Remember (21 page)

Now, suddenly, she realized how cruel she had been, and was continuing to be to this truly good man who cared so much about her and her well-being.

She took a deep breath. “You simply want to make an honest woman of me, that’s what this is all about, isn’t it?” she said, adopting a light tone, one echoing with gaiety, and she laughed.

He shook his head very slowly and emphatically. “No, that’s not it at all, Anne. I don’t care what the world thinks of me, or of you, or of us, or of the fact that we’ve been living together for years. I want to marry you because I love you very much indeed-and I thought you loved me in the same way.”

“But I do! Oh, darling, you know I do! But marriage seems so . .

. well, to be honest, irrelevant at our age. As far as I’m concerned, we are married. What difference does a little bit of paper make in the long run?”

“It makes a lot of difference to me. You see, I want you to be my wife, and it’s important to me that you bear my name, that we are .

.

.

married.” He began to laugh as lightly as she had a second before, even a bit self-deprecatingly, and added, “Having just said I don’t care about the world, perhaps I really do, after all. Maybe I want the world to know that I belong to you, and that you belong to me. I believe I need us to be married, Anne.

We’ve been together an awfully long time, darling, and marriage seems to me to be the natural, logical and most wonderful culmination of our relationship.”

Anne nodded, but found she was unable to say anything for a moment.

She averted her head and gazed out across the landscape, her eyes reflective. Everything Philip said was true, of course.

They had known each other for fifteen years, and had been deeply involved with each other for fourteen of those years. They had met in 1974, just after Philip had left his wife, and what had begun as a friendship had eventually developed into a full-blown affair of the heart. She had dropped the man she had been seeing at the time, and Philip had become her lover, and for them both it had been a relationship made in heaven. They were ideally suited to each other, temperamentally and sexually, and they had quickly bonded. Philip’s divorce had taken four years, and by then they had settled into a perfectly happy, congenial and contented routine, seeing each other every weekend when Philip came down to Pullenbrook and during the week whenever she was up in London.

Philip’s children, Vanessa and Timothy, had been quite young in the seventies, and he had not wanted to marry until they were older. She had not minded this, marriage had always been somewhat irrelevant to her, in the sense that her love for Philip existed without it, and would always exist, no matter what. The kind of deep and abiding love she felt for him did not need a marriage license to give it validity, make it stronger or more real.

Besides which, her first marriage had been such a mockery she had been quite cold about the idea of matrimony ever since.

Obviously, though, Philip needed marriage for them at this time in their lives. Hadn’t he just said as much? If she truly loved him, and of course she did, then his happiness had to be important to her. And it was. Thinking about it, she realized there was

no truly good reason why she should not marry him. Quite unexpectedly, she discovered she rather liked the prospect of being his wife, especially since it would give him such enormous pleasure.

Bringing her gaze to meet his, she said quietly, “Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, I’ll marry you, Philip. I will be happy and honored to marry you. As you said a moment ago, it’s only right and proper that we get married at this particular time.”

“Oh, darling, that makes me so very, very happy.” He kissed her gently on the mouth, took her in his arms and held her very tightly. He had never loved a woman the way he loved Anne Devereaux—and there had been plenty of women in his life before he had met her. Anne had known such hurt and pain, and the only thing he wanted was to love and cherish her, protect and safeguard her all the days of his life and hers.

Finally releasing her, Philip said, “Let’s set a date for our marriage here and now, before you change your mind. That way I can have my secretary send an announcement to The Times first thing on Monday morning.”

“Never fear, I’m not going to change my mind,” she responded, her face radiant, her eyes shining. “And I’ll be glad to work on the announcement with you over the weekend. But let me think for a moment about the date…. I believe we should get married in December, Philip.”

“But that’s months away,” he protested.

“After all these years of living in sin, surely a few more months don’t matter!” Anne exclaimed, her ready laughter surfacing. “And I’m suggesting December for a very good reason—Geofjrrey. I would like my brother to give me away, and I know he’s going to be abroad quite a lot between now and the end of November.”

