The Accidental Bride (32 page)

Primitive Lizzie screamed,
No, no way!
But sensible Lizzie knew she should, and could trust John, even if she would never trust this as yet unmet rival of hers as far as she could throw her.

‘Yes. Yes, of course. I agree. That’s the best way, John. The only way.’ She didn’t mention issues of trust, except with her eyes. ‘Hopefully we’ll still be able to have that dinner all together, though, for the little boy’s sake. In a week or two, when we’ve been to Montcalm and your family have got over the shock of me, and we’ve started making our wedding plans.’

‘If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a dozen times, my family will adore you!’ he cried, giving her hand a reassuring rub. ‘But yes, we will still do that dinner. Clara is nothing if not resilient. And in a bizarre sort of way, I’d like you two to meet.’ He laughed wryly. ‘God knows, you might even like each other. Now, come on, we need to get ready for lunch with your parents now. I think I’ve made a good impression
there, but I don’t want to spoil it by being late today.’ He winked.

Lizzie rose and they walked swiftly inside, still hand in hand. Solid. Together.

The lingering worm of doubt still wriggled, but she told it very firmly that it didn’t stand a chance. Happy couples dealt with exes all the time, and she and John were as happy as any. Happier – and tougher – than most.

Getting past the ‘Clara’ issue would be uncomfortable. Might even be painful. But they could do it, and then move ahead, facing new challenges, stronger than ever.

And next weekend, Montcalm was the first.

‘Turn the music off now, please. I need to prepare myself.’

Frowning and clicking off the Beach Boys on the iPod, John slid the Bentley to a halt. They’d just been let through the main gate at Montcalm, and greeted with enormous enthusiasm by the gatekeeper there. The sight of the wayward Lord Jonathan was clearly a source of huge excitement and novelty. Especially as he had a woman with him.

With the engine turned off, John turned to Lizzie. ‘There’s no need to prepare, love. Just relax. Enjoy yourself. Nobody’s going to be judging you. You’re a most honoured and welcome guest.’ He leant across and kissed her cheek. ‘And it’s not a state visit. Hardly anybody’s here. George and Rosemary are away sailing with some friends and Helen’s in London.’ Indeed, he’d done everything to keep their first visit to Montcalm as low key as possible, picking a time when his older brother and his wife weren’t in residence, and their daughter, his niece, was away too. ‘It’s just my mother and father, and Tom, who you know already. And Brent’s invited to lunch too, so you’ll have one of your best friends in all the world on hand as well.’

I’m being silly. I can do this. John sailed through meeting my lot, didn’t he? And that was a big birthday bash, not just Mum and Dad.

Yes, last weekend had been a triumph. It’d been clear that John had been accepted at the party, and that everyone had loved him.

As they were leaving, her father had said:

‘In principle, I still abhor both the aristocracy and the plutocracy of money, but personally, Elizabeth, I like John very much and I thoroughly approve of him for you.’

Her mother had said:

‘I still think he’s too old for you, darling, but if you’re going to be with an older man, he’s the one I want you to be with.’

Her sisters had no qualms.

‘Are you sure he’s not a movie star?’ Nikki had enquired.

Judy had said, ‘Well, anybody who buys you a pair of diamond earrings the size of two birdbaths is all right by me!’

The only black spot in the whole weekend had been Clara’s phone call. And despite what she’d cheerfully agreed to, Lizzie still wasn’t sure she ever wanted to meet John’s ex. The idea daunted her even more than meeting his parents.

‘Yes, I know. I’ll be OK,’ Lizzie said, snapping back to the present, and smiling at John. There was tension in his handsome face too, the faintest of dark shadows beneath his eyes. Goddamn Clara had affected him, Lizzie knew it, and today had to be as much a pressure situation for him as it was for her.

His father.

There was a big difference between the buffer of correspondence, or even a phone call or two, and the reality
of the last black sheep coming home to meet his parent face to face.

‘You’ll be OK too,’ Lizzie said softly, matching his cheek kiss with one of her own. ‘Remember, you’re bringing them what they want. Well, after a fashion … The prospect of a healthy young wife, at least.’

John gave her a despairing look. Over the course of this last week, they’d gone over and over again how the class issue did not matter. Lizzie still felt that it might, but she tried not to make too big a deal of it. It was certainly easier for John to ignore it; as the one born to privilege, it was a part of him, no matter how he tried to deny it.

But he smiled. ‘One look at you and every fatted calf on the entire estate will be slaughtered. I’m bringing home a magnificent prize.’

