPAGE

COPYRIGHT

CHAPTER ONE

‘THAT man—what’s he doing here?’

Alison Mortimer hoped devoutly that her mother’s angry whisper to her had been sufficiently drowned by the organ music to prevent it reaching the ears of the other mourners in the small church.

And particularly, she thought with embarrassment, the ears of the man in question, who was stationed only a few pews away.

She’d been conscious of him, of course, from the moment they’d arrived. Nicholas Bristow was a distinctive figure, not easily overlooked, and Alison had noticed his tall, black-haired figure with a twinge of alarm that she’d resolutely told herself was really surprise.

The notice in the paper had said firmly that the funeral service was to be private, and she hadn’t thought Nicholas Bristow a sufficiently close friend of her late father to ignore such a pointed hint.

She saw gratefully that Uncle Hugh had taken her mother’s hand and given it a comforting pat, while murmuring something soothing, and registering at the same time the uneasy look he exchanged with Aunt Beth.

She moved her shoulders restively. There it was again—that feeling, growing almost to conviction, that there was something going on—something wrong, over and above the appalling reality of her father’s sudden collapse and death, only a few days before.

If she hadn’t been so frantically busy, trying to run the house as usual, make the arrangements for the funeral, calm her mother, who was almost hysterical with shock, grief and rage at her loss, and comfort her younger sister Melanie, summoned home from boarding school for the funeral, she would have found out what was happening—pinned Uncle Hugh down, and made him tell her why he found it so apparently difficult to meet her gaze any more, she thought grimly.

But once the ordeal of the funeral was behind her, and the obligation of the buffet lunch waiting for them back at Ladymead had been fulfilled, she could start finding out.

She could also, she thought, a lump rising in her throat, get a chance to mourn for her father herself.

She glanced at her mother, ethereal in black, her thin hands nervously pulling at her handkerchief, and sighed. Catherine Mortimer had never been a strong woman, physically or emotionally. All her married life she had depended totally on her husband, and more latterly on her elder daughter as well. How she would cope with the everyday realities of widowhood, once the drama of the funeral and, later, the memorial service, was over, Alison hadn’t the faintest idea.

Mrs Mortimer had enjoyed her position as the wife of the area’s leading industrialist. She had loved being asked to take the chair at local organisations, presiding at dinner parties, and playing the hostess for housefuls of weekend guests, although the donkey work of these occasions had always been left to Alison.

Things would be very different from now on, she thought, although there would be no shortage of money. Anthony Mortimer had left his family well provided for from his shareholdings in the light engineering works which his grandfather had pioneered.

Her mother might have to step down from being the locality’s First Lady, but she would be able to maintain her comfortable existence, adding to her porcelain collection, and playing bridge with her cronies. She might even take a greater interest in the day-to-day running of Ladymead, Alison told herself without a great deal of conviction.

She knew perfectly well that the mundane details of housekeeping had never appealed to her mother. She had relied completely on the elderly and supremely efficient housekeeper, Mrs Wharton, who had been installed at Ladymead since her husband’s boyhood. And after Mrs Wharton’s death, the chores of making sure everything ran like clockwork, of engaging staff, and paying the bills had been handed over, charmingly but definitely, to Alison.

‘Such good practice for you, darling, when it comes to running a home of your own,’ Mrs Mortimer had said sweetly.

But Alison hadn’t been fooled for a minute. Her mother had been a dazzlingly pretty woman when she was younger, and Melanie was blossoming into real beauty with every month that passed, but Alison herself had been born, and remained, an ugly duckling. She was small and slight with light brown hair, clear hazel eyes, and a pale skin which had a distressing tendency to flush when she was disturbed or embarrassed, and as she was a shy girl, this happened far more often than she wished.

She had no idea why this should be so. Both her mother and Mel were miracles of self-possession, and her father had been a cheerfully ebullient man too.

‘You must be a changeling, darling,’ her mother had sometimes teased her.

And sometimes she felt like it, Alison acknowledged ruefully.

Perhaps if her school exam results had been dazzling like Mel’s promised to be, rather than respectable, she might have broken out of the mould she could see being prepared for her, and insisted on university and a career of some kind. But with no very firm idea of what she would like to do with her life, it had been difficult for her to resist the pressure from her family to stay at home and run Ladymead for her mother. But she had been determined to achieve at least a measure of independence for herself, and had managed to find herself a part-time job in a local estate agent’s office. She had been hired in the first instance under the vague heading of Girl Friday, which Alison had silently translated as ‘dogsbody’, but she had amazed herself, and her new employer, by discovering an unexpected talent for actually selling houses. In spite of her shyness, she had the knack of matching properties to potential buyers, many of whom preferred her quiet efficiency to the ‘hard sell’ they were often subjected to. Simon Thwaite, her boss, had concealed his astonishment, given her a rise, and asked if she would be prepared to work full time, an offer she had regretfully had to refuse. He had also asked her out to dinner, which she had accepted, and they had enjoyed several pleasant evenings in each other’s company.

But that, she knew, was as far as it went. She couldn’t see herself having a serious relationship with Simon, or any of the other men she came across, and had come to the conclusion that she was probably one of nature’s spinsters.

And probably just as well, she thought without self-pity, because the evidence suggested that from now on her mother was going to need her more than ever.

Driving back to Ladymead after the service, Mrs Mortimer was volubly tearful.

‘So much to endure still,’ she said, clinging to her brother’s arm. ‘Dear Hugh—such a tower of strength! And now this dreadful lunch to get through somehow.’ Her brows snapped together. ‘I hope that Bristow man hasn’t had the gall to invite himself to that! If so, you must deal with it, Hugh. He must be made to see this is a very personal, family occasion, and that, as a stranger, he is intruding on our grief.’

Hugh Bosworth cleared his throat uncomfortably. ‘It might be better not to say or do anything hasty,’ he said heavily. ‘After all, Anthony did a lot of business with the fellow.’

‘Did he?’ Mrs Mortimer dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief. ‘He never discussed business matters with me, of course. I’ve never had a head for that sort of thing.’ A fresh sense of grievance struck her. ‘And I don’t understand why Mr Liddell is insisting on going over poor Anthony’s will with me. I know what’s in it—he explained it all most carefully to me, and to Alison when he drew it up. There’ll be duties, of course, but apart from that, he made it all as simple as possible.’ She began to cry again. ‘Although I never thought … I was always sure I’d be the first …’

Hugh Bosworth patted her shoulder, looking, his niece thought judiciously, positively hunted. Again she felt that faint frisson of unease. She wished she could have spoken to Aunt Beth, but Mrs Bosworth was following in the next car with Melanie.

Back at the house, Alison swiftly checked that arrangements for the lunch had been carried out as impeccably as usual, then went upstairs to take off the jacket of her simple dark grey suit, and tidy her hair. As she dragged a comb through her neat shoulder-length bob, she heard the first of the cars arrive to disgorge its passengers at the front door. Mentally, she reviewed who should be arriving. As well as Anthony Mortimer’s closest friends, there would be a few of his co-directors from the works.

She gave a faint sigh. They would be worried. Anthony Mortimer had been the linchpin of the company, believing in it, backing it to the hilt always. She wasn’t sure how they would replace him.

She gave a last look at herself in the mirror, and grimaced. She could win a nondescript prize, she thought candidly as she turned away. And saw from the window Nicholas Bristow alighting from the last car and standing on the drive, staring at the house.

