Makeshift Marriage Page 6

  Joe, the local jobbing gardener, was there, polishing up the family car ready for tomorrow. Her mother's Mini was standing outside the garage. 'I have to dash into Town, Joe. Would you mind letting someone know in the house, please? Say I won't be long, I'll be back in time for supper.'

  'Right you are, Miss Maggie.' Joe stopped polishing. 'She's coming up a treat, isn't she?' He stood away from the glossy dark-green Humber, shaking out his polishing cloth. 'Do you proud tomorrow, Miss Maggie.'

  'Yes, indeed, the car looks super, Joe. You've done a grand job.' Maggie smiled at the elderly man as she climbed into the Mini. Everything was geared to the wedding. Everyone was working for it, looking forward to it. She started up the engine and let in the clutch clumsily—unusual for Maggie, who was a good, safe driver. As the little car jerked forward she thought fiercely. He shan't hurt and disappoint them all like this. I'll make him see that he must think of some other way.

  Driving into London at this time in the evening was marginally easier than driving out of it, but even so it took Maggie over an hour to reach Blake's apartment overlooking the river.

  When she had been here before she had never felt particularly attracted to the place, with its atmosphere of almost suffocating luxury, but now she wasn't noticing the surroundings as she pressed Blake's number on the board in the lobby.

  'Who's that?' came a woman's languid voice through the speaker.

  Fiona! Maggie's heart sank. Stupid of her—she'd been so bent on talking to Blake that she hadn't given a thought to the certainty that Fiona would still be here. Oh well, she had to go through with it now.

  'It's Maggie Webster. I'd like to see Blake, please.'

  'Oh!' A pause. Then, 'You'd better come up,' said Fiona.

  Maggie was sucked silently up in the lift. She wielded the tiny ornate brass knocker on the white door and a voice from inside said, 'Come in, it's not locked.'

  Fiona was stretched out on a satin-pillowed divan in the long living-room that had a magnificent view of the river from its picture windows. She was pale and she looked, Maggie had to admit, fabulously beautiful in her clinging black negligee, her silver-gilt hair loose around her shoulders. She made no attempt to rise and Maggie stood looking down at her. Some words of sympathy needed to be said, and she murmured. 'I was so sorry to hear of the tragedy. It must have been terrible for you.'

  Fiona raised enormous sapphire-blue eyes. 'Oh— Pietro. Yes, it was too bad. He was leading in the race, too.' She sighed. 'All that prize lolly down the drain!' Her lovely mouth took on a petulant slant. 'He never told me he owed money all round Italy, would you believe? That was like Pietro—he was so selfish. He never gave a thought to what I should do if he got himself killed.' She shuddered delicately and swung her silken legs off the divan. 'I was lucky to get out of the country before I was clobbered for his debts, I suppose. Not that I could have paid them—I hadn't a bean.'

  Maggie listened to this incredible speech in silent amazement, as Fiona reached for the glass on the low table beside her. 'Blake's quite different, of course. A solid businessman, is Blake, and he's consoling me beautifully.' Fiona glanced with a kind of tolerant contempt round the luxurious apartment.

  She put down the glass, and her face suddenly became closed and suspicious. 'What do you want to see Blake about? He said he'd arranged everything with you about tomorrow.' She smiled again. 'Silly boy, rushing off and getting himself engaged to you when he found I'd got married, but he explained that it was just a business arrangement. So of course it's quite easy to cancel everything.'

  Maggie stared at her. 'Is that how you see it?'

  'Well, of course. Blake doesn't care two pins for you, my dear, you must know that. You're useful to him in his business, but he'll easily find someone else.'

  Maggie dug her fingernails into her palms. To smack that lovely face would be satisfying but wouldn't help matters. She said, 'I'd like to see Blake. Do you know where he is?'

  Fiona smiled. 'He's at his stuffy old office, busy with all his last-minute arrangements. He thinks he's flying to Hong Kong tomorrow.'

  'Thinks?'

  Fiona fingered a slender gold bracelet. 'Oh yes, darling, thinks. He doesn't know it yet, but he's not going to Hong Kong. It's not my favourite place. He's coming to Paris—with me. I shall be on the spot to console him—' she smiled silkily '—when the bride fails to turn up.'

