by Anne Mather
‘So…’ Andrew crossed his legs and linked his fingers round them. ‘You know the situation. Maybe you’ll remember the circumstances after I tell you what happened.’ He paused. ‘Can we be the arbiters of our own destinies? Maybe if Jeremy had had more confidence in himself, he would never have believed what I told him.’
Emma frowned. ‘What—what you told Daddy? What did you tell him?’
Andrew stared broodingly towards the headland. ‘I told him you were my child—my daughter. I said your mother had been pregnant at the time of her marriage to him!’
For several minutes after he had finished speaking there was complete silence. Emma dragged her gaze away from him to stare in blank disbelief into the middle distance while the horrifying implications of what he had said created havoc in her mind, and Andrew himself seemed exhausted by the admission. A thousand and one objections to his statement were flooding her brain, not least her own abortive love for Jordan, and the possibility that her parents, and most particularly her mother, might have lied to her all these years was more than she could absorb.
‘But—but am I—I’m not—’
‘No, you’re not,’ he stated weakly, halting her babbling protests. ‘You’re your father’s daughter. There was never any doubt.’
Emma was shaking so much she could hardly sit still. ‘But—but why—how—’
‘I’ll explain.’ He closed his eyes as if the effort was rapidly becoming too much for him. ‘It is true that—that your mother and I were more than just good friends. But that was all over weeks before her wedding—’
‘Then bow could Daddy—’
‘Let me finish.’ He opened his eyes again. ‘First, let me at least try and explain how it happened. Why it happened. I’ll never forget that night as long as I live, and nor, I suspect, will your mother.’
‘My mother!’
‘Oh, yes. She was there. She heard what I had to say. And the most damnable thing was—she couldn’t deny our relationship. I think it was that as much as anything that caused him to believe me. Oh, yes’—this as Emma would have broken in on him, ‘yes—I have a lot to answer for, I know. It hasn’t been easy for me, though. My conscience has never let me forget—’
‘Your conscience.’ Emma almost spat the words at him. ‘Oh, my God! How could you?’
‘A man scorned is much the same as a woman, Emma,’ he replied quietly. ‘You’re young. Perhaps you haven’t yet learned that no one is all bad or all good. We all have our faults—’
‘But to tell him—that! Emma felt sick. ‘Didn’t my mother deny it?’
‘Of course she did. But you haven’t let me finish. You know now—thanks to Jordan’s carelessness—that your father had borrowed money from me. Your mother didn’t know that. Not until—that night. Jeremy had come to ask for another loan, and I refused it. When your mother came looking for him, he told her he was finished, that he was in debt—and I wouldn’t help him.’ He shook his head wearily. ‘He’d been drinking. Looking back on it now, I don’t think he really knew what he was doing. But when your mother turned on me—berating me, ridiculing me, telling me that if it hadn’t been for Jeremy I wouldn’t have been where I was today, I think I lost my head.’ He pressed a hand to his chest as if it pained him, and then went on: ‘I don’t know why I said it. I don’t know what put it into my head. I guess I wanted to hurt your mother—but it backfired.’
Emma was shaking with emotion. ‘And—and Mummy denied it?’
‘Yes, yes. But Jeremy wouldn’t listen. It was all part and parcel with the failure he believed himself to be.’
Emma got to her feet then, unable to sit any longer under the strain of her emotions. She took a few tentative steps across the grass and then turned, her face pale and drawn. ‘So—so that was why—’
‘Why? Why what?’
‘Why Jordan walked out on me, of course.’
‘No!’ Andrew denied it vigorously. ‘How could it be? He never knew. How could he? It was between the three of us. Besides,’ his brows drew together, ‘he told me—you’d walked out on him. Naturally, I thought—your mother—’
‘No!’ Emma caught her breath on a choking gasp. For a few moments, no matter how futile it had proved to be, she had believed she had found the reason for Jordan’s denial of his love for her. Now it seemed he had lied to his father, just as he had lied to her.
‘I’m sorry.’ It was inadequate recompense for the trauma he had caused her and he knew it. ‘Emma, you do understand why—’
‘Why you had to tell me? Yes. To expunge your conscience !’
