by Anne Mather
‘Don’t you think this conversation has gone far enough?’ she suggested quietly. ‘I’m sorry if I sound unfeeling, but I’ve just had a long journey, and I’m tired, and I didn’t know I’d have you to face at the end of it—’
‘You’re tired!’ he grated, bearing his weight on the stick as he moved nearer to her. ‘You’re sorry if you sound unfeeling!’ His mouth tightened ominously. ‘My God, do you think that’s sufficient recompense for the way you’re treating me?’
‘Jaime, listen—’
‘No, you listen! To me!’ He jerked her towards him as he spoke, bringing her close enough to be touching him, her thigh brushing his uninjured leg. ‘I didn’t come in here to quarrel with you, or to beg your sympathy. I came because I knew it was going to be difficult for you, for both of us, and I wanted to—smooth the passage.’ He made a sound of derision. ‘But you don’t want it that way, do you? You want to keep me at bay, to erect all those old grievances you’ve managed to perpetuate against me, to create a situation where it’s impossible for us to behave normally with one another.’ His eyes blazed angrily. ‘Oh, I know you refused to answer my calls, and you didn’t acknowledge any of my letters, but I thought—I really thought—we might be able to talk to one another here—’
‘Well, you were wrong.’ Rachel could not let that go unchallenged. For the first time, she tried to get away from him, but in spite of his injury he was still a lot stronger than she was, and by struggling with him she was only making the situation more volatile. ‘Jaime, we have nothing to say to one another,’ she exclaimed, then froze into immobility when he dragged her arm across his body and pressed her hand deliberately against his right leg.
‘Feel it!’ he commanded thickly. ‘I want you to feel it,’ and she averted her eyes quickly from the disturbing violence in his. But rather than promote another outburst, she flexed her fingers tentatively against the corded cloth. Beneath the dark material of his trousers she could detect the taut ribbing of the bandages, and sensed the heat of his flesh rising to meet hers. ‘Well?’ he muttered. ‘Can you feel it throbbing like a septic pulse? Believe me, I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t think we still had something to say!’
‘Jaime—’
Her use of his name was not a plea for remission, but when she tilted her face up to his, his tormented expression was almost her undoing. Dear God, she thought dizzily, no one could disrupt her carefully controlled emotions like Jaime could, and for an insane moment she wanted him to touch her. She swayed weakly, as her head swam, and her breasts pressed briefly against his chest, but then Liz’s voice, from the foot of the stairs, called irresistibly, ‘Rachel! Darling, are you coming?’ and cold reason replaced the heated urgings of her senses.
She did not have to ask Jaime to release her. He turned, as his mother spoke, his lean face taut and brooding. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I won’t embarrass you!’ and walked with evident difficulty out of her room.
Downstairs, Robert had poured drinks, and Rachel accepted a cocktail gratefully, hoping the alcohol would calm her nerves. She had only had time to apply a little lip-gloss, and brush her hair, and she hoped that the Shards had not noticed her state of agitation.
‘I wonder whether Jaime intends to join us,’ Liz said at last, after Robert had asked Rachel about her journey, and received only monosyllabic replies. She gave the girl an apologetic look. ‘Dr Manning actually suggested that he should spend some time in bed, to allow his wound to heal, but you know what—I mean—well, Jaime wouldn’t listen.’ She offered an embarrassed smile. ‘Er—perhaps you ought to go and see what he’s doing, Rob,’ she finished appealingly. ‘We can’t keep Maisie waiting indefinitely.’
‘All right.’
Robert got up from his seat beside Rachel on the couch, and with a good-natured grimace left the room. In his absence, Liz offered Rachel another drink, and after she had refused said:
‘You’re not worrying about this, are you, darling?’ She sighed. ‘I know it can’t be easy for you, but after all, you and Jaime are civilised people. You can meet as old—acquaintances, can’t you?’
Rachel concentrated on the clear liquid in her glass. ‘If—if that’s what—Jaime wants.’
‘Oh, I’m sure it is.’ Liz was fervent. ‘I think he may be glad of the opportunity to—well, repair the damage. Oh, not for any personal reasons, but simply because he would like to heal the breach.’
Rachel could not answer her, not least because her own preconceived ideas were in shreds. She had thought she could handle Jaime, now she wasn’t so sure whether she could handle herself. And the knowledge that he still had the power to disturb her was terrifying.