Alison groaned inwardly. Her mother had overreacted to his presence at the church, of course, but there was a certain amount of justification for her attitude. He was a stranger to them, no matter how close he might or might not have been to her father. He had been to Ladymead only once before, for dinner, and had annoyed Mrs Mortimer by spending the latter part of the evening closeted in the study with her husband.

‘So inconsiderate!’ Mrs Mortimer had complained fretfully to Alison. ‘A dinner party should be a social occasion, and your father knows how I feel about business being mixed with pleasure.’

Alison had thought wryly that probably her father’s wishes has not had a great deal to do with it. She had had Nicholas Bristow as her dinner partner, and had found him arrogantly intimidating.

He was the kind of man, she was forced to admit, that most women would find very attractive. Coupled with that unmistakable aura of wealth and power which fitted him as well as his elegant clothes, he possessed an individual brand of compelling, almost insolent good looks. He probably had charm too, only Alison hadn’t been privileged to encounter it. Eyes as blue and chill as a winter’s sky had travelled over her, remembered with difficulty that she had been introduced to him on arrival as the daughter of the house, and made it clear he found her wanting in every respect.

He had responded to her conversational overtures civilly, but without enthusiasm, and it was obvious that his thoughts were elsewhere most of the time.

If it hadn’t been so hurtful, it would almost have been amusing, Alison decided, hating him cordially.

She had no time for that kind of sexy male arrogance, and she couldn’t understand what he could possibly have in common with her genial, outgoing father.

For starters, Nicholas Bristow was at least twenty-five years her father’s junior. One of the City’s boy wonders, she could remember reading about him somewhere. A whizz-kid financier with the Midas touch. In his thirties now, of course, but still apparently printing his own money.

It was—heartening to believe that he had thought highly enough of her father to come to his funeral, even without an invitation. Only Alison didn’t believe it. According to the items about him in the various gossip columns which appeared with such monotonous regularity, Nicholas Bristow didn’t give a damn about anything except making money. He wasn’t married, but he certainly wasn’t celibate either, seeming to change the ladies in his life as frequently as his expensive suits.

She might have contempt for his lifestyle, but at the same time Alison had him mentally filed as someone it could be dangerous to offend, and she decided it could be wise to intervene before he came face to face with her mother.

He was in the hall, as Alison came downstairs, in the act of handing his coat to Mrs Horner, the daily help.

Alison said with a coolness she was far from feeling, ‘It’s all right, Mrs Horner. I’ll deal with this.’

At the sound of her voice Nicholas Bristow turned, his brows rising interrogatively as he looked at her. Once again the sheer force of his attraction struck her like a body blow. How fortunate that his personality didn’t match, Alison thought stonily as she walked down the last remaining stairs.

She said, ‘Good morning, Mr Bristow. I don’t suppose you remember me.’

‘Indeed I do, Miss Mortimer.’

She prayed she wouldn’t blush like a schoolgirl and ruin everything. Aloud, she said quietly, ‘This is rather embarrassing for us, Mr Bristow, but it seems there’s been a slight misunderstanding. It was kind of you to come to my father’s funeral service, but this lunch is restricted to family and close friends, and unfortunately …’

‘Unfortunately, I don’t fall within either category,’ Nicholas Bristow supplied calmly. ‘I’m aware of that, Miss Mortimer.’

‘Then I’m sure you won’t wish to intrude,’ Alison said, lifting her chin a little. ‘My mother, as you can imagine, is in a very nervous and distressed condition, and can’t be expected to cope with uninvited guests.’

‘Yes, I can well imagine.’ His firm mouth twisted slightly. ‘But the misunderstanding is yours, Miss Mortimer. As it happens, I have been invited here. By Alec Liddell, and also by your uncle, Colonel Bosworth.’

Alison’s lips parted helplessly in a little gasp. ‘They—did? But why?’

‘I suggest you ask them,’ he drawled. ‘And while you’re conducting your little interrogation, I’ll wait quietly somewhere where the sight of me won’t cause your mother any problems.’ As she hesitated he added quietly, ‘I’m no gatecrasher, Miss Mortimer. I do have a reason to be here.’

She said levelly, ‘I don’t pretend to understand what’s going on, but perhaps you’d wait in the study while I speak to my uncle.’ She led the way across the hall and opened the door. It was quite a small room, panelled in oak, the heavy curtains still drawn out of respect. It was the first time Alison had entered the room since her father’s death, and it seemed at once still so redolent of his personality that she checked abruptly in the doorway, her whole body tautening.

She was hardly aware of the sharp look from the man beside her, but she heard him say, ‘I think the situation would be improved by some daylight, don’t you?’ followed by the rattle of the rings along the poles as he drew back the curtains, allowing some watery spring sunshine to permeate the room.

She was back in control again. ‘Thank you,’ she said huskily. ‘There—there’s some whisky in the corner cupboard, if you’d like to help yourself.’

‘You’re very hospitable.’ The dry note in his voice wasn’t lost on her. He walked across the room, and looked down at her, frowning slightly. ‘I’m sorry about your father,’ he said at last. ‘I liked him.’

‘Thank you.’ Her voice was firmer this time. ‘Now, you’ll have to excuse me. I have to see to our—other guests.’

She closed the study door behind her quietly, and stood for a moment, forcing herself to think rapidly. It was an awful day, but it seemed to be getting worse with every moment that passed. She was more than uneasy now; she was getting frightened. From the chaos of the past week, some kind of monstrous pattern seemed to be emerging. She didn’t understand it, nor did she want to. She wanted to run away somewhere and hide.

The atmosphere in the drawing room was inevitably subdued, but as Alison moved from group to group, thanking people for coming, and accepting their condolences, it occurred to her that everyone seemed abnormally gloomy and abstracted. Or was she being stupidly over-sensitive? she asked herself, making her way towards her uncle.

But before she could reach him, she was grabbed by Melanie.

‘Who’s the dish?’ she hissed. ‘And where have you hidden him?’

‘I can’t think who …’ Alison began, but Mel gave her a little shake.

‘Oh, don’t be pompous, Ally! Tall and dark, with eyes like Paul Newman’s. I saw him arrive.’

‘You would,’ Alison sighed. ‘Well, his name’s Nicholas Bristow, and he seems to be here on business.’

Melanie rolled her eyes in mock-lasciviousness. ‘Do you think he’d do a deal with me?’ She caught Alison’s eye, and subsided. ‘I’m sorry, Ally,’ she muttered reluctantly. ‘I know I shouldn’t be making jokes at a time like this, but everything’s so—so bloody!’

Alison put her arm round her sister’s shoulders and gave her a swift hug. ‘Yes, it is,’ she said fiercely. ‘And you make all the jokes you want. Now, I’ve got to talk to Uncle Hugh.’

‘Hullo, my dear.’ His voice was awkward. ‘May I get you a drink?’

She shook her head. ‘I’m not thirsty. I just want to know what’s going on. Nicholas Bristow tells me you invited him here.’

‘Well, it was Liddell’s idea really.’ He didn’t meet her gaze. ‘He felt it might make things—easier.’

‘What things?’ Alison’s eyes narrowed. ‘Uncle Hugh, you can’t keep dropping hints like this. You’ve got to tell me!’

There was a silence, then he sighed heavily. ‘Perhaps you have the right. I just don’t know any more. And together, we might be able to cushion your mother …’ He paused again. ‘Did your father ever talk to you about money?’

She shook her head. ‘I used to ask him, from time to time, especially about the works—if the company was being affected by the recession, but he always said everything was fine.’