‘Ew! I’m not so sure about the calves, but I get what you’re saying.’ She shuffled in her seat, feeling as if she was atop a Soyuz about to take off. ‘Shall we proceed to Manderley, then?’ She nodded to the wide, winding drive ahead, flanked by trees. It was the big daddy of the long and lovely drive at Dalethwaite Manor. Montcalm would be huge compared to their own little domain, but Lizzie was glad she’d had the preparation of living at Dalethwaite, with staff and a domestic ‘establishment’. It was a much easier transition this way, than if she’d still been pigging along in a semi in St Patrick’s Road.

‘I think you’ll find Montcalm is more like Downton Abbey than Manderley,’ remarked John, firing the engine and setting the Bentley rolling. ‘It’s actually built very much in the style of Highclere Castle. What they call Jacobethan revival. Victorian built, but as an over the top fantasy of Elizabethan and Jacobean influences.’

‘I know that!’ Lizzie shot back at him, grinning. ‘I’ve looked at the website and Wikipedia and all that. I wanted to be ready so I don’t make a twit of myself.’

‘I’ve told you. Don’t worry.’

‘I’m not.’

‘I think you are.’

‘A bit, then. But I’ll try not to.’

This went on a little longer while the sleek car sped up the drive. The way to Montcalm was far longer and far twistier than the drive at Dalethwaite, and they passed in and out of the natural tunnels formed by mature trees several times. It was just when Lizzie was wondering whether they were ever going to emerge that the Bentley burst out of the shadow into light, still with a long, winding way ahead of it.

‘Bloody hell! It’s huge!’

‘It is a bit, isn’t it?’ Despite the magnificent house ahead of them, tall and towered, standing on a rise, dramatically silhouetted against the skyline, Lizzie still turned to John. There had been such a note of yearning in his voice, something that sounded like both happiness and sorrow.

The car slowed. And for once, John’s eyes weren’t scrupulously on the road. He was staring at the house, hungrily, eating it up with his eyes. As she watched, he bit his lip, as if containing great emotion, then huffed out a breath, applied foot to accelerator and returned his total attention to driving.

He’s missed it. He’s really, really missed it. All that talk about his heritage being meaningless. That was all bollocks. He loves his old home, and he loves his family.

‘It’s beautiful, John. Pictures don’t do it justice at all. The way the light hits it makes the stone glow.’ The house was mellow, but fancy. Tall windows glittered. ‘I love
Dalethwaite with all my heart, but Montcalm makes it look like a garden shed by comparison.’

‘I’d forgotten how breath-taking it can be,’ said John quietly. ‘Even though I grew up here. It’s as if I dreamed it, somehow, being away.’

Poor John. Life was weird. And bloody fucking Clara, she was to blame. If she hadn’t done what she’d done, that night so long ago, driving under the influence of drugs, this need never have happened. John would never have been estranged. Would never have had to give up the joy of this lovely house.

But then, you’d never have been here with him.

For a moment, Lizzie felt tearful and confused, not sure if she was happy or sad. But then, suddenly, as they saw a dark-dressed figure appear outside what was obviously the grand front door, she pulled herself together.

You’re here now, Aitchison, you idiot. Things happened this way, you’re with John, and he loves you.

Clara was both her arch enemy, and the woman she should be most grateful to in all the world. How bizarre was that?

As they neared the door, a couple of other men appeared, running smartly from around the corner. Footmen? Did Montcalm have footmen? Lizzie was quite relieved that they were wearing dark trousers and waistcoats and white shirts, not some elaborate Ruritanian livery. That would have fazed her. The butler wore a dark, sober suit and a black tie, no tailcoat.

When the Bentley was at a halt, and before they’d even unbuckled their seatbelts, the car doors were opened for them, the butler stepping back respectfully at her side, yet clearly alert to assist her should she require it.

‘Thank you,’ said Lizzie, emerging. ‘Thanks very much.’

‘Welcome to Montcalm, miss. I hope you had a pleasant journey.’

‘Yes. Yes, thanks, we did. We don’t live very far away, though.’

‘Indeed, miss.’

John appeared at her side. ‘This is Brewster, Lizzie. He’s a genius. He can do anything.’ A strong arm slid around her waist; her love, giving her strength and bolstering her up. ‘Brewster, this is Miss Elizabeth Aitchison. You’ll be seeing her here regularly from now on. With me.’

A look passed between the two men, and Lizzie got the impression that Brewster understood pretty much everything.

