by Anne Mather
‘I find that hard to believe,’ he remarked dryly, making no move to go. ‘In fact, I would say we knew one another reasonably well. After all, we were at school together.’
‘I was older than you were,’ retorted Gilda. ‘We hardly saw one another.’
‘Nevertheless, you’ve known me a great number of years.’
‘If you say so.’
Jordan bent his head. ‘Don’t make it so hard for me, Gilda. I need your help, not your hostility.’
‘My help?’ Gilda was startled. Then her lips tightened. ‘If you think I’m going to plead your case with Emma after what you did to her—’
‘What did I do to her?’ he demanded, overriding her resentment. ‘What do you know about it? How can you possibly judge, when you don’t know the facts?’
‘I know that for Emma everything collapsed on the night her father committed suicide!’
‘Her father! Yes, her father.’ Jordan’s mouth was grim. ‘What would you say if I told you that I believed that Jeremy Trace was not her father? That my father was!’
Gilda gulped. ‘You’re crazy!’
‘Am I? Am I?’ He controlled himself with an effort. ‘But suppose I’m not? Suppose what I said was true. Suppose the person who told me was so beyond suspicion that I couldn’t help but believe—that person?’
‘Then—then Emma would be your—your—’
‘My half-sister, right.’
‘Jordan!’ She stared at him aghast. ‘But you couldn’t—no one would—’
‘Someone did. Someone who hated my father, and used me as a tool to get back at him.’
Gilda’s hands curled and uncurled against one another. ‘Wh-who?’ she ventured. ‘Your mother? Jeremy Trace? Not—Emma?’
‘No, not Emma. Not any of those people. Someone else. Someone who needed to hurt me, as my father had hurt them.’
‘Not—not Mrs Trace?’
‘You’ve got it.’
‘Oh, God!’ Gilda sought her desk and leant her weight against the side of it. ‘I don’t believe it. I just don’t believe it!’
Jordan expelled his breath on a heavy sigh. ‘When you’re told something—something so appalling that it appears it’s driven a man to suicide, you don’t argue with the facts. Why should I have doubted it, particularly as I believed Emma’s mother had our best interests at heart. I did try to speak to my father, but Trace’s death had shattered him, too, and all my mother knew was that something my father had told him had driven the other man to take his life.’
Gilda groped for her cigarettes. ‘But what about Emma? Why didn’t you tell her the truth?’
‘Her mother begged me not to. She said she had lost enough—that it would destroy Emma’s respect for both her and her father. And I knew it would. So I—got out of the way. I guess I thought it was the least I could do.’
Gilda lit her cigarette with hands that were not quite steady. ‘And—and now…’
Jordan shifted restively. ‘Sufficient to say I’ve learned the truth.’
‘So what do you intend to do?’
‘About Emma? What can I do?’ His face was bitter. ‘She’s married, and she appears to feel some allegiance to Ingram, in spite of everything.’
‘You mean—the other girl, of course.’
‘You know about that?’
‘Doesn’t everybody?’
‘Everybody but Emma, apparently,’ remarked Jordan harshly.
Gilda frowned. ‘Then how do you want my help?’
Jordan hesitated. ‘My father’s will has made Emma half-owner of the company. I want you to help persuade her to accept it.’
‘I see.’ Gilda bit her lip. ‘As—as a matter of fact, she told me about it. After she got back from visiting your father. She doesn’t want to take it.’
‘I know.’ He raked a hand through his hair. ‘But when I spoke to Ingram, he seemed to think he could change her mind.’
‘You’ve spoken to David!’
Gilda was aghast, but Jordan scarcely noticed her shocked face. ‘Yes, yes. I rang him after Emma left Valentia. That was before—before—’
‘—before you found out the truth about her parentage?’
‘Yes.’ He sighed. ‘I guess I wanted to reassure myself that she’d be well taken care of. I knew Ingram would have no compunction about taking the money, and maybe I thought it would make things easier for her. She means something—special to me.’
‘Oh, Jordan!’ Gilda made a futile gesture. ‘David hasn’t told Emma you rang. I’m sure of that. In fact, she told me she was hoping he wouldn’t get to hear about it.’
