by Anne Mather
Adele, seeing that involuntary shudder, said: ‘You’re cold, Rebecca. I’ll have Gillean make up the fire.’
Rebecca shook her head. In a cream tweed slack suit she was anything but cold; apprehensive, that was all. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said quickly, and looked appealingly across at Paul who was lighting a cigarette now.
Adele looked at her nephew, too. ‘Where’s your father?’ she enquired, with casual interest.
Paul shrugged. ‘I haven’t seen him yet, but Gillean said he was in his study. I hear he’s brought Tom Bryant back with him.’
Adele nodded. ‘Yes. They’ve been in Amsterdam together.’ She turned appraising eyes on Rebecca’s controlled countenance. ‘You must tell your father that Rebecca is here, Paul,’ she said. ‘I’m sure he would like to meet her again. They became great friends when he was in Fiji. You remember Piers St. Clair, don’t you, Rebecca?’
Rebecca stared at Adele incredulously, seeing the bitter blue eyes flash with malicious amusement. She had the awful premonition that Adele had planned all this—but she couldn’t have! And yet how could it be true? Paul’s name was Victor, not St. Clair. She turned tormented eyes in Paul’s direction, but fortunately he was looking at the newcomer who had just entered the room, a small, attractive redhead, dressed in a simple white uniform and cap.
‘Hello, Sheila,’ he greeted her warmly. ‘Rebecca, look who’s here!’
Rebecca felt her legs would not support her. She had never been the fainting kind, but she was no longer sure of her immunity. Piers St. Clair was here, in this building, downstairs! Oh, God, she had got to get away, she thought sickly, before she made an absolute fool of herself and passed out completely.
Sheila, unaware of her tension, crossed the room to where Rebecca and her patient were sitting. ‘Hello, Rebecca,’ she said, smiling, and Rebecca wondered if it was her imagination or merely the desperate state she was in that made her think the smile did not quite reach her eyes. ‘What fun to meet you again. After all these years.’
Rebecca forced herself to stand up, and smiled weakly at Sheila Stephens. ‘Oh, Sheila!’ she exclaimed. ‘When Paul told me you were his aunt’s nurse, I couldn’t believe it. How are you?’
Sheila glanced briefly down at Adele. ‘I’m fine, Rebecca,’ she responded easily. ‘Miss St. Cloud is not a difficult patient to care for—as no doubt you know.’
Rebecca’s eyes flickered. ‘Oh—oh, yes!’ She frowned. ‘You knew I’d worked for her in Fiji?’
‘Of course.’ Sheila bent to her patient, smoothing the cushion which supported her back, asking her if she was comfortable. Then she straightened and Rebecca had the most ridiculous idea that she was looking at a stranger. ‘Miss St. Cloud and I are great friends, aren’t we?’ She smiled at Adele conspiratorially.
Adele chuckled, ‘Indeed we are!’
Rebecca linked her fingers through the strap of her handbag. ‘How—how long have you been here, Sheila?’
Sheila frowned. ‘About eighteen months, I suppose.’
‘When my mother died, Aunt Adele came home to England to stay for a while,’ explained Paul, joining their conversation. ‘That was just before Sheila applied for the position, wasn’t it, Aunt Adele?’
Rebecca swallowed hard. Of course, her confused mind insisted, Paul’s mother was dead. And if Piers was his father— She swayed a little, catching the back of the chair for support, but not before Sheila had noticed her distress.
‘Is something wrong, Rebecca?’ she exclaimed.
Paul was immediately all concern. ‘Something is wrong, Rebecca,’ he insisted, putting an arm about her shoulders, supporting her. ‘Come along, let’s go and get some air. This is a stuffy room.’
Rebecca nodded, but Adele intervened, ‘Don’t you think it would be more sensible if Sheila took her friend to her sitting room for a while, Paul? I’m sure they have plenty to talk about, and after all, that is why Rebecca came, isn’t it?’