  She took another sip of her drink and nodded lazily towards the telephone. 'You won't want to trek over to the office this time of night. Ring him from here.'

  'No, thanks,' Maggie said curtly. For a moment her eyes studied the girl on the divan, taking in the beautiful body, the exquisite face, seeing under it all to the callous, mean, squalid little mind beneath. 'I don't think I really need see Blake, after all.'

  Fiona shrugged. 'Suit yourself. Ta-ta then, darling.' She tossed off the remainder of her drink and giggled. 'I can't very well say I'll see you in church, can I?'

  Maggie turned and walked out of the apartment without another word.

  She stumbled down the stairs, not waiting to call the lift. She couldn't get away from Fiona Deering quickly enough; she felt as if she were escaping from someone with a fatally infectious disease.

  Reaching the Mini, she climbed into the driving seat and sat there, shaking all over with nerves and pure rage and disgust. But after a few minutes she pulled her scattered wits together and tried to think clearly. If she drove to the office and saw Blake what could she say? What good would it do to try to open his eyes to the kind of woman Fiona was? None at all, reason told her. Blake was infatuated and wouldn't listen or believe.

  What other course remained? For a moment her pulse quickened and her stomach was suddenly hollow as she realised what she had to do. Then her resolution hardened and her small, square chin firmed stubbornly.

  Could she let that woman ruin Blake's career and bring unhappiness to his father and all her own beloved family? 'Over my dead body!' she ground out between her teeth, and the hand that went to the self-starter was firm and steady.

  The rush-hour traffic had cleared and the drive home was fairly easy. Maggie left the Mini outside the garage and made her way through the trees to the summer-house. She took the travelling bag from its hiding place behind the stack of chairs and carried it swiftly up the garden towards the front door.

  Her mother was passing through the hall as she opened the door. 'Darling, you have been ages. Joe said you had to drive into London to see Blake about something.' Mrs Webster's face held the expression it had held for ages—as if she were concentrating on keeping at least three things in her mind at once. 'Catriona's putting the girls to bed and they do so want you to go up and say goodnight. Oh, and supper's nearly ready.'

  She looked enquiringly at the bag in Maggie's hand and then at the small, determined face that showed a heightened spot of colour on each cheek. 'Everything all right, dear?'

  Maggie kissed her swiftly. 'Everything's fine. Just something I remembered I had to collect from Blake. I'll be down in a minute to help you with the supper.'

  Up in her room she unpacked the bag and pushed the contents back into drawers and cupboards. She picked up the note, where it had fallen on the floor, and held it in her hand for a long moment—the note that would have changed the course of several people's lives.

  Then, with firm resolve, she tore the envelope and its contents into shreds and dropped them into the waste basket.

  Blake phoned soon after they had started supper. Her mother called her to the telephone in the hall and then tactfully returned to the dining room, closing the door behind her.

  'I've just got back from the office,' Blake's voice sounded tired and strained. 'I hear you came to the apartment, Maggie. Was there something special you wanted to see me about?'

  Maggie stared at the wall in front of her, unable to speak.

  'Maggie—are you still there? Is anything wrong?' His voice had sharpened.

  She swallowed. 'It wasn't anything impor
tant.'

  'You're all right?'

  Oh, yes, she thought wildly. I'm on top of the world, what did you expect? 'Quite all right,' she said levelly.

  'Good. I just wondered—I thought you sounded—' he paused. 'Everything set for tomorrow according to plan?'

  'Everything,' she said. Then, on a crazy impulse, she added, 'I simply can't wait, darling, I'm so living for the moment.'

  There was an awkward little laugh from the other end of the line, then Blake said, 'I take it you're not alone?'

  Maggie looked round the empty hall and laughed too, high and brittle. 'What do you think?' she said.

  'Oh well, then, it's not much use continuing this conversation. Just so long as I'm sure you're all ready for the morning.' A heavy meaning lay across the words.

  'All ready,' she told him brightly. 'No problems at all.'

  There was a short silence, then Blake said with the utmost sincerity, 'You're a wonderful girl, Maggie, and a wonderful friend. I always knew I could rely on you.'

