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night, judging by the way he looked, and immediate concern for him came to
life in the emptiness of her heart, and she'd said quickly, 'Jude sit down, let
me make you some breakfast and let's try, for pity's sake, to talk this thing
out. Things are nothing like you believe them to be--'
'Forget it.' He was walking away from her. 'I don't want breakfast, and
there's nothing to be said that would - make any difference to the way things
are.'
Ever since that he had treated her as though she didn't exist. She probably
didn't, not to him, she thought as she slid the last of his shirts into the top
drawer of the chest in the guest-room.
He had never pretended to love her, and as far as he was concerned he had
made a bad error of judgement when he'd decided a marriage between them
could work. And now he was cutting his losses, cutting her out of his life.
The process, she knew, had only just begun.
'Is that the lot?' He had come into the room quietly. 'I'd have given you a
hand if you'd said you weren't asking Meg to do it.' He didn't look as tired as
he had done, although he was still pale beneath his tan. Meg's coffee must
have helped.
Cleo hunched one shoulder, not knowing what to say. What could one say in
such a situation? She wouldn't go down on her knees and beg him to listen to
her. She had her pride, if nothing else.
He moved further into the room, unbuttoning his shirt, and she edged back
towards the door. 'I'm going to shower and change,' he told her. He looked at
her as he spoke but his eyes were empty. The light had gone out of them. 'I
won't be back for dinner, so don't wait up. Let Meg know, would you?' he
said dismissively, and Cleo slipped out of the door and went to her room.
Tomorrow, after she'd slept, she would think of what was best to do; emulate
her husband and try to cut her losses, or try to go on.
* * *
But no amount of sleep or concentrated hard work helped her to reach a
decision over her future. Her days fell into a pattern she hadn't the will to
break. Always, after a solitary breakfast, Thornwood, drove her to
Eastcheap and collected her at six. An evening working, her papers spread
out on the table in the drawing-room, followed a lonely dinner which she
forced herself to eat for the sake of her child. Sometimes Jude joined her for
the meal and then shut himself away in his study for the rest of the evening,
but more often than not he stayed away. He didn't say where he went, or
what he was doing, and Cleo didn't ask. She didn't think she cared.
There was no communication between them now, not even anger, and one
day soon Cleo was going to have to answer the questions she could see
building up behind Meg's eyes. The housekeeper was fond of them both,
particularly of Jude, and even if she hadn't sensed the frigid
atmosphere and she would have to be blind and deaf not to she was well
aware that they used separate bedrooms, that Jude left the house before eight
each morning and was rarely back before midnight.
So sooner or later the questions would come, Meg wouldn't be able to help
herself. And what could she answer? Cleo wondered tiredly. She could
hardly tell Meg the truth, tell her that Jude had seen her sprawled out on the
floor, semi-naked, with Robert Fenton, that he believed the child she carried
was Fenton's!
It was the thought of the child that finally woke senses that had been
entombed in a dull, unfeeling limbo. She had hoped to make her marriage a
good thing, to teach him, eventually, to love her as she had loved him. But
that hope had died and she'd be a fool if she ever thought of trying to bring it
to life. And there was her unborn child to consider. No child could be
expected to thrive in a house where its parents rarely met, hardly exchanged
two words from one week to the next!
There would have to be a separation, or a divorce. Cleo didn't care which.
And if Jude wouldn't agree then she would just have to take matters into her
own hands.- Move out, and soon.
Thus decided, she settled herself to wait for him. He had, apparently, told
Meg he wouldn't be in for dinner, and as far as Cleo knew he hadn't yet spent
the entire night away from home. But when the clock struck two in the
morning she began to think there was a first time for everything, and it was
then she heard the sound of the hall door closing, his footsteps, dragging, as
if he were bone weary or drunk.
Twenty-four hours ago she would have been able to face him with a dreary
kind of equanimity. But her emergence from the limbo she had inhabited
meant that her emotions were alive and kicking again, torturing her. All
through the long waiting hours he had prowled through her mind. A silent,
mistrustful, austere image. And, she had to face it, a much-loved image.
Despite everything, her love for him survived. He couldn't murder that.
Now, her legs shook weakly as she went to intercept him in the hall, and a
hand went up to push tiredly at her hair as she told him, 'I must talk to you.'
'Now?' The hall was dimly lit at this hour, but she could see the lines of
strain around his eyes, his mouth, the shadow of stubble that darkened his
tautly fleshed jaw.
'I'm afraid so. It won't wait.' She turned back into the drawing-room, her
heart beating heavily.' She half expected him to ignore her request, to carry
on upstairs. He looked exhausted enough to fall into bed and sleep for
twenty-four hours. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]