Captive Destiny Read online

  But, to her amazement, David insisted that she must attend the funeral. He even offered to accompany her.

  ‘He was your father’s friend,’ he declared, ‘and he obviously cared about you. You can’t stay away.’

  ‘But David, Andrew’s dead. He’ll know how I feel. He’ll understand. And after all, he’s the only one you’re concerned about.’

  ‘I still think we should go,’ insisted David firmly, and short of causing an argument, she had to give in.

  But, the day before the funeral, Emma got a letter from a firm of solicitors in Stratford. She vaguely recognised their name as being the firm with which David had dealt at the time of his accident, and she couldn’t imagine why they should be contacting her. She even examined the envelope again to make sure it had been addressed to her, but there was no mistake.

  The letter said simply that they would like to see her, if she could call into their office as soon as possible. They gave no reason for their request, and she could hardly read the signature, but a type written definition gave the name as Horace Armitage, the senior partner in the firm.

  It was one of her mornings for the shop, and David was still in bed, but instead of leaving the letter for him to read when he got up, she put it into her bag. She didn’t quite know why she felt the need to hide that particular item of correspondence, but until she knew what it entailed, she decided to keep it to herself.

  In fact, she was able to keep the appointment sooner than she expected. Gilda gave her the opportunity, when she suggested Emma might collect two paintings from a gallery in Evesham for her, and feeling like a conspirator, she doubled back to Stratford before returning to the shop.

  Leaving Gilda’s car parked near the market place, she walked the short distance to the offices of Armitage and Holland, in Chapel Street. It was a Tudor-styled building, with the jutting panes and wood facing of a bygone era, and the receptionist’s office was small and unpleasantly hot from the fan heater she had at her feet. But she knew her name, and five minutes later Emma was ushered into the senior partner’s office. On the first floor, this room was bigger, but redolent with the scent of old leather and characteristically dusty. The elderly man who rose to greet her matched his surroundings, she decided, but in spite of his age and wispy grey hair his smile was reassuringly warm.

  ‘Mrs Ingram?’ he said politely. ‘How good of you to come so promptly. I expect you were surprised to get my letter.’

  ‘Very surprised,’ she agreed cautiously, sinking into the chair he indicated, across the cluttered desk from his own. ‘Are you sure it’s not my husband you want to see?’

  He consulted some papers on his desk, and then looked up at her, over the horn-rimmed spectacles which had slipped down his nose. ‘Er—no, no,’ he assured her. ‘You’re the person I wanted to see.’

  ‘Yes?’ Emma wished he would get on with it, but now that he had her here, Mr Armitage seemed in no hurry to continue.

  ‘Yes,’ he repeated slowly, shuffling through his papers again. ‘Ah, here we are! Emma Jane Ingram. That is yourself, is it not?’

  ‘Yes.’ Emma’s fingers tightened round her handbag. ‘I—is there something wrong?’

  ‘Wrong?’ For once, the solicitor spoke without first considering his words. ‘Good heavens, no! Far from it. I should say that what I have to tell you will please you immensely.’

  ‘Really?’ Emma was doubtful. What could this old man possibly have to say to her that would please her immensely? That David’s insurance had been granted after all? Surely not. And besides, they would have contacted him in those circumstances, not her.

  ‘Yes…’ Mr Armitage was marshalling his words again. ‘You—er—you know a Mr Andrew Kyle of Valentia, in the West Indies, who died—let me see, four days ago?’

  Emma’s mouth went dry. Suddenly she could guess what he had to tell her, or rather, she thought she could, and she wanted to get up and rush out of this stuffy office before he had chance to put it into words.

  But of course she couldn’t do that. Rushing out of the office would achieve nothing, merely an unnecessary delay. Far better to face it now, and deal with it at once.

  Mr Armitage was looking at her and realising he was waiting for her to reply, she nodded jerkily, saying: ‘Yes. Yes, I knew Mr Kyle.’

