Rachel Lindsay - Unwanted Wife Read online

  Rachel Lindsay - Unwanted Wife

  Tanya dazedly tried to understand what Adrian was saying. "Six years ago," he went on, "your government announced that all its citizens who were married to foreigners had divorced them. So seeing you was something of a shock."

  Something of a shock! The understatement almost made Tanya laugh, except that she was the butt of the joke.

  Not only was she in an alien country, but the man to whom she had come no longer wanted her. Even worse, for five years he had believed that she no longer wanted him!

  CHAPTER ONE

  Adrian Chesterton picked up his pen, leaned forward on his desk and began to sign the last of his letters. The light from the ormolu desk lamp picked out the burnished glints in his light brown hair and gave his skin- normally pale—a warmer hue. But as he straightened, the warmth vanished, leaving him looking pale and composed; which he invariably was.

  "There you are," he smiled, closing the folder and passing it to his middle-aged secretary. "You can't complain I don't keep pace with my post.''

  "Only because you work far too long hours," she smiled back. "I don't know how you'd manage without tape recorders."

  "By having another paragon like you—if that were possible," he replied, and rose to walk to the door, a tall, slimly built man in his mid-thirties.

  His upright bearing brought to mind his military ancestors, and a patrician fineness of features left one in little doubt that the Edwardian rumors of a Scandinavian prince having a close relationship with a Chesterton wife, could well have been true. He was, as an acute observer could see, a man of contradictions. Finely arched brows, so rigidly marked they could have been sculpted on, were at variance with the sensitive cut of his mouth; glacial blue eyes had their coldness redeemed by the soft frond of lashes that framed them, and the square jaw of a man of action was contradicted by the wide brow of a thinker.

  Crossing the hall to the drawing room, he found his mother waiting to join him in their usual pre-dinner drink. Mrs. Chesterton, gray-haired and regal, was seated on a gilt chair looking through the marriage columns of The Times. He handed her a glass of dry sherry and she looked up and spoke.

  "Nigel Lockheed is marrying Bruce Cardley's daughter. That explains why he joined Cardley's bank last year."

  Adrian shrugged and crossed the room to switch on the radio. A news bulletin was in progress but as he went to listen, his mother waved her hand impatiently.

  "Do turn it off. I want to talk to you."

  Her tone left him in no doubt about the subject. "Not Diana again," he said a trifle impatiently, and lowered the volume without switching off.

  "Can you blame me?" Mrs. Chesterton asked. "I don't know what's the matter with you both. You've been engaged four months and you still haven't set a date for the wedding."

  "There's no rush."

  "Anyone would think you don't want to get married."

  "Then they'd be wrong."

  "Which you can prove by setting the date. Or is it Diana who's prevaricating?"

  "Neither of us is prevaricating," he said calmly. "It just so happens we aren't in a hurry."

  His mother frowned. "Have you already presumed upon your vows?"

  For an instant her son looked blank, then he gave a tight smile. "No, mother, we haven't. Though even if we had, it wouldn't make marriage unnecessary."

  "It might make it less urgent." There was no reply but Mrs. Chesterton remained undeterred. "You've been single for so long, you've become monkish. It's time you had a wife and family."

  "Once the by-election is over we'll fix a date." He pursed his lips. "I won't want a big wedding, mother. This isn't my first marriage, you know."

  "It's Diana's first and she has a right to expect something special. As for your other wedding—well, you know what I thought about that. A hole-in-the-corner affair with a little foreigner who—"

  "Mother!"

  "I'm sorry, Adrian, but every time I think of the way she behaved…"

  "She had no choice." Still holding his drink he went to the door. "I have a few more things to do. I'll see you at dinner."

  Swiftly he returned to the library, a large, rectangular room whose warm brown furnishings were reflected in the mahogany desk and bookshelves. This was the place where he felt most at peace. Standing by the window he looked out over the neat lawns, seeing in his mind's eye the acres of rolling pastureland that lay beyond. It was all his and he loved every inch of it; loved the people who worked it and for whom he was responsible. In one respect his mother was right: he needed a wife to share in the joy and responsibility of ownership; needed children who would grow up to feel the same and take over from him when he was too old to continue.

  A picture of Tanya flashed into his mind: the tall slender girl he had married eight years ago. She had been eighteen then, shy and nervous and with the blond coloring of her race: honey-gold hair to complement pale golden skin and violet eyes. He had not believed anyone could have eyes of that particular shade and, on first seeing them, had thought they reflected the color of her dress. Afterward he had realized this was not so, for no matter what she wore her eyes still remained that glorious and unusual shade of deep violet.

  How long ago it seemed. Eight years in time yet a lifetime away in experience. Remembering the youth he had once been, he felt as though he were thinking of a stranger. But that youth was indeed a stranger, bearing little resemblance to the man of today—mature and austere—who had resigned from the Foreign Office to take over his father's estate, and who was soon to marry the daughter of Lord Biddell.

  He tried to keep his mind fixed on the present but, having loosened hold of his memories, he was no longer master of them, and an image of Tanya—as he had first seen her—came to the forefront of his mind.