He pulled her into a corner. ‘Well, it wasn’t fine,’ he muttered. ‘In fact, Ally, it was just about as bad as it could be. For the last two years he was pouring every penny he could raise into the firm, but it was never enough. Oh, he could have cut back, I suppose, but it would have meant laying men off, and he wouldn’t do that. Said it was a bad sign, and reduced public confidence. Said he felt—responsible.’

Alison nodded. ‘He did. Mortimers has always been a family company. Daddy hated the idea of redundancies. He felt it was a betrayal of people who trusted him.’ She smiled sadly. ‘A rather patriarchal attitude, I’m afraid.’

‘A rather naïve one in this economic climate,’ her uncle said grimly. ‘And there was this house, of course, and your mother’s—expenses.’

Alison hands clenched into fists at her side and she looked at him levelly. ‘Uncle Hugh, are you trying to tell me that Daddy was broke?’

Unwillingly, he nodded. ‘There’s your mother’s annuity, of course, that’s safe. But as for the rest of it …’

‘Oh, God!’ Alison felt dazed, but she made herself think. ‘But there are his shares in Mortimers, they must be worth something.’

‘Only if the company itself has any value,’ Colonel Bosworth said gloomily. ‘And there’s every chance of a receiver being put in.’

She bit her lip. ‘Well—there’s this house. I know it’s big, and inconvenient, but Daddy had it valued not long ago, and if we sold it, and found somewhere smaller …’

He was shaking his head. ‘That’s what I’m trying to tell you, my dear.’ His voice was awkward with compassion. ‘The house, I’m afraid, he used as security for a considerable loan. Mortimers needed new machinery for a potential order from China—engineering components, I understand. It could have been the salvation of the place, and Anthony gambled everything on getting it.’ He looked very old suddenly. ‘Only he didn’t. He got the news just before—just before …’

‘His attack,’ Alison said. She felt very cold, her body trembling uncontrollably. ‘I—see. So—Ladymead doesn’t belong to us any more. I—I can’t quite believe it.’ She closed her eyes for a moment. ‘Poor Mummy? Where can she go? What can she do?’

‘That is something we all have to discuss. But there need be no hasty decisions. I’m sure she’ll be treated with every consideration by the—er—new owner.’

‘New owner?’ Her bewildered eyes searched his face. ‘But you said the house had been used as security. It belongs to a bank, doesn’t it?’

‘Not as such.’ Uncle Hugh looked more uncomfortable than ever. ‘Your father had trouble in raising the money he wanted. It was felt, I think, that his proposition wasn’t a good risk—as indeed it proved. The eventual loan was a—private arrangement, although perfectly legal, of course,’ he added hastily.

Alison’s nails scored the palms of her hands. She said unsteadily, ‘It’s—Nicholas Bristow, isn’t it?’

Uncle Hugh nodded wretchedly, ‘Yes.’

She whispered, ‘Oh, God. So that’s why …’

She couldn’t say any more. She turned away, fighting her emotions, struggling to retain some rags of self-control as the full force of everything that had happened broke on her.

Crazily, a line from Shakespeare kept echoing and re-echoing in her head: ‘One woe doth tread upon another’s heels, so fast they follow.’ And the upshot was that Ophelia was drowned, and she was drowning too, in anger and outrage and bewilderment.

At last she said brokenly, ‘How could Daddy? How could he—mortgage our home to a stranger?’

‘Because he was a gambler,’ her uncle returned sombrely. ‘Oh, not with cards or horses—that might have been easier to deal with. But he liked to take risks in business—unnecessary risks, like investing in these new machines without any guarantees from the Chinese that they’d ever be needed. I don’t think the possibility of losing his gamble ever occurred to him. And give him his due, if Mortimers had won that contract, it would have been just the boost the works needed. He’d have been able to pay off the loan too, and neither your mother nor you and Melanie would ever have been any the wiser.’

‘Only it didn’t work out like that,’ said Alison with a small mirthless smile. ‘The problem now is—how do we break the news to Mother? How do we tell her she’s not only penniless, but homeless too? And at the hands of a man she doesn’t like. Or has Mr Bristow come to serve his notice to quit in person?’

‘On the contrary.’ Uncle Hugh looked almost affronted. ‘You’re doing him an injustice, Ally. He is most concerned.’

‘How kind of him!’ She pushed her hair back from her face with a shaking hand. ‘But it doesn’t change anything. He’s not going to give us back our home, is he?’

‘You have to be realistic, my dear.’ Her uncle looked horrified. ‘No one could be expected simply to write off a debt of that magnitude. No, I’m afraid your poor father knew what he was risking when he entered into the arrangement—much against Alec Liddell’s advice, I may say.’

‘Bravo, Mr Liddell,’ Alison said wearily. ‘He’ll be here soon, I suppose.’

‘In about half an hour.’ He nodded in affirmation. ‘The others should be leaving by then. I thought we could all have a quiet chat—a family conclave, to decide what’s best to be done.’

‘And do you now count Nicholas Bristow as part of the family?’

There was an edge to her voice, and her uncle frowned rather reprovingly as he answered, ‘No, of course not, child. But I’m sure it would be better for all concerned if matters were conducted on as—amicable a basis as possible. I know he’s anxious to reassure your mother that he has no immediate plans to take possession.’

She winced. ‘Don’t!’

He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Ally, but it’s something you’re going to have to come to terms with. Ladymead belongs to Nicholas Bristow now.’

She said softly, fiercely, ‘Over my dead body.’

As she got to the study door, she heard Melanie’s voice, and groaned inwardly. She turned the handle and went in. Melanie, flushed and bright-eyed, was draped decoratively across the arm of one of the big chairs, clearly in the middle of some anecdote which Nicholas Bristow was receiving with amused appreciation.

Alison said clearly and precisely, ‘Would you go up to your room, Melanie, please. I have something I wish to say to Mr Bristow.’

For once Melanie didn’t stop to argue. She took one look at Alison’s stormy eyes, at the bright spots of colour burning in the pallor of her face, and went without a word.

Alison closed the door behind her, then drew a deep breath before turning back to face him.

He said softly, ‘Don’t be angry with her, Miss Mortimer. You can’t expect a kid of her age to join in day after day of undiluted gloom.’

He was seated on the edge of the big desk, glass in hand, swinging one elegantly shod foot. He had even, she noticed, loosened his tie slightly, and it was that detail which set the seal on her rage and bitterness.

‘Get off my father’s desk,’ she said, her voice quivering. ‘Get away from his things. They don’t belong to you yet.’

He finished what was left in his glass and put it down, then got to his feet without haste.

‘So he told you,’ he observed expressionlessly.

‘Yes, he told me.’ She threw back her head defiantly, staring at him with disgust. ‘I thought you were a financier, Mr Bristow, not a cheap money-lender!’

‘Oh, I’m certainly not cheap, Miss Mortimer,’ he said. He was smiling derisively, but there was anger simmering underneath, and she knew it. ‘But do go on. I’m sure you can think of something appropriate about me preying on widows and orphans, if you really put your mind to it. Come on, sweetheart, let it rip. Don’t leave a cliché unturned.’

‘You bastard,’ Alison said unevenly.

He clicked his tongue reprovingly. ‘Not very inventive, or even true. Try again.’

She wrapped her arms round her body, shivering. ‘You’re vile,’ she said quietly, after a pause. ‘You’ve robbed us of everything, and you can stand there—taunting me!’

The blue eyes flicked over her, swift and cruel as an arctic wind. ‘Let it be a lesson to you, Miss Mortimer. Never begin what you’re not prepared—or equipped—to finish. Now, you mentioned something about my having robbed you. That’s not only a slander, but a lie. I did my damnedest to talk your father out of the whole thing, but he wouldn’t hear of it. He called it a calculated risk—I called it madness.’

