A Convenient Wife Read online

  Voices clamoured. She barely heard them. Her head ached with the thinking she’d done recently, with the trauma of her divorce, the birth of her child, the death of her father. Too much for anyone to bear, even a fatalist like herself. And now this, out of the blue.

  Her father had been utterly French in style and outlook, though they’d always spoken English in the house. Even her mother—long divorced from her father and now living in New York with her new husband—knew nothing of the British passport tucked in the back of the locked desk drawer.

  In a state of shock, Nicole had found the village on a map. It lay in an area called the Cotswolds, a rural part of England.

  She had recognised the name of Stratford-upon-Avon which was to the north since that was Shakespeare country, and the city of Bath to the south-west. Close to Great Aston was Broadway, the mecca for tourists seeking a quaint, historical English village.

  It must be lovely there, she’d thought. And had felt less resentful of the need to make the trip.

  ‘It’s an interesting area. I thought I’d make it a holiday,’ she announced into the babble of English and French. ‘I need one, badly.’ She rolled her eyes, making fun of her troubles, and took a sip of her mineral water.

  ‘I’ll take you,’ announced Louis.

  ‘No, I will. I know England!’ insisted Leon.

  Nicole had noticed how their eyes had darkened speculatively as their gazes had strayed yet again to the honeyed mounds above the silk slip dress which hugged her newly curvaceous body. She sighed. Men! The last thing she needed was a sexual interlude right now. Her libido was non-existent. She had other priorities now.

  ‘Thanks, but no.’ There was a noticeable relaxation amongst the women. Nicole deeply regretted the change in her friends’ attitude towards her. She felt suddenly very alone, a different person now she was no longer married. And, apparently, a dangerous woman. ‘I need time to grieve,’ she explained. ‘It will be what the Americans call “closure”. And then I can play the tourist, come home and fling myself into life again.’

  They nodded in agreement, several of the men reminding her to make sure she came back.

  ‘Why would I ever want to live anywhere else?’ Her graceful artist’s hand indicated the million-dollar view from her father’s—no, her—cottage. The fruit trees were laden with blossom. The scent of herbs permeated the air. Bees darted busily among the unusual flowers her father had planted.

  She went pale and the deep blue of her eyes took on a grey hue as a chill slid like cubes of ice down her spine. This was an English style garden. Like the many English ex-pats in the Dordogne he’d been recreating a little patch of England in a foreign country.

  Forgetting her guests, she stared blankly at the tumbling roses, the lilies, the sweetly perfumed lilac. Her troubled mind resounded with the word why?

  Why had he never told her his secret, when they’d been so close? Why had he never left France during her lifetime? Had he hated his birthplace—or was there another darker reason why he’d turned his back on his country?

  Despite the warm evening she shivered. It was a secret she must unravel. However long it took.

  ‘There’s a lady chucking dust about in the graveyard! And she’s got a hunchback on her tummy!’

  An unusually excited Josef came hurtling into the church and down the nave as if he’d been shot from a gun. Still in his Sunday best—though decidedly grubbier than when he’d set out for church an hour earlier—the spar-kling-eyed Josef skidded to a halt in front of his sombre-faced father who was indulging in a convivial after-service coffee in the nave.

  Almost two weeks had passed since Blake had learnt he had no right to control Cranford. But he’d promised his mother that he wouldn’t act hastily. His days and nights had been filled with questions, his conscience had crucified him every time he’d taken a decision concerning the estate.

  Only Josef had given him heart. He smiled at his son, reflecting that he was well used to Josef’s novel way with words. There’d be a rational explanation—there always was. A woman in her late pregnancy, perhaps. Though, he mused ruefully, Josef knew all about pregnant women and could identify them with ear-piercing certainty.

  Politely excusing himself, Blake put down his coffee cup to deal with his son’s latest misunderstanding, conscious that everyone there was indulgently watching his much-adored son whose joyous attack on life caused more smiles than offence.

  ‘Why do you think she’s doing that?’ he asked, unable to stop himself from curving his palm lovingly around Josef’s eager face. In a flash he knew why his mother had sacrificed so much for him. Of course you did. Your children held your sanity, your heart and brain in their tiny hands. You would go through hell for them. Sacrifice whatever you must to ensure their survival. It was a biological drive that ensured you defended your child, the future of the human race, against all harm.

