The Hidden Years

by Penny Jordan

  'David always was his favourite,' Sage said unemotionally. 'I don't think he had the will to go on after he died.'

  'No…' Faye agreed.

  She watched as Sage left the room, half envying her graceful, elegant prowl, wondering if Sage herself knew how much these last weeks had changed her, how much she had softened, losing that hard edge which Faye had always found so intimidating. Watching her now, for instance, Faye had the impression that there was almost something vulnerable about her.

  She frowned, checking the impulse to ask her if there was anything wrong.

  Talk to Camilla, Sage had suggested. Confide in her. Perhaps she should… It wouldn't be easy. She had spent so long protecting Camilla from the past, dreading its darkness reaching out to touch her, that the very idea of telling her about it now made her stomach churn nervously. And yet Sage was right; a rift was developing between them. Camilla alternated at times between sulkiness and outright hostility. She had even started to accuse her of not caring about her.

  As she stood up, she winced a little, a tiny thrill of awareness racing through her veins as her body reminded her of the way she had spent the afternoon.

  Even now there was no regret, no remorse, no guilt, only a delicious sense of smug completeness. A feminine joy and secrecy, and the firm knowledge that she had finally detached herself from the past. She would never forget it… never try to bury it or hide from it, but she was at long last free of its power to cripple and hurt her.

  This afternoon she had responded sexually to a man as she had thought she would never be able to respond. She was suddenly, miraculously aware of the fact that she was a sexually functioning woman and that she still had a large part of her life ahead of her. She would never be promiscuous—that held no appeal for her—but she knew now that it was possible for her to feel sexual desire, to enjoy a physical relationship with a man. Quickly, before she could lose her courage, she went in search of Camilla.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  As anxious as she had been to get back to the study, to the diary, once she was there Sage experienced an unfamiliar reluctance to pick it up and start reading. It wasn't so much that she felt that in doing so she was invading into her mother's privacy—after all, it was at Liz's insistence that these diaries were being read. It was more—more… more what? Apprehension on her own behalf? Why? What was it she was frightened of discovering? That her mother didn't love her, had never really wanted her? She frowned as she dismissed the lack of logic of such thoughts. How could her mother not have wanted her, when she had deliberately brought about her conception and birth?

  Maybe the person she had turned out to be had been a disappointment to both her parents, but originally they could not have known that; they must have actually wanted her.

  She stared down at the desk, at the diary, feeling a shiver of tension zip along her nerves. She reached out for the diary and then stopped, paced the room for several seconds and then, telling herself that she was being ridiculous, she went and sat down, firmly picking up the diary and started to read where she had left off.

  Lewis McLaren was conscious of the tension which had come into the room with Liz, and made him look at her rather more closely.

  For such a beautiful woman she was curiously unsure of herself, oddly vulnerable in some way, and he hadn't missed the anxious, almost appealing look she had given Edward, but appealing for what?

  His own unexpected curiosity about her made him tense a little.

  It had been his doctor who had suggested he take this trip, pointing out to him that he needed to distance himself a little from what had happened… to get away.

  And so he had come to England, and it had been Vic who had suggested rather diffidently that he might like to call at Cottingdean to see the flock there and the breeding stock.

  He had known from the timbre of the other man's voice how much he still missed his home and he had wondered why Vic had chosen to put so many miles between himself and a place he obviously loved.

  Beth hadn't been very impressed with England, nor with the Danverses. From her comments about Liz Danvers he had expected to meet an older, harder woman, not this hesitant, almost nervous girl—because it seemed to him that she was little more than a girl really.

  His own curiosity about her made him wonder if perhaps Ralph Forbes, his doctor, had been right after all. That in order to start the healing process he had needed to get away from the station.

  The trouble was that he hadn't been sure if he did want that process to start. What was the point? The loss of his wife, his child—they were things he would never be able to forget, especially when…

  He realised that Edward was saying something to him, questioning him about the length of time he expected to stay in the area. There was hostility in the older man's voice, and it made him frown.

  Initially, or so it had seemed, Edward Danvers had welcomed him quite warmly—now suddenly everything had changed. And everything had changed from the moment his wife had walked into the room.

  An older and obviously disabled man and a much younger and very beautiful woman. On the surface it was easy to see why Edward Danvers might be jealously protective of his wife, his marriage. But the couple had been married for quite some time; they had a son, and even Beth had not been able to fault Liz Danvers's devotion to her husband.

  Later he couldn't quite understand what had prompted him to Say easily, 'Oh, quite some time, I think. There are several people I want to look up around these parts, and Vic told me that this would make a good base from which to explore the area. The pub in the village is letting me have a room. It's clean and comfortable.' It had been his intention only to stay overnight in the village, and to make this one brief call here at Cottingdean to pass on to the Danverses Vic's messages.

  It was true, though, that Vic had told him that the village would make a good base for him to look around at the countryside, and he suspected that the landlord of the pub would be quite willing to allow him to keep his room.

  But why should he want to?

  Perhaps because for the first time since Elaine and Alistair's deaths his thoughts were actually focusing on someone other than them.

