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She had lived in the village all her life, but for reasons which did not become clear to Genista until later, her parents had always kept themselves very much to themselves. Her father was a solicitor with a small practice in a nearby town. She was an only child, and her mother seemed to have no friends. Her parents were really all in all to each other, and often, without meaning to, they made her feel slightly as though she were in the way. Such love was very rare, as she had come to appreciate in the years since their death.
She had met Richard when he had come to seek her father’s advice about the purchase of a field adjacent to his farm.
Richard’s father had owned one of the most profitable farms in the area, and following his death from a heart attack when Richard was still at agricultural college, the latter had returned home to take his father’s place.
Richard’s mother and two sisters lived with him. Genista knew him by sight. He was something of a local pin-up, and Genista, who had just left school, and was working in her father’s office as a trainee secretary, had been overwhelmed when Richard had turned almost casually as she opened the door to let him out of the house, following his chat with her father, and asked her if she would like to go out with him.
It had taken her ten seconds to take in the question, and another fifteen to give him a stammered acceptance, accompanied by a vivid blush. Partially because she was naturally shy, and partially because she had been educated privately at an all girls’ school, Genista had had little to do with young men. To her Richard seemed almost god-like. She had heard the village girls chattering about him, and could not understand by what miracle he had actually chosen to ask her out.
The date was for Saturday, four days away, and they passed in a daze of mingled bliss and fear—bliss because Richard had actually asked her out, and fear in case he found her ridiculously childish and lacking in the sophistication he would naturally expect in his dates.
The money she had been carefully hoarding from her salary was withdrawn from her bank account and splurged on a new and—to her—slightly daring outfit which the salesgirl assured her was the very latest fashion—and some new make-up.
Her parents knew about the date, and had been tenderly amused by its effect on her.
Richard was picking her up in his car. It had been a twenty-first present from his father before the latter’s death, and Genista was breathless with excitement when she eventually heard it draw up outside the house.
Having promised her parents that he would take the greatest care of her, Richard handed her into the bright red sports car, and that had been the beginning of their romance.
After her initial shyness had gone, Genista had never for one moment doubted that her love for him was returned. Otherwise why would he continue to date her? It was true he never took her to meet his family, not to the many social gatherings amongst the local farming community to which she knew he was invited, but she believed this was because he wanted them to be alone. Their kisses had gone from shy, tentative embraces to a passionate intensity which left her shaken with a longing she could barely understand. The one occasion upon which Richard touched her breast had filled her with mingled excitement and shame. They had been going out together for six months when Christmas loomed. Richard had already told her that he loved her—and desired her. There was nothing to feel ashamed of, he told her—nor to fear either. He would teach her everything.
Her parents went away the weekend before Christmas. Her father had an important business meeting in London, and her mother was going with him. Genista felt a little nervous about staying in the house alone, but her parents had not suggested that she went with them, and besides, if she had done so, she would have had to miss her weekend date with Richard.
It had been nearly a fortnight since she had seen him. Farm work had kept him busy, he told her vaguely when he picked her up. She had left the house lights on, a little frightened of coming back to an empty house, and they glowed in the darkness as she stepped into the car.
Richard took her to see a film. It remained a dim memory in her mind—men fighting, blood everywhere, women screaming. Afterwards they had driven home slowly, her head on Richard’s shoulder. He stopped outside her house, turning her to him and kissing her with a hunger that alarmed and excited her.
Greatly daring, she had asked him in for coffee. It was only when she brought the tray in to the lounge from the kitchen that Richard realised they were alone in the house. His manner had altered subtly, but she had been too naïve to be aware of it. When he took her in his arms, she had responded with all the yearning love locked up in her young heart, barely protesting when his hand slid up under her jumper towards the tender peak of her breast. Her heart was beating so loudly she thought she would suffocate with excitement. Richard was pressing hot, urgent kisses on her face and neck, and through the spiralling excitement she heard him ask why they didn’t go upstairs.
The question shocked her. They couldn’t, she told him uncertainly. It would be wrong.
Nonsense, he had argued. They loved one another, didn’t they?
Genista was quick to agree, adding rather shyly that she had always hoped to be married in white, and that surely it wouldn’t be long before they could be married. After all, he had a home to take her to and…
In her innocence she was unaware of the reason for his abrupt withdrawal; the angry look on his face as he got up and walked across to the fire, all at once a slightly distant stranger.
‘What’s the matter?’ She had asked the question hesitantly, alarmed by the look in his eyes.
‘I can’t marry you,’ Richard had told her uncompromisingly. ‘Where the devil did you get that idea from? I never said anything about marriage.’
‘You said you loved me!’ It was the cry of a wounded animal caught in a vicious trap, but Richard brushed her words aside, his expression truculent.
‘Oh, come on,’ he demanded, ‘don’t give me all that innocent stuff. You knew the score. A passionate little thing like you isn’t meant for marriage,’ he told her. ‘We could have a good time together, Gen.’ His confidence was returning and he came and sat down next to her, hugging her against him and trying to kiss her, but Genista moved away. He didn’t want to marry her; probably didn’t even love her. Inside she was screaming with the agony of it, but outwardly she was as cold as marble.
‘I thought you loved me.’ At last the words were forced past her numbed lips. ‘I thought you wanted to marry me.’
‘Marry you?’ Her refusal to play the part he had cast for her obviously angered Richard. ‘God, my mother would have a fit! I’m going to marry Sir Peter Lawtry’s daughter—or so she hopes—not the illegitimate offspring of some small-town solicitor. Marry you? My mother would rather see me dead!’
They must have said other things, but Genista could not remember them. All she could remember was her mingled pain and disbelief, firstly that Richard did not love her, and had merely been using her, while cold-bloodedly contemplating a far more socially advantageous marriage, and secondly that she was, as he had said—illegitimate!
When he finally realised that he was not going to persuade her to go to bed with him either now or ever he had stormed out of the house, calling her such vile names that she felt physically sick with them, and making it plain that he could never have really cared about her. Her dreams in ruins at her feet, Genista had the rest of the weekend to dwell on what he had said before she was able to tackle her parents on their return.
Among the snippets of information Richard had flung at her had been one to the effect that her father had been married to a friend of his mother’s before he met Genista’s mother. His wife had been tied to a wheelchair following a hunting accident, and although Genista’s mother had borne him a child, he had not been free to marry her until after his first wife’s death.
Genista tackled her parents the moment they returned home.
They had not denied it. Her mother’s eyes had been full of understanding pity as she looked into Genista’s white face still haunted by the memory of what Richard had told her.
