Beautiful Lies by Clare Clark Page B

man had ever been happier. In Paris he had invented the story of their accidental meeting, not for him, he was clear about that, but for the rest of them, who were foolish and would never understand. Maribel had thought the tale implausible, had asked how anyone would believe that Edward of all people, who had been riding since before he could walk, had lost control of his horse on a busy thoroughfare, but Edward had told her no one would ever think of such a thing.
    He was right, of course. Nobody did. Edward said it was because it was a delightful story and the truth was that most people desired to be delighted. It was the rare cynic who disdained the enchantment of propitious happenstance, where the fate of a beautiful woman might be decided by a chance meeting. Their set was young and gifted and they did not give a spoon for the finer points of Maribel’s bloodline. Theirs was a new generation, who spurned the dusty hierarchies of their forefathers and disdained their titles. As for Edward, he was charming and clever and capricious, a gentleman whose pampas swagger was never quite obscured by his elegant tailoring. At Ascot he wore his gaucho knife under his dress suit. Maribel was exactly the variety of exotic bloom with whom a man like he would fall hopelessly in love.
    Only Edward’s mother had showed little inclination to be charmed by the romance of her son’s courtship. Edward had taken Maribel to meet Vivien when they had been married three days. He had sat on the arm of his mother’s chair, Vivien’s hand on his sleeve, while Maribel stared at the floor and answered her new mother-in-law’s questions in monosyllables. In the cab going home the two of them had quarrelled for the first time. Edward had accused Maribel of sullenness, of discourtesy. He demanded to know how his mother was supposed to love her new daughter-in-law if she refused even to look her in the eye. For her part Maribel pronounced Edward cruel and disloyal. She said that it was wicked for a man to care more for his mother than his wife, wicked and unnatural. Both had declared the other impossible. Edward had gone to his club and returned home very late. In the dark refuge of their bed he had held her and her tears had fallen on his face and oiled his dark red whiskers.
    Maribel never asked whether Vivien knew the truth. On the whole she thought it unlikely. Even if Edward had tried to tell her, it was not in Vivien Campbell Lowe’s nature to hear things that she preferred not to know. Edward knew that better than anyone. Though he had written to Vivien weekly during their time in America he had never once alluded directly to his new wife.
    Whatever she knew, the older Mrs Campbell Lowe kept it to herself. She had no desire to attach scandal to the family. Perhaps if Maribel had proved a treasure hunter, she might have sought a way to disgrace her. Along with her unswerving conviction in her own judgement Vivien had friends in Paris. It would have been a matter of little difficulty to establish the non-existence of Maribel’s aunt. But there was no treasure to hunt, only debts, and Maribel, unlike Edward, showed some adroitness in the management of money. It was because of Maribel that the estate at Inverallich had at last been persuaded to yield a profit. She could be frugal too, when required, and her frugality never showed. Vivien Campbell Lowe might disapprove of her daughter-in-law, she might even dislike her, but she could not fault her conduct. Besides, she was ambitious for her son. If Maribel was exposed it would mean the end of his parliamentary career.
    Maribel’s cigarette was burned to a nub. She took a final long inhalation and put it out. In the bed Edward turned over, flinging an arm across her empty pillow. In the Calle de León gentlemen had not been permitted to stay the night. On the train to Paris Maribel had leaned against Edward and it seemed to her a kind of miracle that they had found each other in such a place