When the Devil Drives (18 page)

himself, staving off the vision of some demon come to possess him.

He stepped backwards away from her, his eyes never leaving her

face.

He said harshly, 'Oh, no, Joanna. Oh, God, no!'

Three quick strides took him to the door. She leaned back against the

desk, gripping its edge until the knuckles turned white, willing herself

not to cry out, to beg him to come back to her.

She heard the door slam. Heard the sound of his footsteps retreating

down the uncarpeted passage. Listened, ears straining for the sound

of his car departing. Knew, when she heard it, that he had gone, and

she was alone.

'It's over,' she whispered. 'It's all over.'

Her voice seemed to come from a great distance. Only the edge of the

desk, bruising her fingers, seemed to have any connection with

reality. Because reality hurt. Reality drew blood.

She could taste blood in her mouth, and realised she had bitten deeply

into the swollen softness of her lower lip. She touched the little

wound delicately with the tip of her finger, regarding the resultant red

smear. It would heal and leave no mark.

But there were other scars, internal, emotional, that would never fade.

And they would be her only, her lonely legacy from Cal.

That was all there ever would—ever could be between them, she

thought, as the first tearing sob rose in her throat.

IT WAS late afternoon before Joanna returned to Chalfont House.

She'd been driving around endlessly, aimlessly for hours, trying to

make some kind of decision about her life, a plan for the future, and

failing miserably. She could think of nothing but that brief, searing

and hideously final confrontation between Cal and herself.

Over and over again she told herself that Cal's dismissal of her was no

more than she'd expected, and that she should be thankful that he had

wearied of his joke before taking their 'relationship to the ultimate

intimacy. She'd been spared that humiliation at least.

'It's all for the best,' she kept whispering to herself, as if repeating

some mantra against harm. 'All for the best.'

But although she might be able to harness her mind rationally, it was

not so easy to control bruised emotions or the physical and sensual

awareness which he'd so swiftly and shockingly aroused.

Her aroused and aching body screamed at her that it had been cheated

of its fulfilment. And the shaming thing that would haunt her forever

was that Cal, not herself, had been the one to draw back.

Joanna knew that if he'd pulled her down there and then on to the

floor of Simon's office, and taken whatever he wanted from her, she

would not have gainsaid him. And Cal, of course, would be aware of

that too.

That was something she would have to live with.

It was a kind of perverse comfort, however, to know that he hadn't

been totally immune either. That although his plan had been to

manipulate and torment her, there had come a moment when he'd

desired her as hotly and completely as she wanted him.

At the same time, Joanna was sane enough to realise that for her to

experience the raw power of sex without any leavening gleam of love

or tenderness would be traumatic in the extreme. It was no way for

anyone as raw and unlessoned as she was to serve passion's novitiate,

and she should be grateful that she'd escaped.

The arguments ran in circles in her head. But one thing she was sure

of: if she could not have Cal's love, she would settle for loneliness,

because nothing less than his total commitment to her would do. And

that she knew she could not have.

She arrived back at the house to find another kind of confrontation

going on. Mrs Thursgood, looking ruffled and defensive, was facing

up to a clearly furious Fiona, while Mrs Driscoll played backstop

with gusto.

'What in the world --?' Joanna halted in the hall, staring at the trio.

'What's going on?'

Three voices began telling her at different volume levels, and Joanna

clapped her hands over her ears.

'One at a time, please,' she advised curtly. 'You'd better start, Fiona,

and for heaven's sake calm down!'

'Simon phoned. He didn't say where he was, only that he wouldn't be

back tonight!' Fiona wailed. 'And this idiot of a woman just took the

message, and didn't fetch me to speak to him!'

'Rank incompetence,' said Mrs Driscoll.

'Nothing of the kind,' said Mrs Thursgood, bristling. 'Madam's orders

were she was resting in her room, and wasn't to be disturbed for

anything. And Mr Simon just told me to give the message, which I've

done.'

'My own husband!' Fiona shrieked. 'You should have known I'd want

to speak to him!'

'Absolute stupidity,' said Mrs Driscoll.

'I'm not a mind-reader,' Mrs Thursgood defended herself. 'Dozens of

times, Mr Simon's rung and left messages with me, and no

complaints.'

'But this is different, because we don't know where he is,' Fiona flung

back unwisely, tears appearing in her rather prominent blue eyes. 'If

I'd spoken to him, I'd have made him tell me.'

'Reliable help is almost impossible to find these days,' said Mrs

Driscoll.

Joanna, seeing Mrs Thursgood's eyes beginning to crackle with

curiosity as well as resentment, intervened hastily.

'There's no real harm done,' she said crisply. 'It's very naughty of

Simon to be so vague, but you should be used to him by now, Fiona.

Come into the drawing- room and sit down, and Mrs Thursgood will

bring us all some tea.'

Mrs Driscoll put an arm round her daughter's shoulders and led her

away without further argument.

Joanna turned placatingly to the irate housekeeper. 'I'm sorry about

all that,' she said. 'Mrs Simon is at a difficult stage in her pregnancy,

and it makes her— highly strung sometimes.'

The expression on Mrs Thursgood's face suggested that Fiona could

not be strung highly enough for her, and she went off to the kitchen

muttering under her breath about 'spoiled madams' and 'interfering

old cats'. Joanna decided it was best to pretend deafness.

'That woman has got to go,' Mrs Driscoll stated as Joanna entered the

drawing-room.

