Savage Atonement

by Penny Jordan

  ‘God!’ he swore softly, ‘and to think I actually.… What a pity you’re so wrapped up in your bigoted prejudices of the past, otherwise you might have realised there was a better weapon to hand.’ His lip curled as he stared down at her. ‘Publish and be damned, Laurel,’ he breathed bitterly. ‘I was mistaken about you after all—pity!’

  He had gone before she had the presence of mind to remind him that his own actions scarcely bore looking into, and she was left feeling as though she had committed some unpardonable sin. She hated him thinking that she had actually intended to injure him in some way, but how could she have told him the truth? If only she had destroyed that notebook!

  When she got up in the morning Oliver had gone to Nice.

  She spent an hour pacing the floor, wondering how she could continue working for him, and then the sound of a car brought her to the window, a surprised smile breaking through her frown as she recognised Elizabeth’s Range Rover.

  ‘I’m afraid Oliver is in Nice,’ she told her, ‘and he won’t be back until tomorrow.’

  ‘We’re only stopping briefly—we won’t wait for him. We’re rushing back because an aunt of my husband’s has suddenly been taken ill.’

  While Laurel sympathised the children poured out of the car. She could make a meal for them, Laurel offered.

  ‘I hoped to get the opportunity to have a word with you,’ Elizabeth confided when the children went down to the pool. ‘I’m dreadfully sorry about what happened with Chas. He admitted the truth to Rick in Marbella.’

  ‘It doesn’t really matter,’ Laurel assured her. A plan was forming in her mind. Could she beg a lift home with Elizabeth?

  Oliver would scarcely want her to stay now, and if she did how long would it be before she embarrassed them both by betraying her feelings.

  ‘Actually,’ she began hesitantly, ‘I was wondering if I could possibly beg a ride back to England with you?’

  Elizabeth frowned. ‘That’s a sudden decision, isn’t it? Does Oliver know?’

  ‘No, but I don’t think he’ll mind.’ Laurel pulled a face. ‘We had a row, and to be honest with you, I think it’s best that I leave now.’

  ‘For you or for him?’ Elizabeth asked dryly. ‘What about his book?’

  ‘Oh, I think he’s got everything he needed from me for that now,’ Laurel told her bitterly. ‘No doubt his book will be another runaway best-seller, although I won’t be buying it.’

  ‘I’m afraid you’ve lost me,’ Elizabeth told her calmly. ‘Come and sit down and tell me all about it.’

  Normally Laurel wouldn’t have dreamed of confiding in anyone else, but her emotions were so raw from the quarrel with Oliver that it was a relief to unburden herself.

  Elizabeth frowned occasionally, but didn’t interrupt as Laurel told her of her suspicions.

  ‘You’re wrong, I’m sure of it,’ she announced positively when Laurel had finished. ‘Oliver would never do that. ‘Oh, I can understand why you might think that he was using you, but I know him, Laurel. I know how terribly he suffered when he realised how he had misjudged you. He searched high and low for you. He doesn’t confide in me, but if you want my opinion I believe if anything he was simply trying to help you, Laurel.

  ‘I can imagine the trauma you must have suffered through your stepfather—I’m not saying Oliver was right in what he did, but I do believe his motives were completely altruistic. Of course, there is another explanation.’ She shot a look at Laurel. ‘He could be in love with you!’

  Laurel stared at her, the breath leaving her lungs in a painful gasp. ‘No.’ She shook her head vehemently. ‘No, he isn’t.’

  ‘But you love him,’ Elizabeth submitted shrewdly, ‘and that’s why you want to leave. Oh, my dear, isn’t it worth staying and talking the whole thing through with him?’

  ‘I’d really rather not. If you feel you can’t give me a lift, I suppose I could always get a taxi to Arles, and then.…’

  ‘If you’re really determined of course you must come with us, although I shudder to think what Oliver will say to me when he discovers how you escaped!’

  Something told Laurel that Elizabeth could be more than a match for her formidable brother when she chose, but she didn’t say so. Overlying her relief at the thought of escape was a growing sense of loss. She would never see Oliver again; how could she bear it? Could she bear the alternative?

