asked, ‘And what’s your brother doing in all of this?’
Lydie did not care for his question. It weakened her argument. Her father was distraught—while Oliver did nothing. ‘He…I haven’t seen Oliver. I only came home on Tuesday,’ she excused, and defended her elder brother. ‘Oliver’s getting married a week tomorrow. There’s a lot to arrange. He’s staying with his fiancée’s people to help with any last-minute problems they…’ Her voice trailed away.
‘Let’s hope he makes a better job of it than he made of his business,’ Jonah commented, but, before she could take exception, ‘Big do, is it?’
Lydie could have done without that remark too. In the instance of her family being on their uppers—and she was coming to realise more and more that her father constantly financing her brother’s business was largely responsible for that—it did seem a bit over the top to have such a pomp of a wedding.
‘The bride’s parents are paying for everything,’ she felt obligated to admit, her pride taking something of a hammering here. ‘Look, we’re getting away from the point!’ she said snappily. ‘You owe my father money. Money he needs, now, if he is to remain in the only home he has ever known, the home he loves.’
‘Fifty thousand pounds will assure that?’ Jonah asked, doubting it.
‘My father has sold everything he can possibly sell in order to meet his debts. All that remains is an overdraft of fifty thousand pounds at the bank that he knows, and they know, he cannot find—nor has any likelihood of finding. They have given him until today to try to find that money anyway. He cannot,’ she ended, and her voice started to fracture. ‘A-and he looks t-terrible.’
Abruptly she turned away from Jonah, knowing that her emotions as she thought of her dear distracted father had brought her close to tears. She went to stare unseeing out of the window and swallowed hard as she fought for control. Her pride would never survive if she broke down in front of this hard man.
When she felt she had control she turned towards the door, knowing instinctively that she had pleaded her father’s cause in vain. It had been a long shot anyway, she realised. Had Jonah Marriott the smallest intention of repaying that money, he would have done so long before this.
She took a step to the door—but was halted when Jonah, having not moved from where she had left him, stated, ‘Obviously your father doesn’t know you’ve come here.’
Lydie turned. ‘He’s a proud man,’ she replied with a tilt of her head.
‘His daughter’s pretty much the same,’ Jonah said quietly, his eyes on her proud beauty.
She wished she could agree. Albeit she had not come to the Marriott building for herself, she had not been too proud to come here today—even if that money was still owing. ‘Should you ever bump into my father, I’d be obliged if you did not tell him I came here,’ she requested coldly.
For answer Jonah Marriott went round to his desk. ‘I won’t—but I think he’ll know,’ he drawled, to her alarm. And, even while she was instantly ready to go for Jonah Marriott’s jugular, he was opening a drawer in his desk, taking out a chequebook, and asking, ‘Who do you want the cheque made out to, Lydie?’
‘Y-you’ll pay?’ she asked, shaken rigid, but in no mind to refuse—no matter how little he offered. He did not answer but picked up his pen. She went over to stand at the other side of his desk. ‘My father. Would you make it out to my father, please?’ she said quickly, before he could change his mind.
It was done. In next to no time the cheque was written and Jonah was handing it to her across the desk. Hardly daring to breathe, lest this be some sort of evil game he was playing, Lydie inspected the cheque. It was made out to Wilmot Pearson. The date was right. The cheque was signed. But the amount was wrong. Jonah had made it out for fifty-five thousand pounds!
‘Fifty-five thousand…?’
‘The bank will be adding interest—daily, I don’t doubt. Call it interest on the debt.’
He meant his debt, of course. Feeling stunned, then beginning to feel little short of elated, Lydie looked up and across at him. She was about to thank him when she looked at the cheque again and noticed that it was not a company cheque, as she would have thought, but a personal cheque—and a large chunk of her elation fell away. Anybody could write a personal cheque for fifty-five thousand pounds, but that did not necessarily mean there was any money in that bank account. Was this some kind of sick joke Jonah Marriott was playing, to pay her back for her impertinence in daring to walk unannounced into his office and demand he paid what he owed?
‘There’s money in this account to meet this amount?’ she questioned.
‘Not yet,’ he admitted. Though, before her last ray of hope should disappear, ‘But there will be…’ he paused ‘…by the time you get to your father’s bank.’
‘You’re—sure?’ she asked hesitantly.
Jonah Marriott eyed her steadily. ‘Trust me, Lydie,’ he said quietly—and, strangely, she did.
‘Thank you,’ she said, and held out her right hand.
‘Goodbye,’ he said, and, with that wonderful smile she had remembered all these years, ‘Let’s hope it’s not another seven years before we meet again.’
She smiled too, and could still feel the warm firm pressure of his right hand on hers as she waltzed out of the Marriott building and into the street. She remembered his blue eyes and…
She pushed him from her mind and concentrated on what to do first. She had half a notion to ring her mother and tell her the outcome of her visit to Jonah Marriott. Lydie then thought of the cheque that was burning a hole in her bag. She had been going to take it straight to her father, to tell him everything was all right now. To tell him that Jonah Marriott had paid in full, with interest, the money he had owed him for so long. But, with Jonah saying that the funds would be there by the time she got to her father’s bank—presumably all that was needed was for Jonah to pick up a phone and give his instructions—would it not be far better for her to bank the money now and tell her father afterwards?
Lydie decided there and then—thanking Jonah for the suggestion—that she would bank the money before she went home. Yes, that was much the better idea. As things stood she had plenty of time to get home, hand the cheque over to her father and for him to take the cheque personally to his bank. But who knew what traffic hold-ups there might be on the road. Much better—thank you, Jonah—to bank the cheque first and then go home.
Having found a branch of the bank which her father used, it was a small matter to have her father’s account located, the money paid in, and to receive the bank’s receipt in return.
Oh, Jonah. Her head said she should be cross with him for his tardiness in paying what was owed. But she couldn’t be cross. In fact, on that drive back to Beamhurst Court, she was hard put to it not to smile the whole time.
The house was secure and, although with not so much land as they had once owned, it was still in the hands of the Pearsons. While her father was unlikely to start in business on his own account again, he no longer, as Jonah had put it, needed to bail her brother out ever again either. Her mother had hinted that her father had been looking into the possibility of some consultancy work. Surely all his years of expertise were not to be wasted.
Optimistically
