training.'
'How very good of you.' Joanna's face felt as if it had set in cement. 'I
hope you've talked this over with Simon. He thinks the world of
Nanny and might not be too happy about seeing her supplanted.'
'I think Fiona has mentioned it, but the final decision should really be
hers.' Mrs Driscoll's smile didn't waver by a fraction. 'It's a very
delicate relationship, after all, and a young mother needs to have
complete confidence in the person looking after her baby.'
'My mother trusted Nanny,' Joanna said tightly. 'And my
grandmother trained her.'
'That's just what I mean.' Mrs Driscoll's tones were honeyed. 'I
feel—we feel that Nanny's had rather too much of her own way in the
past, and has come to feel she's indispensable, which, of course, no
one is. But, while she can still make herself useful to your father,
Fiona wouldn't dream of making any permanent change.' She glanced
at her watch. 'Now, I wonder what's happened to our coffee?'
Joanna's hands, clenched tightly in her pockets, were trembling, but
she kept her voice even. 'As you're one of the family, I suggest you go
to the kitchen and ask. I have to go out.'
'Out again? But you've only just come home. Which reminds me...'
Mrs Driscoll leaned forward, lowering her voice confidentially. 'I
know you won't mind my mentioning it, Joanna, as your own dear
mother isn't here to advise you, but a young widow like yourself
needs to be a little bit careful about her behaviour. I was very
surprised to see you—coming home with the milk, as the saying is.'
'Were you really?' Joanna felt her expression becoming increasingly
glassy. 'I was also extremely surprised to see you.'
Mrs Driscoll disregarded that. 'I've never let Fiona conduct herself
like that. I've no patience with the current code of morality among the
young, and when there's an innocent child to be considered I think it's
important to set proper standards from the first.'
'I agree,' Joanna said too affably. 'But I'd prefer to wait until the
innocent child is actually here before making any drastic alteration in
my way of life.'
Mrs Driscoll glared at her. 'I don't care for that kind of flippancy. I'm
trying to advise you as a friend, remember.'
'Really?' Joanna raised her eyebrows. 'Then all I can say is—God
preserve me from my enemies!'
Bright spots of colour burned in the older woman's cheeks. 'I can't say
your time in America has improved you. You were always a spoiled,
selfish little madam, with too much to say for yourself. You might
remember that you're a guest in your brother's home now.'
Joanna shook her head. 'Wrong. We're all guests in my father's house.
That's something you could bear in mind. Do enjoy your coffee.'
It took all her self-control not to slam the door behind her as she left
the drawing-room. She stood in the hall for a moment, shaking with
temper and an amalgam of other emotions.
She could hardly believe what she'd been hearing. Mrs Driscoll had
always been a rueful joke to the Chalfonts. The kind of
mother-in-law, Simon had once said, on whom music hall jokes were
based.
But she really isn't funny any more, Joanna told herself sombrely as
she mounted the stairs. The writing's on the wall, and she means
business. Daddy's going to be committed to some nursing home,
Nanny and Gresham are to be pensioned off, and I'm to take my
dubious morals elsewhere, leaving Fiona in sole possession.
And the trouble is it could all be managed quite easily while Simon is
so concerned over Fiona and the baby. He'd probably go along with
anything she and her mother dreamed up.
She made her way along to her father's room with a heavy heart.
Nanny greeted her, looking thunderous.
'She'll have to be told,' she said without preamble. 'Mr Anthony can't
do with people barging in on him, asking a lot of daft questions, and
stating their opinions. He's been right upset since she left. What's
come over Mr Simon, asking her to stay?'
'I wish. I knew.' Joanna sat down beside her father, and took his hand.
His eyes were closed and he appeared to be asleep, although that was
not necessarily the case. Sometimes it was just another method of
retreating from reality. 'I'll try and talk to him this evening, but I'm not
sure it will do much good. I think we could have problems.'
Nanny snorted. 'Well, this is the house for them, right enough.' She
gave Joanna a piercing look. 'You don't look so grand yourself.'
Joanna forced a smile. 'I'm all right. I just have a lot on my mind. I'll
stay quietly here with Daddy for a while.'
Nanny nodded approvingly. 'He likes that. He missed you a lot when
you went away.'
I may have to go away again, Joanna thought. And what's going to
happen then? She said quietly, 'Nanny, do you think he's getting
worse?'
Nanny's bright eyes were troubled. 'He doesn't have so many good
days, Miss Jo, and that's a fact, but he's happy enough when he's not
being bothered, and he's with people who understand him.' She
bustled off.
One of the photograph albums was lying at her father's feet, where it
had obviously slipped from his lap. Joanna bent and retrieved it,
turning the pages back to the old family groups.
It was really astonishing to compare the way her grandmother had
been when that miniature was painted with the dowdy,
lifeless-looking creature she'd become in these snapshots. Even
allowing for artist's licence, she was hardly recognisable as the same
woman. What could have happened to bring about such a
sea-change? she wondered with a soundless sigh.
She felt slightly ashamed that she knew so little about the woman
she'd been named after. If her father had been awake, she might have
been tempted to question him gently, encourage him to take one of his
rambling forays into the past. Perhaps she could even discover how
that miniature, which must have been a Chalfont family portrait, had
turned up in Cal Blackstone's possession, although she realised she
would have to tread ultra-carefully over that ground.
As it was, her grandmother's picture was providing an unexpected
private mystery in what had always been a very public feud, and this
she found oddly disturbing, even if it was the least of her problems at
the moment.