  She refused to look behind them as the Range Rover pulled away from the farmhouse. She had left Oliver a note explaining that in view of what had happened she thought it best that she leave. There was no need to say any more, and although Elizabeth gave her one or two thoughtful glances as they drove north she asked no more questions and proffered no advice.

  Laurel was sorry to say goodbye to her when they eventually parted. In other circumstances they could have become friends.

  CHAPTER TEN

  ANOTHER week over, thank goodness, Laurel reflected as she turned the key in the lock of her flat. She had only been in it six weeks—she had got it just after she returned from Italy where she had been working for most of the summer. Taking on temporary work with the agency when she returned from Arles had been a brainwave—all those interesting stints at various offices and then a summer job working as an extra secretary, to a film producer, filming in Italy. The job had only been temporary, but very exhilarating. She could have gone out with a different male almost every night had she chosen to do so, but somehow, although she had lost her old reticence with men, she had no desire to encourage any of them in a closer relationship than mere friendship.

  Her skin was still tanned from the Italian sun. She had lost the pinched, haggard look she had worn for so long, her body was supple and sleek.

  Her latest job had been working in a busy office, but it was over now, and the agency had warned her that with the winter months approaching temporary work might become harder to come by. She was toying with the idea of writing to her former employers to enquire if they had any vacancies, although she wasn’t sure how Mr Marshall would find the new Laurel.

  Not that she had really changed, she had merely come out of her shell, developed the poise and self-confidence she had previously lacked. These days she wore her hair loose and glossy, her face was discreetly but attractively made up, her clothes were sleekly smart, but there was still something missing from her life.

  Initially, she had gone out with other men, hoping against hope that she might after all have been mistaken; that her love for Oliver might only have been a crush, but when they kissed her, it was simply a kiss, sometimes pleasurable, sometimes not, but never evoking the response Oliver’s kisses had.

  She let herself into her flat with a sigh of relief. She had been invited to a party tonight, but she wasn’t really in the mood. She decided that she would stay in instead.

  Half an hour later she was sitting in front of the television, eating the meal she had prepared, idly watching the chat show that was on.

  The host was talking to one of his guests, and Laurel listened halfheartedly, tensing suddenly as he turned back to the camera and announced, ‘And now my next guest really needs no introduction—his work speaks for itself. Ladies and gentlemen, the celebrated winner of this year’s Maundale Prize, Oliver Savage, or Jonathan Graves, as his public know him better.’

  Laurel was transfixed, her meal forgotten as her eyes moved hungrily over the familiar features. Oliver was wearing a formal suit, looking impossibly handsome, and so the show’s female guest seemed to think as well, Laurel thought jealously, watching the way she reached over to touch his arm, smiling warmly into his eyes.

  She was so engrossed in Oliver himself that she missed the first few questions. He looked drawn somehow, but that might simply be the effect of appearing on television; his face seemed more sharply defined.

  ‘And now perhaps you’d like to tell us something about your new book,’ the host prompted, but Oliver shook his head.

  ‘I can’t describe it in a handful of w
ords. All I will say is that it’s something I had to write; needed to write.’

  ‘You make it sound like a form of therapy,’ Laurel heard the chat show host say curiously.

  ‘If it was it didn’t work,’ was Oliver’s wry response.

  The interview lasted a few minutes longer and then the cameras switched to another guest, but Laurel remained glued in front of the set for the remainder of the programme, hoping for another glimpse of Oliver.

  Nothing had changed; if anything seeing him simply re-affirmed what she already knew—that she loved him and always would.

  * * *

  She received a pleasant but disappointing response to her letter to her old employers. There were no vacancies just at the moment, and in desperation she accepted a part-time job from the agency, working in a large store.

  She was on her way back to the office one lunchtime when she noticed that the book department was assembling a new display.

  ‘It’s for the new Jonathan Graves,’ the girl informed her. ‘I’m certainly going to buy it. Did you see him on television the other week? He’s gorgeous!’

