Burning Inheritance

by Anne Mather

  It was almost dark by the time she got back, and she locked the door behind her, and quickly drew the curtains. It was another of her foibles that she never turned on the lights until the curtains were drawn. Living in the city had made her super-cautious.

  However, with the curtains drawn against the night, and a low rumble of thunder echoing across the marshes, it was cosy in the cottage. She poked the fire into flame and turned on her radio, and then went out to the kitchen to prepare her bath.

  It was one of the vagaries of the cottage that the bathroom was downstairs. Someone, a previous tenant she guessed, had turned what used to be a larder into a bathroom, and although the pipes were efficient, the floor was made of stone. It was nothing like the luxurious whirlpool bath she had at her apartment, and she tried not to think of what it would be like in winter as she rapidly shed her clothes.

  Soaking in the claw-edged tub, though, she could forget her surroundings. The warmth, the sudsy depth of the water, was like a womb, cocooning her against the world outside. As her womb was cocooning Alex's baby, she acknowledged painfully. How strange it was that although she never wanted to see the child's father again, she already loved the scrap of humanity growing inside her.

  She sighed. Jason's appearances always coincided with thoughts like these. Or rather, his arrival trig­gered memories she would rather forget. After all, the first time he had come, she had half expected Alex to be with him. But each succeeding visit had taught her the futility of that.

  If only she knew what Alex had been thinking when he had left for South America. Was it only coincidence that he had left the day after their visit to Nazeby? And why had he gone to South America anyway? It wasn't as if he had any connection with his uncle's business there.

  She had racked her brains to try and find a solution, but she had never found one. All she knew was that Alex had gone away without seeing her again, and that although she had waited almost three weeks for him to get in touch with her, he hadn't.

  She shook her head. She had thought—she had really thought that discovering she had never slept with any other man would prove to Alex that Chris had been lying. It must have proved it; and to begin with, she had believed he had gone to South America to confront his uncle with that proof. But as the days and weeks went by, without any further communi­cation from him, she had to accept the inevitable: that although Alex had wanted her, her innocence didn't mean a thing.

  And after all, he had virtually told her that, when he was kissing her down at the pool. Her outrage that he should have believed she had had an affair with Jerrold Palmer hadn't meant a thing to him. He had only been interested in her body, and although he hadn't liked the idea of her taking a lover at the time, the fact that that was all over—as he saw it—cancelled out any further recriminations.

  She shook her head. She should have realised what he was like then, she acknowledged now. She should have known he was too much like his uncle to suddenly change character. He had wanted her, and he had had her—by fair means or foul—and once that was accom­plished, he had no further interest.

  A lump formed in her throat at the realisation that she would never see him again. No matter how deter­mined she was not to let the memories hurt her, they always did, but with each succeeding day, she was becoming stronger. This time, she had even restrained herself from asking Jason if he had seen him. He had told her so many times, she had at last accepted the truth.

  Alex had gone away, because it was the simplest method of severing any connection between them. He must have known that after that passionate interlude at Nazeby, she would want to see him again, and simply to leave the country saved a dozen bland excuses.

  She sighed. Even now, there were occasions when she found it hard to believe that he had not got as much out of that afternoon as she had. He had seemed so sincere at the time, and the fervour of their love-making had lasted well into the evening. It was true, they had not talked much, but Isabel had been content that there would be time enough for talking after­wards. Just then, she had more important needs to be satisfied, and she had found herself insatiable when it came to loving him.

  They had made love several times, and in between they had slept in each other's arms. They had only stirred to love again, and that first unfortunate expe­rience had been erased by the ecstasy that came after. Alex was so good at it, she fretted now, feeling the familiar ache in the pit of her stomach that always came with thoughts of him. After her experiences with Chris, she had half believed herself to be frigid, but with Alex she had reached the heights again and again.

  They had explored one another's bodies with a thoroughness she could hardly believe now. Alex had been totally without inhibition, letting her do with him as she willed. And she had lost all modesty beneath the possessive touch of his hands.

