Meanwhile, Chris had begun to insert and retract his thumb seductively between Blythe's fingers. It had been a signal, in their lust-filled days of yore that he was in the mood for sex. Considering the fact that he had evidenced only sporadic interest in making love with her when he'd been secretly conducting his affair with her sister, she considered this gesture manipulative as hell.
Then it suddenly hit her.
Damage Control.
This entire evening—the intimate country hotel… the anecdotes about their shared past… the champagne… the candlelight… Chris's expression of heartfelt remorse… and especially his flattery and praise for her accomplishments as his business partner, along with his bid to reconcile their marriage—it had all been nothing more than Damage Control.
Instead of relying solely on his familiar brand of lethal charm to get her to sign the sales documents and come back to work for him, Chris had appealed to the aspects of their former relationship he knew she most admired:
his
talent as a filmmaker,
her
talent in production design, and their remarkable ability to work as a creative team. He had even tried to seduce her back into his employ by offering her the one thing he knew she'd wanted most of all—and he didn't, particularly—a baby.
God, the man was clever!
she thought, suddenly feeling short of breath.
Diabolically clever.
Christopher Stowe wanted her back in his life because of the way her talent could enhance his own. Everything that had transpired since he had set foot on British soil had been about
him,
not about her. And certainly not about them as husband and wife… or as parents of a child they might have created together.
Blythe was reeling from the enormity of tonight's subterfuge while other thoughts careened around her brain.
Chris wanted her money and her production skills so that she could help make his film as good as it could possibly be. He didn't particularly care about her—or Ellie—or anyone but himself. He was an artist. Like Ennis. The thing he truly cared about was a two-hour strip of celluloid that might win him another Oscar.
Blythe felt dizzy from this unfiltered glimpse of Christopher Stowe's true character. Suddenly an ingenious plan of reprisal popped into her head. For a moment, she admitted to herself, she was sorely tempted to give back as good as she got. Resentment, retaliation, and self-righteousness could be a potent force in her hands this night.
All she had to do was make love to her amorous, inebriated former spouse this night upstairs in the sumptuous suite he had undoubtedly reserved for them, and then the next morning refuse to sign the sales agreement designed to generate funds to save his picture. Ellie would pitch a tremendous fit when she learned of Chris's infidelity and perhaps even leave him. As an added bonus the studio would pull the plug when Chris didn't deliver the promised funds. Everything he'd worked for would evaporate—while she remained the well-heeled ex-wife.
As she gazed across the table at the man looking at her
expectantly, she was struck by how difficult it was to break such a cycle of long-held bitterness and desire for revenge. Forgiveness could be an excruciating and exacting choice. So could standing up to a force of nature like Christopher Stowe.
Suddenly it didn't matter to Blythe anymore what her ex-husband's agenda might be.
"You know, Chris," she remarked, smiling faintly as she reached for her evening bag, "you remind me of someone I know… a painter of magnificent seascapes."
"Really?" Chris said absently. "As I was saying, Blythe… I—"
"Yes," she interrupted. "As it happens, you could practically be his twin." Then she snapped open the clasp of her bag and withdrew the documents he had given her and a handwritten addendum. "If you'll just hand me a pen, I'll sign them," she announced, certain now of the course she wished to take.
"You will?" he replied, startled.
"Yes, if you'll also—"
"Well… that's wonderful!" he interrupted. "Stupendous, in fact!" He flashed his eighteen-carat smile and waited for the waiter to remove their dessert plates and pour black coffee into gold-rimmed demitasse cups. "This calls for a celebration, don't you think? Oh, Blythie, darling," he chortled. "Everyone will be thrilled to hear you're taking over for Corrigan. Me most of all." He was gazing across the table at her with the same expression of passionate intensity that she had observed him coaxing from his actors preparing to film a love scene. "We'll sort all this hash out with Ellie somehow! Just let me see to booking a suite for us upstairs, will you, angel? I long to show you how wonderful it could be for us again…"
At the conclusion of Chris's lengthy monologue, the silence between them was interrupted only by the murmurs of the other diners quietly enjoying their meals. Blythe shook her head.
"No."
The word hung in the air as Chris looked at her blankly. Blythe reckoned that few people of the director's acquaintance had ever uttered the word in his presence.
"I have handwritten a statement you'll have to sign before I sign those papers," she announced quietly, indicating the original pile of documents on the table. She handed him a sheet of stationery engraved with the Barton Hall letterhead. "This addendum simply says that you will reimburse my half of the forest's profits within five years' time, guaranteed by your share of future profits from all the films we made together while we were married and that are now owned by the newly constituted Stowe Productions. If
In Kenya
fails for some reason, you can still pay what you owe me from the royalties from the DVDs, soundtrack CDs, and other ancillary rights from our successful films."
Chris hesitated and then replied in an injured tone, "Well… if you feel you need such a written guarantee—"
"I do feel that," she said calmly. She continued to gaze at him steadily until he reluctantly took pen in hand and signed the addendum guaranteeing her reimbursement. Then she reached for the paper and inspected his signature.
"There," he said. "If that makes you happy."
Blythe retrieved the addendum and tucked it in her purse, handing him back his copy. She smiled faintly. "Let me tell you
why I'm signing the forest over to you," she continued softly
. She pointed to the remaining pile of documents. "I'm buying my freedom. Once we both have agreed to these arrangements, we have nothing that links us any longer." She deliberately locked glances with her former spouse. "It's
over,
Chris."
Her dinner companion's lips parted slightly, as if he were about to say something. However, he remained silent. An odd expression of confusion invaded his eyes.
Blythe realized, suddenly, that Chris's attempt to manipulate her in such devious fashion had not been aimed at her personally. There had been no lack in
her
that had prompted his elaborate machinations. There had never been any great lack in her. It was simply the way he operated in his life in order to get his films made.