  He still wasn't sure if it was her beauty or her obvious apprehension which had first drawn his attention to Liz Danvers; he only knew that once he had started to study her, to wonder about her, he was finding it impossible to drag either his gaze or his thoughts from her.

  'I was also hoping it might be possible to see something of your flock while I'm here,' he continued, addressing himself to Edward, even though he knew full well that it was his wife who was responsible for the development of the flock and the breeding programme for which his ram had been purchased.

  Edward moved restlessly in his chair.

  'Oh, the flock… That's Liz's province,' he told him abruptly. 'Although I doubt if she'll have time to spare from her precious mill to take you out to see the sheep.'

  'We rent summer pastures for them,' Liz intervened quickly. 'Land higher up than Cottingdean's. It's several miles away…'

  'There's no need for me to put either of you to any trouble,' he told them easily. 'If you could just give me directions, and perhaps a letter of introduction to your shepherd.'

  'Yes… yes, of course,' Liz agreed. 'If you'll excuse me, I'll go and do it now.'

  Lewis was surprised to discover how great an effort of will it took for him not to watch her leave. Edward Danvers watched her, though, his gaze brooding and possessive.

  She wasn't gone long, returning within minutes with a note addressed to her shepherd which she handed to him and a neatly written list of directions as to how he could find the pasture.

  Edward's reference to the mill had increased his curiosity about Liz, but he sensed that any questions would not be welcomed by either husband or wife.

  They were an odd couple, he reflected as he drove away, and not just because of the disparity in their ages. There had been a tension between them, a fear
in Liz Danvers's eyes which contrasted with the picture of domestic harmony and devotion which Vic had drawn for him.

  'David's getting so grown up now,' Liz commented brightly to Edward when their visitor was gone.

  She was conscious of a sick tension in the pit of her stomach, a combination of anger and anxiety, and helpless pity for her husband. She had seen the way he had been looking at Lewis McLaren, knew what was coming even before Edward burst out furiously, 'What's going on between you and McLaren, Liz? And don't lie to me, don't try to deny it. I saw the way he was looking at you… Where did you meet him? What's he—'

  'Edward, please…' She was close to tears, as always unnerved by his illogical rage. 'I've never met Mr McLaren before today. You heard him. He's the owner of Woolonga… He merely called out of politeness.'

  'You're lying to me,' Edward told her harshly. 'I'm not a fool, Liz. I can see what's going on. You're having an affair with him, aren't you? You're…'

  He was working himself up into a rage which she knew from experience would lead to a violent explosion of temper. Inwardly all she wanted to do was to open the library door and escape, but her pride, and her com-passion for the real Edward, not this Edward who was screaming abuse and accusations at her, an Edward who had become warped by his suffering, made her stay.

  She longed to open the door and to call out to Chivers for help, but to do so would be to admit that she could no longer control the situation… that she could no longer deal with Edward's growing hostility and violence.

  She had learned now to keep as much physical distance between them as she could when Edward was in one of these moods. Moods which were becoming increasingly common, moods which could be sparked off by the smallest thing, although this was the first time he had actually accused her of having an affair with a specific man.

  'Edward, please,' she tried to reason, forcing herself to keep calm. 'Please listen to me. Mr McLaren means nothing to me… he's a stranger.'

  'A stranger? Then why is he staying in the village? Why did he come here? What was in that note you handed him—what had you written there?'

  'Edward, you know what was in it—it was just a note to the shepherd explaining who Mr McLaren is—'

  'You're lying, damn you!'

  She winced as he screamed the words at her and then turned to his desk, sending the chess set standing on it flying. He had a considerable amount of strength in his arms, and the noise of the pieces scattering all around the room seemed violently loud.

  It was certainly loud enough to reach Chivers's ears, because he came hurrying into the room, giving her an anxious, uncertain look.

  'Who the devil sent for you?' Edward demanded, glaring at him. 'Get out of here, damn you!'

  Liz gave him an imploring look, wanting him to go. She hated others seeing Edward like this. It hurt her for him and for herself, even when it was someone as close to them and as understanding as Chivers. Increasingly it was getting very difficult to prevent David from seeing what was happening. He had such a good relationship with Edward, and she didn't want anything to prejudice it. A boy should respect and admire his father, it was only right and natural, and, to David, Edward was his father. Certainly he had been a far better father to him than Kit would ever have been. Edward almost worshipped David… For the first time she was glad that David was away at school.

  'There's a phone call for you, madam,' Chivers was saying woodenly. A phone call… They had been having some problems at the mill with one of the machines and the call was probably about that. She looked apprehensively at Edward, knowing how much in these moods he resented her involvement with the mill, but he wasn't looking at her any more—he was staring blankly at the scattered chess pieces, almost as though he had no idea how they had got on the floor.

  Chivers was already starting to pick them up. The storm had passed… for the moment at least, Liz recognised tiredly. Later would come the remorse, the tears, the pleas to be released from his earthly torment, his anguish and fear of losing her, all of which in their way were, even harder to bear than his unwarranted accusations and his loss of temper.

