Taken aback, she gaped at him, and colour rose from her neck to fill her cheeks with a bright pink blush. She finally said in a low voice, ‘Please don’t tell anyone I’m pregnant.’
‘Of course I won’t. How does Gideon feel about the baby?’
‘He doesn’t know.’
‘Why haven’t you told him?’
‘Don’t want it to influence him…about our future.’
‘I understand. Whether you two marry or not is your business, my dear, but I just want you to know that I will be there for you and my great-grandchild no matter what.’
Evan’s eyes brightened and she gave him a faint smile. ‘Thank you.’
There was a sudden loud knocking on the door, and Robin called ‘Come in.’
A moment later Linnet was hurrying over to the bed, exclaiming, ‘I’ve been scared to death all the way over here, Evan! Whatever happened?’ She took Evan’s hand in hers, staring at her in concern.
‘The brakes failed,’ Robin explained. ‘It was nice of you to come, Linnet. Thank you.’
Linnet smiled at Robin, and turned back to Evan. Pushing back thoughts of Jonathan Ainsley and his dangerous vendetta against them all, she said, ‘Are your injuries very bad?’
‘Broken rib, broken ankle,’ Evan whispered. ‘Getting a cast.’
‘Thank God it’s nothing worse,’ Linnet said.
Dusty Rhodes stepped out of the lift onto the fifth floor of Harte’s department store in Leeds. He glanced around, understanding immediately why India Standish’s secretary had told him to be careful, that the floor was undergoing remodelling. And indeed it was. The floor was roped off, and he had to walk around the roped-off area to find a way to get to India.
He could see her in the distance, in the middle of the floor, dressed in beige cotton trousers and a beige cotton blouse, clipboard in hand, tortoise-shell glasses pushed up on top of her bright blonde head. Normally casually chic in the latest styles, she was much more workmanlike this afternoon in her understated outfit. But he understood how practical it was, and she was nothing if not practical. There were piles of rubble everywhere and obviously a minor demolition job was in progress.
India was talking to two workmen, looking concerned, and for a split second he hesitated. He had not seen her for several weeks and he needed to speak to her. Having parted on a sour note he was certain she would not take his phone call, so he had come here instead.
After a moment he decided to brave it, to plunge ahead, and so he stepped over a pile of planks, avoided a wheelbarrow and buckets of plaster and moved towards her.
It was one of the workmen who spotted him first, and his face lit up. ‘Hey, Dusty, how’re yer?’ the man asked, his smile wide, his light green eyes suddenly sparkling. ‘Long time no see, mate.’
Before Dusty could answer, India swung around to face him, surprise flickering on her face, but only momentarily. She was good at hiding her feelings, and instantly became poker-faced again.
‘Hello India,’ he said.
‘Dusty,’ she answered, inclining her head.
Looking past her, he addressed the workman. ‘It’s Jackie Pickles, isn’t it?’
The man grinned. ‘Yer’ve got that right, Dusty. So yer remember our old school, do yer?’
Nodding, Dusty laughed. ‘I do indeed. Christ Church C of E, in Theaker Lane, Upper Armley.’
‘Lotta water under t’bridge since then,’ Jackie said. And glancing at the man next to him, he added, ‘I bet yer don’t remember Harry Thwaites, do yer, Dusty?’
‘I certainly do. Hello, Harry, last time I saw you was at West Leeds High School, right?’
Harry Thwaites smiled. ‘Long time ago, Dusty. I’m a married man now. With a couple of kids.’
India, who had been paying great attention to this little exchange between the three men, now said, ‘You wanted to talk to me, Dusty, didn’t you?’
‘Yes.’ But again looking past her he said to Jackie, ‘What’s the problem here? Those steel girders, I’ll bet.’
‘Correct. Lady India’s sketches for this area don’t show them. Because we didn’t know they were there. We found ’em when we knocked a wall down. It’s a problem.’
‘Show me the sketches, India, please,’ Dusty said, glancing at her. ‘I studied architecture.’
Handing him the sketches, she said, ‘Yes, I know. I’d like them to be removed.’
