Everything to Gain and a Secret Affair

  “Well, she didn’t to me!” he snorted, glaring. “She gave me a bloody lecture. She also said you wanted to go, that I was not being fair, making you stay in town for the weekend—”

  “Andrew,” I interjected sharply, “I don’t care whether we go or not!” I could tell he was not only tired but angry, and I had an awful sinking feeling it was with me, as well as with his mother.

  “I’m glad to hear you feel that way, because we can’t go. It’s out of the question altogether. I have to work tomorrow, and Sunday as well, most probably.”

  “Oh,” I said, at a loss.

  “And what does that mean?”

  “Nothing, just oh. However, if you have to work this weekend, why did you ask me to fly over here? Just to sit in this suite waiting for you? I might as well have stayed in New York with the twins, or taken them out to Indian Meadows.”

  Instead of answering me, he ran his hand through his hair somewhat distractedly, then rubbed his eyes. “It’s been one hellish day,” he grumbled in the same belligerent voice. “Malcolm Stainley’s been behaving like an idiot. Which he is, of course . . . goes without saying. He’s also a bastard, the worst. And full of himself, has an ego the size of a house. Ego.” Andrew compressed his lips. “Ego always gets in the way, and it gets more people into trouble than I care to think about,” he muttered in a voice so quiet now it was barely audible.

  I said nothing.

  Suddenly straightening his shoulders, he glanced across at me. “I stumbled on yet another of Stainley’s messes this afternoon, and it may take a bit of time to clear up. There’s a possibility I’ll have to stay in London for an extra week.”

  “I thought Jack Underwood was coming over on Wednesday,” I said. “To take over from you.”

  “He may need help. My help.”

  I opened my mouth to protest and promptly closed it. I sat down heavily on the sofa, and after a moment I said, “Why don’t I call Harry’s Bar and cancel our reservation? Obviously you’re in no mood to go out to dinner.”

  “And you are. So we’ll go.”

  “Andrew, please. You’re being so argumentative, and I don’t know why.” I bit my lip, feeling unexpected tears pricking the back of my eyes. Impatiently, I pushed them away, swallowed hard, and said, as steadily as possible, “I just want to do what you want. I only want to please you.”

  “I need a drink,” he mumbled and marched over to the console table that stood between two of the high, graceful windows.

  I watched him as he poured himself a neat scotch, noticing the taut set of his shoulders, the way he held himself. He gulped it down in two swallows and poured another one for himself, this time adding ice and a drop of water from the glass jug. Then without a word to me of any kind, he walked across the room and went into the bedroom, carrying his drink.

  I stared after him speechless.

  It had been a long time since I’d seen him in such a contrary and difficult mood. Because my feelings were hurt, because I felt he had been terribly unjust, I jumped up and ran after him. I was furious.

  He was standing near the bed, where he had thrown his jacket, and was loosening his tie. Hearing me come into the room, he pivoted swiftly, stood glaring at me.

  I said, “I realize you’ve had a bad day, and I’m sorry for that. God knows, you of all people don’t deserve it. But you’re not going to take it out on me! I won’t let you! I haven’t done anything wrong!”

  “It’s a bad couple of weeks I’ve had, not merely a bad day,” he shot back, adding with ill grace, “I’m going to take a bath,” and so saying began to unbutton his shirt.

  “And stick your head under the water and keep it there! For several hours!” I shouted, my temper flying to the surface. I turned on my heels abruptly and flounced out, banging the door after me with a resounding crash. The crystal chandelier in the sitting room rattled and swayed slightly, but I didn’t care. I had had such a wonderful day, and he had just ruined it, in the space of only a few seconds. I was trembling inside and angrier than I had been in a very long time.

  A split second later the bedroom door was wrenched open, almost violently, and Andrew strode over to me, where I was standing by the piano.

  Grabbing hold of me by the shoulders, he held me tightly and looked into my eyes. “I’m sorry, so very sorry, Mal. I did take it out on you, and that was wrong of me, very unfair. There’s no excuse for it, really there isn’t. The problem is, my mother got my goat tonight. Railing on about going up to spend the weekend with her, complaining she’s seen nothing of me whilst I’ve been in London. That’s true, of course, and she means well, but—” He shook his head. “I guess my nerves are pretty raw tonight.”