‘You’re sure?’ Jordan’s brows descended. ‘Why not?’
‘Well, because she knew if David found out, he would do exactly as you say. And she really didn’t want anything from—from either you or your father.’
‘Oh, God!’ Jordan paced restlessly about the cluttered floor. ‘But surely it will make things easier all round. I mean, it can’t have been easy when they got no insurance from the accident.’
‘You know about that?’ Gilda was surprised, but Jordan nodded impatiently.
‘Of course I knew. What insurance company would pay out when Ingram wasn’t even driving the car!’
‘What?’ Gilda was continually astounded by the things he was saying. ‘What are you talking about? Are you saying David wasn’t driving the car at the time of the crash?’ She stared at him incredulously. ‘But I’m sure Emma doesn’t know that!’
‘Then why does she think they didn’t get any insurance?’ Jordan demanded savagely, and Gilda endeavoured to explain:
‘There was some discrepancy in the premium,’ she offered lamely. ‘Emma said the solicitor was very sure about it.’
‘Who? Old Armitage?’ Jordan made a sound of disgust. ‘It’s possible Ingram persuaded him to say nothing. But it was commonly believed that that was why Ingram lost all his commissions. People are funny, and a place like Abingford can still be pretty insular over something like that. I know he blamed me for drumming up feeling against him, but I had nothing to do with it. He was married to Emma, and I wouldn’t have presumed to make things any more difficult for her.’
Gilda stubbed out her cigarette. ‘Well, I’d stake my bank balance that Emma doesn’t know,’ she declared flatly. ‘No wonder David doesn’t like being driven by a woman!’
Jordan moved his shoulders helplessly. ‘I’d better go. If she comes back and finds me here, I’ll be tempted to tell her the truth, and I can’t do that.’
Gilda hesitated. ‘Jordan, that call I was taking when you arrived…’
‘Yes?’ His eyes had narrowed.
‘It was David.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes…’ She hesitated again. ‘He—er—he was ringing to tell Emma that—that her mother is here. In Abingford. She must have come down for the funeral.’
‘God!’ Jordan’s mouth tightened. ‘How dare she? How dare she—after all this time?’
‘Maybe she wants to make amends, too,’ ventured Gilda lightly, but Jordan was already reaching for the handle of the door.
‘Tell Emma—’ he began, then broke off. ‘No, don’t tell her anything. Just try and persuade her that one way or another, she’s got to come to terms with her shareholding.’
* * *
Half an hour later Emma phoned Gilda, After saying where she was, she explained she had called at the house on her way back from Evesham and discovered her mother’s arrival for herself.
‘Well, don’t worry about coming back,’ Gilda averred at once. ‘I’ll collect the paintings myself either tonight or tomorrow—’
‘No! It’s all right.’ Emma tried not to sound as distrait as she felt. ‘I—I’ll deliver them.’
‘There’s no need—’ Gilda was beginning, when Emma replaced the receiver.
‘Gilda wants me to take the paintings in right away,’ she said, turning to her mother who was just emerging from the kitchen after washing up the coffee cups. �
�You’ll be all right, won’t you? Er—David will look after you until I get back.’
Mrs Trace shrugged. ‘If you must, you must,’ she said. ‘But I’ve hardly had time to speak to you, Emma.’
‘I shan’t be long,’ Emma replied tautly, pulling on her coat again, and with a brief word of farewell, she closed the outer door behind her.
The sun had disappeared now, and although it was barely twelve o’clock, clouds were drifting across the sky and darkening the streets. It was cold, now that the sun had gone, but Emma inhaled the clean air with the eagerness of a sybarite smoking opium.
She hurried down the steps and got into the car. Gilda’s car, she thought regretfully, but she didn’t think the older woman would object to her borrowing it. Starting the engine, she cast one last look up at the house. Its narrow windows were like blank eyes in an unforgiving face. Shivering with the aftermath of a decision taken, she drove determinedly away.
