When the Devil Drives (16 page)

that he would make a concerted effort to persuade her to change her

mind about Kirkgate Cottage. An unbearably painful thought.

She had no idea what she would say to him. Every scenario she

mentally rehearsed sounded stilted and patently false. Maybe it

would be better to come right out with the truth, she thought

unhappily. Tell him bluntly that she knew exactly why he was

pursuing her, and that it could stop right there.

Except that it probably wouldn't stop at all. If Cal failed with her, he

might well move against the business and their home instead. After

all, she had no illusions now about his capabilities—his commitment

to his destructive cause. Therefore it was essential that they found

some way to forestall such an eventuality.

She made a point of mentioning to Simon the possibility of finding a

business consultant to advise them on the future development of the

Craft Company, but he appeared totally uninterested.

'Always supposing it has a future,' was his comment.

Joanna gritted her teeth. 'Shall I make some enquiries or not?' she

asked carefully.

'Leave it,' he said brusquely. 'I told you—it's now my problem, and

I'll sort something out.'

Joanna remained unconvinced. Simon didn't have the air of a man

with a ready-made answer to anything. He made no effort to hide his

worries and abstraction, and even snapped at Fiona when she

complained of feeling neglected.

Nor, it was clear, did he want Joanna resuming any kind of duties at

the Craft Company. Any suggestion that she might return to work

was instantly stonewalled. He and Philip could cope, she was told.

But can I cope? Joanna asked herself. I need something to occupy me.

Something to stop me thinking all the time—stop me waiting for the

phone to ring.

But the call from Cal did not come, either then or during the

interminable days that followed. Maybe her words about leading her

own life had achieved some effect, she thought. Or, far more likely,

he had decided to keep her on tenterhooks for a while, wondering

what his next move would be.

The weather was unpredictably and inappropriately idyllic, and

Joanna spent a great deal of her. time in the garden, hoping that the

golden tan she was acquiring would disguise the tell-tale shadows

beneath her eyes and the hollows in her cheeks which herv sleepless

nights were engendering.

The image of Cal as she'd last seen him, smiling at her, holding out

his hand to her, haunted her constantly. It terrified her to realise how

easily she'd been beguiled—how close she'd come to complete self-

betrayal with him. Oh, but he'd been clever, she thought bitterly. And

she'd been the fool of all fools.

While she'd been indulging in stupidly sentimental dreams of love,

and a possible future, Cal's sole motivation had been revenge. He'd

said he wanted her, but not even that was true. His desire for her was

fuelled only by his determination to succeed where his grandfather

had failed.

All this hating, she thought with a shudder. All this grim obsession

down the years caused by nothing more than unrequited lust.

Callum Blackstone had wanted Joanna Chalfont enough to forget all

sense of decency and honour. Balked of his desire, and publicly

punished for it, he had turned in rage against her husband Jonas. If he

couldn't have his woman, then he would take everything else instead.

That must have been his reasoning.

That was disgusting enough. But now Cal was planning to add the

final link to that chain of revenge. Herself. And the knowledge flayed

her.

How could she not have seen that she was simply being

used—manipulated quite cold-bloodedly? Why had she been so easy

to deceive?

But then, hadn't she used Martin in exactly the same way?

She shivered. Perhaps Cal and I deserve each other, she thought

wretchedly.

If her nights were bad, the days had little to recommend them either.

The presence of Mrs Driscoll was rapidly making the house

untenable. From breakfast to bedtime, her voice could be heard,

criticising, complaining, interfering. Nothing was too minute to

escape her attention, and she was constantly chivvying Fiona into

making her presence felt more.

'There is always room for improvement, my dear,' she would say

magisterially when even Fiona protested she could see no reason for

changes in time- honoured household routines. 'You are the mistress

of the house now.'

Nanny and Gresham remained unmoved, treating the visitor with

civil scorn, but Joanna suspected that Mrs Thursgood would soon be

at the end of her tether and handing in her notice. She wondered drily

how much room for improvement there would be if Fiona found

herself stuck with the cooking.

Joanna decided the best thing for her would be to try and pick up the

threads of her life again. She went through her address book, making

a list of contacts. During her time in the States she seemed to have

lost touch with a number of her former friends. Some she found had

moved away. Several were married, and even had babies. Although

they were pleased to hear from her again, they all seemed busy and

fulfilled in a way she could not match. The fact that she was a widow

created a kind of barrier too. No one seemed to know quite what to

say about Martin and her shortlived marriage. There was no one

either that she could talk to—confide in. Tell the whole appalling

truth about her life.

She wanted to say to someone, 'This is the point I've reached, and I'm

desperate. Where do I go from here?'

But she could imagine the utter lack of comprehension—the

embarrassment if she said any such thing. Instead she heard herself

talking about clothes, organised fund-raising for charity, the merits of

one local school against another. The fabric of lives to which she

seemed barely able to relate any more. And when she escaped from

each pretty colour-coordinated house, she would find herself

breathing as deeply as if she'd just taken part in some marathon, and

she would get into the car and drive up, out of the valley on to the

high moor roads, to clear sunlight, the scything breeze and the

solitude of her own thoughts.

Once she drove through Nethercrag. There was a 'Sold' sign outside

Kirkgate Cottage. There was a large removal van too, and she caught

a glimpse of Mrs Osborne supervising furniture being carried out of

the cottage.

