A High Price to Pay (2 page)

For starters, Nicholas Bristow was at least twenty-five years her

father's junior. One of the City's boy wonders, she could remember

reading about him somewhere. A whizz-kid financier with the Midas

touch. In his thirties now, of course, but still apparently printing his

own money.It was—heartening to believe that he had thought highly

enough of her father to come to his funeral, even without an

invitation. Only Alison didn't believe it. According to the items about

him in the various gossip columns which appeared with such

monotonous regularity, Nicholas Bristow didn't give a damn about

anything except making money. He wasn't married, but he certainly

wasn't celibate either, seeming to change the ladies in his life as

frequently as his expensive suits.

She might have contempt for his lifestyle, but at the same time Alison

had him mentally filed as someone it could be dangerous to offend,

and she decided it could be wise to intervene before he came face to

face with her mother.

He was in the hall, as Alison came downstairs, in the act of handing

his coat to Mrs Horner, the daily help.

Alison said with a coolness she was far from feeling, 'It's all right,

Mrs Horner. I'll deal with this.'

At the sound of her voice Nicholas Bristow turned, his brows rising

interrogatively as he looked at her. Once again the sheer force of his

attraction struck her like a body blow. How fortunate that his

personality didn't match, Alison thought stonily as she walked down

the last remaining stairs.

She said, 'Good morning, Mr Bristow. I don't suppose you remember

me.'

'Indeed I do, Miss Mortimer.'

She prayed she wouldn't blush like a schoolgirl and ruin everything.

Aloud, she said quietly, 'This is rather embarrassing for us, Mr

Bristow, but it seems there's been a slight misunderstanding. It was

kind of you to come to my father's funeral service, but this lunch is

restricted to family and close friends, and unfortunately . ..'

'Unfortunately, I don't fall within either category,' Nicholas Bristow

supplied calmly. 'I'm aware of that, Miss Mortimer.'

'Then I'm sure you won't wish to intrude,' Alison said, lifting her chin

a little. 'My mother, as you can imagine, is in a very nervous and

distressed condition, and can't be expected to cope with uninvited

guests.'

'Yes, I can well imagine.' His firm mouth twisted slightly. 'But the

misunderstanding is yours. Miss Mortimer. As it happens, I have

been invited here. By Alec Liddell, and also by your uncle, Colonel

Bosworth.'

Alison's lips parted helplessly in a little gasp. 'They—did? But why?'

'I suggest you ask them,' he drawled. 'And while you're conducting

your little interrogation, I'll wait quietly somewhere where the sight

of me won't cause your mother any problems.' As she hesitated he

added quietly, 'I'm no gatecrasher, Miss Mortimer. I do have a reason

to be here.'

She said levelly, 'I don't pretend to understand what's going on, but

perhaps you'd wait in the study while I speak to my uncle.' She led the

way across the hall and opened the door. It was quite a small room,

panelled in oak, the heavy curtains still drawn out of respect. It was

the first time Alison had entered the room since her father's death, and

it seemed at once still so redolent of his personality that she checked

abruptly in the doorway, her whole body tautening.

She was hardly aware of the sharp look from the man beside her, but

she heard him say, 'I think the situation would be improved by some

daylight, don't you?' followed by the rattle of the rings along the poles

as he drew back the curtains, allowing some watery spring sunshine

to permeate the room.

She was back in control again. 'Thank you,' she said huskily.

'There—there's some whisky in the corner cupboard, if you'd like to

help yourself.'

'You're very hospitable.' The dry note in his voice wasn't lost on her.

He walked across the room, and looked down at her, frowning

slightly. 'I'm sorry about your father,' he said at last. 'I liked him.'

'Thank you.' Her voice was firmer this time. 'Now, you'll have to

excuse me. I have to see to our—other guests.'

She closed the study door behind her quietly, and stood for a moment,

forcing herself to think rapidly. It was an awful day, but it seemed to

be getting worse with every moment that passed. She was more than

uneasy now; she was getting frightened. From the chaos of the past

week, some kind of monstrous pattern seemed to be emerging. She

didn't understand it, nor did she want to. She wanted to run away

somewhere and hide.

The atmosphere in the drawing room was inevitably subdued, but as

Alison moved from group to group, thanking people for coming, and

accepting their condolences, it occurred to her that everyone seemed

abnormally gloomy and abstracted. Or was she being stupidly

over-sensitive? she asked herself, making her way towards her uncle.

But before she could reach him, she was grabbed by Melanie.

'Who's the dish?' she hissed. 'And where have you hidden him?'

'I can't think who . . .' Alison began, but Mel gave her a little shake.

'Oh, don't be pompous, Ally! Tall and dark, with eyes like Paul

Newman's. I saw him arrive.'

'You would,' Alison sighed. 'Well, his name's Nicholas Bristow, and

he seems to be here on business.'

Melanie rolled her eyes in mock-lasciviousness. 'Do you think he'd

do a deal with me?' She caught Alison's eye, and subsided. 'I'm sorry,

Ally,' she muttered reluctantly. 'I know I shouldn't be making jokes at

a time like this, but everything's so—so bloody!'

Alison put her arm round her sister's shoulders and gave her a swift

hug. 'Yes, it is,' she said fiercely. 'And you make all the jokes you

want. Now, I've got to talk to Uncle Hugh.'

'Hullo, my dear.' His voice was awkward. 'May I get you a drink?'

She shook her head. 'I'm not thirsty. I just want to know what's going

on. Nicholas Bristow tells me you invited him here.'

'Well, it was Liddell's idea really.' He didn't meet her gaze. 'He felt it

might make things— easier.'

'What things?' Alison's eyes narrowed. 'Uncle Hugh, you can't keep

dropping hints like this. You've got to tell me!'

