ANNE WEALE - The Bartered Bride

‘Yes,’ she agreed, ‘we are. Since my father’s death, my mother and I have discovered that instead of being comfortably off we’re extremely hard up... virtually penniless.’

‘Not penniless,’ he said dryly. ‘The watch you’re wearing would pay the grocery bills of an average family for several months.’

‘I shan’t be wearing it much longer.’ She looked down at the stylish Cartier watch her parents had given her for her eighteenth birthday. ‘But I don’t mind that. I can cope with the change in our circumstances. It’s my mother I’m worried about. She’s not young. She has never worked. She—’

He interrupted her. ‘Nor have you, I understand. The press describe you as a playgirl.’

‘The press puts labels on everyone...not always accurate. It’s true I’ve never had a job. There was no point. My father was rich...so we thought. I wasn’t brainy enough to train for one of the professions. I don’t have any special bent. The most useful thing I could do was help to keep other people employed, not take a routine job someone else needed.’

‘You don’t have to justify your butterfly existence to me, Ms Turner. But without any work-experience, you’re not going to find it easy to start supporting yourself, particularly not at the level you’re accustomed to.’

‘Presumably you didn’t ask me here to tell me what I already know,’ she replied, with a flash of irritation.

There was something about his manner that put her back up. He hadn’t smiled when he greeted her. Beyond standing up when she was shown in by his secretary, he hadn’t done anything to put her at ease.

‘Why did you send for me?’

Rising, he picked up a file lying on the top of his desk. He walked round to hand it to her. ‘Have a look through that.’ He strolled away to a window looking out on a vista of rooftops. He stood with his hands behind him, the right hand clasping the left wrist.

The file held plastic pockets containing illustrations taken from magazines and the glossier kind of catalogue. Mostly they showed pieces of sculpture, paintings and other objets d’art. There were also several photographs of horses, an aerial view of an island off Scotland and a picture of a small French château.

Half turning from the window, he said, ‘They’re all things that caught my eye over the last few years. Some of them are now mine. I’m in the fortunate position of being able to indulge my acquisitive impulses...as I expect you did before your father died.’

‘Not on this scale,’ said Fran. She couldn’t see where this was leading.

As she glanced enquiringly at him, Reid Kennard returned to his desk, resting one long hard thigh along the edge of its polished surface and folding his arms across his chest.

‘There’s one picture in there you’ll recognise. Carry on looking.’

Intrigued, she obeyed, turning the pages more rapidly than before. Suddenly, with an indrawn breath of surprise and puzzlement, she stopped. She hadn’t expected to see a photograph of herself.

It had been taken at a party for socialites. She was wearing a figure-hugging dress of black crushed velvet and showing a lot of sun-tanned cleavage, having recently returned from a winter holiday in the Caribbean.

‘What am I doing here?’ she demanded, baffled.

‘You, I hope, are going to be my next major acquisition, Ms Turner.’ For the first time a hint of amusement showed in the hard steel-grey eyes and flickered at the corners of his wide, chiselled mouth.

Inconsequently, it struck her that his mouth was at variance with the rest of his features. It was the mouth of a sensualist in the face of a man who otherwise gave the impression of being supremely self-disciplined.

But it was the meaning of his extraordinary statement, rather than the contradiction between his mouth and his eyes that preoccupied her at the moment.

‘What do you mean?’ she said warily.

‘I need a wife. You need financial support. Do you understand the word fortuitous?’

‘Of course I do,’ she retorted, her long-lashed green eyes sparkling with annoyance at the implied aspersion on her intelligence.

It was true she had been considered a dunce by most of her teachers and had never done well in examinations. But that was because she hadn’t been interested in the things they wanted her to learn...grammar, maths, physics and incredibly tedious bits of history, all of them taught in a way guaranteed to send most normal teenagers—particularly the sort of restless, hyperactive teenager she had been—into a trance of boredom.

She said, ‘It means happening by chance...especially by a lucky chance. But I can’t see anything lucky about my father dying of a massive coronary in his middle fifties with his business on the rocks and his wife destitute,’ she added coldly.

Matching her coldness, he said, ‘In my experience, most people make their own luck. Your father’s lifestyle wasn’t conducive to a long healthy life. As a businessman, he took too many risks for a man with responsibilities.’

‘Did you have dealings with him?’

She knew next to nothing about her father’s business life. Since her late teens he had spent little time with his family. It was years since he and her mother had shared a bedroom. Fran knew there had been other women.

‘Not directly. But after seeing that picture, I made a point of finding out more about you. I was on the point of making contact when your father died and I put the matter on hold. In the light of subsequent events, I’ve adapted my original plan to deal with things more expeditiously. If my information is correct, you have no relationships with men in train at the present time?’

‘How did you find that out?’

He said coolly, ‘I had you investigated...a reasonable precaution in the circumstances. Marriage is a very important contract. When people are buying a house, they have searches made by surveyors and lawyers. I had you checked out, very discreetly, by a private detective. You may want to run a similar check on me. For the time being my secretary has prepared a file which will give you most of the information you need.’

Retrieving the file she was holding, he placed another slimmer folder on the edge of the desk in front of her.

‘I can’t believe I’m hearing this. I thought this was a merchant bank...not a marriage bureau.’

Fran’s eyes were both baffled and angry. He didn’t look like a crazy person. In his expensive suit and diagonally striped silk tie—perhaps the emblem of one of those old boys’ networks which still wielded so much influence—he looked eminently sane and sensible. But he must be out of his head to believe he could buy a wife as casually and easily as everything else in the file he was putting away in a drawer.

‘It is a bank and I am its chairman,’ he said calmly.

‘You wouldn’t be for much longer if your shareholders heard what you’re suggesting. They’d think you were out of your mind. You can’t buy a wife.’

‘It isn’t the usual method of acquiring one,’ he agreed, going back to his chair. ‘But these are unusual circumstances. I have neither the time nor inclination to follow the traditional course. You are in urgent need of someone to straighten out the financial shambles you find yourself in. If you agree to marry me, your mother won’t have to move and you won’t have to worry about her future. I’ll take care of that. Think it over, Francesca. When you’ve had time to assess it, I think you’ll agree it’s an eminently sensible plan.’

For some reason his use of her first name detonated the anger which had been building inside her. Despite the red glints in her chestnut hair, it was rare for Fran to lose control of her temper. But she did now.