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Nevertheless, he could not let it happen, just like that. He found himself championing Francis’s rights, and refusing to admit his motives were less than unselfish. If Rachel had already been married and had produced a child, she had proved she was fertile, and his father was still a powerful and virile man. Two wives were enough for any man, thought Joel bitterly, without acknowledging that had his own mother not died soon after his birth, his father might only have had one.
But that was three days ago now. In that time, Francis had managed to find out that Rachel’s employer was a Colonel Frenshaw, who lived at the Old Hall, Langthwaite. A not-too-difficult place to find, Joel had thought, until he began this journey…
He turned restlessly in the narrow bed, wishing himself back in his own bed in his own apartment. He had told no one but Francis and his man, Heron, of his real motives for coming to Yorkshire, and he had no doubts that Erica would be curious on his return. Erica…
He determinedly brought the image of the girl he would no doubt marry one day to his mind. Six years had drawn a distorting veil over Rachel’s features, and although he could remember the details of her appearance it was hard to put them in the right perspective. Besides, he didn’t particularly want to remember Rachel, until he had to…
Six years. It was a long time. She would be what? Twenty-four or twenty-five by now. He should remember. She was ten years younger than he was. He sighed, recalling how amazed he had been that a girl of her age should have had the power over him that she had had. Power that she had abused, he told himself savagely. Well, all that was in the past. No woman, either before or since, had had that kind of power-that kind of control over him, nor ever would again. When he met her tomorrow, or perhaps confronted was a better word, she would soon realise she had bitten off more than she could chew by challenging him like this. How could she? he asked himself again; how dared she imagine she could make herself a member of his family without arousing any reaction from him? Or perhaps that was exactly what she wanted to achieve. The idea struck him forcibly, leaving him cold with anger. And no doubt his father was a willing accomplice.
Yet still he couldn’t believe it. But what other conclusion could he draw? He turned his head restlessly into the pillow and wished he had had that last drink in the bar. A strong double whisky might have soothed his nerves, dulled the sharp edge of exhaustion that was keeping him awake, cast into oblivion the destructive desire for revenge which was tearing him apart.
CHAPTER TWO
AT breakfast the next morning it was a simple matter to ask Mrs. Harris where the Old Hall was situated.
“Colonel Frenshaw’s place?” she asked, raising her eyebrows. “You’re a friend of his, Mr. Kingdom?”
Joel attacked his grapefruit with more determination than enthusiasm. “Not exactly, Mrs. Harris. I — er — I do know someone who works for him, though.”
“Oh, that would be Mr. Hanson, would it, sir?”
Joel’s head jerked up. Pushing the straight hair off his forehead, he frowned. “Hanson? No, I know no one of that name, Mrs. Harris.”
Mrs. Harris pursed her lips. “Oh, don’t you?” she shrugged. “I thought as how you might. Mr. Hanson, he’s the Colonel’s secretary, see. Educated young chap, he is. Gets in here sometimes of a weekend.”
Joel’s frown deepened. “Indeed?” He hesitated. “No. The person — the person I know is, I believe, Colonel Frenshaw’s housekeeper.”
Mrs. Harris’s face cleared, but she was surprised, and looked it. “Young Mrs. Gilmour?” she exclaimed.
Joel looked down at the grapefruit again. “That’s right.”
Mrs. Harris raised her eyebrows. “I don’t know the young lady, except to say hello to. She doesn’t come in here, and being the publican’s wife, I don’t get out a lot.”
“No, of course not.” Joel’s brain was working furiously. “Are — are there other — members of staff? At the Hall, I mean?”
“Not as I know of, sir. There’s just the Colonel, and Mr., Hanson, and Mrs. Gilmour, of course. Oh, and the little girl Sara.”
Joel felt his nerves prickle. “Mrs. — Gilmour’s — child?”
“Yes. But of course, you’d know that.”
Joel made no reply. So the child was a girl, Sara. He shook his head. He couldn’t imagine Rachel being old enough to be a mother. And yet…
“You were going to tell me where the Old Hall is situated,” he reminded Mrs. Harris.
She nodded, taking away the half eaten dish of grapefruit and replacing it with a plate of ham, eggs, sausages and tomatoes. Ordinarily Joel would have done full justice to such a meal, but this morning after his restless night, the fried breakfast looked nauseating. Nevertheless, he had to make an effort, and tackled the bacon first.