Joanna faced her coolly, lifting her chin. 'I hardly feel that's your

decision,' she said. 'And I don't know who else you think we'd get to

run a great barn of a - place like this. Mrs Thursgood copes

magnificently, and we'd be lost without her. As you yourself said,

reliable help is hard to find these days.' She paused, glancing in her

sister-in-law's direction. 'Or has Fiona discovered a sudden penchant

for housework? I wasn't aware she even knew how to plug in a

vacuum cleaner.'

'Well!' Mrs. Driscoll said explosively.

'Not the word I'd have chosen,' Joanna returned. 'If Mrs Thursgood

leaves, you'll be in real trouble, I promise, especially from Simon,

who adores her cooking.' She paused. 'And it might be better, Fiona,

if you were a bit more discreet about Simon's absence until we find

out where he's gone and why. I'm sure you don't want to start a

rumour that he's left you.'

'You're being horrid. He hasn't,' Fiona said tearfully.

'Probably not, though I can't say I'd blame him if he had,' Joanna

retorted. 'He has all the worries of the business to cope with, and not a

particularly comfortable home life to come back to, with your

nonstop whinging, among other things,' she added with a grim

sideways glance at Mrs Driscoll.

Fiona sat bolt upright on the sofa. 'Joanna—you've never spoken to

me like this before!'

'No, I haven't,' Joanna said affably. 'But I've wanted to—many times.

It's time you got a grip, Fiona, on yourself and your marriage.' And

your mother, she added silently as she walked to the door. 'Now I'm

going up to sit with my father. I don't want to spoil your tea-party any

further.'

She felt marginally more cheerful as she walked upstairs. If she'd

persuaded Fiona to pause, even for a second, and take stock of her

life, then she might have done Simon a favour. I only hope he

deserves it, she thought with a sigh, as she went along to her father's

room.

Anthony Chalfont was lying back in his chair, his eyes closed,

breathing stertorously.

'How is he today, Nanny?' Joanna asked in a low voice.

Nanny pursed her lips. 'Not so good, Miss Jo, and that's a fact. He

didn't seem to know Gresham at all this morning, and he didn't want

his lunch. Let the whole tray tip on to the floor, just like when he was

a toddler. And he hasn't had a word to say all afternoon. It's as if he

can't hear what's said to him—or won't.'

'Oh, dear.' Joanna bit her already sore lip, and winced. 'I'll stay with

him for a while, so that you can have a break.'

'Just as you like, my dear. I'll go and see if the evening paper's come

yet.'

Joanna fetched her usual low padded stool, and seated herself beside

her father, resting her head against the arm of his chair. It was time,

she thought, that she and Simon faced up to the fact that her father's

condition wasn't just a deliberate retreat from unpleasant reality, but

was medical in origin. Her mind shied away from the more obvious

possibilities. However, it seemed clear that in the near future he

would need more specialised and stringent care than Nanny or

Gresham could provide.

Once I would simply have blamed the Blackstones, and the loss of the

mill, she thought wearily. So I suppose I'm making progress.

Cal's harsh words about her father had hurt, but she was forced to

admit they held a certain amount of justice. Other people, she

recalled, had said or hinted much the same over the years, although

she had chosen to disregard their comments. Anthony Chalfont had

been brought up to enjoy a certain lifestyle and a definite inheritance.

He was no battler for his share of the market-place, and these days

one had to be, especially in the woollen industry, she reflected sadly.

The loss of her mother had wrought a profound effect on him too.

Cecilia's had been a strong, forceful personality, not always

comfortable to live with, but certainly one to be missed.

She sighed. Whatever curse old Callum Blackstone had put. upon the

Chalfonts, it seemed to have had its effect over the years. And where

was the justice in that? Jonas Chalfont, after all, and his wife had been

the injured parties.

She got up quietly and fetched the photograph album, turning the

pages with renewed curiosity. Had an attempted rape really had the

power to turn the vibrant Joanna Chalfont into this depressed, dowdy

woman? Surely not, yet there seemed no other answer to the enigma.

Studying the photographs of her grandfather, she couldn't imagine

him being particularly caring or supportive in such a situation.

Perhaps he was one of those husbands who believed there was no

smoke without fire, and that his wife had brought her disgrace on

herself by her own conduct, she thought, grimacing.

She had no sympathy at all for such an attitude, but then neither could

she understand Cal's obvious support for his own grandfather in view

of what he'd tried to do. Unless he too believed that Joanna had led

Callum on.

She remembered the merry, beautiful face in the miniature. Was that

really the kind of woman who teased a man beyond bearing, then

tried to draw back at the last moment? It wasn't easy to believe. But

the fact that Callum Blackstone had the miniature in his possession

suggested that her grandmother had encouraged him to a certain

extent.

She must have given it to him, Joanna mused, because if he'd stolen it,

then Jonas would undoubtedly have had him charged with theft. She

shook her head vexedly. The more she thought about it, the more

bewildering it all became.

But then everything was such a mess, and had been from the start. Cal

might have repudiated her, but that didn't mean the feud was over. 'I'll

be waiting,' he'd threatened.

Joanna closed her eyes, feeling the ache of tears in her throat. She

would have to go away from the Valley. She had no choice. She

couldn't stay and see the man she loved destroy the brother she'd

always had to protect. Nor could she shield Simon any more. She'd

tried, and it had been a total disaster.

I shouldn't have interfered, she thought drearily. I should have come

back, seen what the situation was, and taken off again. But I expected

to find Cal safely married, and the feud reduced to a state of armed

neutrality at worst. I wanted an anticlimax, not a crisis.

She wondered exactly how she would have felt if she'd indeed