Paul hesitated. Rebecca wished she could think of some excuse to go with him instead of Sheila, but of course she could not.
‘Is that what you’d like to do, honey?’ he asked.
Rebecca sighed. ‘I—I suppose so,’ she conceded awkwardly.
Paul’s arm tightened about her for a moment leaving her in no doubt as to his feelings, and then he let her go and said: ‘Okay, Aunt Adele. I’ll go and see my father. Then we’ll all have tea together later.’
Adele looked delighted and Rebecca thought bitterly that she had won yet another small victory. Even so, she had come with the intention of spending some time with Sheila, so perhaps she was being uncharitable. But Adele must know exactly how she was feeling, having exploded the bombshell about Piers upon her. With slightly unsteady legs, she followed Sheila out of the room and along the corridor to her own sitting room. This was a large attractive apartment with a bedroom adjoining, and Sheila had added to the already luxurious appointments. There was a television, and even a small electric hotplate on which she could prepare herself light meals. Several articles of clothing were strewn about the room, reminding Rebecca vividly of her untidiness at the flat, but these garments were obviously far more expensive than those she had used to possess five years ago, and Rebecca wondered whether Sheila was being influenced by her surroundings.
Sheila indicated that she should sit down and Rebecca complied, glad to be off her legs. ‘We’ll have some coffee, shall we? You look as though you could do with some. Was it such a shock seeing Adele again?’
Rebecca stretched her fingers along the upholstered arm of the chair, searching for something to say in reply. ‘I—I suppose it must have been,’ she agreed, wishing she could relax. But her thoughts were tearing her apart and she felt sick and giddy.
‘It was Adele’s idea,’ Sheila was going on. ‘Keeping her identity a secret, I mean. When she found out I knew you she was very interested.’
I’ll bet she was, thought Rebecca tortuously, compressing her lips tightly. How Adele must have delighted in this opportunity to see her—her victim—again. She tried to think, but it was difficult to be coherent, even in her thoughts. Paul was Piers’ son! That particular manifestation superseded all others and destroyed any vulnerable hopes she might have had for the future.
Sheila added instant coffee to the cups and turned as she waited for the kettle to boil. ‘Aren’t you going to ask me how I like private nursing?’
Rebecca nodded. ‘Of course. Do you like it here?’
Sheila nodded vigorously. ‘I love it. I didn’t know whether I would, but I do. Everyone’s so kind and—friendly.’
‘I suppose you know Paul’s father, too?’ Rebecca could not suppress the words.
Sheila smiled. ‘Piers? Of course.’
Rebecca coloured. Sheila had said his name deliberately, she was sure of it.
Sheila seemed to be studying her closely, watching for her reactions, and with deliberate cruelty, Rebecca brought up the one subject she had wanted to avoid. But she had to distract Sheila somehow.
‘I—I thought you would have been married by now,’ she remarked. ‘To Peter.’
‘Peter Feldman?’ Sheila uttered a scornful exclamation. ‘You didn’t seriously imagine I would marry him after your soulful gesture, did you?’
‘What do you mean?’ Rebecca’s surprise at Sheila’s tone of voice was sufficient to banish for a moment the agonising problems that had suddenly arisen. ‘I thought you loved Peter.’
Sheila turned to pour the boiling water into the cups. ‘I did—or at least I thought I did.’ She swung round. ‘You didn’t actually believe you were fooling anyone, did you? Good God! Peter wasn’t the type to indulge in clandestine affairs if you were! His face was always sickeningly expressive!’ There was harsh bitterness in Sheila’s tone now and Rebecca felt terrible.
‘Oh, Sheila—’ she began, shaking her head.
Sheila controlled her features and handed her a cup of the steaming liquid. ‘Sugar?’ she asked politely.
‘I know, I know!’ Sheila sounded impatient. ‘Look, let’s drop it, shall we? I’ll accept your gallant gesture for what it was.’
Rebecca pressed her lips together. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said inadequately.
