The English Wife

“I did not. Even if I had, it was not my business to interfere. I advised Brandon on legal matters, that was all.”

“Was it legal for him to keep valuable property a secret from his wife?”

“That was a personal decision on his part. Since he ended up leaving you the property in his will, I really don’t see the problem.”

In other words, his tone implied, I was overreacting. Maybe he was right. There was only one way to find out. I ended the conversation and hung up. I was going to England, and I was going to get the answers to my questions.

Somewhere deep inside me lurked a tiny flicker of hope that this had all been a huge misunderstanding. Until I knew for sure, I would forever torment myself with doubts and unfounded suspicions.

This wasn’t something that could be resolved in a letter or a phone call. It would be too easy for the woman to cut me off without a word. I had to deal with her face to face, if I was to get what I needed.

Just to make sure my lack of conviction wouldn’t allow me to back out, I called the airlines and booked a flight to London. Then I called Val. “I’m going to England,” I told her. “I’m going over there to sell the cottage and settle things myself.”

She was so excited I thought for a moment she was going to suggest coming with me. I was relieved when she said, “I wish I could come, too. I’d love to see the bitch’s face when you turn up on her doorstep. I’ll worry about you all alone over there, but right now I can’t leave the club.”

“I’ll have people to help me over there,” I told her. “I’ll be just fine.” I actually believed it as I hung up, serenely unaware that my long-delayed decision would set off a chain of events that would change my life in ways I could never imagine.

Two weeks later I sat in the window seat of a crowded jumbo jet, trying to convince myself I wasn’t in the middle of one of my muddled dreams. The past few days had been a whirlwind of activity and wrenching misgivings as I’d closed the door on my home for the last time.

Red and bronze leaves floated down from the spreading arms of the maple tree in the front yard as I’d driven away, and my heart ached as I’d caught a last glimpse of it just before I’d turned the corner. Right then, all I could remember were the good times. We’d had our share of good times, Brandon and I, even if they had been few and far apart.

Val had helped me put into storage the few things I’d kept, and I’d spent the last two nights in her spacious condo. That alone had been enough to confirm my reservations about living with her for any length of time.

I made up my mind that as soon as I returned, I would use the money from the sale of the cottage to buy myself the first small house I could find.

Val had driven me to the airport, and the last I’d seen of her she was bobbing up and down behind the security gate, waving frantically and yelling last-minute instructions.

I’d never enjoyed air travel. Not that I’d flown that much, anyway. This was the first time, however, that I’d traveled by air on my own. Now that we were actually taxiing down the runway, my insides were clenched as tight as the bolts on the fuselage, and I was quite prepared to hold my breath all the way to London.

Once in the air, I bought two of the little bottles of wine from the flight attendant. By the time I started on the second one, I had begun to float in a pleasant haze of well-being.

The man seated next to me appeared to be about Brandon’s age. He seemed harmless enough. Businessman, I suspected, judging from the neat gray suit and silver-blue tie.

He must have noticed my inspection, since he smiled and asked, “Your first trip to Europe?”

“Yes,” I admitted, sounding a little breathless—a direct result, no doubt, of having held my breath for so long on takeoff. “I’m on my way to Devon, in England.”

“Ah.” The man settled back in his chair and lifted what appeared to be a glass of Scotch. “Very nice part of the country.”

“You’ve been there?” Eager to know more about the area, I turned to him.

“Indeed I have.”

We spent the next half hour in very pleasant conversation while I learned a great deal about southern England and “the great city of London.”

His name was Wes Carter, I found out later, and he was CEO of a big corporation, took frequent business trips to Europe, and lived in San Diego.

I wasn’t nearly as forthcoming, telling him only that I was traveling to England to settle a business matter. The mention of it reminded me of the daunting prospect that lay ahead of me. I tried to imagine how I would feel if the wife of my longtime lover suddenly appeared on my doorstep with the news that he was dead and my home was being sold.

No matter how delicately I handled the situation, it was bound to be devastating for both of us. I wished I’d listened to my instincts and stayed buried in my web of denial. Even as I wished it, I knew I’d come too far to back out now. I was committed to see this through to the bitter end.

Later, as we flew over London and I got my first view of Buckingham Palace and the famous River Thames twisting its way through the ancient city, I wondered what Brandon would have thought if he could see me right then. I hoped that somewhere out there in that vast abyss on the other side, he was watching, filled with remorse for his selfish indiscretions. Racked with guilt and apprehension, I hoped, and aware that I was about to uncover whatever secrets he’d worked so hard to hide.

CHAPTER 5

My first impression of the English countryside was a hazy blur of vibrant green fields, desolate moors, small modern towns and quaint little villages that made me feel I’d been thrown back in time.

