Withering Heights

a nice long tiff with Melody by trying to make it up. Especially if it means having to go and see her on me own.”

I knew exactly where this was leading and I wasn’t having it. There would be no twanging on my heartstrings. My loving duty was to my husband, who I knew was desperate to be alone with me without fear of our three imps capering into the bedroom. As for a former girlfriend daring to show up, I wasn’t worried as I scrubbed the shine off a couple of plates. Hadn’t Ben assured me when he asked-begged-me to marry him that I was the only woman he had ever loved? And aren’t men always especially truthful at such glowing moments?

The answer, that all dark-browed romantic heroes have their secrets, should have stared me in the face. But, alas, I was as blindly foolish as any gothic miss descending the darkened staircase of a gloomy manor house at dead of night with only a candle’s frail flickering light to ward off the terrors awaiting her.

2

Our drawing room at Merlin’s Court lends itself to tranquillity. It was early evening, and the storm had ceased several hours before. Sunlight skimmed the polished surfaces. The scent of roses drifted in through the open latticed windows, and the portrait of Abigail Grantham, first mistress of Merlin’s Court, smiled serenely down from above the mantelpiece. Unfortunately, there was nothing remotely tranquil about Ben’s mood that evening.

He was seated in the fireside chair across from mine. A softly lit table lamp dramatically highlighted his profile. He was looking dangerously attractive in faded blue jeans and a worn sweatshirt: a lethal combination, as I had often told him. He was wearing his reading glasses, which only added to his appeal. But far from sending loving glances my way, he appeared oblivious to my presence. Eight years of marriage had accustomed me to these occasional down moments. Even so, this was to have been a special evening. If he resented Mrs. Malloy’s spending the night, that wasn’t my fault. I had just persuaded her she’d be better off mulling over a reconciliation with Melody in her own house when he’d walked in and announced that it had been hell driving home in the storm and anyone with any sense would stay put for the evening. She had graciously agreed with him and gone upstairs immediately to lay out guest towels for herself.

The silence thickened. Ben’s dark head was bent. He was gripping a glossy magazine with agonized intensity. It was the latest issue of Cuisine Anglaise, the one that contained the review of his soon to be released book, A Light Under the Stove. As I had told Mrs. Malloy, I had thought it extremely complimentary. I even thought it improved the seventh or eighth time Ben read it aloud to me. Alas, being prey to the tortured sensibilities of a man of letters, he had fixated on one line-the one that described his prose as somewhat floury.

My attempts to convince him the comment was not as damning as he thought had fallen on determinedly deaf ears. Reminders that his other books had done extremely well had failed to cheer him. Sensing that he needed time to savor the savage belief that his writing career, if not his life, was over, I focused on my regrets. It seemed my hopes for a romantic evening were doomed to disappointment.

Such a pity! Ben had, without raising a dark sardonic eyebrow in my direction, reminded me why I had known on first meeting him that there would be no joy in my remaining an unattached overweight female with a bunch of finely tuned neuroses. So much had happened since. I know longer needed two mirrors to get a good look at myself. But I still thrilled to the image of him striding across the moors with the wind whipping his black hair to a wild tangle. The intent set of his shadowed jaw, the opal fire of his blue-green eyes, and the way his mouth curved in wry amusement all mocked the impudent folly of the elements in enlisting him as an opponent.

A wife, however, knows when it is time to reenter the fray. I didn’t put on a pair of boxing gloves, not having any readily to hand, but I did speak sternly. “Darling, put that magazine down; you’ve been wallowing long enough. It’s bad for the complexion.”

His response was a weary grimace.

“Do I have to take it away from you?”

“No.” He tossed Cuisine Anglaise across the room. I sucked in a breath as it narrowly missed the yellow porcelain vase on the secretary desk before landing in a flutter of pages on the bookcase. Watching him slump back in his chair caused my patience to dwindle.

“It isn’t a bad review, and even if it were it’s not the end of life on earth.”

“You’re right.” He spoke in a toneless voice.

“Think about it! How many people read that silly magazine anyway?” It was of course the absolutely wrong thing to say, totally insensitive and unsympathetic. But I wasn’t used to dealing with Ben in this attitude of pale sorrow. I would much have preferred him to leap three feet in the air and clutch at his head before pounding up and down the room, as was customary when he was severely upset. Turbulence I could deal with, knowing I only had to count to ten and it would be over. I would straighten any pictures that had been sent askew, and whatever was wrong would get sorted out over a cup of tea or, when the rare situation warranted it, something stronger.

“Cuisine Anglaise has a wide circulation, Ellie.”

“Among people who call beef boeuf.” I couldn’t keep my hoof out of my mouth. “And they aren’t the sort to buy your cookery books by the dozens.”

“Thanks a lot!” Removing his reading glasses, he set them down with painstaking precision.

“It was meant as a compliment, Ben. Your strength is real food, eaten by real people, not trendy fashion food for the beautiful and bored. You appeal to the average person. Getting meals on the table isn’t a form of artistic expression for them. More likely it’s a matter of Mum and Dad getting the children to eat what’s put in front of them rather than dropping it on the floor for the dog or gagging on it until they’re ordered out of the room.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this before I wrote the damn book? I could have stuck to advice on putting frozen dinners in the microwave,” said Ben. “That wouldn’t have required any ‘floury’ prose.” His smile did not take the edge off the words. But I didn’t have the sense to stop while I was behind. I was too upset that our evening had been ruined and he’d hardly told me anything about his overnight with his parents or how well the children had settled in before he started for home.

“You’re not the only one to get less than bubbling praise at times.” I stirred restlessly in my chair. “But I don’t go to pieces when a client finds fault with a room design I’ve spent days working on.”

“It’s not the same, Ellie. Being criticized in print is far worse-”

“Than being told to my face I’ve done an inadequate job?” I got to my feet and had the sherry decanter in hand when Mrs. Malloy came teetering into the room, again with the feather duster. I had been picturing her snugly tucked up in the guest room with my copy of Lord RakehelPs Redemption. But here she was, a possible bright spot or at the very least an interruption, in an otherwise bleak moment. Tobias followed in her wake. Sensing disharmony, which he had made clear in the past was not good for a cat of advancing years, he settled on the bookcase and turned convincingly to stone.

Ben, who had risen for our overnight guest if not for Mr. Tobias, pointed an outraged quivering finger. “He’s sitting on Cuisine Anglaise!”

“Good!” I flared. “He’ll stay sitting on it if I have anything to say about it!” Having poured myself a liberal glass of sherry, I returned to my seat and did my own impersonation of cat staring into space.

“One look through Cuisine Whatsit the first time it arrived for you was enough for me, Mr. H!” Mrs. Malloy swayed with the breeze, or possibly the effects of a nip of gin in the kitchen, on her ridiculously high heels. But it was clear she had summed up the situation, as behooved a woman who had once commandeered Milk Jugg’s private detective agency. “As if I want to eat at those restaurants they write about. The ones where they put marigolds on your salad and hold up the bottle of wine so you can bow to it! And me a Christian woman! Idolatrous, the vicar would call it!”

With Ben standing there like a bottle of sauce, I felt compelled to stem the flow of Mrs. M’s tirade. “Cuisine Anglaise is the periodical of choice for the person with the professionally trained palate.”

“Biffy for them!” Mrs. Malloy’s bust having inflated to a dangerous size, I waited uneasily for the sound of an explosion. “If the review wasn’t all that complimentary about your new cookery book, Mr. H, I’d be pleased as Punch. Your recipes are for the sort of meals that taste lovely and give you a warm, dreamy feeling when you