Her tone was bitter and suddenly he looked unutterably worn. ‘I’m not a religious man, Emma. If I was, I could have made my confession to a priest and gained absolution. But I’m not—and I felt you had the right to know why your mother would never accept any help from me—after…’
Emma moved her shoulders. ‘I don’t know what to think.’
Andrew sighed. ‘I know I can’t ask you to forgive me.’
‘To forgive you?’ Emma made a negative gesture. ‘It’s too soon. I can’t even take it in.’
‘I understand that. It must be a great shock to you. I shall even understand if you feel you hate me. Believe me, it’s no more than I hate myself. Than your mother has hated me all these years!’
Emma scuffed her toe against the warm earth. ‘I can’t stay here,’ she said, the words almost inaudible. ‘I have to go now. I have to leave—’
‘Why?’
‘Why?’ She stared at him. ‘Why do you think?’
‘Because you can’t bear to be in the same house as me, to eat at the same table, to sleep under the same roof?’
‘It’s more than that,’ she choked. ‘You don’t want me here. You only brought me to escape the pangs of your own conscience. Now that you’ve told me, I can go. Just having me here must be a constant source of irritation to you.’
‘No. No, you’re wrong!’ Swaying a little, he rose to his feet. ‘Emma, my child, you’re wrong. It does me good to see you here, to have you with me. Don’t you remember? Don’t you remember the old days? We were friends, good friends! You were more like a daughter to—’ he broke off as emotion coloured his tones. ‘My dear, stay as long as you like—as long as you can. All I have left now is—friendship, affection, I hope—understanding. Don’t deny me these few luxuries, even if you can never forget the terrible mistakes I’ve made.’
Emma shook her head. ‘I don’t know…’
‘You wouldn’t let—Jordan drive you away, would you?’ he pressed. ‘My dear, I lost everything when Jeremy died—my best friend, my peace of mind, my self-respect! Your break-up with Jordan was the last straw. Naturally, I thought your mother had had a hand in that, too.’
‘Mummy? No. Of course, she assured me it was for the best, but I didn’t believe her.’
Andrew sighed, ‘What a tangled coil! If only—but it’s too late, much too late. I know. I’ve always known. But I had to try and escape eternal damnation.’
‘Oh, Andrew!’
Looking at him, it was all too much for her. How could she summon hatred for a man she had always regarded with affection and respect? How could she condemn him when what he had said in the heat of the moment had rebounded on him, just as much as on the rest of them? Her father had been a disturbed man. Who knew what thoughts he had nurtured before he died? Andrew had suffered for eight years, and now he was dying. How could she create a vendetta with a man who had only a few short months to live?
‘Give me time,’ she begged in a choked voice, taking hold of one of his abnormally cold hands and squeezing it. ‘Give me time!’
‘And you won’t leave?’
‘Not today anyway,’ she promised tautly, and turned away from the tears she saw in his eyes.
CHAPTER EIGHT
LUNCH was served at one o’clock, as it had been the day before, but for Emma there was a certain unreality about the whole proceedings. Even the revelations Andrew had made that
morning seemed all one with her feelings of standing outside herself and watching what happened with an abnormal sense of detachment. Nothing seemed to touch her, and it was only when Stacey related some personal anecdote about Jordan that would have scraped a nerve the day before that she realised emotionally she was numb.
Her lack of reaction did not go unnoticed, however. The other girl’s eyes lingered speculatively upon her pale features, and as soon as the meal was over and Andrew had departed apologetically for his own quarters, she cornered Emma as she would have slipped away to her room.
‘What’s going on?’ she demanded, slim and golden in a tawny-coloured tunic that exposed most of her slender legs. She wasn’t as tall as the other girl, but the heels she invariably wore minimised the difference, and Emma in sandals was almost on eye-level terms.
Now Emma pushed her hands into the hip pockets of her pants and faced her resignedly. ‘What do you mean?’ she countered. ‘I was going to my room, that’s all. Nothing to get alarmed about.’