“If you follow the Cragstone road for about a mile, you’ll come across it, sir. On your left. You can’t miss it. It’s the only house for miles.”
“Thank you.”
Joel poured himself some coffee and drank slowly. It was half past eight. Was nine o’clock too early to go calling? He had contemplated telephoning first, but dismissed the idea. He wanted to see Rachel’s face when she saw him. He wanted to feel the surge of satisfaction that would come when he confronted her with his contempt.
He ate sparingly, much to Mrs. Harris’s disappointment, but he thanked her warmly for the meal and her hospitality, and added a not ungenerous gratuity to the bill. Then he collected his belongings from his room and carried them out to the car.
It was an unexpectedly mild morning for early March, and he decided to stow his sheepskin coat in the boot and wear instead the jacket that matched his dark blue suede pants. Sliding his arms into the sleeves of his jacket, he surveyed the village square with more enthusiasm. Seen in the light of a strengthening sun, it had a certain charm which he had missed the night before. He noticed that there were daffodils and narcissi growing in every available patch of earth, and all the buildings had a scrubbed, well-cared-for appearance. A couple of dogs were scratching beside the drinking fountain that formed part of the wall that edged the churchyard, and even as he stood there the church clock chimed the hour. He glanced quickly at his watch. The time had come, and he wished he felt more prepared for it.
Unlocking the door, he slid behind the wheel of the Mercedes sports. The engine fired at the first flick of his wrist, and a faint smile of satisfaction momentarily dispelled the deep lines beween his brows.
With Mrs. Harris’s directions, it was not difficult to find the Cragstone road, and not far outside the village he came upon a rambling stone building which could only be the Old Hall. Smoke drifted from chimneys so obviously someone was up and about, and an old station wagon was parked on the forecourt. Rusty wrought iron gates hung half off their hinges leaving the entrance wide for anyone to drive through. Joel had stopped just outside the gates, undecided whether to leave the car there or not, but then, with a characteristic shrug of his shoulders, he released the brake and drove between the gateposts, and cruised along the gravel drive to stop beside the station wagon.
His arrival aroused no immediate response beyond a halfhearted barking from the back of the house. He got out of the car and stood for a moment looking up at the blank windows. So this was where Rachel had lived — how long? The last two — three years, maybe? He flexed his shoulder muscles. Since her husband died, no doubt. Francis had said she was a widow. And Gilmour? Who was Gilmour? What had this man been who had married her so briefly? Why had she married him? Because she loved him? If so, love came more easily to her than it had done to him…
He flung the thoughts aside, and walked round the two vehicles to the porch. A bellrope invited usage, and with a tautening of his stomach muscles, he pulled, hard. The sound echoed and re-echoed throughout the house and he hoped that no one was sleeping in there. The noise would awaken the dead.
He waited. For a few minutes he began to think that either no one was in or no one was up. But the smoking chimneys and the station wagon seemed to negate such an idea. And indeed, after an interminable time footsteps sounded across the hall beyond the half fluted glass door and presently it was opened. A young man stood regarding him expectantly, a thin, reddish-haired young man, with a small beard and moustache that were no doubt intended to give his face maturity. “Yes?”
Joel was taken aback. He had half expected Rachel to open the door, and now she hadn’t he was temporarily speechless. Then he gathered himself, and said shortly: “I’d like to speak to Mrs. Gilmour.”
“Rachel?”
The young man raised his eyebrows, and there was a touch of hostility in the way he said her name. Joel felt a ridiculous temptation to grab him by his collar and demand whether he had been given the right to use her Christian name, but instead he replied: “Yes, that’s right. Rachel.”
The young man was definitely hostile now. “I’m afraid she’s busy at the moment,” he said. “Perhaps you could call back later.”
Joel contained his impatience. “Just tell her that there’s a Mr. Kingdom asking to speak to her,” he said. “I think you’ll find she’ll speak to me.”
“Kingdom?” The young man regarded him coldly. “You’re some relation of — James Kingdom, then?”
“Not that it’s any business of yours, but yes.” Joel put one foot on the threshold. “Now, will you please deliver my message?”