  'Thank you, Blake.' She replaced the receiver very carefully, thinking that that was the last compliment she would receive from Blake for a long, long time. Probably the last in her whole life.

  That night Maggie didn't sleep at all. The thought of tomorrow, and of what she intended to do, sent her hot and cold by turns, until at one time in the small hours of the morning she wondered if she was really ill. That might solve a lot of problems. But by the time it was light she knew that she wasn't going to be let off as easily as that. Her physical symptoms were nothing more than a reaction to an almost intolerable stress.

  At six o'clock she crept downstairs and put the kettle on. A couple of minutes later she was joined by Catriona, her long, sandy hair loose on her patterned kimono, her pleasant face pink from sleep.

  'Hullo, Maggie, I heard you come down. We both had the same idea. A lovely cup of tea, don't you think?'

  Just seeing the practical Catriona restored a semblance of normality to the nightmare world in which Maggie seemed to be existing. 'Oh yes, that would be a life-saver.'

  Catriona made the tea and poured out two cups, scalding hot. 'Drink that, my dear, it'll steady you up. You're a bundle of nerves, I can see. The idea of the bride going to bed early and having a long, long sleep the night before the wedding has always seemed like wishful thinking to me. I didn't sleep a wink the night before my wedding—and as you know that wasn't a big church affair, like yours.'

  She chatted on, but her eyes were watching Maggie's face closely, and as they stood up she leaned forward and kissed her, which was a rare gesture from the usually undemonstrative Catriona.

  'Being married is sometimes heaven and occasionally the other place,' she said. 'If you ever need a friendly ear, Maggie, and no questions asked, you know where to find me. Now, I think I hear those two bairns of mine, I must go and quell them before they get overexcited.'

  As the morning wore on Maggie thought bleakly that it would have been fitting if the weather had been cold and wet. Instead it was turning into a perfect summer day. 'Just the kind of day,' everyone said happily, 'that we would have chosen.' Warm and sunny, with a heat-haze rising over the lawn. Inside the big marquee the waitresses had arrived and were setting out the buffet tables. Inside the house the scent from the bowls of roses that were everywhere filled the air, together with an almost tangible atmosphere of excited expectancy, as the family gathered in its wedding attire. Outside on the gravel sweep the glossy cars waited.

  In Maggie's room Mrs Webster was giving her daughter a final check-over before leaving in the family car with Ian and Joyce. Maggie stood at the foot of the bed, like a pale statue, the silky white lace shimmering round her slim body and falling in flutes to the carpet, the tulle veil floating out from the tiny pearl coronet that nestled among her brown curls.

  Her mother stood back, scrutinising her with the critical eye of the artist and finally announced, 'Yes, dear, you look very nice. I've never seen you look prettier. A little pale, though. You don't think a touch of colour on your cheeks? No? Well, perhaps not.' She fussed for a moment with the veil, her eyes misty. 'Darling girl, I hope—I wish you everything that—' She choked, groped for a handkerchief and blew her nose. 'I was determined not to weep, and here I am already!'

  She repaired the damage at Maggie's dressing table, taking peeks out of the window at the same time. 'Look, James and Catriona are just leaving with the girls. Don't they look simply adorable, with those dear little posies? It's a tremendous occasion for them, they'll always remember their very first wedding. Well now, dear, it's time to go down, Daddy will be waiting for you in the hall.'

  Ian was standing by the front door as Maggie followed her mother slowly down the stairs. 'Come along, Mum,' he urged. 'Joyce is in the car already.' He saw Maggie behind his mother and whistled with cheerful lack of solemnity. 'You look stunning, Sis! Good luck, and mind you don't fluff your lines!'

  He hustled his mother out to the car and Maggie was alone in the hall with her father.

  Outside, the hired Daimler stood waiting, the sunshine gleaming on its glossy bonnet with the discreet trim of white satin ribbons. Beside her was her father, so dear and infinitely reassuring, broad and good-looking in his well-fitting morning suit, his grey hair carefully parted, the usual half-teasing smile that had seen her through so many childhood difficulties firmly in place.