“Very well, darling, December it is.”

“A Christmas wedding in the little church here at Pullenbrook will be very pretty—rather picturesque, actually, don’t you think?”

“Indeed it will. Anne?”

“Yes, darling?”

“I do hope you’re going to allow me to give you an engagement ring. ” “What a lovely idea! And of course I am. Every girl likes to have a ring, Philip.”

A huge smile spread across his face, and he reached into his pocket and brought out a small leather box. “I went to Asprey’s earlier in the week, looking for a ring for you. You see, I was determined to propose this weekend, and equally, I was absolutely determined you would accept me this time. Anyway, I found this, and I hope you like it.” As he finished speaking he handed her the box.

Anne lifted the lid and gasped when she saw the deep blue sapphire set within a circle of diamonds nestling in the velvet.

“Oh, Philip, it’s simply beautiful.”

“I selected this particular ring because I know how much you like antique jewelry,” he explained. “Anyway, the color matches your lovely eyes, my darling.”

“Thank you, Philip, for the ring—and for everything.”

“Here, let me do that,” he said, as she fumbled with the box, and took it away from her. As he slipped the sapphire on her finger, he added softly, “There, we are now properly engaged, and what more appropriate place to pledge our troth to each other than here on Sweetheart Hill.”

Nicky had not been in this house for almost three years, and two days ago in New York, when she had made the decision to come to see Anne Devereaux, she had dreaded the thought of being within its walls once again.

But now that she was here at Pullenbrook most of her fears were evaporating. This was due in no small measure to Anne’s warmth and her loving demeanor, as well as to Philip’s avuncular kindness and his special brand of geniality.

When she had arrived from London an hour ago the two of them had greeted her with much affection, she knew this to be very genuine on their part, and it was an affection she fully reciprocated.

Instantly she had begun to relax because they made her feel so welcome and had put her completely at ease.

And then there was the house itself. The minute she had stepped over the threshold into the Great Hall she had felt its peacefulness most forcibly. This was something she had never quite forgotten, but she had resolutely pushed it to the back of her mind in recent years, and for the most obvious of reasons.

But there was no denying that there was a special kind of tranquillity within the boundaries of Pullenbrook, it was an almost palpable thing that enfolded itself around her, seemed literally to envelop her like a cloak. In fact, she now recalled what a soothing effect the old manor had had on her in the past, and she understood why Anne thought of it as her safe haven, why she never wanted to leave it—at least, not for very long.

Suddenly it struck Nicky that this ancient Tudor house had seen so much, witnessed so much over the centuries, that if its walls could talk they would reveal some incredible secrets.

She shivered involuntarily. What dark secrets about Charles Devereaux did this house hold? Was he alive, as she believed? And if so, why had he faked his own death?

She shivered again and pushed these disturbing thoughts away—for the moment, at any rate. She had come here to tell Anne that she had seen Charles on American television four days ago, and that she had good reason to think he was living in Rome. But now she realized this was not the right time to broach the subject. She would have to wait for a more opportune moment later this evening.

Nicky and Anne were sitting in the drawing room, and Anne was busy pouring tea. Nicky could not help thinking how exquisite this room was with its interplay of pale greens. They made a perfect backdrop for the mellow antiques and the fine paintings, most of them English landscapes, several of them priceless masterpieces by Constable and Turner. She had always marveled at Anne’s extraordinary taste, her skill at decorating and the way she kept up this house, undoubtedly a gargantuan task for anyone.

Surreptitiously Nicky looked across at the fruitwood table in the center of the room. A vase of white roses stood in the middle of it and was surrounded by a collection of family photographs in silver frames. There were several of hen-alone, with her parents, with Anne and Philip in the gardens here at Pullenbrook and, of course, with Charles. She swung her head to look at an end table next to the sofa near the fireplace. On this stood their engagement picture, taken by Patrick Lichfield, which was framed in gold. Her gaze was riveted on it for several seconds and then she averted her eyes. But within seconds she managed to be calm, and totally in control of herself again.

