Valley of the Devil

by Yvonne Whittal

  Those long hours of nursing Averil through the fever and bouts of coughing had left Jo with little time to think about herself. It was during the fourth night, when Averil slept peacefully for the first time, that Jo's thoughts drifted back for the first time to that morning when Rafe had told her that Danny's financial plight had been part of a diabolical plot to force her into a situation she had not sought. She had been tricked into marrying Rafe again. Her brother—and possibly also her mother—had guided her skillfully towards that meeting with Rafe in Beaufort West's Mirage Hotel, and she had walked with her eyes wide open into their well-laid trap.

  Jo wished she could hate Rafe, but what she felt for him was not hate. She loved him, and that unalterable fact was something she had learned to live with a long time ago. She had been hurt and incredibly angry on discovering the truth, but at that moment she was calm and rational, and she was not consciously groping for understanding when fragments of Rafe's statements started to flit through her mind.

  'I wanted you back'. . .'It's as simple as that'... 'I knew you wouldn't return to Satanslaagte of your own free will'... 'I should never have let you go in the first place.'

  The thoughts came and went until she sat up in her chair with a jolt, her mind suddenly alerted to something she had missed before. She could remember asking Rafe why he had wanted her back, and his answer had been, 'Because I should never have let you go in the first place.'

  Her heart was behaving like a wild thing in her breast, almost choking off the air from her lungs. Could she interpret that to mean that Rafe had wanted her back because, like herself, he had never stopped caring? Jo wished she could believe that, she so desperately wanted it to be true, but there were still so many pieces missing to this puzzle that she dared not allow herself to hope too much.

  'Why don't you get some rest, Jo? I'm feeling so much better.'

  Jo looked up sharply at the sound of that wavering voice, and she leapt selfconsciously to her feet beside the bed in the dimly lit room. 'I didn't realise you were awake, Mrs Andersen.'

  'I've been lying awake for quite some time,' Averil said, staring up at Jo with an unfathomable expression in those dark eyes which constantly reminded Jo of Rafe.

  'Could I get you something to drink? A glass of warm milk, perhaps?'

  Averil shook her silvery head against the pillows. 'Just a mouthful of water would do, thank you.'

  JO poured some water into a glass and slid her arm beneath Averil's shoulders to raise her. She held the glass to Averil's lips, and Averil drank from it until she indicated with a slight wave of her hand that she had had enough. Jo lowered her on to the pillows again and disposed of the glass, but she felt a little uneasy when she realised that those dark eyes had been following every movement she had made.

  'Please sit down, Jo.' Averil shifted her legs to make room for Jo on the side of the bed, and Jo seated herself warily. 'You've been very good to me, and God knows I've done nothing to deserve your kindness.'

  Jo felt awkward. She could sense that Averil had something on her mind; she could even guess at what it might be, and suddenly she could not bear the thought of this proud woman having to humble herself.

  'Mrs Andersen, there's no need for you to—— '

  'Don't interrupt me, Jo,' Averil cut across her words. 'No matter what I do I can't escape the fact that I've been a foolish old woman. I owe you an apology, but more than that I owe you an explanation, and I can only pray that there may come a time when you'll find it in your heart to forgive me.'

  Jo sat stiffly and silently on the edge of the bed with her hands clasped together so tightly in her lap that her fingers went numb.

  She wished she could call a halt to this conversation, but she somehow knew that Averil would not rest until she had emptied herself of everything that troubled her. Perhaps that was for the best, but for Jo there was no joy in this thought.

  'I felt threatened by your presence the first time you married Rafe, and I was jealous of the love my son had for you.' Averil's confession contained a simple honesty which Jo found touching. 'Everything I said and did during that time stemmed from those two cancerous emotions, and I admit that I also used Lorin shamelessly to further my cause.'

  Jo had been aware of the latter, and she had also known that Lorin's obvious infatuation for Rafe had led her into becoming a very willing participant.