  ‘’Cos she’s mad,’ Josef declared. ‘She’s talking rubbish to herself, like she’s saying spells. And crying.’

  ‘Crying?’ Blake frowned and exchanged a concerned glance with the Reverend Thomas. ‘Paul, I think I’d better see what I can do to help.’

  Reaching for his son’s hand he loped off, his long legs covering the ground so quickly that Josef was obliged to trot.

  No one questioned his authority. The small group clustered together for refreshments after Sunday worship had always deferred to the Bellamies. As had their ancestors, willingly and unwillingly, for more than five hundred years—though this particular Bellamie, everyone agreed, was an absolute gem.

  Emerging from the church where countless Bellamie forebears lay peacefully beneath stone effigies and bold brass inscriptions, he couldn’t help but catch his breath in awe, despite the familiarity of the view. Behind the small churchyard were the higgledy-piggledy roofs of the old weavers’ cottages, the sun turning the Cotswold stone slabs to gold. Glorious parkland spread out in the valley beyond them, green and lush and merging with the petticoat of woods at the foot of Cranford Hill.

  Blake knew that he owed this beauty, this precious heritage, to the fact that for hundreds of years the Cotswolds had produced the finest wool in Europe. He beamed with pride.

  The Sunday silence was sweetly pierced by the sound of birdsong and the gentle hum of honey bees. He felt a pang of unutterable love. This place had become a part of him—body, soul, heart, mind. It was his and he was it. Legitimate or not, he was its temporary warden, dedicated to its welfare and its preservation until his son inherited—

  ‘She’s gone, Daddy! Has she magicked herself invillible?’

  ‘Invisible,’ he corrected automatically. ‘Let’s see.’

  ‘But you can’t see invillible!’ argued his son.

  He laughed. ‘True! Perhaps there’ll be some mystical sign?’

  Amused, he began to walk around the ancient church in search of her with Josef crushing his hand nervously and taking exaggerated tiptoe steps. Blake’s heart glowed with love and he wondered if all parents were so hugely entertained by the funny things their children did.

  They saw the woman just beyond the thousand-year-old yew, its ancient branches so massive and heavy that its limbs had been supported in the eighteenth century with sturdy props.

  Slim and with curves in all the right places, she was crouching on her haunches by a gravestone so he couldn’t see the alleged hunchback. For a moment he caught a glimpse of her face when she looked to one side and he estimated her age as somewhere around twenty-four or five.

  Her clothes were unusual—a softly flowing long skirt in what his mother would have called eau-de-nil, teamed with a figure-hugging cotton top that exposed a good two inches or more of a golden-skinned back. And yet she looked stylish. Perhaps it was the trailing silk scarf, elegantly draped around her long neck.

  Her pale blonde hair had been expensively cut, the silken strands swinging gently forward in a glistening arc as her slender and tapering fingers moved slowly over the lichen-covered sto
ne. Not your average madwoman, he thought, intrigued by her sophistication, her chic.

  ‘She’s feelin’ the grave!’ his son whispered. ‘Bet she’s blind, too!’

  Worrying about Josef’s startling ability to put both feet in his mouth, Blake adopted a stern expression.

  ‘Hush. Don’t say a word. Understand? Leave this to me.’

  He watched Josef’s mouth adopt a comical zipped-up shape and suppressed a faint smile. How he loved his eager, caring son! He was doing the right thing in retaining the inheritance. He felt sure. And crushed the little voice within his innermost soul which disagreed.

  They walked towards her, the warm April sunshine caressing his back and the scent of lilac from the rectory garden pleasing his senses with its fragrance.

  Blake knew that he would serve Cranford better than the evil Giles. He had earned his right to the inheritance. Even though that insistently nagging voice kept ripping through his guts by saying, Impostor. Charlatan. Liar.

  Nicole groaned. Here was yet another indecipherable grave! She felt close to despair and wondered if she would ever find evidence of her late father’s family. Still clutching the now-empty jar of his ashes, she crouched down beside the next gravestone and tried to see if it bore the name Bellamie. But that, too, was badly weathered and the fresh disappointment hit her hard.

