An Excellent Wife (15 page)

It was all some sort of black joke.

JAMES was silent as Patience drove towards Regent's Park. Head averted, he stared bleakly out of the half- open window, his black hair blowing back in a light spring breeze, looking at the crowded streets but not really seeing any of the people hurrying along, the shops and office blocks, or the cars, taxis, lorries moving slowly beside Patience's vehicle. He was too conscious of her beside him, her small hands moving firmly and confidently on the wheel.

For days now she had occupied the centre of his mind, a clear, sharp image dominating his thoughts while everything else in the whole wide world seemed to fade away like shadows in twilight. What on earth had he thought about before)^! met her? How had he spent his days? He found it difficult to remember, but he knew that nothing in his life had had much meaning.

'Don't sulk!' she said suddenly, and he started violently, turning then to give her a cold, affronted stare.

'I was doing nothing of the kind!' Did she have to talk to him as if he were a child? Women could be so condescending; there was a smug centre to them, perhaps because they were the ones who had the babies, brought up the children, ran the home. They were always sure they were right about everything.

'Oh, yes, you were—you've been sitting there for the past ten minutes with a scowl on your face, throbbing with rage. If you're going to be in that sort of mood we're going to have a very uncomfortable lunch.'

His dreamy mood of a few minutes ago evaporated. He wasn't telling her how wrong she was—he couldn't tell her how he really felt—so he furiously counterattacked.

'Trying to get out of having lunch with me now, are you? Typical of a woman. You want an excuse for changing your mind about lunch so you try to claim it's all my fault you won't come.'

They drew up at traffic lights in Swiss Cottage. Her small hands resting on the wheel, Patience turned her head to eye him, the tangle of windblown red curls blowing across her face.

'I'm not the one in a foul temper.'

'If I'm angry it's because you accused me of inviting you to lunch just to get you into bed.'

'After last night what do you expect? After all, I was only there to tell you your mother was very ill—the last thing I expected was to have you jump me. I should have remembered that all men ever have on their minds is sex.'

He was too angry to trust himself to reply, so he turned his head away, grinding his teeth, only to find himself facing the fascinated eyes of a blonde girl in a sleek blue sports car which was idling beside them waiting for the lights to change. She had obviously overheard what he and Patience were saying. As their eyes met, she winked, grinning.

James gave her an affronted look, turning his head back towards Patience, who was resting her forearms on the wheel, her head forward. She had seen his exchange of glances with the blonde in the blue car, seen the other girl wink at him. James couldn't believe his eyes when he saw Patience grin and wink back.

Women! he thought bitterly. Sisters under the skin,wasn't that what people always said? What they meant was that women loved to conspire together, laugh secretly at men, share jokes against them. No wonder they were often called the opposite sex—women were always opposing men, at first secretly, in the far away time when men ran the world, but now that feminism, had changed the way the world worked women were in open confrontation with the men around them. It was war, not love they wanted to make.

The lights changed and they drove off. 'So what did we decide?' Patience asked him.

He started, lost in his own black thoughts. 'What about?'

'To lunch or not to lunch? Are you still brooding over what I said, or are you going to be grown-up enough to make the effort to be nice if I come to your home?'

'I am always polite to guests in my home,' he said stiffly. Even guests who shared jokes against him with other women.

'Nice
? I said, not polite. I know how chilly you can be! Putting up with you in that mood would take away my appetite.'

They were in Regent's Park by then, driving round the circular maze of streets surrounding the park. Today there were plenty of people about: enjoying the sunshine and spring weather on the green lawns, walking by the canal to feed bread to the dozens of ducks and other water birds, or moving towards London's famous zoo, children running and skipping ahead of their parents, lovers holding hands under the trees or lying together kissing on the grass.

