The late afternoon traffic was heavy and she forced herself to switch her attention from her unprofitable thoughts to her driving.
As she drove westward, Lindsay found the traffic gradually thinning out and when she took the familiar turning off the motorway several miles before Bath, she had the narrow road almost all to herself.
Almost all too soon she was driving through the familiar villages, the last one, Hinton St Jude, still as chocolate box pretty as ever with its thatched roofed cottages, their front gardens a rich blaze of colour. It was only a couple of miles from the village to the house, a small square Georgian building set in attractive parklands.
The electrically operated gates stood open and Lindsay’s stomach muscles clenched as she drove through. She was dreading the weekend more and more with every moment that passed.
She parked her car in front of the house, a little surprised to find the gravel parking area otherwise empty. Climbing out of the car without pausing to check her make-up or hair she walked up to the front door. It still seemed strange to be knocking on the door of what was legally at least still her home, but Gwendolin had made it quite plain shortly after her marriage that Lessings was now her home, and that as its mistress she expected Lindsay to behave as a guest.
Five minutes went by without any sign of anyone coming to answer her knock. She still had her old keys—it had seemed foolish to keep them but for some reason she had, and feeling more like an intruder than a member of the household, she fished through her bag for the front door keys, wondering as she inserted them into the lock if they would still work or if Gwendolin had had the locks changed. The door swung open easily as the key fitted, and once she was inside the hall, a wave of nostalgia overwhelmed her as she breathed in the unmistakable scents of pot-pourri and wax polish. In her mother’s and then Sheila’s day the house had always smelled like this, and it had been a smell she loved, but Gwendolin hated it, describing it as medieval, and the bowls of pot-pourri and the old fashioned beeswax had been banished. Now it seemed both were back.
Standing at the foot of the stairs, Lindsay called out experimentally, but there was no response. The distinct feeling that she was alone in the house would not leave her, and she walked slowly into the kitchen. Where was everyone?
A note was propped up conspicuously on the refectory table, and Lindsay picked it up skimming through it. At least she now had an explanation for the housekeeper’s absence. It seemed her sister had been involved in a car accident and she had been called in to take care of her. But where was Gwen? Her sister-in-law, Lindsay remembered had an extremely active social life, but even so she felt a tiny prick of annoyance that there was no one here to welcome her. She left the kitchen and wandered back through the hall into the immaculate drawing room. Gwen had called in a team of interior designers shortly after her marriage, and Lindsay had never liked the cold sophisticated rooms they had created. She had preferred the faded chintzes of her mother’s and Sheila’s time, and she grimaced in faint distaste at the sterile purity of the now almost all white and chrome room.
As she remembered the only room the designers had not been allowed to touch were the kitchen and Lucas’ study, and her old bedroom.
Lucas! Her stomach felt as though it had suddenly been twisted painfully, her nerves so on edge that she felt acute nausea. Where was he? At work no doubt at this time of day. Her mouth hardened slightly. Couldn’t he even be bothered to come home to welcome her? Welcome her? A harsh bitter laugh escaped her compressed lips and echoed into the thick silence. That would be the day. No doubt he was as anxious to get his weekend over with as she was herself.
And yet, almost without volition her footsteps led her in the direction of his study. The door was half open and Lindsay walked in, a puzzled frown creasing her forehead as she saw the neat pile of correspondence on his desk. She walked closer and saw on the top of one pile a neatly written note in what she now recognised as the housekeeper’s handwriting. ‘Miss Lindsay ‘phoned’, it read, ‘she and a friend are coming down for the weekend. I have put Miss Lindsay in her old room and her friend in the guest suite.’
Lindsay thought quickly. Did this mean that Lucas didn’t know she was coming down this weekend? But why would the housekeeper leave a note for Lucas? Why not simply tell Gwen? Frowning deeply Lindsay made her way back to the kitchen and filled the kettle. While she was waiting for it to boil she pondered on what she ought to do. Plainly whatever business had taken Lucas away from home had delayed him and the housekeeper had not had an opportunity to inform him of her visit. On the other hand it was equally plain that he was expected home imminently—the fridge was full of food for one thing. Although it was tempting to simply get back in her car and return to London all she would be doing was putting off the eventual ordeal. She hadn’t realised until now how much she had been nerving herself for this meeting. If she left without seeing Lucas she would have it all to live through again. The kettle boiled and Lindsay automatically went through the motions of making herself a pot of tea. She would take it upstairs with her and have a shower. That might help her to relax. At least she knew where she was sleeping. If, when Gwen came back she objected to the way she, Lindsay, had made herself at home, well she had only herself to blame for not being on hand to receive her. Her mind made up Lindsay poured her tea and went back into the hall.
Her bedroom had not suffered too much from the decorators; the theme of lemon and white she had chosen as a teenager was still retained; the bedhangings, curtains and chair were all in a soft lemon and white chintz, the carpet a toning pale lemon. Lucas had been the one to suggest that she was old enough for a more grown-up colour scheme than the old pink and white she had had since childhood—he had arranged for her room to be redecorated as a fifteenth birthday surprise, she remembered. She had been so excited and thrilled … Sighing faintly she went back downstairs; garaged her car at the back of the house and brought up her suitcase.
She had just stepped out of the shower when she became aware of someone’s presence in her bedroom. Thinking it must be Gwendolin she pulled on her robe hurriedly, grimacing faintly as the thin silk clung to her still damp skin, and opened her shower room door.
It wasn’t Gwen who stood there watching her but Lucas, his dark eyebrows drawn together in a frown, his skin stretched almost too tightly over the bones of his face.
‘Lindsay … what the devil …’
There was a grimness to his mouth that Lindsay well remembered, but the pain darkening his eyes was new, and so too was the tiredness plainly discernible in his drawn features and almost gaunt frame.
Suddenly becoming aware from the way he was looking at her, of the flimsiness of her damp robe, Lindsay hugged her arms protectively around her body, and muttered crossly. ‘I thought you were Gwendolin …’
‘Now why, I wonder should you think that.’
The tiredness was gone and in its place was a febrile bitterness that mocked and taunted. ‘What are you doing here?’
His tormenting was replaced by curt anger, and it lit a corresponding flame of anger in Lindsay.
‘This is still my home,’ she reminded him, her chin lifting belligerently, ‘even though you have contrived to make it as uncomfortable a one as possible for me.’
He had the grace to colour faintly, but there was no remorse in his eyes as they locked on her face. ‘I repeat, what are you doing here.’
‘Nothing that you need worry about,’ Lindsay told him acidly, ‘In fact I think when you hear what I’ve got to say you’ll be pleased. I’m getting engaged.’
‘Engaged!’
Just for a moment