The young man shrugged and turned away to cross the parquet flooring of the wide entrance hall. Joel rested his shoulder against the doorpost and watched him sourly. That, of course, was the Hanson fellow Mrs. Harris had spoken about. He was younger than he had expected. He wondered what his relationship was with Rachel.
He half turned and looked back across the gardens edging the drive. Someone had taken the trouble to mow the lawn quite recently, and the rhododendrons would be quite beautiful when they were out. Something was jutting from beneath the rhododendron bushes, something that had once been red, but which was now streaked with dirt and dried leaves. It looked like a wheelbarrow, a very small wheelbarrow. A toy wheelbarrow, in fact. His lips twisted. The child — Sara’s — no doubt.
“You wanted to see me?”
The low voice sounded right behind him, and his head jerked round almost of its own volition. He had not heard her approach, but Rachel was standing just inside the doorway, her hands thrust into the pockets of the gingham apron she was wearing over shabby slacks and an open-necked shirt blouse. Her face was thinner than he remembered, unnaturally flushed in places and pale as death in others; her body was thinner, too, but her hair, the silky ash-blonde glory of her hair which he had always found such a sensual pleasure in burying his face in, was still as beautiful as ever, albeit unattractively confined at the moment in a severe knot at the nape of her neck. Joel straightened slowly, allowing his eyes to move over her in a deliberately insolent way, and was faintly gratified by the way she shifted under his gaze.
“Well, well,” he remarked mockingly. “Mrs. Gilmour, as I live and breathe.”
“What do you want, Joel? I’m employed here, and I have work to do.”
She spoke quickly, breathily, and she cast a fleeting glance over her shoulder as she did so. That was when Joel saw the man, Hanson, lurking in the background, and his patience snapped.
“Get rid of the watchdog and come outside and talk to me!” he snapped harshly. “We have things to say to one another which I don’t intend to discuss under Mrs. Grundy’s gaze!”
“Rachel —”
Hanson would have come forward then, but she gestured for him to keep out of this. “Joel, I realise you think you require an explanation —”
“You’re damn right, I do!”
“Your father promised he wouldn’t tell you —”
“Oh, did he? Big of him!”
“— and now he has —”
“Correction — Francis saw you together.”
“Oh, God!”
“He won’t help you now!” Joel glared coldly at her. “Now, do you get rid of your boy-friend, or do I?”
“Joel, I mean it!” she exclaimed unsteadily. “I — I can’t talk to you now. Colonel Frenshaw is waiting for his breakfsat, and — and —”
“Rachel, I warn you —”
She wrung her hands then. “All right, Joel, all right. I will talk to you. But not now. Not here. Not like this.” She glanced behind her again. “C—could you come back later? This — this afternoon, perhaps?”
Joel thrust his hands into his jacket pockets. If he hadn’t he felt sure he would have taken hold of her and shaken her until her teeth chattered. Standing there, talking about getting Colonel Frenshaw’s breakfast, when he had driven over two hundred miles to get the truth out of her. But losing his temper, making a scene here, would do no good. In fact she would be quite within her rights to refuse to speak to him again, and he had no rights here whatsoever. This was private property. Without anyone’s permission to remain, he was trespassing, and Hanson would see to it that Rachel was made aware of this.
Controlling himself with difficulty, he said: “Very well, this afternoon. What time?”
Rachel gave a nervous shrug. “I don’t know. Two o’clock — half past?”
“Two o’clock,” agreed Joel grimly, and without trusting himself to say another word, he strode back to his car. The door had closed before he had started the engine and he pressed his foot hard down on the accelerator and had the childish pleasure of spraying the station wagon with the gravel torn up by his rear wheels.
He spent the morning by a beck he found a few miles further along the road to Cragstone. He didn’t return to Langthwaite even when the natural demands of his body required relief, and although he was hungry by one o’clock he contented himself with a cheroot and a can of beer he kept in the glove compartment for emergencies. The beer was warm, and he grimaced as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. If there was one thing he detested it was warm beer.
But it was pleasant by the beck, and the sun was warm on his face as he stretched his length on the bracken. If Erica had been with him she would no doubt have been chiding him for risking ruining his clothes in this way, but then Erica, being in the fashion business, was always conscious of appearances.
