by Anne Mather
Joel passed her and went to the drinks trolley standing against the wall, helping himself to a stiff whisky and swallowing it before saying: "Did Heron let you in?"
"Yes. Four hours ago," she conceded dryly. "Joel, what is it? What's wrong? Aren't you pleased to see me?"
She slid off the couch and stood before him, slim and assured in her dusky pink chiffon gown. Chestnut dark hair curled fashionably about her small head, and her heels added inches to her diminutive five feet of height. Rachel was much taller, he found himself thinking, and then brushed the thought angrily aside.
"I'm sorry, Erica," he sighed. "I'm very tired, that's all. And I've got a filthy headache. I want nothing so much as a shower and bed!"
"Oh, darling!" She came towards him then, her hands outstretched, and pretended not to notice when he moved away. "Can I get you something?" she asked, linking her fingers together. "An aspirin - or some seltzer?"
Joel shook his head. "No. No, nothing, thanks." He ran a hand over his forehead. "I'm sorry, I'm not much company, I'm afraid."
Erica's tongue probed her upper lip. She had sensed his uncertain mood, and she knew from experience that a careless word could ignite a furnace.
"I'll go," she said, reaching for the fur cape she had draped over the back of the couch on her arrival. "I'll ring you tomorrow, shall I?"
Joel regarded her impatiently. He despised himself for treating her so casually, but right now he was in no mood to be tactful. It was easy to excuse himself on the grounds that she shouldn't have been here, but on other occasions - after a particularly demanding lecture, or a boring evening spent as the guest of one society or another - he had been glad of her sympathetic companionship. Erica demanded little of him; she was independent and reasonably intelligent, and as his mistress she was always available. He knew that eventually she expected him to marry her, but this had never troubled him. The demands of her own profession offset his, and having children played no part in her scheme of things, which had suited him. She was not cut out to be a mother, she had told him; she was shrewd and sophisticated, intent on making a success of her career, and this was what he had thought he wanted. But suddenly the selfishness of that kind of life revolted him, and all he could see were two stormy dark eyes glaring up at him in obvious dislike. It was-insane, but those eyes haunted him. And yet was it insane to want your own daughter to at least like you?
But he could explain none of this to Erica, and she was left to draw her own conclusions as to his unsociability. She draped the fur over her shoulder and walked to the door, and with a genuine effort, Joel followed her.
"Yes, ring me tomorrow," he said, bending to kiss her lightly, and finding himself withdrawing from that avid seeking mouth. "Goodnight, Erica."
"Goodnight."
Erica's smile was tinged with impatience now, but she managed to restrain the impulse to rail at him for his indifference. Joel closed the door after her with real relief, leaning back against it and closing his eyes. He had known exactly what Erica was thinking, but he had been unable to reassure her.
Straightening, he crossed the living room, loosening his tie and dropping his jacket where it fell. A short passage beyond an attractively arched doorway brought him to his bedroom, and he went inside wearily and closed the door behind him. A shower, in the cream and gold luxury of his bathroom, did much to destroy the feeling of contamination he had experienced after the row with his father, and wrapping a towel around his hips he went back into his bedroom. Shaded lamps cast spotlights of colour on chocolate brown walls, and the massive four-poster bed was spread with a coffee and cream printed quilt. Joel sat down on the edge of the bed and then lay back to stretch his arms behind his head. He was tired, exhausted - but it was not just a physical thing. He was tired of painting portraits of society women, who, without conceit, he knew lived in hopes that he might desire more of them than his statutory fee; he was tired of receptions and parties, and more food and drink than was good for him; he was tired of prostituting his soul for the benefit of his body; in short - he was tired of his life.
CHAPTER FOUR
SARA was finally asleep, and Rachel tiptoed silently out of the bedroom and closed the door. It had taken some time to settle the child down, she was disturbed and excited by her new surroundings, by everything that had happened to her that day, and her temperature had risen alarmingly. But now, at last, she was sleeping soundly and Rachel breathed a sigh of relief as she walked back to where James Kingdom was awaiting her in the living room.