Dusty stared at the sketches, walked over to the floor-to-ceiling beams, looked around the area, and then he said, ‘I’ll bet my bottom dollar these steel pillars are supporting the ceiling, which is also the floor above.’
Harry Thwaites said, ‘That’s what we thought…they can’t be removed.’
Gazing at India, Dusty explained, ‘Take these out, your ceiling will fall down and the floor above will be weakened. You’ll have to incorporate them into your new scheme somehow. There’s no other way.’
The two workmen were beaming at him.
India looked annoyed with him, and then suddenly a resigned expression settled on her face. ‘Okay then, that’s it.’ Turning to the two men, she said, ‘Please excuse me for a few minutes. I’ll be back shortly. Maybe you want to take your tea break?’
‘Thanks, Lady India,’ they said in unison as they gave Dusty another grin and moved away.
‘You’re sure I can’t move the beams?’
‘Well, you can move them,’ Dusty replied, ‘but I wouldn’t. It’ll be a disaster.’
‘I understand,’ she replied, and glanced up at him, added, ‘This is a surprise. Why did you come looking for me?’
Running into the two men he had gone to school with, having the discussion with them about the beams, had somehow broken the ice, and Dusty felt quite relaxed as he answered, ‘First to apologize and secondly to try and explain…about Melinda and Atlanta.’
‘Let’s go up to my office, we can talk there for a while.’
‘Thanks, India.’
They rode up to the seventh floor in silence.
When they came to her office, India opened the door, and said in a very brisk, cold tone, ‘Well, come in. Let’s talk. But I haven’t got long.’
‘This won’t take long.’ Dusty closed the door behind him, knowing she was not going to be very forgiving.
India went and stood behind her desk. His arrival had startled her, thrown her off balance, but the chit-chat between her carpenters and Dusty had given her time to recover her equilibrium. Much to her surprise she discovered she was now calm. And she had to admit to herself that she had missed him, had longed to go to him. She was still in love with him; he haunted her days.
Dusty looked well, she decided, but there were dark rings under his eyes. He was tired. She suddenly understood that he had more than likely buried himself in his painting to counterbalance his unhappiness about her, and her defection.
Hovering in front of her desk, Dusty exclaimed heatedly, ‘Look, I admit I was pretty bloody stupid. I should have told you about my child when I came out of hospital, when I explained who Melinda was. I was embarrassed, though, and in a blue funk. Also, I’m not used to discussing my private life with anyone.’
‘I know that,’ India said. She sat down in the chair, motioning for him to be seated also.
He took the chair on the other side of her desk, and continued. ‘I never confide in anyone. I’m a loner, independent, you know that. I’ve never ever made a commitment to anyone, I mean to a woman, and I vowed long ago never to get married. To be honest, until you walked out on me that day, I actually didn’t understand how I really felt about you.’
She gave him a long hard stare and snapped, ‘At least you’re honest. What you’re saying, Dusty, is that I was just another woman passing through your life, that you saw no reason to share your past with me. Correct?’
‘In a way, I suppose. But not quite…You see, I did know I was hooked on you, although perhaps I didn’t understand how much. I respected you, India, and I looked up to you. I realized all th
ose things that afternoon, but I was also confused, self-conscious and I didn’t know how to explain that she and I had a child.’
‘I would have understood, and that’s why I was so upset. You underestimated me, and you didn’t give me the benefit of the doubt.’
‘I know, and I’m sorry for that. I’m an idiot.’
‘Well, it was nice of you to come and apologize.’ She stood up. ‘I’ve got to get back to–’
‘India, there’s something else I need to tell you,’ he said, cutting her off. ‘I have always supported Melinda, her mother Mrs Caldwell, and Atlanta. And I pay Melinda’s medical bills.’
She nodded, began to edge around the desk, anxious to return to work.
‘I just wanted you to know this.’
‘Why didn’t you two get married?’ India asked, suddenly wanting now to know more.
‘I wasn’t in love with her. Actually, we broke up before she knew she was pregnant.’
‘I see.’
Dusty walked towards the door, realizing there was no point continuing the discussion. He felt depleted, worn out. He had told her the truth about Melinda, and there was nothing else to say. She was not in the mood to hear his pleas, his declarations of love.
