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‘Yes—well, he came to the right place,’ Maisie opined firmly. ‘It’s only right that he should come home and be looked after by people who care about him.’
‘Of course.’ Rachel wondered if this was a subtle criticism of her.
‘Of course, Mrs Shard was worried about that, what with you coming and all,’ the housekeeper continued. ‘But I said to her, I did, this is Jaime’s home, I said, and Miss Williams won’t expect you to consider her feelings at a time like this.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Armstrong.’ Rachel put down her cup. ‘That was delicious.’ She moistened her lips. ‘Er—will you tell Mrs Shard I’ll be down in fifteen minutes?’
‘Yes, miss.’ The housekeeper picked up the tray again, and moved towards the door. ‘You—er—you haven’t spoken to Jaime yet, have you? He’s in his room, just along the hall, if you’d like to go and have a word with him. After you’re dressed, of course.’
Rachel kept her smile in place with difficulty. ‘I expect I’ll see him later,’ she declared stiffly, and the housekeeper looked disappointed.
‘I’m sure he’d like to see you, Miss Williams,’ she persisted. ‘And it is Christmas Eve, you know. The season of peace and good will.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Armstrong.’ Rachel’s dismissal was unmistakable this time, and with a little shrug the housekeeper left her, evidently feeling she had done what she could to repair the damage.
With her departure, Rachel rose purposefully to her feet again and padded into the bathroom. The night before she had paid little attention to her surroundings, but now she took time to admire the rose and cream tiles that circled the bath, and the fluted glass shower, with its pinewood door. The bath beckoned, but time dictated a shower, so she turned on the tap and stepped beneath its steaming cascade.
Her hair got wet, but she had brought a hand-dryer with her, and its smooth style was easily restored. Then, after examining the contents of her suitcase, she dressed in a pair of well-worn denim jeans and a long-sleeved cotton shirt. Ankle boots completed the outfit, that acquired a simple elegance on her slim body, and applying only the lightest of make-ups, she left the room before she lost her nerve.
In the carpeted corridor outside, she hesitated for a moment, counting the doors to Jaime’s room. His door was half open, as if inviting her investigation, but she was not tempted. She doubted he had asked Mrs Armstrong to intercede on his behalf, but she had no intention of getting involved with him, whatever kind of pressure was brought to bear.
Liz greeted her cheerfully when Rachel entered the morning room a few moments later. As the housekeeper had said, Jaime’s mother was absorbed with her mail, and Rachel walked over to the long windows, gazing out in silent admiration at the greyflecked waters of the bay. Beyond a stone-pillared terrace, sloping lawns fell away almost to the cliff’s edge, and the seaweed-strewn teeth of the rocks below were just visible, constantly washed by the ever-moving tide. On summer days it was possible to swim from the rocks, and there were deep pools where one might find crabs and other shellfish, but although the sky was clear this morning, the sea would be cold as ice. Its distant thunder reached her, as it sucked at the base of the cliffs, the rocks providing a natural protection for the more porous ridges of limestone.
Turning back to the table, Rachel seated herself, and picked up the morning paper lying beside her. She flicked through it idly, until Maisie put in an appearance and asked her what she would like to eat.
‘We’ve got kidneys and sausages, or kippers, if you’d prefer them,’ the housekeeper suggested approvingly, but Rachel only shook her head.
‘I think—just toast and coffee,’ she conceded regretfully. ‘I’m afraid I don’t have a good appetite.’
‘Then we’ll have to see if we can change that, Maisie, won’t we?’ Liz remarked, looking up from her bank statement. ‘I seem to remember you used to enjoy your food, Rachel.’
Rachel coloured then. ‘That was a long time ago, Liz.’
‘Not so long,’ Liz retorted firmly. ‘Didn’t you used to share Jaime’s bacon and eggs, the last time you were here?’
His name came more naturally, and although Liz looked slightly appalled afterwards, Rachel forced herself to respond without hesitation. ‘I was younger then,’ she sighed, pulling a wry face. ‘I have to watch my figure these days.’
