His Heiress Wife

She glanced away before she burst into tears. “Only in the sense they’re blue. I wish I could say I’m sorry for the mess you’ve made of your life, Jason, but I’m not such a hypocrite.”

“Once you didn’t lack for compassion,” he said, trapping her gaze. “It wasn’t in your nature to be mean.”

“I didn’t say I’m proud of myself,” she retorted, colour springing to her cheeks. “You got enough of that from Harry anyway, don’t expect it from me. After the funeral, Jason, I don’t want to see you again.”

CHAPTER FOUR

AS BEFITTING a man of Harry Linfield’s standing, patriarch of the community, his funeral was widely attended. Olivia knew the church was going to be packed. She was right. Mourners crowded into the cool, hushed interior, greeting each other in low, saddened voices. Many more people saw, as they approached the open church door, there was no room for them in the press of congregation. They would have to stand outside in the blazing sun or quickly seek the shade of the giant magnolia that stood in the church grounds.

Everyone was given a service sheet. Olivia as Harry’s nearest and dearest, sat up front with members of the extended family who had flown from all over to attend Harry’s funeral. Olivia had received countless subdued smiles and nods of recognition from the moment she had stepped out of her funeral house limousine right up until she took her seat in the front pew. Most of the mourners had been invited back to the house. She saw Jason on the other side of the church, in his formal dark clothes which together with the sombre expression on his chiselled face only added to his heartbreaking handsomeness.

She looked through him. His familiarity, the intimacy they had once shared a fierce torture. They would have been married from this church.

Don’t think about it. Think of Harry.

There were flowers everywhere. She had ordered reams of them despite the heat. Harry had loved flowers. There were great sprays of arum lilies, November lilies, roses, carnations, orchids and clouds of gypsophilia. Her huge bouquet of white November lilies had been placed on Harry’s casket. They all rose to their feet as the vicar, tall, silver haired, black and white robed, moved to a position just to the right of the coffin. He began to speak. The sort of words one always hears at funerals. Life, death, resurrection. The organ began to play. They all consulted their service sheets to join in the hymn. Perhaps there were too many flowers. They looked wonderful, softening the cruelty of death, but the perfume was clogging her nostrils making it hard for her to breathe. She began to pray for Harry; for her parents long dead. Harry had been far more than a guardian. He had been the closest person in the world to her. Outside Jason. It was impossible to leave out her traitorous lover.

“Are you all right, Livvy?” An elderly cousin bent solicitously towards her, placing a hand over Olivia’s.

She made a huge effort to respond. “Yes, thank you,” she whispered.

She made herself focus on her breathing. In and out. In and out. Deep and slow. Surely she wouldn’t be able to read the short poem she had picked out for the service? She was amazed now she had agreed to get up and speak. She was far too upset. She would read the poem quietly over his grave. Harry had been of a generation that read poetry constantly and loved it. She loved poetry herself. Poets had a way of expressing everything that needed to be said in the shortest possible time.

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