it’s Lydie Pearson…’
‘Oh, good afternoon,’ the PA answered pleasantly, before Lydie could continue. ‘I missed seeing you this morning.’ And Lydie realised that plainly Jonah must have made some comment to his PA about her visit—probably something along the lines of Don’t ever let that woman come in here again—she’s too expensive. Lydie hoped he hadn’t revealed the full content of her visit to his confidential assistant. ‘I’m afraid Mr Marrriott’s at a meeting. If you would like to leave a message?’
Blocked. ‘I should like to see him some time. Later this afternoon if that’s possible.’
‘He’s flying to Paris tonight, but…’
Something akin to jealousy gave Lydie a small thump at the thought that he would be dallying the weekend in Paris. Ridiculous, she scoffed. But she began to realise she had inherited a little of her mother’s arrogance in that she would beg for nothing. ‘I’ll give him a call next week. It’s not important,’ Lydie butted in pleasantly, wished the PA an affable goodbye, and turned to relay the conversation to her waiting father. ‘Try not to worry, Dad,’ she added quietly. Having been set up by her mother, she was not feeling all that friendly towards her, but attempted anyway to make things better between her parents. ‘And try not to be too cross with Mother; she only did what she did to help.’
Wilmot Pearson looked as if he might have a lot to say about that, but settled for a mild, ‘I know.’
The atmosphere in the house was not good for the rest of the day, however, and Lydie took herself off for a walk with a very great deal on her mind. She still felt crimson around the ears when she thought of the way she had gone to Jonah Marriott’s office and demanded fifty thousand pounds!
Oh, heavens! But—why on earth had he given it to her? Not only that, but he had made sure his cheque was banked and not returned to him with a polite note from her father. ‘There’s money in this account to meet this amount?’ she had asked him. ‘There will be…by the time you get to your father’s bank,’ he had said, as in Make haste and get there—and she had fallen for it!
Lydie carried on walking, not knowing where she was emotionally. With that money in the bank her father had some respite from his worries—and he sorely needed that respite. Against that, though, since it was she who had asked for, and taken, that money, regardless of where she had deposited it, she was beginning to realise that the debt was not her father’s but hers; solely hers.
Feeling quite sick as she accepted that realisation, all she could do was to wonder where in creation she was going to find fifty-five thousand pounds with which to repay him? That question haunted her for the remainder of her walk.
She returned home knowing that adding together the second-hand value of her car, the pearls her parents had given her for her twenty-first birthday and her small inheritance—if she could get into it—she would be lucky if she was able to raise as much as ten thousand pounds!
She went to bed that night knowing that Jonah Marriott’s hope that it would not be another seven years before they met again must have been said tongue in cheek. He must have known she would be on the phone wanting to see him the moment she discovered his loan from her father had been repaid long since. Jonah Marriott, without a doubt, had told his PA to inform her when she rang that he could not see her.
Why he would do that, Lydie wasn’t very sure, and conceded that very probably he’d given his PA no such instruction. It was just one Lydie Pearson feeling very much out of sorts where he was concerned. Him and his ‘Obviously your father doesn’t know you’ve come here.’ It was obvious to her, now, that Jonah knew her father would have soon stopped her visit had he the merest inkling of what she was doing.
Lydie spent a wakeful night with J. Marriott Esquire occupying too much space in her head for comfort. Oversexed swine! She hoped he was enjoying himself in Paris—whoever she was.
The atmosphere in her home was no better when she went down to breakfast on Saturday morning. Lydie saw a whole day of monosyllabic conversation and of watching frosty glances go back and forth.
‘I think I’ll go and see Aunt Alice. Truthfully,’ she added at her father’s sharp look.
‘While you’re there for goodness’ sake check what she intends to wear to the wedding next Saturday,’ her mother instructed peevishly. ‘She’s just as likely to turn up in that disgraceful old gardening hat and wellingtons!’
Lydie was glad to escape the house, and drove to Penleigh Corbett and the small semi-detached house which her mother’s aunt, to her mother’s embarrassment, rented from the local council.
To Lydie’s dismay, though, the sprightly eighty-four-year-old was looking much less sprightly than when she had last seen her, for all she beamed a welcome. ‘Come in, come in!’ she cried. ‘I didn’t expect to see you before next week.’
They were drinking coffee fifteen minutes later when, feeling quite perturbed by her great-aunt’s pallor, Lydie enquired casually, ‘Do you see your doctor at all?’
‘Dr Stokes? She’s always popping in.’
‘What for?’ Lydie asked in alarm.
‘Nothing in particular. She just likes my chocolate cake.’
Lydie had to stamp down hard on her need to know more than that. Great-Aunt Alice was anti people discussing their ailments. ‘Are you taking any medication?’ Lydie asked tentatively.
‘Do you know anybody over eighty who isn’t?’ Alice Gough bounced back. ‘How’s your mother? Has she come to terms yet with the fact dear Oliver wants to take a wife?’
‘You’re wicked,’ Lydie accused.
‘Only the good die young,’ Alice Gough chuckled, and took Lydie on a tour of her garden. They had lunch of bread, cheese and tomatoes, though Lydie observed that the elderly lady ate very little.
Lydie visited with her great-aunt for some while, then, thinking she was probably wanting her afternoon nap, said she would make tracks back to Beamhurst Court. ‘Come back with me!’ she said on impulse—her mother would kill her. ‘You could stay until after the wedding, and—’
‘Your mother would love that!’
‘Oh, do come,’ Lydie appealed.
‘I’ve got too much to do here,’ Alice Gough refused stubbornly.
‘You don’t—’ Lydie broke off. She had been going to say You don’t look well. She changed it to, ‘You’re a little pale, Aunty. Are you sure you’re all right?’
‘At my age I’m entitled to creak a bit!’ And with that Lydie had to be satisfied.
‘I’ll come over early next Saturday,’ she said as her great-aunt came out to her car with her.
‘Tell your mother I’ll leave my gardening gloves at home,’ Alice Gough answered completely po-faced.
Lydie had to laugh. ‘Wicked, did I say?’ And she drove away.
The nearer she got to Beamhurst Court, though, the more her spirits started to dip. She was worried about her great-aunt, she was worried about the cold war escalating between her parents, and she was worried, quite desperately worried,