‘But you still went ahead and loaned him the money.’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Because he might have pulled it off. By all accounts, he’d dragged Mortimers back from the brink more than once. If the Chinese deal had come off, I’d have been repaid, at a handsome rate of interest. Why should I have turned him down?’

‘But you can’t really want this house,’ she said, almost feverishly. ‘It’s been in our family for generations. It’s old-fashioned, and a nightmare to heat, and staff and keep clean. It’s probably got woodworm, and dry rot, and—and deathwatch beetle.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘Although it needs a certain amount of renovation and improvement, it’s basically sound. Your father had a survey and valuation done not long ago—at my behest, naturally,’

‘So you always recognised the possibility …’

‘That your father might not be in a position to repay me? Of course.’ He gave a slight shrug. ‘Although I couldn’t predict the present tragic circumstances, of course.’

‘Of course,” she echoed bitterly. ‘And how long do we have, Mr Bristow, before you start to recoup your losses by putting Ladymead on the market?’

‘Oh, I’m not going to sell it,’ he said casually. ‘I’m going to live here.’

CHAPTER TWO

‘LIVE HERE?’ Alison repeated the words almost mechanically, her brain seething. ‘You can’t be serious!’

‘I’m perfectly serious. It’s a very charming house—or did you think only members of your own family had the taste to appreciate it?’

‘Of course not.’ She shook her head in bewilderment. ‘But this isn’t a very fashionable area—and a fair distance from London, and the kind of lifestyle you’re accustomed to.’

Nicholas Bristow’s mouth curled. ‘How do you know the kind of lifestyle I’m accustomed to?’ he asked flatly.

Alison flushed. ‘You don’t exactly keep your haunts—or your companions—a secret,’ she said in a constricted tone.

‘Ah.’ He gave her a long look. ‘I wouldn’t have put you down as a devotee of the gutter press, Miss Mortimer, but let it pass. If you feel entitled to some explanation, then I’ll give you one. I’ve a comfortable house in Town, but I’ve never regarded it as home particularly. Perhaps I’ve reached a stage in my life where the idea of putting down some roots has suddenly become appealing—I don’t know. Anyway, people commute to City offices from far greater distances than this, and besides, there’s room in the grounds for a helicopter pad if I thought it was necessary. Does that satisfy your curiosity?’

‘It wasn’t simply curiosity,’ she said quietly. ‘I’d hoped, you see, if you were going to put the house on the market, to perhaps come to some arrangement, but I see now that’s impossible.’

His brows rose. ‘What did you have in mind, as a matter of interest?’

Her flush deepened burningly. ‘I have a job. I thought, given time, I might be able to pay off the mortgage.’

‘I doubt whether either of us would live long enough to see that happy day,’ he said sarcastically. ‘May I know what your salary is?’ She told him, and he sighed. ‘Miss Mortimer, this is the real world, not some fairy tale. It would take every penny you earn, and considerably more besides, and leave you with nothing to live on. I don’t think any house is worth such a sacrifice, do you?’

‘I don’t think you understand. This is our home, and has been for generations …’

‘I understand perfectly. But the reign of the Mortimers was coming to a halt anyway. Unless you or your sister plan to persuade your future husbands to change their names to Mortimer to carry on the old tradition?’

‘I wasn’t thinking particularly of Melanie or myself,’ Alison said in a low voice. ‘But being turned out of her home will be incredibly hard on my mother. She—she isn’t very strong …’

‘So I gather.’ There was no softening in his face. ‘I shall try and make sure she receives every consideration. Or did you think I was going to evict her bodily into some convenient blizzard?’

‘I don’t know what I thought,’ Alison said wearily. ‘But I do know that nothing you can say or do will cushion this kind of blow, especially following on from my father’s death.’

‘If your father had lived, he would have been bankrupt,’ Nicholas Bristow said harshly. ‘I can’t think that would have appealed to her either. In the present circumstances, she can leave Ladymead with dignity, and an income to maintain her, although it won’t pay the upkeep of another house of this size,’ he added, rather grimly.

‘I think I’ve managed to work that out for myself,’ Alison said bitterly. ‘The fact is, Mr Bristow, you saw this house and wanted it, and that’s why you won’t consider any alternatives.’

‘Unless you plan to come into a fortune, Miss Mortimer, there are no alternatives,’ he said. ‘But let me assure you that my dealings with your late father will remain private. As far as the outside world is concerned, I am in the process of purchasing Ladymead from your father’s estate, as it’s now too large for your family’s needs.’

‘Please don’t expect me to be grateful.’ Alison’s chin lifted.

‘No, I think I wrote off that possibility from the moment you entered this room,’ he returned grimly. ‘Next time you want to ask favours, Miss Mortimer, a softer approach might stand you in better stead.’

‘I don’t plan to approach you again for any cause whatsoever,’ Alison snapped. ‘Goodbye, Mr Bristow.’

She went straight to her room and threw herself across the bed. She wanted to scream and cry, and beat the mattress with her bare fists, but she was beyond tears. After a long time she sat up slowly, staring around her at all the dear familiar things which had surrounded her since childhood. Nothing stayed the same for ever, she knew that, but she hadn’t expected the changes in her life to be so sudden, or so far-reaching.

Presently she would have to go downstairs again, to be at her mother’s side when the bad news was broken to her, but first she needed to think—to consider practical possibilities, so that she could make some positive suggestions about how they could put the pieces of their lives together.

And, if she was honest, she needed a breathing space before she could face Nicholas Bristow again.

Alison’s nails curled into the palms of her hands. This room no longer seemed a sanctuary for her. Already, his presence seemed everywhere. It made her writhe to remember him sitting on the edge of her father’s desk, master of all he surveyed. He’d lost no time in making himself at home, she thought with angry bitterness.

But she had to admit that her suggestion that she might be able to buy back the house somehow had been a ridiculous one, prompted by a sense of sheer desperation.

She curled up against the pillows and began to think. Without her housekeeping duties at Ladymead to take into account, she could accept Simon’s offer of full-time work, she thought, and the increase in salary, plus her mother’s annuity, would allow them a reasonable standard of living.

She sighed soundlessly. Only Catherine Mortimer wasn’t used to reasonable standards. She’d been indulged and spoiled all her married life, with every expensive whim catered to. She would not take kindly to any reduction in her level of spending.

And the other major problem was Melanie’s school fees. She was being considered, Alison knew, as a possible Oxford entrant, and it was imperative for her education not to be disrupted. But the cost of maintaining her at Mascombe Park was formidable.

Even if Simon were to make her a partner, she would still only be able to afford a percentage of the cost, Alison thought forlornly. It was late in the day to start thinking about scholarships, even if there were any available. Yet Mel deserved her chance.

Reluctantly Alison uncurled and stood up. Problems were building up like storm clouds, but there was no way to avoid in the inevitable cloudburst, or even postpone it.

She held her head high as she went downstairs.

‘Well, I think the sooner we leave Ladymead, the better,’ Alison spoke with quiet determination.

‘But where can we go?’ wailed Mrs Mortimer. Alison noted with compassion that her mother’s hands were shaking. Yet during that long painful confrontation in the study, she had behaved with amazing control and dignity, listening without comment as the situation was outlined to her by a clearly embarrassed and unhappy Alec Liddell.

Nicholas Bristow had had little to say too, she recalled, his dark face almost sombre as he listened. She wondered if he had been feeling any kind of compunction.