  Laurel told herself that it would be stupid to pile on the agony by reading his book, but nevertheless, she found herself walking towards the book department several days later, on her way to lunch. It was very busy, a crowd of people thronging round the stand where she had seen Oliver’s book. It was only as she approached that Laurel realised the reason why.

  Oliver was there in person, signing copies of the book!

  Her stomach churned in disbelief, the blood rushing to her head as she stood and stared.

  He couldn’t possible have known she was there, of course, and yet there was an instant when he lifted his head and seemed to stare right at her, their eyes meeting.

  Impossible that he could have seen her, Laurel decided as she hurried away; she doubted that he even remembered her except as an interesting subject. They hadn’t even parted as friends, thanks to her stupidity over her ‘revenge’. How childishly immature that seemed now!

  Christmas approached and Laurel forced herself to do all the seasonal things. She had friends she could spend it with now—young people like herself living alone in London—but the idea had little appeal. She toyed with the idea of going away. The agency had a job on offer as a cook at a chalet in Gstaad, but then she read in the gossip columns that Oliver was spending Christmas in Switzerland, and she declined, fearing, ridiculously, that she might meet him. If she did, she had no faith in her ability not to betray herself to him, and she didn’t want to add that stupidity to all her others.

  The week before Christmas she received a card with a Dorset postmark. It had been forwarded to her by Marshalls. Puzzled, she opened it, astounded to discover that it was from Oliver’s sister. Presumably she had learned from Oliver that she used to work at Marshalls and had assumed that she had gone back to work there. If it hadn’t been for the coincidence of her trying to get a job there she would never have received the card, Laurel reflected, because they wouldn’t have known her address.

  As she opened it a folded note fell out.

  It was a brief but warm invitation for her to visit them over the New Year when, Elizabeth explained, they normally had a large informal party.

  ‘You have no need to worry about bumping into Oliver,’ she had written. ‘He’s away in Switzerland, but I should very much like to see you again.’

  And she would like to see her, Laurel admitted, if only to hear Oliver’s name mentioned. How compulsively unfair to themselves those in love are, she reflected as she re-read the note. She knew that it would be safer and wiser to refuse, and yet she felt an urgent need to accept, to be close to those Oliver was close to.

  She was a fool if she accepted, she told herself, but that didn’t stop her sitting down and replying that she would be delighted to spend the weekend with them.

  She spent the next week alternating between excitement and depression. Of course she wouldn’t be seeing Oliver, but she would hear all those little things her heart craved; little intimate family details that would flesh out the bare scraps she read in the press.

  She decided to drive down. Christmas had been mild and damp—and very lonely, although she was loath to admit that even to herself. She had bought a new dress for the party, plain black crěpe that fitted her like a glove, swirling out into a softly full skirt cut on the bias, and pintucked demurely down the bodice. It had been far more expensive than she had expected, but it was undoubtedly ‘her’, and because she hoped that if Elizabeth did ever mention her visit to Oliver, it would be in flattering terms, she bought it and prayed that she would soon find a permanent job.

  Elizabeth had telephoned her during the week, giving her explicit instructions as to how to find them.

  ‘The house is a barn,’ she confided blithely. ‘My husband’s family have owned it for years, and there are times when it drives me mad, but there are others when I’m overwhelmed by a ridiculous sentimentality towards it. I’m so pleased you’re coming,’ she added flatteringly. ‘We’re all looking forward to seeing you tremendously.’

  The drive down to Dorset was uneventful. Laurel stopped on the way to have a quick lunch at a roadside pub. A group of men by the bar eyed her admiringly, and although she ignored them she felt none of the terrified revulsion their appreciation would once have caused. She had Oliver to thank for that, of course.

  It was mid-afternoon when she eventually drew up outside the weathered, rambling stone building Elizabeth had described to her.

  The twins came flying out as though they had been expecting her, their voices disconcertingly on the verge of breaking.

  Rick was not far behind, blushing faintly as he took her case. In half a dozen or so years’ time he would be very like Oliver, but right now he was still very much a boy.