  It was Mrs Cowie who had eventually disturbed them, knocking on Alex's door and asking if he was staying to dinner. Isabel had waited, hoping he would say they were staying the night, but he didn't. 'We'll have dinner back in town,' he had called to the housekeeper carelessly, and then had taken Isabel once again, with the woman's retreating footsteps still audible to their ears.

  The journey back to town had been a strain for both of them. Isabel had not known what to say to bridge the gulf between their physical compatibility and their mental discord. It was difficult to imagine herself bringing up the subject of marriage, and it was equally illogical to avoid what must be said.

  And then, when they got back to her apartment, when she was steeling herself to invite him in and get the whole thing over, she discovered Jason was waiting for her. He had finished the shoot earlier than planned, he said, and feeling sorry for her for having missed the trip, he had come to take her out to dinner. He had been waiting around for over an hour, he added, convinced that sooner or later she would turn up. Isabel had had no choice but to invite him in in consequence, and Alex had simply left her, with hardly a word of farewell.

  His message the next day was left on her answering machine. It was short and almost lethal in its ability to shock. He was leaving for Rio de Janeiro on the morning flight. He'd get in touch with her on his return.

  Of course, he hadn't. Although she had known he must be back in London, he had made no attempt to contact her, and she had been too proud to contact him. One week went by, then two; and by the third she was already suspecting what had proved to be the case. That crazy spate of lovemaking had left her pregnant: after six desperate years she was going to have a baby.

  That was when she had decided to go away. At first, she hadn't told Jason why; just that she and Alex had had a brief relationship that had gone sour, and that she needed some time to be alone.

  And he had been surprisingly co-operative. She suspected he didn't approve of her associating with any member of her ex-husband's family, and he prob­ably thought a few weeks' holiday would be enough to solve her problem. He had had no idea that finding this cottage on the borders of Lincolnshire would prove so attractive. But by the end of August, he had discovered her intention to give up modelling and, since then, his enthusiasm had evaporated.

  She hadn't told him about the baby until today; and only then because he still refused to believe that she was serious about giving up her career. Not that he had accepted it entirely, she sighed. He probably thought that once she had had the baby, she would rapidly come to her senses. Perhaps she would, she shrugged, and then ran a tentative hand over the faint swelling in her belly. But she didn't think so. Her child was not going to be abandoned by its mother; not if she had anything to do with it.

  She was stepping out of the bath when she heard the rattle of the letter-box. She started first, and then relaxed, guessing it was the parish magazine, or some other circular they were delivering around the village. But when the noise came again, she realised someone was there.

  Wrapping the towel closely around her, she padded silently through to the living-room, blessing her penchant for closing the curtains before
putting on the light. No one could really know she was alone in the cottage. Not unless they knew her, she added, wishing that gave her more confidence. She had read too many stories about lonely women murdered by people who knew them. What did she really know about the people in the village? How well did she really know the Vicar?

  'Isabel! Isabel, are you in there?'

  The painfully familiar voice turned her knees to water, and she grasped the back of the sofa weakly, half inclined to believe she was hallucinating. Alex! Alex couldn't be here! It must be the Vicar, and she was superimposing Alex's voice over his cultured tones. That was it. It had to be. Alex didn't even know where she was.

  'Mr—Baynes?' she said faintly, clutching the ends of the towel to her breasts, and there was a moment's silence before the voice spoke again.

  'No,' it said, 'it's not Mr Baynes; it's Alex! For God's sake, open the door! There's an electric storm going on out here.'

  She hesitated, torn by the desire to keep him waiting while she put some clothes on, so that she could meet him on equal terms, and an equally strong concern that he might be struck by lightning. It wasn't that she cared for him, of course, she told herself, winding the towel about her. But she wouldn't like to have to call Mr Baynes to remove a dead body from her door­step. He was already curious why a young woman of her age and appearance should choose to bury herself in the wilds of Norfolk. If she had to explain her connection to Alex, she might well find herself head­lining the local newspaper.

