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'I'm as well as can be expected, so they tell me.' A fleeting look of terror, so brief it almost wasn't there— because the occupants of Slade House didn't betray emotion, even fear of dying—flickered over his gaunt features, and Cleo, understanding, changed the subject.
'Is Luke expected home this weekend?' She hoped not. Her cousin was pompous and stiff, he always had been, even when he'd been seventeen to her fourteen and she'd tried to make friends with the only young person in a household that had seemed to consist of elderly, rigid machines. But he had been pompous even then, standoffish, making it clear he didn't like her, considered her addition to the household an invasion of privacy. Luke's attitude had been primarily responsible for her decision to seek work elsewhere, rather than join the family firm of Slade Securities.
'No, he's tied up with some meetings. Look--' a finger stabbed at the open album on his knee, as if he found the subject of Luke too difficult to talk about, and Cleo wondered if she'd touched a sore spot, reminding John Slade of the spiteful piece in that gossip column that had pointed out the other side of his son's character—the reckless, belligerent, hidden side. 'That's your father and me. A village cricket match well over fifty years ago. I was sixteen, your father almost eighteen.'
Cleo peered at the faded print; two youths in white flannels, holding bats, looking impossibly solemn. She grinned, recognising the jut of her father's jaw, an early indication of the stubborn, determined character he would develop in later life. And John Slade, mistaking the reason for her amusement, shook his head, 'It's probably impossible for you to imagine us as ever being young men, or children. But we were, my goodness we were!
We were both high-spirited, a little arrogant, and we knew where we were going—or thought we did.' His shoulders slumped a little, his eyes looking into the distant past. 'I'm afraid we both left it late to marry, to get a family, your father even later than I—so you young things must think we were born old! But I can assure you, that wasn't the case!'
'You must still miss him,' Cleo probed gently. At times she still keenly felt the loss of both her parents, and perhaps that was something that might draw her closer to her uncle. For the first time in her adult life she felt she needed to be close to someone, and her uncle touched her hand, just briefly, as if such a demonstration of affection embarrassed him. But it was enough, and his fingers still touched the surface of the photograph, as if he could recapture lost days, lost youth, through the sense of touch—as if he were holding on to a past that was precious because it had held promises, promises which had never been truly fulfilled, she now divined with sudden insight.
And then, in that moment, sitting beside the man whose years were all behind him, she knew she couldn't bring the bitterness of family shame to darken his declining years or, maybe and quite possibly, deprive him of those few remaining years.
Her decision to pay Fenton what he demanded had been the right one. And the only way she could gain access to her inheritance straight away was through marriage. So her proposal to Jude had been the only way out.
And then, out of nowhere, the appalled thought came: What have I done?
She had asked for the Frozen Asset's hand in marriage, that was what she had done! And, the right, the only thing to do, suddenly became terrifying.
What his final decision would be, heaven only •;new. He'd probably fire her and suggest she spend the next six months in a rest home!
She wanted to give way to the unprecedented feeling of hysteria she could feel building up inside her—to shriek and scream and hurl things around the room to relieve the pressure inside her head. Instead, she asked her uncle if he'd like her to go with him for a short walk in the garden—the weather was remarkably good for the time of year, wasn't it?
She had been jittery all day, Jude on her mind making her unable to concentrate. She kept thinking of the enormity of what she had done in asking him to marry her, and she wanted to buy a plane ticket to the other side of the world.
She had thought that marriage to such a suitable man would be the answer to her problems. Her intellect had assured her that she would not enter such a business arrangement—which was basically what the marriage would be—empty-handed, far from it, and she was presentable, she wouldn't be a wife he need be ashamed of. And as far as she knew there wasn't a lovely lady in the background—not one he had considered marrying, at least. He was reputedly wary where the state of matrimony was concerned.
There would probably be women for him in the future; she didn't doubt that he possessed his full measure of male sexuality. But provided he was discreet she would be tolerant, understanding. And the hot little pain that made itself felt at the direction her thoughts were taking was solely due to her state of apprehension over the outcome of his 'considerations'—surely it was?
However, what had seemed such a neatly feasible idea began to look like a crass, idiotic blunder. Crasser and more idiotic as the minutes ticked away, their growing total an insupportable weight as Monday morning turned into Monday afternoon...
Unable to bear the suddenly stifling confines of her office a moment longer, she left early, taking the tube back to Bow and entering her own small terraced house, looking for the relief it always gave her.
Her home was her sanctuary, inviolate, the furnishings, the decor, echoing her own cool yet gentle character. It had provided a haven during her years of study and, later, a place to unwind in, to potter around wearing old jeans and shirts after the concentrated mind- stretching that being at Jude Mescal's beck and call all day often entailed.
But this afternoon tranquillity had been forced through the walls as her thoughts, despite all her best efforts, centred on the outcome of her dinner engagement with him later this evening.
Catching sight of herself in the mirror in the hallway, she stopped in her tracks. It was like looking at a crazy woman! Her grey eyes looked haunted, half wild with worry, and far too large for her pale, pointed face.
One look at such a distraught creature, she decided, would be enough to put any man off the idea of marriage—let alone Jude Mescal, who was definitely choosier than most.
And if she were to arrive at his house looking even half-way normal then it was time to take herself firmly in hand, she decided grimly. Deliberately assuming the cloak of self-command, of dignity, that her years with the austere Grace Slade had taught her to wear with ease, she ran a bath, pouring in expensive essence, then relaxed in the perfumed water, planning what she would wear, wondering if she could make time to give herself a facial. She didn't look further ahead than that. She dared not—not if she was to remain in control of herself.
At seven-thirty precisely she was stepping into the Rolls, her voice light and pleasant as she replied to a remark Thornwood had made about the mildness of the weather.
Thornwood was a dear, one of a dying breed, Jude often said. Cleo had met him and his wife, Meg, on several occasions and had marvelled at how well they ran Jude's house between them. They made it a home.
As the luxurious car whispered through the streets towards the quiet square in Belgravia where Jude lived, Cleo took stock. The discipline she had at last been able to bring to her preparations for this evening had transformed her from near nervous wreck into a composed, sophisticated young woman—the sort who would never get the jitters over anything—the sort of creature she had been until she had decided to propose to Jude Mescal, she admitted with a wry half-smile.
He could only say no, and if he did she would have to think of some other way out of the mess she was in. And if he did say no, it wouldn't be because she looked like a crazy woman!
Her black silk dress, falling in wide pleats from a high square yoke and supported by two narrow ribbon straps, was vaguely twenties in style, rather expensive, and the perfect foil for her slender height, fo
r the pale silver gilt of her hair which hung in a shimmering, newly washed curve to her jawline.
No, her image wouldn't let her down tonight, and as long as she could control her nerves—and her temper if he should turn scathing or flippant—then she would be able to manage perfectly. That he might actually agree to marry her, and solve the problem of Fenton, was something she thought it wiser not to consider just now. It was, on the whole, rather too much to hope for, and if she didn't allow herself to hope then she wouldn't be too disappointed when he replied in the negative, as any right-minded man would do.
Even thinking along those lines brought a sudden return of the hated stomach-churning apprehension—to come out of this evening's encounter with her job intact was the most she could hope for—but her inner disturbance wasn't allowed to show as Thornwood held the car door open for her.
