by Anne Mather
'Oh, no!'
'Don't worry.' Robert grimaced. 'It's nothing to do with me, and I shan't say anything to anybody. But, if you need any help…'
Catherine twisted her hands together. 'Thanks.'
'My pleasure.' Robert touched her cheek lightly, before running down the steps to where his car was waiting. 'Look after yourself. I'll be in touch.'
It was hard, contemplating going back into the living room to face her mother and Graham Hartley. The prospect of the evening loomed ahead of her, fraught with more questions, more reproaches, more accusations. She had little doubt that her mother would use the time to do everything she could to persuade her to leave Pendower and return to London, and she didn't know if she was strong enough to face that tonight. Rafe, oh, Rafe, she thought despairingly, why did I ever have to fall in love with you?
The ringing of the doorbell behind her was a startling intrusion into her abstraction. For a moment she didn't know what it was, but then comprehension dawned on her, and with a clearing shake of her head, she went to answer it.
The man waiting on the steps outside stifled the breath in her throat. It was as if her desperate need of him had been miraculously made manifest. She stared at him disbelievingly for several palpitating seconds, and then she went towards him urgently, hands outstretched, hungry for the security of his arms.
'Rafe…' she breathed, lifting her face to him, and then halted abruptly at the sight of the boy just coming up the steps behind his father. 'I—why—Thomas!'
'I brought him with me. I hope you don't mind.' Not letting her draw back, Rafe bent his head and bestowed a light kiss on her parted lips. 'I hoped I wouldn't be too late. The traffic coming into the city was murderous.'
'But—I—'
Catherine got out no more than that before Thomas had reached them, and Rafe let go of her fingers to place a reassuring hand on the boy's shoulder.
'Hello, Miss Tempest.' Thomas grinned up at her cheerfully. 'I bet you're surprised to see us.'
Catherine gave a helpless shake of her head, and as she did so, Mrs Hartley came bustling through from the hall. 'Catherine! Who are you keeping waiting on the step? Is it a friend of Graham's? Oh—I'm awfully sorry …' She had seen Rafe and Thomas. 'Do I know you, Mr—er—'
'This is Mr Glyndower, Mother,' Catherine explained, with some reluctance, and Mrs Hartley gazed at her incredulously.
'Mr Glyndower?' she echoed, turning to look at Rafe again. 'I—don't think I understand.'
'I've come to drive your daughter home, Mrs—er— Hartley,' Rafe declared politely, only the tightening of his fingers on Thomas's shoulder giving any indication of his feelings. 'I—had business in town, and I thought I would save her the trouble. I've brought my gardener's son with me to drive her car back.'
'Oh, but you're mistaken, Mr Glyndower,' Mrs Hartley put in quickly. 'My daughter is not driving back to Wales tonight. We—er—I've persuaded her to stay over for a couple of days—'
'One day, Mother!' Catherine turned desperate eyes in Rafe's direction. 'I—I was going to drive back tomorrow.'
'Oh, I see.' His disappointment was almost tangible, and suddenly she knew she could not let him go. She loved her mother, of course she did. But her mother was not alone, she had Graham, while she might never have more than this small part of Rafe's life. How could she give it up?
'I—I think,' she said carefully, 'in the circumstances, as Mr Glyndower had gone to the trouble of—of coming here; '
Her eyes met Rafe's across his son's head, and her pulses raced at the passionate darkening of emotion she saw there. It was as if there was only their two selves, isolated in the awareness of their feelings for one another, sharing an intimacy as penetrating in essence as if he had touched her.
'You're not leaving, Catherine!'
Her mother's cry of protest was superseded by her stepfather appearing behind her, adding his voice to the proceedings. 'What is going on, Emily?' he grumbled, but Catherine was no longer perturbed by their combined weight of disapproval.
'Er—this is Mr Glyndower, Graham,' she explained coolly, guessing he would recognise the name. 'Rafe, this is my stepfather. My mother, I think, you've already met.'
'Must we carry out these introductions on the doorstep?' Graham Hartley was disconcerted by the other man's presence, and at his invitation they all moved into the hall, Thomas looking about him inquisitively as the nuances of the conversation went over his head.
