Apollo's Seed

by Anne Mather

  It would be foolish to feel disappointed, but she was confused, and her tired brain refused to find reasons for his absence. He had intended to come, she was sure of it—though could she honestly be sure of anything in this uncertain situation?

  Reviewing the events of the previous evening, she had had no reason to doubt his intentions. But then she had not spent a lot of time with him—with any of them—involved as she had been with Josy’s little upset.

  No doubt the heat, and too much exercise, had been responsible for her sickness and irritability, and Martha had spent most of the evening attending to her daughter’s needs. Dion had suggested that one of the servants could attend to her, but Martha would not hear of it, and as always when she opposed Dion, Sarah came to her aid.

  ‘A child needs her mother at a time like this,’ she declared, when Martha was called away from the table for the second time. Josy had had her meal earlier, as had become her habit, but for some reason she was hot and restless, and a gastric upset had left her pale and tearful. ‘You can’t expect Martha to leave Josy in the hands of strangers, Dion. She’s cared for her for too long. They’re too close.’

  ‘Oh, I agree.’ Dion’s meaning was chillingly clear. ‘They are too close, much too close, but I intend to change that in the not-too-distant future.’

  Martha, hurrying away from the table, had heard his remarks with a sense of alarm. Was that why her husband was so keen that she should accompany him to Athens? Was his intention to wean them apart so gradually that neither of them would necessarily be aware of the separation? Was this English nanny intended to substitute for herself ultimately? Was his whole plan of taking her back only a temporary arrangement so that Josy should not be too upset when the real break came?

  With thoughts like these for company, Martha was in no state to act objectively, and Josy had responded to her overindulgence with childish abandon, taking advantage of her mother’s anxiety, and making more of her upset than was really necessary.

  When Andros came to tell her that Josy was calling for her a fourth time, however, even Roger got the message.

  ‘She’s playing you up, Martha, can’t you see?’ he exclaimed, breaking off a conversation he had been having with Alex about the excavation at Akrotiri to catch her arm as she went by. ‘You know what children are like. She knows her—well, she knows that your husband is here. She wants attention, that’s all. Stop giving in to her.’

  ‘You are right.’ It was Dion who spoke, getting up from his seat and coming round the table towards them. ‘I will go and have a few words with her. Sit down again, Martha. Leave this to me.’

  ‘No—’

  Martha began to protest, but Roger would not let go of her arm and she stood impotently by as Dion disappeared into the house. ‘Relax,’ Roger advised her firmly, his eyes sending her a message of warning. ‘Let Dion speak to her. That’s what she needs, isn’t it? A—mon’s hand.’

  ‘Don’t you mean a father’s?’ demanded Sarah angrily. ‘Martha, can’t you see what Dion’s doing? He’s trying to usurp your place with Josy—’

  ‘That is nonsense!’ It was Alex who spoke now, his youthful features hard with resentment. ‘Why should not my brother speak with his own daughter? For she is his daughter, even I can see that!’

  ‘Then it’s a pity you didn’t see it sooner,’ retorted Sarah, equally resentfully. ‘Martha’s looked after Josy alone for years without any help from the Myconos family. Why should you assume she needs any help now?’

  ‘Sarah, please…’

  Martha’s weary protest was hardly noticed as Alex rose to his feet. ‘Your sister left my brother, Miss Connell,’ he snapped harshly, ‘not the other way about. It almost killed him, do you know that? Do you also know that he has gone against every recommendation of his family in bringing you here!’

  Martha at last pulled away from Roger and resumed her seat. But the atmosphere around the table was no longer sympathetic to casual conversation, and she was glad when the meal was over and she could escape. Dion had returned to his seat with the news that Josy seemed much recovered, and when Martha peeped into her room on her way to her own, she did not stir. Obviously, whatever Dion had said, she had responded to it, and her spirits sank a little lower as she sought the no-longer-inviolable sanctuary of her bedroom.