She said, ‘I’ll talk to Simon when I go back to work on Monday, and see what he suggests. I know there’s nothing very suitable on the books at the moment, and he might advise renting somewhere for a time.’

‘Rented property?’ Mrs Mortimer couldn’t have sounded more anguished if Alison had suggested a tent in the middle of a ploughed field.

She sighed. ‘I don’t see what other choice we have. You surely don’t want to remain here on Nicholas Bristow’s charity?’

‘I can’t imagine what he wants with a house like this,’ her mother said bitterly. ‘It’s far too large for a bachelor.’

‘I don’t suppose he’s going to be a bachelor for much longer,’ Melanie, who had been sitting staring listlessly into the fire, roused herself to say. ‘There’ve been heaps of stories in the papers lately about him and Hester Monclair. They reckon when her divorce goes through, they’ll be married. She’s divorcing her husband for unreasonable behaviour, and he’s considering cross-petitioning for adultery, citing Nick Bristow.’ She giggled. ‘That’ll stir up this village!’

‘Melanie!’ Her mother spoke with sharp disapproval, her mind diverted momentarily from her own troubles. ‘Where in the world did you learn all those distasteful things?’

‘One of the women who cleans the dormitories brings in her Sunday papers for us,’ Melanie said promptly. ‘She says it’s only right we should know what wickedness there is in the world.’

‘Well, I think I shall write to Miss Lesley when you return to school.’

‘Don’t you mean “if"?’ Melanie muttered, but in too low a voice for her mother to hear. Alison shot her a warning glance.

‘Mr Bristow’s personal affairs are no concern of ours,’ she pointed out. ‘The least we can do is leave him in peace to conduct them. And that means finding somewhere else to live as quickly as possible.’

‘But where are we going to find with sufficient room to accommodate us?’ Mrs Mortimer demanded. ‘There’s the grand piano to consider, for one thing.’

Alison controlled a swift surge of impatience. ‘None of us plays the piano, Mother,’ she said gently. ‘I think it would be better to let it go to auction.’

Mrs Mortimer’s back straightened in outrage. ‘May I ask, Alison, if you’re determined to make me live in squalor?’ she demanded.

‘I’m not making you do anything, I hope—except maybe face a few facts,’ Alison said wearily. ‘We have to accustom ourselves to things being very different in future.’

Mrs Mortimer’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Aren’t you beeing a little insensitive, Alison? I’m sure I need no such reminder.’ She pressed her handkerchief to her lips, while her daughters exchanged despairing glances. After a pause, she went on, ‘Hugh and Beth have very kindly asked me to stay with them, while I consider my future. I may well take them up on their offer. Now, I’m going to lie down for a while, and try to recover some of my strength. I presume dinner will still be served in this house this evening, Alison?’ And on this, she swept from the room with a certain majesty.

‘Mummy’s brought making people feel guilty to a fine art,’ Melanie remarked dispassionately when they were alone. ‘I think that’s probably why Daddy never confided in her about the mess he was in. He knew she’d make it a hundred times worse.’

‘Don’t say that, Melly.’ Alison gave her a wry look. ‘This must have been the worst week of her life. She loved Daddy very much, you know.’

‘Yes, but she never helped him.’ Melanie put another log on the fire. ‘If he’d asked her to economise, she wouldn’t have known what he meant. He couldn’t—lean on her when the going got rough. I don’t suppose she even knew he’d been having chest pains for months.’

‘No, but then neither did I,’ Alison said quietly, wincing a little.

‘He probably thought you had enough on your plate already.’ Melanie began to fiddle with the handle of the poker. She said suddenly, ‘This is going to be my last term at Mascombe Park, isn’t it?’

‘The honest answer is, “Probably”,’ Alison admitted after a pause.

‘I guessed.’ Melanie’s face was mournful. ‘I suppose I could try and get a place in the local comprehensive, although the course will probably be different. Or would it be more help if I tried to get a job?’

‘No.’ Alison shook her head positively. ‘You’re Oxbridge material, Mel. You can’t give that prospect up without a struggle.’

‘I don’t want to.’ Melanie gave a faint grin. ‘But something tells me that if we can’t manage the fees, Miss Lesley will give me up without a struggle all right.’

‘There used to be bursaries and things,’ Alison frowned. ‘I suppose we could enquire.’

‘Mm.’ Melanie gave a slight grimace. ‘It would be hateful, though, going cap in hand. I’m not sure I wouldn’t rather leave.’

‘Well, don’t let’s make any hasty decisions,’ said Alison. ‘Mr Liddell’s coming back tomorrow to talk over a few things, and I’ll see what he has to say.’ She hesitated. ‘I would have mentioned it earlier, but I don’t want to discuss personal family things in front of Nicholas Bristow.’

‘You really don’t like him, do you?’ Melanie gave a little sigh. ‘I think he’s amazing! I wish I was Hester Monclair, lucky bitch. Of course she’s gorgeous-looking, and sophisticated, and she probably knows exactly how to turn him on in bed …’

Alison was surprised into unwilling laugher. ‘Mel, for God’s sake! Don’t let Mummy hear you.’

‘Don’t worry, I won’t.’ Melanie put her head on one side. ‘But don’t you fancy him, Ally? If you’re honest, in your heart of hearts, just a little? You can’t really prefer boring old Simon.’

‘Simon is neither boring nor old,’ Alison said calmly. ‘And I wasn’t aware that my sexual preferences—or Nick Bristow’s for that matter—were on the “A” level curriculum. Stick to Eng. Lit.—it’s safer.’

‘What’s safe?’ asked Melanie, getting restlessly to her feet. ‘We’re all going to be living dangerously from now on.’

With her world visibly crumbling around her, it was a relief to Alison to find that the office hadn’t changed. And nor had Simon, who seemed endearingly pleased to see her. The locality had been buzzing with gossip since the funeral, Alison knew, but Simon, with noble tact, refrained from asking any questions about the disposal of Ladymead.

He simply said that a smaller, more convenient house was vital, and promised to keep his eyes and ears open for suitable properties coming on to the market.

She was glad to be back at work. Melanie had returned to Mascombe Park, although for how much longer was anyone’s guess. Alec Liddell had pursed his lips ruefully over the question of school fees, and when Alison had attempted to discuss the problem with her mother, Mrs Mortimer had dissolved into floods of tears.

It was not an attitude which helped, Alison thought tiredly, as she looked through an assortment of bungalow details. But then her mother’s behaviour generally was giving her deep cause for concern. She wasn’t eating, and hardly ever left her room. Alison had tried to persuade her to take up the Bosworths’ invitation, although she supposed, privately, it was a rotten trick to play on Aunt Beth, but Mrs Mortimer wouldn’t hear of it. She seemed to have it fixed on her mind that if she ever left Ladymead, it would be for ever, and Alison knew that the doctor was as worried about her state of mind as she was herself. He had started talking in guarded tones about the possibility of treatment in a complete change of scene, and the sound of it made Alison’s heart sink.

‘Are you saying my mother needs to see a psychiatrist?’ she had asked.

Dr Barnet had given her a straight look. ‘She’s clearly in a very disturbed state,’ he had returned. ‘Bereavement is usually enough of a trauma for anyone to cope with, but when you add the other losses your mother is suffering …’ He shrugged. ‘Frankly, it’s enough to undermine the emotional constitution of someone with three times her strength. And, unfortunately, she’s become fixated on this house as a symbol of her security rather than you or Melanie. It’s not a healthy situation.’