She sat with her father for nearly an hour, but he remained peacefully
remote. Eventually Nanny returned, to tell her she was wanted on the
phone.
I don't have to ask by whom, Joanna thought, her stomach churning as
she went down to the hall, and lifted the receiver. 'Yes?' Her voice
was guarded.
'Mrs Bentham?' The voice was male, but not the one she'd expected.
'This is Markham and Wilby, estate agents. We have an appointment
with you to show you a cottage at Nethercrag this morning. We
wondered if you'd been delayed.'
'Oh, I'm sorry!' Joanna was appalled. 'I—I'd completely forgotten. Is
it too late?'
'By no means,' the voice said briskly. 'But perhaps it would be easier
for you to make your own way there instead of from our office.
Kirkgate Cottage is in the main street, and our board is outside. You
can't miss it..'
'That's fine.' Joanna glanced at her watch. 'Shall we say fifteen
minutes?'
How dreadful of me, she thought as she hastily collected her bag and
car keys, but was it any wonder that my normal arrangements have
gone by the board, with everything else going on in my life?
The appointment to view the cottage seemed to have been made in a
different lifetime. In the year BC, she thought. Before Cal...
If the cottage was even reasonably habitable, she might take it, she
thought as she went out to the car. Take it and put up the barricades.
Show Cal Blackstone once and for all that she intended to live alone.
And that he couldn't dictate to her totally.
Nethercrag was a small village, consisting of little more than one
narrow main street, lined with former wavers' cottages, and a few
shops. Joanna parked her car on the cobbles and crossed to where a
young man, file of papers in hand, was waiting for her.
'Good morning.' He shook hands briskly. 'I'm Alan Morris. I'm so
glad you could make it. There's a lot of interest being generated in this
particular property, and we wouldn't want you to miss out.'
Joanna suppressed a cynical smile, yet she had to admit that, on the
face of it, the cottage looked good. The exterior had been well
maintained, she thought as she followed Mr Morris up the flagged
stone path, and the small front garden was bright with annuals and a
variety of roses, just coming into bloom.
'They're waiting for us,' Mr Morris said as he lifted the latch on the
solid oak front door and led the way into a square hall.
'Indeed we are,' Cal drawled from the doorway he'd suddenly
appeared in. 'What kept you, darling?'
Involuntarily, Joanna took a step backwards. 'What are you doing
here?' she demanded huskily.
He lifted an eyebrow in exaggerated surprise. 'I told you I was
planning to look at houses today. This was first on my list, and when
Gordon Wilby told me you were being shown it this morning I
decided the sensible thing, in the circumstances, was to bring my own
appointment forward, and look over it together. When I explained to
Gordon, he totally agreed with me. Why, is something wrong?' His
eyes glinted at her in challenge.
Joanna took a deep breath, suppressing the angry protest trembling on
her lips. 'Not a thing,' she said stonily, acutely aware of Alan Morris's
interested presence.
Cal turned to him. 'I suspect she wanted to look round the cottage on
her own, then present me with a
fait accompli
,' he said. 'I'm sorry,
darling. Have I spoiled your surprise?'
'Something like that,' Joanna said grimly, lifting her chin as she
walked past him into the sitting-room.
What the room lacked in size, it made up for in charm, with its
beamed ceiling and old-fashioned stone fireplace, now filled with a
lavish arrangement of dried flowers. A tall white-haired woman rose
to her feet from a chintz-covered sofa, and came forward to greet
them.
'Good morning.' Her handshake was firm. 'I'm Rosalie Osborne.
These are always such awkward occasions, aren't they? I've
suggested to your fiance that Mr Morris shows you round, while I
make some coffee and prepare to answer any questions you may
have. Would that suit you?'
'It sounds—ideal.' Joanna was tautly aware of Cal's hand, firmly
clasping her arm.
'I'm sure she'll love the cottage, Mrs Osborne,' he said pleasantly.
'Come along, darling. Shall we start with the kitchen?'
It was immediately apparent that no expense had been spared on the
cottage's refurbishment. The kitchen boasted a lavish range of fitted
oak units, as well as a generously sized dining area complete with
traditional dresser.
'Well, my sweet?' Cal's smiling gaze quizzed her. 'Can you see
yourself cooking delicious dinners for two at that stove?'
'Hardly,' Joanna returned tersely, through gritted teeth. 'Cooking isn't
one of my strong points,' she went on mendaciously. 'Perhaps you
could arrange for meals on wheels to be sent over from the country
club.'
'No need to go to those lengths,' he said drily. 'I'm considered a fair
chef myself. We won't starve.'
'That's good,' she said brightly. 'Shall we look at the rest?'
Mr Morris led the way upstairs, talking knowledgeably about loft
storage, timber guarantees, damp- proof courses and secondary
double glazing. Joanna let it all wash over her.
If she'd seen Kirkgate Cottage a week earlier, she would have made
an offer for it without hesitation, she thought sadly. It was exactly
what she wanted. Besides that, the whole cottage exuded a warm
tranquillity that appealed directly to her troubled senses. For the first
time in her life she could have created a home of her own.
'This is the main bedroom.' Mr Morris threw open a door with a
flourish. 'Incorporating one of the property's most appealing features.'
Cal stopped dead in his tracks. 'Good God,' he said blankly.
Joanna looked past him, her own lips parting in astonishment.
Greeting her gaze was an old-fashioned four-poster bed, complete
with frilled canopy and looped-back curtains.
Mr Morris regarded them with the satisfied expression of a novice
conjuror who had just successfully produced his first rabbit out of a