‘He’s not coming, after all.’ Robert breezed back into the sitting room with a distinct air of relief. ‘He says he’d rather have supper in his room. He’s got a little pain, I think, and he doesn’t feel like making the effort to come downstairs.’
‘Oh!’ Liz bit her lip and looked uncertainly down into their guest’s taut face. ‘Well—but what about Rachel? Doesn’t he want to see her? To say hello?’
‘He asks to be excused this evening,’ Robert explained, as Rachel started to make her own protestations. ‘He says he’ll see her tomorrow—which I’m sure will be time enough for both of them,’ he concluded, with another grimace. ‘Now, shall we eat?’
The meal was served in the intimate dining room, that overlooked the cliffs at the back of the house. Tonight, of course, the curtains were drawn, and the only evidence of their proximity to the ocean was the persistent murmur of the sea on the rocks. The fog had reduced sound as well as visibility, and its muted cadences were low and resonant.
The food, as always, was excellent, but Rachel ate little, making the excuse that she had had a sandwich on the train. ‘I expect my appetite will improve with all the fresh air I’m going to get,’ she explained, breaking the protracted silence, and Liz smiled her understanding.
‘I think you need time to relax, and get used to us again,’ she declared, as Maisie served their coffee. ‘Don’t worry about anything. It will all work out, you’ll see.’
It was a relief, nevertheless, to escape to her room later. Closing her door, Rachel wished ardently that there had been a key, but there wasn’t, and she could hardly jam a chair under the handle. What possible explanation could she give Liz and Robert, if they discovered her in such a predicament? And besides, if Jaime was in pain, he was unlikely to come to her room again tonight.
Someone had turned on the electric blanket on her bed, and after a cursory wash and a cleaning of her teeth, Rachel unplugged it before climbing wearily between the heated sheets. It was deliciously warm and comfortable, and with the distant murmur of the sea from the other side of the house, she endeavoured to relax. But she couldn’t forget that the last time she had stayed at Clere Heights she had not slept alone, and the knowledge that Jaime was there, only a few yards away across the corridor, filled her with apprehension.
* * *
Eventually she slept, and although her sleep was shallow and punctuated with turbulent nightmares, she awakened feeling at least partially rested. Outside, the fog seemed to have given way to a brighter morning, and after watching the play of light between the heavy curtains at her windows for several minutes, she at last thrust back the covers and went to investigate for herself.
As she had suspected, the mist had lifted, and the view from her window encompassed the whole of the garden at the front of the house, and the village of Rothside in the distance. Although the trees were bare now, and the lawns had lost their lambent greenness, the thick hedges were dense and sturdy, with here and there a budding sprig of holly to provide a splash of colour.
The village lay below them, its roofs grey-tiled and solid, with the spire of the church just visible above a cluster of poplars. The road to the village ran beyond the barrier of rhododendrons, and wound its way down between fields, that Rachel remembered as being pastureland. Now, however, they had been ploughed, a
nd left to turn their dark furrows to the blue sky, ready for sowing when the frosts of winter were over.
It was all much as she remembered it, she thought unwillingly, admitting that until now she had not realised how sharply it had remained in her memory. The house, and the village, and the tussocky cliffs sloping down to the river estuary, where the Roth spilled its waters into the North Sea.
She shivered suddenly, as the coolness of her room struck through the thin satin of her nightgown, and was starting back to warm herself beneath the covers when there was the lightest of taps at her door. She stiffened for a moment, and then, realising that Jaime would be unlikely to knock and announce himself, she opened her mouth to call: ‘Come in!’ when the handle turned and Maisie’s head appeared.
‘Oh, you’re up!’ she exclaimed, opening the door wider to reveal the small tea tray in her hands. ‘I thought you might still be sleeping, and Mrs Shard said not to disturb you if you were.’
Rachel relaxed. ‘I was just re-acquainting myself with everything,’ she admitted, taking the tray from her eagerly. ‘Hmm, I could just do with a cup of tea. Especially yours, Mrs Armstrong.’
‘Indeed!’ The housekeeper sounded sceptical, but she looked pleased, and Rachel perched on the side of the bed, setting the tray beside her.
‘Is—is everyone up?’ she asked, raising the wide-rimmed china cup to her lips. ‘What time is it? My watch seems to have stopped.’
