His Forbidden Bride. Sara Craven

Arnold was dressed as usual in a pleated navy skirt with a matching hand-knitted jacket over a tailored pale blue blouse, and her greying hair was drawn back from her thin face in a severe knot.

      ‘As you can see I’ve placed the house on the market,’ she went on. ‘I’ve instructed the agents to commence showing the property at once, so you’ll have to remove all this clutter.’ She waved a hand at the books and ornaments that filled the shelves on either side of the fireplace. Then paused. ‘I’d be obliged if you’d remove yourself, too, by the end of the month.’

      Zoe gasped helplessly. ‘Just like that?’

      ‘What did you expect?’ Megan Arnold’s mouth was a hard line. ‘My husband allowed your mother to have this property for her lifetime only. The arrangement did not mention you. You surely weren’t expecting to stay on here,’ she added sharply.

      ‘I wasn’t expecting anything,’ Zoe said, with equal crispness. ‘But I did think I’d be allowed some kind of breathing space.’

      ‘I feel you’ve had plenty of time.’ The other woman was unmoved. ‘And in the eyes of the law, you’re merely squatting here.’ She paused. ‘You should have no difficulty in finding a bedsitting room in Bishops Cross itself. Somewhere convenient for your work.’

      ‘A bedsit would hardly be adequate,’ Zoe said, keeping tight hold on her control. George must have known about this, she thought with shock. His mother must have told him what her aunt was planning. Or he heard them talking one day at the house. And that’s why he asked me to marry him. Because he knew I was going to be virtually homeless almost at once.

      She shivered. Oh, George, why didn’t you warn me instead of trying to play Sir Galahad? she thought desperately.

      She drew a deep, steadying breath. Did her best to speak normally. ‘Not all the furniture came with the cottage. Some of it belonged to Mother, and I’ll want to take it with me, as well as her books and pictures.’

      She saw Megan Arnold’s gaze go back to the painting above the mantelpiece, and decided, however belatedly, to try an overture. To heal a breach that had never been of her making. ‘Maybe you’d like to have one of them yourself, as a keepsake,’ she suggested. ‘That one, perhaps.’

      Her aunt almost recoiled. ‘Wretched daub.’ Her voice shook. ‘I wouldn’t have it in the house.’

      Zoe stared at her, appalled at the anger, the bitterness in her tone. She said slowly, ‘Aunt Megan—why—why do you hate her so much?’

      ‘What are you talking about? I—hate Gina—the perfect sister?’ Her sudden laugh was shrill. ‘What nonsense. No one was allowed to hate her. Not ever. Whatever she did, however great the sin, she was loved and forgiven always. By everyone.’

      ‘She’s dead, Aunt Megan.’ Against her will, Zoe’s voice broke. ‘If she ever hurt you, I’m sure it wasn’t intentional. And, anyway, she can’t do so again.’

      ‘You’re wrong.’ Mrs Arnold lifted her chin coldly. ‘She never had the power to affect me in any way. Because I always saw her for what she was. That innocent, butter-wouldn’t-melt façade never fooled me for a minute. And how right I was.’

      She stopped abruptly. ‘But that’s all in the past, and the future is what matters. Selling this cottage for a start.’ She stood up. ‘I suggest you hire a skip for all this rubbish—or take it to a car-boot sale. Whatever you decide, I want it cleared before the first viewers arrive. Starting with this.’

      She reached up and lugged the Mediterranean painting off its hook, tossing it contemptuously down onto the rug in front of the hearth. There was an ominous cracking sound.

      ‘The frame,’ Zoe whispered. She went down on one knee, almost protectively. ‘You’ve broken it.’ She looked up, shaking her head. ‘How could you?’

      Her aunt shrugged, a touch defensively. ‘It was loose anyway. Cheap wood, and poorly made.’

      ‘Whatever.’ Zoe was almost choking. ‘You had no right—no right to touch it.’

      ‘This is my property. I shall do what I wish.’ Her aunt reached for her bag. ‘And I want the rest removed, and all the holes in the plaster made good,’ she added. ‘I shall be back at the end of the week to make sure my instructions are being followed. Or I shall arrange a house clearance myself.’

      She swept out, and a moment later Zoe, still kneeling on the rug, heard the front door slam.

      To be followed almost immediately by the back door opening, and Adele calling to her.

      ‘Jeff’s looking after the kids,’ she announced as she came in. ‘I saw Madam leaving, and came to make sure you’re all right.’

      Zoe shook her head. ‘I feel as if I’ve been hit by a train,’ she admitted. She swallowed. ‘God, she was vile. I—I can’t believe it.’

      ‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ said Adele. She paused. ‘What happened to the picture?’

      ‘She threw it on the floor. It was completely crazy. I mean, I don’t think it’s necessarily the best thing my mother ever did, and it spent most of its life up in the attic until she moved here, but…’ She paused, lost for words.

      ‘Well, I’ve always liked it,’ Adele said. ‘Greece, isn’t it? My sister gets concessionary rates, so we went to Crete last year, and Corfu the year before.’

      Zoe shrugged. ‘It’s somewhere in that region, I guess.’ She gave it a doubtful look, then got to her feet, holding the damaged frame carefully, and placed the picture on the sofa. ‘Only we’ve never been there. My father didn’t like very hot weather.’

      ‘Well, perhaps she copied a postcard or something that someone sent her,’ Adele suggested as she filled the kettle in the kitchen.

      ‘Maybe.’ Zoe frowned. ‘It was one of those things I always meant to ask about, but never did.’

      ‘So, when are you being evicted?’ Adele asked as they sat at the kitchen table, drinking their tea.

      ‘I have to be out by the end of the month,’ Zoe admitted. ‘And she means it.’

      ‘Hmm.’ Adele was thoughtful for a moment. ‘Do you think she really is crazy?’

      ‘Not certifiably,’ Zoe said wryly. ‘Just totally irrational where my mother is concerned.’

      ‘Well, maybe that’s not entirely her fault,’ Adele said meditatively. ‘My gran remembers her as a child, and she said she was a nice-looking kid, and the apple of her parents’ eye. Then your sister came along, as an afterthought, and immediately she was the favourite. And “the pretty one”, too.’

      She shrugged. ‘That can’t have been very nice. And not easy for any kid to handle. So, maybe it’s just common or garden jealousy.’

      ‘From Queen of the Castle to the Queen in Snow White?’ Zoe pondered. ‘Well, you could be right, but I have the feeling there’s more to it than that.’

      ‘And it won’t help that you’re the image of your mum at the same age.’ Adele poured more tea into her mug. ‘Though they weren’t always bad friends—according to Gran, anyway,’ she added thoughtfully. ‘There was a time when they did things together—even went away on holiday. Although even then your aunt behaved more as if she was her mother than her sister by all accounts.’ She pursed her lips. ‘Maybe that’s what caused the trouble.’

      She paused. ‘So what are you going to do? How are you going to manage, if she’s turning you out?’

      Zoe grimaced. ‘I’m going to have to find a flat—unfurnished.’

      ‘Or even a small house. You’ll miss the garden.’

      ‘Yes.’ Zoe’s lip quivered suddenly. ‘Among so many other things.’