Marriage Reclaimed. Sara Craven

ceased on his death, of course.’

      Joanna looked at the floor. ‘I believe Gabriel intends to continue it.’ She kept her face and voice expressionless.

      ‘Quite extraordinary,’ Mr Fortescue said dourly.

      Not when you knew the facts, Joanna thought unhappily, although Gabriel must be totally besotted to let her manipulate him like this.

      He’d telephoned each evening while he was away, and Cynthia had taken the calls. Try as she would, Joanna could not avoid the sound of her voice, speaking softly and intimately, with the occasional husky giggle, although thankfully she could not make out exactly what was being said.

      It would be a relief, she thought, when Cynthia actually moved herself to the cottage and she no longer had to see or hear what was going on. And if she could have her imagination removed by some kind of lobotomy, that would be a bonus too.

      ‘By the way, darling,’ Cynthia said casually over breakfast, a few days before Gabriel’s projected return. ‘You don’t mind if I take some things with me to Larkspur?’

      ‘What did you have in mind?’ Joanna was going through the post, dividing bills and official communications from personal letters.

      Cynthia waved an airy hand. ‘Oh, just home comforts. The picture Lionel left me, of course, and a few of the bits and pieces from my room.’

      ‘I presume you’ve already cleared it with Gabriel.’ Joanna slit open an envelope with precision. ‘So why ask me?’

      ‘Well, you are the mistress of the house.’ Cynthia paused. ‘Nominally at least.’

      ‘So I am,’ Joanna agreed drily. ‘How could I forget?’ She looked down at the letter in her hand. ‘Oh, the Osbornes are back from Portugal. I’d better go over there this afternoon and see Sylvia. She’s obviously terribly upset that they weren’t here when it happened.’ She picked up the pile of correspondence. ‘Do you want to come with me?’

      Cynthia studied her nail varnish. ‘Absolutely not. Sylvia Osborne’s the dullest woman in the neighbourhood, and I can’t stand any more weeping and wailing.’

      ‘She’s also Gabriel’s godmother, and he’s very fond of her,’ Joanna reminded her levelly. ‘And you can hardly call a highly successful landscape painter dull.’

      Cynthia shrugged. ‘Well, you rush round and admire her latest daub. I’ve got better things to do.’

      ‘The hairdresser?’ Joanna suggested lightly on her way to the door.

      ‘Beauty parlour, actually. A whole day’s pampering from my head down to my toes.’ Cynthia gave her a cat-like smile. ‘I want to be looking and feeling my best when Gabriel returns.’ Her smile widened. ‘Of course, you don’t have to worry about things like that. You do your bit by keeping the dogs and horses happy.’

      ‘I know my place,’ Joanna agreed equably, and went out of the room, followed by the dogs. She phoned Sylvia Osborne and left a message on the answering machine, suggesting that she would call over during the afternoon. Then she went out to the stables.

      Sadie emerged from the tack room. ‘Morning, Jo. Shall I saddle up Minnie for you?’

      ‘Change of plan today.’ Joanna gave the elderly mare, who was her usual mount, a consoling pat, and moved on to Nutkin’s box. She ran her hand down his handsome nose. ‘I’d better give this lad some exercise today. Heaven knows, he needs it.’

      Sadie hesitated. ‘Mr Gabriel said no one was to ride him but himself,’ she offered uncertainly.

      ‘Nonsense,’ Joanna said briskly, relegating her own doubts about handling the chestnut to the back of her mind. ‘Nutkin can’t stand around waiting for him to get back from his European tour. Let’s get him tacked up.’

      Sadie still held back. ‘Mr Gabriel was quite definite about it, Jo. He’s not sure about Nutkin’s temperament.’ Her eyes brimmed suddenly. ‘Poor Mr Lionel. I know it wasn’t the horse’s fault…’

      ‘No,’ Joanna said briskly. ‘It certainly wasn’t, and I won’t allow him to be demonised because of it. Don’t look so worried, Sadie,’ she added more gently. ‘Mr Gabriel isn’t here, and, anyway, I’ll take full responsibility. I’m just going to hack him quietly round the lanes.’

      Sadie looked as if this was little consolation, but together they saddled Nutkin, who was inclined to take exception to their attentions.

      As Joanna had expected, he was lively in the extreme, and not easy to hold, but he didn’t drop his head, or buck to try and unseat her as she eased him, sidling and dancing, out of the yard, the dogs following behind.

      ‘It’s all right, my beauty,’ she told him softly. ‘You and I are going to be friends.’

      It wasn’t the most comfortable ride she’d ever had. Nutkin was suspicious of everything, and an approaching cyclist had him rooted to the spot, eyes rolling.

      Joanna spoke gently and reassuringly, but kept firm control as she urged him past this apparently alarming hazard.

      After that it became much easier. The lanes were quiet on a chill, grey morning, and the rest of the ride passed without incident. Until Joanna turned for home.

      She noticed something large and white in the hedge ahead of them, and by the way Nutkin began to fidget and toss his head he’d seen it too. As she got closer she realised it was a sheet of newspaper. As they drew level, with Nutkin snorting in protest, the wind caught it and it suddenly ballooned upwards.

      Nutkin whinnied in fright and reared upwards, with Joanna clinging onto him for grim death as he plunged and skittered, his hooves sliding on the frosty road.

      She heard a shout, and saw a young man—a stranger—running towards her.

      ‘Are you all right?’

      ‘Getting there,’ Joanna returned breathlessly.

      He grabbed the bridle, and, between them, Nutkin came back under control.

      Once Nutkin was quiet, the newcomer walked over to the hedge, seized the offending newspaper and crushed it into a ball which he thrust into the pocket of his quilted jacket.

      He came back to Joanna’s side and looked up at her. He was tall, with fair hair, and blue eyes which crinkled at the corners when he smiled. He said, ‘Thank God you’re all right. I really thought you were coming off there. You could have been hurt really badly.’

      ‘But I didn’t, and I wasn’t.’ Joanna was more shaken than she cared to admit, but she returned his smile with an effort. ‘But from now I’ll ride him up on the hill, where there aren’t any stray newspapers or other white flapping things to spook him.’ She paused. ‘And thank you for your help, too.’

      ‘You didn’t really need it. You’re one terrific rider.’

      She shook her head. ‘If I was, I might have seen the problem coming and avoided it.’

      It occurred to her that she’d never seen him before, which was unusual out of the holiday season.

      She said, ‘Are you staying locally?’

      ‘I’m actually living here now. I came down to visit old friends, found they’d moved on, and decided to stay anyway.’ He held out his hand. ‘I’m Paul Gordon.’

      ‘Verne—Joanna Verne,’ Joanna said as they shook hands.

      ‘Is that Miss or Mrs?’

      She felt her cheeks warm under the frank appraisal in his blue eyes. ‘Mrs,’ she returned briefly.

      He gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘Just my luck. And I was hoping I’d met someone who could show me around—maybe have dinner with me.’

      Joanna laughed. ‘Sorry about that—but I’m sure you’ll soon make friends.’