  ‘Come on in,’ Elizabeth told her, emerging from the house and welcoming her with a hug. ‘Graham has been called out on an urgent case—a baby eager to make its arrival before the year goes out!’

  She led the way into a rectangular-shaped hall cluttered with myriad pairs of wellingtons, coats and dog leads.

  ‘It may be chaos, but it’s home.’ Elizabeth grinned. ‘Actually it’s not normally quite as bad as this, it’s just that Mrs Simmonds our invaluable housekeeper is away at the moment.’

  ‘Then you must let me do what I can to help,’ Laurel told her. ‘Are you expecting other guests?’

  The twins looked puzzled, and seemed about to say something but Elizabeth said quickly, ‘Er… I’m not quite sure yet. Look, let me take you up to your room, and then we’ll have a cup of tea. Jane is staying with a friend at the moment—you know what girls of that age are, they’re practically inseparable at the moment, and of course she couldn’t wait to show her her new bike. I only hope we’ve done the right thing. The roads round here are relatively quiet, but even so… We’re sending her on one of these courses just to make sure she knows what she’s doing. It won’t do any harm.’

  She ushered Laurel into a pretty, floral-decorated bedroom. ‘This house was originally the vicarage,’ she told Laurel. ‘My husband’s great-grandfather was the vicar here, and then eventually he bought it from the Church and it’s been in my husband’s family ever since.’

  ‘It’s lovely,’ Laurel assured her truthfully, looking out of the window at the bare winter landscape.

  ‘It has its moments,’ Elizabeth agreed. ‘I’ll leave you to unpack and then we can catch up on one another’s gossip over a cup of tea. It’s just family for dinner this evening.’

  ‘You must have an awful lot on your hands with the party to prepare for,’ Laurel guessed. ‘Anything I can do to help?’

  ‘Er… well, actually everything’s pretty much under control, even though it doesn’t look it. We tend to take things fairly casually down here; there isn’t any of the pomp and circumstance of a London party.’

  When Laurel had unpacked she went downstairs and found her hostess alone in the co
mfortable chintzy living room.

  ‘Just in time,’ Elizabeth smiled, indicating the teapot. ‘Now come and sit down and tell me what you’ve been doing with yourself. You’ve been an extremely elusive creature to find.’

  ‘I’ve been working abroad, doing temporary work,’ Laurel told her, accepting a cup of tea, and absently stroking the smooth head of the golden retriever who had padded to her side. ‘Exhausting but very invigorating. I enjoyed it.’

  ‘You’ve emerged from your chrysalis with a vengeance,’ Elizabeth commented. ‘Oliver will be pleased. He’s been worried about you.’

  ‘There was no need.’ Laurel bent her head over her teacup so that Elizabeth couldn’t see her expression. Merely hearing his name sent shafts of mingled anguish and delight stabbing through her, traitorous memories undermining all her resolutions to put him out of her mind.

  ‘Try convincing him of that,’ Elizabeth said dryly. ‘He wasn’t very pleased with me when he discovered I’d been a party to your moonlight flit!’

  How weak she was to feel a surge of primitive delight at this disclosure! To punish herself she said briefly, ‘I’m sorry if my abrupt departure meant that he couldn’t do any more field research, but.…’

  ‘You’d fallen in love with him and had to get away,’ Elizabeth supplemented gently, reminding her of their previous conversation. ‘Perhaps in some ways it was inevitable.’

  ‘Because of the past?’ Laurel asked her, surprised to discover how free of embarrassment and constraint she felt at talking so frankly. ‘I did think that myself for a while; I even hoped that perhaps what I felt for him was a sort of delayed reaction crush—the first time I met him, just after the trial, I felt instantly drawn to him. He seemed so sympathetic, so understanding. It came as a tremendous blow to discover that he’d simply been using me—almost as great a blow in some ways as what had gone before. For years I harboured bitter feelings towards him, I suppose I transferred the hate I felt towards my stepfather on to Oliver, but when I met him again, when he explained to me why he had done what he did, and how he felt when he discovered that he’d been wrong, I realised I’d been hating a character who existed only in my own mind. The real Oliver was quite different, and I found myself falling in love with him.’