Just Rewards. Barbara Taylor Bradford

famous men in France, if not indeed in the world, had fallen in love with her the minute he had met her. And she with him. He called it a coup de foudre. ‘We were struck by lightning,’ he sometimes said, smiling at her tenderly.

      That had been last August. In the last five months they had managed to spend a great deal of time together in Paris and London, at Clos-Fleuri, and here in Yorkshire at her mother’s home. And during these months they had grown closer, come to know each other most intimately on every level. It was so right, this affair of theirs, and they both knew it.

      But there was a problem, and it troubled her. What would she do if she married him? She had always worked. Hard graft was bred in the bone of every Harte, and she was no exception. She had been brought up to be disciplined, dedicated, driven, and an achiever. Just as the whole family had. So wouldn’t she be bored if she didn’t have a job?

      Naturally she would be bored. Bored silly. And especially since Jean-Claude worked like a Trojan himself, writing books, screenplays, plays for the theatre, and articles for newspapers and magazines. He filmed documentaries and gave lectures. He was forever occupied.

      And then there was his great fame in France. He was the philosopher-king, the favourite of presidents and politicians, and a member of the Parisian elite.

      Fame had its own demands. She was well aware of that; her brother Lorne, her beloved twin, was a famous actor. Fame ate up his time, just as it ate Jean-Claude’s time. There were personal appearances, press and publicity, events to attend, and she knew it was all part of his work.

      Tessa let out a heavy sigh and sat down in the chair at her desk. There were so many questions bouncing around in her head this morning, and no answers were forthcoming.

      She glanced at the mail on her desk, which she had brought with her from London. After reading the letters and emails, she put them back in their folder and pushed it to the end of the desk, an old French bureau plat she treasured. Then her eyes scanned the little sitting room which adjoined her bedroom. This intimate suite of rooms had been hers for as long as she could remember, and she loved its primrose-yellow walls and yellow-and-red toile de Jouy documentary print at the windows. In this room were displayed all her favourite possessions, decorative objects, beloved books and paintings, which she had collected over the years. They helped to give the two rooms their attractive aspects and personality, bespoke her taste as well as personal preferences. It was distinctively her décor and no one else’s.

      Glancing at her watch Tessa suddenly realized she ought to go downstairs and find Jean-Claude and the others, offer them drinks before lunch. Her mother, who had gone to West Tanfield with Aunt Emily, had asked her to look after everyone, be the hostess in her absence.

      Earlier, when she had talked to Margaret, the housekeeper had insisted on making lunch, because, as she put it, ‘You’ll have your hands full doing dinner tonight, Miss Tessa.’ And so she had let the housekeeper take over. A short while ago, Margaret had come up to tell her about the menu. She was making hot leek-and-potato soup, a chicken pot pie, a cottage pie, and fish cakes for those who wanted lighter fare. There was green salad and cheese, as well as fresh fruit.

      Margaret had then thought to add, ‘And what about all this lamb stew, Miss Tessa? You’ve ordered far too much meat. Why, there’s enough to feed an army, that there is!’

      Tessa had quickly answered that there were a lot of bones in lamb shoulder and neck, and that everyone liked a stew the next day anyway, because it tasted even better.

      Tutting to herself, Margaret had said no more, but she had looked annoyed as she stomped off to the kitchen. Perhaps she’s cross with me because I’ve invaded her territory again, Tessa thought, then shrugged. She enjoyed cooking, and if she was in the kitchen Margaret could have a night off. But the housekeeper wouldn’t see it that way.

      Rising, Tessa now walked through into her bedroom, and took a sage-green wool jacket out of the wardrobe. Slipping it on, she swung around and stood for a moment regarding the bed.

      No one had ever shared this bed with her in all of her life. None of her siblings when they were growing up, and certainly not Mark Longden. Whenever she and Mark had stayed at Pennistone Royal after their marriage, she had asked her mother to put them in the Blue-and-White Suite. On these occasions she had been able to use her own rooms as her private place, somewhere to be alone, to rest and work. It was her quiet haven during her marriage, as it had been from childhood. Her little yellow-and-red suite was sacrosanct. No one was ever permitted to share it with her, and never had been.

      Until last night. When the house was still and everyone had gone to sleep, Jean-Claude had come to her bedroom at her invitation. He had slipped into the bed with her, taken her in his arms, and held her close. They had loved each other very tenderly … and it had pleased her that he was with her here. He was her one true love, her soul mate, the only man she wanted, and wherever she was she wanted him with her. So her private haven was willingly opened to him, and with joy.

      She never worried about the difference in their ages, but she was aware he did. He was over twenty years older, and it bothered him. Sometimes she chided him for that, told him not to be silly, and he would nod, and smile, and change the subject. She wanted to have another child, but only by him; she wanted it even if they weren’t married. But whenever she thought of bringing it up she lost her nerve. Perhaps this weekend she would mention it …

      The buzzing phone interrupted her thoughts. ‘Hello?’

      ‘C’est moi, chérie,’ Jean-Claude said.

      ‘How odd!’ Tessa exclaimed. ‘I was just thinking about you.’

      He chuckled. ‘Nice things, I hope.’

      ‘Oh yes, very, very, very nice things.’

      ‘Are you coming downstairs, my Tess? I would like to talk to you about … something.’

      ‘I was just on my way out, coming down to find you.’

      ‘I shall await you in the library.’

      ‘See you in a jiffy.’

      She hung up the phone, glanced at herself in the mirror, liking the sage-green wool jacket with the cream sweater and matching cream-wool trousers. Invariably, Tessa wore light colours, knowing how well they suited her pale blonde colouring, and she had discovered Jean-Claude preferred them to darker shades.

      Hurrying across the bedroom, she went out into the corridor and down the wide curving staircase, heading for the library, wondering what he wanted to talk to her about.

      The great Stone Hall was empty, but a fire blazed up the chimney and it was a warm and welcoming sight, as were the many large pots of gold, yellow and bronze chrysanthemums and the white orchids. Her mother always had a lovely display of plants in the Stone Hall, following the tradition started by Emma many years before. Gardening was Paula’s hobby and many of the plants in the house were grown by her in the greenhouses.

      Tessa’s high-heeled cream boots made a staccato sound as she crossed the Stone Hall, and went into the library.

      Jean-Claude swung around as she entered and he hurried over to her, kissed her cheek.

      His face was cold against hers, and she exclaimed, ‘Did you go out for a walk after all?’

      ‘Mais oui, chérie. I needed fresh air. And to clear my head,’ he explained, and taking hold of her hand he led her down the long room. ‘Let’s sit here, near the terrace windows,’ he murmured. Once they were seated he stared into her face, his eyes searching, as if he were trying to ascertain her mood.

      ‘What is it?’ Tessa asked, frowning, staring back at him. ‘You look so intense. Worried, even.’ Anxiety suddenly flared in her, and she wondered what he had on his mind.

      ‘No, not worried. Intense, perhaps. Tess, I am going to … get this out. Say it. I cannot encase it in fancy rhetoric.’

      She felt herself stiffening, alerted to trouble, and she gave him a harder, more probing stare. ‘I don’t understand