‘Don’t patronise me!’ Stacey was angry. ‘I’m not alarmed. But I’d have to be a mute or a moron not to know that something’s happened.’ She put her hands on her hips. ‘Did you tell Jordan what I told you? Did you tell his father?’
Emma’s relief was almost palpable. For a few awful moments, she had wondered if somehow Stacey had overheard her conversation with Andrew. But it seemed all the other girl was concerned about was that her relationship with Jordan should not be disrupted.
Moving her slim shoulders, she answered honestly: ‘Why would I do that? I thought Jordan already knew.’
The faintest hint of colour darkened Stacey’s cheeks. ‘Well—yes. Yes, he does. I only meant…’ She sought for words with evident difficulty. ‘That is—I don’t want you telling tales about me to anyone,’ she paused. ‘Just, because I chose to confide in you—’
‘To confide in me?’ Emma couldn’t let her get away with that. ‘You made your reasons for telling me perfectly clear, Miss Albert, and confidence had nothing to do with it.’
‘Well, all right,’ Stacey sniffed. ‘Perhaps I was a little—aggressive. But surely I have a right to be.’
Emma shook her head. She didn’t want to talk about it any more. The longer she remained here with Stacey, the more she became aware of the fragility of the shell shock , had cloaked about her, and slowly but surely her blood was beginning to thaw. It was like coming round from an anaesthetic, she thought raggedly. First the feeling of indifference, of not caring what was happening; then the sharp pain of the scars that hadn’t healed.
The sound of a car being driven up the slope towards the house was at once a relief and an anxiety. A relief, because it was a reason to escape any more of Stacey’s questions; an anxiety, because who else but Jordan was likely to come to the house?
‘Jordan?’ Stacey’s thoughts were obviously running along similar lines. ‘But I understand he’d gone to Barbados.’
‘He has—he had! Emma made a helpless gesture. ‘Perhaps he’s back.’
Their doubts were clarified a few moments later when a young maid came to find them, followed by a tall, dark-haired young men whom Emma, at least, had never seen before.
‘Clive!’ Stacey apparently knew his identity. ‘Clive, what a lovely surprise!’
‘Hello, Stacey!’ He took the two hands she held out to him and squeezed them tightly. ‘As soon as Jordan told me you were here, I high-tailed it right over.’
‘You’ve seen Jordan?’
Stacey sounded surprised, and the young man explained: ‘I met him this morning, at the airport. Just got back myself, actually, and when he told me he was having to go to Bridgetown and leave you here on your own—or not quite on your own…’
His eyes had shifted to Emma standing rather awkwardly in the background, and she gave a half smile of embarrassment. Stacey, realising she had to perform an introduction, made a little gesture of indifference.
‘Oh—this is Mrs Ingram,’ she said, stressing the designation. ‘She’s—er—a friend of Jordan’s father.’
‘Hello, Mrs Ingram.’ The mocking way he said her name revealed that he was not deceived by the other girl’s attempted dismissal. ‘As Stacey has chosen not to introduce us properly, I’ll introduce myself. I’m Clive Franklin. I live here on the island, too.’
The name was faintly familiar, but Emma didn’t probe it too closely as he shook her hand, aware that he held on to it longer than was absolutely necessary. He was obviously very sure of himself, and of his welcome, and she didn’t altogether care for his casual assumption that she would find him as attractive as Stacey obviously did. He was handsome, of course. She had to grant him that. And no doubt he had been spoiled by a procession of women who had told him so. But his even good looks and rather flashy way of dressing didn’t appeal to her, and she wondered whether Jordan would approve of him coming here in his absence.
‘If you’ll excuse me…’ she murmured, when she could get her hand free, but although Stacey was more than willing, Clive Franklin chose to be awkward.
‘Oh, come on, Mrs Ingram, you’re not leaving us, are you? I want to hear how old Andrew comes to have such an attractive girl-friend. And a married one, at that. Or are you a widow, Mrs Ingram? Do stay, and tell me all about yourself.’
‘Clive.’
Stacey’s impatient exclamation echoed Emma’s instinctive withdrawal, and she left them determinedly to their own particular brand of word-play. She had met men like Clive Franklin before. London was full of them. But their immature overtures had always left her cold.
