Tomorrow's Bride(3)

       
           



       

One thing had been proved to her conclusively: he had been then, was  now, and would be to the end of her life, her only real love. Her first  and her last. No matter how bitter she felt towards him, there was no  escaping that simple fact, no sense in denying the sheer magic of the  short time they had spent together.



It had been her last term at Oxford when they had first met, though  neither of them could explain how they had missed each other for so  long. It could have been her fault, though it was a painful confession.  Scraping along on a scholarship, she had been under such pressure to get  a decent degree that her social life had been restricted until the  finals were out of the way. But when they had met at Deborah Fleetham's  twenty-first birthday party, a loud and slightly drunken affair, the  attraction between them had been immediate and consuming.

'Tell me about yourself.' Always she had been responsive to voices, and  the mellow mid-Atlantic accent was in itself a powerful sexual  instrument, especially when used in that imperative style. Add to that  the looks of the man, the easy, powerful physique, and any resistance,  any sense of discretion simply went.

'Not a lot to tell.' Her last few shreds of caution slipped from her  fingers. 'Leigh Gregory, twenty, reading English and history.' She guyed  a TV quiz programme popular at the time.

'And where do you come from, Leigh Gregory? And-----' reaching out to a  passing tray of drinks, he expertly captured two glasses, one of which  he handed to her '-more important-----' as the red wine touched his  tongue he grimaced a little '-where are you going?'

'Going?' She shrugged, pursed her lips. 'Who can say? But I come from a  little village in Gloucester. My father's the vicar.' She sipped  cautiously, for the first time regretting her lack of experience with  alcohol and the confidence it appeared to confer. Even the appearance of  sophistication would have been a great advantage in dealing with a man  like this, older and so obviously experienced. 'But tell me about you.  Apart from your name, I'm completely in the dark.'

'I'm from County Wicklow. After Trinity I went to Harvard Law, then I  was with a firm of attorneys in Washington for a few years. I've been  here for the past few months doing research, and also to please my  father, who was here thirty years ago. You know how fathers are.'

At that she smiled, knowing that this man, with his air of confident  affluence, would have an experience at odds with her own. Her scholarly  father was so immersed in the study of obscure crumbling manuscripts  that he seemed barely aware of his daughter's existence, while her  mother.. .well, she, perhaps forced by boredom or neglect, had taken to  enjoying poor health and making unjustified demands on her daughter.

'And explain to me--' Patrick Cavour put a hand on her elbow, guiding  her in the direction of a more secluded corner '-just where you've been  hiding yourself for the past few months.' He smiled down at her, unaware  that simultaneously her insides turned to water, his glance narrowing  as it took in the tumble of fine dark hair, the wide mouth, the vividly  expressive eyes; then he bent his head and kissed her. 'While I've been  searching for you.' His action and words caused a positive ferment of  emotions.

The impact was devastating, overwhelming them both with that first  contact, so that from then on being apart was exquisite torture; being  together was the sole purpose of then* lives. When he asked her to move  in with him there was nothing to consider. Blithely she embarked on a  course which just days earlier she would have considered both risky and  quite irrational.

On the day they held their own private ceremony, just the two of them,  dedicating then* lives to each other-at least that was how she saw it at  the time. They exchanged gifts which she thought of as pledges, his a  slender Victorian chain, beautifully wrought in silver filigree,  supporting a gleaming crystal in the shape of a tear. Long afterwards  she wondered if that had been an omen, a warning of all the tears the  relationship would bring her, but she had never been superstitious. Even  with something as notoriously unlucky as an opal she would have had no  sense of foreboding.

As if it were yesterday she could recall each detail of the day. She was  checking on her appearance, pleased with the hyacinth-blue dress, with  the elegant fitted line and low neck, when he came up behind her, so  tall and distinguished, dressed formally for the occasion in a dark  suit, his white shirt emphasising his tanned good looks and the pink  rose suggesting that there was something quite special in the planned  celebration.                       
       
           



       

As their eyes met in the glass her heart was all at once beating  fiercely, then one of his hands was circling her neck, touching her  cheek, turning her to face him. He looked at her with great intensity  before bending to put his mouth on hers. A moment later she felt the  cool metal touch her skin, looked back at the glass then raised the  crystal to her lips.

'Thank you.' She was unexpectedly shy. 'Thank you, Patrick. It's beautiful.'

'With this silver chain I thee worship.' There was a thread of amusement  beneath the main impression of firm purpose and integrity. 'I wonder if  you know how much I love you? It's so hard for me to tell you.'

'I think...' She shook her head, mystified by the sheer power and depth  of her emotions. 'I think I know exactly how much.' And the kiss they  shared was passionate and impatient and tender, a clear demonstration of  mutual need and dependence.

They had dinner in a country hotel, where after they had eaten they  could dance, but that plan was defeated by their impatience. After  drifting round once or twice while the band played smoochy music they  found they could wait no longer. They went back to his flat, and he  swept her up in his arms and carried her inside.

Nothing in her life had prepared her for that idyllic time spent with  him, so short in spite of her conviction that it would last forever.  Magical delight, intoxication and passion, which on the one hand had her  soaring up to the stars and on the other brought so much warm laughter,  so many shared interests-perfect friendship.

Her gift to him, a slim volume of love poems, a first edition picked up  in one of Oxford's second-hand book-dealers, was something he received  with awe, passing his fingers over the faded limp leather, over the worn  gilt lettering, as if it were the rarest treasure.

And both gifts brought laughter as well as pleasure. She lost count in  the days ahead of the times he teased her, laughing at her blushes when  he told her that their gifts were the only things they wore in bed.

Now, with the tears aching at the back of her eyes, it was so easy to  remember how she had giggled. And blushed. How they had made love. And  read the sonnets aloud to each other. How they had done all the silly  little things which lovers had always done, and all the while she had  been dreaming of, if not actually planning, the day when it would end  with all the protocol of a wedding in the church where she had been  baptised, surrounded by friends and relatives from both families. And  that was one of the things which had made it so difficult to believe  when it had ended so abruptly in bitter recrimination.

Recollection of that day was burned into her soul, deeply etched with  acid. Having met one of her professors in college, she had come into the  flat, bursting with the good news she had been so anxious to share with  Patrick. She had opened the door just as he put down the telephone and  he had turned, and his face had lit up as it always did with the  pleasure of seeing her. She could recall each detail with perfect  clarity. He had been doing some work at home, and was dressed in pale  chinos and a checked shirt, but somehow he had always maintained an  immaculate appearance, unlike so many of the men she knew- professors  and tutors just as much as students. 'Good news, darling...' And he had  held wide his arms.

'Oh, Patrick. And I have too.' She had run forward, her mouth to his,  revelling in the pressure of his body against hers. 'But mine will  keep... You first...'

'They want me to go to Ashala for three years-help set up a large relief project.'

'What?' She frowned, her mind still unfocused, but clearly she was misunderstanding. 'What on earth do you mean, Patrick?'

'You're surprised, of course you are.' His arms were about her slender  waist, pulling her still closer into the curve of his body, and he was  rubbing his chin on the crown of her head. 'I've been hoping it might be  a possibility but I didn't want to say until I heard something  definite, and-----'

'Ashala, did you say?' She pulled back, staring up into his face for elucidation. 'Where on earth is that?'

'It's in Bangladesh, with some of-----'

'Bangladesh?' Now panic and indignation were threatening to run out of  control. 'But...haven't you always said...? I thought you meant to  practise in London. Or Dublin, you said.'