  'I wanted to drive you away from Rafe and away from Satanslaagte,' Averil continued, her voice growing stronger in her determination not to spare herself. 'I succeeded on both counts, but in the process I also succeeded in driving my son away from me, and I deserved his wrath when he discovered the part I'd played in ruining your marriage. Rafe had been terribly unhappy after you left, but when he knew the truth he became almost demented, and I didn't doubt that he'd be moving heaven and earth to get you back.'

  Tears glinted in Averil's eyes, but she was smiling as she lay there looking up at Jo. 'I want you to know, and to believe, that I'm glad he was successful in persuading you to marry him again.'

  Jo's gaze was thoughtful as she watched her mother-in-law dab at the moisture in her eyes with a clean handkerchief. It took courage to openly admit one's mistakes, and at that moment Jo could not help but admire this woman who had once caused her so much pain.

  'Why did you agree to Rafe's suggestion that you move into this flat?' she asked, steering the conversation towards a subject which had troubled her for some weeks.

  'It's been proved that it could be disastrous to have two women in one household.' Averil laughed softly for the first time as she slipped her handkerchief into the cuff of her bedjacket, but her features sobered the next instant, and a faintly embarrassed expression flitted across her face. 'It didn't work for me with my mother-in-law all those years ago when I came to Satanslaagte as a bride, and we both know that it didn't work for you with me.'

  Jo felt compassionate tears pricking at her eyelids. 'You were always a vital part of this household, and for me you always will be.' Her voice dipped almost to a whisper as she added, 'You're going to be needed now more than ever before.'

  'What do you mean?' Averil demanded, subjecting Jo to the intense scrutiny of her dark eyes. 'In what way could I possibly be needed?'

  'You're going to become a grandmother in the not too distant future, and a child needs its grandparents as much as it needs its mother and father.'

  Averil stared up at Jo in startled, contemplative silence, then those autocratic features softened in a way that brought an aching lump to Jo's throat. 'Oh, my dear, what can I say?'

  Jo took one of Averil's heavily veined hands between her own and clasped it firmly. 'Just tell me that you're happy for Rafe and for me . . . Mother.'

  This was the first time she had dared to call Averil Andersen 'Mother', and Averil's eyes were shimmering with tears again as she curled her fingers about Jo's in a gesture of acknowledgement. 'I can tell you how happy I really am for Rafe and for you... my daughter.'

  It seemed like a miracle. That gaping chasm between them had at last been bridged, and Jo sat there on the side of the bed for a long time, holding Averil's hand contentedly without either of them feeling the need to speak. She was reluctant to break the companionable silence between them, but she knew she had to when her glance finally shifted to the clock on the bedside cupboard.

  'It's eleven-thirty,' she said, getting up reluctantly to straighten the bedclothes. 'We still have a long night ahead of us, and I really think you should try to go to sleep again.'

  'I don't think I'm going to be able to sleep,' Averil protested with a joyful smile. 'I'm so happy we've had this talk, and I'm too excited at the prospect of becoming a grandmother!'

  Despite Averil's protestations she was asleep half an hour later, and only then did Jo make herself comfortable on the couch which had been her bed for the past three nights. She was tired and in desperate need of a few hours' undisturbed sleep, but her mind remained annoyingly active. Where was Rafe? Was he asleep, or was h
e lying awake and thinking of her as she was thinking of him at that moment? Did he still care? Was that why he had been so underhandedly determined to get her back? Averil had said, 'I was jealous of the love my son had for you,' but Jo could not help thinking that

  "had" was the operative word in that statement. If Rafe still loved her, then why didn't he tell her so? Why was he still hiding his feelings beneath that savage exterior which had frightened her into submission on so many occasions during these past months?

  A helpless, despairing sigh escaped her as she turned her cheek into the pillow and tried to go to sleep. There were still so many questions racing through her mind, and they were all crying out to be answered. It made her head spin just to think of it, but the questions would have to wait until she had the opportunity to resume that hateful and humiliating conversation with Rafe which Elsie had interrupted several days ago.

