by Unknown
'I know.' Matthew's boot heel ground into the polished wood and his mother winced.
'Matt!'
'All right, all right.' Unable to sit still any longer, Matthew rose to his feet. 'And now, if you'll excuse me
'
'Is this why you've been so—so unapproachable?'
Matthew groaned. 'I haven't been unapproachable, Mother.'
'Yes, you have. You know you have.' Lady Olivia looked up at him despairingly. 'Oh, well—it will all be over tomorrow.
Then you can get back to some semblance of normal living. I suggest you tell Mrs Barnes— and her husband—that you'll be incommunicado for a while. You don't want that awful woman coming here, treating this place as she did when Barbara was alive. If you make the position clear to begin with '
Matthew's oath silenced her. 'Shut up, Mother, will you?' he muttered savagely, and, ignoring her shocked expression, he strode grimly out of the room.
In the gym, he changed into a pair of shorts and a vest, and stretched out on the lifting frame. The sheer physical effort it took to push the weights up the stack gave him some relief from the chaos of his thoughts, and the sweat he worked up helped to compensate for the alcohol he had consumed earlier. Then, when he was feeling pleasantly numb to anything but the physical aches and pains of his own body, he plunged into the jacuzzi and let the hot, pummelling jets revitalise his tortured muscles.
It was then that he admitted that he couldn't entirely dismiss what his mother had said. It was true that since Barbara had died he had felt a certain detachment from the events going on around him. His friends—those who had not been aware of the circumstances of his marriage, his acquaintances—probably thought it was grief; but his sorrow at the way things had turned out was a small thing by comparison. The truth was, Barbara's death had resurrected the past, and it wasn't until Mrs Barnes had told him Rachel was coming that he had realised exactly what he had been thinking.
And he despised himself for it! He couldn't still want her.
Not after all this time. Not after all that had gone before. It was as he had told Patrick: he was angry, bloody angry, that she should have the nerve to come here.
So what if her uncle had invited her? So what if Geoffrey Barnes had decided the occasion warranted her presence? He was just a Church of England vicar. What did he know?
She should have refused. She should have made some excuse and stayed away, instead of embarrassing all of them by joining in their grief. She wasn't sorry Barbara was dead. What had Barbara been to her? Simply an excuse for severing her marriage, so that she could pursue the career that had always taken precedence in her life.
Matthew was drying himself when Patrick came to tell him that lunch was on the table. 'And Rosemary's disappeared,' he announced, as Matthew stepped into worn jeans and zipped them over his flat stomach. 'Do you want me to go and look for her?'
'I'll do it myself—later,' replied his employer broodingly.
'And I'm not hungry. Make my excuses to my mother, will you?
I'll get a sandwich when I feel like it.'
CHAPTER TWO
THE place hadn't altered much architecturally over the years, Rachel decided. The road, which wound down from the Coniston Pass, still afforded a magnificent view of the valley, with Rothmere itself lying still and silent at its foot. From the pass, it was possible to see the roofs and chimneys of the house that stood at the end of the lake. Lower down, sturdy pines and spruce trees provided a protective screen from inquisitive eyes, except from the lake itself, where it was possible to catch a glimpse of the lawns and terrace at the front of the house. But, from the pass, Rachel looked down on the house that had once been her home, and knew a fleeting sense of nostalgia.
However, it didn't last. She had no wish to resurrect the past.
She wouldn't be here at all were it not for Uncle Geoff, and she had no illusions that her aunt had endorsed the invitation. But Barbara had been her cousin, her uncle's only daughter, and if he wanted her here she owed him that, at least.
The village of Rothside, which was her destination, lay approximately halfway along the lake shore, with the waters of Rothdale Beck tumbling down from the fell and splitting the main street into two halves. Although there had been few structural changes, Rachel noticed how many of the cottages were now advertising accommodation available, and the old water-mill had been transformed into a cafe and gift shop.
