Just Rewards. Barbara Taylor Bradford

was extremely independent and self-reliant, and he admired her for her extraordinary stamina and fortitude. After all, she was ninety-five and anything but senile. Far be it from him to undermine her confidence in herself.

      India waved to him and he waved back. He wondered how she would react to the news that Atlanta was here for a week at least. He would give her all of the details as soon as they were settled in the sitting room having their aperitif. Her grandmother liked a drink before lunch, and her insistence on ‘a drop of sherry’, as she put it, always tickled him. He would tell India about Molly Caldwell at once, so there was no misunderstanding. Months ago she had accused him of ‘lying by omission’, and he had no desire to have that accusation levelled at him again.

      He knew that India liked the child as much as Atlanta liked her, and her presence would not present any problems, as far as he could see. Angelina, the housekeeper, and Valetta, the cook, would keep an eye on her whilst he was painting during the morning, and he would spend time in the afternoon with her. After all, India would be at the Leeds store during the week, and she still lived at Pennistone Royal, spending only the weekends with him here at Willows Hall. No, the child would not be intrusive on them or their relationship, he decided, and then it struck him that Gladys Roebotham could be very useful. It was obvious Atlanta was attached to her, and Gladys seemed to reciprocate the child’s feelings. Perhaps she would consider spending part of the coming week here looking after Atlanta.

      ‘Excuse me, Mr Rhodes,’ Paddy said from the entrance foyer.

      Dusty swung around to face the house manager. ‘Yes, Paddy?’

      ‘I’ve put a decanter of Amontillado in the sitting room, and I was wondering if there is anything else you need?’

      ‘I don’t think so, thanks very much. Lunch in about half an hour. Oh, and Paddy, order a car for Mrs Roebotham, would you, please? It’s to take her back home, with a stop-off at Leeds Infirmary to see Mrs Caldwell. And please tell her I’ll be in to have a word with her in a few minutes.’

      ‘Right you are, sir,’ Paddy murmured and was gone on silent feet.

      ‘Good morning, Countess,’ Dusty said a moment later as India and her grandmother finally came to a standstill in front of him.

      ‘Good morning, Dusty, and countess is far too formal. I do keep telling you that. You must call me Edwina.’

      ‘You know I can’t,’ he replied, laughing. ‘That’s not respectful.’

      She chuckled with him, and then suggested, ‘Why not call me Great-Aunt Edwina? Or Grandmother. But perhaps you have a grandmother of your own?’

      ‘No, she’s dead.’ Turning to India he smiled lovingly, and kissed her cheek. ‘Hello, darling,’ he whispered against her hair, before he ushered them both into the house.

      Within several seconds he had Edwina settled comfortably in a chair near the fireplace, and India went and perched on the sofa, waiting for him as he poured Amontillado into glasses and brought the sherry to them.

      ‘Cheers, ladies,’ he said, lifting his glass, and sat down on the sofa next to India.

      ‘Cheers,’ India answered, as did her grandmother.

      Staring hard at Dusty, India now said, ‘You’ve got a peculiar expression on your face. What’s the matter?’

      How well she knew him, and in ways no one else ever had before.

      His new tactic was to tell her everything up front, without preamble, and so he said, ‘It’s Mrs Caldwell. She had a heart attack late yesterday afternoon, and the woman who helps her brought Atlanta over here this morning.’

      ‘Oh, how dreadful!’ India exclaimed. ‘I mean about the heart attack. How is Mrs Caldwell today?’

      ‘Apparently it’s serious but not life-threatening. She’ll be in hospital for about a week, and from what Mrs Roebotham says, the prognosis is good. I’ll call the doctor later; in the meantime Atlanta’s here to say with me for a few days. Until her grandmother’s better, actually.’

      India smiled at him. ‘Don’t look so concerned, Dusty, she’ll be fine with us, and I couldn’t be happier. It’s lovely to have her here for the weekend. We’ll have some fun together. Where is she now?’

      ‘Having lunch with Mrs Roebotham in the kitchen, but she’s really looking forward to seeing you later.’

      ‘So am I. And Grandma, you’ll get to meet Dusty’s little girl. She’s just adorable.’

      Edwina simply nodded and took a sip of sherry. No doubt Atlanta was adorable, and certainly India was genuine in her affection for the child, but Edwina couldn’t help thinking that it was a good thing she was still only three years old. And still malleable. There was no doubt in Edwina’s mind that Dusty and India would end up raising his child. His former girlfriend was recovering from a serious drug-addiction and her mother obviously had a wonky heart. She might not live long; and who could answer for the daughter … addictions were hard to kick …

CHAPTER EIGHT

      Tessa Fairley stood in her room at Pennistone Royal, lost in thought. Of late, there were moments when she couldn’t help wondering what the rest of her life was going to be like. What did the future hold in store for her? What was her destiny to be?

      The one certainty, the one steadfast thing in her life, was her devotion and love for her three-year-old daughter Adele. Everything else was vague, up in the air, or out of her grasp, at least so it seemed to her lately.

      Would she be made managing director of the Harte stores by her mother? Would she then run them herself, as she had always wanted to do? Or would her mother decide to make her joint managing director with her sister Linnet? Shared responsibilities had been bruited about in the past few months, startling her, disappointing her, putting her on guard. That was something she had never wanted … sharing the top spot with her sister.

      Conversely, would she abandon her career, ambitions, and dreams of being the new Emma Harte, and instead marry Jean-Claude Deléon?

      She smiled inwardly. There was just one small problem in that regard: he had not asked her to marry him. But if he did propose, and if she accepted, there would be a vast upheaval in her life and that of her child.

      Since he lived and worked in Paris, she would have to move across the Channel and make a life with him there. Could she be happy in France?

      Tessa almost laughed out loud. Of course she could. She was a dyed-in-the-wool Francophile, and she loved Paris, knew the City of Light as well as she knew London. Well, almost. Years before meeting Jean-Claude, she had been going to Paris on a regular basis, and Shane O’Neill, her stepfather, owned one of the most exclusive and deluxe hotels in the city, on the elegant Avenue Montaigne, off the Champs Élysées.

      Then there was Jean-Claude’s small country estate where he spent most weekends. Located outside Paris, near Fontainebleau, it was a picturesque country manor called Clos-Fleuri. On her first visit last summer she had taken an instant liking to it, and she felt at home there, as if she truly belonged. Apart from the beautiful grounds and gardens, the house was lovely, full of charm, and when she was there she felt enveloped in quiet luxury and comfort. There was a peacefulness about it that she cherished.

      All of these points aside, Tessa was deeply in love with Jean-Claude, and she had realized from the beginning of their affair that she could be happy with him anywhere.

      Tessa had never known anyone like him. He was loving, warm, and kind to her, and he adored little Adele. Emotional considerations apart, he was a man she respected and admired. He had a vivid intelligence, was clever, street-smart, and absolutely brilliant in his work. Yet despite his superior intellect, he never made her feel inferior. They got on well and were great companions; she had never felt that way with her former husband, Mark Longden. He had always managed to put her down