This flat, one in a medium rise block in a cul-de-sac off Abbey Road, was much bigger than she had expected. Apart from the comfortable living room, there was a kitchen big enough for herself and Sara to eat in, two bedrooms and a bathroom. It was a furnished flat, but far more luxuriously furnished than anything Rachel had ever occupied, and she realised that James had gone to a great deal of trouble on her behalf. It should, she supposed, have made her feel more grateful to him, but their relationship was still so new and alien to her that her gratitude was diluted with a certain amount of cynicism. Nevertheless, the flat was near to St. Matthew's Hospital, and that was the important thing. When the time came for Sara to enter hospital, Rachel would be able to visit her whenever she wanted.
James Kingdom was seated on the long couch when she reentered the living room, but he rose at her entrance and indicated the seat beside him. "Come and sit down," he said. "Let me get you a drink. What would you like? Gin - whisky - vodka?"
"Just a dry Martini, please," replied Rachel, sitting down on the edge of an armchair, and with a wry smile he walked across to a polished cabinet which opened at the touch of a switch to reveal a comprehensive array of bottles and glasses.
When he returned to his earlier position on the couch, he was carrying two glasses, and handing one to her, he commented: "You look tired too, Rachel. I shan't keep you long. I expect you'd like an early night."
Rachel sipped her drink slowly, nodding. "It has been rather n hectic day," she conceded. Then, realising something more was expected of her, she added: "It was kind of you to meet us at the station and take us out for a meal. Sara loved it."
"It was only what I wanted to do," replied James, lying back in his seat, watching her closely. "I guessed you wouldn't feel like preparing food today. By the way, the cupboards in the kitchen are well stocked. My secretary saw to all that."
"Thank you." Rachel didn't know what else to say.
James's face mirrored his satisfaction at the situation as it now stood. Even in a plain tweed skirt and a rather shapeless sweater, Rachel had style and elegance, but he was determined to mould her into the kind of woman people would expect his wife to be. Claudine, Francis's mother, had had style. Probably still had. But she had been indiscreet, and a divorce had had to be arranged.
"I've arranged for you to visit the Grey Salon some time this week, Rachel," he remarked casually.
"The grey salon?" Rachel looked up in surprise. "What is that?"
"The Grey Salon, my dear! It's a rather exclusive dress shop, owned by a friend of Joel's, as a matter of fact."
Rachel could feel the colour creeping up under her skin. "Oh!" she managed blankly.
"Yes. Erica Grey. No doubt when she finds out who you are, she'll attend to you herself."
"What do you mean?" Rachel couldn't prevent the instinctive defence "Why, only that you're my fiancée, my dear," returned James smoothly. "What did you think I meant? I haven't broadcast it around among my friends that my fiancée was once my son's mistress!"
Rachel got jerkily to her feet, spilling her drink on to the warm red carpet. "That's a foul thing to say!" she choked.
"I agree." James sounded apologetic. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said it."
"I was not - his mistress," stated Rachel tremulously.
"No. No, I know." James sighed, shaking his head. "Forgive me?"
Rachel stared down blindly into her glass, and then she moved her head in a positive gesture. James relaxed. Th
en: "I'm afraid I was trying to hurt you - as you've hurt me by withholding the knowledge that you've seen Joel since our last meeting!"
Rachel felt rather like a fly must feel in the web of a rather disingenuous spider. She had known she should have mentioned the incidence of Joel's visit, but the memory of it was still too raw to bear examination.
"How - how did you find out?" she ventured.
James sighed. "Joel told me."
"Joel?" Her eyes widened.
"Yes. Did you think he wouldn't?"
What had she thought? She didn't know. Perhaps she had imagined that Joel would avoid an open confrontation with his father. She should have known better.
"He - he came to the Hall just over a week ago," she told him in a low voice. "The Colonel didn't see him. He - he demanded to see Sara."
"And you told him whose child she was, didn't you?"
"Yes." Rachel drew a deep breath.
