by Anne Hampson
‘Yes, I think so. What should I wear for dinner?’ she wanted to know, her voice edged with a tinge of anxiety. ‘Simon said it’s all informal nowadays and you don’t need to dress up unless it’s specially requested for some reason.’
‘You don’t need to dress up,’ Clare agreed, but went on to say that she usually wore a long dress because she liked to be different in the evenings. ‘A long skirt and frilly blouse would be all right,’ she suggested. ‘You used to wear frilly blouses, I remember.’
‘Yes, because both Frank and his father liked me in them. Frank had such excellent taste in women’s clothes, didn’t he?’
‘Yes,’ replied Clare, quite unable to remember whether he had or not.
‘He told me he would have liked to design your wedding dress but you’d ordered it before he had time to suggest it.’
‘Oh—I didn’t know.’ It was all coming back with aching poignancy—the dress, delectable with its flowing skirt and tight-fitting bodice, the bridesmaids’ gowns, the rehearsal in the church, the presents and invitations, the booking of the hall for the reception, the arrangements for the honeymoon. . . . And all leading up to—what . . . ? Oh, God—stop! Unconsciously Clare put her hands to her eyes as if by the frenzied action she could shut out for ever the terrible anguish of the final scene, enacted in a churchyard. . . .
‘Well,’ said Mrs Weedall, obviously unaware of Clare’s distress, ‘he wouldn’t tell you because he didn’t want to upset you. But it was a disappointment to him, and it’s a pity, now, looking back, that he didn’t speak up in time. . . .’ She stopped reflectively and Clare seized the opportunity of bringing her attention to the time and pointing out that if she wanted to rest she ought to be going to her room at once.
‘Phil and I usually have dinner at about half-past eight,’ she added finally. She was endeavouring to maintain a veneer of calm as she spoke but her nerves were stretched almost to the breaking point and she felt that if she could scream it would bring untold relief.
‘I’ll leave you then, dear. And thank you so much for the lovely walk on the beach. It was kind of Phil to give you time off to be with me. It’s wonderful not to be lonely for a change. I do sincerely thank you, Clare, for inviting me here to this lovely island.’ She seemed to falter on her last words and, glancing at her, Clare saw the moisture in her eyes. A terrible lump rose in Clare’s throat; her voice was jerky and edged with tears as she said, ‘Don’t thank me, Mrs Weedall, it’s a—a pleasure having you.’ She managed to accompany her to the lift and then she turned away abruptly, because the deluge of pity enveloping her was finding an outlet in tears. They rolled unchecked down her cheeks as she hastily made her way towards a corridor and a flight of stairs which would take her to the floor where her bedroom was situated. But first she had to pass the door of her brother’s office. She was half-way along the corridor and almost running, when to her chagrin and dismay she saw Luke emerge from the office and close the door behind him. He gave a start on seeing her in such a hurry, and noting her tears he exclaimed, ‘Clare—what’s wrong—?’ Then he stopped, his eyes narrowing to mere slits. ‘Why are you crying?’ he demanded harshly. ‘That woman! What’s been happening? You’ve been with her since teatime?’
‘Yes, but—it’s nothing to do with you—’
‘By God, it is!’ His action was as swift as his words, and Clare had no time to escape before he had gripped her by the arms, his fingers digging painfully into her flesh. ‘She’s been upsetting you,’ he rasped, ‘and it’s not going to happen again—’
‘Leave me alone!’ she cried, every nerve twisted and knotted inside her. ‘It’s none of your business!’ Managing to break free of his punishing hold, she sped away in the direction of the stairs, conscious of his voice calling in anger and concern, but relieved that he made no attempt to come after her.