  Averil was well enough the following morning to sit up in a chair, and Jo left her there in Elsie's care while she went to her own room to shower and change into fresh clothes. Jo had hoped to see Rafe before he left the house that morning, but she was still trying to do something with her hair before going to breakfast when she saw him drive off in the truck.

  She did not expect to see Rafe during the course of that morning, but when he didn't come home for lunch she started to worry. She was being silly, she told herself, but that afternoon, as she was collecting Averil's tray of tea in the kitchen, she found herself voicing her feelings to Elsie.

  'I'm a bit worried, Elsie,' she said. 'Why hasn't Master Rafe been home today?'

  'Master Rafe hasn't been home much these past few days, madam, and he said this morning that we mustn't expect him home until late this evening.' Elsie put down the knife she had been using to peel the potatoes and turned to stare out of the window while she wiped her hands on a kitchen towel. 'They're putting up new fences where the old ones had been washed away in the last storm, and if you ask me, madam, there's another storm brewing.'

  Jo followed the direction of Elsie's gaze and understood what she meant about 'another storm brewing'. Dark clouds were gathering in the distance, and they were rolling ominously across the arid plains. If the wind did not change, then the Karoo veld could expect to receive yet another lashing of rain before evening.

  The heat was oppressive and full of promise, but the storm never materialised during that afternoon. The clouds simply disintegrated over the heated basin between the flat-topped hills, and those that survived the distance were blown away when the wind veered unexpectedly in a different direction. Rafe came home earlier than expected that evening. Jo saw him for the first time in the dining-room after he had showered and changed into brown trousers and a white, short-sleeved shirt and, looking at him properly for the first time in days, she was shocked to see the exhaustion etched so deeply into his tanned features.

  'How's Mother?' he asked when they seated themselves at the dinner table to share a meal for the first time since Averil had been taken ill.

  'Your mother was well enough to get up out of bed today and she enjoyed sitting in a chair for short spells.'

  Rafe accepted this information with a brief inclination of his head, but Jo had the strangest feeling that the query had been delivered automatically, and that he had not heard one word of her response to it. His face wore a grim mask and his manner was coldly withdrawn. It made any attempt at conversation impossible while they ate their meal, and Jo was actually relieved when Rafe finally left the table with the muttered excuse that he had work to do in his study.

  'I haven't seen Rafe today,' Averil complained when Jo went in to see her. 'Hasn't he come home yet?'

  'He came in late, and when he left the dinner table he went straight into his study.'

  A look of disappointment flashed across Averil's face, and it tugged sharply at Jo's heart. She would have to talk to Rafe about this chilling relationship between himself and his mother, and the sooner she did so the better for all of them.

  There was no need that night for Jo to continue her vigil at Averil's bedside. She could sleep in a comfortable bed again, and she was looking forward to this when she went into the kitchen shortly before ten that evening to make herself a mug of cocoa before retiring. She took a mug out of the cupboard and then, on an impulse, took out a second mug and added milk to the amount she had already poured into the saucepan on the stove.

  This was crazy! She was bound to have her head bitten off for intruding where she was not wanted, she was thinking minutes later as she placed the mugs on a tray and carried it through to the study. There was a nervous fluttering at the pit of her stomach when she paused outside the door, but she raised her hand determinedly and rapped on the panelled wood.

  She knocked a second time, and still she received no response from within the study. Was Rafe deliberately ignoring her request to enter, or was he so involved in what he was doing that he'd simply not heard her knock? Jo could feel her courage threatening to desert her, but she had not come this far only to turn back, and it was with that thought in mind that she opened the door quietly and went inside. The stench of stale tobacco was the first thing that hit her when she entered the book-lined study, but what she saw was enough to make her heart miss several anxious, thudding beats. Rafe lay slumped across his cluttered desk with his head resting on his forearms. His favourite pipe lay beside an over-full ashtray, and close at hand was an empty bottle of whisky beside an overturned glass. Rafe seldom had a drink. Why would he suddenly want to drink himself into a stupor?