‘Nonsense! Let us do that for you!’ remarked Robert’s amused tones, and Jaime’s father came into the room, broad and comfortable, in a navy wool dressing gown. He bent to kiss his wife’s cheek, then squeezed Rachel’s shoulders in passing, before settling himself in the seat beside her. ‘So—you’re looking more relaxed this morning. Did you sleep well?’
‘Very well, thank you.’ Rachel saw no reason to tell them of her restless night. ‘And thank you for your kind words. It was a pretty compliment.’
‘Nothing less than the truth, I do assure you,’ Robert replied gallantly, picking up one of her hands from the table and raising it to his lips. ‘Hmm, you smell delightful. What is it? Something to drive us poor males mad, I’m sure.’
Rachel giggled. ‘It’s Charlie perfume, actually,’ she admitted, as he let her draw her fingers away. ‘And you’re an old flatterer. I don’t know what Liz must think of you.’
‘Oh, I’m too old now to try and change him,’ remarked Liz dryly, but she and her husband exchanged a knowing smile.
‘You’ll never be too old,’ he retorted affectionately, then looked up at Maisie and gave her a wink. ‘I’ll have the same as usual, if you don’t mind,’ he told her. ‘Oh, and remind Andy I want to speak to him later, about those canes in the greenhouse.’
‘Yes, Mr Shard,’ Maisie nodded. ‘Shall I take Jaime’s breakfast upstairs, do you think? Or is he likely to be coming down?’
Liz looked uncomfortably at her husband, and he shrugged his shoulders almost imperceptibly. ‘I—think, perhaps, you ought to take it upstairs,’ Liz conceded at last. She glanced awkwardly at Rachel. ‘You don’t mind, do you, darling? He’s not being deliberately rude. It’s just—’
‘I don’t mind at all,’ Rachel averred, only too willing to put off the moment when she would have to face Jaime in his parents’ presence, and with a sigh of relief Liz gave Maisie her instructions.
‘It’s a lovely morning, isn’t it?’ Rachel offered, as the housekeeper left the room. The last thing she wanted was to lose the rapport they had recovered earlier, and as if sharing her feelings, Jaime’s father took up her words.
‘Perhaps you’d like to walk down to the village with me later,’ he suggested. ‘I’ve got a bottle of rare old Scotch whisky for the vicar to sample, and I want to call at the garage for a couple of new plugs for the Rover.’
‘Rob!’ His wife looked slightly scandalised. ‘You’re not going to offer Mr Conway some of that stuff Jaime brought you, are you?’
‘Why not?’ Her husband was unrepentant. ‘It’s good whisky. And you know as well as I do that old Conway enjoys a wee dram!’
‘I know, but—’ Liz shook her head at Rachel. ‘What would you do with him? Anyway,’ she sighed, ‘if you get drummed out of the church, don’t blame me.’
‘They’d have to get me in there before they could drum me out!’ retorted Robert, with a grin. ‘Stop worrying, woman. Conway and I understand one another. And he plays a fair round of golf.’
Rachel smiled. She had always envied Jaime his parents. Her own mother had died in a car accident soon after she was born, and she had been brought up by her father’s older, unmarried sister, who had come to share her brother’s home on his wife’s death. When Aunt Catherine died, Rachel was already fifteen, and old enough to take over the running of her father’s house, and her own ambitions to do well at her ‘A’ levels and go on to university had been squashed by family circumstances. Not that her father had ever deliberately stood in her way. But she had known she could not leave him, and in consequence, she had left school at sixteen, and after a year at a secretarial college had taken a job in the typing pool of an independent television company. That was how she had met Jaime, how it had all started, and she determinedly turned her thoughts aside from the memories it evoked.
Liz had already had her breakfast; like Rachel, she had had only toast and coffee, and leaving Robert to his plate of bacon and kidneys, the two women adjourned to the living room. Like the morning room, this room also was at the back of the house, and Rachel seated herself on the wide banquette that circled the long jutting bay window.