  Perhaps Ian was right. Perhaps it would do them both good if Edward could be persuaded to go to one of the convalescent places for a little while, but how would she persuade him to go? He would immediately assume the worst. He would feel frightened, betrayed, deserted… and much as she felt the need for a small oasis of calm and peace, she couldn't take it at the expense of Edward's peace of mind.

  When she picked up the telephone receiver in the study, there was no one on the other end of the line. When she mentioned this later to Chivers he merely said quietly, 'Wasn't there? They must have hung up, then, madam.' She suspected that he had deliberately invented the call in order to help her.

  She sighed to herself. Her head ached and there was an uncomfortable gritting sensation at the back of her eyes. An hour or so spent working in her garden would ease her tension. No one would disturb her there.

  Only she was wrong in that assumption. Someone did disturb her—someone who had no right to be in her thoughts at all. And that someone was Lewis McLaren.

  She stopped weeding, her body suddenly trembling. What was the matter with her? She had no right to be thinking of Lewis McLaren, no right at all, and even less to be comparing him with Edward.

  And yet she couldn't help recalling how when he had touched her hand her whole body had reacted as violently as though it had come in contact with high-voltage electricity. Why?

  Stop it, she warned herself, you're imagining things. Just because Edward has invented some fantasy affair between the two of you, it doesn't mean that…

  Her body tensed abruptly and then she started to shake. She couldn't be thinking those kind of thoughts, couldn't be having those kind of feelings, not about a man she had only just met, a man she had known for only a handful of minutes—a man who, moreover, was married…

  Married… she sat back on her heels, wondering why her vision had suddenly clouded and then discovered that she was actually crying.

  Married… she was sure that Lewis McLaren's wife didn't sleep alone, that she didn't carry the burden of both doubting and fearing her own sexuality, that she knew what it was to share physical pleasure with a man, that she…

  Oh, God… what was happening to her? What was she doing? What was she thinking? And, besides, if the McLarens had such a perfect marriage, why wasn't she with him? Perhaps she was—perhaps she had simply not chosen to visit Cottingdean. If that was the case…

  How much better it would have been if she had. Edward would have had nothing then on which to base his totally fictitious accusations, and she… she would what? Not have felt that extraordinary and disturbing frisson of sensation when he touched her, that deep and vividly clear mental image of him as a man… a lover. She was crying in earnest now, tears pouring down her face. She had to stop this, and the only way to do it was through work, more and more work, until she was too exhausted to be able to remember that a man called Lewis McLaren even existed, never mind to indulge in such pointless and dangerous fantasies about him.

  For three days she almost succeeded, but it wasn't easy. Lewis McLaren was a stranger in a very small village, and quite naturally his presence there caused a good deal of interest and curiosity. It was known that he intended to spend some time in the area, and from the comments she overheard it was obvious to Liz that he had the village's approval.

  He had not returned to the house. She told herself that she was glad, but when she woke up in the night, her body tense, her skin slick with sweat, and an ache deep inside her that could only confirm the eroticism of dreams she would much rather have not remembered, it was hard not to give in to the temptation to let the shadowy man who partnered her in her dreams take on the form and features of the real man she knew him to be.

  In her weak moments she told herself that it did no harm, that her dreams, her fantasies were hers and hers alone and yet she was still tormented by guilt, by her fear
of the emotions and needs her dreams unleashed. Despairingly she longed to return to that time when she had not known the depths and heights of her own sexuality, when she had firmly believed that it did not exist.

  She tried to tell herself that she was like a foolish girl daydreaming over a film star, she tried to lose herself in her work—but, while that might keep her thoughts at bay during the day, it only seemed to unleash them to torment her even more intensely at night. What was wrong with her, she asked herself dejectedly, why was she developing these foolish thoughts, this dangerous obsession for a man she had only seen once?

  Five days after her brief meeting with Lewis McLaren she woke up and remembered that it was the day of her bi-monthly visit to see the flock and the shepherd. She dressed sensibly for this exercise in an old tweed skirt and jumper, putting a pair of brogues on her feet, and taking with her a warm tweed jacket. The forecast was for rain later on in the day and it was far from warm.

  Since his outburst over Lewis McLaren, Edward had been very quiet and subdued. Liz was becoming used to these mood swings now: the fierce outbursts of temper, followed by remorse, followed by a period of apathy.

  As she kissed Edward goodbye she found herself hoping that it wouldn't be too long before Ian was able to prescribe for him one of the new drugs he had mentioned, if they could only get Edward to agree to take them.

  It wasn't a long drive up into the downs where the sheep had their summer pasture and normally it was one which she enjoyed. The narrow country lanes were virtually free of other traffic, and the rich contrast provided by the different fields of crops never failed to entrance her, just as she was always fascinated by the way the sunlight and shadow moved over the hills as clouds raced across the sun.

  There was something about this land, about its timelessness, about its peace that made her vividly aware of how many many others before her must have watched as she was watching and marvelled at the power and strength of nature… and how many would do so in time to come. It was like being part of an unbreakable chain, an awareness of how infinitesimal her link in that chain was; from her it would pass to David and from him to his children and to theirs after him. She had so much to be grateful for; it was wrong of her to yearn for something she could never have, something she had no right to have.