At a quarter to two he got up, brushed himself down, and walked back ot the car. The sky had become overcast within the last half hour, and even as he stepped into the vehicle he felt a spot of rain touch his face. Grimacing at the weather, he reversed out on to the road and turned back towards Langthwaite. By the time he reached the rise from which he could see the sprawling grey mass of the Hall below him, it was raining quite heavily, and he hoped Rachel would not expect the weather to deter him.
He drew up beside the shabby station wagon just after two o’clock, and instead of getting out of the car to go to the door, he sounded the horn. It was an arrogant thing to do, and he knew it, but his feelings would not allow him any weakness or compassion.
Minutes passed, and no one came, and his temper simmered. Damn the woman, where was she? She knew he would come. Why the hell hadn’t she been waiting for him? But he knew deep inside him that Rachel was not likely to be intimidated by what she would term an immature attempt to disconcert her.
With a sigh, he thrust open his door and got out, scowling as within seconds his shoulders were wet. He ran for the porch, and as he reached it, the door opened and Rachel appeared. She looked surprised to see him, but he was convinced she had been waiting for him to get out of the car before showing herself.
He sheltered in the porchway as she closed the door behind her, his expression not encouraging. “Very clever!” he observed coldly. “But rather childish, don’t you think?”
She looked up at him with wide, innocent hazel eyes. “What are you talking about?”
Joel opened his mouth to berate her, and then closed it again. He shook his head, and glanced briefly at her clothes. She was still wearing the shirt and slacks from the morning, but the apron had been replaced by a fur-lined poplin coat. Its dark green colour accentuated the pallor of her cheeks, and for a moment compassion stirred within him.
“Do you want me to bring the car nearer?” he asked.
She shook her head now. “I’m used to walking in the rain,” she replied. “Shall we go?”
Taking the initiative, she stepped out from the porch, and with a suppressed oath, Joel strode ahead of her to open the car doors. She got into the front seat without looking at him, and he slammed the door more violently than was necessary before walking round the bonnet to join her.
Once inside, he examined the shoulders of his jacket, and finding them soaked, he took his jacket off and slung it carelessly on to the back seat. Then he indicated that she might like to do the same, but she silently refused. Shrugging, he started the engine and drove down the drive, halting at the gates when she said:
“Where are you taking me? I have to be back in an hour.”
“An hour?” He glared sideways at her.
“Yes, an hour. Sara sleeps for that long in the afternoons. I have to be back before she awakes.”
Joel made no comment, but drove swiftly along the road towards the spot where he had parked this morning. There was room there to park the car off the road, and it was remote enough, goodness knows. Rachel said nothing as they drove along, and Joel wondered whether she was composing what she was going to say to him. For himself, anger simmered too near the surface for him to think with reasonable logic, and he had to force himself not to stop the car there and then and demand that she stop this ridiculous charade she was playing.
It didn’t take long to reach the beck, and Joel stopped the car on the layby and reached automatically for a cheroot. Without asking her permission, he lit it and inhaled deeply, rolling down his window half way to allow the fumes to escape.
“Well?” he said at last, when she still made no attempt to speak to him. “What’s it all about?”
Rachel linked her hands together in her lap. “What’s what all about?”
“Don’t give me that, Rachel. We both know what I’m talking about. I want to know how you came to know my father well enough for him to ask you to marry him.”
Rachel lifted her slim shoulders. “I — I’ve known him for years, Joel. You know that.”
Joel chewed impatiently at the end of the cheroot. “Because I introduced you?” He scowled. “That won’t do, Rachel. I can count on one hand the number of times you met my father through me. We were not — we have never been — the best of friends, and you know it!”
“I — I was only explaining that — that it’s some years since I first met him, that’s all.”
“I am aware of that.”
“I know you are.” She curled her nails into her palms. “W-Why should it strike you as so extraordinary that your father should want to — to marry me? He — he always — liked me.”
Joel’s mouth thinned. “Rachel, for God’s sake —”
“Oh, Joel, stop it! Stop it!” She put her hands over her ears. “Why did you come here? What do you hope to achieve? Everything between us was over long ago. You know that. You have no right to question what I intend to do.”
“Haven’t I?” Joel stared at her furiously. “Haven’t I, just! My God, you’re a cool one! Did you really think you could agree to marry my father without arousing any reaction from me?”
“What’s it to do with you?”