‘That’s wonderful to hear, milord.’

Milord? Oh God! Oh hell!

She’d almost forgotten.

Beside her stood Lord Jonathan Llewellyn Wyngarde Smith. He wasn’t just her John any more.

As if he’d heard her, John flashed her a look. ‘It’s still me,’ he said in a low voice, giving her a squeeze.

Lizzie opened her mouth to answer, but at that moment, a woman appeared in the doorway, hurrying forward. She was stocky, but dignified, dressed in light tweeds and solid, sensible shoes, her white-grey hair coiled in an old-fashioned style. Her face was lined, but still beautiful, the shape of cheekbone and jaw unmistakeable, as was the dazzling, overjoyed smile.

The Marchioness of Welbeck. John’s mother.

‘Oh Jonny, Jonny!’ The Marchioness surged forward, moving vigorously to fling her arms around her son and
hug him tight. ‘Oh, my darling, beautiful boy. I’m so glad you’ve come home.’

To her shock, Lizzie realised that the woman embracing her returned son, and being embraced back just as hard, wasn’t at all what she’d expected.

Nincompoop! Of course she’s not the same age as your own mum! John’s the same age as your mum!

A simple fact of years. The Marchioness was a contemporary of Caroline, probably older. She was at least seventy, possibly quite a bit more.

The love, the joy and the relief in the older woman’s face were like the sun, though, a beatific glow. Her eyes were closed, but there was a tear or two at their corners. Her lost beautiful boy had returned, the son Lizzie strongly suspected was her favourite of the three.

Was there a tear in John’s eye too? His face was a mask of stark emotion. Happiness, but tinged with regret, palpably, that this had taken so long. But he drew back, beaming his wonder-smile – only to have it reflected back from his mother.

Lizzie hung back as the two regarded each other, the reunion beyond words for the moment. And then, stepping away from her son, the Marchioness fixed on her. And darted forward again.

‘And you must be Lizzie!’ she cried, almost as if Lizzie were equally as long yearned for. ‘Oh, my dear, I’m so glad to meet you.’ Before there was time to be nervous, or get flustered and do something mad like curtseying, the older woman grabbed Lizzie in a hug almost as fierce as the one in which she’d held her son. ‘So very glad … so very, very glad.’

It was impossible to resist. Lizzie hugged back. Her own
family were loving enough, but not hugely demonstrative. She hadn’t expected this at all. She’d pictured aristocratic reserve and clipped accents. The Marchioness’s voice was refined, but warm and joyous.

Then the older woman set Lizzie away from her at arm’s length, and looked her up and down, eagerly cataloguing her. ‘Oh, my dear, you’re so lovely. So very beautiful. Jonny is a very lucky man.’

‘Thank you …’ Eek, agh, the title! What did it say in Debrett? ‘Thank you, Lady Welbeck.’

‘Oh, nonsense, call me Jane. We’ve waited for you so long, darling, let’s not stand on any kind of silly ceremony.’

She knows. I’m not wearing the ring, and John says he hasn’t said anything. But she knows all the same.

They’d decided to go in low key, and assay the mood at Montcalm before making any big announcements. But judging by the eager look on Jane Wyngarde Smith’s face, they didn’t need to announce anything.

‘Thank you, that’s very kind. I’ve been ever so worried about making some idiotic gaffe,’ Lizzie went on. ‘In all the time I’ve known John … Well, he’s just been John to me. Just an ordinary person. Well, not ordinary ordinary, you know what I mean.’

What in God’s name am I babbling about?

But her hostess gently touched her arm. ‘Oh, exactly. There’s never been anything ordinary about Jonny, but I do know what you mean. Now, shall we have some coffee? Or perhaps a nip of sherry? When you’ve seen your room, of course. Do come this way.’

‘Coffee would be lovely.’

Oh lor, the Marchioness herself was to be her escort. In a heartbeat they were climbing a grand, wide, carpeted
staircase together, leaving John behind them talking to Brewster and the footmen. He’d waved to her when she’d reached the gallery, blowing her a kiss as her hostess began to point out a few particularly fine family portraits, drawing her attention to the likeness some of them bore to John himself. There was a succession of bold, handsome golden-haired men in Victorian, Georgian and even Cavalier attire. Brilliant blue eyes stared out at her, again and again. ‘Montcalm is a Victorian fantasy, of course,’ the Marchioness said, ‘but there have been Wyngarde Smiths on this land almost since Tudor times.’