Sheila shrugged. ‘Don’t be. You did me a favour really. I realised soon afterwards that I would never have been happy with a man like Peter Feldman. He was too tolerant; too easily led. I prefer a man who’s capable of being master in his own home.’
Rebecca bent her head and sipped her coffee. Dear God, she thought shakenly, if only I had never come here how much easier life would have been.
Sheila drank her coffee in silence and then rose to put the cups into the small washbowl which adjoined the small stove. Rebecca looked about her, trying desperately to think of some way to relieve the tension. It was incredible to believe that she had looked forward to seeing Sheila again only to find her changed beyond recognition. Was it only because of Peter, or was this yet another example of Adele’s destructive influence?
When there came a knock at the door, both girls turned simultaneously, and for a moment Rebecca was terrified that it might be Piers. But Paul entered the room at Sheila’s bidding and grinned at them with refreshing innocence. ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Is this a private party or can anyone join?’
Sheila’s expression was warm as she looked at him. ‘Would you like some coffee, Paul?’ she asked.
‘No,’ he shook his head. ‘I was only joking. Actually, tea is served in Aunt Adele’s sitting room and she asked me to let you know.’ He looked with rare tenderness at Rebecca. ‘Are you feeling any better?’
In truth Rebecca felt as though her nerves were stretched to breaking point, but she managed a faint relieved smile and said: ‘I’m much better, thank you.’
‘Good.’ Paul pulled her to her feet and for a moment held her close, his lips brushing her hair. But Rebecca was supremely conscious of Sheila’s eyes upon them, and she hastily pulled away, smoothing her suit.
She was a mass of nerves as they walked along the corridor to Adele’s room. She dared not ask Paul whether he had seen his father, for she felt sure now that Sheila was aware of her previous relationship with Piers. How she knew this, she did not know, but obviously Adele had used her as a confidant. But apart from Adele, there was no one else in her sitting room.
‘I told my father we were here,’ Paul volunteered as they entered the sitting room. ‘But he didn’t take any notice. He and Tom are engrossed on the Australian project.’
Adele smiled. ‘Never mind, dear boy, there’s plenty of time to see your father. You’re staying for dinner, of course.’
‘Oh, but—’ began Rebecca, eager to get away, only to find Paul interrupting her.
‘Yes, we can stay,’ he said firmly. ‘Actually, I wondered if we might stay the weekend, eh, Rebecca?’ His eyes pleaded her indulgence.
Rebecca shivered. ‘We can’t, Paul,’ she said, gripping her tea cup with both hands.
‘Why?’ Adele’s eyes regarded her piercingly. ‘Paul told me you had both got the weekend off.’
‘We have… that is… oh, Paul!’ Rebecca stared at him appealingly, willing him to intercede.
But Paul seemed unwilling to appease her, and the matter was left there. Sheila, sensing the tension, broke it by saying: ‘I expect you found it hard to adapt to life in England again, Rebecca. After Fiji, I mean.’
Rebecca hesitated, and then sighed. ‘I—I suppose I did.’
Adele surveyed her mockingly. ‘I never could understand why you decided to leave, Rebecca,’ she said. ‘I thought you liked it there.’
Rebecca bit hard at her lower lip. ‘I expect I was tired of such a confined existence,’ she responded, using anger to hide her uncertainty.
Adele flushed at this and Sheila took up the conversation again. ‘I’ve never been to the south Pacific. I expect the weather is marvellous.’
‘Of course.’ Rebecca looked down at the liquid in her cup, and to her relief Paul took up the conversation, asking about his aunt’s health and telling her how he was getting on at St. Bartholomew’s. Presently, his tea finished, he rose and said: ‘How would you like a walk in the grounds, Rebecca? It’s getting dark and I’d like you to see something of the place.’
Rebecca bit her lip. She wanted to insist that they leave now, but obviously this wasn’t the place to do it when Paul had his aunt as an ally, urging him on. So she smiled and said: ‘Yes, I’d like that,’ and they left the room.