He could say that again, Alison thought, shoving the bungalow details back into their folders with scant respect. Nicholas Bristow had said he wouldn’t evict them—but the way her mother was reacting, he might have to.

‘It’s my home,’ her mother kept reiterating. ‘My only home. He can’t take it away from me!’

The fact that they could no longer afford to live there seemed to have escaped her completely, Alison thought wryly.

She was thankful to have her work to immerse herself in once again, and she and Simon had already tentatively discussed the terms by which she would work for him full time.

It was a relief to know she would have a wage she could live on, but it didn’t solve Melanie’s problem, as the letter she had received only that morning served to underline. Melanie had had a preliminary interview with Miss Lesley, her formidable headmistress. It had been relatively civilised, Mel wrote, but the question of where the next term’s fees would be coming from had inevitably been raised.

And that was the problem in the forefront of Alison’s mind as she drove her elderly Mini back to Ladymead that evening.

As she rounded the last bend in the drive, she was surprised to see another car parked outside the front door. She didn’t recognise the number plate, she thought frowningly, as she switched off her engine and got out, and she certainly wasn’t expecting visitors.

As she walked into the hall, Mrs Horner appeared. ‘It’s that Mr Bristow,’ she said in an undertone. ‘He’s been here over an hour. Asked for you specific, and not for madam, so I made him some coffee and hope I did right.’

‘Quite right,’ Alison said promptly, her spirits plummeting. ‘Is he in the drawing room?’

‘He is, miss. I told him madam wasn’t too well, and that you were at work, but it made no difference. Said he’d wait.’

‘Oh?’ Alison returned wanly, as she unbuttoned her jacket.

He was standing by the fireplace, one arm resting on the mantelshelf, as he looked broodingly down into the flames. His head came round sharply as Alison closed the drawing room door.

‘You’re late, Miss Mortimer,’ he remarked impatiently. ‘I didn’t know your work included overtime.’

‘It doesn’t as a rule.’ She dropped her jacket over the back of a chair, aware of the disparaging glance he sent her plain navy dress. ‘Just as I was leaving, my boss called me back to say he’d heard about a cottage that might suit us.’

‘Oh.’ He didn’t appear to receive the news with ill-concealed delight. In fact, he frowned slightly. ‘Where is this place?’

‘Far enough away for us to be able to avoid each other,’ she returned composedly.

His lips tightened. ‘I see. And have you made an offer for it.?’

‘Hardly. My mother and I have to see it first.’ Alison touched the coffee pot and grimaced. ‘This is cold. May I offer you some fresh?’

‘No, thanks,’ he said. ‘But I’d sell my soul for a large Scotch—it’s been one hell of a day.’

She gave him a surprised look under her lashes as she turned to get his drink. She was probably imagining things, but he seemed almost ill at ease.

‘And you’d better have one too.’ His voice followed her. ‘You may need it.’

She poured a measure of Scotch into a glass and handed it to him. ‘No, thank you. I’ve managed to cope so far without propping myself up with alcohol.’

‘My congratulations.’ He raised his glass in a parody of a toast. ‘You’re clearly not as fragile as you look. I hope you can overlook the weaknesses of lesser mortals.’

‘Admitting to weakness?’ Alison asked sweetly. ‘How very uncharacteristic!’

‘Make the most of it,’ he drawled, his eyes glinting. There was a brief silence, then he said abruptly, ‘I didn’t intend to come here in person. I was going to approach you through Alex Liddell in the first instance.’

She stared at him, suddenly dry-mouthed. She said huskily, ‘I suppose you want us to leave.’

‘No, on the contrary …’

‘You’ve changed your mind? You’re going to let us stay here?’ Alison’s heart leapt in joyous incredulity as she stared at him.

He frowned again. ‘I’m afraid it’s not as simple as that. A few days ago I contacted Liddell, and told him I would prefer it if the present staff continued working for me, if they were willing. I mentioned I’d like to meet the housekeeper for a preliminary chat.’ He paused again. ‘I must confess his reply staggered me.’

Alison sat down. ‘He told you I was the housekeeper?’ She shrugged. ‘There’s no problem, Mr Bristow. I can guarantee I won’t take you to the industrial tribunal for firing me, and hiring someone else.’

He said abruptly, ‘Isn’t this formality rather overdone? My name is Nick.’

‘To your friends, perhaps,’ she said coolly. ‘But you’ll never count me in that small and exclusive company. I prefer formality.’

‘As you wish,’ he said coldly. ‘But it imposes additional difficulties on the proposition I’m about to put to you.’

Alison’s brows shot up. ‘You’re not offering me the job of housekeeper, I hope?’

‘Yes, I am,’ he said shortly. ‘And before you turn me down, perhaps you’d better listen to the whole deal.’

‘You think any deal on earth could persuade me to be your servant?’ Alison asked dazedly. ‘My God, you have some gall!’

‘Listen to me,’ he said impatiently. ‘If you agree to what I want, you can have the lot. The house as your own, a self-contained flat for your mother—anything you wish.’ He hesitated, then added flatly, ‘And I understand from Liddell that your sister’s school fees are a problem. I’ll pay them, and see her through university too, if she makes the grade.’

Alison got to her feet. ‘I wouldn’t have any more Scotch,’ she said sarcastically. ‘You’re obviously not well.’

He gave a short derisive laugh. ‘In other words, I’m either drunk, or out of my mind! I’m neither, I assure you. I’ve thought it all out very carefully, and it seems to me to be an ideal solution to a number of mutual problems.’

‘I think a good domestic staff agency would be an even better solution, and cheaper in the long run.’ She began to move towards the door, but he came after her and took hold of her arm, halting her.

She tried angrily to shake herself free. ‘Let go of me!’

‘When you’ve heard me out,’ he said inexorably. ‘Sit down, Alison.’

‘There’s no point in my listening to any more of this. I have no intention of becoming your servant!’ She stared at him in hostility and defiance.

‘I’m not asking you to be a servant,’ he said. ‘Actually, I’m asking you to become my wife.’

There was a long pause, then Alison said shakily, ‘You really must be—insane.’

‘On the contrary, I’m perfectly sober, and in my right mind.’ He pushed her back on to the sofa. ‘Will you just listen for two minutes? I want this house to be run with the kind of calm efficiency I’ve noticed on each of my visits, and in spite of the fact you look about sixteen years old, I now know this is all your doing. But it doesn’t stop there. I also need a hostess—someone used to entertaining—someone to accompany me in public when necessary. In other words, I want a wife.’

‘Then I’m sure there’s a whole queue of willing ladies only too happy to accommodate you,’ she said stonily. ‘Why pick on me?’

‘If I wanted romance—passion—all the usual ingredients, why indeed?’ His voice was ironic. ‘But I don’t. I want the practical advantages of marriage without the emotional involvement. And if you agreed to marry me, that’s the kind of arrangement it would be.’ His brows rose at the sound of her little indrawn breath. ‘Or did you by some chance think I might have fallen madly in love with you?’

‘No,’ she said tautly, ‘I didn’t.’

‘Then we’ve achieved one level of understanding at least,’ he observed sardonically. ‘Think about it, Alison. Your old home, and comfort and security for your family, in return for continuing to run this house, and acting the part of the dutiful wife in public.’

‘I think marriage to you is a high price to pay, even for total security,’ she said quietly.

‘But as I’ve tried to make clear, it wouldn’t be a marriage in any real sense,’ he pointed out impatiently.