  She remembered her careful plan of yesterday. This was the moment when she should be making her excuse and running down the garden to the summerhouse and then—into the Mini and driving furiously away from the wedding and everything connected with it.

  But all that had changed now. Fiona had finally changed it last night. The scenario was a different one.

  Her father touched her arm gently. 'Well, chickabiddy—' that was his childish pet-name for her '—are you ready for the fray? Shall we go forth to battle together?'

  To battle! He couldn't guess how terrifyingly close to the truth that might be.

  She put her hand in the crook of his arm and smiled up into his quizzical face. Unlike her mother he never seemed to hurry and was always apparently unflappable. 'Let's go,' she said, and they went out together to the waiting car.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The church was a mere ten minutes' drive away, but they were the longest ten minutes of Maggie's life. She was going to stab Blake in the back, and she was sick with fear of what he would do, knowing how his anger could flare and blaze. But there was no turning back now; she had burned her boats and she had to take whatever came later.

  In the porch Catriona was hovering over her two small daughters, patting the little wreaths of daisies on their brown hair while they squirmed and fidgeted, their shell-pink dresses fluttering against the background of grey stone walls, their eyes huge with excitement and awe.

  Catriona sighed with relief as Maggie and her father walked up the wide path, between the two rows of passers-by who had gathered to see the bride arrive.

  'Here you are, then, both of you,' she whispered, almost as if she had expected some last-minute hitch. 'You look absolutely smashing, love, a really beautiful bride.'

  Maggie smiled remotely. In her shimmer of ivory lace, with the floating tulle veil and the trailing sheaf of rosebuds nestling against the feathery green fern, she knew she looked like a bride; her mirror had told her that before she left her bedroom. But she didn't feel like a bride, she felt like a criminal.

  Catriona fussed over the bridesmaids, lining them up behind Maggie and her father. 'Now, don't forget, Jessie, to take Auntie Maggie's flowers when she turns and gives them to you. Jean, keep hold of Jessie's hand as you walk up the aisle, and don't look around you.'

  In the doorway one of the ushers held up a finger and the organ stopped playing, signalling the arrival of the bride. An expectant hush passed over the congregation and Maggie shivered in the sudden silence.

  'All set?' Catriona looked at Maggie.

  It wasn't too late, she thought, panicking sudden
ly. She could turn and run—and run—

  'All set,' she nodded, her fingers gripping her father's coat-sleeve, her knees trembling violently.

  The organ music began to throb softly through the old, lofty building and the little procession moved slowly into the church.

  Maggie willed her feet forward, her eyes cast down. She was oblivious to everything—the music, the scent of flowers, the heads that turned as she passed, the sunlight that filtered through the stained glass, throwing jewel colours on to the carpet. Only one blinding fact possessed her mind: that Blake was standing, there at the chancel rails, and that he must be shocked and furious that the bride he had not expected and did not want was coming down the aisle to him.

  As she took her place at his side she did not dare to look up. She was agonisingly aware of his tall, rigid form in the unaccustomed dark suit, of the way his hand clenched convulsively, the knuckles showing white against the taut, brown skin. She heard his harsh intake of breath, and panic almost overcame her. In a moment he would turn and stride away from her in disgust. She had a, terrible certainty that he would.

  The minister's voice reached her as if through a fog. 'Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here, in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this Man and this Woman—'

  The ceremony continued. Only Maggie could hear the suppressed rage that kept Blake's voice strong and firm as he made the responses. Her own words were scarcely audible and once or twice she stumbled over them. The touch of Blake's hand on hers as he slipped the ring on to her finger was a kind of agony.

  'Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder.'

  Only then, with a supreme effort, Maggie lifted her eyes to Blake's face. He was staring straight ahead of him, his expression stern and fixed. His features might have been graven from stone. She swallowed a sob. She had married Blake against his will and already he had rejected her.

  In the vestry Maggie signed her name 'Margaret Webster' for the last time. She watched Blake sign, saw him straighten up. This was the moment when, traditionally, the bride and groom kissed each other. His mouth twisted cynically before it came down to hers, his lips were hard and unyielding. Oh God, she thought in sick misery, what have I done? At least Blake had been her friend before, now he was her bitter enemy.