'Do I hear correctly? You've come to take Catherine back to Pendower?' Graham raised his brows interrogatively, striving for superiority, and Rafe inclined his head. 'But she's come in her own car.'
'He's brought someone with him to drive Catherine's car,' inserted Mrs Hartley stiffly. 'Isn't that right, Mr Glyndower?'
'What are those things?'
Thomas chose that moment to intervene, and Catherine bent to him eagerly, glad of the momentary interruption. 'What?' she asked, and then discovering in which direction his attention was drawn, she laughed: 'They're knob-kerries,' she told him. 'African clubs. They're a kind of weapon, and very heavy.'
'Really, Catherine, I think you might pay attention to the conversation,' her stepfather exclaimed, but Thomas was asking where they had come from, and it was Rafe who spoke for her.
'I'm sure you'll agree that the journey to Pendower is a long one to make alone, Mr Hartley,' he said politely. 'I assume part of the reason for persuading Catherine to stay was to avoid her driving all that way in the dark. That was my own intention also.'
Catherine straightened after answering Thomas's questions. 'I'll get my things,' she said, patting her mother's arm appealingly in passing. 'Why don't you give Rafe a drink, while I get ready?'
Their departure was decidedly chilly, but Catherine knew her mother well enough to realise that some small part of her appreciated Rafe's concern, even if she did deplore their relationship. She had never approved of her daughter driving long distances alone, and she unwillingly agreed to hand over the keys of the Renault to Philip Laurence, when he returned from visiting his sister in Fulham.
Thomas had given up his seat in the Volvo, at his father's request, and scrambled goodnaturedly into the back, but Catherine, loath to spoil the boy's pleasure, said she could easily sit in the back herself.
'No, you can't,' Rafe stated shortly, and the pressure of his hand at her elbow deterred any further argument in the matter. He saw her seated before closing the door, and then strode round the vehicle to climb in beside her.
After the small Renault, the Volvo felt big and luxurious, and almost unconsciously Catherine relaxed against the soft upholstery. She was going home, she thought with satisfaction, and she could think of nothing else she would rather do—except perhaps go home with Rafe.
'Are you glad we came for you?' That was Thomas, jumping about in the back, resting his elbows on the backs of their seats, and arousing his father's impatience when he completely blocked the rear-view mirror with his head. 'This is a better car than yours, isn't it? Much bigger. Do you wish you had a car like this?'
'Shut up, Tom, will you?' After listening to Catherine's patient assurance that it was indeed a nicer car, Rafe silenced his son with a quelling glance. Then, glancing at his other passenger, he said: 'Did you really want to come back tonight?'
'Oh, yes.' Catherine looked sideways at him, her eager expression still visible in the light from the shop windows they were passing. 'But it was so late when I arrived last night—'
'I know. Your aunt told me how late it was when you left Penwyn.'
'My aunt?' Catherine gazed at him, and he moved his shoulders in an offhand gesture.
'How else do you think I found out your mother's address?' he asked practically, and her lids lowered abruptly.
'Was that—wise?' she murmured, concentrating on pleating the folds of her camelhair skirt, and his fingers came to change the gear with a certain amount of suppressed violence.
'Probably not,' he agreed, turning his head to as
certain that the road was clear before joining the dual carriageway that would eventually take them out of the city. 'It was necessary, that's all.'
Catherine's tongue circled her lips. 'Why—why did you have to come to London?' She glanced over her shoulder at Thomas, now engaged in counting the cars they were passing. 'Or was that invented for my mother's benefit?'
Rafe's sideways glance was eloquent. 'No,' he said, at last, adjusting the heat control. 'I brought Sir George Marland back to town.'
'Oh!' Catherine felt suitably chastened by this news, but before she could say anything more, he added dryly:
'You may be interested to know that the mine project has been abandoned. The consensus of opinion is that there's not enough ore there to warrant the expense that would be involved.'
'Oh, Rafe!' She couldn't keep the warmth out of her voice, but her fingers which had automatically reached for his arm were hastily withdrawn. 'I mean—' she was restricted by the awareness of his son behind them, 'I'm so relieved!.