‘I understand that.’ Alison shook her head, aware of a growing feeling of unreality. ‘But would you really be content with such a cold-blooded arrangement for the rest of your life?’

‘If I thought for one minute I was capable of finding the kind of genuine happiness my parents enjoyed, then probably not.’ Nick Bristow gave a faint shrug. ‘But that isn’t going to happen. And I’m certainly not interested in saddling myself with declarations of undying love, and the inevitable tantrums when the thing comes unstuck. I know damned well what an ephemeral thing eternal passion is, at least where women are concerned.’

‘Are men any different?’ Alison asked steadily. ‘Perhaps you’ve just been unfortunate.’

‘Maybe.’ He shrugged again. ‘I’m in no real position to judge, but among my own friends I’ve seen any number totally committed to their marriages, and unable to see that their devoted wives are already looking over their shoulders, waiting for the next well-heeled idiot to come along so they can play change partners.’ His mouth curled slightly. ‘That isn’t what I want. And I can’t see why you and I shouldn’t reach some kind of bargain which would satisfy us both.’ He paused, the blue eyes measuring her. ‘As an extra incentive,’ he said, ‘I know of someone who might be interested in buying your father’s works as a going concern, instead of letting it fall into the hands of the receiver.’

‘How wonderful to be able to exert such influence,’ she said quietly. ‘I only wish my future wasn’t going to be part of all this wheeling and dealing. It tends to have an unsettling effect.’

The dark face held impatience. ‘What reassurance can I offer? If you want a written contract, then I’ll have one drawn up. You can impose whatever safeguards seem good to you. A mutual guarantee, if you like, that we won’t interfere in each other’s lives.’

‘In other words, I’m not to enquire too closely into where you go, or what company you keep,’ Alison said scornfully. ‘I find that a revolting idea!’

‘I can’t see why any extra-mural activities of mine should affect you at all,’ he said cynically. He paused. ‘Unless, of course, it’s you that has fallen madly in love with me.’

‘Nothing,’ she assured him, ‘could be further from the truth.’

‘That’s what I thought,’ he said drily. ‘So why introduce emotional hassle into what is purely a business arrangement? If I were offering you any other kind of job, you wouldn’t be probing into my moral rectitude.’

There was a kind of brutal truth in that, she was forced to admit.

‘At the risk of probing further,’ she said, after a brief hesitation, ‘I thought there was a lady in your life already—someone you planned to marry, when it was convenient …’

‘You mean when her divorce became final?’ He studied Alison’s responding flush with open mockery. ‘I’m afraid you’re under a misapprehension, my dear. And so is the lady, as I’ve had to make clear to her. She’ll be far better off staying with her husband. He may be dull, but he stands to inherit a baronetcy.’

Alison’s eyes widened indignantly. ‘Isn’t that rather callous?’

‘It might be,’ he agreed, ‘if I’d helped to put her marriage on the rocks on the first place. As it happens, I didn’t. Nor do I appreciate her throwing my name to any tame gossip columnist she had hanging round.’ The firm mouth hardened into implacability, and in spite of herself, Alison shivered. ‘I have no intention of being dragged into the Monclairs’ current bout of mud-slinging, and finding myself an alternative bride without delay will help to snuff out any further speculation in that quarter.’ He smiled faintly. ‘As you see, the favours work both ways.’

Alison ran the tip of her tongue around her drying lips. ‘If you want simply to be engaged—on a temporary basis—then maybe …’

‘I don’t,’ he interrupted. ‘I’ve told you my terms. I want a real engagement, to be followed in due course by a conventional wedding—although I suppose I’ll have to spare you the white lace and orange blossom,’ he added, his eyes flicking over her dismissively.

‘Thank you,’ said said grittily. ‘But I don’t need to be reminded that I fall far short of the usual image of the radiant bride.’

‘Perhaps,’ he agreed, without a single sign of repentance. ‘But it wasn’t any possible shortcomings of yours I was considering, but the fact that you’re still mourning your father. I think, in the circumstances, we could be forgiven for a small quiet wedding.’

It was all moving too far too fast, and she held up a hand. ‘I—I can’t answer you now. I must have time to think.’

‘As you wish.’ He paused. ‘But without wishing to exert undue pressure, I’d be glad to have an answer by the end of the week at the latest.’ He produced a card from a wallet, and handed it to her. ‘My business and private numbers,’ he said. ‘I’ll be waiting for your call.’

She couldn’t think of anything to say in reply to this, at last managing a feeble ‘Goodbye’ as he walked towards the door.

‘Let’s make it au revoir, shall we?’ She thought she could hear faint amusement in his voice. ‘Because I’ll be back.’

She was still trying to work out whether that was a promise or a threat when she heard the distant thud of the front door closing.

And, suddenly and uncontrollably, she began to tremble.

CHAPTER THREE

IT was a very long evening. Alison made herself have a meal, although she could not afterwards have stated with any accuracy just what she had eaten. All she could think of was Nicholas Bristow, and the amazing—the incredible offer he had made her.

At first, she told herself that it was all some weird dream from which, at any moment, she would awaken.

But the card with his telephone numbers printed on it was no figment of her imagination, even though she couldn’t envisage herself ever dialling either of them.

She tried to look at his proposition in the same dispassionate way as he had made it, but it was impossible. Even if, as he’d promised, all they were to share was a roof and a name, the prospect was still a disturbing one, fraught with obvious pitfalls.

On the other hand, the chance of being able to achieve some kind of security for Mel and her mother was a tantalising one, which was why, she thought wryly, he had mentioned that aspect first. He knew her priorities, as well as he apparently knew his own.

Yet that didn’t mean she was prepared to sell herself—for Ladymead, and the place in the sun it represented, she thought, staring sightlessly into the fire. Yet now it was back within her grasp, could she bear to let it go?

She moved restlessly. It was the sheer—impersonality of the offer that chilled her, she had to admit, as she recalled the cool indifference of the blue eyes as they had glanced at her. Not that she wanted him to fancy her, she made haste to remind herself. But at the same time, it was hurtful to recognise the image he had of her as some boring, submissive, domesticated doormat. A born spinster, she thought savagely, only too eager to grab at any matrimonial opportunity to come her way, however unlikely or unrewarding.

Well, what a shock he’d get when she turned him down!

‘I’m off now, miss.’ Mrs Horner popped her head round the door. ‘And madam’s awake, and asking for you.’

‘I’ll go up right away.’ Alison stirred guiltily. ‘Did she have any dinner?’

‘Cook did her a nice piece of steamed fish, and a little egg custard. She managed most of it,’ Mrs Horner assured her. ‘Good night, Miss Alison.’

Mrs Mortimer was propped up by pillows, her face set in lines of strain.

‘That man was here,’ she greeted Alison, as her daughter came through the door. ‘What did he want?’

‘Just to talk.’ Alison sat down on the edge of the bed and took her mother’s hand. ‘How are you this evening? You were asleep when I peeped in earlier.’

Mrs Mortimer dismissed this with an irritated shake of her head. ‘What does he have to talk to us about?’ she demanded agitatedly. ‘God knows we’re at his mercy. I suppose he wants us to leave here. Well, I’ll die first!’ She began to cry again. ‘This is my home, and it’s too cruel for him to turn me out like this. Too cruel!’ She began to thrash round on her pillows, making little moaning noises.

‘Darling, don’t,’ Alison said gently. ‘He didn’t come here for that at all. In fact …’ She stopped.

‘What?’ Her mother’s fingers tightened almost convulsively round hers, hurting her. ‘What did he want, Alison? Has he changed his mind about living here, after all? Is he going to leave us in peace?’