There was a silence, then he sighed heavily. 'Perhaps you have the

right. I just don't know any more. And together, we might be able to

cushion your mother . ..' He paused again. 'Did your father ever talk to

you about money?'

She shook her head. 'I used to ask him, from time to time, especially

about the works—if the company was being affected by the

recession, but he always said everything was fine.'

He pulled her into a corner. 'Well, it wasn't fine,' he muttered. 'In fact,

Ally, it was just about as bad as it could be. For the last two years he

was pouring every penny he could raise into the firm, but it was never

enough. Oh, he could have cut back, I suppose, but it would have

meant laying men off, and he wouldn't do that. Said it was a bad sign,

and reduced public confidence. Said he felt—responsible.'

Alison nodded. 'He did. Mortimers has always been a family

company. Daddy hated the idea of redundancies. He felt it was a

betrayal of people who trusted him.' She smiled sadly. 'A rather

patriarchal attitude, I'm afraid.'

'A rather naive one in this economic climate,' her uncle said grimly.

'And there was this house, of course, and your mother's—expenses.'

Alison hands clenched into fists at her side and she looked at him

levelly. 'Uncle Hugh, are you trying to tell me that Daddy was broke?'

Unwillingly, he nodded. 'There's your mother's annuity, of course,

that's safe. But as for the rest of it...'

'Oh, God!' Alison felt dazed, but she made herself think. 'But there are

his shares in Mortimers, they must be worth something.'

'Only if the company itself has any value,' Colonel Bosworth said

gloomily. 'And there's every chance of a receiver being put in.'

She bit her lip. 'Well—there's this house. I know it's big, and

inconvenient, but Daddy had it valued not long ago, and if we sold it,

and found somewhere smaller ...'

He. was shaking his head. 'That's what I'm trying to tell you, my dear.'

His voice was awkward with compassion. 'The house, I'm afraid, he

used as security for a considerable loan. Mortimers needed new

machinery for a potential order from China—engineering

components, I understand. It could have been the salvation of the

place, and Anthony gambled everything on getting it.' He looked very

old suddenly. 'Only he didn't. He got the news just before—just

before . ..'

'His attack,' Alison said. She felt very cold, her body trembling

uncontrollably. 'I—see. So— Ladymead doesn't belong to us any

more. I—I can't quite believe it.' She closed her eyes for a moment.

'Poor Mummy? Where can she go? What can she do?'

'That is something we all have to discuss. But there need be no hasty

decisions. I'm sure she'll be treated with every consideration by

the—er—new owner.'

'New owner?' Her bewildered eyes searched his face. 'But you said

the house had been used as security. It belongs to a bank, doesn't it?'

'Not as such.' Uncle Hugh looked more uncomfortable than ever.

'Your father had trouble in raising the money he wanted. It was felt, I

think, that his proposition wasn't a good risk—as indeed it proved.

The eventual loan was a— private arrangement, although perfectly

legal, of course,' he added hastily.

Alison's nails scored the palms of her hands. She said unsteadily,

'It's—Nicholas Bristow, isn't it?'

Uncle Hugh nodded wretchedly, 'Yes.'

She whispered, 'Oh, God. So that's why . ..'

She couldn't say any more. She turned away, fighting her emotions,

struggling to retain some rags of self-control as the full force of

everything that had happened broke on her.

Crazily, a line from Shakespeare kept echoing and re-echoing in her

head: 'One woe doth tread upon another's heels, so fast they follow.'

And the upshot was that Ophelia was drowned, and she was drowning

too, in anger and outrage and bewilderment.

At last she said brokenly, 'How could Daddy? How could

he—mortgage our home to a stranger?'

'Because he was a gambler,' her uncle returned sombrely. 'Oh, not

with cards or horses—that might have been easier to deal with. But he

liked to take risks in business—unnecessary risks, like investing in

these new machines without any guarantees from the Chinese that

they'd ever be needed. I don't think the possibility of losing his

gamble ever occurred to him. And give him his due, if Mortimers had

won that contract, it would have been just the boost the works needed.

He'd have been able to pay off the loan too, and neither your mother

nor you and Melanie would ever have been any the wiser.'

'Only it didn't work out like that,' said Alison with a small mirthless

smile. 'The problem now is—how do we break the news to Mother?

How do we tell her she's not only penniless, but homeless too? And at

the hands of a man she doesn't like. Or has Mr Bristow come to serve

his notice to quit in person?'

'On the contrary.' Uncle Hugh looked almost affronted. 'You're doing

him an injustice, Ally. He is most concerned.'

'How kind of him!' She pushed her hair back from her face with a

shaking hand. 'But it doesn't change anything. He's not going to give

us back our home," is he?'

'You have to be realistic, my dear.' Her uncle looked horrified. 'No

one could be expected simply to write off a debt of that magnitude.

No, I'm afraid your poor father knew what he was risking when he

entered into the arrangement— much against Alec Liddell's advice, I

may say.'

'Bravo, Mr Liddell,' Alison said wearily. 'He'll be here soon, I

suppose.'

'In about half an hour.' He nodded in affirmation. 'The others should

be leaving by then. I thought we could all have a quiet chat—a family

conclave, to decide what's best to be done.'

'And do you now count Nicholas Bristow as part of the family?'

There was an edge to her voice, and her uncle frowned rather

reprovingly as he answered, 'No, of course not, child. But I'm sure it

would be better for all concerned if matters were conducted on

as—amicable a basis as possible. I know he's anxious to reassure your

mother that he has no immediate plans to take possession.'

She winced. 'Don't!'

He shook his head. 'I'm sorry, Ally, but it's something you're going to

have to come to terms with. Ladymead belongs to Nicholas Bristow

now.'