  ‘Good. Good.’ The solicitor smiled. ‘Well, you’re a very lucky young lady. Before his death, Mr Kyle made over half his estate to you. You would have heard of this at once, of course, but the legalities took some working out, and I myself have been liaising with Mr Kyle’s solicitors in Gray’s Inn. His death has precipitated matters, and I am now in a position to tell you that consequent upon the necessary forms being signed, you will be a major shareholder in Tryle Transmissions Limited, and half owner of his house in Abingford. Athelmere, I believe it’s called. But I expect you know that better than I. There’s a capital settlement, too, but until death duties have been paid, I can’t tell you exactly how much that will be. But rest assured, it won’t be less than some two hundred thousand pounds.’

  Rest assured! Emma thought she would never rest assured again. This couldn’t be happening, she thought wildly. Andrew could not have completed all the details before he died. Jordan had said he had been drawing up the papers. There had to be some loophole, some way she could return the shares to Jordan. She was not entitled to anything from his estate, least of all money.

  Realising Mr Armitage’s expression was one of mild anxiety now, Emma guessed she was looking as shocked as she was feeling. But she couldn’t help it. It was all too much for her. And she was very much afraid that if she didn’t get some air soon, she was going to faint.

  Mr Armitage reached across and pressed a button on his intercom. ‘Miss Lewis?’ he said. ‘Would you bring us some coffee, please. For two, yes.’ Then he rose to his feet and went over to the lead-paned windows, throwing one wide and saying: ‘Isn’t it a beautiful morning? Quite warm for March, don’t you think?’

  Emma said nothing, breathing deeply of the draught of air that wafted into the room. Almost immediately she began to feel better, although her physical condition troubled her less than her mental one.

  ‘Mr Armitage,’ she said, as he came back to his desk again, ‘I—don’t want this.’

  ‘What?’ The solicitor looked puzzled. ‘You can’t mean—’

  ‘I do. I don’t want to be a major shareholder in Tryle Transmissions, and I certainly don’t want any capital settlement.’ She sighed. ‘Let me explain…’ She paused. ‘Mr Kyle—Andrew Kyle, that is, felt he—owed me something, but he didn’t. And—and I can’t take this money. It belongs to Jord—to his son.’

  Mr Armitage shook his head. ‘I can assure you, Mr Kyle’s son is quite in agreement with this arrangement, and indeed was party to its drawing up—’

  ‘I know that. But it doesn’t make any difference—’

  ‘I think it does. My Kyle’s estate was such that to split it into two halves is no great hardship for anyone.’ He regarded her gently. ‘My dear, I can understand how you feel. I’m sure you were very fond of Mr Kyle, and you never expected him to repay you in this way, but surely you can’t seriously think of giving it up.’

  ‘I can,’ she insisted. ‘Mr Armitage, I want you to write to Mr Kyle’s solicitors and explain—’

  ‘I can’t do that, Mrs Ingram.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well, Mr Kyle had a clause inserted in the agreement to the effect that should you wish to rescind the settlement, you must do so independently. In other words, you can’t give the shares back to the company. They must be sold on the open market. Mr Jordan Kyle may bid for them in the normal way, of course, but—’

  ‘But that’s monstrous!’

  Mr Armitage shrugged. ‘From your words, I would ascertain that Mr Kyle knew you rather better than you think. You realise that if you do decide to sell, there’s no absolute guarantee that Mr Kyle’s son could afford to buy.’

  ‘Oh, God!’ Emma tw
isted her hands together in her lap. ‘Is there nothing I can do?’

  ‘Yes. Keep the shares” yourself. If becoming involved in the business is your concern, you could always remain a silent participant, give Mr Kyle’s son your proxy vote, and let him deal with them for you.’

  Emma shook her head. She could always, do that, of course, but there still remained the money, and the effect it was bound to have on their lives.

  A tap on the panels of the door heralded the arrival of Mr Armitage’s secretary with two cups of instant coffee. Thanking the girl, Emma helped herself to sugar, and then waited until the door had closed behind her before saying: ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do.’

  Mr Armitage sighed. ‘You need a little time, I can see that. But you mustn’t forget that whatever you decide will have its effect on your family.’

