but Alison herself had been born, and remained, an ugly duckling. She was small and slight with light brown hair, clear hazel eyes, and a pale skin which had a distressing tendency to flush when she was disturbed or embarrassed, and as she was a shy girl, this happened far more often than she wished.
She had no idea why this should be so. Both her mother and Mel were miracles of self-possession, and her father had been a cheerfully ebullient man too.
‘You must be a changeling, darling,’ her mother had sometimes teased her.
And sometimes she felt like it, Alison acknowledged ruefully.
Perhaps if her school exam results had been dazzling like Mel’s promised to be, rather than respectable, she might have broken out of the mould she could see being prepared for her, and insisted on university and a career of some kind. But with no very firm idea of what she would like to do with her life, it had been difficult for her to resist the pressure from her family to stay at home and run Ladymead for her mother. But she had been determined to achieve at least a measure of independence for herself, and had managed to find herself a part-time job in a local estate agent’s office. She had been hired in the first instance under the vague heading of Girl Friday, which Alison had silently translated as ‘dogsbody’, but she had amazed herself, and her new employer, by discovering an unexpected talent for actually selling houses. In spite of her shyness, she had the knack of matching properties to potential buyers, many of whom preferred her quiet efficiency to the ‘hard sell’ they were often subjected to. Simon Thwaite, her boss, had concealed his astonishment, given her a rise, and asked if she would be prepared to work full time, an offer she had regretfully had to refuse. He had also asked her out to dinner, which she had accepted, and they had enjoyed several pleasant evenings in each other’s company.
But that, she knew, was as far as it went. She couldn’t see herself having a serious relationship with Simon, or any of the other men she came across, and had come to the conclusion that she was probably one of nature’s spinsters.
And probably just as well, she thought without self-pity, because the evidence suggested that from now on her mother was going to need her more than ever.
Driving back to Ladymead after the service, Mrs Mortimer was volubly tearful.
‘So much to endure still,’ she said, clinging to her brother’s arm. ‘Dear Hugh—such a tower of strength! And now this dreadful lunch to get through somehow.’ Her brows snapped together. ‘I hope that Bristow man hasn’t had the gall to invite himself to that! If so, you must deal with it, Hugh. He must be made to see this is a very personal, family occasion, and that, as a stranger, he is intruding on our grief.’
Hugh Bosworth cleared his throat uncomfortably. ‘It might be better not to say or do anything hasty,’ he said heavily. ‘After all, Anthony did a lot of business with the fellow.’
‘Did he?’ Mrs Mortimer dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief. ‘He never discussed business matters with me, of course. I’ve never had a head for that sort of thing.’ A fresh sense of grievance struck her. ‘And I don’t understand why Mr Liddell is insisting on going over poor Anthony’s will with me. I know what’s in it—he explained it all most carefully to me, and to Alison when he drew it up. There’ll be duties, of course, but apart from that, he made it all as simple as possible.’ She began to cry again. ‘Although I never thought … I was always sure I’d be the first …’
Hugh Bosworth patted her shoulder, looking, his niece thought judiciously, positively hunted. Again she felt that faint frisson of unease. She wished she could have spoken to Aunt Beth, but Mrs Bosworth was following in the next car with Melanie.
Back at the house, Alison swiftly checked that arrangements for the lunch had been carried out as impeccably as usual, then went upstairs to take off the jacket of her simple dark grey suit, and tidy her hair. As she dragged a comb through her neat shoulder-length bob, she heard the first of the cars arrive to disgorge its passengers at the front door. Mentally, she reviewed who should be arriving. As well as Anthony Mortimer’s closest friends, there would be a few of his co-directors from the works.
She gave a faint sigh. They would be worried. Anthony Mortimer had been the linchpin of the company, believing in it, backing it to the hilt always. She wasn’t sure how they would replace him.
She gave a last look at herself in the mirror, and grimaced. She could win a nondescript prize, she thought candidly as she turned away. And saw from the window Nicholas Bristow alighting from the last car and standing on the drive, staring at the house.
Alison groaned inwardly. Her mother had overreacted to his presence at the church, of course, but there was a certain amount of justification for her attitude. He was a stranger to them, no matter how close he might or might not have been to her father. He had been to Ladymead only once before, for dinner, and had annoyed Mrs Mortimer by spending the latter part of the evening closeted in the study with her husband.
‘So inconsiderate!’ Mrs Mortimer had complained fretfully to Alison. ‘A dinner party should be a social occasion, and your father knows how I feel about business being mixed with pleasure.’
Alison had thought wryly that probably her father’s wishes has not had a great deal to do with it. She had had Nicholas Bristow as her dinner partner, and had found him arrogantly intimidating.
He was the kind of man, she was forced to admit, that most women would find very attractive. Coupled with that unmistakable aura of wealth and power which fitted him as well as his elegant clothes, he possessed an individual brand of compelling, almost insolent good looks. He probably had charm too, only Alison hadn’t been privileged to encounter it. Eyes as blue and chill as a winter’s sky had travelled over her, remembered with difficulty that she had been introduced to him on arrival as the daughter of the house, and made it clear he found her wanting in every respect.
He had responded to her conversational overtures civilly, but without enthusiasm, and it was obvious that his thoughts were elsewhere most of the time.
If it hadn’t been so hurtful, it would almost have been amusing, Alison decided, hating him cordially.
She had no time for that kind of sexy male arrogance, and she couldn’t understand what he could possibly have in common with her genial, outgoing father.
For starters, Nicholas Bristow was at least twenty-five years her father’s junior. One of the City’s boy wonders, she could remember reading about him somewhere. A whizz-kid financier with the Midas touch. In his thirties now, of course, but still apparently printing his own money.
It was—heartening to believe that he had thought highly enough of her father to come to his funeral, even without an invitation. Only Alison didn’t believe it. According to the items about him in the various gossip columns which appeared with such monotonous regularity, Nicholas Bristow didn’t give a damn about anything except making money. He wasn’t married, but he certainly wasn’t celibate either, seeming to change the ladies in his life as frequently as his expensive suits.
She might have contempt for his lifestyle, but at the same time Alison had him mentally filed as someone it could be dangerous to offend, and she decided it could be wise to intervene before he came face to face with her mother.
He was in the hall, as Alison came downstairs, in the act of handing his coat to Mrs Horner, the daily help.
Alison said with a coolness she was far from feeling, ‘It’s all right, Mrs Horner. I’ll deal with this.’
At the sound of her voice Nicholas Bristow turned, his brows rising