  But a sanctuary it had remained, throughout the long hours of the night, even though her thoughts were not the calm and tranquil ones associated with such a retreat. Adding Alex’s denunciation to her husband’s humiliating attitude brought a feeling of almost overwhelming despair, and she realised she had been mistaken in thinking Dion’s brother had forgiven her. He was being polite, that was all, for Josy’s sake, the innocent pawn in this game of chance.

  And now it was morning, the morning of the day the English nanny would arrive, and Martha felt totally incapable of handling it. What would this woman be like? Young or old? Friendly or aggressive? Experienced or inexperienced, as she was herself?

  With a summoning of determination, she resolved to think positively. Surely if Dion had only intended her to stay for a short time, he would not have been so adamant that she should give up her job at the university. Unless he had wanted to hurt her in that way, too, knowing that such good jobs were hard to find…

  She had no way of proving her suspicions, and deciding she could grow old with worry, she tossed off her cotton nightdress, and went into the bathroom to wash and clean her teeth. Then, realising that what she really needed was something to clear her head, she put on the navy bikini she had bought to go to the Scillies the previous year, and wrapping one of the huge bath towels about her, left her room.

  The pool was already occupied, however, and she was half tempted to draw back before whoever it was had seen her. But giving in to those kind of fears was not part of her new determination, and although her knees were trembling, she trod through the trellised archway that gave access to the pool area.

  It was not her husband, she saw at once, but Alex who was pacing his length across its translucent surface, and when he saw her he immediately turned on to his back and kicked lazily towards the side.

  ‘Esti, kalimera, Martha,’ he called, a lazy smile curving his mouth. ‘Am I to have company?’

  Martha hesitated only a moment, and then shed the fluffy towel, allowing it to fall to the mosaic tiles that surrounded the pool. ‘Do you want company?’ she asked, stepping to the rim, and he swam easily towards her, splashing water up on to her legs.

  ‘Your company?’ he asked. ‘But of course.’

  Martha still lingered. ‘Even—even after what you said last night?’ she ventured.

  ‘Last night?’ He frowned, levering himself up on to the tiles beside her, his dripping body scented with salt from the water that was pumped up from the ocean. ‘What did I say last night?’

  Martha bent her head, tentatively dipping a toe into the cold depths. ‘You know,’ she insisted. ‘About—about me being here.’

  ‘You?’ Alex shook his head. ‘I do not understand. I am glad you are here. This is where you belong, where you have always belonged.’

  Martha shook her head. ‘But when you were speaking to Sarah—’

  ‘Ach, Sarah!’ Alex’s jaw hardened instantly, and she saw again the expression he had worn the night before. ‘Do not speak of yourself in the same breath with your sister. She has done everything in her power to destroy your marriage.

  She is the one who should not be here. She is the person my family most abhors.’

  ‘Oh!’ Martha could not deny the shiver of unease that still swept over her at the words. Obviously, the Myconos’s had made Sarah their scapegoat. They could not believe that anyone could prefer freedom to life with a man who distrusted her so much, he even denied his own daughter’s existence. They had needed someone to blame, and they had blamed Sarah. But it was all wrong. They should have blamed her!

  ‘Alex, honestly—’ she began now, but he silenced her with his finger across her
lips.

  ‘No more,’ he said. ‘Let us not spoil the day by thinking of the past. Dion has said we must forget it, and I want to do so.’

  Martha drew an uneven breath. Alex could be so serious at times, and right now he was looking at her with an intensity that reminded her only too well of Dion at his most appealing.

  ‘All right,’ she murmured, unwilling to prolong the harshness of his expression, and his eyes softened into gentleness.

  ‘You look so anxious,’ he said, touching her cheek with damp fingers. ‘Do not be so. Everything will turn out for the best, you will see.’

  Martha wished she could believe him, but at least in the next fifteen minutes or so, she forgot her troubles in the pure enjoyment of the water. It was so soft, so buoyant, one hardly needed to use one’s legs at all. Sarah should try it, she thought, not voicing the thought for fear of provoking any further outbursts from Alex, but she would try harder to get her sister interested, if only because of the therapy it would be for her.

