at the hospice shop.’
Cynthia’s eyes glinted maliciously. ‘Still maintaining the fiction that you’re the Lady of the Manor, darling? I wonder what penance you’ll have to do for deceiving the vicar’s wife.’
Joanna folded her napkin and rose. ‘Don’t worry, Cynthia. Living in this house, under these conditions, is penance enough for all the sins of the world, believe me.’ She gathered up her letters and left the room.
In the hall, she paused, drawing a deep, steadying breath. How much more, dear God, was she supposed to take?
The past fortnight had been a nightmare. She had felt all the time as if she was tiptoeing on thin ice. Since their last confrontation Gabriel had treated her with cool civility, and she had tried to respond in the same way.
During the daytime she’d done her best to keep out of the way. It was Gabriel who now rode out with Sadie first thing in the morning, while Joanna deliberately postponed her own ride until later in the day. She even delayed coming downstairs in the morning, to avoid encountering him at the breakfast table.
But some meetings at mealtimes were inevitable, and she’d been forced to observe Cynthia’s blatantly proprietorial attitude towards him—the hand on his sleeve, the whispered asides, the teasing, pouting looks.
She could only be thankful that neither of them chose to dine at the Manor very often, and that they spent their evenings together at the cottage—the lack of the new bed being apparently no deterrent.
Joanna bit her lip. She couldn’t afford to think on those lines, she adjured herself firmly. She had to stay detached—impersonal. It was the only way.
She looked down at the letters in her hand. But for once it seemed as if her avoidance policy would have to be temporarily abandoned. Because she needed to talk to Gabriel.
With a sigh, she crossed to the study door and knocked, waiting for his terse ‘Come in’ before entering.
As he registered who it was his expression became closed, almost wary.
He rose formally to his feet. ‘Joanna—this is an unexpected pleasure.’
She heard the question in his voice—the surprise. And another note, less easy to analyse.
He looked tired, she thought, his eyes shadowed, the lines on his face strongly marked. But then she recalled the reason for his faintly haggard appearance, and hardened her heart against a pain that went too deep for tears.
She said coolly, ‘Don’t worry. This isn’t a social call.’ She put the letters she was carrying on the desk. ‘I’m beginning to get requests from local people—organisations. The Red Cross want to know if they can hold their usual garden party here in July. The Riding Club are asking us—you and I—to present prizes at the gymkhana. The list is growing, and I— I don’t know what to tell them.’
‘Because of our personal circumstances?’ His tone was ironic.
She nodded. ‘It seems wrong to—pretend that everything’s fine and normal, when…’ Her voice tailed away.
Gabriel sighed sharply. He picked up the letters. ‘Would you like me to deal with these?’
‘Thank you. That might be best.’ She gave him a fleeting, wintry smile, and turned away.
‘Jo—wait.’ The harsh urgency in his tone halted her in her tracks.
‘Is something wrong?’
He said grimly, ‘Just about everything, I’d say. Will you sit down for a moment, please? We need to talk.’
She paused, then took the chair by the fire, perching tensely on its edge.
‘What is it now?’ She lifted her chin. ‘More rules for me to obey? I’ve tried to follow your regime.’
‘I’m sure you have.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘The fact is, Joanna, it was never feasible—for either of us. Sharing a roof like this is an impossible situation.’
She was very still. ‘As I’ve tried to tell you.’
‘Indeed you did.’ He bent his head almost defeatedly. ‘So I’m looking for a way out—for both of us. I thought you’d want to know.’
‘Yes,’ she said, dry-throated. ‘Yes, I’m—very grateful.’ She hesitated. ‘May I know what’s made you change your mind?’
It was Gabriel’s turn to pause. He said reluctantly, ‘Let’s say I’ve had time to think. And I’ve been made to see how unfair this situation is to you.’
In other words, pressure from Cynthia, she thought with a pang. She told me herself she wasn’t planning to stay long at the cottage. No, she wants to take over here, and for that she needs to be rid of me.
Aloud, she said, quietly, ‘So—what do you suggest?’
‘I don’t know yet. There are all kinds of ramifications that need going into thoroughly.’ The tawny eyes were sombre. ‘But I’ll make sure you don’t suffer, Jo.’
Ah, but I am suffering, she cried out in silent anguish. More than you can ever know. Because, although living here has been purgatory, leaving—never seeing you again—will be the worst kind of hell. And how will I bear it?
‘Thanks again.’ She got to her feet. Her voice was bright. ‘It will be good to make some plans at last—to decide what to do with the rest of my life. I’m sure you feel the same.’
His mouth twisted. ‘My plans are already made. All I need is the freedom to carry them out.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, of course.’
He said, ‘So that’s that. Shall we shake hands on a bargain?’
Startled, Joanna hesitated, then slowly put her hand into his.
A half-forgotten line of poetry came into her mind. “‘Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows.”’
But it wasn’t until she saw his brows lift in mocking acknowledgement that she realised she’d spoken aloud.
He said, ‘Ah, but remember how it starts, Joanna.’ He quoted softly, “‘Since there’s no help, come let us kiss and part.”’
She looked up at him mutely, mesmerised by the sudden intensity in his tawny gaze. Then he bent his head, and gently, even tentatively, put his mouth on hers. He did not take her in his arms, or try to impose any other intimacy upon her. It was a breath of a kiss, a sensuous brushing of lips, hauntingly sweet, but with a kind of sad finality. It drew them into a tiny, shaken vortex of feeling. Held them rapt, in total thrall to each other, motionless, deaf and blind. Until some slight sound—a log, perhaps, crumbling in the grate—made them draw apart.
Gabriel was breathing rapidly, the warmth in his eyes turned to a dangerous flame.
His voice was low, savage. “‘Nay, I have done: you get no more of me.”’ He threw back his head in an oddly defensive gesture. ‘You’d better get out of here, Joanna.’