India said, ‘When did she get hooked on drugs?’
‘Just after Atlanta was born. Thank God for that at least.’ He opened the door, turned around, gave her a faint smile. ‘Well, that’s it, I guess–’ His throat felt constricted, and he was amazed when he realized he was choked up, on the verge of tears. How stupid he was.
India felt herself growing panicky as Dusty walked out. She couldn’t let him go. She loved him so much. Now was her chance to make everything right between them. Moving around the desk, she exclaimed, ‘Dusty, wait! Please don’t leave!’
He swung around, stood staring at her, his eyes widening when he saw the look on her face. It was one of absolute love.
He came into the office, closed the door, walked towards her, saying as he did, ‘What is it, India?’
‘I love you,’ she said, ‘I’ve always loved you. And I just wanted you to know that before you left.’
‘Do you want me to stay?’
‘Oh yes. Yes.’
He moved close, put his arms around her, held her tightly. ‘I love you too. I want to spend the rest of my life with you, if you’ll have me?’
She looked up at him, her silvery eyes glazed with tears. ‘Is this a proposal of marriage, by any chance?’
‘It is. I love you. I want you to be my wife.’ ‘And I want you to be my husband,’ she whispered, and standing on tiptoe she kissed him on the mouth.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
As it so often did in Yorkshire, the weather underwent a sudden change. After a warm and sunny weekend, it rained on Monday, and Tuesday dawned cool and overcast, the leaden sky threatening rain.
As she always did when the weather turned inclement and hinted at autumn, Margaret had gone around earlier lighting fires in the downstairs rooms which were used the most–the Stone Hall, the breakfast room and the library. The fires took the chill out of the air and were a welcome sight, a lovely antidote to the grey skies, the housekeeper thought.
Evan agreed with her, and after a light lunch, which Margaret had served her in the breakfast room, she thanked her and said, ‘I think there’s nothing nicer than a fire, Margaret, even on a summer’s day. My grandmother often used to have them going in our Connecticut house, even when the weather was sunny and warm. She just loved fires.’
‘My mother did, too,’ Margaret remarked, and continued, ‘Her name is Hilda, and she worked for Mrs Harte for years as housekeeper. Emma Harte, that is, and she told me Mrs Harte used to stoke the fires herself, always complained of feeling the cold. Anyway, the rooms in this great big house are always chilly, what with their wood floors, high ceilings and all. They need to be warmed up long before winter comes, at least I think so.’
‘It’s true. And a fire’s so cosy and welcoming, Margaret.’
‘It is indeed. Now, would you like some more coffee, Miss Evan?’
‘No, thank you, and thanks for a lovely lunch.’
‘It’s my pleasure, miss. And what time can we expect your parents to arrive?’
‘My father insisted on driving up from London. He said they’d be here in time for tea. So I suppose they’ll arrive at–tea-time.’ Evan started to laugh. ‘Four o’clock, right?’
‘That’s correct.’
Pushing back the chair, Evan struggled to her feet, with Margaret’s help, and after thanking the housekeeper she made her way across the Stone Hall to the library. She had been discharged from the hospital yesterday afternoon, but only after promising the doctor she would call him if she had any unusual pains, which might suggest problems with the baby. It had only taken her a couple of hours to get used to the cast on her right leg, but her broken rib was painful, especially when she tried to sit up. Yet all in all, she knew she had been lucky. She might easily have been killed. An involuntary shiver ran through her as she thought of the brakes failing the way they had, and she couldn’t help wondering if Jonathan Ainsley had been behind it. Having resisted mentioning his name to Robin, she now decided to forget the vicious Jonathan, and so she put him out of her mind determinedly.
A few weeks ago she had discovered Emma’s photograph albums, wonderful, giant-sized books which her great-grandmother had assiduously filled with snaps and pictures taken over the years.
Joe, the estate-manager and Margaret’s husband, had taken them all out for her this morning, and she started perusing them again, tremendously interested in seeing her ancestors, mostly in black and white but sometimes in colour as well.
