The Hidden Years

by Penny Jordan

  'I'm not giving up,' he told her fiercely. 'I'll never give up, Liz. Never.'

  As she climbed the rest of the hill she didn't dare turn around. Not even when she heard the sound of a car engine firing, and knew that he had gone.

  It was only when she reached the top of the hill that she realised she was crying.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  'Are you all right, Liz?'

  She forced herself to smile at Colin Hedley, her mill manager. The two of them had spent the morning going over the accounts, and this afternoon she had a meeting with a buyer from one of the larger London stores. She hadn't slept through one night for the last three weeks. Since the day she had met Lewis McLaren out on the hill.

  He was still staying in the village. She hadn't seen him. He had called at the house a couple of times', but she had given Chivers instructions that she didn't want to see him. Didn't want to see him? A wan smile crossed her face. If only that were true.

  She might have banished him physically from her presence, but his image was with her constantly. During the day when she tried to work herself hard enough to ensure that she slept at night, and during the night when she was almost afraid to fall asleep because of the intensity of her dreams of him.

  She had lost weight, there were shadows under her eyes and it was no wonder that Colin Hedley was frowning at her, worried.

  She gave him an abstracted smile.

  'Yes, Colin, I'm fine,' she lied. 'Just a bit tired.'

  'Look, why don't I see the buyer for you?' he suggested.

  She was about to refuse when she had a sudden mental image of her garden, a sudden fierce thirst for the comfort of her long herbaceous borders where the mingled colours of her plants would rest coolly on her sore eyes. Eyes that were sore from the tears she cried at night when she was restlessly asleep. She wanted to feel the cool moistness of the earth in her hands; to have her faith, her belief that what she was doing was worthwhile and right reinforced. An hour or so working in her garden would soothe and calm her nerves in much the same way as its cool, healing colours would soothe her tired eyes, and who knew, perhaps if she worked hard enough, breathed in enough healthy fresh air, she might even be able to sleep properly and not be tormented by her dreams of Lewis?

  Woolonga… She could see it so clearly in her mind's eye, and had not realised until now how treacherously her brain had stored up from Vic's letters so many details of the sheep station and the homestead itself. It would be a harsh environment and certainly not one that would welcome the soft pastel colours of her English flowers with their thirst for the cool rain and gentle sun of an English summer, but she could have a garden there none the less; she could…

  Stop it, she told herself fiercely as she turned to Colin Hedley and thanked him, agreeing with his suggestion. The buyer was one who had visited the mill before, and who was merely coming to place a repeat order. The store which he represented had been pleased with the cloth they supplied. She herself had paid a discreet visit to its drapery department on her last visit to London and had been pleased to see how advantageously it was displayed and how well it was selling.

  As she had so correctly foreseen, there was a growing need, a growing desire for softness and luxury, so that her soft-hued tweeds, despite their cost, were outselling their duller, harsher competitors.

  It was a relief to get back into her car and drive through the leafy lanes to Cottingdean.

  The house drowsed in the sunshine, slumbering beneath the weight of its venerable years. As always when she came back to it she was conscious of a deep sense of peace, of continuity, of being part of the magical chain that linked generation to generation.

  Here was a different kind of completeness from that she had experienced with Lewis. Their completeness had been that of two people designed by nature to be together—here her completeness came from the knowledge that she was a very small but very necessary part in the huge mosaic that was humanity.

  She parked the car and walked round the side of the house so that she could walk through the kitchen garden and along the double border. Lavender lined the footpath that led to the kitchen garden, her progress wafting its scent around her, her tweed skirt, made from a Vogue pattern in tweed woven at the mill, of the same soft-hued shade as the plant so that she blended perfectly into her surroundings. The skirt was a copy of the latest Dior line, pencil-slim with a flirty back pleat. She had thought it rather sophisticated for her lifestyle but the vicar's wife had persuaded her to make it, claiming that in her position as proprietor of the mill she needed to show visiting buyers just how well the fabric made up.

  She had allowed herself to be persuaded, although she still felt guilty over the added extravagance of the court shoes she had bought in Bath to go with her new outfit.

  As she approached the house, she wondered if Edward would have had his lunch. His appetite had diminished recently, and his temper had become alarmingly short. She felt her stomach muscles bunch and tense.

  She knew the signs now, knew quite well that his almost childish sulks would lead eventually to one of his violent outbursts.

  Ian had told her quite firmly that she was not to put up with them; that if they continued, for her sake if not for his own, Edward would have to submit to some kind of restraining treatment.

  'He can't help it, Ian,' she had told the doctor. 'He doesn't mean any harm.'

  'Not afterwards,' Ian had agreed shortly. 'But he's a very strong man, Liz, far stronger than you.'

  She knew it was true; the muscles in Edward's arms had of necessity become extremely powerful, and the last time he had grabbed hold of her during one of his jealous rages she had indeed felt very afraid, and the bruises his hands had left on her skin had taken over a week to fade.

  She frowned as she approached the house, the breeze rustling her crepe de Chine blouse, so that the fabric pressed lovingly against her breasts as she leaned forward to touch the petals of a newly opened rose.