'I thought you might be.' Rafe's lips twisted wryly. 'It solves your uncle's problems, at least. I gave him an undertaking that if the mine project was abandoned, he could buy Penwyn.'
Catherine looked at him helplessly, wanting to touch him, yet unable to do so. 'Have—have you told Uncle Mervyn yet?' she asked, trying to keep the emotionalism out of her voice, and Rafe nodded.
'I used that as an excuse to call at the farm,' he replied. 'I think I've redeemed myself, as far as your family is concerned.'
'Mummy was furious!' put in another voice, from the back seat, dispelling once and for all Catherine's hopes that perhaps Thomas was not listening to them. 'She said she was fed up with being as poor as a church mouse, and if Daddy didn't find some money soon she'd divorce him!'
'Tom!'
His father's harsh use of his name silenced the boy, but Catherine's attention had been caught by the boy's words. Turning sideways, she met Rafe's look of entreaty, and for once in their relationship, she could not condone it. Instead, she looked down at her hands in her lap, wondering why the phrase 'Out of the mouth of babes and sucklings…' should suddenly have such bitter connotations.
The pregnant silence stretched, and Catherine sought desperately for something to say. Anything to divert attention from her own shaken disposition. It was necessary to behave as if Thomas's words had never been uttered, as if she had never learned that Lucy might consider a divorce.
'Catherine!' When her spirits were at their lowest ebb, Rafe spoke again, his voice harsh and desperate. 'Catherine, don't prejudge me, please! You don't know the half of it!'
'No.' Catherine made an offhand movement of her shoulders. 'Probably not.' She forced a note of indifference into her voice. 'And you don't have to explain yourself to me. I mean, it's nothing to do with me, is it?'
'Damn you!' His knuckles stood out sharply as his hands closed tightly against the wheel, squeezing it between his fingers, as if it was some kind of symbolic instrument of torture. He looked sideways at her, exhorting her response, and then dragged his eyes back to the road, blinking in the glare of undipped headlights. 'Catherine, won't you at least give me the benefit of the doubt? I've never lied to you. Why should you assume I've done so now?'
Thomas was looking from one to the other of them with interested eyes and casting an eloquent glance in the boy's direction, she said: 'Isn't it late for Thomas to be up? Doesn't he have to go to school tomorrow?'
'School's still closed,' the boy declared cheerfully. 'They haven't fixed the roof yet. You know—after the storm.'
'Oh, yes.'
Catherine nodded, and Thomas went on: 'Do you know, Daddy had to drive to Pendower that night, and when he came back the road was flooded.'
'Tom!'
That was his father again, sounding rather weary now, and Thomas took advantage of the change of tone. 'It's true!' he declared, as Catherine cast a frowning look in Rafe's direction. 'He had to spend the night in the car, and that was how he caught 'flu.'
'Was it?'
Catherine addressed her question to Rafe, but he only shook his head. 'Tom is exaggerating, as usual. The road was flooded for a time, but I got home before morning.'
'He helped Mr Lloyd move some of his sheep to higher ground,' declared Thomas proudly. 'I wish I'd been with him. I'd have liked swishing around in all that mud!'
Catherine felt disturbed. 'You—you didn't tell me you— got marooned,' she said, and Rafe made a sound of resignation.
'It wasn't important.'
Catherine hesitated. 'You—you should have come back.'
His self-mockery was denigrating. 'Oh, yes? Oh, yes, I should have done that.'
Catherine looked distractedly at him, then, once again, she was aware of Thomas's inquisitive attention, and changed what she had been about to say into: 'Are you fully recovered now? I—wondered.'
'Physically,' he agreed, allowing the car to accelerate past a stream of slower-moving vehicles. 'Shall we stop somewhere for a meal? Tom's had nothing since lunch time.'
Catherine had no objections, and they entered the next service area and ordered dinner in the grill room. Thomas was excited at the prospect of eating out so late, and his chatter throughout the meal healed the gaping chasms in the conversation. He waded through soup and salad, beefburgers and chips, and a strawberry-flavoured ice-cream before sinking back happily in his chair.
'Hmm, that was super!' he declared, grinning at his father. 'Have I made a pig of myself?'