  It had been a glorious day in mid-summer and it was also his first experience of a Rovnian festival, for he had only recently arrived at the British Embassy at Rovnia. Together with friends he had gone to the town center to watch the Rose Carnival, a traditional pageant that went so far back in history no one could remember its original meaning. Not that anybody seemed to care: to the youth of Rovnia one excuse to celebrate was as good as another.

  The festivities took the form of dancing in the street, toasting each other in vassi, a light sweet wine of the region, and cheering the gaily decorated carts laden with roses of every variety and color which paraded through the main street.

  It was after watching the tenth rose-laden cart that his attention had wandered and his eyes, roaming the happy crowd, had lighted upon the tall, slender girl standing with a group of her compatriots to one side of the main square. Like her friends, she wore the traditional Rovnian costume of wide swinging skirt and gaily embroidered blouse, but unlike her friends she was not cheering and waving but watching the carts with a look of thoughtfulness on her fine-boned face. Had she been nearer he would have strolled over to try to find out why she should look so sad when everyone around her was happy, but as the thought crossed his mind she was lost to sight in a surging mass of people, and when they moved on, so had the girl.

  By late afternoon he had had his fill of food and drink and, unwilling to join in the street dancing which was now occupying his friends, he made his excuses and decided to return home. This was easier said than done for the streets were still packed and he was frequently brought to a halt by boisterous strangers who tried to persuade him to join in their revelry. It was after he had refused the fifth offer and was edging his way toward a narrow alleyway that would lead him to the Embassy, that he saw the pensive blond girl again. This time she was caught up in a crowd of young dancers and appeared to be enjoying herself. But as he watched, the dancing grew
more boisterous and he saw she was finding it difficult to keep pace with those around her. She tried to pull away from them but her hands were too tightly held for her to free herself and, as the swinging procession veered toward him, he reached out and caught her around the waist. For an instant he was not sure he could retain his hold on her, then she was suddenly free of the crowd and standing beside him on the pavement, slightly protected by the alley directly behind them. Briefly he remained holding her, then with a quick apology he let her go and she smoothed her skirt and blouse self-consciously.

  "Are you all right?" he asked, his poor Rovnian unmistakably marking him a foreigner.

  "Yes, thank you. It was kind of you to rescue me."

  She made a move away and it was then that he surprised himself, for he was not by nature an impetuous young man. But there was something about this girl that made him want to know her better, and he stepped in front of her to bar her way.

  "I know a quiet restaurant near here. If you would let me buy you a drink…" He saw her hesitation and said: "I can give you impeccable references, if you wish. My name is Adrian Chesterton and I work at the British Embassy."

  "I am Tanya Kovacs." She had held out her hand shyly and he had taken it with a smile.

  "Now we've been properly introduced," he continued, "I hope it's in order for you to have an iced chocolate with me!"

  That had been the beginning of their friendship, though it had quickly ripened into something far deeper. Highly intelligent and well-educated, Tanya was by no means like the liberated young English girls to whom he was accustomed. Born late in life to middle-aged parents, she had acquired from them a different set of values from those of her young friends though, as she had candidly admitted, they were values that frequently made her feel a stranger with her own generation.

  "But I wouldn't change one moment of my upbringing," she had added. "My father is a historian you know, and I have learned more from him than from anyone else. To him the past is as real as the present—sometimes I think it's more real—and then I become afraid for him."

  There had been no need for Adrian to ask her what she meant, political events in Rovnia had made it all too clear. Those who remembered the past—when freedom of speech had gone hand in hand with every other civil liberty—could not help but compare it unfavorably with the military state that Rovnia was today: a land where wine flowed free but where thoughts were stifled.

  But in those warm summer days the darkening political situation had not been uppermost in Adrian's mind. All he could think of was making Tanya his wife. Surprisingly, the ambassador put little obstacle in his way, nor did the Rovnian Government make objection when one of their nationals applied to marry a foreigner. The intellectual standing of Tanya's father no doubt had something to do with their attitude, for Professor Kovacs was known in academic circles throughout the world. Not that Adrian would have cared if her father had been an illiterate peasant; it was Tanya he loved; Tanya with whom he wished to spend his life.

  It was while they were on their honeymoon that the political situation in the country worsened. There was a coup d’état and the Prime Minister was superseded by a military dictator. Adrian was recalled to England and, ten days after their marriage, Tanya kissed him goodbye at the airport.

  "I'll be with you soon, my darling," she had whispered. "In a week my papers and passport will be in order and I'll follow you."

  "I'll count the hours." Adrian had hugged her fiercely, and neither of them had imagined they would never see each other again.

  At first she had not come to England because her father was imprisoned and she had refused to leave her mother alone, then as doubts for his father-in-law's safety began to fill his mind, Adrian had pleaded with her to leave Rovnia while she was still able to do so. Twice he spoke to her on the telephone, but she became progressively more reticent and he had been forced to read what he could into her silences. Then a letter came from her saying her father had died in prison and she had applied for permission to take her mother to England. His delight was short-lived, for a visa was refused—and worse—Tanya's own visa was cancelled.