Evidently tourism had reached Rothside at last, and Rachel recognised her own profession's responsibility for that. It was due in part to the very successful job the media had done in promoting the Lake District that so many people now flocked to this most beautiful area of northern England.
And, while she regretted some of the changes that had been made, the jobs the tourist industry had brought had to have been welcome.
St Mary's church, and the vicarage that stood close by, were situated on the outskirts of the village. But Rachel was in no hurry to reach her destination. Instead, she parked her car outside the general stores— which she noticed had been converted into a minimarket—and went inside.
She hadn't expected to see anyone who knew her, but the elderly woman in charge of the till was familiar. Mrs Reed must have lived in Rothside for the past sixty years at least, and she had always been regarded as a busybody. However, not surprisingly after so long, she didn't immediately recognise Rachel in the slim, elegantly attired young woman who stood just inside the door, and as Rachel's clothes were evidently expensive she gazed at her inquisitively.
'Can I help you?'
Rachel hid a smile and shook her head. 'I can manage, thank you,' she said, picking up one of the wire baskets and glancing along the shelves. It all looked very neat and efficient, but she missed the familiar counter with its tempting display of sweets and chocolate. Still, the familiar things were there, if you looked for them: locally produced honey, and Kendal mint cake. It was only the way of exhibiting them that had changed. Much like herself, she reflected cynically.
She carried her basket back to the check-out, and set it on the low counter so that Mrs Reed could ring in on the till the cost of the two items she had bought. Then, as she retrieved her purse from her handbag, Mrs Reed remarked, 'I don't suppose you got that tan in England?'
'No.' Rachel responded tolerantly. 'Um—the South of France, actually,' she added, picking up her purchases. 'Thank you.'
But Mrs Reed was not about to let her go so easily. Trade was obviously slack at this hour of a Monday afternoon, and, leaving her seat, she accompanied Rachel to the door.
'I thought so,' she said. 'It's too early in the season for you to have caught any sun in this part of the country. You're not from around here, are you, dear?' Two beady brown eyes scanned Rachel's cool features. 'Yet, there's something about your face...'
Not wanting to have to identify herself now, Rachel reached for the handle of the door and pulled it open, just as it was propelled inwards from the other side. A girl of perhaps nine or ten years of age practically tumbled into the shop, regaining her balance with evident difficulty, and directing a hostile gaze at Rachel, as if she were totally to blame for what had happened.
'Oh—Rosemary!' exclaimed Mrs Reed, her expression registering a surprising amount of sympathy for the child. 'You haven't hurt yourself, have you, dear? You just opened the door at the wrong moment.'
'It was her fault!' retorted Rosemary, tossing back a single braid of night-dark hair, and fixing Rachel with an accusatory stare. 'Why don't you watch what you're doing? I could have broken my leg!'
Rachel caught her breath. 'Your neck would have been more appropriate,' she essayed smoothly, keeping her temper with an effort. 'Do you always stick it out so far?'
'Oh—there, don't take any notice of Rosemary's sulks!'
exclaimed Mrs Reed quickly, evidently torn between the thought of losing an old customer and offending a new one.
'Rosemary's one of my best customers, aren't you, dear? Are you all right? No bones broken?'
But Rosemary was evidently not prepared to let anyone else speak for her. 'I should watch what I was saying, if I were you,'
she informed Rachel, splaying her feet and placing balled fists on her jean-clad hips. 'My father's an important man in Rothside. One word from me, and you could find yourself in a load of trouble!'
Rachel gulped, strung between laughter and outrage. 'Are you threatening me?' she enquired, realising she was playing into the girl's hands by even taking her seriously, but unable to resist.
'Rosemary's not threatening anyone,' put in Mrs Reed, trying to make light of it. 'Are you, dear? And how is your dear daddy?
You will tell him I was asking after him, won't you? We're all thinking about him, you know.'
Rosemary made no response to this, her small jaw jutting a little more aggressively as she met Rachel's amused gaze.
Obviously, she was trying to think of something even more outrageous with which to shock her listeners, but the elderly shopkeeper forestalled her by asking what she wanted.