"Why ? Because of Sara's resemblance to her father?"
"I - no." Her clenched fingers tightened about the glass. It would be so easy to say that was so. To lie about it. But lies led to more lies and that was no beginning for a relationship. "He - lie hadn't seen Sara when I told him."
James's heavy brows arched above the bridge of his nose. "Then why did you do so?"
Rachel moved away from him, shaking her head. "Oh, it was terrible. We had a row - an awful row. I suppose I wanted to shock him with the truth. I succeeded."
"And were you not going to tell me about this? Didn't you think that I ought to know? To be forewarned, as they say?"
Rachel shrugged. "I - there hasn't been a lot of time..."
"No." James inclined his head. "I suppose there hasn't." His eyes narrowed. "Of course, Sara doesn't know of her relationship to my son?"
"No!"
"That's good. I don't want us to have secrets from one another, Rachel. Don't forget, without my help you would have no recourse but to appeal to Joel. Is that what you want?"
"Of course not." Rachel's mouth trembled. "You know I could never do that."
James made a dismissing gesture. "So. We'll say no more about it. It's tomorrow morning that you have the appointment to see Lorrimer, isn't it?"
"Yes. Yes. Ten o'clock."
"Are you nervous?"
Rachel hesitated. "Are you?"
James gave the question his consideration. "Apprehensive, perhaps," he mused. "But Lorrimer is, without doubt, the most able man in his field. There's no cause for alarm."
"But if it fails - " Rachel began unsteadily.
"- then Sara will resume her present treatment." James looked at her encouragingly. "Nothing ventured, nothing gained. I'm sorry if I'm speaking in clichés, Rachel, but you really must be more optimistic."
Rachel finished the Martini and cradling the glass between her palms, said: "I will."
James studied her for a few minutes longer and then bent his head to kiss her lips. But Rachel jerked aside and his mouth slid harmlessly along her cheek. He straightened then and his eyes were hard as they probed hers. "We have a bargain Rachel," he stated coldly. "I trust you. Don't you trust me?"
Rachel compressed her lips. "Oh, yes, of course I do, James. But don't rush me. It's been an exhausting day. Can't you appreciate that?"
James nodded, and his expression softened slightly. "Of course. I was forgetting." He swallowed the remains of his drink and set the empty glass on the mantelshelf. "I'll go, then you can get to bed. But I'll be round to see you tomorrow evening before I leave for Frankfurt. I'm sorry I have to go away the minute you arrive in London, but this may be my last conference."
Rachel managed a faint smile and accompanied him to the door. When he bent to kiss her again, she accepted his kiss dutifully, and if he noticed that there was no enthusiasm behind it, he made no demur.
After he had gone, Rachel carried the dirty glasses into the kitchen and rinsed them at the sink. It was an attractive kitchen with lots of orange paintwork and chromium handles. When she opened the cupboards she found an impressive array of china and glassware, and food to feed a garrison. There were fresh fruit and vegetables, milk and butter in the refrigerator, and a french loaf in the bread bin. Someone had catered for them very adequately.
It was half past nine by the time she re-entered the living room, and weariness was a leaden weight on her shoulders. But the thought of entering her lonely bedroom just yet filled her with dismay and she deliberately switched on the television and tried to pay attention to the play that was in progress. But her thoughts kept wandering, and when it finished and the news came on she had not been aware of what she had seen.
It was strange to think of the Hall being closed and shuttered now. It had been their home, hers and Sara's, for the past five years, and Colonel Frenshaw had been as much a friend as an employer. An invalid himself, engrossed in writing his war memoirs, he had welcomed a young person about the place, und when Sara was old enough to toddle about and chatter to him, he had been delighted. Indeed, Rachel didn't know how she would have coped without the Colonel's assistance...
But the Colonel's health had deteriorated rapidly over the past twelve months, and he had been advised to seek a warmer, drier climate, if it was at all possible. He had wanted Rachel to go with him, he had assured her that he would make the necessary arrangements for Sara, but Rachel had been loath to accept. She owed the Colonel enough already, and besides, sooner or later she would have to make other arrangements. Far better to make them here.- in her own country, as attempt to make herself understood to some alien official who might not be sympathetic without the Colonel's support behind her.