She was too restless to stay in her room, however, and presently she shed her pants and vest and wrapped a yellow cotton skirt about her waist over the swimsuit Stacey had lent her. Then, slipping out of the front of the house, she circled the pool area where she guessed Stacey was entertaining her guest, and made her way down to the beach. The yacht beckoned, rocking lazily on its anchor, and on impulse she shed the skirt and plunged into the creaming waves.
If anything it seemed further to the yacht today than it had the day before. There seemed to be a current running against her, although she realised it was only her own weakness, and just as she reached the hanging ladder she felt the stabbing pain of cramp in her left leg. It was agonising, and with dismay she realised that if it had happened moments sooner, she might not have made the yacht at all. As it was, she had to rest there for several minutes before she could summon the strength to climb on board, and even then it was a painful experience.
Collapsing on to the sun-warmed deck, she refused to think about the swim back. It was all very well telling herself that if she rested for a while she would make it, but what if she couldn’t? Jordan wasn’t here to come after her, and he himself had said that Stacey would never have the courage to make the trip.
It was then she thought of Clive Franklin. He probably hadn’t come prepared to go swimming, but he could easily borrow some trunks of Jordan’s. But how was she to attract his attention? Besides, she had virtually snubbed him. Why should he help her?
As if the thought was father to the deed, it was then that she heard the voices, drifting distantly across the water; Stacey’s girlish giggles and a man’s deeper laughter. She turned on to her knees and looked towards the shore, relief welling up inside her, half rising to raise her arm in a beckoning wave.
Stacey was running across the sand, her scarlet swimsuit unmistakable even from this distance, and Clive was chasing her, wearing either a pair of his own shorts or some borrowed from Jordan. But even as Emma opened her mouth to shout to them Clive caught his prey and what happened next stifled the cry in her throat; Stacey turned to him and when his arms closed about her, they sank down together on to the sand.
Emma didn’t watch any more. She had seen enough. It wasn’t necessary to see what happened after Clive covered the blonde girl’s body with his own. The subsidence of Stacey’s gurgling laughter was enough, the pregnant silence that was deafening to Emma’s e
ars. How could she shout to them now? How could she reveal her presence when to do so would embarrass all of them? She would have to wait until they had gone and then tackle the swim alone.
When she judged it was safe to do so, she crawled along the deck and made her way down to the cabin. In spite of the heat, she was chilled, and she rescued the towel from the radiator where she had left it the day before and rubbed herself briskly.
Feeling a little warmer, both inside and out, she ventured into the galley and examined the contents of the cupboards. There was a fair supply of tinned food, and she reflected dryly that if she was marooned here, at least she wouldn’t starve. There was even water in the storage tanks, and although it was inclined to be warm, too, it was drinkable. The kettle didn’t work when she plugged it in, however, risking making herself a cup of coffee, and she guessed there was a master switch which had been thrown before the yacht was anchored. Instead, she satisfied herself with a can of Coke, and feeling surprisingly hungry, she opened a packet of biscuits.
Afterwards, she went back into the main cabin, and after spreading the towel over the cushions for protection, she stretched her length on one of the banquettes. It was almost pleasant lying there, feeling the rise and fall of the yacht on the faint swell, the sucking sound the water made as it ran along the bows. Or it would have been if she had had pleasanter thoughts to keep her company, her own problems briefly obscured by the shadows of Jordan’s. Did he know the kind of girl Stacey was? Was he aware of her relationship with this man, Clive Franklin? Or didn’t he care, so long as he had the same kind of freedom? She wished she had remained in the ignorance of her own room.
She must have fallen asleep, because when she opened her eyes again it was dark beyond the narrow windows of the saloon. Dismay brought her upright with a distinct disregard for the suddenness of her awakening, and a wave of dizziness swept over her, compounded by the empty feeling inside her. What time was it? How long had she slept? Had she been missed, and if she had, had anyone started looking for her? She hoped Andrew was not worried about her. After this morning, he would be sure to think the worst.
