Marriage At A Distance. Sara Craven

His smile flickered at her like a cold flame. ‘Goodbye, my sweet wife.’

      Joanna realised dazedly that she was standing in the middle of the study with her eyes shut and her hands pressed tightly to her ears, as if—two years on—she could somehow shut out the sound, the image of that night, and by doing so reduce its pain.

      But that, she reminded herself bleakly, had never been possible. And with Gabriel’s return it would all begin again. The day after tomorrow, Henry Fortescue had said. Forty-eight hours, maybe less, and she would have to face him.

      Yes—on the positive side—forty-eight hours and the official dissolution of their marriage could begin.

      She would leave the letter she had written him on the desk for him to find.

      She took a long look around her. The chances were she would never enter this room again. The house that had been her home was hers no longer.

      I have to move out, she thought. Move out—and move on.

      And, whatever emotional furore Gabriel’s return would cause, there were still practical details to be dealt with.

      She went out of the study, crossing the big panelled hall to the dining room, where Mrs Ashby was laying the table for dinner.

      The housekeeper’s elderly face was drawn, her eyes red-rimmed. Joanna remembered with compassion that she had lived at Westroe in one capacity or another for over thirty years, arriving when Gabriel was still a baby.

      The smile she sent Joanna was a travesty of her usual cheerfulness. ‘Will Mrs Elcott be down for dinner, madam? Or should I prepare a tray?’

      ‘I honestly don’t know, but I’ll find out.’ Joanna paused. ‘Mr Verne will be here for the funeral, Grace. Would you get a room ready for him, please?’

      Grace Ashby shook her head. ‘What a sad home-coming for him, madam.’ She hesitated awkwardly. ‘I suppose it should be Mr Lionel’s room, but all his things are still there. I—I haven’t had the heart to touch anything, and that’s a fact.’

      ‘Just prepare the room he used to have for the time being,’ Joanna said gently. ‘He can decide for himself what he wants to do once things—settle down a bit.’ She sighed. ‘Now, I’ll go and tackle Mrs Elcott.’

      The lamps had been lit in Cynthia’s bedroom, and she was reclining against her pillows in a pale blue wrap, watching television. A copy of Vogue was open on the bed beside her, together with a half-eaten box of chocolates.

      ‘Hi.’ Joanna smiled at her, trying not to wince at the over-heated, perfume-laden atmosphere. ‘How are you feeling? I came to see if you felt like coming down to dinner this evening.’

      ‘I’ll have a bowl of soup up here.’ Cynthia gave her a tragic look. ‘I’m afraid I can’t face anything more solid.’

      And nor could I if I’d eaten my way through nearly a pound of chocolates, Joanna thought with irony.

      Aloud, she said, ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

      ‘It’s not your fault.’ Cynthia waved a hand. ‘Some of us are just more sensitive than others. It’s the burden we have to bear in life.’

      She thought of another one. ‘And how many more visitors can we expect today?’ she demanded peevishly. ‘The doorbell seems to have been ringing non-stop. It’s been quite impossible for me to rest.’

      ‘It’s natural for people to express their condolences,’ Joanna said levelly. ‘Lionel was very much loved.’

      ‘You think you have to tell me that?’ Cynthia snatched a handful of tissues from a box and applied them to her perfectly dry eyes. ‘Really, Joanna, you can be so tactless. I sometimes wonder if you have a heart at all.’ She paused. ‘I notice none of them came up to see me. I suppose I can expect to be disregarded from now on.’ She sighed. ‘And things might have been so different.’

      ‘They’re going to be.’ Joanna cleared a handful of lingerie and filmy stockings from a chair and sat down. ‘My last visitor was Henry Fortescue.’

      ‘Old Fortescue?’ Cynthia sat up abruptly, her wrap slipping from her shoulder. ‘Did he mention Lionel’s will, by any chance? Give a hint how things had been left?’

      Joanna was used to her stepmother by now, but there were still moments when Cynthia’s capacity for self-interest left her stunned.

      ‘No,’ she returned tautly. ‘The will’s going to be read after the funeral.’ She swallowed. ‘When Gabriel is here.’

      ‘Of course.’ Cynthia gave a slow, sly smile. ‘The return of the prodigal heir. No wonder you’re so edgy.’

      Joanna was about to retort irritably that she wasn’t edgy at all, but stopped herself just in time.

      ‘How do you feel about seeing him again?’ Cynthia helped herself to another chocolate. ‘And, more importantly, how’s he going to feel about seeing you? He must blame you for the fact that he hasn’t been near the place for two years.’ She began to roll the paper wrapping into a tiny ball. ‘After all, he hasn’t just been separated from you, but from his father as well, and now the separation’s permanent.’

      ‘You don’t have to remind me of that,’ Joanna said bleakly. ‘I should have been the one to go.’

      ‘Oh, don’t be a fool,’ Cynthia said impatiently. ‘Lionel would never have allowed that.’ She examined a fleck on her nail. ‘You do realise he was madly in love with your mother, don’t you?’

      Joanna stared at her in silent shock. ‘What are you talking about?’ she asked eventually.

      ‘Your father told me all about it.’ Cynthia shrugged nonchalantly. ‘It was one of those boy-girl things, and the families discouraged it because they were first cousins, but Jeremy reckoned he carried a torch for her all his life.’ She gave Joanna a sidelong smile. ‘Why do you think I brought you here after your father was killed? I knew all I had to do was tug a few heartstrings and we’d have a home for life.’

      ‘I think that had more to do with Lionel’s strong sense of family than any secret passion,’ Joanna said dismissively. ‘You’re surely not suggesting he married Valentina on some kind of rebound?’

      Cynthia shrugged again, giving an irritable hitch to her slipping wrap. ‘God knows why he married her, because of all the ill-matched couples…’ She pursed her lips. ‘Can you imagine? A Roman beauty, descended from centuries of aristocratic decadence, buried alive in the English countryside. She must have thought she’d died and gone to hell.’

      ‘And yet they stayed together,’ Joanna objected.

      ‘By the skin of their teeth.’ Cynthia yawned, and ate another chocolate. ‘Jeremy told me they used to have the most spectacular rows—real plate-throwing, screaming jobs. You can see why Gabriel’s no angel, in spite of his name.’

      She paused, her expression soulful. ‘I think that is why poor Lionel was so scared of actual commitment for a second time. If only we’d had more time together, I might have been able to reassure him.’

      At the same time keeping a close watch for flying pigs, Joanna thought drily.

      Whatever her stepmother’s ego might suggest, Joanna herself had never seen in Lionel’s behaviour towards Cynthia anything more than a rather studied courtesy. On the other hand, the full-length portrait of his late wife still occupied pride of place on the wall of the Jacobean Room, with its big carved four-poster bed, which they’d shared during their marriage and he’d occupied until his own death.

      Cynthia directed a malicious look at her. ‘Did Gabriel ever bung any plates in your direction? No, I suppose he was far too civilised—although I often thought there was something pretty volcanic seething under that calm exterior.’

      Joanna’s lips tightened in distaste. ‘I wouldn’t