'You have rather,' observed Rafe dryly, but his tone was not unsympathetic, and his son took advantage of his amiability and asked if he could have another Coke.
In the car again, the miles were soon eaten away. Oxford, Cheltenham, Hereford; Catherine watched the signposts with a deepening sense of despair, wondering if ever she would drive with Rafe again.
Glancing over her shoulder, she found that Thomas had fallen asleep at last, worn out by the journey, and comfortably full after his enormous meal. She had noticed that Rafe, like herself, had eaten next to nothing, and been glad of his son's diversionary tactics. But now the boy was asleep, and for the first time she could speak freely…
'I've been thinking,' she said quietly, drawing Rafe's attention to herself, 'I might—close the Pendower shop.' There was complete silence and, not at all reassured, she went on: 'I thought—I thought I didn't care what people might say about me, but I do.'
'It's your decision, of course. I can't stop you,' he conceded bitterly, when she had begun to think he was not going to answer her. He shrugged his shoulders heavily. 'I presume this has to do with what Tom said earlier, hasn't it?'
Catherine pressed her lips together, trying not to succumb to the defeated appeal of his low voice. 'Not— altogether,' she admitted at last, choosing her words with care. 'I've thought about—about our relationship, and— and I can see no future in it.'
'I told you that,' Rafe reminded her harshly. 'Just two nights ago. But you ignored it. Just as you're ignoring the real facts now.'
Catherine lifted her head. 'What real facts?'
Rafe made a sound of impatience. 'We have laws in this country of ours,' he stated grimly. 'Laws about marriage, and laws about divorce. Like—if Lucy divorces me, she gets half of everything I possess, including Penwyth. And I don't mean the estate, although there's that too. I mean the house—the manor. The place where my father was born, and God help him, the place where he wants to die!'
Catherine gasped. 'But—surely she wouldn't—'
'Oh, yes, she would.'
Catherine shook her head. 'Then aren't you taking a— a terrible risk? Seeing me at all? I mean, does Lucy know about me?'
Rafe's sigh seemed to have been dragged up from the depths of his being. 'She suspects,' he concurred wearily. 'But you have to understand our relationship to understand how Lucy's mind works.' He hesitated. 'Lucy and I, to use an old cliché, are not compatible. Oh, she appreciates this as well as I do, and she's not—unreasonable.' His lips twisted. '
She allows me my little—how shall I put it?—foibles?'
Catherine stared at him. 'You mean—other women?' She felt sick. 'Like me?'
'No, not like you,' he snarled angrily. 'But I am male, Catherine. And sometimes—' He broke off abruptly.
'Well, that's the kind of relationship we have.'
'Oh, Rafe…' Catherine felt helpless, but his expression had hardened.
'Don't feel sorry for me,' he snapped. 'I was quite content, until you came along.'
'And—and Lucy?'
'She doesn't care what I do, so long as there isn't any gossip.'
'But there's gossip now!' Catherine protested, and he nodded.
'I know. And that was the main reason for that row Thomas partially overheard.'
'Oh, Rafe!' It was a futile cry, but she couldn't help it. Half turning towards him, she put her hand on his leg, allowing her fingers to close about the taut muscle, and then whispered despairingly: 'What are we going to do?'
'You're planning to leave,' he told her stiffly, steeling himself not to respond in any way. 'It's probably just as well. I was getting to the point where I was beginning to question my own integrity. The needs of the estate, my father's needs—my son's needs—were becoming blurred by emotion. There've been times during the past two days when I've actually asked myself whether what I was doing was right, whether I didn't deserve to snatch my happiness, whatever the expense to others.' He shook his head. 'It's as well you didn't put me to the test. At least this way, I can maintain a semblance of my self-respect.'
Catherine slowly withdrew her hand. Until that moment she had not really considered what their relationship might be doing to Rafe. She had been so wrapped up with her own feelings, with avoiding discovery, she had forgotten that the two people most closely involved must carry the heaviest burden, unless they were completely without conscience, and she knew that was not true. But what did his words mean to her? How could she go back on her word now?
'I—I'm sorry I've been the cause of so much—soul- searching,' she got out jerkily. 'I'm glad we've had this talk. Without—without being blinded by—by—'