Alison shook her head reluctantly. ‘He can’t do that.’ She paused. ‘Mummy, Simon told me about this cottage today. It’s at High Foxton, so you could still stay in touch with all your friends. It sounds really quite nice, and we could just about afford it. Would you like to see it?’

‘No!’ Mrs Mortimer’s eyes were alarmingly wild and bright suddenly. ‘I’ll never leave here—never! This is my home, not some squalid cottage. We must buy Ladymead back. Your Uncle Hugh might have the money. We must ask him to help us.’

‘Darling, you can’t,’ Alison said firmly. ‘Uncle Hugh has responsibilities of his own, and I shouldn’t think he could lay his hands on even half the amount Nicholas Bristow would want. Even if he’d sell—which I doubt.’

‘I thought perhaps that was why he’d come here. To offer to sell the place back to us.’ The look of hope in her mother’s eyes was almost more than Alison could bear.

‘No,’ she said with a sigh, ‘It—it wasn’t that. He came to offer us—a share in it, I suppose. On certain conditions.’

‘A share?’ A share in Ladymead?’ Mrs Mortimer drew a long quivering breath. ‘In our own home?’

Alison sighed silently. ‘But it isn’t ours any longer,’ she said patiently. ‘You have to come to terms with the fact that it belongs to Nick Bristow now, lock, stock and barrel. That’s why it would be so much better to get away from here and start again.’

‘How can you say that?’ Her mother’s tone was harsh with reproach. ‘This is the house where you were born. Oh, you’re so hard, Alison. I sometimes wonder how you came to be any child of mine.’

‘As you’ve often told me,’ Alison said wryly. She got up. ‘Get some more rest now, Mother. We’ll talk again tomorrow.’

‘No, now.’ Mrs Mortimer’s fingers fastened like manacles round Alison’s wrist. ‘Tell me about this offer of the Bristow man’s. Does it really mean we can stay here? What conditions?’

‘He wants me to—work for him in a certain capacity.’ Alison chose her words carefully.

‘Work?’ her mother echoed. ‘But a man like that would already have all the staff he needs, surely. He could pick and choose, and you aren’t even trained for anything.’

‘I don’t think there’s much formal training for the kind of job he’s offering,’ Alison returned drily. ‘And it’s staff for Ladymead that he’s looking for.’

‘But Alec Liddell assured me that Cook—Mrs Horner—everyone would be kept on. Are you telling me they’re going to be turned out too?’

‘On the contrary, he’s anxious for the status quo to be preserved when he takes over. I imagine he would find any form of domestic inconvenience profoundly irritating.’

‘Then what’s the problem?’

Alison shrugged, striving for lightness. ‘The problem is he’s discovered from Alec that I’ve been—running things for you since I left school, and he wants me to go on doing so.’

Mrs Mortimer levered herself up against her pillows, her attention sharply fixed on her daughter’s face. ‘He wants you to keep house for him—and we can live here while you do?’

‘Yes.’ Alison looked down at the carpet. ‘Ridiculous, isn’t it?’

‘Ridiculous? It could be the answer to our prayers!’ There was excited colour in Mrs Mortimer’s face, and she looked more animated than she’d done for weeks, Alison realised with a pang. ‘What did you tell him? Did you agree?’

Alison shook her head. ‘Not yet. You see—there’s more.’ She hesitated, then said baldly, ‘He wants to marry me.’

‘Marry you?’ Mrs Mortimer slumped back in genuine if unflattering astonishment. ‘Nicholas Bristow wants to marry you?’ She shook her head. ‘Darling, it must have been some strange kind of joke. He can’t have been serious!’

‘That’s what I thought,’ Alison agreed, refusing to allow herself to be wounded by her mother’s immediate assumption that she could have no charms for a man like Nick Bristow. After all, it was no more than the truth, and she knew it, and to allow even one pang of hurt was merely being stupid. ‘But I have until the end of the week to give him my answer, so that seems to indicate he means business.’

‘Good God,’ Mrs Mortimer said faintly. There was silence, then she said, ‘What are you going to say?’

Alison’s brows lifted. ‘No, of course. You couldn’t expect me to agree to such an outrageous proposal. He—he doesn’t care for me. I think I could do better for myself than be married as a convenience.’

‘Do better than Nicholas Bristow? Are you quite mad?’ Mrs Mortimer sat up energetically, grasping her daughter’s hands in hers. ‘Alison, he’s offering you your home back—your heritage. That’s what you must think about. And there’s Melly to consider.’

‘I know,’ Alison acknowledged. ‘She was part of the package, as a matter of fact.’ She tried a smile. ‘Oh, all the strings were gold-plated, and designed to appeal. No wonder he’s such a success in the City!’

‘Then how can you even consider refusing?’ Mrs Mortimer demanded.

Alison’s chin came up. ‘Daddy sold himself to Nick Bristow,’ she said with terrible clarity. ‘Are you seriously suggesting I should do the same thing?’

‘But this may be his way of trying to make amends to us,’ her mother said eagerly. ‘Alison, for God’s sake—at least consider!’

Alison looked at her incredulously. ‘You—really mean it?’

‘Of course I do!’ Mrs Mortimer thumped the coverlet with her fist. ‘For heaven’s sake, darling, be rational. You’re far too sensible to be carried away by dreams of some overpowering romance. It just isn’t going to happen, and instead you’re being offered the chance to recover everything we’ve lost, together with the kind of husband most girls would be fighting over,’ she added a shade waspishly.

‘Perhaps that’s part of the trouble,’ Alison said drily. ‘Maybe I’d prefer a man who wasn’t quite so universally attractive.’

‘Now you’re being absurd.’ Mrs Mortimer released her hands and threw herself back on her pillows. She was looking agitated again. ‘Alison, you can’t do this to us! It would be too selfish to deliberately reduce us all to penury, when it could all be so different—and just for a few silly scruples. I feel that Nicholas Bristow is doing his utmost to behave honourably in this—dire situation. And the last you can do is meet him halfway.’

‘The least?’ Alison didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. ‘To sell myself to a man I hardly know just for security? To give up my own life—the possibility of a career …?’

‘A career!’ Mrs Mortimer almost snorted. ‘I suppose you mean working for a pittance at that estate agent’s. And if you’re imagining for one minute that Simon Thwaite will have any further interest in you once we’ve lost Ladymead, then think again, because the Thwaites have always married money.’

‘And Simon will know his duty, even if I don’t.’ Alison bent her head. ‘Thank you for being so frank. It’s just as well I’m not in love with him.’

‘If you were, naturally I would exert no pressure, but in the circumstances …’ Mrs Mortimer retrieved a lace-edged handkerchief and dabbed at her mouth. ‘Alison dear, it isn’t given to us all to fall deeply in love as I did with your father. Very satisfactory relationships have been known to evolve from very little.’

‘But how do you build on nothing at all?’ Alison asked ironically. ‘It will be interesting to find out, I suppose, if nothing else.’ She pushed her hair back from her face. ‘Uncle Hugh said Daddy was a gambler; I must be more like him than I thought.’ She bent and dropped a light kiss on her mother’s hair. ‘Don’t look so worried, darling, you’re going to have your way. Ladymead will be restored to us, with all the other fringe benefits. I’ll phone Mr Bristow now and tell him, before I lose my nerve.’

She went down the stairs slowly, clinging to the banister rail as if she was afraid her legs would crumple and betray her. She’d left Nick Bristow’s card beside the phone, and it lay there, staring up at her, forcing her to respond—to act.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.