“You want to be my stepmother, is that it? You love my father now as you once said you loved me? Oh, come off it, Rachel, it won’t do! What is it? Some rotten attempt at revenge? Is this intended to show me what might have been?”
“And what if it is?” she burst out hotly. “What can you do about it?”
There was silence for a few moments and Joel stared grimly out of the windows at the falling rain. He couldn’t believe it! He simply couldn’t believe it! Rachel wasn’t like that. Or at least, she hadn’t been. But then it was years since they had split up. She had married since then, had a child. Who knew what manner of life she had led to bring her to this.
With a sigh he said quietly: “Tell me why you disappeared like that. What did I do to arouse such a desire to escape?”
Rachel took a deep breath. “You ask me that?” She shook her head bitterly. “What’s the use of talking, Joel? The past is dead. It’s the future I’m concerned about.”
Joel’s jaw hardened. “At anyone’s expense!”
“That’s not true. You know nothing about it.”
“Then tell me.”
Rachel pleated the folds of her coat. “Joel, I’m going to marry your father. Nothing you — or Francis — can say will alter that.”
Joel’s fists clenched. “You must be pretty desperate, Rachel!” he muttered savagely.
“I am.”
“Why?” He turned to look at her, noticing again the hollows in her cheeks, the lacklustre quality of her eyes. Hardly the face of a bride-to-be. “Is it money? If it’s money you want, I can give you that.”
Rachel’s lips twisted contemptuously. “If I were a man, I’d knock you down for a remark like that!” she exclaimed. “I wouldn’t marry any man for money! Oh, you should be proud of yourself, Joel! You’re a bastard of the first water!”
Joel moved then, imprisoning her wrist between his fingers, feeling the fragile bones quiver within his hand. He knew he could crush her physically with very little effort, but that was not his intention. He was not an animal. He had a brain, and he intended to use it. But just as this moment he wanted to hurt her, he wanted to see her squirm, as mentally she was trying to make him. She winced as he applied pressure to her wrist, but she didn’t cry out. He was so close he could inhale the warm scent of her body, and his eyes were irresistibly drawn to the opened neck of her blouse. He understood only too well the fire that suddenly stirred in his loins, and with a feeling of self-disgust he let her go and slumped in his seat.
“I want to know about your husband and the child,” he persisted doggedly. “Is Gilmour dead? My father said you’re a widow.”
Rachel was rubbing her wrist. “I am.”
“What was your husband’s name?”
“His name?” She looked startled. “You know his name.”
“Gilmour?” Joel turned cold eyes on her. “Is that what you called him? Gilmour?”
“Oh! Oh, no, of course not.” Rachel flushed then. “His Christian name was — Alan.”
“Alan Gilmour. What did he do?” Rachel looked puzzled, and he added: “His occupation? What was his occupation?”
“Does it matter?”
“I think so.”
She sighed. “He was an engineer. He — he worked for the government.”
“I see.” Joel digested this. “How long were you married?”
“Two — three years. What does it matter now?”
Joel didn’t altogether understand why he was so curious, except that there was a certain sadistic satisfaction to be gained from forcing her to talk about something which must be painful to her. He threw the end of his cheroot out of the window. “I suppose you must have found it hard bringing up a child alone,” he remarked probingly. “Is that why you took the job as this Colonel Frenshaw’s housekeeper?” He paused. “Is that why you’re marrying my father? For Sara’s sake?”
“Don’t you dare to mention her name!” she cried fiercely. “You don’t know her. You don’t know me. Why don’t you go away and leave me alone!”
“I want to know.”
“It’s not your affair.”
“Damn you, isn’t it? I have a right to know —”
“A right! A right, Joel!” Her voice had risen. “You have no rights, no rights at all. You forfeited them when … when …” Her voice trailed away and she turned away from him, staring down at her hands. “I want to go back now. Will you take me — please?”
Joel levered himself up in his seat, staring at her averted profile. For a moment, just for a moment, he had been near to learning the real truth behind all this. He knew it, and he exulted in it. But she had withdrawn again, and frustration filled him. He sat there, his fists clenched, wishing for once that she was a man. With a man, he would have felt no compunction about beating the truth out of him. But Rachel was not a man, she was very much a woman, and somehow he had to find a way to release the pent-up emotions which were silencing her tongue. But how?