by Anne Mather
Turning away, she was about to close the door again when Sheila spoke again. ‘I should ask Jake how long Denise plans to stay in San Francisco,’ she remarked casually. ‘Or maybe she’s flying back to England with him!’
‘Denise!’ Rachel couldn’t deny the involuntary exclamation, but she felt furious when she saw Sheila’s triumphant expression. ‘You’re wasting your time, Sheila,’ she told her coldly. ‘You won’t split us up by trying to make me jealous of Denise. That was over long ago.’
‘Was it?’ Sheila quirked an eyebrow. ‘Who told you that?’
Rachel refused to give her the satisfaction of answering. ‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘I have some unpacking to do.’
‘You don’t believe me, do you?’ Sheila observed, putting the magazine she was holding aside. ‘About Denise being in California?’
Rachel wasn’t sure. She didn’t think even Sheila would lie about something like that when it would be so easy to prove her right or wrong. But equally, if it was so, why hadn’t Jake told her? She needed time to think this one out, but Sheila wasn’t giving her any.
‘I can prove it,’ the older girl went on. ‘The wealthy Princess Denise is not without interest to the sensation-minded public, and since her—husband died a couple of weeks ago, it’s rumoured that she plans to come back to England—eventually.’
‘I really don’t care——’ Rachel was beginning, when footsteps sounded behind her, and the rustling skirts heralded the approach of Mrs Courtenay.
‘Oh, so there you are,’ she exclaimed, including both girls in her greeting. ‘Dora’s made some tea. Would you like some too, Sheila?’
Sheila’s derisive gaze flickered over Rachel’s pale face for a moment, but then she shook her head. ‘I don’t think so, thank you, Mrs Courtenay. I still haven’t found that article Mr Courtenay was looking for, so I think I’ll carry on for a little longer.’
‘Oh! Very well, my dear.’ Mrs Courtenay tucked her arm confidingly through Rachel’s. ‘My daughter-in-law and I will go and take tea together, eh? And she can tell me what it’s like being married to my son.’
Rachel wished with all her heart she had never opened Jake’s bedroom door. Right now, she might have been in her room, unpacking her clothes, happily anticipating Jake’s call. As it was, she was obliged to go with Jake’s mother and assume a cheerfulness she was far from feeling, knowing that sooner or later she had to face the fact that maybe Jake had lied to her.
Tea seemed to take an interminable time, particularly as Rachel was not hungry, and couldn’t even be tempted by the delicate watered sandwiches Dora had provided. Mrs Courtenay noticed her abstinence, of course, and drew her own conclusions, but Rachel wished it was only Jake’s absence which was making her feel so desperate.
Eventually she reached the seclusion of her own suite and kicking off her shoes, curled her toes luxuriously in the soft pile of the carpet. Perhaps she was jumping to conclusions herself. Just because Denise was in San Francisco did not mean that Jake had gone there to meet her. He might not even know she was there. Like London, San Francisco was a big place, and Jake had business matters to occupy his time. Or did he?
Disgusted by the trend of her thoughts, she walked through the bedroom into the bathroom, and turned on the taps. She would take a bath, relax in the warm water, and let its soothing fragrance dispel the unpleasantness Sheila had been so willing to create.
She dressed for dinner with extra care, determined not to let Sheila see how her malicious gossip had affected her, and was rather disappointed to find only Mr and Mrs Courtenay waiting for her in the drawing room. When she casually asked if they were dining alone, Jake’s mother replied that Frank Evans, the veterinary surgeon, had been invited to join them, providing Mr Courtenay agreed not to spend the whole evening talking shop.
‘All I seem to hear these days is horses, horses, horses,’ she declared impatiently, and her husband gave Rachel a knowing grin before asking what she would like to drink.
‘That’s a pretty dress,’ he commented, as Rachel moved to join him, and she looked down at the amber-coloured silk with thoughtful eyes.
‘Your wife chose it for me,’ she conceded, trying to behave naturally, but something in her eyes must have given her away.
‘Is something wrong?’ he asked in an undertone, as he poured her sherry, and she looked at him ruefully, wishing she dared confide.
‘Oh, I don’t think your secretary likes me,’ she admitted, off-handedly, realising he would recognise any attempt at prevarication, and Mr Courtenay’s heavy brows drew together.
