Barbara Taylor Bradford - Everything to Gain

BARBARA TAYLOR BRADFORD

Everything to Gain

Published by HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 1994

Copyright © Barbara Taylor Bradford 1994

Barbara Taylor Bradford asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication.

Ebook Edition © SEPTEMBER 2012 ISBN:9780007330836

Version: 2017-11-16

For Bob, ever true blue, with my love

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

PART ONE: Indian Meadows

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

PART TWO: Kilgram Chase

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

PART THREE: New York City

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-one

Twenty-two

PART FOUR: Indian Meadows

Twenty-three

Twenty-four

Twenty-five

Twenty-six

Twenty-seven

PART FIVE: Kilgram Chase

Twenty-eight

Twenty-nine

Thirty

Thirty-one

Thirty-two

PART SIX: Indian Meadows

Thirty-three

Thirty-four

Thirty-five

Thirty-six

Thirty-seven

Thirty-eight

Thirty-nine

Forty

Forty-one

Forty-two

About the Author

By the Same Author

About the Publisher

Connecticut August 1993

I have been alone for so long now, it is almost impossible for me to think in terms of living with another person again. But that is what Richard wants me to do. To live with him.

When he asked me, last night, to marry him, I told him I could not. Undaunted by my answer, and bravely, as is his way, he suggested we move in together. A sort of trial marriage, he said, with no strings, no commitment necessary on my part. ‘I’ll take my chances, Mal,’ he said with a small, wry smile, his dark eyes anxiously holding mine.

Yet even this idea seems as out of the question to me now, this morning, as it did last night. I suppose, if I am scrupulously honest with myself, I fear the intimacy of living with another human being. It is not so much the sexual intimacy that appals me but the physical closeness on a day-to-day basis, the emotional bonding that weaves two people together and makes them part of each other. I am convinced I cannot handle this, and the more I think about it the more I am coming to understand truly my reaction to Richard’s suggestion.

I am afraid. Afraid to make a commitment … afraid of caring for him too deeply … afraid of becoming too attached to him … perhaps even of falling in love with him, if, indeed, I am capable of this, capable of such a strong emotion.

Fear has paralysed me emotionally for a number of years. I am well aware of that, and so I have created a life for myself, a life alone; this has always seemed so much safer. Brick by brick by brick I have erected a wall around myself, a wall built on the foundations of my business, my work and my career. I have done this in order to protect myself, to insulate myself from life; work has been my strong citadel for such a long time now, and it has given me exactly what I have needed these few years.

Once I had so much. I had everything a woman could possibly want. And I lost it all.

For the past five years, since that fateful winter of 1988, I have lived with pain and heartache and grief. I have lived with a sorrow that has been, and still is, unendurable. And yet I have endured. I have gone on; I have fought my way up out of a terrible darkness and despair when I had hardly any strength left and when I had lost even the will to live. I have managed, somehow, to survive.

And I taught myself to live alone, have grown used to doing so, and I’m not sure that I can ever share myself again, as I once did, certainly not in the way I did in the past, in that other life which I once had.

But this is exactly what Richard is asking of me. He wants me to share my life with him and therefore to share myself. He is a good man. I don’t think there is one better anywhere on this earth, and any woman would be lucky to have him. But I am not any woman. I have gone through far too much, have been scarred for ever, my soul damaged irretrievably, beyond repair, so I believe. And I’m fully aware that I can never be the kind of woman he deserves, a woman who can give him her all, a woman without a past, with no heavy baggage, no burdens or sorrows weighing her down, such as I have.

The easiest thing for me, emotional cripple that I have become, would be to send Richard Markson away, to tell him no much more firmly than I did last night, and never see him again. Yet I cannot … something holds me back, prevents me from saying those words. It is Richard himself, of course, I realize that. In my own way, I do have certain feelings for him, and have come to rely on him lately, perhaps more than I care to admit.

Richard came into my life quite by accident about a year ago, not long after he rented a house near mine in this pastoral corner of north-western Connecticut, just above Sharon near Wonopankook Lake and Mudge Pond, close to the Massachusetts border. I have always called these western highlands of Connecticut God’s own country, and so I was somewhat startled when he used exactly those words to describe his appreciation of this magnificently beautiful part of the world.

I liked Richard the moment he walked into my house. On that winter’s evening, over supper in my kitchen, I was convinced it was my friend Sarah Thomas with whom Richard was taken. It was not until a few weeks later that he made it perfectly clear to me I was the object of his interest, the one he wished to know better.

Wary, I held him at bay for a long time; then slowly, cautiously, I allowed him to enter a small corner of my life. Yet in many ways I’ve withheld much of myself. So it’s not without reason that I was stunned last night when he proposed to me. I promised to give him an answer today.

My eye caught the top of the New York Times which lay on my desk, and I read the date: Monday, August 9, 1993. I wondered if he would remember this date later, recall it as the day I rejected him, just as I remembered so many dates myself … markers along the path of my life that brought back so many memories when they rolled around every year.