  Without success he pestered the Embassy in London but always met with the same answer: his letters to his wife were being delivered and if she did not reply to him and refused to take his telephone calls, it was her own wish and no one else's. Refusing to believe this, he fought continually for her release, even though, in all that time, there was no word from her. Then a day before their second wedding anniversary, the Rovnian Government announced that all their citizens who had married foreigners had requested that their marriages be dissolved.

  "I don't believe my wife would do such a thing of her own free will," he had stormed at the Rovnian attaché he had managed to see. "You must have pressured her into it."

  But none of his comments evoked a response, and it was only when his superior at the Foreign Office advised him that it would be in Tanya's own interest for him to stop making a nuisance of himself at the Embassy, that he had realized he might be putting her life in danger.

  It was no easy decision for him to accept that his marriage was over, but as time passed he had wondered if her silence in that first year had been deliberate. Perhaps she hadn't wanted to leave her country? Surely if she had, she could have found a way of escape? Gradually these questions became statements in his mind. No longer did he surmise about Tanya; it was as if he knew for sure and, in knowing, his love began to ebb.

  The death of his father undoubtedly helped him to put his abortive marriage firmly into the past, for it caused him to resign from his job and take over the running of the family estate. Gradually he settled back into a rural existence, finding a peace and tranquility there he had thought forever lost.

  The years piled one upon another until, six months ago, he had realized he not only had an inheritance to take care of but also one to preserve for the future. To this end he had proposed to Diana Biddell, an elegant dark- haired girl with a cool manner, whom he had known since childhood. He had no illusions that theirs was a great love match. She liked him—as he liked her—and their marriage would be based on mutual interests which would enable them to share their future amicably.

  In the months following his engagement, the member of Parliament for their district died, and Adrian was asked to take his place. Had it been for any other constituency he would have refused, but he was keenly interested in the farming community and decided to fight for its rights. Trinton was by no means a safe seat and he knew he had a tough battle on his hands in order to win against his opponent, Roger Poulton, a red-haired young man with a fiery disposition, whose family had lived in the village for generations. Poulton had worked his way through college and, though now a lecturer at a neighboring University, saw himself as the working man's crusader.

  "I won't be a part-time M.P.," was his favorite electioneering comment, which skillfully cast doubt on whether Adrian would be too preoccupied with his own affairs as a landowner to worry sufficiently about his constituents. It was a slur that Adrian had been quick to demolish, but always Poulton came back again and again with fighting words.

  A knock at the door made him turn from the window as a stocky young man with a weather-beaten face came in.

  "Am I disturbing you, Adrian?"

  "Not at all. Come in and take a pew! Anything to report?"

  Dick Tufton—who was his brother-in-law as well as his estate manager—sat in an armchair and stuck his legs out in front of him. "Old man Grant's complaining about his roof again. We've repaired it twice this year already—I swear he sits up at night poking holes in the ceiling!"

  Adrian chuckled. "You'd better fix it for him."

  "You're too easy-going," Dick replied. "He's a cantankerous old devil and you shouldn't give in to him."

  "Being eighty years old is enough to make anyone cantankerous! Anything else worrying you? "

  "Nothing I can't take care of myself. I only told you about Grant as an item of news!"
>
  "Who needs news?''

  Dick pulled a face. "I wish you'd say that in front of Betty. At the moment she's griping that nothing ever happens here."

  "Perhaps she's bored. Why not go out for dinner tonight?"

  "I'm too tired. Betty would be tired too if she did a proper day's work."

  Adrian said nothing. He knew Dick did not like living 'with his wife's family, but felt it was something they must resolve between themselves.

  "Let's go in and have a drink," he said diplomatically.

  Dick went with him to the door. "Diana coming over tonight?"

  "Yes. She's probably here now."

  As he spoke, Adrian opened the drawing room door. Diana and his mother were sitting together on the settee and the younger woman looked up at him with a smile. He went over to kiss her smooth cheek, thinking how nice she looked in a simple navy dress.

  "How about taking a drive after dinner?" he murmured, his pulses stirring at the smell of the scent she used.

  "That would be lovely. If you—" She stopped as the elderly butler came in and stood beside Adrian.

  "Excuse me, Mr. Chesterton, but there's a young lady to see you."

  "At this time of night!" his mother interjected.

  "Who is it, Hamford?" Adrian asked.

  "She wouldn't give her name, sir. Just said she has to see you."

  "Well, you'd better show her in." The butler went out and Adrian looked at his fiancée. "It's probably an election canvasser with a message."

  The door opened and a woman in an ill-fitting black coat came in. A scarf in motley shades of blue all but hid a few untidy wisps of hair, while down-at-heel shoes covered her feet. In one hand she carried a misshapen handbag and in the other a battered suitcase, which she set down on the carpet.

  For a moment the three people in the room stared at her, then Adrian took a step forward.

  "I believe you wished to see me," he said courteously.

  The woman stared at him and the soft flow of a standard lamp nearby fell upon her features. They had an angular thinness that came from lack of food rather than inherited shape, and confirmation of this could be seen in the grayish pallor of the skin tightly stretched over the high cheekbones. It was difficult to guess her age but Adrian was sure that with adequate nourishment and rest she would look considerably younger than she did at the moment.