By dinner time she was calm and composed, having surprised herself by her miraculous recovery from what at the time had been near hysteria. She had taken a bath and washed her hair, and while sitting under the dryer she had reached a state of composure. Her normal rational thinking returned and she could face her present situation objectively. It was plain that Mrs Weedall would continue to talk about her son, and it was plain too that she genuinely believed Clare to be entirely in sympathy with her, content to be recalling memories. And in all fairness Clare had to admit that before she came here, she had been content to recall memories. She would never have dreamed of missing her Saturday visit to the grave, when she and Frank’s mother would share their labour of love while talking sadly about Frank and the tragedy of his early death. Now by some miracle Clare had not only managed to put the past from her but had even contemplated a new life with another man as her husband. Mrs Weedall had brought the memories with her across three thousand miles of ocean with the intention of sharing them with Clare. So it would seem that in order to remain calm Clare must resign herself to listening to Mrs Weedall and contributing to the conversation, even though the part she played was specious. When Clare had eventually come out from under the dryer the newly-made resolve was fixed right in the forefront of her mind.
The dress she wore was coral-coloured Thai silk, which she had bought during a Thai Week at one of London’s leading stores. Loose-fitting with enormous folds falling from the sleeves to the waist and down the full length of the skirt, it was perhaps too dressy for tonight, but she was determined to wear it because it always did something for her ego. She knew it was sheer perfection, that when she walked the length of the restaurant all eyes would be turned towards her. It always happened that way and on the first occasion Clare had been so embarrassed that it was a long time before she ventured to wear the dress again. However, she did wear it, and had worn it several times since, always with the same result. Tonight, she needed just this admiration to complete the cure, to restore fully her composure and ease of mind.
To her surprise a larger table had replaced the table for four which was always in its place by the window with the view over the marina. Phil was already there talking to Luke who, attired in a cream-coloured lightweight suit with a white shirt and dark tie, made his usual arresting figure, pride and arrogance in his entire bearing. She looked up at him, recalling vividly the last time they had met, so very briefly, in the corridor. His present manner was different from what she expected for somehow she had prepared herself for hostility, if only in its mildest form. Instead—apart from the hint of mockery in his eyes—it savoured strongly of indifference. His greeting was casual; his attention as he took out the chair and stood away from her was no less impersonal than if he had been rendering the service to a near stranger. Her heart sank and her lip quivered; she averted her head so that he should not see what his cool detachment was doing to her.
But if she had been dejected before her spirits were swept into the depths of despair when, on asking why the table had been changed, she was told by Luke that Stella Wesley was dining with them, and would be here shortly.
‘Mrs Wesley!’ she exclaimed before she had time to prevent the words becoming an exclamation.
‘Yes,’ replied Luke, ‘Mrs Wesley—but you can call her Stella, she prefers it. After all,’ he added—and Clare was sure there was an edge of malice to his tone—‘we’re all friends together, aren’t we?’
‘Are we?’ She flashed a glance in her brother’s direction as she spoke. Almost imperceptibly he shrugged, as if telling her that although he was far from pleased at the idea of having Stella at their table, he was not intending to offend either Luke or one of the hotel guests. And with his swift change of expression he was telling her to adopt the same attitude but she ignored it on recollecting Stella’s downright rudeness on her arrival at the hotel. ‘As far as I am concerned, Luke,’ she said coolly, turning to him, ‘Mrs Wesley is no different from any other guest in the hotel.’
‘Perhaps, Clare, but she happens to be interested in buying one of my properties in Miami, and that’s why I invited her to dine with
us. I hope you’ll be nice to her.’
She lifted her eyes, to meet his in a cold, direct glance. Phil, alert to the tension building between them, opened his mouth to intervene but was prevented from speaking by one of the hotel guests coming up to him to make some sort of inquiry. It gave Clare the chance of saying, ‘I shall be civil to her, Luke, but I don’t consider myself obliged to fawn over her just because she’s a potential customer of yours!’
‘I haven’t asked you to fawn. . . .’ His voice rolled into silence, his eyes widening for one fleeting moment before his expression became an unfathomable mask. But Clare knew what that widening of his eyes had meant. . . .
She had spoken hotly, stabbed with jealousy of his old flame, having her doubts about her interest in his property and being more inclined to suspect her of using that excuse to win her ex-fiancé’s interest in herself. But already Clare was regretting her impulsive outburst, for in that brief moment when Luke’s eyes had widened, she realised with dismay that he had gleaned an insight into her feelings. He knew that she was jealous of Stella.
