The Angel Tree (11 page)

Greta wondered what David and LJ would say. She hoped they would understand. Besides, she was currently in no position to take other people’s finer feelings into consideration.

‘There’s no one else to look after us, is there?’ she asked, patting her stomach.

The following evening Greta went down for dinner and told Owen that she would accept his offer of marriage.

Two days later Mary came bustling into the dining room while Owen was having his breakfast and reading
The Times.

‘Excuse me, sir, Mrs Marchmont is here to see you.’

‘Tell her she’ll have to wait until I’ve finished my breakf—’

‘I don’t think this can wait, Owen.’ LJ appeared in the doorway behind Mary and pushed past her.

Owen grunted. ‘Very well. Thank you, Mary. Close the door behind you, will you?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Mary left, and LJ stood at the other end of the table glaring at him. Owen calmly wiped his mouth on a napkin and folded his newspaper neatly.

‘Well, what is this thing that cannot wait?’

‘You know very well what it is.’ LJ’s voice was barely more than a whisper.

‘You’re upset because I’m marrying Greta, is that it?’

LJ sank into a chair at the other end of the table and sighed heavily. ‘Owen, I don’t profess to be party to your private thoughts, nor am I your keeper, but for God’s sake,
you know nothing about the girl.’

Owen took a piece of toast from the rack and proceeded to butter it. ‘I know all I need to.’

‘Really? Then you’re happy that the new mistress of Marchmont will be a woman who used to earn her living parading around a stage at the Windmill with hardly a stitch on?’

‘I’ve done my research, and I’m aware of what she did before she came here. I’m simply grateful I’ve found someone who has given me the kind of happiness I
didn’t think I’d find again.’

‘So you’re saying you’re in love with her? Or are you just blinded by her pretty face?’

‘As you implied earlier, Laura-Jane, this really is none of your business.’

‘Oh yes it is, if it means that Greta’s illegitimate child will inherit Marchmont instead of my son!’ LJ’s voice was quavering with emotion. ‘If this is about
punishing me, then you’ve succeeded.’

‘Well,
your
son has hardly shown a great passion for the place, has he?’

‘It’s his by rights, Owen, and you know it.’

‘I’m afraid that isn’t true, Laura-Jane. Marchmont will be left to any child that I may have. And no one other than yourself and David is aware that Greta’s baby
isn’t mine. There might be speculation that the child was conceived out of wedlock and a marriage hastily arranged, but that’s as far as it will go.’

‘You think so, do you?’ LJ’s hands were shaking as she tried to keep her anger under control. ‘So you expect me to stand by and watch while my son’s inheritance is
passed to some bastard child of a GI?!’

‘It would be your word against ours but, if you wish to take the case to court, please do so,’ Owen replied calmly. ‘There’s no way of proving it, so I suspect that
people will just think it’s sour grapes on your part. And it’s the kind of scandal the papers love. Rest assured, our reputations would be dragged through the mud, but please do what
you think you must.’

‘I just don’t know how you can do this to David, Owen. After all—’

‘
You
don’t know how
I
can do this?’ He laughed scornfully. ‘Just cast your mind back thirty years, my dear Laura-Jane, and remember what
you
did to
me
.’

LJ was silent as she stared at him. Eventually, she sighed. ‘So is that what all this is about? Revenge?’

‘No, although you must remember that you’ve brought this problem on yourself. If it hadn’t been for you marrying my younger brother while I was away fighting for king and
country, then
we
might have had a son and this situation would not have arisen.’

‘Owen, you were away for almost five years, and for three of those we all believed you were dead!’

‘Then shouldn’t you have waited for me? After all, I had asked you to marry me before I left and you’d accepted my proposal. You even wore my engagement ring! Can you imagine
how I felt arriving back in England from that ghastly POW camp in Ingolstadt to find that my fiancée was married to my brother and living in my family home? Not only that, but you were
pregnant with his child. Good God, Laura-Jane! The war nearly destroyed me, but the one thing that kept me going was the thought of you waiting for me here.’

‘Do you think that I haven’t torn myself apart over and over for what I did?’ LJ wrung her hands in despair. ‘But it’s me you should hate, not my son, not David. He
doesn’t deserve to be treated the way you’ve treated him. You’ve never been able to bear to look at him!’

‘No, and I never shall.’

‘Well, you may think I betrayed you, but don’t you think I’ve been punished enough by living with the guilt and seeing how you felt about David? And now this!’

‘Then why do you stay here?’

‘Are you asking me to leave?’

Owen chuckled and shook his head. ‘No, Laura-Jane. Don’t cast me in the role of a complete villain. Marchmont is your home as much as it’s mine. And remember, it was your
decision to move out of the main house and into the Gate Lodge when I arrived home from Kenya.’

Laura-Jane put her head in her hands wearily. ‘Please, Owen, I beseech you. Don’t deny David his rightful inheritance because you want to punish me. You know I would never publicly
fight you, so I leave it to your conscience. It’s not only wrong to deny David, but to hand Marchmont over to a child without one ounce of Marchmont blood in its veins seems a very high price
to pay for revenge.’ LJ stood up slowly. ‘I’ve nothing more to say, except that I’ve decided you’re right. I should leave Marchmont. I shall be gone within the week.
As you point out, there’s nothing to keep me here, especially now.’

‘As you wish.’

‘And you didn’t answer my question. Are you in love with Greta?’

Owen looked at LJ, and wavered only for an instant. ‘Yes.’

‘Goodbye, Owen.’