  From the library window Edward watched her jealously. She looked so young, so beautiful, with the breeze moulding the soft cloth to her body. So desirable… He felt the familiar burn of helpless frustrated desire sear through him and cursed under his breath. If fate had seen fit to destroy his manhood, to take from him the physical ability to express his desire for her, then why could it not also have taken away the mental and emotional capacity to feel that desire?

  He watched her with bitter, brooding eyes. There was a pain in his head, where a great vein throbbed. He touched it with his hand and felt the pulsing throb right down through his body. It had rained during the night, and despite all Liz's attempts to keep his rooms dry and warm his sensitive flesh felt the aching bite of the rheumatism that tormented him.

  With all the too keen perception of a jealous lover he sensed that Liz had changed, that his relationship with her was somehow threatened; that she was slipping away from him.

  As he watched her progress through the garden and saw the way she stopped to inspect and admire her flowers, the very way she looked and touched them so expressive of the love she felt for them that he was actually jealous of the attention she gave them, hating them almost for the way they took up her time and her care, time and care which ought to have been given to him. He hated those hours when she was out of the house, gone beyond the control of his jealous demands, gone where she could meet other people… other men.

  As Liz straightened up from what she was doing she glanced towards the house, tension gripping her body as she saw Edward watching her.

  From this distance it wasn't possible for her to see his expression, but she could tell simply from the way he held his body that he was angry.

  She had a moment's cowardly desire to turn her back on him… not to go into the house at all, but to hide herself away in the garden where it was impossible for him to come after her.

  Her own thoughts made her grimace in distaste. It wasn't Edward's fault. She must never forget that he was in constant pain or how he h
ad suffered…

  Or how much he loved her… A love which she didn't want, a treacherous voice whispered. A love which threatened to suffocate and destroy her… but she banished these thoughts, refusing to give in to the temptation to listen to them.

  The forecast was good. She would go in and persuade Edward to sit in the garden. He could sit in his chair in the shelter of the long border while she did some weeding.

  Not even to herself would she admit how much she would have preferred to work there alone, and that in deciding to have Edward with her she was in reality giving herself a penance.

  Once inside the house, she didn't pause to admire the way the sunlight picked out the mellow richness of the restored panelling, nor to let her fingers stroke gently down the rich pattern of the damask curtains, all small pleasures which normally brought so much simple joy to her day.

  Sometimes, on her way through the house, she would find herself standing for minutes at a time admiring the workmanship in a Persian rug she had rescued from one of her bargain-hunting expeditions at country house sales, which had then been carried home and lavished with affection and care until it was cleaned and restored to its original beauty.

  Slowly she was filling the house with beautiful things, bought not because she had a shrewd eye for a bargain and not even because Cottingdean was a large house which needed a large amount of furniture no matter what it looked like, but simply because a certain piece, a certain painting, a certain fabric, would catch her eye, its beauty calling out to her so that she just could not resist it.

  Had anyone told her that she had the natural eye of the true collector, that her bargains would one day be worth many, many times what she had paid for them, she would not have been impressed. She had bought them because she had fallen in love with them and that was how she cherished them, as much-loved friends, just as she loved and cherished her garden and its plants, the flock and its sheep, and all those human lives that fell within the domain of her care.

  She paused outside the library door and then opened it; Edward was now positioned behind his desk. He didn't look up as she walked in and her heart sank, but, ignoring the obvious signs that he was not in a good mood, she chatted cheerfully to him, coaxing him out into the garden.

  Leaving him in a warm, sheltered spot, she then went upstairs to shower and change, cursing under her breath as the water in her bathroom refused to run hot.

  One day Cottingdean's antiquated hot water system was going to have to be replaced. She closed her eyes, not wanting to think about how much it would cost or where the money was going to come from.

  If the mill was successful.

  She dressed quickly in an old skirt and blouse and then hurried back outside, collecting her trug and her tools on the way.

  Edward was where she had left him. He ignored her while she adjusted his chair so that he could get the full benefit of the sun, but while she worked in the border, gently removing the clinging, throttling weeds from around the base of her plants, she was conscious of his brooding presence, his anger and jealousy, and she wished whole-heartedly that she had left him inside so that she could enjoy the peace of the garden unhindered by the souring atmosphere created by his mood.

  'That Australian's still in the village, then.'

  She tensed as he spoke, glad that her back was to him as she felt the guilty heat of the colour running up under her skin.

  'Yes,' she agreed, keeping her voice as expressionless as possible.

  'He's been here looking for you,' Edward told her.

  Liz held her breath. She knew that Lewis had been to the house on a couple of occasions but on both of them she had told Chivers to tell him she wasn't available. Even so, something in Edward's voice sent a shiver of presentiment running down her spine. Or was it simply her own guilt that was making her so presciently aware of Edward's antagonism towards him?

  It was just as well she had told Lewis there was no future for them, she thought tiredly. She certainly wasn't cut out for a life of deceit, for lies. Leave Edward, he had said to her. Leave him… leave him… How could she? How could she leave a man who was so vulnerable, so dependent on her, a man who had after all done her no wrong?