‘Now—’ Liz pushed the letters her husband had not wanted to see away into the small bureau, and added several cards to the collection already hung about the mantelpiece. Unlike the sitting room, there was only an electric fire in here, but the efficient central heating system banished any sense of chill. ‘Let me see what I have to do.’
‘Can I help you?’ Rachel would be glad of the diversion. The last thing she wanted was to be sitting about aimlessly when Jaime eventually decided to put in an appearance.
‘Well, you could get me one or two things at the store, if you’re going down to the village with Rob,’ Liz considered. ‘He hates going in there, you know. It’s such a gossipy place. And if they’ve heard that Jaime is home, Mrs Dennis will be dying to ask questions.’
‘All right.’ Rachel doubted they would remember her, and even if they did, she was not perturbed. ‘You make out a list, and I’ll do your shopping for you. And afterwards I’m quite willing to help around the house.’
Liz smiled. ‘You’re a sweet girl, Rachel, and I’m very fond of you.’ She touched her cheek gently, with a probing finger. ‘I’m so sorry Jaime hasn’t even had the good manners to come and speak to you. And I shall give him a piece of my mind, when I have the opportunity.’
‘Oh, no, don’t! I mean—’ Rachel broke off in embarrassment. ‘Really, I prefer it this way, honestly. He—he and I have nothing to say.’
‘If you insist.’ But Liz still looked slightly doubtful. Then, dismissing her momentary solemnity, she gave another smile. ‘Andy is installing the tree in the hall this morning. Perhaps you could help me dress it before Robin and Nancy arrive.’
Rachel displayed an enthusiasm she was far from feeling, and Liz bustled away to see Maisie, to find out what was needed from the village. Left alone, Rachel gazed out pensively at the seagulls wheeling above the heaving waters, and wondered rather apprehensively how Jaime’s parents would introduce her to their daughter-in-law.
She was lost in thought when a voice broke into her reverie: ‘Well, hello, Miss Williams! It is Miss Williams, isn’t it? You know it’s so long since we met, you’ll have to forgive me if I’m confusing you with someone else.’
Rachel swung round to face her tormentor, and gazed up resentfully into Jaime’s dark mocking face. He was standing just inside the doorway, a sinister Machiavelli, in a black shirt and black denims, his dark hair smooth, and brushing his collar at the back.
‘I suppose you think you’re very amusing, don’t you?’ she demanded tautly. ‘If this is your idea of saving me embarrassment, then don’t bother.’
‘Ah, but that was last night,’ remarked Jaime annoyingly, using his stick to walk heavily across the carpet. ‘And you turned me down. So you can hardly blame me if I try to protect my own interests.’
‘Didn’t you always?’ retorted Rachel angrily, turning back to her contemplation of the view, then stiffened instinctively when he approached the window seat and lowered himself down on to the banquette beside her.
‘What a vindictive tongue you have, Grandma,’ he taunted, glancing over his shoulder to see where she was looking. ‘Reliving the halcyon days of the past?’ He propped his stick against the wall. ‘I seem to remember we spent one memorable afternoon down there.’
‘I don’t recall it.’ Rachel’s mouth compressed. Then: ‘I thought you were supposed to be resting. Mrs Armstrong was going to serve you breakfast upstairs.’
‘And so she did,’ said Jaime carelessly. ‘Only I didn’t feel particularly hungry, and naturally I felt honour bound to come and offer you felicitations.’
‘You needn’t have bothered!’
‘No. But my parents don’t know that, do they?’
‘I’m surprised you care.’ Rachel was behaving badly, she knew, but she was overwhelmingly aware of his thigh only inches away from hers on the cushioned seat, and the muscled length of his legs, splayed carelessly beside her. ‘In any case, I—I’m going out soon. Your father and I are—are walking down to the village. So you could have saved yourself the trouble.’
‘Could I?’