‘What’s she been telling you?’ he demanded. ‘Just because she’s treated more like a daughter than an employee it doesn’t give her the right to upset you with her chatter.’
‘It was nothing much,’ protested Rachel, taking the glass he offered and cradling it between her palms. ‘Hmm, something smells good.’
‘Sarah told me you didn’t eat anything at teatime,’ Jake’s father persisted. ‘She said she found you talking to Sheila, and you looked as pale as a ghost.’
Rachel hadn’t realised her mother-in-law could be so perceptive. ‘She’s exaggerating,’ she exclaimed hastily. ‘You know, this really is a beautiful room!’
Mr Courtenay regarded her narrowly for several more seconds, and then Mrs Courtenay called: ‘Whatever are you two talking about so earnestly? Rachel, come and sit beside me.’ She patted the sofa at her side invitingly. ‘What time do you think Jake will phone?’
Frank Evans arrived a few minutes later, and the presence of the stocky, middle-aged vet precluded any more awkward questions concerning Sheila Pendlebury. Rachel was conscious of Jake’s father’s eyes watching her at various times throughout the evening, but conversation was general, and Jake’s name was only mentioned once.
When the telephone rang at half past nine, Mr Courtenay went to answer it, returning only a few moments later to tell Rachel it was Jake, and that she could take the call in his study. She was grateful for his thoughtfulness, although for the first time she felt a sense of reluctance about speaking to her husband.
Mr Courtenay showed her into the study, and then went out again, closing the door as she picked up the receiver.
‘Hello, Jake!’
‘Rachel! So you arrived safely?’
‘Yes, I’m here.’ She paused. ‘How are you?’
‘Bearing up.’ Was it her imagination, or did he sound restrained somehow? ‘How about you?’
‘Oh, I’m fine.’
‘The parents looking after you?’
‘Yes. As per your instructions.’ She couldn’t resist that small jibe, but before he could take offence at it, she went on hastily: ‘How’s business?’
‘So-so.’ There was a moment’s silence, and now she felt sure she was not mistaken that Jake had something else on his mind. ‘By the way …’
‘Yes?’
‘I shan’t be able to phone you tomorrow. Ralph Pearman’s invited me out to his place for the day, being Sunday and all, and I can hardly ask to make a transatlantic phone call from there, can I?’
Rachel’s legs gave way and she sank down weakly into the squashy leather chair behind the desk. ‘Who—who is Ralph Pearman?’ she asked faintly, giving herself time to recover.
Jake sounded surprised. ‘You know! I mentioned him the other evening. He’s handling the deal here for the organisation.’
‘Oh, yes.’ Rachel felt slightly sick. ‘That Ralph Pearman.’
‘Rachel?’ He sounded concerned now. ‘Rachel, are you all right? Have you been drinking? You sound—sort of—slurred somehow.’
‘No, no, I’m fine.’ Rachel cleared her throat. ‘So you’ll phone me Monday? But not here. At—at the hotel.’
‘The Tor Court?’ His voice was noticeably cooler now. ‘Yes, Mother told me what you’d suggested.’ He hesitated. ‘I’d really rather you went straight back to town.’
Rachel’s knuckles hardened. ‘Would you?’ She straightened her
spine. ‘Why?’ A pause. ‘Don’t you trust me?’
‘Trust you?’ Jake sounded taken aback. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’ A moment’s silence, then: ‘For God’s sake, what has my mother been saying to you now?’
‘Your mother?’ Rachel caught her breath. ‘Your mother has nothing to do with it.’
‘Hasn’t she?’ He sounded unconvinced. ‘So what makes you think I wouldn’t trust you to go to the hotel?’
Rachel’s shoulders quivered. ‘Trust—trusting has to be a mutual thing …’
‘I’d go along with that.’
‘Can I trust you?’
‘What?’ Jake sounded positively staggered, and Rachel wondered if he could do that if he really was seeing Denise. Surely he must know how she would feel about that.
‘Your wife—your first wife, Denise—she’s in San Francisco, isn’t she?’ she blurted out wretchedly, and heard his swift intake of breath.
‘Who told you?’
‘It’s true, isn’t it?’
Another pregnant pause. ‘Yes. It’s true.’
Rachel held her breath. ‘Have you seen her?’
