An Oxford Enemy Read online

  AN

  OXFORD

  ENEMY

  An utterly gripping page-turner

  FAITH MARTIN

  writing as

  MAXINE BARRY

  Originally published as Dear Enemy

  Joffe Books, London 2020

  www.joffebooks.com

  First published in Great Britain 1997

  as Dear Enemy

  © Maxine Barry 1997, 2020

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is British English except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this. The right of Maxine Barry to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

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  ISBN: 978-1-78931-481-6

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  ALSO BY FAITH MARTIN

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  GLOSSARY OF ENGLISH SLANG FOR US READERS

  I’d like to thank Mr Steven Neasham for his invaluable help with the legal matters that arise in this novel.

  CHAPTER 1

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  Keira Westcombe’s hand trembled slightly as she carefully picked up the single creamy-white gardenia that the florist had delivered barely ten minutes ago. She lifted it slowly to her lips and breathed in its beautiful, heady fragrance. As she did so, her heart skipped a beat. Somehow, the single white flower made everything seem all too real. Suddenly the moment was upon her, and she was . . . well, quite frankly, scared. There was no other word to describe it, she thought to herself, with a rather ironical twist of her red-painted lips.

  But perhaps it was only to be expected. They said everyone got cold feet at times like these. If Jane, her best friend, had been here, Keira knew she could have expected a lecture. As it was her friend and stalwart ally from school days had married a South African man and gone to live far away in her husband’s country. It was a shame that she was too heavily pregnant to fly over for the occasion. Even though she knew Jane wouldn’t approve of what she was about to do, her friend’s solid, comforting presence might have helped calm her jitters. But now there was no one to distract her, and she began to really think about what she was doing.

  With a pang of panic, she closed her eyes and felt the cool petals brush her cheek. She could almost hear Jane’s voice, half exasperated, half worried. ‘I told you your ridiculous sense of duty would get you in trouble one of these days. And now look what you’ve let yourself in for.’

  Only now, when it was far too late to do anything about it, did Keira feel close to the edge of real panic. In the back of her mind she knew that she could still chicken out, and who would really blame her? After all, the potential for disaster seemed enormous.

  Then she shook her head and opened her eyes once more, their grey-green depths firm with renewed resolution. Now was definitely not the time to lose her backbone. There was far too much at stake. And not just her own future, either. But the future of the reserve. The future of all the creatures depending on her. The villagers who relied on her. She was just being selfish, letting fears and self-doubts cloud her usual clear, logical reasoning. Whatever Jane might say, Keira did have responsibilities. And, yes, damn it, she knew her duty. It might sound old-fashioned to Jane, and perhaps to others, but they hadn’t been raised to be Lady Penda, and all that entailed.

  Unknowingly, her slender back straightened and stiffened. No. She was doing the right thing. She’d thought so two weeks ago, and she thought so now.

  Didn’t she? Her shoulders slumped for a moment. Then, with a soft exclamation of self-disgust at her shilly-shallying, she straightened once more to her full height, and walked, still clasping the flower, to the full-length mirror, where she looked at herself critically.

  Her wedding dress was beautiful.

  The shoulders of the gown were of the finest Cotswold lace, a pure and dazzling white, contrasting with the tanned skin of her elegantly straight shoulders beneath. It had been a long hot summer, and on this day in September the sun was still shining brightly. Working outdoors had always given her a healthy complexion, and beneath the white lace her skin glowed like deep, sweet honey. The satin of the bodice gave way to a tight, V-shaped waist emphasizing her slender lines before falling to a voluminous skirt that swished and swirled in a thrilling, slightly alien way whenever she moved.

  Used to practical jeans, she felt strangely lost in the beautiful dress. As if someone had hijacked her personality and wrapped it up in white silk.

  She forced herself to laugh at her rather morbid fantasies, and moved closer to the mirror. The satin underskirts persisted in feeling cold against her silk-stockinged legs. Unable to prevent herself, she shivered, and almost dropped the precious flower.

  This was not how she’d expected to feel on her wedding day. But then, she supposed wryly, she was lucky to be getting married at all. Most of the men she’d known — and there hadn’t been that many — had taken one long look at all they’d be taking on in marrying Keira Westcombe and decided it was way too heavy a burden.

  She twirled the gardenia thoughtfully, and perhaps a little sadly. Her father, who’d had a passion for all sweet-scented flowers, had loved gardenias above all others.

  He’d even converted one whole greenhouse for them. Now, of course, the Heronry’s greenhouses grew only practical fruits and vegetables. She’d wept bitterly in the privacy of her room the day she’d had to ask the gardeners to remove the gardenias, but, as always, practicality came first in Keira’s life. It had to. She couldn’t afford to waste a precious penny.

