not mine, remember.’ She handed him the envelope. ‘If you would forward it for me, I’d be glad. There’s no reason to delay any longer.’
He looked down at the letter, frowning a little. ‘Or you could always give it to him yourself.’ He paused, his gaze direct, almost compassionate. ‘You do realise that he’s coming back for the funeral.’
Joanna could feel the colour drain from her face. ‘I didn’t think he would. Not after that terrible quarrel before he left,’ she said at last. ‘Stupid of me.’
‘However bitter the feelings at the time, my dear, Gabriel would hardly absent himself at a time like this. Lionel was loved and respected by the local people, and any sign of disrespect, particularly from his heir, would cause a lot of resentment.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, of course.’ A small harsh laugh choked its way out of her. ‘I—I had no idea he cared so much for the conventions.’
‘He’s now the owner of Westroe Manor. He knows his obligations.’
She said icily, ‘That is not a word I associate with my former husband.’
She saw a shadow of disapproval on his face, and resumed her seat. ‘I’m sorry. I’m a bit thrown, that’s all. I just thought—I assumed that I’d be allowed a little time—some leeway—to make my own plans before his return.’
‘What are your plans?’ His voice was gentle.
‘I don’t know yet.’ Joanna shook her head. ‘I keep trying to think—to decide something. But my mind just goes round in circles.’
‘It’s early days.’
‘Ah, no,’ she said. ‘You’ve just proved to me that it’s later than I think. I shall really have to concentrate.’ She paused. ‘Do you know—have you heard when Gabriel is due?’
‘I believe,’ he said carefully, ‘that he will be here the day after tomorrow.’ He hesitated. ‘He has asked for the reading of the will to be delayed until after the funeral.’
‘How very traditional.’ Joanna gripped her hands together in her lap, aware that they were shaking. ‘He really does mean to play Lord of the Manor.’
‘I don’t think there was ever any doubt of that.’ Henry Fortescue finished his whisky and put the tumbler aside. ‘Do you still wish me to deliver your letter?’
‘Under the circumstances, it’s probably easier for me to do it myself,’ she acknowledged wearily. ‘I’m sorry for wasting your time.’
‘You never do that, Joanna. And I intended to call on you, anyway.’ He shook hands with her, gravely studying her pale face and shadowed eyes. ‘A word of advice,’ he added gently. ‘I wouldn’t be too hasty about dropping your husband’s name, at least until the funeral is over. Remember what I said about local opinion. The next few days are bound to be hard enough, without creating extra difficulties—resentments—for yourself.’
‘Yes,’ she said, almost inaudibly. ‘I’m sure you’re right. Thank you.’
‘I’ll see myself out.’ He patted her hand and went. Presently she heard him talking to Mrs Ashby, and then the sound of the front door closing.
She leaned back in the big chair. It wasn’t just her hands any more. Her whole body was trembling violently—uncontrollably.
The shock of Lionel’s sudden death had stunned her into overlooking its most direct consequence, she realised numbly.
Gabriel hadn’t been near Westroe Manor for two years, making the breach between them absolute, and she’d presumed he would take his time over his return, that he would be too busy being the Superman of the financial world all day and the playboy of the western world all night to concern himself with his old home. Especially a home that contained his unwanted and discarded wife.
Did he even know that she was still living there? she wondered. Or that she’d been managing the house and staff for his father?
But of course he did, she corrected herself derisively. Gabriel made it his business to know everything.
A sudden image of his thin, dark face, with those insolent, heavy-lidded eyes, tawny as a leopard’s, and that narrow-lipped, mocking mouth flared into her mind, and was instantly dismissed.
She did not want to remember Gabriel’s mouth, or his hands, or the lean, vibrant body which had so fleetingly made her his possession.
The events of the few brief nights she’d spent with him were stamped on her consciousness for ever, however many times she’d tried to erase them. And so were the contemptuous words with which he’d finally ended them.
‘I think I’ll do us both a favour, and find some other form of entertainment.’ His icy drawl had cut across her quivering senses like the lash of a whip.
And he’d been as good as his word, she thought bitterly. He’d made no secret of his infidelities, staying away for longer and longer periods that even Lionel could not pretend had any connection with work any more.
And then, one day, Gabriel had returned. But only to collect the rest of his things. He was leaving, he said, permanently this time.
Inevitably there’d been a showdown—one blazing, terrifying row. Father and son had faced each other like enemies. Harsh, unforgivable things had been said on both sides, while she’d crouched between them, her hands over her ears, begging them to stop.
‘You’ll stay here, damn you,’ Lionel had roared. ‘And do your duty by your wife—if she’s prepared to forgive you. Or you’ll never enter this house again.’
She’d looked up at Gabriel, her lips mutely forming the word ‘Please’, not knowing even then if she was begging him to go or to stay. The tawny eyes had flicked over her, bathing her in flame.
Then: ‘I’m sorry,’ Gabriel said derisively. ‘But there are some sacrifices no man should be called on to make.’
And he’d gone.
She’d wanted to go too, distressed at the trouble the failure of their marriage had caused and tormented by her memories, but Lionel had forbidden it.
‘You’re my daughter-in-law, and the mistress of this house,’ he’d stated, his tone brooking no opposition. ‘Your home remains here.’
But perhaps she should have stood up to him. Insisted on leaving. Her final school examination results had been respectable enough to win her a training course at a polytechnic, if not a place at university. By now she could have embarked on a career. Had a life of her own. But she’d stayed, feeling that she owed Lionel something more than loyalty, because he’d placed himself at odds with his only son for her sake.
Not that their marriage breakdown had been the only point at issue, she reminded herself wearily. Lionel’s relationship with Gabriel had always been a volatile one. As father and son, apart from the shrewd business brains they shared, they had always been chalk and cheese.
They didn’t even look alike. Lionel had been ruggedly built and fair-haired, with a florid complexion. Gabriel was equally tall, but his body was lean, like whipcord.