It had been an oddly fortuitous twist of fate that had brought James Kingdom to Langthwaite. She had known the Colonel had dealings with a bank in London and that its chairman was someone the Colonel had known well when he himself had lived in London just after the war. When the Colonel had first decided to sell up and move abroad, it had been natural that he should contact his old friend about his securities, and James Kingdom himself had decided to attend to the matter.
Rachel shivered. She could still remember the wave of horror which had swept over her when she opened the door to James Kingdom. He had recognised her at once, and although she had not told him about Sara, the Colonel was only too willing to discuss his attractive housekeeper, who had lost her husband before her baby was born.
James had lost no time in putting two and two together and coming up with the right answer. He had found an opportunity to talk to Rachel, and question her about her disappearance, and although Rachel had not particularly wanted to talk to him, as the guest of her employer she could hardly refuse. She had decided to tell him the truth, and although she had been apprehensive about doing so, James had been curiously sympathetic. Especially when he learned of Sara's disability.
That was when he had first broached the possibility of a bargain being struck between them. He wanted a wife, he said. He had a notion to retire, but it would be a lonely existence without a woman's companionship, and if Rachel wanted security as well as recovery for Sara, she would do well to consider what he had suggested.
And Rachel had considered it. She had considered it late into the night, night after night. At first, the idea of marrying James Kingdom had been anathema to her, but gradually the benefits to Sara which would ensue had stilled her other fears She owed it to Sara to do everything in her power, not only to make her well again, but to ensure that Sara would never be faced with the struggle for survival Rachel herself had once faced. After all, James was the child's grandfather. He must have some natural feeling for her. And they would live most of the year in Greece, he said, and if all went well Sara would eventually return to England and attend a good school there. She would have every advantage that money could bring, advantages Rachel could only guess at after spending her formative years in an orphanage, and she would never need to work unless she really wanted to do so. How could Rachel turn it down?
Of course, she hadn't.
She had eventually agreed that if the tests James was to have made proved positive, she would marry him on his terms. The tests were extensive and Rachel lived on a knife edge. But eventually he came to her with the news that this thing he had suggested was possible.
Getting up, Rachel switched off the television and went into her bedroom. There was a connecting door with Sara's room and earlier she had left this ajar. Now she went to the aperture and listened intently. Sara was breathing easily, apparently recovered from her experiences of the day. Rachel bit her lower lip hard. What if something disastrous happened? she asked herself desperately. What if the operation went wrong and Sara died? Would she ever be able to forgive herself?
Surprisingly, Rachel found she slept quite soundly, and awakened to the unaccustomed hum of traffic from the main thoroughfare some yards away from the apartment building. A watery March sun was filtering through the curtains and she wondered rather optimistically whether she should regard it as a good omen. She could hear sounds from the room next door and a smile curved her lips. Sara was obviously exploring her domain and had charitably not decided to wake her.
Sliding out of bed, and pulling on her navy quilted dressing gown, Rachel went to the door into Sara's room. The little girl was busily unpacking her canvas holdall, in which she had stuffed all her favourite toys, into the bedside cabinet. She looked up when Rachel spoke to her, and smiled broadly.
"You're a sleepyhead!" she said, blinking. "I've been awake for hours!"
Rachel glanced automatically at her watch and then relaxed when she saw it was only half past eight. "Did you sleep well, poppet?"
"Mmm. It's a lovely bed." Sara bounced up and down upon it as though to demonstrate its elasticity. "Will I have a bedroom like this when we go to live with - with that man?" Although James had asked her to call him "uncle", Sara didn't seem capable of doing so, and she invariably said "that man" which jarred on Rachel.
"I expect you'll find living abroad quite a novelty," she replied, briefly. Then: "Now, go and get washed while I sort out the clothes you're wearing to go to hospital."