'Some sweeties?' Mrs Reed suggested, adopting a hopeful tone. 'Or how about a nice cold can of Coca Cola? I can get you one out of the fridge ------------------------- '
'Just twenty kingsize, that's all,' the child interrupted her, pointing to the brand of cigarettes she wanted. 'Put them on Daddy's account. He'll settle with you later.'
'Now, Rosemary, you know I'm not supposed to sell cigarettes to a little girl of your age,' began Mrs Reed unhappily, and Rachel, seeing a chance to get away, decided to make good her escape. After the events of the last few minutes she had even less desire for Mrs Reed to recognise her, and she stepped outside, quelling the urge to retaliate.
But she hadn't even unlocked her car before the girl emerged from the store, opening the pack of cigarettes Mrs Reed had evidently not withheld, and putting one between her lips. If it was an act of defiance, it was one she had attempted many times before, thought Rachel irritably, trying to concentrate on juggling her purchases and her handbag, and getting the key in the lock. The way Rosemary extracted a book of matches from her pocket and applied a light to the cigarette proved it, and Rachel tried to tell herself it was nothing to do with her if the child's father sanctioned the offence.
'I hope you drive better than you walk!' Rosemary commented now, puffing on the cigarette, and, although she had at last got the car door open and was about to step inside, something inside Rachel snapped at the deliberate provocation.
Swinging round, she snatched the cigarette from the child's lips and the pack of cigarettes from her hand. Then, dropping them both on to the pavement, she ground her heel into them, watching Rosemary's face with an almost childlike sense of triumph as the pale, sallow features erupted into fury.
'How—how dare you?' she screamed, launching herself at Rachel with flailing arms and legs that somehow connected despite her diminutive size. 'You wait until I tell my father about you! You'll wish you'd never been born!'
'Let's both tell him, shall we?' taunted Rachel, losing all sense of reason with the situation. Twisting the child's hands behind her back, she turned her round so that Rosemary was unable to go on kicking her, adding, 'Where do you live? You might as well tell me. I'd like to meet this father of yours. I'd like to tell him what a disgusting little brat he's got for a daughter!'
'Let go of me!'
Rosemary continued to struggle, but it was obvious she was losing the battle, and there was a suspicious break in her voice that hinted of emotions hitherto not in evidence.
'Tell me where you live,' Rachel insisted, not making the mistake of losing her grip, and then sighed with some frustration when Mrs Reed came charging out of the shop.
'For heaven's sake!' she exclaimed, taking in the scene with horrified eyes. 'What is going on here? Rosemary, my dear! Is this lady bothering you?'
'You have to be joking!'
With a word that was not at all ladylike, and which Mrs Reed evidently recognised, judging from her expression, Rachel let the girl go and turned to the other woman. And Rosemary, who had evidently just been waiting for such an opportunity, took immediate advantage of the situation. While Rachel was forced to make some explanation of her actions, Rosemary aimed a booted foot at the wing of Rachel's car before scooting off across the footbridge over the stream.
Rachel was almost speechless. 'That—that child,' she choked, struggling to control her voice, 'that child is totally undisciplined!' She bent to examine a ladder in her dark tights and the purpling bruise below it. 'For heaven's sake, why did you serve her? I assume you knew the cigarettes were for her.'
'Of course I didn't.' Mrs Reed was not prepared to admit to that. 'Do you think I want to lose my licence? No—I thought they were for her father. And now, if you'll excuse me, I have work to attend to.'
'But who is she?' demanded Rachel testily, only to find she was talking to herself. Mrs Reed had apparently decided she had said too much already, and, with a feeling of frustration, Rachel flung open the door of the car.
It was then that she saw the dent in the panelling. Until that moment, Rosemary's fit of retaliation for the destruction of her cigarettes had scarcely registered. But now she saw what the child had done, and an anger she had scarcely known she possessed gripped her. The selfish little brat! she thought infuriatedly. If she could get her hands on her...
