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One word, she prayed silently. One word of need and regret was all she asked from him.
The sound of the front door closing behind him was like a whiplash across her wincing senses. And presently the sound of the car engine receding into the distance warned her with chilling finality that there was nothing left to hope for.
It was the most wretched day Amanda had ever spent. She wandered from room to room, Harvey pattering after her, feeling more lost, bewildered and alone than she had ever thought possible.
If it hadn’t been for the small, intimate marks of lovemaking that Malory had left in significant places on her skin, she would have thought she’d dreamed the whole of the previous night. And the optimism she’d experienced about their future relationship seemed, in retrospect, absurd to the point of tragedy.
She even found herself wondering miserably if she’d transgressed some unknown code, behaved more like a mistress than a wife, embarrassed and shocked him by her wild, uninhibited abandonment to his loving. But she soon dismissed the idea. If she’d been an over-eager pupil, then Malory had been her more-than-willing teacher. And it would be hypocritical in the extreme for him, afterwards, to draw back in distaste from the memory of her response to him. He might be complex, but Amanda didn’t believe for one minute he was a hypocrite.
All she could suppose, even more depressingly, was that their night together had not been sufmemorable for him to wish to make her his wife in any real sense. He’d had her, and now it was over, and they could revert to the terms of their original agreement.
But I can’t, she thought desolately. I can’t live as a stranger with him any longer. I want him—I need him too much.
Nor was it merely passion that she longed for from him. It was everything that made a marriage—the laughter, the tenderness, the communication, and the sharing. All the things she had naively thought would follow from their loving as spring followed winter.
There was the sourness of unshed tears in her throat. She had thought happiness was hers for the taking, but her hands were empty, and so was her life.
Her reverie was interrupted by the indignant arrival of Mrs Priddy.
‘Those florists,’ she said scornfully, surging into the room. ‘Really, you can’t trust anyone these days. Look what George found pushed into one of the dustbins, madam.’
She produced from behind her back, with the air of a conjuror, a magnificent bouquet of long-stemmed red roses, each bloom tightly furled into a dark velvet bud.
‘They’re lovely.’ Amanda touched the protective cellophane covering. ‘And they’re still absolutely fresh. But I certainly didn’t order them. There’s clearly been some mistake. Perhaps you’d phone the florist and ask them to collect them.’
‘An expensive mistake, if you ask me. And I phoned as soon as George brought them in, Mrs Templeton. But the manageress says she knows nothing about them.’ She snorted. ‘Fine thing. You want to check their bill when it comes in, in case they do suddenly remember them after all, and charge you.‘ She gave Amanda a shrewd look. ’Anyway, as they’re here, madam, why don’t you put them in water? They might cheer you up a little.‘
She put the bouquet down on the table, and went back to the kitchen.
It would take, Amanda thought listlessly, more than roses. But the flowers, whoever they’d been intended for, were exquisite, and it would be a shame to let them die.
She removed the wrapping, inhaling the faint scent that wafted to her. Red roses, she thought. A token of love which would never, now, reach its destination. It seemed, somehow the final, sad straw; bending her head, she began, very quietly, to cry.
CHAPTER TEN
The telephone was ringing as Amanda came into the house. Stripping off her gloves, she called, ‘I’ll get it’ to Mrs Priddy.
She had no idea what the time difference was between England and America, but she had long ago given up the hope that Malory might be calling her. He had been gone for almost a fortnight, and in that time, hurtfully, there’d been no word from him.
Lifting the receiver, she gave the number.
‘Mrs Templeton?‘ Peter Wilton spoke uncertainly. ‘I’m sorry to bother you, but I was wondering if you had any idea where we could contact your husband’
She said constrictedly. ‘But surely his secretary will have an itinerary?’
‘Actually, she hasn’t—as it’s a private visit.’ He gave an awkward laugh. ‘As a matter of fact, I could have sworn Dr Templeton said you were going with him. He loves the USA, and he was talking about showing you all the places he likes best.’ He paused. ‘But obviously I’ve got hold of the wrong end of the stick, yet again, so if you do have an address where we could reach him, I’d be grateful. It is urgent.’
