ANNE WEALE - The Bartered Bride

‘They’re from someone I met in London... someone rather special. I think I’ll be seeing him again.’

‘What’s his name? Where did you meet him?’

‘His name is Reid Kennard.’ Fran knew the surname wouldn’t ring any bells with Mrs Turner, to whom the Financial Times and even the business pages of the popular newspapers were of as little interest as documents written in Sanskrit. ‘We met at a party some time ago.’ A small lie seemed forgivable in the circumstances. ‘He’s had to go overseas on business. I’m not sure when I’ll be seeing him again.’

‘Reid...that’s an unusual name. What does he do?’

‘Something in the City.’ Forestalling her mother’s next question, Fran said, ‘He’s tall and dark with grey eyes.’

‘He must be very taken with you to spend so much money on flowers.’

Fran made no comment on that. She said, ‘Would you do them for me? You’re better at it than I am.’

‘I’d love to. But they need a long drink of water before going into a vase.’ Mrs Turner took them away.

Soon after this Mr Preston, their lawyer, rang up and arranged to call on them that afternoon.

‘He says he has some good news for us,’ Fran told her mother.

‘That’ll make a change.’ Mrs Turner’s mouth quivered. ‘It’s been such a dreadful year. I don’t know how I’d have got through it without you, love.’

‘That’s what families are for...to stand by each other when the going gets rough.’ Fran put an arm round her shoulders and kissed her mother’s cheek.

Inwardly she shared some of her grandmother’s impatience with what Gran called ‘Daphne’s lack of spunk’, but she tried never to show it. Some people were natural survivors and some weren’t. Her mother wasn’t. She needed someone to lean on.

Mr Preston didn’t keep them in suspense. As soon as he’d shaken hands, he said, ‘I’m sure you’ll be relieved to hear that certain developments since I was last in touch have put a more cheerful complexion on your situation, Mrs Turner. I don’t think it’s going to be necessary for you to sell this house until such time as you yourself wish to move.’

‘What’s happened to change things, Mr Preston?’ Fran asked.

‘To put it in a nutshell, Miss Turner, an offer has been made for the assets of your father’s company...a very generous offer. I must make it clear that before your mother and you receive any benefit from it, the creditors have to be paid. In official order, they are the Inland Revenue, then the secured creditors, which means your father’s bankers, and then the unsecured creditors. But, at the end of the day, there should be sufficient left to cover your foreseeable overheads.’

Mrs Turner burst into tears. Relief made Fran feel a bit weepy herself, but she controlled her emotions.

Before she asked Mr Preston to explain the situation in more detail, she took her mother upstairs to lie down and recover.

That evening Reid rang up. He was in New York where it was still afternoon.

‘I didn’t expect you to act so fast,’ said Fran, after confirming that the solicitor had been to see them.

‘I always act fast whenever possible. Is your mother feeling better?’

‘She can’t quite believe the threat of eviction is no longer hanging over us. It’ll take her a few days to get used to it.’

After he had rung off, she realised she had forgotten to thank him for the flowers.

Explaining the good news to Shelley and John was more difficult. They couldn’t understand how, when George Turner had been unable to raise the investment capital his business needed, someone should make a good offer after the business had failed.

Fran managed to blind them with science by tossing out phrases picked up from Mr Preston. But afterwards she wondered if they would put two and two together when she became engaged to a leading figure in the banking world.

CHAPTER THREE

A WEEK later Fran returned from walking the dogs to find a sleek black Porsche 911, a car she had always longed to drive, parked near the front door.

She paused to admire the classic lines of what a man she had dated, although not for long, had told her had been one of the world’s most desirable vehicles since before she was born and was still an object of desire to people who knew about cars and could afford the best.

Then she walked round the side of the house to the tradesmen’s entrance. In the quarry-tiled lobby the dogs had their water bowls below the hooks for their leads.

Leaving them slurping, she went into the kitchen.

‘Who’s the visitor, Janie?’

Janie had come to the Turners as a fifteen-year-old nursery maid when Fran was a baby. She had grown up in an orphanage, with the added disadvantage of a stammer.

She had a flair for cooking and now produced all the meals as well as supervising the three part-time helpers who did the housework and ironing.

‘Gentleman to see your mum.’

Fran knew Janie wouldn’t have asked his name because, except in the family, she was self-conscious about her indistinct diction.

‘I took in a tea tray twenty minutes ago. Shall I make a small pot for you?’

‘No, thanks, I’ll have a cold drink.’ Fran went to the fridge for a bottle of spring water. Filling a tall glass, she said, ‘Perhaps he’s after the house...heard rumours it may be for sale.’

‘If you ask me,’ said Janie, ‘we’d be better off somewhere smaller. It would upset your mum at first, but she could make another garden. When you leave home, this’ll be far too big for just her and me.’

Fran nodded. She wondered, not for the first time, if Janie was really resigned to a lifetime of living in someone else’s house, never having a place of her own, or a husband and children. It seemed terribly unfair when she would make a much better wife than many women who didn’t have her impediment.

‘I’ll go and find out why he’s here,’ she said.

Crossing the wood-panelled hall, she was surprised to hear her mother talking in an animated way most unlike her usual manner with strangers. Whoever the visitor was, he must have a gift for bringing quiet, reserved people like Mrs Turner out of their shells.

Fran opened the door and joined them.

‘Oh, you’re back.’ Her mother jumped up, looking pleased to the point of excitement. Not since the birth of her grandchild had she looked so radiant with delight.

Rushing across the room, she embraced Fran and kissed her. ‘What a dark horse you are! Yes, I know you did give me a hint...but you made it sound as if it was just the beginning. I wasn’t expecting to be asked for my consent to your marriage. Not that you need it, of course, but it’s very nice to be asked.’

She turned round and beamed at Reid who had been sitting in the armchair with its back to the door, but was now on his feet, watching Fran’s reaction to her mother’s announcement.

The moments of silence which followed were ended by Mrs Turner saying, ‘Well...you two must have a lot to talk about and I need to do some watering. You will be staying the night with us, Reid?’

‘Unfortunately I can’t. This is a flying visit.’

‘Oh, what a pity. I thought... Still, if you can’t, you can’t.’ She moved towards the door, to be overtaken by Reid who held it open for her. ‘Thank you.’ She disappeared.

He closed the door and returned to where Fran was standing. Placing his hands on her shoulders, he looked thoughtfully down at her. ‘What was the hint you gave your mother?’

She hadn’t forgotten how disturbing he was at close quarters, but remembering it wasn’t the same as experiencing it. The weight of his hands on her shoulders, being so near to his tall, lithe body, being subjected to a searching scrutiny all combined to make her breath catch in her throat. She felt her composure desert her. Why did he have this effect? Other men never had, not even Julian.