  'Isabel

  'All right, all right, I'm coming!' she exclaimed, scurrying barefoot across the carpet. Reaching the door, she removed the bolt and turned the key, keeping herself hidden behind it as Alex strode into the cottage.

  Closing the door behind him, she was absurdly conscious of her scant attire. It was all very well sitting in the bath, recalling that afternoon at Nazeby, and how intimate with each other they had been then. Now, it was three months since she had seen him, and what had been between them had long since lost its fire.

  Alex had paused on the hearth, looking round her small domain with impatient eyes. Clearly, it was not what he had expected. She wondered if he had thought she had bought herself a house resembling his uncle's. With its occasionally smoking chimney and low beams, Marsh Cottage was no one's idea of luxury.

  Then he turned to look at her, and she saw to her surprise that he looked tired. But it wasn't just that, she realised, her gaze dropping compulsively down the lean length of his body. He had lost weight, and his black suede trousers and leather jerkin could not hide the fact. How funny, she thought with bitter humour; he had lost it and she had gained it. There was a moral there somewhere, if only she could see it.

  'Do I amuse you?' he asked, noticing her tilting lips and misinterpreting their meaning. 'If this is meant to be some kind of joke, do let me in on the punch line!'

  Isabel rapidly sobered. 'What are you doing here, Alex?' she asked, straightening away from the door with unconscious hauteur. 'How did you know where to find me? Did you think of asking Jason at last?'

  Alex's dark face was sombre. 'At last?' he queried harshly. 'Did I think of asking Ferry at last? It might interest you to know I've asked your photographer friend if he knew where you were on at least half a dozen occasions. But every time I got the same answer: don't ask, because you didn't want to see me.'

  Isabel blinked. 'No!'

  'What do you mean—no?'

  'I mean—no, Jason wouldn't do that.'

  'Wouldn't do what?' Alex sounded scathing. 'Keep your address from me? Oh, yes, he would. That bastard has it coming, believe me.'

  'No, I------' Isabel took a couple of steps towards him, biting her lips. She didn't understand this. When­ever she had asked Jason if he had heard from Alex, he had always said no. And she had believed him. Why wouldn't she? 'Jason . . . ' She stumbled to find the words. 'Are you saying you have asked Jason where I was?'

  'In words of one syllable: yes.'

  She blinked. 'But—why?'

  'Why?' He sounded incredulous. 'Don't you know?'

  Isabel stepped back again. 'There's been some mistake.'

  'You bet your sweet life there has.' Alex was breathing heavily. 'And when I get my hands on Jason Ferry------'

  'Oh, please!' Isabel shook her head. 'Don't talk like that. I—you must have said something to make Jason think you meant to harm me------'

  'To harm you!' Alex stared at her savagely. 'My God! I think you've cornered the market on harming people! Or should I say one person; this person; me!'

  Isabel shivered, but she wasn't really cold. She was just finding it incredibly difficult to accept the fact that Alex was standing here in her living-room, and what was more, he was saying that he'd been trying to find her. She dare not go beyond that. She had been hurt too much already.

  'Are you cold?' he demanded now, turning to stare frustratedly at the smouldering logs. 'What do you do to get some heat around here? You'd better put some clothes on. This could take some time.'

  'My—my dressing-gown's in the bathroom,' she said, unwilling to brave the stone floor again to get it. 'Behind you,' she added, when he looked up the stairs. 'The bathroom's off the kitchen. If you follow the steam, you'll find it.'

  Alex hesitated, but then, with an impatient gesture, he strode out to the bathroom. 'Here,' he said, holding the green velour robe out to her. 'Drop the towel. I promise not to look.'

  But he did. She knew it. Even though she turned her back, she could feel the penetration of his eyes through her shoulder-blades. And when she slipped her arms into the sleeves and drew it up around her shoulders, she felt him close behind her. The heat of his body was unmistakable.

  'Thank you,' she got out at last, tying the belt of the robe about her waist and putting the width of the hearth between them. 'Um—can I get you a cup of coffee? I don't have any alcohol.'

  'No?' His lips twisted. 'That's a pity. I could use a drink.'