  He searched my face.

  When I said not one kindly word nor showed a glimmer of friendliness, he murmured in a low, weary voice, “Forgive me, Puss?”

  His tiredness was a most palpable thing; all of my anger dissipated as rapidly as it had erupted. “There’s nothing to forgive, silly.”

  Smiling now, his eyes as soft and loving as they usually were, he kissed the tip of my nose. “Oh, Puss, whatever would I do without you?”

  “And me you?” I asked.

  Lifting my hand, I touched his cheek gently. “Listen, tough guy, let me cancel the dinner reservation, order a good bottle of wine and your favorite soul food, and we can stay here, have supper in front of the fire. Just the two of us. All cozy and warm and loving. So, what do you say?”

  “I say okay, you’ve got a date.”

  “Good. Now, come on,” I bustled. “Let’s get you into a nice hot tub. You can soak for a while in some of my bubbly stuff. It’s got pine oil in it, and it’ll relax your muscles.”

  “Join me?” he asked, lifting a brow, giving me a suggestive look.

  “No!”

  He laughed for the first time since he had come in, and so did I.

  “No hanky-panky tonight, Andrew Keswick. You’re far too tired.”

  “Afraid so, even for you, Puss.”

  The dinner was perfect. And so was the evening, as it turned out.

  Whilst Andrew soaked his weary bones in a tub filled to the brim with the hottest water and a generous portion of my pine bubble bath, I ordered supper from room service.

  Wanting to pamper and spoil him, make him feel better, I chose all of his favorite things: Morecombe Bay potted shrimps, baby chops from a rack of lamb with mint sauce, mashed potatoes, haricots verts, and carrots. I selected a wonderful red wine, Château Lafite-Rothschild, and to hell with the price. For dessert I picked bread pudding. I wasn’t particularly fond of this, but Andrew loved it; it was a favorite of his from boarding school days, and I knew he would enjoy it tonight.

  Refreshed, relaxed, and replete with food and wine, my husband was in a much mellower mood by eleven o’clock. Nevertheless, he still took me by surprise when he said suddenly, “Okay! We’re going to Yorkshire tomorrow after all, Puss-Puss.”

  I was lolling against him on the sofa, vaguely watching the television news, and I sat up with a jerk and stared at him.

  “But I thought you had to go to the office tomorrow!” I exclaimed. “I thought you had another mess to sort out.”

  “That’s true, yes. But I don’t think I can really sort it out by myself. I need Jack as a sounding board. It’s financial, which is where his expertise lies. And look, I can take some paperwork with me, clear some of it up on the way to Ma’s.”

  “Are you sure, darling?”

  “I’m positive.”

  “You’re not doing it for me, are you? Because you don’t want me sitting around the hotel waiting for you? That’s not it, is it?”

  “I’m doing it for both of us, Mal. And for my mother. Anyway, I think it’ll do me good to get away for forty-eight hours. It’ll give me a better perspective about everything. And quite frankly, I need to get out of that office, stand away from the situation and take stock of everything.”

  “If you’re really sure . . .” I knew I sounde
d hesitant, but I couldn’t help myself.

  “I want to do this,” Andrew reassured me. “Scout’s honor.”

  “Shall we go on the train?”

  He shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. I’d like to leave early, about six-thirty, so that we miss the worst of the traffic on the motorway. If we set off then, we’ll get to Ma’s in the middle of the morning, in time for lunch. I can even work on my papers on Saturday afternoon. We can relax all day Sunday and drive back with my mother early on Monday morning.”

  “But how are we going to get there tomorrow? We don’t have a car, and your mother left earlier this evening. She told me she wanted to be on the road by eight at the latest.”

  “Yes, I know that. But there’s no problem, we’re in a hotel, remember, and one of the best in the world.” He pushed himself to his feet and walked over to the desk. “I’m going to call the hall porter right now and ask him to have a car and driver outside for us tomorrow morning at six-thirty. How does that sound?”

  “Wonderful,” I answered and smiled at him. “And your mother’s going to be delighted to have us for the weekend.”