Mostly I dozed in the back of the car I’d hired for the long drive to Devon. By the time the limo pulled up in front of The White Stone Inn, all I wanted was a cup of strong coffee, a quiet room and a soft bed.

The inn had obviously been named for its gleaming white walls that glittered in the midday sun. Beyond the crest of the hill I caught a glimpse of a shimmering dark blue strip of sea beneath a cloudless pale blue sky. The sea air felt mild for late September, and all that talk I’d heard of constant English rain and fog seemed ludicrous in this enchanting setting.

While I waited for the driver to unload my luggage, I looked at the landscape spread out below me. A narrow road wandered through a cluster of buildings that apparently made up the main street of Miles End. At one end the tall steeple of a church seemed to pierce the skyline, and a few uneven rows of houses dotted the area behind it.

I must have been sleeping when I passed through the village. A tingle of excitement woke up my drowsy mind. What fun to explore those crooked streets and intriguing shops! I couldn’t wait.

On the heels of that thought came the realization that somewhere down there was the cottage. And her. Okay, Eileen Robbins. I had to get used to calling her that, much as I disliked the idea.

My enthusiasm dwindled. Now that I was actually here, I wasn’t too thrilled at the thought of confronting the woman. In the next instant I scolded myself. I hadn’t come all this way to chicken out. I was determined to be as fair and diplomatic about this mess as possible. There had been far too much secrecy and deceit already.

In the flurry of checking into the inn and getting settled, I managed to forget my worries. I’d been given a charming little room on the top floor. The only drawback as far as I could see was the absence of an elevator, which meant I’d be climbing three flights of stairs. I convinced myself that the exercise would be good for my health, and it would be worth it for the magnificent view of the coastline.

Now that I could see over the hill, I was enchanted by the deep bay and the picturesque harbor. A faint mist hung over the little boats that bobbed around close to shore. A sprinkling of tiny thatched cottages hugged the grassy slopes, and a mass of blossoms set the little square yards ablaze with smudges of dazzling color that reminded me of an artist’s palette.

After opening the window, I leaned out to get a better view of my surroundings. Clean, salty air, fresh from the sea, mingled with the heavenly scent of newly cut grass. Below me, an elderly man pedaled with grim determination up the hill on his bicycle, one wheel squeaking in rhythmic protest.

I felt the sun warming my bare arms, and heaved a sigh of pure pleasure. So many times during the hassle of the past few weeks I’d longed for peace and quiet. This tiny village, with its calm streets and pleasant landscape, breathed a serenity that seeped into my body and soul.

I didn’t know how long I would stay in Miles End. Much depended on how fast I could deal with her and sell the cottage. I couldn’t help hoping that my stay would be long enough so that I could enjoy any distractions the tiny village might offer.

I was eager to meet the people, explore the neighborhood, and learn more about this wonderful place my charming companion on the plane had called the English Riviera.

For a fleeting moment I wondered what he was doing, and if he had thought any more about me once we had parted in a flurry of goodbyes and good wishes. Then I forgot him in the fascination of investigating the hotel.

I was somewhat taken aback when I discovered I was expected to share a bathroom with four other rooms on my floor. I was even more upset to note that the spacious bathroom had no shower in the footed tub. Bathing was going to be interesting. Trying to convince myself it was all part of the adventure, I decided to make the best of it. After all, it wouldn’t be for long.

My appointment with the real estate agent wasn’t until the following morning. I resisted the urge to sleep, and after unpacking my luggage, I made my way down the narrow cobbled street to the village.

The main street meandered between unique little shops that looked as if they had been plucked from the pages of a Dickens novel. Behind the leaded pane windows a wonderful selection of elegant porcelain ladies and bone-china rabbits peeked out at me from among miniature cottages and lighthouses.

Tearing myself away from all that enchantment, I caught sight of a sign swinging in the stiff breeze from the ocean. On it was painted a bright yellow teapot standing next to a plate of tempting pastries.

It seemed like a haven, beckoning me, especially since I hadn’t had anything to eat or drink in hours. I paused in front of a wooden door, feeling as if I were about to enter Snow White’s cottage.

As I stepped inside, a bell jangled angrily above my head. The inside of the tearoom looked even more like a scene from Disney. A dozen or so little square tables had been crammed into a space no bigger than my living room. A wide ledge ran around the walls, bearing the weight of brass cooking pots, copper kettles and huge china jugs.

It was the heavenly fragrance of fresh-baked bread, however, that convinced me to move farther into the room, wondering why this amazing place wasn’t jammed with customers.

“Can I help you?”