‘Marry you?’ Mrs Mortimer slumped back in genuine if unflattering astonishment. ‘Nicholas Bristow wants to marry you?’ She shook her head. ‘Darling, it must have been some strange kind of joke. He can’t have been serious!’
‘That’s what I thought,’ Alison agreed, refusing to allow herself to be wounded by her mother’s immediate assumption that she could have no charms for a man like Nick Bristow. After all, it was no more than the truth, and she knew it, and to allow even one pang of hurt was merely being stupid. ‘But I have until the end of the week to give him my answer, so that seems to indicate he means business.’
‘Good God,’ Mrs Mortimer said faintly. There was silence, then she said, ‘What are you going to say?’
Alison’s brows lifted. ‘No, of course. You couldn’t expect me to agree to such an outrageous proposal. He—he doesn’t care for me. I think I could do better for myself than be married as a convenience.’
‘Do better than Nicholas Bristow? Are you quite mad?’ Mrs Mortimer sat up energetically, grasping her daughter’s hands in hers. ‘Alison, he’s offering you your home back—your heritage. That’s what you must think about. And there’s Melly to consider.’
‘I know,’ Alison acknowledged. ‘She was part of the package, as a matter of fact.’ She tried a smile. ‘Oh, all the strings were gold-plated, and designed to appeal. No wonder he’s such a success in the City!’
‘Then how can you even consider refusing?’ Mrs Mortimer demanded.
Alison’s chin came up. ‘Daddy sold himself to Nick Bristow,’ she said with terrible clarity. ‘Are you seriously suggesting I should do the same thing?’
‘But this may be his way of trying to make amends to us,’ her mother said eagerly. ‘Alison, for God’s sake—at least consider!’
Alison looked at her incredulously. ‘You—really mean it?’
‘Of course I do!’ Mrs Mortimer thumped the coverlet with her fist. ‘For heaven’s sake, darling, be rational. You’re far too sensible to be carried away by dreams of some overpowering romance. It just isn’t going to happen, and instead you’re being offered the chance to recover everything we’ve lost, together with the kind of husband most girls would be fighting over,’ she added a shade waspishly.
‘Perhaps that’s part of the trouble,’ Alison said drily. ‘Maybe I’d prefer a man who wasn’t quite so universally attractive.’
‘Now you’re being absurd.’ Mrs Mortimer released her hands and threw herself back on her pillows. She was looking agitated again. ‘Alison, you can’t do this to us! It would be too selfish to deliberately reduce us all to penury, when it could all be so different—and just for a few silly scruples. I feel that Nicholas Bristow is doing his utmost to behave honourably in this—dire situation. And the last you can do is meet him halfway.’
‘The least?’ Alison didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. ‘To sell myself to a man I hardly know just for security? To give up my own life—the possibility of a career …?’
‘A career!’ Mrs Mortimer almost snorted. ‘I suppose you mean working for a pittance at that estate agent’s. And if you’re imagining for one minute that Simon Thwaite will have any further interest in you once we’ve lost Ladymead, then think again, because the Thwaites have always married money.’
‘And Simon will know his duty, even if I don’t.’ Alison bent her head. ‘Thank you for being so frank. It’s just as well I’m not in love with him.’
‘If you were, naturally I would exert no pressure, but in the circumstances …’ Mrs Mortimer retrieved a lace-edged handkerchief and dabbed at her mouth. ‘Alison dear, it isn’t given to us all to fall deeply in love as I did with your father. Very satisfactory relationships have been known to evolve from very little.’
‘But how do you build on nothing at all?’ Alison asked ironically. ‘It will be interesting to find out, I suppose, if nothing else.’ She pushed her hair back from her face. ‘Uncle Hugh said Daddy was a gambler; I must be more like him than I thought.’ She bent and dropped a light kiss on her mother’s hair. ‘Don’t look so worried, darling, you’re going to have your way. Ladymead will be restored to us, with all the other fringe benefits. I’ll phone Mr Bristow now and tell him, before I lose my nerve.’
She went down the stairs slowly, clinging to the banister rail as if she was afraid her legs would crumple and betray her. She’d left Nick Bristow’s card beside the phone, and it lay there, staring up at her, forcing her to respond—to act.
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