Bitterly regretting her unthinking outburst, she sought vainly for words that would effectively disabuse him, convince him he was wrong in believing her to be jealous of his old flame. But resignedly she admitted that no matter what she added at this stage it would merely strengthen his conviction rather than weaken it.
In any case, Mrs Weedall had arrived and, in his usual polite way, Phil was greeting her with a smile. ‘Ah, Mrs Weedall. Do sit down—here.’ He was pulling out a chair for her and she accepted it, thanking him diffidently. Luke’s eyes were contemptuous; they passed from her face to Clare’s and then he appeared to lose interest in both of them as his gaze settled on one particularly beautiful yacht in the marina, its sails fluttering in the breeze. Dozens of other yachts were there, the lights from their masts creating dancing silver stars on the surface of the water.
Mrs Weedall was speaking, saying she had managed to have a nap.
‘I’m glad.’ Clare sent her a smile, her glance taking in the white blouse with its familiar frill running from neck to hem. ‘It’ll have done you good after that flight, and then the walk on the beach. You’ve had a very busy time since yesterday.’
‘Yes, indeed.’ Clare looked furtively in Luke’s direction but his attention was elsewhere—on Stella, whose svelte figure swayed in tempting, sexy movements as she made her majestic way to the table.
She sat down next to Luke, and all through the meal Clare, seated opposite, was forced to endure the bewitching activities of the girl’s expertise in making herself attractive to a man. She fluttered her long dark lashes, had a way of twisting her head so that the glory of her hair was brought to his notice. She whispered to him and he nodded interestedly; she even used her elegant, perfectly-manicured hands, spreading them as an accompaniment to some remark, holding the two middle fingers together in the manner of a ballet-dancer.
Now and then Luke would slide Clare a glance, his face unmoving, without expression. She decided to adopt a couldn’t-care-less attitude, and give most of her attention to her visitor.
Chapter Nine
Tears touched Clare’s lashes as she watched the couple dancing, their bodies close, Luke’s head bent so that his lips seemed to be caressing Stella’s temple. Luke had come to the Rusty Pelican for dinner but instead of joining Phil and Clare and their guest he had occupied another table, having brought as his companion the glamorous girl to whom he was once engaged. And it did seem to Clare that they had already resumed some aspects of their old relationship, for Clare’s covert glances had several times caught Luke laughing; and the way his companion looked at him, a winning smile on her lips, seemed to indicate that the two were certainly happy to be in each other’s company.
Grudgingly Clare had to admit that they made a striking couple, both being tall and stately, with smooth majestic movements reminiscent of royalty.
Clare’s misery was not helped by Mrs Weedall’s casual remark to Phil, ‘Your friend seems rather struck with Mrs Wesley, doesn’t he?’
‘I sincerely hope he isn’t,’ from Phil tautly. ‘I’d hate the idea of her coming to live—’ He stopped abruptly, conscious of the fact that he had broken his rule of never uttering a disparaging word about one guest in front of another. Not that Mrs Weedall was an ordinary guest; nevertheless, as he was to say to Clare afterwards, it was not right to have said anything at all about the woman, however objectionable she might have been.
‘She’s very beautiful.’ Mrs Weedall seemed fascinated by the couple on whom all eyes were turned. ‘She’s a widow, you were saying, Clare?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’ Clare was also fascinated. Luke’s eyes met hers fleetingly; his expression changed and what she saw was a cold handsome face with a hard unyielding mouth. Clare lowered her eyes, but not before his expression had changed again and he was smiling charmingly down into his partner’s face.
‘I hate her,’ breathed Clare silently, the fierce barbs of jealousy piercing her heart. ‘She’s poison! Surely Luke knows that she’s hard and horrid and everything that he dislikes!’ But she was recalling Luke’s assertion that all men admire beauty, and whatever Stella Wesley lacked it was certainly not beauty—no, she possessed that in abundance.
