A Brighter Tomorrow by Maggie Ford (read with me .txt) 📕

way into his affections, she was worse than a thief. But Mary wasn’t prepared to let it go at that. She could never forgive Bertram for the way he had behaved – thinking to replace his own dearest daughter with an urchin from some poverty-stricken back street, indulging in her to ease his loss.

With no care how she felt about it, he’d set about selfishly filling his own emptiness by giving the girl whatever she asked for, completely blind to the fact that she was winding him round her little finger. Now he was letting himself be eaten up with jealousy because she had done what most young girls did – fallen in love.

He was in terror of losing her. That was how stupid he’d become, and he was doing all he could to break up the two young people. But she would make sure he’d fail. If he did but know, he had played into her hands with this obsessive jealousy of his. She had tried for so long to be rid of the girl and now this young man offered a way out that all her complaining, her nagging, even her temporarily leaving her own husband had failed to achieve. And now she had him. It was time to act. As the house fell silent, Mary crept back into her bed to think it out properly. It was so simple: make sure those two remained together – that was all she needed to do. She could hardly wait.

It had all come to her ears through Dora. Though Ellie had confided in her sister, she had sworn her to secrecy. Mrs Jenkins, however, being no fool, had discovered what had been going on and out of a strong sense of duty had reported it to her employers. The woman could usually be relied on to keep things to herself, but one chance word carelessly dropped had had that Chambers girl enlarging on it to the kitchen maid. Though everyone was aware of it, only she, his wife, knew of Bertram’s fear that he was about to lose the girl to Michael Deel and intended to break up the young lovers with whatever means came to hand, no doubt even going to the boy’s father.

What angered her was that he’d not spoken one word about it to her, still believing she was in the dark, for she’d been careful to keep what she knew to herself. Having him know what she’d found out would do her no good: he’d thwart her the moment she showed her hand. What a shock he was in for.

How she had managed to keep silent when he’d given Jay their own daughter’s old bedroom had been beyond her, but her silence alone had spoken volumes and since that time they had hardly exchanged words unless there was need to. He didn’t seem much put out by these long silences. He might, she felt, even be glad of them, as helping him to avoid occasional lies.

Since the death of their daughter they had more or less led separate lives anyway, meeting only occasionally at meal times, or when entertaining guests called for it. They went out together only when absolutely necessary – to a function or to dinner with a friend, maybe one of his medical colleagues. She had no real friends, had never been good at mixing. He’d thought otherwise when he had asked her to marry him but soon realized how wrong he’d been. Millicent had brought them closer, but now she was gone there seemed little point in it. Her only contact was her sister, but since having gone to live with her, if only for that short time, relations had grown strained. She blamed Bertram utterly for having driven her to leave home – he and his weird obsession for a child in whom he professed loudly to see such a striking likeness to his own dead child. Yes, loudly.

Mary couldn’t help smirking as she lay on her side in bed with the covers drawn up over her ears. There were times when she wondered if this obsession with the girl was quite as fatherly as he made out. It didn’t matter, for she was going to put an end to it. On this thought Mary Lowe drifted off to asleep.

She knew where her husband was this evening: in his club with Michael Deel’s father. She had learned to be devious and earlier on had asked him innocently where he was off to.

‘I’ve hardly set eyes on you all day, dear,’ she pouted, having made sure to come down to dinner.

He looked up from his first course of salmon mousse. ‘I can’t exactly say that is my fault, my dear. My surgery is full to overflowing this time of year with autumn coughs and colds, lumbago and rheumatism, not to mention visiting time. This is the time of year when so many begin to take to their beds with pneumonia and pleurisy or are seen off with heart failure. My time is well taken up, leaving little time to myself.’

‘Or for me, dear,’ she cut through the rambling.

He regarded her with a puzzled frown. ‘I thought you cared little for my company, my dear.’

‘Because you are always so busy. I am loath to intervene.’

‘You have Dora.’ His tone had grown sharp. ‘You seem quite content with her.’

‘I would not be if I had more of your time. And where are you off to tonight, dear?’ She hoped she was leading their conversation round expertly to its destination as he shrugged lightly.

‘My club,’ he said, resuming eating.

Her own food remained untouched. ‘I do sometimes wish there were clubs for ladies. I might make friends there.’

‘There are such places,’ he answered, delicately cutting into the last few pieces of his salmon mousse. ‘If you did but put yourself out a little more, Mary, my dear, you could find plenty of diversion rather than spending your time in your room with a paid companion.’

‘We