  They had pulled themselves out of the water and were lying by the side of the pool, discussing Alex’s abandoned hopes of becoming a lecturer, when Dion appeared. To his eyes, their closeness must have appeared suspect, Martha thought, herself lying flat on her back, letting the sun dry the moisture from her body, and Alex on his stomach beside her, chin propped on one hand as he explained his reasons for obeying his father. But her husband showed no particular signs of annoyance, coming to stand over them, lean and masculine in cream denim pants and a tight-fitting cotton shirt.

  ‘Ya, Dion!’ Alex greeted him familiarly, making no attempt to rise. ‘We thought you were going to sleep all day, did we not, Martha?’ He grinned. ‘See, your wife has already swum the Hellespont twice over.’

  ‘Alex…’

  Martha cast an impatient look in his direction as she sat up, but Dion’s expression gave her no clue to what he was thinking. ‘I can see she looks a little tired,’ he remarked, squatting down beside them. ‘But after Miss Powell’s arrival she will find life much easier.’

  Martha refused to meet the challenge in those dark brown irises, but she heard Alex ask what time the nursemaid was due to arrive and waited tensely for Dion’s reply.

  ‘About noon, I would imagine,’ he said at last. ‘You have met her, of course. Perhaps you could reassure Martha that she is not the gorgon she apparently thinks her.’

  Martha’s eyes turned to Alex, as he levered himself back on to his heels. ‘That is true,’ he nodded. ‘I have met the lady. She is most charming, I am sure you will like her.’ Martha was equally sure she would not, but she could hardly say so, and ignoring Dion’s outstretched hand, she got to her feet unaided, and went to wrap herself in the enveloping folds of the towel.

  Dion straightened and Alex got to his feet, too, and she felt their eyes upon her as she quickly tucked the towel, sarong-style, about her. She wondered if Alex imagined they had spent the night together, and their present attitude was the result of some misunderstanding they had had. Whatever, she needed the uncomplicated company of Josy or Roger, or even Sarah, to restore her sense of balance, and with a faint smile of dismissal, she left them.

  Dion came into the bedroom as she was brushing her hair, preparatory to plaiting it into its single braid. It was disconcerting that he could just walk in on her uninvited and unannounced, but she succeeded in biting back her resentment, continuing with her task as if he wasn’t there. She wasn’t going to give him the opportunity to taunt her over the reasons why he had stayed away the night before, though her fingers still trembled as she fumbled to divide the silky strands.

  ‘Leave it,’ he commanded, after watching her struggles for several disturbing minutes. ‘I prefer that you leave it loose. Do this for me.’

  If anything could have been designed to make Martha want to braid her hair all the more, his words would have fitted the description. Ignoring him, she made another attempt to separate the silky curtain into three equal sections, and then stiffened into immobility when he came up behind her.

  ‘I said leave it,’ he repeated quietly, reaching past her to lift the brush, and pushing her hands aside, restored it to its honey-gold smoothness. ‘If you must control it for coolness, use a piece of elastic, or a ribbon. Much as I admire your youthful appearance, I do not like your hair so severely confined.’

  Martha swallowed convulsively. ‘Your opinion is of no interest to me,’ she declared.

  ‘No?’ he shrugged. ‘But I like to thread my fingers through it—like this,’ he tossed the brush aside to comb long fingers through the silky strands, ‘and to bury my face in its softness—’

  He bent his head to the nape of her neck, and panic that once again he was playing with her flared along Martha’s nerves. With a little cry she jerked herself away from him, and saw the mirror image of his amusement reflected in the glass.

  ‘What is wrong?’ he asked, surveying her in mocking appraisal. ‘You do not mind me touching you, do you? Or are you perhaps disappointed that I did not take advantage of my—what do you call it?—marital rights last night, no?’

  Martha’s fingers hurt almost more than his cheek must have done, she thought, rubbing them painfully after the slap she had so impulsively delivered. What would he do now? she wondered, her eyes darting uneasily about the room, and then returning to his unfortunate cheek in reluctant penitence.