“You’re awfully quiet, Nicky darling,” Anne remarked as she rose and brought her a cup of tea.

“Thanks,” Nicky said, accepting it. “I didn’t mean to be rude, sitting here like an idiot and gaping so avidly at everything, as if I’d never been here before. I was savoring the room, admiring it—I’d forgotten how beautiful it is—how beautiful the whole of Pullenbrook is, actually, Anne.”

“You always did love this house,” Anne murmured, looking down at her, a faint smile touching her mouth. “And in the same way I love it. At least, that is what I’ve believed for years now. You have a true feelin,g for Pullenbrook, and I realized this the first time you came here. I couldn’t help noticing that you were-well, emotionally drawn to it. That’s the best way for me to describe what I thought your reaction was to my home. And the house accepted you, welcomed you, Nicky.”

Anne went back to the sofa, continuing, “It doesn’t always do that, you know. It can reject people.” Quite suddenly she started to laugh a bit self-consciously. “Good Lord, that does sound bizarre, doesn’t it?

You must think I’ve turned into a dotty old woman, talking in this strange way about a house.”

“No, I don’t. You’re making perfect sense to me. Andyo, of all people, a dotty old lady! Never. Why, Anne, you’re fantastic.”

“Thank you for saying so.” Anne leaned over the silver tea service on the table in front of her, and confided, “I was fifty-eight in April, but I must admit, I don’t feel it, not one little bit. Anyway, getting back to what I was saying, I know you know what I mean about the house, the way it made you feel as though you belonged in it from the very first moment.”

“And that feeling came rushing back today,” Nicky told her quietly.

“And you know something else, I happen to think of houses as livin things. They do have atmospheres and vibrations, some good, some very bad. This place has good vibes to me.”

Anne nodded. “We’re an odd couple, you and I, Nicky. But then we’ve always understood each other extremely well.” Anne took a sip oftea, and a second later exclaimed, “Oh dear, I’ve been so busy chattering to you about the house, I forgot to offer you a tea sandwich, or would you prefer sponge cake?”

“Nothing, thanks, Anne. I’m trying to watch my weight, especially after that fattening trip to France.”

“Oh gosh, yes, I know exactly what you mean.” Anne laughed.

At this moment Philip came back into the room, having been summoned to the phone a few minutes before. He said to them both, “Sorry I took so long,” and then glanced at Anne. “It was Timothy, darling. He’s just arrived in London. He sends his love, by the way.”

Anne nodded and smiled up at him. “I’m glad he’s safely back home.”

Philip took the cup of tea Anne had just poured for him, and went and sat down on the chair next to Nicky. Turning to her, he explained, “My son’s just started working as a journalist on the S?nday Times, and he’s been in Leipzig. There’s a lot going on there, all sorts of political situations on the bubble, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

“Yes, my friend Cleeland Donovan, whom you met in Les Baux, leaves for Germany tomorrow. He wants to photograph the Berlin Wall—while it’s still standing, he says.”

Philip looked at her alertly. “Does he think it’s about to come down?”

“He’s been saying it would for the past two years, but, of course, he was never certain exactly when—who could be certain of that? At one point he thought it would take another twenty or thirty years, perhaps even longer. But recently he’s been muttering that the wall will be dismantled imminently.”

“Has he now?” Philip put his cup and saucer on a nearby table and sat back in his chair, his attention still focused on Nicky.

“That’s very interesting to know, especially since I happen to agree—as do a number of my colleagues, actually.” Philip shook his head, and went on somewhat acerbically, “However, only six months ago, East Germany’s President Erich Honecker vowed that the Berlin Wall would remain standing for another hundred years.

But I’m inclined to believe that that was an idle boast on his part.”

“Or wishful thinking,” Nicky volunteered. “And in any case, let’s hope Honecker is wrong and Clee is right.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Philip murmured, and asked, “And is Cleeland going anywhere else in the Eastern bloc?”

“Yes, after Berlin he intends to roam around for a few days, and he wants to go to Leipzig, too. He plans to cover the demonstrations that keep erupting all over the place.”