Alexandra Scott - A Reckless Affair

It was so difficult to judge these things when the experience of her own generation was so very different. Intelligent women nowadays did not see marriage as any kind of goal—in fact, the very idea of any woman committing herself for life at nineteen was difficult to understand...

Tom had been an army dentist when they’d met in Germany, where Jane’s father, also an army man, had been serving, and... Oh...it was impossible to judge these things—a youngish major, a pretty girl; they could even have fallen madly in love.

The one thing that was abundantly clear was that when Jane had been on her own in Hong Kong for a few weeks—Tom back in London on some kind of military course—she had met Hugo Vanbrugh and there had been instant attraction. Neither had been willing or able to control their feelings, that much was obvious in the one letter from him—several thin, yellowing pages folded inside the back cover of the journal, pages in which Hugo bared his soul, and damned fate that they hadn’t met before committing themselves to others.

The diaries reflected some of the anguish Jane had suffered in trying to cast aside the religious scruples which forbade divorce—she had so longed to be free of them, but in the end she’d admitted that abandoning them could possibly poison any happiness she and Hugo could have together.

As it is, I know I have betrayed Tom and my marriage, and I shall suffer lifelong remorse, but, Hugo, I shall always give thanks that you were sent to me. And I shall love you for the rest of my life.

The farewell letter she had written to him twenty-seven years ago, after their decision to part, was touching in its intensity, even though it began with the caveat that she did not know if she would ever send it, but it was sealed and stamped—and wept over, if Ginny’s interpretation of the blotches was correct.

I’m torn, because I feel it is your right to know I am going to have your child. And yet what good can it do? More anguish for everyone will result—for you and your family, too, perhaps. You know I’m very fond of Tom and don’t want to hurt him any more than I have already done, but you know, too, that when we married I had no idea what real love was about. Even afterwards I wondered what all the fuss was for. Then, Hugo, I met you and I knew.

I think I conceived two weeks ago, on that last fraught night we spent together. Such joy and such despair. But Tom returns tomorrow, and if, as we planned, our lives return to normal, then he will never know the child is not his. What possible good would it do to tell him and break his heart? You see, he loves me.

The letter continued for several pages of intimate reminiscences, with a postscript saying that she had decided against further contact and then a last note with Ginny’s name and date of birth.

In the months between her discovery and her journey to New York thoughts of her mother and Hugo Vanbrugh had dominated Ginny’s mind. Had Jane intended one day that her daughter should find out the truth about her birth? Or had she meant eventually to destroy the evidence? It was something she would never know and, in a way, that very uncertainty had brought her to the United States.

By seven-fifteen Ginny had got herself entirely under control. All the foolish reactions to the man she had met earlier in the day were totally unbalanced—the result of too many emotional upheavals and an overactive imagination. Recent events had left her in a vulnerable state; add to that her sudden black-out and it was little wonder that Jake Vanbrugh had come over as a cross between Sir Galahad and Richard Gere.

In any event she had never been particularly susceptible to handsome men, and now was most definitely not the time to start. She gave her reflection a sardonic grin.

On the other hand it was good to be able to take a certain amount of complacent assurance from her appearance. The calf-length skirt swaying above shiny black boots was smart and sophisticated enough for wherever he planned to take her. The green silky material clung lovingly to her slender figure, picking up all kinds of subtle shades where the light caught it. The white lawn blouse was full-sleeved and billowy, elaborately tucked and with a prim high collar which made her hold her head proudly. She wore earrings, too, antique silver set with brilliants, which glittered against her dark hair.

Generally, she could see the rest had done her good. A sparkle had returned to the luminous brown eyes, a faint blush to the creamy cheeks—and if the whole was enhanced by a skilled hand with make-up, so what? Her pleased smile was entrancing; the new lipstick in a silky shade of plum suited her wide mouth and exaggerated the white teeth.

‘How convenient, Tom,’ she remembered a friend remarking, ‘that your daughter should be such a wonderful advertisement for your craft.’

And all the time...

A familiar ache returned to her chest, but at that very instant the telephone rang. Her escort, she was told, was waiting, and her heart gave a tiny plop. She forced herself to sit calmly for half a minute before picking up her bag, pulling the door behind her and walking to the lift as sedately as if she had an appointment with her bank manager.

But he was as disturbingly good-looking as she had imagined. Her fainting fit, her empty stomach, the stress—all had nothing to do with it. The realisation was seriously unwelcome. Watching him turn when he heard the lift doors, she held her breath, then, with a determined attempt to distract, found herself taking mental notes.

The hair—which she had thought as dark as sable—had, with the glow of a lamp behind his head, a suggestion of chestnut in it, but that disappeared when he came forward, hand extended.

‘Ah...’ His mouth curved upwards in appreciation, those splendid violet eyes gleaming as they absorbed each detail of her appearance from the sheen of silky hair to the full mouth—his interest in which she found more than a little disturbing.

She could not say what banal greetings were exchanged before, a moment later, they were being driven off in his limousine. The vehicle purred effortlessly, edging its way through heavy traffic, finally pulling into the parking area of a small, unobtrusive restaurant just off the main thoroughfare.

‘Thanks, Steve. Give us about two—two and a half hours.’

The uniformed chauffeur helped her from the car and then she was being guided inside. And if the outside was unobtrusive, the inside was subdued luxury. This was instantly obvious.

They soon ordered and were sipping a chilled Catawba which Ginny found deliciously reviving. He leaned forward, elbows resting on the glossy white cloth, perceptive eyes ranging over her features in a way she could only describe as seductive, ‘Now tell me, what exactly is it you would like to speak with my father about?’

With meticulous care she put down her glass, eyes lowered protectively as she considered how to deal with any sudden surge of nerviness. Now she was in control, all wide-eyed innocence as she switched her attention abruptly to his face. ‘Has he—has he asked you to filter any message to me?’

‘No.’ A dark eyebrow was raised in surprise—she wondered if her words had roused some momentary suspicion. ‘No. Unfortunately I was unable to contact him, but I shall be seeing him at the weekend and... No, the question was on my own account and merely because I am curious.’

‘Ah.’ A touch of colour warmed her cheeks, brought an added gleam to her eyes. Above all she must seem sincere. ‘There isn’t a great deal to tell. Among my parents’ things...’

‘Are they both dead, your parents?’

‘Yes, my father died two years ago and my mother... she was in a car crash earlier this year.’ It was dismaying to hear her voice shake. She had been convinced that she had passed through the grievously wounded stage. Now she bit fiercely at her lower lip. ‘They were both too young. Dad sixty, Mum not quite fifty.’