He watched her stalk from the room without a backward glance, the air of elegance that had so entranced him when she was a girl of sixteen still visible in her gait. She had been a fine-looking
woman in those days, and he’d loved her very much.

Owen stood up, walked over to the window and watched Laura-Jane striding away from the house. Once more he experienced a pang of regret. He’d gone to Kenya to escape the pain of her
betrayal, unable to watch his brother, Robin, and his ex-fiancée together. When he’d heard that Robin had died in a riding accident all those years ago, it would have been the easiest
thing in the world to return to Marchmont and ask LJ to marry him. But his pride had not allowed him to do that. So he had stayed away until the war had forced him home.

Even so, the thought of her leaving Marchmont filled him with sadness. Should he run after her, confess that after all these years, he was still in love with her? That the reason he’d
never married was because even after what she’d done to him, it was her, and only her, that he’d ever wanted?

Go now, quickly! Tell her, before it’s too late
, a voice inside him urged.
Forget about Greta and go to Laura-Jane. Make the most of the years you have left . . .

Owen slumped into a chair by the window. He whimpered and shook his head, knowing that, whatever his heart told him he should do, the pride which had dominated and ruined his life thus far would
once again deny him the freedom to go to the woman he loved.

David’s career as a stand-up comic was beginning to take off. His contract at the Windmill had been extended and the warmth of the audience’s response was growing
in tandem with his confidence. He’d been taken on by a good agent who had seen his act one night and thought he was destined for bigger things. The regular income from the Windmill meant that
he’d been able to move out of his room in Swiss Cottage and into a one-bedroom flat in Soho, nearer to the theatre. The move and the punishing schedule at work meant there had been no time to
make his planned trip to visit his mother and Greta at Marchmont. But next weekend he was determined to go.

As he rose and dressed, neatly making the bed and tidying away a sock and a tie, he felt his heart skip a little faster than usual. This morning he was due at the BBC in Portland Place to record
his first sketch for a comedy show which would air at seven o’clock on Friday nights – prime-time radio listening. The show introduced up-and-coming comic talent, and he knew that many
a great comedian had used it as a stepping-stone to fame and fortune.

David went into his tiny kitchen and put the kettle on the stove to boil. He heard the click of the letterbox and padded into the hallway to pick up his post. Going back into the kitchen, he
studied the envelope in surprise. There was no mistaking his mother’s individual script, but the postmark was Stroud, not Monmouth.

Making himself a pot of tea, he sat down at the small table and began to read.

David reread the letter, shaking his head in disbelief.

Greta marrying Owen . . . He felt the unfamiliar sensation of tears pricking the backs of his eyes. He understood why, of course. Owen could give Greta everything she needed. She couldn’t
possibly have fallen in love with him, surely? He was old enough to be her father. He berated himself for not making his feelings clearer. If he had, it might have been he who would be walking down
the aisle with her. Now, he’d probably lost her forever.

And as for his mother leaving Marchmont . . . David couldn’t help wondering whether it was because of the marriage. He knew how much she loved her life there and what it would have taken
for her to say goodbye to it. He was aware that she didn’t see eye to eye with Owen, that their relationship was cool and distant, but he’d always put this down to a clash of
personalities.

He checked his watch and poured himself another cup of tea. As he sipped it, a thought crossed his mind. If Greta was marrying Owen and he was taking on her baby, did this mean that her child
would inherit Marchmont one day? He supposed it did. Surprisingly, this fact meant very little to him. Since he was young, he’d always known his future was not at his family home. And any
material possessions he wanted, he aimed to earn through his own efforts and talent. Even so, he was fully aware of how much it meant to his mother for him to inherit it. The thought of a child
with an unknown American as its true father standing to claim what she felt was rightfully his was one he knew LJ would find impossible to stomach.

David sighed heavily. There seemed little point in going to Marchmont under the circumstances so, instead, he decided he’d visit Gloucestershire this weekend, or perhaps meet with his
mother in London, on more neutral territory.

‘Damn!’ he exclaimed, suddenly realising he had only fifteen minutes to get to Portland Place.

He hurriedly put on his overcoat, stuffed the letter in his pocket and ran out, slamming the door behind him.

Owen Jonathan Marchmont married Greta Harriet Simpson ten weeks after he’d first set eyes on her in the woods. On a grey March day they exchanged vows in the chapel on
the estate in front of a small congregation.

Greta had invited no one to attend. She’d received a sweet letter from David, declining the wedding invitation from her husband-to-be but wishing her all the best for the future. LJ was
also absent. She had moved out of the Gate Lodge a month ago without saying goodbye. Feeling somewhat guilty – knowing that it must have been the announcement of her engagement that had
precipitated LJ’s departure – Greta could not help also feeling relieved. LJ’s presence and palpable disapproval would only have served to unsettle her.

With LJ gone, she was determined to forget about her past. The wedding signified a new start, a chance to look forward to the future. As she stood at the altar next to Owen, she prayed with all
her heart that this would be possible. Her empire-line brocade wedding dress had been purposely tailored to be long and loose-fitting. It would have taken a very keen pair of eyes to spot the bulge
in her stomach. And from now on, she thought, as Owen led her out of the church, the baby inside her belonged to him.

At the wedding breakfast, which was held at Marchmont Hall, Greta watched the guests drinking champagne and chatting to each other, feeling strangely removed from the proceedings. Owen had
invited three officers from his old army regiment, Dr Evans, a couple of distant cousins and four local farm owners. Mr Glenwilliam, Owen’s solicitor, had acted as his best man.