It was late afternoon when she reached London, but she knew her destination, and guessed that Tori wouldn’t be home much before five. Always supposing she still lived in Normandy Square, she acknowledged anxiously, but the card Tori had sent at Christmas had not given any change of address, so all things being equal…
Driving in London was terrible. Unused to the amount of traffic and the confusing array of one-way streets, Emma’s nerves were shredded to ribbons by the time she reached the familiar environs of the square where she had lived during the two years she spent in London. It hadn’t changed much. The houses were perhaps a little bit shabbier, the paint peeling a little more obviously, but their solid Victorian appearance was amazingly reassuring to someone for whom the ordinary had become the alien and unfamiliar.
The flat she had shared with Tori was on the second floor of Number 27, and after climbing the four flights of stairs, Emma found she was praying she would be at home. Ringing the doorbell, she was reminded of those awful days after the break-up of her relationship with Jordan. Then Number 27 Normandy Square had been a bolt-hole, a refuge from the raw vulnerability of her emotions, and now it seemed that way again.
The door opened at that moment, but the smile of greeting died on her lips as she looked into the face of a strange young man. He had long brown hair, overhanging thin shoulders encased in a denim shirt. Lean hips were encased in jeans, and his feet were bare.
‘Oh, I’m sorry…’ she was beginning awkwardly, when Tori’s voice called: ‘Who is it? Barry, who’s there?’
‘Me,’ said Emma reluctantly, but as the young man stood aside to let her enter, she had little choice but to enter the flat. ‘Tori, it’s me! Emma!’
Victoria Elliot, Tori to her friends, was an attractive brunette in her middle twenties. Like Emma, she had come to London from a provincial background, and her teaching ability was put to good use at a south London comprehensive school. She was friendly and easy-going, rarely perturbed over anything, unlike the girl she had once shared with, but their differences had complemented one another, and they had become good friends.
Now she came out of the kitchen, where she had obviously been preparing some food, judging by the way she held her hands away from her, and stared in amazement at Emma.
‘By all that’s holy!’ she declared, a half laugh breaking her features. ‘Mrs Ingram, no less! What are you doing here?’
Emma felt near to tears, but she managed to maintain a calm exterior. ‘I—I was hoping you might be able to put me up for the night,’ she admitted, realising there was no point in pretending with Tori. ‘But—if you can’t, it doesn’t—’
‘Hey, wait a minute.’ Tori looked down at her wet hands and then, with an impatient shake of her head, dried them on the seat of her pants. ‘Barry,’ she spoke to the young man, ‘close the door, will you? This is a friend of mine from the old days. Emma—Barry!’
Emma gave an embarrassed nod to the young man, but he just shrugged good-naturedly, as if he was used to Tori’s friends turning up on the spur of the moment. Then she turned to the girl.
‘It’s a long story,’ she said, glancing significantly at Barry, ‘but I just need a bed for the night, that’s all. I guess I could got to an hotel, but—’
‘An hotel!’ Tori sounded aggrieved. ‘Of course you can’t go to an hotel. You know there’s a bed for you here, any time.’ She looked up at Barry. ‘This big hulk doesn’t live here. He just acts like he does sometimes. Actually, we’re engaged.’ She exhibited her ring. ‘We’re getting married in the summer, when my parents can get down from Nottingham, but until then, the flat’s all mine.’
Emma sighed. ‘Thank you.’
Barry looked at her, then at his fiancée, then back at Emma again. Finally he lifted the jacket that was draped over the chair by the door, and slung it about his shoulders.
‘Look…’ he said, as Emma began to feel uncomfortable, ‘I guess you two have things to say to one another. I’ll go and get a drink down at the pub. I’ll come back for supper in a couple of hours, right?’
‘Oh, please…’ Emma began to protest, but Tori interrupted her:
‘You’re a doll, darling,’ she assured him, pressing a warm kiss to the corner of his mouth. ‘Emma and I do have some time to make up. Bring back a bottle of wine, and we’ll have it with the spaghetti, mmm?’
‘Fair enough.’
Barry nodded and left them, but after he had gone, Emma felt terrible. ‘You shouldn’t have let him do that,’ she exclaimed, as Tori eased her out of her coat. ‘I feel as if I’ve driven him away.’