He turned his head to look at her, and the blood rushed helplessly into her face. He was so close she could feel the warmth of his breath upon her cheek, and sensed the intent scrutiny from between his long dark lashes. They were the only incongruous feature of an otherwise profoundly masculine visage, and she remembered teasing him about them, and stroking her finger over their curling softness …
‘Jaime, please—’
The intenseness of her tone was a source of irritation to her, but she couldn’t help it. He knew exactly what he was doing, taunting her like this, and while her brain insisted that it shouldn’t matter to her how he behaved, her senses responded in a totally different way. He had always had this effect on her, right from the very beginning, and it was this, as much as anything, that terrified her now.
‘What are you afraid of?’ he asked, and she hated him for his arrogance. ‘Why are you trembling? Do I threaten that sterile little world you’ve built around yourself?’ His lips twisted. ‘Or do I remind you of the fun we used to have, before you became so bloody sanctimonious?’
‘Before I discovered you were married, you mean?’ Rachel choked, getting abruptly to her feet, needing the self-assurance that came from being able, physically at least, to look down at him.
‘Okay.’ Jaime shrugged his shoulders indifferently, leaning back against the window with an indolence that both disturbed and infuriated her. ‘So you’ve said it. It’s what you’ve been wanting to say ever since you got here. Well, now I’ve given you the opportunity.’
‘You don’t care, do you?’ Rachel was incensed.
‘Was I supposed to?’ Jaime’s eyes were hard.
‘Don’t you care about—about anything but your own—your own—sexual gratification?’
Jaime’s mouth assumed a mocking tilt. ‘That’s a good old-fashioned way of describing it, I guess.’ One dark brow quirked upward. ‘But I have to say you seemed to enjoy it, too.’
‘You—you—’
‘Cad?’ Jaime pressed his weight down on the stick and got to his feet beside her, immediately reducing her advantage. ‘That’s another good old-fashioned expression. As you seem to be hooked on out-of-date attitudes.’
Rachel clenched her fists. ‘You—swine!’
‘Better.’ Jaime’s smile was malicious. ‘There may be hope for you yet. If you allowed a little more of the real Rachel Williams to emerge, we might find ourselves with a three-dimensional person again, instead of a cardboard cut-out.’
‘I don’t have to listen to this—’
‘Why? Am I getting too close to the truth?’
The sound of footsteps approaching across the hall stilled any response Rachel might have cared to make, and by the time Liz entered the room she had put the width of the hearth between her and Jaime, and was apparently engrossed in reading the cards on the mantelshelf.
‘Oh, you two have met, have you?’
Liz’s reaction was one of relief, although she glanced from her son to Rachel and back to her son again, with a doubtful expression marring her attractively ageing features.
‘We’ve been having a most interesting conversation,’ Jaime remarked, shifting his weight with evident discomfort, and his mother shook her head impatiently, indicating the seat behind him.
‘Do sit down,’ she exclaimed, anxiety colouring her tone. ‘You really should take more rest, Jaime. Dr Manning says it takes time for flesh to knit together.’
Jaime pulled a wry face, but he did sink down on to the window seat again with some relief, and glancing in his direction, Rachel knew a pang of guilt at her own obduracy. She had not even asked him how he was feeling, and although she despised herself for feeling that way, she knew she was still concerned about him.
‘So,’ Liz forced a lightness she was evidently far from feeling, ‘has Rachel told you about her promotion, Jaime? She’s an assistant editor now, isn’t that exciting? Who knows, she may produce her own programmes one day.’
‘I hardly think so,’ murmured Rachel deprecatingly, and Jaime’s cynical eyes probed her embarrassment.
‘She doesn’t have the right disposition,’ he remarked, addressing his mother, but evidently speaking for Rachel’s benefit. ‘Her ideals are too rigid. She doesn’t move with the times. Producers have to be modern in outlook, malleable in intent, they have to feel for their subject, and make allowances for human error. And also they need to be capable of distinguishing between truth and fabrication.’
‘And be sexually aware!’ exclaimed Rachel, unable to prevent the bitter retort, and Jaime inclined his head mockingly.
‘That, too, of course,’ he drawled, with heavy sarcasm, and Rachel longed to wipe the smug expression from his face.
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