Fugitive Wife. Sara CravenЧитать онлайн книгу.
appreciatively as her eyes fell on the fire laid ready in the grate, with the filled coal bucket, and the wicker basket full of sweet-smelling logs all to hand. It was almost as if she was expected. But that was silly. The impulse which had driven her here had not permitted any advance warning. No one knew where she was. No one at all.
No one, she repeated soundlessly, and her hands met in front of her, gripping each other with an odd painful intensity so that her rings bit into her flesh. She looked down wincing, and saw the flat gleam of the plain gold band on her left hand. She dragged it over her knuckle and threw it across the room with all her might. She heard the tinkle as it landed and rolled on the flagged floor. But she did not see where it went, and she did not want to see.
‘I’m Briony Trevor,’ she told herself fiercely. ‘Briony Adair never existed. Never. And nothing that’s happened makes the slightest difference to that.’
A tiny lean-to scullery opened off the living room, and she went through to make sure there was water, and that the electricity supply was switched on. Even if it wasn’t, she could manage for one night, she thought. She knew where Aunt Hes kept the candles, and a small camping stove. But everything seemed to be in working order, and she filled the kettle, and set it to boil while she looked about her. There was a jar of instant coffee, which she sniffed dubiously, and some rather dusty-looking tea-bags in a brightly coloured caddy. Beggars could not be choosers, she thought, opting for probably nasty coffee, drunk black. Tomorrow she would go to the shop in the village and see about milk, and other provisions. But she would make do for tonight.
When she’d made her drink, she would light the fire, and see about airing some bedding.
The fire had been laid in the old-fashioned way, with spills of tightly rolled newspaper and kindling. It caught as soon as she put a match to it, and she knelt placing lumps of coal on the blazing edifice and watching the greedy tongues of flame licking round them.
She fetched her mug of coffee and sat on the high-backed wooden rocker close by the hearth to drink it.
She felt tired suddenly and drained as if this last small effort had finally exhausted her resources. She knew she ought to go upstairs to lie down, but it all seemed too much trouble. Presently she would find the bedding she needed. Presently. But for the moment it was enough to sit quietly with her hands clamped round the comforting warmth of the mug and feel the first tentative heat from the fire reaching out to her. She needed very badly to feel warm. There was a chill deep inside her.
But was this really the right place to come to dispel it? The coffee tasted suddenly bitter in her mouth and she set the mug down with a faint grimace. It had seemed a good idea. The ideal place to exorcise all her demons, to lay her ghosts to rest, she had thought. The only place, in fact. But now as darkness came crowding outside the small windows and the shadows gathered about her, she was not so sure any more.
She should get up and draw the curtains, and light the lamps—one on the square table by the window and the other in the book-lined recess beside the fireplace. But there was no hurry for that.
She was no longer a child to be frightened of the dark, she thought wryly. Her fears and hang-ups were all tangible now, and all to do with reality. Shadows could not hurt her, but people could, and had, and still might.
Sighing, she stretched her legs out in front of her. Slim-fitting trousers in grey cord covered her to her ankles, and a cream-coloured lambswool sweater with a high roll collar reached almost to her pointed chin. A broad-faced watch, its bracelet made of fine gold mesh, encircled her wrist. On her right hand a moonstone ring gleamed. Her left hand looked strangely bare without her wedding ring. Logan’s ring.
She touched the mark on her marriage finger which showed where it had rested, her lips twisting slightly. Throwing it away had been a gesture, that was all. It had altered nothing. Legally, she was still Logan’s wife, even though for months she had believed she was Logan’s widow.
She lifted her hands and removed the two tortoiseshell combs which confined her shoulder-length copper hair behind her ears, shaking it loose around her face. She pressed her fingertips against her temples in an effort to relieve the slight tense ache which was beginning to build up there.
She bent forward and added another shovel of coal to the now brightly glowing fire, then leaned back, her eyes closed, trying to shut out the thoughts, the tantalising memories which buzzed and vibrated in her brain.
Logan standing in this very room, the usually cynical lines of his mouth relaxing into unexpected tenderness. His voice husky as he said ‘Hello, wife,’ and his arms reached for her.
At the time, she’d reckoned that to be the happiest moment of her life, happier than the actual wedding ceremony only a few hours before in London, because, then, in the register office, she’d been aware of her father’s absence and of his continuing resentment of her marriage. But here in this room, alone with Logan, nothing else had seemed to matter. Her father’s disapproval had seemed a long way away, and almost immaterial.
As Logan’s arms had closed around her, and her lips had parted eagerly beneath his kiss, it had seemed that they would share this closeness for ever, that nothing or no one could ever separate them.
A mirthless smile curved her mouth. In retrospect, that conviction had a terrible irony.
She didn’t want to look back now, to remember everything that had happened. Tomorrow, she thought, tomorrow when I’m less tired—more able to cope. But even as the thought formulated itself, she knew it was self-deception. So far she had signally failed to manage any aspect of her life. Wasn’t that why she was here? Why she had fled to this little retreat in the wilds of Yorkshire, just to escape from a situation which she could neither control nor understand. She had come, telling herself that she had to think things out. This was the reason for her presence here. She could not, must not allow herself to escape again.
Besides, memories were pressing on her brain, presenting her with images, that she believed she had safely shut away for ever. No, her mind cried out in rebellion. I don’t want to look back. I don’t want the pain of it. In the past year she had made herself a tight safe cocoon where troubling memories could not pursue her. She had thought it was impregnable, but now she recognised that for the illusion it was. Where emotions were concerned, was anyone ever totally invulnerable, she wondered?
She passed a weary hand across her eyes. Was it really only eighteen months ago that she had accompanied her father to her first really adult party since leaving school—the annual presentation of awards within the United Publishing Group in the penthouse suite of their towering City building? The girl who had arrived at the party on Sir Charles Trevor’s arm, in a secret flutter of excitement, seemed to have come from a different world. Not long past eighteen, with three good ‘A’ levels under her belt, and the world her oyster, it had seemed. Or, at least, the world as delineated by her father. It had disappointed her to discover that her dreams of university were to remain dreams for the time being. Sir Charles, it seemed, needed her to act as his hostess, and he had informed her that it would do her no harm to learn how to run the London house, and Branthwaite, his home in Berkshire. Briony had been frankly unenthusiastic at the prospect. For one thing, she could imagine the reaction from Mrs Lambert, their briskly efficient housekeeper, if she attempted to interfere in the clockwork running of either establishment. For another, she had always planned on having a career of some sort, and she told her father so.
Sir Charles had raised his eyebrows. ‘I’ve no objection to you finding yourself a job of sorts in time, Briony,’ he said. ‘But I do hope you’re not intending to turn yourself into one of these strident females, always demanding equal opportunities, and other nonsense. Besides, I did think you might wish to give me some of your time now that your full-time education has been completed. I’ve been very lonely since your mother died, and I was looking forward to your companionship.’
Which was emotional blackmail at the very least, Briony thought gloomily as she murmured reluctant acquiescence. She was neither blind nor stupid, and she was quite aware that her father had consoled himself during the latter years of his widowhood with a succession of attractive ladies, many of whom had been only too willing to act as his