During the winter months the park paths were empty except for people taking a short cut to work or taking a dog for a walk. Lovers preferred to do their kissing indoors in cold weather, but Londoners returned, like the swallows, to the parks as soon as spring began. James stared at one pair with a mixture of envy and resentment. You could see from the way they were stroking each other's faces while gazing into each other's eyes that this young couple were passionately in love. He could never remember lying on the park grass like that. His education and background made him far too self-conscious.

He thought of walking hand-in-hand with Patience under those weeping willows, stopping in the green tent of branches, hidden from prying eyes, to kiss her, touch her. Frustration ate at him. It would never happen, however much he ached for it.

'Are you even listening?' Patience demanded.

Eyes flashing, he turned back to her. 'Of course I am. I don't have much choice, do I, when you keep nagging at me? Anyone would think we were married! What do you want me to do—beg you to have lunch with me?

Because you're out of luck. I am not going on my knees to you or any other woman.'

The roughness of his voice was bred by a feverish desire to kiss her, to stroke her cheek, let her red hair trickle through his fingers, but she wasn't to know that.

She drew up outside his home and glared back at him. 'You see? We haven't even started eating lunch and we're yelling at each other. I'd better not come in. Apologise to your housekeeper for me. I hope she didn't go to too much trouble.'

Desperation had him by the throat. He didn't want her to go. How was he ever to get to know her better if they were never alone? Her own house was so busy and crowded. But he wasn't making a fool of himself to get her to stay. His sense of his own dignity and self-respect wouldn't let him. Think!

he told himself. What can I say to make her change her mind? His brain was full of fog. He forced himself to concentrate, and an idea suddenly popped tip.

Hoping he sounded cool and indifferent, he shrugged and said offhandedly,

'If you insist. I don't intend to argue—go if that's what you want—but I-did hope to have a serious talk to you about my mother's future. I thought you were concerned enough to want to discuss what should happen to her now, but of course if I was wrong about that then forget it.'

Her hazel eyes stared into his cold grey ones, hunting for clues about his real intentions, no doubt. He gazed back, hoping she could read nothing he would not want her to glimpse: She might be years younger than him but she was oddly adult in the way her mind worked, in how she reacted in difficult situations.

Patience had had to grow up fast when her parents died and she'd been left with the responsibility for her brothers and little sister. You couldn't help admiring the way she had coped, her ingenuity in opening a boarding- house so that they could all stay in their home, her hard work and warmth in dealing with the old people she took in as guests. It couldn't have been easy, any of it.

Many girls her age would have yearned to have fun, go out every night with boys, have new clothes, go to parties while they were young enough to enjoy that life. Few would be prepared to dedicate themselves to a lot of housework, cooking, old people, children and animals. Patience had so little time to herself. Didn't she ever feel like rebelling? He had never seen any signs of rebellion in her eyes.

'Of course I'm concerned about her!' she said, frowning.

'Good. Then come in, have lunch, and we'll talk.'

James opened the door before she could change her mind, climbed down out of the high four-wheeled drive, closed the door again and walked round to her side of the vehicle to help her down. But she had already jumped to the road and was locking her door when he got there.

She halted on the drive to look at his garden. 'Aren't they lovely?' she said, admiring the sprays of pink almond blossom on the bare black boughs of the almond trees fringing the lawn. 'And you have a wonderful display of spring flowers—just look at those flowerbeds full of daffodils and hyacinths. Our garden is never this immaculate—you can't have a perfect garden if you have children and dogs, not to mention a whole flock of bantams.'

'You know you'd rather have the children and dogs, and I imagine you get lots of eggs from the hens,' James drily said, and she laughed, a little dimple appearing at the side of her generous mouth.

'Well, of course, but it would be great to have a garden this beautiful as well!'

'And I would rather have your garden. I never had a secret den like Tom and Emmy do; I envy theirs.'

'I had a den when I was their age. I remember spending hours in it and getting told off for coming in covered in mud and grass stains.'

Barny had opened the door, stood there watching them, his face indulgent and relaxed. Patience turned to smile, walking towards him. 'Hallo, Barny, how are you?'