  ‘Do you think I don’t know that?’

  Emma’s tone was ragged, and he continued: ‘I mean—if you don’t want it for yourself, at least think of your son.’

  ‘My son!’ Emma stared at him as if she couldn’t believe her ears. Then she shook her head again. The solicitor was old. He was getting her confused with someone else. ‘I don’t have a son, Mr Armitage.’

  Now it was the solicitor’s turn to look blank. ‘But of course you do, Mrs Ingram. I—er—his name’s David. That’s right, David. He must be—what?—about four years old now.’

  Emma felt a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. ‘I tell you, I don’t have a son, Mr Armitage. You’re confusing me with somebody else.’

  ‘Mrs Ingram, if your son’s died, then I’m sorry—’

  ‘Died?’ Emma got tremulously to her feet. ‘What are you talking about? I tell you I don’t have a son. I don’t have any children. My—my husband’s an invalid. Surely you remember that!’

  Mr Armitage levered back his chair and rose to face her. ‘I remember very well, Mrs Ingram,’ he declared tersely. ‘But you were pregnant at the time of his accident, and Mr Ingram led me to believe that his son was born some seven months later. Indeed, I arranged the settlement myself.’

  Emma’s legs gave out on her and she sank down into her chair again. ‘What—settlement?’ she whispered faintly, and his brows drew together into a disturbed frown.

  ‘You don’t know, do you?’ he exclaimed, and there was an awful grimness to his voice. ‘Oh, Mrs Ingram, I don’t know what to say.’

  Emma looked up at him dully. ‘David has a son, is that it?’ she asked, and his silence answered for him. ‘Just tell me—what did you mean by a settlement?’

  Mr Armitage’s gnarled old fingers snapped the pencil he was holding. ‘I believe I’ve said more than enough as it is,’ he decreed heavily. ‘I think you must ask your husband these questions.’

  Emma shivered. ‘Perhaps I will.’ She licked her dry lips. ‘But I can guess. It was the insurance money, wasn’t it? The money he said he wasn’t entitled to, or something.’ Her head was thumping now. ‘There was a girl, you see. She was with him when—when he crashed. She must have—had his child. But I didn’t know. I didn’t know.’

  ‘My dear Mrs Ingram.’ The old solicitor leant across the desk to take her hand. ‘I only wish I could say the same.’ He looked at her anxiously. ‘Does this—does this mean—’

  ‘I don’t know what it means—yet,’ replied Emma, her voice as tremulous as her limbs.

  Then she pushed back her chair again and got to her feet. ‘I—I must go. My—my employer will be wondering where I am. Th-thank you for—for everything.’

  Mr Armitage retained his hold on her hand as she went towards the door. ‘You will get in touch with me again, won’t you?’ he asked urgently. ‘As soon as you’ve decided…’

  ‘Yes.’ She nodded, withdrawing her hand gently, but firmly. ‘Good—good morning.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  OUTSIDE, the sun was still shining and the day had really become quite warm, but Emma felt chilled. Indeed, it was difficult for her to put one foot in front of the other, but she had to move away from the windows of the solicitor’s office. She stood for several minutes on the corner of Chapel Street, shivering in the breeze that tunnelled up Sheep Street from the river, and then, pushing her hands into the pockets of her coat, she made her way back to the car park.

  All these years, she was thinking numbly. All these years, David had had a son, and she had known nothing about it. The money he should have received at the time of his accident had gone to subsidise the other girl’s pregnancy, and while she was struggling to make ends meet, Sandra Hopkins was calling herself Mrs Ingram, and having his child!

  There was something so cold-blooded about it somehow. To her knowledge, David had never even seen his son, although she could be wrong about that as she had been about so many things. No wonder he had been so alarmed when she discovered the handbag in the attic, and she was beginning to understand why talking of the accident had aroused such strong emotions.