Fascinated by the earliest photographs, she opened the first album once more. It was of Victorian style, handsomely bound in crushed red velvet and enhanced with ornate silver corners and a silver clasp. It was filled with Emma’s notations in her neat but flowing script.
The man who fascinated her the most was Emma’s older brother, Winston. There was a picture of him in his Royal Navy uniform, taken when he was only seventeen during the First World War. He was Gideon’s great-grandfather, and she saw the man she loved reflected in this ancient snap. Gideon had inherited the Harte good looks from Winston the first, it wasn’t hard to spot that. A photograph next to it had been removed, but next to the gap Emma had written: My father, Big Jack Harte. She couldn’t help wondering who had taken the picture out of the album, and why. Further along there was another snapshot with the notation: My father, and it was in Emma’s writing.
Evan sat staring at it, and she suddenly realized who the man in the picture reminded her of: Toby, Gideon’s brother. That was it! And why not? Toby was also descended from Big Jack’s son, Winston. Next to this Brownie snapshot of Big Jack was a faded picture of Elizabeth Harte, Big Jack’s wife and Emma’s mother. Goodness, Robin’s twin sister Elizabeth looks just like her, Evan whispered to herself. And so do I. Robin was right when he said I was a true Harte, descended in a direct line from Emma’s mother and father.
Carefully and slowly, she turned the pages, intrigued by pictures of Paul McGill in his army uniform; Robin and Elizabeth when they were small, with their father Arthur Ainsley; Kit, Emma’s son by Joe Lowther, her first husband, with Edwina who was all dressed up in elegant clothes that smacked of the Roaring Twenties.
In the second album were pictures of Kit, Robin and Elizabeth during the Second World War. How glamorous her great-aunt Elizabeth looked, with her flowing black hair and dressed in her Red Cross uniform. And here was her great-grandmother standing outside the House of Commons with an elegantly-dressed couple. Emma had written: My dear friend Jane Stuart Ogden and her husband Bill.
The third album held photographs of Daisy, Emma’s daughter by Paul McGill. And there was a snap of Paul and Emma together, another with their only child, Daisy. And next to that there was a picture of Paula and Philip with their mother Daisy and their father David Amory.
/> Evan sat back, amazed at the hundreds of photographs which dated back to the beginning of the twentieth century. Why, the albums, twenty-one in all, covered almost a hundred years. If I were a writer, I could create a history of this family from these photographs, she thought. What a wonderful family saga.
And now she was carrying another Harte, the next generation. Evan sat back, placed her hands on her stomach, thinking of her baby. It had not been planned, it was all an accident, but she was glad she was pregnant. How lucky she had been not to lose the baby in the car crash. Again she shivered at the thought that she and the child could so easily be in the morgue.
Evan closed her eyes, drifting with her thoughts of the baby and the sudden change in her life that she or he would bring in the years to come. She hoped she would be married to Gideon. He was her true love, the love of her life, and she knew what she had to do now to make things right between them.
Robin stood in the doorway of the library studying Evan from the threshold, appreciating how lovely she looked this afternoon. So much better than yesterday: not so pale and wan, and the periwinkle-blue blouse she was wearing was the perfect colour for her.
She was a good person, he had known that from their first encounter. Ethical, sincere and straight as a die, that was Evan, and he knew she would come through this current crisis with flying colours. She was practical and down to earth, and he believed she would be able to settle the differences she had with Gideon.
Tapping on the open door, he walked in, exclaiming, ‘There you are, Evan! I hope I’m not disturbing you.’
She looked up at once, her face changing, breaking into smiles. ‘Robin, you’re early!’
‘Yes, I am, but I wanted a few moments alone with you before your parents arrive.’ He walked over to the table where she was seated, his eyes on the piles of photograph albums. With a chuckle he said, ‘Boning up on the family, are you?’
‘Of course. And it’s fascinating!’
Leaning over her, Robin kissed her cheek, sat down, and went on, ‘I want to tell you again how thrilled I am about the baby, Evan. And although I said it was Gideon’s business and yours the other day, I was just wondering whether you plan to tell him or not?’