Deceived. Sara CravenЧитать онлайн книгу.
you dare preach at me.’ Debra lit another cigarette from the stub of the last one. ‘You don’t know what’s at stake here.’
‘Maybe I do at that.’ Lydie went over to the wardrobe and retrieved the black dress and the black court shoes with the spiky heels which went with it. ‘Jon may welcome Marius’s return. Have you considered that?’
‘No.’ Debra dismissed the possibility with contempt. ‘He knows exactly which side his bread is buttered. If Marius gets a foothold at Benco, Jon’s going to end up in some menial position or out of a job altogether.’
And Nell would be delighted, Lydie thought drily as she selected a fragile black teddy together with a suspender belt and stockings from her lingerie drawer and tossed them onto the bed. Although she’d probably prefer Jon to make the decision on his own behalf rather than be squeezed out, she mentally amended.
‘And what about me?’ Debra went on restively. ‘Next thing I know that beastly lawyer will be up here again, droning on about suitable provision and annuities. I’ll end my days in some ghastly private hotel on the south coast, watching the price of my shares with all the other widows, having to think twice about everything I spend. Just like the old days.’
Her mouth was trembling, her eyes almost blank.
Selfish she might be, mercenary she certainly was, but all the same Lydie felt a flicker of compassion for her. Mrs Benedict, chatelaine of Greystones Park, was the best part Debra had ever been offered, and she’d played it magnificently to a small but devoted audience.
But if anything happened to Austin the curtain would come down for her mother too. Unless Jon, not Marius, was confirmed as Austin’s heir...
She tried to make her tone light. ‘Don’t write Austin off so soon. He’s a tough old stick. He’ll probably outlive the lot of us.’
She paused. ‘And you don’t know yet—none of us do-exactly what this reconciliation means. It’s been five years, after all. Marius has another life now—maybe—other commitments.’ The words made her throat ache. A child, certainly, she thought. Maybe a wife too.
Aloud she went on, ‘He may not want to come back to Thornshaugh on a permanent basis.’
‘Don’t be a fool.’ Debra tossed her cigarette through the open window into the dusk-shaded shrubbery below. ‘Of course he does. Wouldn’t you?’
Lydie shook her head. ‘I’ve no idea what Marius thinks—or wants.’ Although I thought I knew once, God help me, she added silently.
Her mother’s mouth tightened to a slit. ‘Austin’s made him cancel his hotel reservation and move back here. Actually into his old room, if you please.’ She drove her clenched fist into the palm of her other hand. ‘I just cannot believe this is really happening. It’s like a nightmare. Austin was always so adamant—so totally determined. I thought we were rid of Marius for good.’
Lydie, winced inwardly. ‘He hasn’t given you a reason—any kind of explanation?’
‘His exact words were, “I’ve made a decision.”’ Debra’s laugh was metallic. ‘And Austin’s decisions, however arbitrary, are to be accepted without question.’
The only person who’d ever argued with him was Marius himself, Lydie thought.
She glanced at her watch. ‘I don’t think the situation will be helped by our being late for dinner,’ she said quietly. ‘I’m going to run my bath.’
‘My God, you’re cool,’ Debra said acidly. ‘Don’t you think it won’t affect you if Marius moves back and takes over. We’re all going to feel the draught, my lady.’
And with that she was gone.
Oh, it would affect her, Lydie thought drily a few minutes later as she tried to relax in the warm water, but certainly not in the way her mother thought.
Although there could be a problem over the gallery. Thornshaugh, with its steep, cobbled streets and well-preserved buildings left over from the Industrial Revolution, was attractive enough to form part of the itinerary of tourists drawn to Yorkshire’s West Riding by the Brontë Parsonage at Haworth or the Curry Trail at Bradford.
The gallery was situated on the first floor of a former Benco warehouse, sharing the premises with a popular boutique at ground level, a home bakery and various workshops occupied by woodcarvers, candlemakers and hand weavers.
They sold mainly paintings, prints and pottery by local artists and craftsmen, including Nell herself. And, although Lydie and Nell had refused to sell souvenirs, they’d made sure they stocked the kind of small, unusual but inexpensive items which tourists would want as mementoes or gifts, and these went like hot cakes.
When the bank had looked down its nose and talked about the recession, Lydie had turned instead to her stepfather for the initial loan to finance the enterprise. And, to Debra’s thinly veiled chagrin, he’d agreed to put up the money.
The gallery was managing to keep its head above water mainly because Lydie didn’t draw a full salary yet. Not that she needed to, because she lived at Greystones and Austin insisted on making her an allowance, firmly steamrollering over her objections.
Another of his decisions, Lydie thought ruefully. But she compromised by spending as frugally as possible, although the dress still abandoned in its carrier in the back of her car had been an exception to that self-imposed rule. And perhaps she’d be able to return it anyway.
Now she found herself wishing that she’d stuck to her guns, managed on whatever pittance she could have drawn from the company.
She dried herself and put on her underwear, drawing the stockings slowly over her smooth legs, remembering another time five years ago when she’d dressed for Austin’s birthday party with her heart performing strange, shaky somersaults inside.
She’d been allowed home from school specially, and had spent every penny she’d saved on a new dress that time too.
The one she’d wanted then had also been black—with spangles, she thought; sleek as a second skin. Black was the colour of sophistication; she’d wanted to show Marius that she wasn’t a child any longer but a woman, ready—eager for love.
Her hand faltered slightly with the blusher she was applying.
But the boutique owner had tactfully steered her away from that and into a much simpler model in jade-green, almost the same colour as her eyes.
Now she paid minute attention to them with shadow and liner, accentuating their shape and lustre, according the same attention to detail to the colour she painted onto her mouth. Tonight the mask had to be perfect. Impenetrable.
Five years ago, her face had been highlighted by an inner brilliance, with little need for cosmetics. The tiny bodice with its shoestring straps had flattered the sweet flare of her breasts, and the short, full skirt had swirled enticingly. She’d held it out in both hands and turned slowly in front of the mirror, imagining herself dancing in Marius’s arms. Seeing the smile in his eyes when she told him she loved him. Hearing the tenderness in his voice when he told her he felt the same...
Lydie stood up abruptly, reaching for the black dress, and zipped herself into it, smoothing it over her hips. Black, she thought; the colour of mourning. For the death of faith and innocence. The ending of a girl’s dream.
She took a long look at herself. Her hair was drawn up into a sleek topknot, with only a few random tendrils softening the line around the nape of her neck and her ears. She had disguised the real shadows around her eyes and painted on a smile. Who could ask for anything more? she wondered with irony.
She opened the door and stepped into the passage just as Marius emerged from his own room a few yards away. Lydie kept a hand behind her, holding the handle of her bedroom door, feeling the hard metal bite into her flesh, letting one pain combat another as she absorbed the bitter familiarity of him in a dinner jacket and black tie. Formal evening clothes had always suited