  Unlocking Gilda’s car, she got behind the wheel, but she didn’t start the motor. In the sun-warmed cocoon of the small saloon, she reviewed the events of the past few weeks, reflecting wearily that Jordan’s call had been the reactor that set the chain in motion, each successive link exploding the myths she had lived by. Nothing was the same any more. Even the ground at her feet seemed to have been torn out from under her, and there was no one to whom she could turn, with whom she could share her pain and bewilderment, from whom she could gain the strength to go on.

  She rested her hot forehead against the smooth plastic of the steering wheel and tried to look positively into the future. But all she could hear was Mr Armitage’s voice telling her that David was the father of another woman’s child…

  Taking a deep breath, she reached for the ignition, but as she did so, she remembered Jordan’s words in the library of his home, his reluctance to discuss the crash with her. He had implied there was more that she should know about it, and she wondered now if he had known about the child all along. It was humiliating to realise that a great number of people must know about it, not least the girl herself and her relatives.

  Shaking her head, she started the engine and reversed out of the parking space. How right she had been to give in to her instincts to keep the letter from the solicitors with her that morning. If she had left it at home, she might never have discovered the truth. If Gilda had not asked her to go to Evesham…if David had assured her the letter was really addressed to him…if he had dealt with the affair himself…

  So many ‘ifs’. Emma’s fingers curled tightly over the wheel. Her life was full of them. If her mother had not had that affair with Jordan’s father…if her father had not been so willing to believe he was a loser…if someone had not taken it into their heads to tell Jordan those lies…

  The burgeoning countryside meant little to her as she covered the few miles to Abingford. The budding beauty of the almond blossom, the fresh young greenness of the hedgerows, made no inroads into her deadened senses, but after negotiating the traffic lights at the end of the High Street, she turned into Hunter’s Mews and drove to the house in Mellor Terrace, not back to the shop.

  Locking the car, she ran up the steps to the door, and inserting her key, opened the door into the hall. Cold resolution was driving her on, and she strode down the hall towards David’s study, determined to tell him what she had learned. But as she reached the end of the hall, the drawing room door opened behind her, and a woman’s voice said:

  ‘Emma! Hello, darling. Did Gilda give you the message?’

  Emma swung round disbelievingly to gaze at her mother standing in the open doorway. She was the last person she expected to see, and for a moment she could only stare at her, lips parted.

  ‘M-message—’ she managed to say at last, breaking off as David’s chair whispered to a halt just behind her mother, and he took up the explanation:

  ‘We rang the shop,’ he said, unaware of his wife’s instinctive withdrawal. ‘Gilda said you were out, but that she’
d let you know as soon as you got back.’

  * * *

  Gilda was talking on the telephone when Jordan entered the antique shop, but she recognised him at once, her eyes registering her surprise at seeing him there. She quickly finished the call and replaced the receiver, sliding off the desk to straighten her skirt. In black suede pants and a black leather jerkin, he was a disruptively masculine presence in the somewhat feminine surroundings of fragile glass and delicate works of art, and just for a moment she allowed herself the luxury of imagining he had come to see her. In spite of all her vows of self-sufficiency and independence, she knew that if a man like Jordan Kyle had come into her life, she would not have let him go so easily, but his current interest in her young assistant could only bring her more unhappiness. He was not dependable, he had proved that, and for all his faults, David had married her.

  ‘If you’re looking for Emma, she’s not here,’ Gilda said now, putting her hands on her hips in an unconsciously aggressive gesture, and Jordan’s lips twisted.

  ‘No?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘This isn’t one of her days for working?’

  ‘Well, it is. But she’s not here. She’s gone to Evesham to collect some paintings.’

  ‘I see,’ Jordan nodded. ‘When will she be back?’

  Gilda shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’ She omitted to add that she had expected Emma back by now, or that David had already been on the phone asking for her. Her mother had apparently arrived…unexpectedly. Although looking at Jordan now, Gilda guessed his father’s funeral was the factor that bound them all together.

  ‘You don’t like me, do you, Gilda?’ Jordan said now, and she marshalled all her defences against his uninvited attack.

  T—wouldn’t say that,’ she denied carefully. ‘I don’t know you well enough to like or dislike you.’