  “Whether your father marries Gwenny Reece-Jones or not doesn’t affect you much, does it, Mal?” Andrew asked as he switched off the bedside light and pulled the bedcovers over him.

  I was silent for a moment, and then I said, “No, not really. I just want him to be happy, that’s all.”

  “She’s very nice.”

  “I thought you couldn’t remember her.”

  “I couldn’t at first. But she’s started to come into focus in the past few hours, and I’ve got a really good picture of her now. Ma’s known her for donkey’s years. Gwenny’s older sister Gladys was at Oxford with my mother, and that’s the connection. When I was little we used to go and stay with the family. I vaguely remember an old house that was quite beautiful, in the Welsh Marshes.”

  “Your mother mentioned it to me earlier. But go on, you said you had a good picture of her. What’s she look like?”

  “Tall, slender. Dark, like a lot of the Welsh are, with a rather lovely face, a gentle face, and I can visualize pretty eyes, hazel, I think, big and soulful. But she wore odd clothes.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Long floaty skirts and boots and peasant blouses, trailing scarves, dangling earrings, and flowing capes.” I heard him laugh in the darkness, and then he went on in an amused voice, “Looking back, I think she was a cross between a gypsy, a Russian peasant, and a hippie. I mean in her appearance. And she was most eccentric, as only the British can be. But don’t get me wrong, she was awfully sweet. I’m sure she still is.”

  “Yes, and talented, at least, so your mother said.”

  “Mal?”

  “Yes, honey?”

  “Don’t sound so grudging about Gwenny. I know you’re irritated because your father didn’t confide in you, but I’m sure it was only because he didn’t want to embarrass you or upset you. Ma’s right about that.”

  “I guess so. And I didn’t mean to sound grudging. I’m glad Dad has Gwenny. I hope I get to meet her soon. After all, Dad might be in Mexico next year for six months. So no doubt he’ll come to New York more often if he’s based there.”

  “Is he going to accept the invitation from U.C.L.A. to be part of the dig in Yaxuna?”

  “Possibly. After all, he’s had an interest in the Mayan civilization for a long time, as you well know, and I think he’ll be glad to get away from the Middle East. He wrote in his last letter that he’d had it out there.”

  “I can’t say I blame him.”

  “I hope he goes to Mexico. I hope he marries Gwenny, and that they spend a lot of time with us. It’ll be nice for the twins to get to know their grandfather better, and I’m sure Gwenny will be a good sport. I got that impression from your mother, anyway—that she’s fun, I mean. Listen, Andrew, Dad might come to Yorkshire for the Christmas vacation. Anyway, Diana said she was going to phone Gwenny and invite them. That would be nice, don’t you think?”

  Andrew did not respond, and I realized that he had fallen asleep. He was breathing evenly but deeply, and this did not surprise me at all, since he was so exhausted. It was a miracle he hadn’t fallen asleep over supper.

  I lay next to him in the darkness, thinking about my father and Gwenny, hoping they were happy. One thing I was certain of, in this uncertain world, was that my mother was happy with David Nelson. In the beginning I’d had a few misgivings about him, inasmuch as he was a criminal lawyer of some standing and celebrity; he had always sounded too street-smart, too tough and slick in the past. But what a lovely man he had turned out to be, and not in the least like my original impression. Charming without being smarmy, intellectual without being pompous, and brilliant without being a show-off. He had a good sense of humor, but most important, I had discovered he was a kind and compassionate man, blessed with a great deal of understanding and insight into people. He adored my mother, and she adored him; that was good enough for me.

  I fell asleep with a smile on my face, thinking how nice it was that my mother had started a whole new life at the age of sixty-one.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  YORKSHIRE, NOVEMBER 1988

  Andrew worked on his papers all the way to Yorkshire.

  Lulled by the warmth and the motion of the car, I dozed on and off as we headed north on the motorway. I roused myself fully at one point, sat up straighter against the seat, and glanced at my watch. I saw that it was almost nine-thirty. This surprised me, and I said to Andrew, “We’ve been on the road well over three and a half hours. We must be in Yorkshire already, aren’t we?”

  “That we are, Puss,” he answered, looking up from the folder on his lap, giving me a half smile. “And you’ve slept most of the way. In any case, we left Harrogate behind a while ago.”