  But on this, of all days, Keira had ordered a gardenia for her hair . . . She twirled the single stem in her hand, her eyes turning to emerald as unshed tears sprang once more into their depths. She wished for the millionth time that her father was here to see this day. His death, three years earlier, had left her feeling utterly bereft, and even now, so many long lonely days later, she could still feel his absence, like a gaping wound in the fabric of her life.

  It was, people had kindly assured her, only natural. Her mother had died when she was less than a year old, leaving her daughter with no memories of her. Her father had never remarried, and, as an only child, Keira had not only inherited the property and titles due to the Westcombes, and all the hard work they entailed, but also the full extent of her father’s love, wisdom and protection.

  Now she missed him more than ever. What daughter didn’t want her father to walk by her side down the aisle and give her away to the man— And there her thoughts came crashing to a sickening halt. For she knew how that scenario was supposed to end. Her father was supposed to give her away t
o the man she loved. Except, of course, that she didn’t love Lucas.

  ‘Oh, stop it, Keira,’ she murmured angrily, and lifted the gardenia to her hair. The hairdresser had done a wonderful job with it, she thought determinedly. Her hair was naturally raven-black, and so long she usually just-gathered it up in a ponytail and pinned it on the top of her head. She’d never bothered to get it cut — had never, in fact, visited a hair salon in her life. Once, just after leaving college, Jane had called her a typical nineties woman — an 1890s woman! Keira could remember her saying it, and her own laughter. Now it didn’t seem quite so funny any more.

  The hairdresser she’d hired this morning especially for the occasion had taken one look at her newly washed waist-length raven tresses and thrown up his hands in delight. Out had come the curling tongs, and other, more mysterious instruments of his trade, together with a babbling commentary on how fabulous she was going to look. Now, gazing at the mass of gentle curls and waves that glimmered like ebony against the whiteness of her dress, she felt another frisson of shock.

  The beautiful, mysterious-looking bride in the mirror was so far removed from the down-to-earth, capable woman inside, it was almost . . . obscene. It was as if she were offering Lucas a sham, a mere replica of herself.

  And, worse than that, she knew Lucas would not mind. For Lucas did not love her, either.

  Keira took a deep, shaky breath. ‘Get on with it, girl,’ she murmured to her reflection, checking the back-to-front image of the clock in the mirror and realizing she had only a few minutes left before the chauffeur-driven car was due to collect her. Silly, she supposed, to travel the few hundred yards to the village church in her own rather ancient Rolls-Royce, but everyone would expect it. The lady of the manor had certain obligations to live up to, even on her wedding day.

  Especially on her wedding day . . .

  With a snap of her pretty white teeth, she moved the gauzy veil to one side and pushed the gardenia into one tight curl, just by her left ear. Replacing the veil, she could see the flower glowing, like rich dairy cream, in the darkness of her hair. She looked stunning. One very detached part of her mind was able to tell her that, without vanity or real pleasure.

  Oh, Lucas, she thought, and almost, almost surrendered to the impulse to call the whole thing off. But Lucas knew she was marrying him for money, as surely as he knew his own reasons for marrying her. And they had nothing to do with love . . .

  In that bleak moment of total honesty with herself, Keira wanted nothing more than to run. To run far away from the Heronry, from the village, from the reserve . . .

  The reserve.

  Keira’s eyes darkened to stormy grey. No, she would not run away. Besides, Lucas was counting on her, and he’d been so wonderful. He had gone against the dictates of his own family to propose to her, and here she was, acting like a prima donna in a rather bad tragic opera.

  She shook her head grimly at her own wide-eyed reflection, and then walked steadily to the door. If her legs felt leaden in their unaccustomed high-heeled shoes, what did it really matter?

  She opened the door onto the long sweeping gallery, and walked past Gainsboroughs, Turners and Stubbses to the wide, sweeping staircase. The Heronry had been her home for the whole of her life. She’d actually been born in her mother’s bedroom, as had all the Westcombe babies for the last three centuries. The house itself was Elizabethan in structure, but had been completely modernized inside, just before she was born. Her father had been a practical man, as well as a devoted historian. Sensible central heating, as well as structural strengthening, would keep the house habitable for the Westcombe descendants for generations to come. But it still gobbled money at an alarming rate . . .

  She walked down the stairs, carefully clutching the banisters for support. Her hands felt cold against the ancient walnut. The carpet beneath her feet was old, red and thick, and as she stepped onto the flagstone hall, she glanced up automatically at the chandelier. As a child, she’d loved the tinkling crystal light. It had been a focus of magic for her, especially on the rare occasions when her father had entertained, and a ball had been held. Now, though, the chandelier was just a brass and crystal fixture. No breeze came from the open door to make it dance and sing.

  No magic today, it said. And it looked disapproving.

  Keira hastily looked away from it, and crossed the hall to the open doorway. A broad, sweeping gravel path led to two huge double gates of wrought-iron, fixed between sturdy gateposts. On top of each stone pillar was a huge round ball of granite, and on Hallowe’en, so local legend had it, those two balls swapped places. As a child, she had often sneaked out on the night, firmly taking her courage in hand, and positioned herself in the rhododendron bushes to watch the huge stone balls float across the gate to change places.