He beamed. 'Very well, miss, thank you. You're looking well. I hope you found Madam better this morning.'

'She is still sedated—we'll have to wait to see her later today—but they don't seem to think it's too serious, thank heavens.'

'That's good news. Let me take your jacket.' Barny helped her shed it and took it over his arm carefully. 'Lunch will be ten minutes, sir. Shall I serve drinks first?'

'I'll pour them myself.' James was faintly irritated— listening to Patience and Barny, he had got the distinct impression that he was the target of a conspiracy. The way they talked about his mother made it plain that they had both decided she would be coming here to live before long. Whose life was it? His or theirs?

He ushered Patience into the drawing room, gesturing to an armchair. 'What can I get you to drink?'

'Just mineral water, thanks.'

He wasn't surprised, and didn't try to persuade her to drink anything else; he had the idea that she did not drink very much at all. At her home he had noticed that she only sipped a little of the rough red wine that had been passed around. Patience had a stronger will than any woman he had ever met, including Fiona. She might be young, but she was gently formidable without being icy, the way Fiona could be.

'Sparkling water?'

She nodded, and he opened a bottle of sparkling mineral water, poured some into a tall glass, then paused, ice tongs in hand, to look enquiringly at her.

'No, thanks, it makes it flat. But I'll have a slice of that lemon.'

He cut a slice and dropped it into the water, poured himself a glass of gin and tonic, added ice, and walked over to give Patience her drink before sitting down facing her in another chair, nursing his glass.

Her gaze was wandering around the room until it fastened on the portrait of his father. He had still been young when the picture was painted, but somehow he looked old already. The artist had set him against the background of his office, sitting behind his leather- topped desk, at which James now sat every day, wearing City clothes—grey suit, grey silk tie, crisp white shirt. A window behind him showed grey city roofs and a grey morning sky. The impression left was entirely wintry, stiff and formal, forbidding.

Patience transferred her stare to James, frowning. 'Was he always as chilly as he looks?'

'Always.'

She nodded, still staring, her forehead corrugated. 'You do look very like him.'

'Physically,' he agreed in a flat, toneless voice.

He had been afraid that he might be turning into his father, but now he was sure he never would. He might have done if he hadn't met Patience just at the right moment. That had been the watershed of his life. He knew he would look back on that meeting as changing everything. Since meeting her he had changed beyond recognition; he might look the same on the surface, but now at the depths of his personality life was stirring, tiny roots growing upwards from the cold, frozen dark towards the light and warmth. She had come into his life like rain, breeding new life.

What would happen to him if she went out of his life again? He couldn't bear to think about it.

Swallowing hard, he said roughly, 'When my mother comes out of hospital what's going to happen to her? Is she going to need nursing at home? That would be a lot of work for you. Of course she could come here, and I could hire a nurse to take care of her, but is that what she would really want?'

Patience gave him a sarcastic smile. 'You know perfectly well she wants to be with you!'

'Are you so sure about that? Think about it. If she comes here she will be alone all day while I'm at work, and I also have quite a busy social life. I go out to dinner several evenings a week, both with friends and clients, and I get invited to parties at weekends. And I have to go away quite a bit on business. She wouldn't see much of me, you know.'

Frowning, Patience slowly said, 'No, of course not. But she would be in her own home and...'

'Don't you think she'll miss Lavinia and Joe and the others? From what I've seen I believe my mother is very happy with you and them, not to mention the children, the whole atmosphere of family life.' He drank some of his gin, his brows together as he looked up at the portrait of his father on the wall.

'She was never happy in this house. I wouldn't want to shut her up in it again unless that's really what she wants.'

Patience worried her lower lip with her small white teeth. 'That hadn't occurred to me. You may be right. She does love the company at my house, and she gets on well with Lavinia and loves the children. Well, the answer is obvious. Ask her. She's the only one who knows what she really wants.'

He nodded. 'When? Shall I wait for her to be discharged, or ask her today?'