‘It’s a quarter to nine,’ replied Maisie chattily, plainly disposed to linger. ‘Oughtn’t you to put on a dressing gown or something? You’ll be catching your death in that flimsy thing.’
Rachel smiled. ‘Well, I was beginning to feel a bit cold,’ she admitted. ‘But your tea has warmed me up beautifully.’
‘Mmm.’ Maisie pulled a wry face. ‘Well, so long as you’re sure.’ She twitched the fringe of the bedcover into position, then added: ‘Mrs Shard is downstairs, taking tea in the morning room, while she opens the mail, but Mr Shard isn’t up yet, and nor is Jaime.’
‘I see.’ Rachel caught her lower lip between her teeth.
‘That was a rare old business, wasn’t it?’ Maisie went on. ‘Jaime getting shot like that, and being brought home on crutches.’ She moved her shoulders expressively. ‘My, my, you should have seen his mother’s face when he limped into the house!’
‘I—I can imagine.’ Rachel’s blood quickened at the thought of it.
‘Yes—well, he came to the right place,’ Maisie opined firmly. ‘It’s only right that he should come home and be looked after by people who care about him.’
‘Of course.’ Rachel wondered if this was a subtle criticism of her.
‘Of course, Mrs Shard was worried about that, what with you coming and all,’ the housekeeper continued. ‘But I said to her, I did, this is Jaime’s home, I said, and Miss Williams won’t expect you to consider her feelings at a time like this.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Armstrong.’ Rachel put down her cup. ‘That was delicious.’ She moistened her lips. ‘Er—will you tell Mrs Shard I’ll be down in fifteen minutes?’
‘Yes, miss.’ The housekeeper picked up the tray again, and moved towards the door. ‘You—er—you haven’t spoken to Jaime yet, have you? He’s in his room, just along the hall, if you’d like to go and have a word with him. After you’re dressed, of course.’
Rachel kept her smile in place with difficulty. ‘I expect I’ll see him later,’ she declared stiffly, and the housekeeper looked disappointed.
‘I’m sure he’d like to see you, Miss Williams,’ she persisted. ‘And it is Christmas Eve, you know. The season of peace and good will.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Armstrong.’ Rachel’s dismissal was unmistakable this time, and with a little shrug the housekeeper left her, evidently feeling she had done what she could to repair the damage.
With her departure, Rachel rose purposefully to her feet again and padded into the bathroom. The night before she had paid little attention to her surroundings, but now she took time to admire the rose and cream tiles that circled the bath, and the fluted glass shower, with its pinewood door. The bath beckoned, but time dictated a shower, so she turned on the tap and stepped beneath its steaming cascade.
Her hair got wet, but she had brought a hand-dryer with her, and its smooth style was easily restored. Then, after examining the contents of her suitcase, she dressed in a pair of well-worn denim jeans and a long-sleeved cotton shirt. Ankle boots completed the outfit, that acquired a simple elegance on her slim body, and applying only the lightest of make-ups, she left the room before she lost her nerve.
In the carpeted corridor outside, she hesitated for a moment, counting the doors to Jaime’s room. His door was half open, as if inviting her investigation, but she was not tempted. She doubted he had asked Mrs Armstrong to intercede on his behalf, but she had no intention of getting involved with him, whatever kind of pressure was brought to bear.
Liz greeted her cheerfully when Rachel entered the morning room a few moments later. As the housekeeper had said, Jaime’s mother was absorbed with her mail, and Rachel walked over to the long windows, gazing out in silent admiration at the greyflecked waters of the bay. Beyond a stone-pillared terrace, sloping lawns fell away almost to the cliff’s edge, and the seaweed-strewn teeth of the rocks below were just visible, constantly washed by the ever-moving tide. On summer days it was possible to swim from the rocks, and there were deep pools where one might find crabs and other shellfish, but although the sky was clear this morning, the sea would be cold as ice. Its distant thunder reached her, as it sucked at the base of the cliffs, the rocks providing a natural protection for the more porous ridges of limestone.
Turning back to the table, Rachel seated herself, and picked up the morning paper lying beside her. She flicked through it idly, until Maisie put in an appearance and asked her what she would like to eat.
‘We’ve got kidneys and sausages, or kippers, if you’d prefer them,’ the housekeeper suggested approvingly, but Rachel only shook her head.
‘I think—just toast and coffee,’ she conceded regretfully. ‘I’m afraid I don’t have a good appetite.’