  And what about David? David who loved Edward as Edward loved him… How could she destroy David's security, his home?

  'He wants you,' Edward said challengingly from behind her, causing her to turn round abruptly.

  'No… no, that's not true,' she denied.

  'He wants you,' Edward persisted, ignoring her. 'And you want him. And why shouldn't you, after all? He's a whole man, able to give you what I never can, but you're my wife, Liz…'

  Guilt, compassion and her deep inbuilt dislike of seeing anyone suffer either emotionally or physically took her from the border to the side of Edward's chair, her hand going out to touch his arm comfortingly.

  'I'm not letting him have you,' he told her. 'Him or anyone else…'

  The vein in his temple was throbbing ominously, and Liz recognised despairingly that he was in the grip of one of his black moods.

  She tried to soothe him, to reassure him, but he refused to listen to her, making such wild and impossible accusations about relationships he imagined she had had with other men, and using such obscene words to describe her that for a moment she felt too sickened, too shocked to do anything other than stand in stunned silence.

  But then she forced herself to step outside her own humiliation and shame that he should harbour such thoughts about her, such appalling, shockingly untrue thoughts, and to calm him down, but it was already too late. As she put her hands on his arms, gently trying to restrain him, he fastened his hands around her throat with such strength and power that she couldn't break free.

  'I'll kill you before I'll let him have you, Liz… Oh, they'll hang me for it, I don't doubt, but why should I care? What is there left in this life for me other than to rot away inside the prison of my own flesh? I can't be a man ever again, not the kind of man you could love or desire. Not a man like the men you take to your bed in place of me… Who are they, Liz? Tell me their names, tell me, damn you…'

  He was shaking her, his fingers pressed against her windpipe so that even if she had wanted to speak it would have been impossible.

  A red mist filled her vision, darkening the world around her, so that she felt as though it were covered in blood.

  From a distance she could hear Edward's voice, loud and angry. Her chest felt tight, so tight that she couldn't breathe… There was an unbearable pain… She could feel her consciousness receding in ebbing waves despite her attempts to hang on to it.

  She was going to die, she recognised floatingly. She was going to die but somehow it didn't matter because if she was dead she would be free of this awful pain, of this inability to breathe.

  And then, just as the red mist turned black, she heard Lewis calling her name, the sound of feet running along the gravel path, and then blessedly, unbelievably, Edward's fingers were wrenched away from her throat. She collapsed on to the path, dragging air into her tortured lungs while above her Lewis was demanding fiercely, 'Chivers, get the doctor… Now, man! Hurry! I ought to kill you for this,' he told Edward bitterly.

  She tried to struggle to her feet, to speak… to tell him that it wasn't Edward's fault, that he wasn't responsible, but the words wouldn't come.

  In the distance she could hear someone crying and thought that the tears were her own until she realised it was Edward who sobbed as helplessly as a child, and as always her fear subsided overtaken by her pity and her guilt. Poor Edward—it wasn't his fault.

  She closed her eyes. She felt so tired. Too tired to do anything other than lie here on the path.

  She was still lying there semi-conscious when Chivers came hurrying back, panting for breath as he told Lewis, 'The doctor's on his way… I'd better get the Major inside,' he added gruffly, avoiding looking at Lewis's set face.

  'Yes, get him inside,' Lewis agreed curtly. The sound of Edward's sobs, the s
ight of him cringing in his chair like a whipped child, the knowledge that the man was not really responsible for what he had done, did nothing to soften his anger against him.

  If he hadn't arrived when he had… if he hadn't decided to ignore Liz's dictate that she did not want to see him again, Edward would have killed her, he was sure of it. As it was…

  He dropped to the path beside her, gently taking her body in his arms and holding her to him, while he whispered her name over and over again, tenderly kissing the bruise marks already purpling her throat.

  Dear God, she would have to leave Edward now. The man was insane—he had to be… To have attacked her like that.

  When Ian Holmes arrived at the house, an ashen-faced Chivers explained to him what had happened.

  'If Mr McLaren hadn't arrived when he did I don't know what would have happened,' he told Ian. 'I was just showing him out into the garden. We both saw what was happening…' He shuddered and Ian patted him gently on the back.

  'How is Edward now?' he asked him.

  Chivers looked uncomfortably at him.

  'The way he always is after one of his attacks, sir… I've given him two of those special sleeping tablets of his and put him to bed. He should sleep like a baby for a good twelve hours now. Always does after…well, afterwards…'

  'Right. Where's Liz?'

  'She's still out in the garden. Fainted, she had…'

  He stopped speaking as Ian walked past him, hurrying out into the garden.

  He hoped that all she had done was faint, Ian thought worriedly. From Chivers's description of the way Edward had been gripping Liz's throat, it was a mercy she was actually still alive.

  When Liz opened her eyes she was in Lewis's arms. He was gazing down at her, and as she looked hazily back at him she thought that heaven itself must be like this, must feel like this—a protective haven which she never wanted to leave… but as awareness returned fully to her she knew that no matter how much she might ache to stay here, protected from the world by the warmth and strength of his arms, she could not do so.