Well, she'd said that the sooner her move was to Eastbourne, the

better, Joanna thought, crushing down a pang of envy. She must be

supremely confident that the sale would go through without snags if

she was prepared to decamp so promptly.

How marvellous to be able to map out your life with such certainty.

To make decisions and keep them. I feel as if I'm in some kind of

unspeakable limbo, she thought forlornly.

She got back to Chalfont House after yet another coffee morning, to

find Fiona waiting for her on the steps.

'Where's Simon?' her sister-in-law demanded without preamble.

'At the Craft Company, I imagine,' Joanna returned as she locked the

car, trying to suppress her irritation at the other girl's querulous tone.

'That's where he'd normally be on a working day.'

'But he isn't. That's the whole point.' Fiona spread her hands

tragically. 'I've just had a phone call from Philip, asking if I'd seen

him. He sounded really upset. He said he couldn't find the current

order book anywhere, and when he looked in Simon's safe, he

realised the account books, the ledgers and all kinds of other stuff

were missing too. Not to mention nearly everything out of petty cash.'

She gave Joanna, who had halted halfway up the steps, a sharp look.

'Are • you sure you don't know where he is? Philip said to ask you—if

and when you finally showed up.'

'His words, or yours?' Joanna asked evenly. 'As it happens, I have no

idea where Simon is, or why he should have taken the books.' She

could, she thought, biting her lip, make an educated guess about the

petty cash, but surely Simon wouldn't have taken a stack of ledgers to

a race meeting?

She looked up at Fiona. 'Will a phone call do, or would Philip prefer

me to go down to the workshops and give him my personal assurance

about it?'

'Well, it certainly wouldn't hurt you,' Fiona said waspishly. 'Mother

was saying only the other day that she was surprised at the amount of

time you spend either mooning round the house, or out gallivanting,

when there was a business to be run.'

'I'm grateful for her interest,' Joanna replied too courteously. 'As it

happens, neither Simon nor Philip have ever suggested I should come

back to the Craft Company on a full-time basis. I gathered, in fact,

that I was totally surplus to requirements.' She paused. 'Besides, I do

have things in my own life that I need to sort out.'

'Well, I can't imagine what. Simon's been like a bear with a sore head

for days, and now I have Philip nagging at me.' Fiona's face was

fretful. 'What's going on? It isn't like Simon to do something like this.'

'On the contrary, it's exactly like him,' Joanna said wearily. 'But if you

want me to hunt for clues, I will. Is it all right if I get changed first?'

'Simon shouldn't be worrying me like this with the baby so close,'

Fiona complained, following her into the house. 'The doctor said I

should avoid stress of any kind.'

'It's certainly a good trick if you can manage it,' Joanna agreed drily,

making for the stairs. 'Why not have a nice lie-down in a darkened

room, with a little light refreshment on the hour?'

Fiona, however, was a stranger to irony. 'That's not a bad idea,' she

nodded, and turned towards the drawing-room.

How nice to be so self-centred, Joanna thought with a sigh, as she

went to her room. She herself was more concerned about this new

turn of events than she had allowed Fiona to see. What the hell could

Simon be up to now? she asked herself broodingly.

She could only pray that his mistakes and responsibilities hadn't

weighed him down to such an extent that he'd decided to do a runner.

That would be the final disaster.

The envelope was lying on the carpet, just inside her bedroom door.

She snatched it up, and tore it open with a feeling of foreboding.

'Dear Jo,' it said in Simon's undistinguished scrawl, 'I've found a way

to get Blackstone off our backs once and for all. It isn't what I'd have

chosen, but there's no other option, and I'm desperate. As Nanny

always says—needs must when the devil drives. Trust me, and don't

say anything to anyone. Simon.'

Joanna read it through twice, with growing dismay. It all sounded too

hectic—too secretive. If he was prepared to tell her this much, why

couldn't he have confided in her completely—set her mind at rest?

Maybe he knows that I won't want to hear what he's got to say, she

thought unhappily, stuffing the letter into her bag. Oh, Simon, what

are you doing? Please—please don't let it be anything illegal!

She changed hastily out of her dress into a pair of close-fitting cream

jeans and a loose violet top, and sped down to the car.

Philip was in Simon's office when she arrived at the Craft Company,

and he greeted her with obvious relief.

'Hello, stranger. Any idea where our wandering boy has got to?'

Joanna shook her head, guiltily aware of the letter in her bag. 'Not the

slightest. I wish I had.' She paused. 'Have you spoken to his

secretary?'

Philip pulled a face. 'Jean's on holiday, and there's a temp in. All she

knows is that the phone was going crazy yesterday, and this morning

old Simon came in practically at dawn and pushed off with his

briefcase bulging, and a carrier-bag as well.' He looked at her

uneasily. 'Jo—everything is quite all right, isn't it? I mean, I'm just the

salesman, and Si's the one who does the hard sums, but if there were

serious problems he'd have told me, surely?'

'I'm sure everything's fine,' Joanna returned, crossing her fingers

surreptitiously. 'Perhaps he's decided to change banks, or find a new

accountant. He does tend to make these rapid decisions.'

'Don't I know it.' Some of Philip's tension was fading visibly. He

smiled at her more warmly. 'Seriously, it's good to see you again. You

look marvellous.'

After all these sleepless nights? she wondered wryly. My powers of

recuperation must be greater than I thought!

She smiled back at him. 'Thanks.'

'Have you got over --?' he paused delicately, 'you know—that awful

business? I mean, it must have been the most terrible shock. Martin of