  Jo shifted a pile of papers on the desk to make room for the tray and opened the window to let in some air before she placed a tentative hand on Rafe's shoulder. He stirred the instant she touched him, and she withdrew her hand hastily when he sat up abruptly to focus his sleep-laden eyes on her.

  'What do you want?' he demanded, looking vulnerable and oddly on the defensive as he sagged back into his chair.

  'I thought you might like a mug of cocoa.' Jo shifted her glance meaningfully towards the empty bottle of whisky and overturned glass. 'Perhaps a cup of strong black coffee would be more appropriate.'

  His smile was twisted as he righted the glass, and his features looked haggard beyond the pool of light which the reading lamp spilled across his desk. 'The bottle contained no more than a double tot of whisky, so a mug of cocoa will do fine.'

  Jo knew a certain amount of relief, but nervousness and uncertainty were still gripping her insides as she passed him his mug of cocoa and seated herself to face him across the width of the teak desk. The silence between them was strained, and then the echoes of their last verbal altercation rose between them to hover there like an awkward but challenging barrier. It was Rafe who had made the first shattering move towards total honesty between them that morning when he had learned that she was going to have his child. It was up to her now to make the next move. Jo sensed it, and she knew with every fibre of her being that she dared not let this moment pass.

  'I know you're tired, Rafe,' she began tentatively, 'but we have to talk.'

  His eyes flickered strangely and he reached for his pipe, but he changed his mind and combed his fingers through his hair instead in a totally uncharacteristic gesture. 'You were right, you know. What I did was utterly contemptible.'

  'Perhaps not quite so contemptible if the entire truth were known,' she countered gravely. 'I'm convinced there's more to what you told me the other day, and I think you owe me a more detailed explanation.'

  Rafe reached for his pipe again, and this time he did not change his mind. He clenched the stem between his teeth, struck a match, and cupped his hand about the flame. He took his time lighting his pipe, then rose slowly behind his desk to stand with his back to her in front of the open window. The pleasant aroma of pipe tobacco was carried towards her on the cool night breeze, and she was beginning to think she would never know the truth when Rafe lapsed into the explanation she had been waiting for.

  'What I have to tell you is a l
ong saga of misguided conceptions which resulted from a break in communication, and my own lack of perceptiveness.' He spoke without turning, but Jo detected a note of bitterness in that deep, gravelly voice. 'When I married you the first time I just took it for granted that you'd be happy here at Satanslaagte, but you weren't, and knowing this just tore me apart inside until I began to feel like a selfish lout for taking my happiness at your expense.'

  Jo felt the pain of the past wash over her with all its ferocity, and she cringed inwardly. Misguided conceptions? A break in communication? That was what had eventually driven them apart, and... dear God... she was as much to blame for that as Rafe, she confessed to herself as she waited for him to continue.

  'I found myself believing that our marriage had been a mistake, and that you would have been happier if I'd left you in your natural environment, but the biggest mistake I made was to ask you for a divorce.' He turned slowly and frowned down at the pipe in his hand as if he was wondering how it had got there. 'I realised my error soon after you left. My life without you had become aimless, but unfortunately it was too late to do anything about it.'

  Jo folded her hands together in her lap to still their trembling. 'You could have stopped the divorce proceedings.'

  'Yes, I could have stopped the divorce proceedings, but stubborn pride prevented me from doing so.'

  He smiled, but his smile was tainted with bitterness and anger as he leaned back against the window-sill and crossed one long leg over the other. 'I'd made a hash of things, Jo, and I was too damn proud to crawl back and admit that I'd been wrong.'

  Jo could understand and accept that statement as she sat pale and still in her chair. 'What happened then?' she prompted quietly.

  'Last year in April, on my thirty-sixth birthday, to be exact, my mother and I were having dinner that evening when your name suddenly entered into the conversation, and that was when Mother inadvertently let something slip. I realised then that she'd been largely to blame for your unhappiness and discontent, and we ended up having a flaming row.' His stabbing gaze met hers, and the accusation in the dark depths of his eyes made her stir uncomfortably in her chair. 'Why didn't you tell me what was going on, Jo? Why did you leave me in ignorance?'