  Ever since she’d arrived in Great Aston she had felt a passionate need to find her roots in this lovely English village. Its peace and serenity had folded around her aching heart as if reaching out to comfort her.

  The entire village had seemed to be drowsing in the silent Sunday morning, the stone of its picturesque cottages a pleasing honeyed shade in the warm sunshine. The palette of colours ranged through golds, greens and whites, enhanced by the soft pastels of spring flowers. The gentle hues had a soothing effect on her travel-weary mind.

  It was all very English. Fallen magnolia petals littered the road from a tree which leaned over a mellow stone wall. Opposite the church drowsed a timbered pub with a quaintly thatched post office right next to it. Just beyond, she could see a small village green, complete with pond and ducks and a crumbling market cross.

  On the way to the small church she’d felt the overwhelming sense that she was walking in her father’s footsteps. As a child, she felt sure he must have wandered these lanes. He had been here. Skipping along, laughing with friends…

  The knowledge stirred her in a way she’d never known before. It was almost a feeling of being welcomed back by loving arms after a long time away. For the first time she understood the wonderful completeness in knowing your roots, your past.

  She frowned. Why her father had left such a lovely place remained a nagging mystery. Still, whatever the truth, she had done as he’d asked. Returned his ashes to the foot of the great yew tree.

  And now she was on her second quest, searching for evidence of her father’s relatives. But not one solitary person in this graveyard had been called Bellamie!

  Depressed by her lack of success and choked by her farewell to her father, she let out a sigh. ‘Papa! Quelle trahison!’ she mourned, her forehead resting against the weathered stone. What a betrayal of their closeness!

  Then she stiffened. Something made her turn her head, though she’d heard no sound. Through a fine veil of tears she saw the figures of a tall dark man and a tousle-haired child a few yards away, anxiously staring at her.

  Knowing how odd she must have looked, Nicole blushed and instantly scrambled to her feet, her arms cradling the weight slung around her chest.

  The man’s dark, sparkling eyes suddenly crinkled with laughter. Eyes so deep and glittering that she felt disorientated for a moment, as if she’d slipped into the black void of unconsciousness. But one that was warm, velvety, thrilling…

  ‘A baby! Josef, the lady has a baby in a sling!’ The man whispered to the goggle-eyed boy beside him and the child’s crimped-up mouth unravelled.

  ‘I fought it was a hunchback. Hunchtummy,’ he announced, then hastily folded his lips in again.

  Nicole swam back from the velvet pit and came back to reality. ‘Comment?’ she cried, not realising in her confusion that she was still speaking French.

  ‘Une bossue,’ the man solemnly explained and a little giggle of surprise flew unexpectedly from her lips. A hunchback! How funny! Her soft blue gaze regarded the man who had turned to his son, gently admonishing him with, ‘And it’s thought, Josef, not “fought”.’ His hypnotic liquid eyes met hers again. ‘Bonjour, Madame. Je m’appele Blake…’

  ‘Good morning, Blake!’ she said hastily, impressed by his knowledge of French. She smiled. ‘I do speak English. My mother came from London and we used English most of the time. I’m Nicole Vaseux,’ she offered. ‘And my hunchtummy is called Luc,’ she informed Josef in amusement, captivated by the child’s enormous black eyes. ‘He’s seven weeks old.’

  To Nicole’s surprise the little boy’s tousled dark head tilted to one side and he looked deeply upset. ‘Oh, dear! Did you bring him here ’cos he’s dead?’ he enquired unhappily.

  ‘Josef!’

  Suppressing more giggles, Nicole calmed the man’s horrified gasp of protest with a pacifying shake of her head that sent her blonde hair bouncing. ‘No! Look. He’s fine. Just asleep.’ Crouching down again in a lithe, easy movement, she let the little boy inspect her son for signs of life.

  ‘He’s breathin’!’

  She nodded, enchanted by Josef’s delight and relief. With her face soft and adoring, she joined him in gazing in wonder at the little scrap of flesh and blood that was her son. Huge waves of love welled up inside her and she gently kissed Luc’s peachy little cheek. He was her life. His welfare would come above everything else.