  She’d never caught them out, though. Her father had said that it was because they were too wise; they knew that she was watching, and craftily waited until, defeated and sleepy, she returned to her bed.

  She’d told that story to Rex, when she’d thought they had something special. Before he’d learned just how little money she really had, and just how much the house, gardens, estates and, of course, the reserve, would cost to run.

  Exit Rex.

  ‘Ready, My Lady?’ a deep Oxonian-burred voice asked respectfully, breaking into her reverie and making her jump visibly.

  ‘What? Oh yes, Sid, thank you,’ she said quickly, giving him a wide smile. Sid Johns had been handyman-chauffeur at the Heronry ever since she could remember, and now his thick-set body was slightly stooped, his white hair growing sparse.

  The ancient Westcombe Silver Ghost Rolls-Royce had been lovingly polished and shone like a real spectre, and when he opened the door the smell of freshly waxed leather rose to meet her. She smiled as he helped her in, and for a moment their eyes met. Then he stooped to help arrange the white frothy train around her feet.

  Sid shut the door with a gentle snap and an implacable face, and walked around to the front. She noticed, suddenly and unbearably touched, that he’d got out his old chauffeur’s uniform. His wife must have moved the buttons back for him, for although the grey velvet looked strained it managed to meet over his rounded girth. He even put on his carefully starched cap before setting off. As he started the engine the car gave a purring growl, then moved slowly up the gravel drive. Impulsively, Keira turned and glanced back at the house.

  In the mellow September sunshine its ancient walls glowed a pretty rose-pink. Many-faceted lead-paned windows gleamed in the light. Already the creepers climbing the walls were beginning to lose their greenness and held a hint of copper and bronze. But the formal rose-beds were still awash with blooms — pink, red, orange, yellow and white.

  The reception was being held at Green Acres, Lucas’s huge, modern house in the neighbouring village of Tunner Leigh. Since Lucas had agreed to move into the Heronry, and since they were getting married in her village church, she’d agreed that it was only fair to hold the festivities at his house. Even though most of his things had already been moved into his room in the west wing of her Elizabethan manor.

  Her own room was in the east wing, of course . . .

  She noticed Sid’s eyes slide across to meet hers in the mirror, and she couldn’t help but wonder what he must be thinking.

  When she’d been growing up, Sid had been the man who taught her to ride her father’s horses. The man who showed her where all the best apple trees were, just ripe for scrumping. His wife, Bessie, was officially their housekeeper, but was more like a beloved aunt. She’d taught Keira how to cook rhubarb crumble and make holly wreaths at Christmas.

  ‘Mr Harwood will make me very happy, Sid,’ she said softly.

  ‘Ah, I dare say he will, My Lady,’ he agreed. But his voice was deadpan, and she knew him well enough to know that this meant scepticism.

  The car swept out of the gates and there was old Mrs Sedgewick, standing on the grass verge, waving her white hankie. Her father had told her that s
he’d done exactly the same thing — it must be thirty years ago now, she mused — when he had married Keira’s mother.

  Deeply touched, Keira instinctively leaned forward and waved back. Ahead lay the village of Upper Rousham.

  Upper Rousham had belonged to the Westcombes ever since the very first Westcombe had built the Heronry and the farm workers’ cottages that comprised the village. Herons had been making their lofty, twiggy nests in a small copse behind the house for centuries. Besides the main lane, lined with thatched, tiled and beamed cottages, there was the village church, which had been built due to the largesse of her great-great-great-grandfather; a pub called, not inappropriately, The Stone and Heron; a village school, again funded by Westcombe money; a thriving greengrocer’s; a working mill; a butcher’s shop and a part-time bakery.

  And all of them relied on her for the upkeep of their buildings, the maintenance of the lanes, the low rent for the elderly. And it all took so much money, time and effort.

  Mr Greenslade and his six Yorkies stood a few yards further down, just coming out of his pretty honeysuckle-covered cottage, and the dogs began to yap excitedly at the sight of the huge, silent car. Again, Keira smiled and waved back as the old man raised his walking stick in the air in celebration.

  She leaned back against the leather seat, her hands cold in her lap. Her eyes gazed out across the countryside, focusing sharply on the field opposite the road. A team of draught horses patiently ploughed the land. The man who walked behind them looked as muscular, as quiet and patient, as the team he led. His hands were steady on the reins, but as the car went past in his peripheral vision, he lifted his head.

  He didn’t wave, but Keira smiled nevertheless. Aidan Shaw had been her ‘horse man’ for nearly three years. She’d thought long and hard about converting her home farm to horsepower, and when a local news programme had run a story on thirty draught horses that had been left homeless, she’d taken them on and advertised, without any real hope, for an experienced draught-horse handler and farm manager in one of the magazines devoted to the breed.