‘Don’t give it another thought,’ declared Tori lightly. ‘He’ll enjoy a drink, and I must admit I’m curious to know what’s brought you from the wilds of the Shakespeare country to this sordid backwater.’
‘Oh, Tori…’ Emma relaxed on to the worn cushions of the couch and heaved a heavy sigh. At least this room hadn’t changed, she reflected. Still as untidy as ever, with piles of exercise books waiting to be marked occupying every available space.
‘Come on, then!’ Tori was inquisitive. ‘Have you left David?’
Emma hunched her shoulders. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m going to do.’
‘Heavens!’ Clearly, Tori had not expected that answer. ‘But I thought—that is, you’ve never mentioned anything in your letters.’
‘No.’ Emma half smiled, but it was a wry illumination of her features. ‘Well, how have you been?’
‘Me? Oh, I’m okay.’ Tori sighed. ‘Emma, you can’t just leave it there. What’s wrong? What’s happened? Why are you thinking of leaving David?’
‘Don’t ask me,’ pleaded Emma wearily. ‘I—I can’t tell you. Later—later perhaps, when I’ve worked out what I’m going to do, then I’ll write to you and tell you everything, I promise.’
Tori shook her head. ‘All right.’ But she was disappointed. ‘How long will you be staying?’
‘Just tonight.’ Emma looked across at her appealingly. ‘I—I have to go back tomorrow. There—there’s something I have to do.’
Tori was obviously bewildered. ‘If you say so.’ She got to her feet again. ‘Come on, I’ll show you where you’re going to sleep. Barry’s converted the box-room into a spare bedroom, and you can help me move a mattress in there.’
‘Oh, but—’ Emma didn’t want to be a nuisance, ‘I can sleep on the couch—’
‘What?’ Tori grinned mischievously. ‘And have you overseeing my goodnights to Barry! No fear!’ She put a reassuring hand on her friend’s arm to take any sting out of the words, and added: ‘Poor Emma! You really do pick them, don’t you? First—Jordan, wasn’t it? And now David! You make me wonder whether making that kind of commitment is a good deal, after all.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
ABINGFORD CEMETERY was a cold and grey place that wintry March afternoon. The wind that through the night had whipped the bare branches of the elms and poplars into a fury had subsided to a chill draught that whistled round the legs of the mourners as they stood at the graveside. The ground ga
ped before them, and Emma, hovering at the edge of that silent gathering, felt there was something obscene about putting the mortal remains of the man she had loved and hated, and finally respected, into the ground.
‘Ashes to ashes, dust to dust…’
But was that all there was to it? she wondered hopelessly. We were born, we lived, we died; and then we returned to the earth from which we came. Like the crocuses that struggled for survival at the edge of the plot, did we just enrich the soil for future generations? It was a depressingly common philosophy when someone died. A desire to feel that one was not mortal, that beyond this life there was another; but for Emma it was more than that. It was a demonstration of the futility of fighting against one’s fate. An end and a beginning, but with no more certainty than the crocuses, surviving against the odds of being crushed underfoot. That was how she felt—crushed, bruised, shattered. Trampled underfoot…
She had come to the cemetery to pay her last respects to Andrew, avoiding the church where she knew she could not come and go unobserved. Until she made up her mind what she was going to do, she didn’t feel she could face David, but she had taken the trouble to ring Gilda the night before so that she could assure both her mother and her husband that she was safe and well.
Gilda’s anxiety had not helped. The family were already concerned about her, she said, and Emma had sensed all the things she had left unsaid in that statement. She had also said something else, something which left Emma feeling even more depressed. David knew about the money, about her projected share in Tryle Transmissions; and like so many other things, he had not told her.
The mourners were beginning to drift away now, and because she did not want to be discovered here, she began to make her own surreptitious departure. Mingling among the onlookers, the scarf about her face successfully concealing her identity, she melted into the belt of trees that circled the graveyard. When a hand fell on her shoulder, she almost let out a startled cry, and swinging round she stared despairingly into Jordan’s face.
‘Hello, Emma,’ he said quietly. ‘I knew you’d come. Your mother was sure you wouldn’t, but I knew you would.’