Jake gave a weary sigh. ‘How am I supposed to answer that? Yes, I’ve seen her. We had lunch together two days ago. Now does that make you happy?’
‘No!’ Rachel was trembling so badly she almost dropped the phone.
‘I thought not.’ Jake’s voice was flat. ‘That’s why I didn’t tell you.’
‘I wish you had.’
‘Why?’ He sounded half angry now. ‘I’d have told you when I got home. Not when I’m half way across the world, incapable of assuring you that having lunch with Denise was not through any choice of mine!’
Rachel drew an unsteady breath. ‘You should have told me.’
He swore softly. ‘All right, I should have told you. What now?’
Rachel shook her head, then realising he couldn’t see her, asked, ‘What did she want? Why did you have lunch with her?’
Jake sighed again. ‘She’s a widow now, did you know that?’
‘Did you?’
‘Of course.’ He sounded impatient. ‘Vittorio died six weeks ago.’
Rachel digested this with difficulty. So Jake had known soon after their marriage that his wife was a widow—soon enough to have this marriage annulled if he had wanted it. If only he had told her!
‘Anyway,’ Jake was going on, ‘they spent a lot of time in the States when Vittorio was alive, and they have this house out at Carmel which Denise now wants to sell. She heard I was in town, and asked if I’d lunch with her and give her some advice about her affairs. That’s it!’
Rachel breathed more easily. ‘I see.’
‘And now I’d like to know who started all this,’ he muttered grimly. ‘Who was it? Mother? Father? I can’t think of anyone else who knew who might have spoken to you.’
‘It doesn’t matter——’ Rachel was beginning urgently, when the study door suddenly opened and Mrs Courtenay put her head round.
‘I hope I’m not interrupting,’ she whispered pointedly, ‘but you have had quite a while to yourselves. Do you think I could speak to Jake for a minute?’
Rachel stared at her mother-in-law frustratedly. What could she say? How could she explain that Mrs Courtenay could not have chosen a worse moment to interrupt them?
‘I—Jake——’ she spoke into the phone. ‘Your mother wants to speak to you.’
‘Rachel, wait——’
But Mrs Courtenay needed no second bidding, and was already taking the phone from her daughter-in-law’s reluctant hand. Rachel herself hovered in the background, wondering whether she would get another opportunity to speak to Jake, but then, aware of his mother’s half-impatient stare, she felt obliged to leave the room.
Mr Courtenay met her in the passageway outside, and made a sound of exasperation. ‘Is Sarah on the phone now?’ he asked, and when Rachel nodded, added: ‘I told her not to interrupt you, but you know what mothers are like!’
Rachel managed a faint smile, but all the while she was listening for the tell-tale sound of the bell which would signify the disconnection of the call.
Frank Evans looked up from filling his pipe when they reentered the drawing room, and smiled understandingly at Rachel. ‘I expect you miss him,’ he said, rather tactlessly, and Rachel could only nod in reply.
She was still standing near the door, her hands twisting nervously together, when Mrs Courtenay came into the room looking put out. She intercepted Rachel’s expectant look, and shook her head with evident annoyance.
‘The line went dead,’ she declared shortly, destroying Rachel’s hopes with her words. ‘I tried to get the call reconnected, but the operator said there was a fault on the line, so I had to ring off.’
‘I don’t know why you had to interfere,’ remarked her husband abruptly. ‘Good heavens, woman, you were only speaking to him last night. What on earth could you have to say that was so important it wouldn’t wait another week?’
His wife tilted her head. ‘I don’t have to give you my reasons!’ she retorted. ‘But as a matter of fact, I just wanted to let Jake know that we’re looking after Rachel.’
Mr Courtenay smothered an oath. ‘I should have thought that was obvious!’
‘Oh, please …’ Rachel couldn’t bear their quarrelling on top of everything else. ‘If Jake wants to speak to me again, he’ll ring back.’ But she wished she felt as confident as she sounded.
The rest of the evening was an anti-climax, and Rachel eventually went to bed at eleven o’clock to cry herself to sleep once more.
On Sunday she attended the village church with Mrs Courtenay in the morning, and then, after an early lunch, Mr Courtenay took them for a drive down to the coast. It was still cold, but the sun was shining as it had the previous day, and Rachel’s spirits rose a little. Jake would be home in three days, and soon this past week would be just a rather uneasy memory.