  I swung my head and stared out the car window. I saw that it was a pristine morning, clear and sunny, the sky a high-flung canopy of palest blue and white above the undulating pastoral dales. And as I continued to look out of the window, thinking what a great day it was, I experienced a sudden rush of anticipation and excitement knowing that we would soon be with Diana at her lovely old house just outside West Tanfield.

  Ever since our marriage, Andrew and I had come to England at least once a year for a holiday, and we had never left without making a trip to Yorkshire. So, not unnaturally, I was happy we were coming for the weekend. During the last ten years I had grown to love this beautiful, sprawling county, the largest in England, with its bucolic green dales, vast, empty moors, soaring fells, ancient cathedrals, and dramatic ruins of medieval abbeys. It was a rich corner of the north, blessed with immense tracts of fertile, arable land and great industrial wealth, and it boasted more castles and stately homes than any other county in the whole of Britain. Also, I had developed a deep affection and respect for the canny, down-to-earth folk who lived here, and whose pragmatism, dry wit, and hospitality were legendary.

  Wensleydale and the valley of the Ure, which we were presently driving through, was the area I knew best, since this was where the Keswick ancestral home was located. The house had been in the family for over four hundred years; even though Michael and Diana had settled in London after their youthful marriage straight out of university, they had spent almost every weekend there with Michael’s parents, and all of the main annual holidays as well.

  Andrew had been born in the house, as had most of the other Keswicks who had gone before him. “My mother made sure my actual birth took place in Yorkshire, not only because of the Keswick tradition, but because of cricket,” Andrew had told me somewhat cryptically, on my first trip to West Tanfield when we had come to England on our honeymoon.

  I had asked him what he meant about cricket, and he had chuckled, then explained, “Cricket is Yorkshire’s game, Mal. My father and grandfather wanted me to be birthed in the county, because only men actually born within the boundaries of Yorkshire can play cricket for it. They had high expectations
of me, hoped and prayed I might turn out to be another Len Hutton or a Freddy Trueman. You see, Dad and Grandpa were cricket addicts.”

  Since I knew nothing about cricket, that most British of British games, Andrew had gone on to explain that Hutton and Trueman were world-famous Yorkshire cricketeers who had played for England and had been national champions, if not, indeed, national heroes.

  As it happened, Andrew loved cricket and had played it at boarding school. “But I was never inspired, only an average batsman. I just didn’t have the talent,” he had confided to me on another occasion, a warm summer day the following year when he had taken me to Lords to watch my first test match.

  Continuing to gaze out the window, I spotted the shining tower of Ripon Cathedral outlined dramatically against the distant blue horizon. The cathedral was one of the most extraordinary edifices I have ever seen. Founded in the year 650, it was imposingly beautiful, awe-inspiring. Andrew was christened there, and it was in the cathedral that his parents were married. Now the sight of its great tower told me that we were about thirty minutes away from Andrew’s family home.

  “I’m hungry,” Andrew said, interrupting my thoughts. “I hope old Parky has a good breakfast waiting for us. I could eat a horse.”

  “I’m not surprised.” I laughed. “I’m pretty hungry myself, we left London so early. And I hope the hall porter phoned your mother, as you asked him to do. I’d hate to arrive unexpected.”

  “Good Lord, Mal, you ought to know better than that by now. I’d stake my life on the hall porters at Claridge’s; they’re the salt of the earth, and very reliable.”

  “True. Still, perhaps we ought to have stopped on the way up, called her ourselves,”

  “Not necessary, my sweet,” he murmured. “And it wouldn’t matter if we did arrive unannounced. We’re going to my mother’s, for God’s sake.”

  I said nothing, simply nodded, then I reached for my handbag. Taking out my compact, I powdered my nose and put on a little lipstick. Settling back, I glanced out the window once more to see that we were passing through the marketplace in Ripon. Here, every night at nine o’clock, the horn blower blew his horn at each corner of the neat little square, sounding the ancient curfew, wearing a period costume that came from an era of long ago. It was a centuries-old tradition, which the English, and most especially the locals, took in their stride, but one that an American like me found quite amazing—and extremely quaint.