All along the lack had been Christopher's.
Like Ennis Trevelyan, this extraordinarily accomplished film director sitting opposite her in the candlelit dining room lacked compassion and empathy toward people. And like Ennis, he had been driven by an overweening desire for success to invest his emotions only in his art. Both men had simply channeled those feelings into their work, declining to "waste" such passion and sentiment on family or colleagues.
"It's over?" Chris repeated with a caustic edge to his voice. "Blythe, my darling," he said, the familiar, mocking tone reasserting itself during the time it took him to push the sales documents across the table for her to sign, "there's really no need for you to make such dramatic pronouncements. I expect you'll be pleased enough to hear from me when I pay you back the money, as I've just agreed to do."
"When that day comes, please call my lawyer, not me," she instructed him pleasantly. Then she added with warmth that surprised even herself, "You are a wonderfully talented director. I'm happy to give your picture a new lease on life."
She seized the pen he proffered her and briefly surveyed the deed to the Scottish forest and then looked across the table at her former husband. "It's true, Chris, I did criticize you often in front of the crew, and sometimes even behind your back," she acknowledged apologetically, scratching her signature beside the first of several red
X's.
"It would have been more helpful to both of us if I'd discussed my views in private and offered you my suggestions away from the set." She looked up again and spoke from her heart. "I wanted people to treat me as their colleague… not as your wife. My behavior stemmed from my own insecurities," she added as she glanced down once more and signed the last page. "I'm truly sorry that I acted like a pesky duck."
"Oh… Blythe…" Chris sighed, signing the documents himself and then slipping the legal papers into his briefcase. He was looking at her now with an expression closely akin to regret. "Couldn't we somehow just rewind this film…?"
"We can't," she concluded quietly. As she uttered these words, a heavy weight seemed to lift off her shoulders. "One last thing," she said, reaching across the table to lay her hand lightly on his sleeve. "I ask your forgiveness, Christopher, for anything else I might have done… along the way… that hurt you."
Gratitude—mixed with puzzled remorse—invaded the bemused countenance of the man she had once loved very deeply. And in that instant the months of crushing anger dissolved, as if by magic.
Blythe stood in preparation for her departure, inhaling deeply, just to be sure the wonderful sensation of lightness hadn't been in her imagination.
It wasn't.
"Blythe!" Christopher exclaimed. "Wait! Why are you—? Please don't go! Can't we—"
"No, we can't," she said, smiling wistfully. "I'm sure you'll save your picture. I know it'll be wonderful, so the best of luck getting it in the can, Chris."
"But, Blythie, darling—" he protested, springing unsteadily from his chair.
She bent forward and brushed a kiss against his cheek. "I'm glad you and Ellie came to Cornwall." And with that she rested a hand on his shoulder. "Truly, Christopher… I wish your family well."
"But I'll drive you—"
"Please finish your wine," she directed firmly. "Mary Flynt will ring for a cab from St. Austell. Be well."
***
Blythe's glowing sense of peace and well-being lasted until the clattering black taxi deposited her beside the gate at the entrance to her field. The solitary lamp burning in the cottage window offered little welcome, for her thoughts were plagued by visions of Luke and Chloe under the same roof at Barton Hall. By the time she had crossed the pasture, she had managed to step into sheep dung with each of her expensive velvet pumps.
It was nearly midnight, and she found that she was both exhausted from her emotional encounter with Chris and, likewise, unable to sleep.
She soon found herself pacing around the small confines of Painter's Cottage while she nibbled on saltines from a box she held clutched to her chest.
On one hand, she reasoned, she wanted nothing more than to don a pair of jeans and her Wellington boots and to tread along Hall Walk in the crisp, star-filled night. She pictured herself slipping into the castle and climbing into the Bawdy Bed of Barton to surprise Luke. Unfortunately, she couldn't banish from her memory the sight of another female who had attempted that very thing within the last twenty-four hours—with highly embarrassing results.
Blythe sank into a chair and bleakly surveyed through the window the silvery rays of moonlight dancing on the water. In her mind's eye she saw Chloe lying beside Luke in his red-velvet-draped enclosure. Then she pictured Luke alone, reclining on his back like a beautiful stone effigy in a church crypt. A pangy kind of ache had begun to gnaw at her insides.
Is this what it feels like to pine for someone?
she wondered ruefully.
For the second time that evening her thoughts drifted to Kit Trevelyan. How many nights had he lain awake in the Barton Bed, longing for Blythe to come to him of her own free will? And what of poor Garrett Teague, sleeping on his bachelor's pallet above the bookshop on Rattle Alley?
She recalled, suddenly, that she had twice deflected Luke's requests earlier that day to tell her something of the agonizing period following his wife's death and his decision to send Richard to boarding school. Now, despite the late hour, she wished she could sit beside him in front of the hearth and simply listen to what he'd had to say.
However, to Blythe's chagrin, she could not manage to swallow her pride and make her way through the shadowed woods to Barton Hall. And thus, alone in her cottage by the sea, she spent a long, sleepless night attempting to divert herself with du Maurier's 1943 novel,
Hungry Hill.
CHAPTER 18
W
hen Blythe arrived at Barton Hall the next morning, she was relieved to see that an army of workers, hired from the village, was swarming over the half-constructed hothouses. The brick foundations of all but one of the buildings had risen on their concrete pads, while the wooden frames of three sheds had already been completed. One team of hired hands was stretching rolls of plastic sheeting on two of the structures that had been sited in the flat area on the far side of the field nearest the pony stalls. Eventually all seven hothouses would offer shelter to tender plants in their earliest stages of growth.