‘Are you going down to Torquay tomorrow?’ asked Mrs Courtenay that evening, as they sat by the fire after dinner, and Rachel glanced at her doubtfully.
‘I—well, no, I don’t think so,’ she conceded, and Mr Courtenay looked up from the chess pieces he was studying.
‘You’re going straight back to town?’ he asked, and she nodded.
‘I wish you’d told us sooner,’ exclaimed Jake’s mother regretfully. ‘I mean, you heard me arrange to help the vicar’s wife with Tuesday’s jumble sale this morning.’
‘What has that to do with anything?’ asked her husband, and Mrs Courtenay sighed.
‘I told Rachel that we might go up to town with her for a few days,’ she told him impatiently, but Mr Courtenay just looked annoyed.
‘You did what!’ he declared grimly. ‘Us—go up to town with Rachel! Don’t be ridiculous, woman. I can’t go up to London this week. You know I’ve got Harrison coming to have a look at the mare, and Sam wants me to go to Risford market with him. Besides,’ he glanced understandingly at Rachel, ‘do you want the lass to think we don’t trust her? Good lord, you’ve brought her down here, don’t you think that’s enough?’
Mrs Courtenay pursed her lips. ‘I might know horses would come before your own daughter-in-law!’ she retorted, and again Rachel interposed herself between them.
‘Really,’ she exclaimed, ‘he—that is, Jake’s father is right. I’d really rather have a few days alone before Jake gets back. I—have things to do. I want to do some shopping first of all.’ Some new clothes, she thought with enthusiasm. A new wardrobe to show him she, too, had a flair for fashion.
‘Oh, well, if that’s how you feel,’ said Mrs Courtenay, sounding offended, and Rachel sighed.
‘Jake will be home on Wednesday,’ she said gently. ‘It’s only a matter of two days.’
‘Is it?’ Mrs Courtenay looked vaguely uneasy now. ‘He didn’t say exactly when he’d be home to me.’
‘He wouldn’t,’ said her husband sardonically. ‘He’d be afraid he’d find you on the thresh
old!’
‘Charles!’ Mrs Courtenay’s cheeks flamed. ‘How dare you say such a thing! I hope I know my place better than that. You’re both the same, you and Jake always accusing me of things I wouldn’t do!’
Mr Courtenay frowned. ‘Do I detect a note of anxiety in your voice?’ he demanded. ‘What do you mean—accusing? What has Jake accused you of?’
Suddenly Rachel could guess, and her eyes turned appealingly in Mrs Courtenay’s direction. But the older woman regarded her defensively. ‘Jake said you’d found out that Denise was in San Francisco,’ she said slowly, and her husband made a sound of exasperation.
‘Sheila!’ he muttered grimly, startling both of them. ‘It was Sheila, wasn’t it?’
Rachel couldn’t deny it, and he shook his head. ‘Of course, she was always jealous of Denise when she was here. Why didn’t I remember that? But she always behaved so politely to you that I foolishly thought …’ He sighed. ‘I should have realised, age brings experience. She has more sense now than to show her hand so openly. I’m sorry, Rachel, I should have guessed.’
‘What are you talking about, Charles?’ fretted Mrs Courtenay, and her husband explained:
‘Sheila told Rachel about Denise. Don’t you remember yesterday when you told me how pale Rachel was looking? She’d been talking to Sheila then.’
‘Oh, that awful girl!’ protested Jake’s mother. ‘How could she do such a thing!’
‘Well, it was no secret,’ pointed out her husband mildly. ‘Jake told me the day before he left that she was staying in California.’ He looked at Rachel. ‘He wanted to tell you, but he was afraid you might get upset.’
Rachel managed to maintain a composed countenance, but as usual, Mrs Courtenay had to have the last word. ‘I can understand how he felt,’ she put in, with disruptive candour. ‘I mean, Denise was his wife, after all, and she’s a widow now. And we all know Jake divorced her, not the other way around.’
‘Sarah!’ Mr Courtenay’s tone was threatening, but his wife didn’t seem to hear.
‘She was a beautiful girl,’ she went on reminiscently. ‘They made a very handsome couple, everyone said so. If Jake’s breakdown hadn’t happened so much later, I’d have said that was the cause.’