  'Well, then------'

  'Not coffee,' he assured her grimly. 'Forget it. I can wait.'

  Isabel pressed the heels of her hands together. 'If—if Jason didn't tell you where I was, how did you------?'

  'I didn't say that,' Alex interrupted her. 'I said I'd asked him half a dozen times where you were and he wouldn't tell me. Today he had no choice. I cornered him in Spalding. I think he knew the game was over.'

  Isabel shook her head. 'I don't believe it.'

  'Don't? Or won't?'

  She sighed. 'Why would he do it?'

  'What? Keep me away?' Alex snorted. 'I guess he's jealous. I know the feeling, believe me.'

  Isabel gasped. 'But—you went to Brazil!'

  'Yes.' Alex nodded. 'The day after we went to Nazeby. Do you think I'd forget that?'

  Isabel licked her lips. 'And—and when you came back you said you'd contact me.'

  'Yes.'

  She gulped. 'Well, you didn't.'

  'Didn't what? Come back? I know. I can explain------'

  'No------contact me,' she broke in huskily. 'You didn't contact me. I—I waited three weeks for you to ring, but you never did.'

  'Not for three weeks, no,' he conceded heavily. 'Not for four, as a matter of fact. It's difficult to be confidential from the other side of the equator.'

  Isabel stared at him. 'You mean—you were still in Brazil!'

  'As you'd have found out, if you'd cared to ring my office.' Alex shrugged. 'I know I should have written. I did write on two occasions, but I destroyed the letters. I was afraid I'd read too much into our relationship, and no one was going to accuse me of being a fool a second time. When I got back and you'd disappeared, I was half inclined to believe that I'd been right.'

  Isabel moistened her lips. 'I don't understand.'

  'Well, that makes two of us,' he declared sardoni­cally. 'Do you want me to explain, or am I making another mistake?'

  Isabel shook her head. 'Just tell me what happened,' she whispered huskily. 'I want to know.'

  'Why don't you
sit down?' he said roughly, noticing how she was trembling, and Isabel subsided obediently on to the sofa. In truth, her legs did feel like jelly, and she wasn't sure how much longer they would have held her.

  'OK.' Alex unzipped his leather jacket and pushed his hands into the pockets of his trousers. 'You won't like this, but the reason why I didn't ring you was because my uncle begged me not to. And, I thought I owed him that much, in spite of what he'd done.'

  Isabel's eyes grew wary. 'You did what your uncle told you?' She swallowed. 'I see.'

  'No, you don't see,' said Alex abruptly, squatting down in front of the hearth with a lithe, disturbing grace. 'Whatever you've thought of me in the past, when I flew out to Rio, it was to have it out with Robert Seton. I think I wanted to kill him; until I got there and discovered Chris had almost done it for me.'

  Isabel frowned. 'Chris?'

  'Yes, Chris,' said Alex, taking one of her hands and holding it between both of his. 'You know that affair with Palmer? The affair / accused you of having? Well,' he paused, 'Chris had got himself involved with someone in California, someone not as scrupulous as Palmer, someone who had taken pictures, and sent them to his father.'

  Isabel caught her breath. 'You mean------'

  'I think you know what I mean.' Alex bent his head. 'My uncle was being blackmailed for half a million dollars. The night I arrived in Rio, he had a serious stroke.'

  'No!'

  'Yes.'

  'But there was nothing in the papers, no stories in the Press------'

  'No. That was my job,' said Alex grimly. 'No one had to know what was going on or Chris would have become involved. Uncle Robert was scared to death that Chris would find out and exercise his right to take over the running of the company in his absence. Somehow, we managed to disguise his illness as heat exhaustion, until I could get him back to England.'

  Isabel hesitated. 'And now? How is he now?'

  'Partially paralysed,' said Alex flatly. 'He can speak, but not everyone can understand him. His doctor says he'll probably be confined to a wheelchair for the rest of his life. The trouble is, he's changed his will. Since—since that affair with Chris, he won't even agree to see him. He wants me to take over the running of Denby Industries, and I don't know what to do.'