  ‘So,’ he said at last, lifting one hand to touch the white markings of her fingers that stood out in cold relief against the hotness of his skin. ‘Does that make you feel better? Does that—assuage the bitterness you feel when I prove to you that you are not immune to me, whatever you might wish?’

  Martha’s breathing felt constricted, and it was with some difficulty that she got out her next words. ‘You—you think you’re so clever, don’t you?’ she cried. ‘Just because you can—arouse me. Well, I’m an emancipated woman, not a child. Like you, I have—needs, and appetites. That does not mean only you can satisfy them!’

  She did not know how she had found the nerve to make such a statement, and she waited apprehensively for his response. But he chose not to argue. With derision curving his mouth he turned away, and walking indolently towards the door, let himself out without another word.

  His departure left her feeling drained and exhausted. After the night she had just spent, she needed affection and sympathy, not these continual battles of the senses, and although she might deny her attraction towards him, it was a foolish affectation when he could exert such tremendous power over her.

  It had always been like that, right from the very beginning, she reflected defeatedly, wondering at the perversity of fate. The holiday she and Sarah had spent in Rhodes had been deliberately devoid of attachments, but that last evening, when she had allowed Sarah to persuade her to accept the invitation of two waiters from their hotel, how could she have known what was about to happen? There was a disco, they said, at one of the small villages between Rhodes and Kremasti, and the two girls had decided it might be fun. But it hadn’t been fun at all. Just rather sordid and embarrassing, the two young Greeks imagining that the English girls would be game for anything. Of course, as soon as they discovered they were not, they took off, leaving Martha and Sarah to find their own way back to the hotel, which wasn’t easy, when there were no taxis to be had, and neither of them spoke sufficient Greek at that time to make themselves understood.

  They had eventually decided to walk, but then Sarah had twisted her ankle and Martha had become convinced they were going in the wrong direction, and that sense of panic that everyone experiences when faced with a nightmare situation had begun to grip them.

  The villa they eventually came upon lay in a wooded valley, some distance from the main coast road. It was the dogs which had alerted the villa’s owner to trespassers in his grounds, and pure chance that Dion should have been dining there that evening. By then Sarah could hardly walk at all, and Martha had no hesitation about approaching the occupant and asking if they
might ring for a taxi from there.

  Remembering the way Dion had come to their rescue brought an unwilling weakness to her limbs. That he could speak English had been relief enough, without his insisting on driving them back to their hotel himself. He had picked Sarah up in his strong arms and carried her into the villa, and his anxious hosts had quickly found cold water and bandages to bind her ankle.

  Frowning now, Martha reflected that that was when Sarah had convinced herself that Dion was attracted to her. She had given no thought to the fact that he was merely being polite, that he would have done the same for anyone in similar circumstances. She had been fascinated by the lean capability of his hands, the quiet efficiency that accomplished so much without apparent effort.

  Martha herself had treated the whole affair with a certain amount of amusement once the worst was over. After all, it had been an adventure, something they could talk about once they got home to England, certainly nothing to be taken too seriously. She rode back to the hotel in the rear seat of Dion’s sleek limousine, deliberately avoiding the obvious comparisons between this attractive stranger and the two boys they had started out with, keeping herself immune from his dark good looks and his identity.

  When he arrived the following morning to enquire after Sarah’s ankle, and to assure himself that they had both recovered from their ordeal, it had become harder to evade the searching intensity of his gaze. He spoke mostly to Sarah, but he looked at her, and Martha’s palms moistened even now, remembering that slumbrous stare.

  Of course, it had not ended there—even though, when they flew back to England that same afternoon, Martha had assured herself that they had seen the last of him. Within a week Dion was in London, possessed of their address, and making himself at home at Maxwell Grove, as if he had lived in such modest surroundings all his life.

  Sarah was delighted at first, believing he was attracted to her, and making special efforts with her hair and clothes. Martha kept out of the way as much as she could. After learning of his identity, she was convinced he was merely amusing himself at their expense, and the fact that he might be serious never even crossed her mind.