‘I’ve already told Sophia she was welcome to stay,’ Jonathon informed his mother somewhat impatiently. ‘And that there’s no hurry for a divorce. What there is some hurry for, however, is the marriage itself. The celebrant told me he has another appointment at six, so let’s go in.’
The celebrant looked relieved as the three of them entered the formal sitting-room where the ceremony was to take place. So did the others.
Wilma shot Jonathon a reproachful glare, which brought a tiny smile to Sophia’s lips. Wilma did not fit the stereotyped image of a tycoon’s private secretary. She wasn’t at all beautiful or glamorous or gushingly attentive of her boss. She was pushing forty—skinny, plain, opinionated and downright prickly.
She had been Mr Parnell Senior’s secretary before he died, Jonathon inheriting her, along with the family business. In Wilma’s words, their relationship had been rocky for a while, but in the end, she and Jonathon had forged an understanding.
Sophia was astounded at the way Wilma spoke to her boss at times, but there again, Jonathon gave as good as he got. Worse, most of the time. Sophia suspected that if she’d been his secretary she’d have quit within a week. In a weird way she gained a degree of secret satisfaction at Wilma’s liberated stance.
Wilma’s scowl vanished when she shifted her regard to Sophia. Now she smiled, mouthing, ‘You look beautiful.’ Sophia smiled back, feeling a warm gratitude swell her heart. Wilma had become a good friend over the past few weeks. If it hadn’t been for her sound common sense and pragmatic advice, Sophia suspected she might have cracked up entirely.
The lady standing next to Wilma had been similarly supportive. Maud had been the housekeeper in the Parnell household since the year dot. No one knew how old she was, but sixty-five would not have been far astray, though she was very sprightly for her age. And a hard worker.
She’d been cool to Sophia at first, till Sophia had made it clear that she had no intention of lounging around Parnell Hall like some parasite. From day one, she’d insisted on doing her own room and en-suite, as well as helping in any way she could.
Sophia had had plenty of practice with housework during her growing-up years and saw no reason to sit around like a useless lump, simply because she was pregnant. Maud had become her champion in this regard a week or two after her arrival when Jonathon expressed the opinion—quite dogmatically—that she shouldn’t be doing the cleaning in her ‘condition’.
‘The girl’s pregnant, not sick!’ Maud had argued with a forthrightness reminiscent of Wilma. ‘When I had my Jerry, I worked right up till they carted me off to the hospital. Provided the girl is healthy, then no harm can come to her. What do you expect her to do, sit around painting her nails all day?’
Sophia had been astounded when this last remark seemed to strike Jonathon dumb, though his eyes spoke volumes. He’d given Maud a savage look and marched off, clearly furious. Maud’s grin of secret triumph had sparked a curiosity within Sophia that she hadn’t as yet satisfied. Though she did suspect that the lady who had filled in her time painting her nails must have been Jonathon’s ex-wife. Who else could have inspired such a reaction?
Sophia found herself thinking of Jonathon’s ex-wife again as they stood, side by side, in front of the marriage celebrant. All she knew about Jonathon’s first marriage was that the divorce had become final only recently. Had his wife been beautiful? Had he loved her as much as she had loved Godfrey? If so, who had divorced whom, and why?
Wilma had implied once or twice that Jonathon had been deeply hurt by his divorce, suggesting that his wife had been at fault. Maybe she’d had an affair…
Sophia found it hard to imagine any woman being unfaithful to Jonathon. Who would dare?
She slid a surreptitious glance over at him, standing ramrod-straight, his shoulders as squared as his chiselled jaw-line. There wasn’t a weak line in either his face or his body. Sophia realised some women might be attracted to Jonathon’s strong silent type, but she knew she could only ever be drawn to a man who showed a degree of sensitivity and compassion.
Godfrey had been all sensitivity and compassion.
Sophia could still remember the day they’d first met, when she’d stumbled, weeping, into the old orchard behind the deserted farmhouse next door. She’d thrown herself down into the cool sweet grass under the spreading branches of an ancient apple tree and cried and cried till there were no tears left.
It was then that Godfrey’s gentle voice reached her ears.
‘What has happened, lass, to upset you this much? Sit up and tell your Uncle Godfrey all about it.’
Frightened at first, she had shot to her feet, about to run, but the sight of Godfrey sitting at his easel, looking so unlike an accoster of young ladies, eased her fears. His eyes were a gentle grey, his soft brown hair already receding, and he had a way of looking at one that warmed and gladdened the soul.
Jonathon accused his older brother of being a dreamer and a fool, but to her he’d been a saint and a saviour. She hadn’t fallen in love that first day when she’d poured out her heart to him. But by the time he’d given her sanctuary two years later he’d meant the world to her.
Her whole chest contracted, her eyes shutting momentarily as she struggled to gather herself. She shouldn’t have started thinking about Godfrey. Biting her bottom lip till the pain propelled her out of her reverie, Sophia still found that her fingers had begun twisting feverishly together.
Jonathon clamped both of his large hands over hers, holding them in a rock-like grip as the celebrant started speaking.
‘We’ve come together on this lovely September afternoon to celebrate the marriage of Jonathon and Sophia…’
He droned on, Sophia hating the sentimental words, hating the way Jonathon was holding her still, hating Jonathon. It should have been Godfrey standing beside her, not this cold, heartless individual. Godfrey, with his love of everything fine and gentle and romantic. He’d taught her so much, about music and poetry and literature and art, shown her a world she hadn’t known existed, a world he’d always loved but had been denied him most of his life.
Not that Sophia had known about Godfrey’s background prior to his falling ill. She hadn’t gleaned much about his past life even then, from either Godfrey or Jonathon or Mrs Parnell, who was so upset by her son’s advanced cancer that she was incoherent most of the time.
Wilma had finally filled in the missing pieces for her: how Henry Parnell’s first-born son had not taken after his father at all, inheriting instead his mother’s softer nature, as well as her appreciation of culture and gentility. As an adolescent, Godfrey had yearned to become first a dancer, then a painter, only to have both his ambitions scorned as effeminate by his domineering father.
Godfrey, as the elder son, was supposed to follow in his father’s footsteps in the family property development business, but he’d hated the ruthless cut and thrust of the real estate world from the start. Not that he hadn’t tried to conform to his autocratic father’s wishes. He had, even to marrying the daughter of another wealthy property tycoon, though his failure to sire an heir had only added to his general sense of inadequacy.
When he’d deserted the family company and his unhappy marriage shortly after his father’s death of a heart attack, no one had been seriously surprised. Neither had anyone been surprised when Jonathon had slipped into his father’s shoes to make Parnell Property Developments more successful than ever. He was the spitting image of his father in looks, business acumen and ambition.
While the family business had benefited by Godfrey’s defection, his mother hadn’t. Ivy had become ill with worry over wondering where Godfrey was and what he was doing. His only communication had been a letter with a Sydney postmark which he’d sent shortly after he left, saying he was all right but that he had to live his own