The music stopped and the couple sat down, Luke’s eyes sliding momentarily to Clare’s table.
‘I’m rather surprised that Luke wanted to dine alone with that woman,’ Phil was saying later when he and Clare were on their own, having a drink in the Clipper Inn, Mrs Weedall having decided to go to bed earlier than usual. She had been on the island for over a week and appeared to be enjoying herself despite the fact that scarcely an hour passed without her mentioning her dead son. Clare, having made her resolve to be patient, was gradually gaining the ability to control her nerves, and to smile and act as if she were still cherishing her love for Frank.
‘She and he were once engaged.’ Clare had not previously mentioned the fact to her brother, although she could find no reason for her reticence.
‘Engaged?’ Phil’s brows lifted incredulously. ‘He told you?’
Clare nodded her head. ‘Yes, he told me. It was six years ago.’
‘What happened?’ The couple under discussion had come into the bar and were standing there, deciding where to sit, and Phil’s eyes were drawn to them. Luke—who had previously spent a few moments at Phil’s table, chatting with him—lifted a hand and smiled, but he never even glanced at Clare, who was frowning heavily. Luke scarcely ever came into the Clipper Inn, preferring the lounge of the hotel. Why, then, should he have come in here tonight? Surely he would know that she would be upset at seeing him give so much attention to his old flame. It was almost as if he were deliberately trying to hurt Clare, by flaunting his glamorous companion before her eyes all the time. But on considering this, Clare thrust it away, refusing to believe that Luke would do a thing like that to her. It was probably at Stella’s suggestion that they had come in here for their after dinner drinks.
‘She married someone else. He died six months ago.’
‘She threw Luke over?’ Phil’s manner was disbelieving as his eyes strayed yet again to the couple who were now occupying a table which was in full view of where he and Clare were sitting. ‘I can’t believe that he’d be as friendly as this if she’d served him that sort of trick.’
‘I must admit that it puzzles me too,’ returned Clare, hoping that the little sob in her throat had escaped her brother’s notice. She was so unhappy she could have burst into tears. She felt sure she had lost Luke, and through her own fault. He had become tired of her inconsistent behaviour and had probably decided that she was of an unreliable type—no use to him at all. These and many other dismal thoughts were running through her mind when one of them was voiced by Phil.
‘It would be pretty grim if he married her and she came to live on Flamingo Cay.’
A painful tightness settled in Clare’s throat. ‘The possibility’s already
occurred to me,’ she said.
‘Well, if that happened the friendship between Luke and me would be finished. I could never accept that woman and I’m sure you couldn’t either.’ Phil was troubled as he continued to watch the couple, laughing and chatting and certainly getting along exceedingly well together. Clare, conscious of Luke’s eyes on her now and then, avoided them if she could. But Stella caught Clare’s eyes a couple of times and there was no mistaking her look of sneering triumph. She was getting her own back for that occasion when Luke had bidden her a formal goodnight, saying that he and Clare had something private to talk about. Stella had been furious, Clare remembered, but now it was her turn to have all of Luke’s attention.
Suddenly Clare decided that if there was the slightest possibility of a marriage between Luke and Stella, then she would return to England with Mrs Weedall when she went back at the end of her holiday. The decision would make her parents unhappy, but there was nothing else she could do but return to England, simply because never in a million years would she get used to the idea of Stella being mistress of Silver Springs, wife to its owner. But how could she tell for sure that Luke was intending to take up where he and his old flame had left off?
Clare wanted to find out before Mrs Weedall left. . . . She must not risk coming to the wrong conclusion, and it suddenly struck her that there was only one sure way, and although it would mean embarrassment she decided to act on the idea. She would ask Luke outright if there was any possibility of him and Mrs Wesley becoming engaged again.
Meanwhile, though, something else had been troubling Clare and she said, changing the subject, ‘Phil, is it possible that I could have another week off? I hate to ask but Mrs Weedall will be on her own if I can’t—’
