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'Go to hell,' she said flatly, an indescribable pain pulling her to pieces, and he looked at her once, before thrusting his chair back and standing up, his mouth twisted downwards before he turned away.
'I've just been there.'
CHAPTER ELEVEN
JUDE slid the car to a halt outside the house in Belgravia, his features set in the tight mask he'd worn since she'd told him about the baby.
'I'll drop you off here while I garage the car.' It was the first thing he'd said during the drive home, and his words registered heavily on a mind that was still in shock.
'And Cleo--' this as her numb fingers were fumbling to release her safety belt
'—have Meg move my things into the guest-room.'
A logical request, since their marriage was dead, she thought drearily, but bitterness still lived on and it surfaced in her tone as, staring straight ahead, she said tartly, '1 thought we were going to talk things out. That was the point of going to the cottage, wasn't it? I thought I was going to be allowed to put my point of view, for once.'
'Everything changed when you told me you were pregnant.' From the corner of her eye she saw his hands tighten on the steering wheel, making the knuckles white, and she thought she could detect a thread of emotion in his voice. But his tone was as before, flat, when he added, 'With Fenton off the scene, about to be married, I'd thought we might pick up the pieces, make something— no matter how superficial—of our marriage. Every time I look at your child I shall wonder if it's mine, or Fenton's, and not even I could live with that.'
'Fenton and I were never lovers!' The words came quickly, spilling out; they just had to be said, even though she knew she and Jude were finished.
He said wearily, 'Don't lie, Cleo. There's no point,' and she felt tired beyond belief, utterly drained.
Automatically, she moved out of the car and into the house, her feet somehow carrying her to the roomy kitchen where Thornwood was cleaning silver and Meg- was putting vegetables through the blender for soup.
'Oh, madam! We didn't expect you home today!' Meg put a hand to her plump bosom. 'Walking in like a ghost!' And then, her startled reaction receding, her eyes narrowed in concern. 'Are you all right, madam? You're very pale.'
'I'm fine.' Cleo's smile was automatic, too. She felt numb. 'I thought I ought to let you know we're back.'
She was talking as though she and Jude were still an entity. But it wasn't the case. They had never been further apart. Even during the time when he'd looked at her with contempt, yet possessed her body with nightly, passionate savagery, there had been the unmistakable bonding of deep, racking emotion. Now there was nothing. Nothing at all.
'No, I won't have coffee, thanks,' she replied to Thornwood's offer. 'But Mr Mescal might like a tray.'
She left the room as silently as she had entered it, feeling like the wraith Meg had likened her to. The Thornwoods had been married a long time. They had grown together. Cleo couldn't imagine one without the other. Would they be able to understand the tragedy that her brief marriage to Jude had become?
Probably not. For them, love and marriage would only be seen as a comfortable, comforting, easy thing.
She wouldn't ask Meg to move Jude's things, of course. That was something she had to do herself. An exorcism, perhaps. And it was what she had wanted, she reminded herself as she took formal suits and casual wear in methodical armloads from his half of the enormous hanging cupboard. She had tried to tell him she wanted to sleep alone, at least until he was willing to give her a hearing. But then, of course, there had still been the hope that having listened to her, realised his suspicions had been entirely without foundation—then, and only then, would they have been able to try to rebuild their relationship.
Now, of course, there was no hope left, and the action of clearing his things out was so completely final. It was the end, finis, nothing more to be said.
The thought made her want to cry, but she didn't have the energy. The empty, defeated feeling had grown, depleting her mental resources, ever since he'd cleared the uneaten food from the table last night and had told her she might as well go and re-pack as they'd be leaving first thing in the morning.
Still shattered by what he had said about the questionable paternity of the child she was carrying, she had dragged herself upstairs, staring at her reflection and thinking how silly she looked in the pretty, clinging dress, her face a white mask punctuated by the deep dark holes of her eyes. She hadn't unpacked, so there had been nothing to do but curl up on the bed, pulling the soft eiderdown over her cold body, saying goodbye to her marriage.
Later, she had heard him leave the cottage and she'd lain awake all night, her eyes burning and dry as she'd stared into the darkness. At dawn, he had come back and she'd gone downstairs, still in the dress she'd slept in, dragging her suitcase. He had given her one hard look from empty eyes, the strain lines around his mouth making him look older. He must have been walking all night, judging by the way he looked, and immediate concern for him came to life in the emptiness of her heart, and she'd said quickly, 'Jude—sit down, let me make you some breakfast—and let's try, for pity's sake, to talk this thing out. Things are nothing like you believe them to be--'
'Forget it.' He was walking away from her. 'I don't want breakfast, and there's nothing to be said that would - make any difference to the way things are.'
Ever since that he had treated her as though she didn't exist. She probably didn't, not to him, she thought as she slid the last of his shirts into the top drawer of the chest in the guest-room.
He had never pretended to love her, and as far as he was concerned he had made a bad error of judgement when he'd decided a marriage between them could work. And now he was cutting his losses, cutting her out of his life.
The process, she knew, had only just begun.
'Is that the lot?' He had come into the room quietly. 'I'd have given you a hand if you'd said you weren't asking Meg to do it.' He didn't look as tired as he had done, although he was still pale beneath his tan. Meg's coffee must have helped.
Cleo hunched one shoulder, not knowing what to say. What could one say in such a situation? She wouldn't go down on her knees and beg him to listen to her. She had her pride, if nothing else.
He moved further into the room, unbuttoning his shirt, and she edged back towards the door. 'I'm going to shower and change,' he told her. He looked at her as he spoke but his eyes were empty. The light had gone out of them. 'I won't be back for dinner, so don't wait up. Let Meg know, would you?' he said dismissively, and Cleo slipped out of the door and went to her room.