‘Then we’ll have to see if we can change that, Maisie, won’t we?’ Liz remarked, looking up from her bank statement. ‘I seem to remember you used to enjoy your food, Rachel.’
Rachel coloured then. ‘That was a long time ago, Liz.’
‘Not so long,’ Liz retorted firmly. ‘Didn’t you used to share Jaime’s bacon and eggs, the last time you were here?’
His name came more naturally, and although Liz looked slightly appalled afterwards, Rachel forced herself to respond without hesitation. ‘I was younger then,’ she sighed, pulling a wry face. ‘I have to watch my figure these days.’
‘Nonsense! Let us do that for you!’ remarked Robert’s amused tones, and Jaime’s father came into the room, broad and comfortable, in a navy wool dressing gown. He bent to kiss his wife’s cheek, then squeezed Rachel’s shoulders in passing, before settling himself in the seat beside her. ‘So—you’re looking more relaxed this morning. Did you sleep well?’
‘Very well, thank you.’ Rachel saw no reason to tell them of her restless night. ‘And thank you for your kind words. It was a pretty compliment.’
‘Nothing less than the truth, I do assure you,’ Robert replied gallantly, picking up one of her hands from the table and raising it to his lips. ‘Hmm, you smell delightful. What is it? Something to drive us poor males mad, I’m sure.’
Rachel giggled. ‘It’s Charlie perfume, actually,’ she admitted, as he let her draw her fingers away. ‘And you’re an old flatterer. I don’t know what Liz must think of you.’
‘Oh, I’m too old now to try and change him,’ remarked Liz dryly, but she and her husband exchanged a knowing smile.
‘You’ll never be too old,’ he retorted affectionately, then looked up at Maisie and gave her a wink. ‘I’ll have the same as usual, if you don’t mind,’ he told her. ‘Oh, and remind Andy I want
to speak to him later, about those canes in the greenhouse.’
‘Yes, Mr Shard,’ Maisie nodded. ‘Shall I take Jaime’s breakfast upstairs, do you think? Or is he likely to be coming down?’
Liz looked uncomfortably at her husband, and he shrugged his shoulders almost imperceptibly. ‘I—think, perhaps, you ought to take it upstairs,’ Liz conceded at last. She glanced awkwardly at Rachel. ‘You don’t mind, do you, darling? He’s not being deliberately rude. It’s just—’
‘I don’t mind at all,’ Rachel averred, only too willing to put off the moment when she would have to face Jaime in his parents’ presence, and with a sigh of relief Liz gave Maisie her instructions.
‘It’s a lovely morning, isn’t it?’ Rachel offered, as the housekeeper left the room. The last thing she wanted was to lose the rapport they had recovered earlier, and as if sharing her feelings, Jaime’s father took up her words.
‘Perhaps you’d like to walk down to the village with me later,’ he suggested. ‘I’ve got a bottle of rare old Scotch whisky for the vicar to sample, and I want to call at the garage for a couple of new plugs for the Rover.’
‘Rob!’ His wife looked slightly scandalised. ‘You’re not going to offer Mr Conway some of that stuff Jaime brought you, are you?’
‘Why not?’ Her husband was unrepentant. ‘It’s good whisky. And you know as well as I do that old Conway enjoys a wee dram!’
‘I know, but—’ Liz shook her head at Rachel. ‘What would you do with him? Anyway,’ she sighed, ‘if you get drummed out of the church, don’t blame me.’
‘They’d have to get me in there before they could drum me out!’ retorted Robert, with a grin. ‘Stop worrying, woman. Conway and I understand one another. And he plays a fair round of golf.’
Rachel smiled. She had always envied Jaime his parents. Her own mother had died in a car accident soon after she was born, and she had been brought up by her father’s older, unmarried sister, who had come to share her brother’s home on his wife’s death. When Aunt Catherine died, Rachel was already fifteen, and old enough to take over the running of her father’s house, and her own ambitions to do well at her ‘A’ levels and go on to university had been squashed by family circumstances. Not that her father had ever deliberately stood in her way. But she had known she could not leave him, and in consequence, she had left school at sixteen, and after a year at a secretarial college had taken a job in the typing pool of an independent television company. That was how she had met Jaime, how it had all started, and she determinedly turned her thoughts aside from the memories it evoked.
