Love's Only Deception

‘Including—Jeff?’ Sir Charles drawled.

She flushed, although she had no idea why. ‘He never called me anything else.’

‘But your name is Caroline, isn’t it?’ Lady Spencer spoke for the first time, her accent so terribly-terribly English that Callie’s eyes widened. She hadn’t thought anyone really spoke like that.

‘Yes, it’s Caroline. But—–’

‘Then that is what we will call you,’ Lady Spencer said dismissively.

Whether you like it or not, Callie thought resignedly. ‘As you wish,’ she shrugged.

‘Would you care for tea?’ the other woman asked languidly.

‘Oh—er—yes. Tea would be lovely.’

She occupied herself with looking around the room while Lady Spencer rang for the tea, guessing the paintings on the wall to be originals, the antique furniture and ornaments all genuine too. The room was exactly what television and films always portrayed for the English gentry, and to Callie it was all like being in some terrible play, with her as the main character, ignorant of the roles of her fellow-actors.

‘Donald is in the study taking a telephone call,’ Lady Susan said in answer to her husband’s question.

Sir Charles’ face darkened. ‘I’ll go and get him.’

Callie was curious about Donald Spencer, wondering what was so terrible about him that James Seymour disliked him. Maybe he grew his hair too long, that was sure to annoy the balding lawyer.

‘Jeffrey was alone in the car at the time of the accident, I believe,’ Lady Spencer interrupted her thoughts.

Pain flickered across her face before she could control it. ‘Yes, he was alone.’ Fun-loving Jeff, who was never alone, who hated to be alone, had been trapped in his car for over an hour before he died; the rescuers had been unable to get to him in time to save him, and his chest had been crushed so that he drowned in his own blood. Callie shuddered with the horror of it. The way Jeff had died often came back to haunt her in horrific nightmares. ‘All alone,’ she repeated harshly.

‘I—–’

The doors swung open and Sir Charles came in, a younger version of himself at his side. Callie looked at Donald Spencer with interest, seeing the youthful handsomeness that had once been Sir Charles’, the only difference being that Donald’s hair was as fair as her own, and there was perhaps a certain weakness about the chin that wasn’t present in the father.

But neither of these men bore any resemblance to Jeff, Jeff of the laughing blue eyes, the unruly dark hair, denims and a casual shirt his usual attire.

Donald Spencer was dressed as formally as his father, and he looked as if he were never dressed any other way. Did no one ever relax in this family?

‘This is my son Donald,’ Sir Charles told her needlessly.

A frown creased her brow. Why was it she had the feeling there should have been a fanfare attached to that announcement?

Donald was looking at her with stunned eyes. ‘You aren’t what I was expecting,’ he blurted out, and received a scowl from his father, a warning look from his mother, and a ruddy hue coloured his cheeks as he muttered an apology.

So she had been right about the weakness about the chin. Donald Spencer was nowhere near as self-confident as his parents. She instantly felt a sympathy for him. ‘You aren’t what I was expecting either,’ she smiled.

‘Did Uncle Jeffrey talk about us, then?’ he wanted to know.

How could she say never? She had had no idea Jeff even had a nephew, let alone who Charlie was. How Sir Charles must have hated being called that. And how Jeff would have loved to taunt him with it! Jeff had loved to tease, had a warped sense of humour that she shared, a sense of humour she hoped was going to get her through this.

‘Sometimes,’ she compromised.

‘But you never felt impelled to meet any of his family?’ once again it was Lady Spencer who asked the probing question.

Callie sensed reprimand, and bristled resentfully. ‘As you never felt compelled,’ she returned waspishly.

The other woman’s mouth twisted mockingly. ‘You are hardly family, Caroline,’ she drawled insultingly.

Callie blanched, the shaft going home. ‘No, I’m not, am I?’ she said stiffly.

Lady Spencer looked down her haughty nose at her. ‘You see, we feel—–’

‘Tea, my dear,’ Sir Charles interrupted as the maid wheeled in the tea-trolley, almost thankful for the interruption, it appeared to Callie.

‘Please sit down, Miss Day,’ Lady Spencer invited graciously as she took charge of the silver teapot. ‘Cream or lemon?’ she looked up to enquire.

A spark of rebellion entered Callie’s eyes, the gold flecks instantly more noticeable. It was obvious that this family thought she was something rather unpleasant that had momentarily entered their lives, and that they also expected her not to even have the social graces.

‘Is it fresh lemon?’ she asked coldly.

Her hostess looked affronted. ‘Of course.’

‘Then I’ll have lemon,’ she accepted abruptly, moving back from her perched position on the edge of the chair to lean back against the soft leather, so that Lady Spencer had to bend forward to give her the steaming cup of tea. ‘Thank you.’ Her tone was still curt.

‘Sandwich, Miss Day?’ Donald Spencer held out a plate to her, tiny squares of bread arranged invitingly on the delicate china. ‘These are salmon, and these cucumber,’ he pointed out.

Of course, what else? ‘Thanks.’ She took two of the tiny sandwiches, wondering if she was actually supposed to eat them. No one really lived like this, did they? It was so unreal, so—so pompous.

‘We were talking about the accident, Caroline.’ Lady Spencer spoke again, looking at her enquiringly from beneath arched brows as Callie choked on her sandwich. ‘Donald, pat her on the back—gently!’ she instructed after the first painful thump landed in the middle of Callie’s back.

‘I’m all right,’ she choked as Donald went to hit her again, sitting on the arm of her chair to do so. She blinked back the tears and swallowed hard. ‘Sorry,’ she mumbled.

Lady Spencer nodded regally. ‘Donald, don’t sit on the arm of the chair like that,’ she said waspishly.

He at once moved back to his own armchair. Just like an obedient child, Callie thought with a shake of her head. Donald must be about thirty, his late twenties at least, and yet he still seemed to live here with his parents, something she found unbelievable for a man. Perhaps he had a home of his own in London, was only here for the weekend as she was, although she doubted it. Donald had the look of a devoted son, too much so in her opinion.

It had been the mention of Jeff’s accident that had sparked off her choking and coughing fit. Why did this woman persist in talking about it? Jeff was dead, no amount of talking could bring him back, as could no amount of crying, although when she was alone she couldn’t seem to stop the latter.

Her head went back, her chin held at a proud angle. ‘We weren’t talking about the accident, Lady Spencer,’ she said distantly, ‘you were. I really have nothing to say about it. Jeff is dead, that’s all there is to say.’

‘Jeff is Jeffrey,’ Sir Charles told his family dryly.

Callie’s eyes flashed. ‘I never knew him as anything other than Jeff.’

‘Of course you didn’t, my dear,’ he soothed. ‘Perhaps you would like to go to your room and rest, you look a little pale.’

‘The mourning colour always does that to blondes, darling,’ his wife told him in a bored voice.

Callie flushed. ‘I didn’t wear this suit because I’m in mourning.’

‘Of course you didn’t,’ Lady Spencer said tartly. ‘We would hardly expect you to mourn for Jeffrey. He’s left you a very rich young woman, why should you mourn him?’