  ‘Mon chou,’ she murmured.

  ‘Is that a magic spell?’ gasped Josef, backing away hastily.

  Her eyes twinkled at his awe-struck face. ‘Do I look like a witch?’

  ‘You could be in disguise,’ he replied cautiously.

  ‘I’m not. This is how I am,’ she said, merrily gesturing at herself. ‘I was speaking French, that’s all. It means my pet, my darling,’ she explained and, seeing the little boy’s contented grin, she stood up again, suddenly becoming aware that Blake had been watching her intently.

  A frisson shivered through her body. He was extraordinary in every way. Different, though she couldn’t quite decide how. He was certainly the first man ever to scramble her brains!

  Tall and immaculately dressed in a soft grey suit whose quality and cut she immediately appreciated, he had opted for individuality by teaming it with a Lake Blue shirt and violet tie. With a wilting daisy in his buttonhole. She smiled, suspecting that was the child’s doing.

  The face above was anything but formal—tanned, outdoor and healthy, his wide mouth and strong nose and brows forming a face of immense character. The hair, too, was unconventional. Inky black like a raven’s wing, it tumbled in well-groomed waves to a length far beyond that which she’d imagined any English country gentleman might favour. It gave him a raffish air which she rather liked.

  The intense quality of his liquid brown eyes seemed to note everything about her. Suddenly she was conscious of her travel-creased skirt and tear-stained face. She was a mess! And, having been brought up as a Frenchwoman, she minded dreadfully.

  Nicole set about bringing order to her appearance, dabbing at her eyes with a soft linen handkerchief and smoothing her hands over her hips to ease any creases.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said gently as she replaced her handkerchief. ‘Forgive me for intruding. I thought you might be—’

  ‘Mad,’ Josef provided with great enthusiasm. Blake’s glare was met with an innocent protest. ‘Well, what about her chuckin’—?’

  ‘Throwing would be a better choice,’ his father said. ‘Joe, I think you’d better see if you can help the vicar and his ladies to clear away the coffee things. There might be a chocolate biscuit left for your reward.’

  ‘He wants me
to go,’ the boy explained with a ‘tut’ and a heavy ‘adults are so transparent’ sigh. Nicole wanted to laugh and for the first time in days her spirits lifted. The child took a few steps towards the church then turned. ‘But you’ll tell me why she chu…threw that dust, won’t you, Daddy?’

  ‘Go!’ Blake thundered. And turned to Nicole who was having difficulty keeping a straight face. He seemed to think she was wincing because he frowned. ‘I can only apologise again,’ he said quietly. ‘Tact isn’t in his vocabulary, but I am persevering and thinking of tattooing the word on to his forehead. What do you think?’

  She noticed how his eyes glowed with sincerity and warmth. A likeable man, one to be trusted.

  ‘A losing battle!’ she said with a little laugh.

  Blake sighed. ‘I think you’re right. Sorry.’

  ‘It’s all right. In fact, I was very sad and he’s brightened my day.’

  The most beatific smile lit his face, his even teeth a dazzling white against the Caribbean tan.

  ‘Sometimes I think it’s his purpose in life,’ he said fondly.

  She liked him even more. He evidently adored his son and had never crushed the child’s wonderful spirit. Having been brought up unconventionally, she valued that immensely.

  ‘You adore him,’ she murmured.

  The radiance of his expression shook her. ‘With all my heart,’ he confessed. And he laughed. ‘Is it so obvious?’

  She laughed too. ‘Transparent. But it’s understandable.’ Her hand caressed her baby’s head. To her astonishment she found herself saying to this complete stranger, ‘When Luc was born I learnt what it means to love someone with my whole mind, with every beat of my heart. I loved my father, but this—’

  ‘I know,’ he said softly. ‘I’m besotted too. Hopeless, aren’t we?’

  They both laughed at their mutual captivation.

  ‘I think I should explain my behaviour here,’ she said.

  ‘I am intrigued,’ he admitted.

  Her eyes grew sombre. ‘I came here to spread my father’s ashes on the ground. It was his dying wish.’