Coming to an impulsive decision, she closed and locked the car door again, and, grimacing at the heels of her handmade Italian shoes, she started off across the footbridge. She knew the village like the back of her hand, and unless Rosemary had disappeared into one of the cottages facing the beck she might just have a chance of catching her. The girl would not expect her to follow her, and might be dawdling. Rachel could only hope that luck was on her side now.
She attracted the attention of several pairs of eyes as she crossed the road at the other side of the stream and started up the steep lane that led away from the beck. Tourists in this area invariably wore comfortable walking shoes or boots, and dressed for the most part in hiking clothes and wind-cheaters.
Rachel's long-jacketed suit of navy and white houndstooth and the fine white muslin blouse she wore beneath it were definitely not casual, and her air of purposeful assurance drew a curious speculation.
She wondered if anyone had recognised her yet, or whether her new hairstyle and town clothes were blinding people to her identity. Surely she hadn't changed that much? And with the funeral tomorrow they ought to make the association.
She abruptly abandoned these thoughts at the sight of a child loitering ahead of her. Although she was some distance away, the dark plait of hair was unmistakable. It was Rosemary; it had to be. And, as Rachel had supposed, she was totally unaware that she might have been followed.
Rachel took a deep breath and quickened her pace. There was no place to hide, and if Rosemary should happen to glance back and see her her chance might well be lost. And now that she was almost within reach of her goal she was curiously loath to prolong the agony. There was something unwillingly vulnerable about the girl's bent head and drooping shoulders.
Without the memory of that scene outside the village stores, Rachel might almost have felt sorry for her. Who was she?
Where was she going? And, more expediently, where did she live?
The lane, which was backed by the walled gardens of cottages that faced the fell, gave on to open countryside just a few yards further on. It was a narrow winding track that climbed between dry stone walls and rocky crags to the summit of Rothdale Pike. It was mostly used by sheep, or less adventurous climbers who wanted to reach the peak by a less arduous method than striking up the rock-face. Whatever, it was not really the kind of route for a girl of Rosemary's age to go wandering up alone, and Rachel searched her mind, trying to remember if there were any farms within walking distance.
And then Rosemary glanced back and saw her.
Rachel didn't know what had drawn the child's attention.
Maybe her heels had c
lattered on one of the loose stones that covered the track. Although it had been resurfaced at some time, snow and frost had left deep delves in the paving, and there were plenty of pebbles lying about. In any event, the girl had now recognised her and, although her expression revealed her indignation, she was evidently not prepared to stay and fight another losing battle.
Scrambling over the crumbling wall beside her, the child struck off across the sloping hillside, her rubber- soled shoes moving swiftly over the uneven surface. Although Rosemary's legs were shorter than her pursuer's, Rachel guessed she hadn't a snowball in hell's chance of catching her in her high heels, and she clenched her fists frustratedly when the child turned and raised her fingers in an insolent salute.
But even as Rachel stood, impotent beside the dry stone barrier, a movement beyond Rosemary's taunting figure drew her attention. A rider had appeared from the trees that marked the lower slopes and was coming swiftly towards them. The man—for she could see that the rider was too big to be a woman—was mounted on a great black horse, and even from this distance it was possible to observe his expert horsemanship.
It was years since Rachel had been on a horse, and even then she had never achieved the skill and sense of balance she was presently admiring. The man and his mount moved as a single entity, and Rachel's appreciation was such that she briefly forgot her objective.
Rosemary, however, seemed unaware of anyone but her pursuer, and it was only when the horseman seemed in danger of riding the child down that Rachel realised her vulnerability.
Objectionable she might be, but Rachel had no desire to see her get hurt, and, resting her hands on the wall, she yelled, 'Look out, behind you!'
Rosemary's expression turned from scorn to disbelief to shocked awareness, all in swift succession, but before she could move or get out of the way the rider was upon her. He didn't ride her down though. On the contrary, with a skilled shortening of the reins he brought the powerful animal to a halt beside her, and as Rachel watched, open-mouthed, he swung the child up in front of him.