They walked back along the corridor and reached the head of the spiral staircase as two men emerged from a doorway below them. Rebecca stiffened, and shrank back against the wall of the gallery. Paul, unaware of her trepidation, ran lightly down the stairs, expecting Rebecca to follow him.
‘Hi!’ he said, as he reached the hall, and attracted his father’s attention. ‘Have you finished?’
As Rebecca held tightly to the balustrade she saw Piers St. Clair turn and smile at his son and her heart leapt as though it would choke her. In a dark lounge suit, his thick hair only lightly tinged with grey at the temples, Piers St. Clair was as attractive as ever, and if his body seemed leaner than she remembered, it only served to toughen his appearance. He moved with a lithe, easy grace of movement, and as though it were yesterday she could recall with clarity the hardness of his body against hers on the bed…
Oh, God! she thought, trembling sickly. Don’t let him look up here and see me! The notion was ridiculous; stupid! Any moment now Paul would look round to introduce her and then— She heaved a shaken breath. Obviously when Paul had told his father of their arrival, he had not been explicit about his companion, but what did it matter when sooner or later they were bound to come face to face?
Realising it would be better to assume a calmness she didn’t feel rather than to cower here like some ravaged maiden, she began to descend the staircase, and even as she did so Paul glanced round to find her.
‘Come on, Rebecca,’ he said, smiling caressingly. ‘I want you to meet my father again.’
Whether or not Paul had mentioned to his father that he already knew the girl he had brought with him, Rebecca did not know, but even in the shadowy depths of the hall she sensed the sudden urgency of Piers’ eyes upon her, and heard his bitten-off ejaculation.
For her own part, she did not look at him until she was actually on ground level, and approaching him across the vast expanse of turkey red carpet. Then she saw the cold, incredulous bleakness of his eyes, and the hard line of his mouth as he shook his head almost imperceptibly.
The man beside him was a relief to look upon. Tom Bryant was not as tall as Piers, and thicker set, with crisp brown hair and tanned broad features. He was smiling at Rebecca, knowing none of the undercurrents present here this afternoon, and her gaze clung to his to avoid that other ruthless appraisal.
‘Well, Father,’ said Paul, drawing Rebecca forward and placing a casual arm about her shoulders. ‘You remember Rebecca Lindsay, don’t you?’
Rebecca had, perforce, to look at Piers now, and she was shocked by the cruelty she saw in his face. ‘Yes,’ he said, at last, his accent as attractive as ever, ‘I remember Adele’s nurse.’
Rebecca allowed him to take her hand but drew hers away swiftly. Touching him was too bitter-sweet, for her, if not for him. She broke into nervous speech, saying the first thing that came into her head: ‘But, Paul, your name is Victor—not St. Clair.’
‘My son’s name is Paul Victor St. Clair.’ Piers spoke coldly. ‘When he joined the staff of the hospital, it was considered too much, so it was abbreviated.’
‘Oh! Oh, I see.’ Rebecca shivered at the bleakness of Piers’ eyes. But Paul seemed to notice nothing amiss, for he turned to the other man saying:
‘Rebecca, let me introduc
e Tom Bryant, my father’s right-hand man. Tom—this is Rebecca Lindsay. She also works at the hospital, but she used to be Adele’s nurse. She met my father when he was out in Fiji.’
Tom Bryant relieved the tension. He shook hands with her warmly, enclosing her slender fingers in his large ones, and commented upon it jokingly. Rebecca responded to his humour eagerly; anything to avoid Piers’ piercing mental dissection. They stood for a few moments longer discussing their work at St. Bartholomew’s and then Piers said:
‘I suggest we adjourn to the library. We can have a drink there.
‘I was just about to show Rebecca the grounds,’ said Paul.
‘It’s almost dark,’ observed Piers shortly. ‘I suggest you leave that until the morning.’
Paul looked at Rebecca. ‘We could do that,’ he murmured.
Rebecca clenched her fists. ‘You forget, Paul, we won’t be here in the morning.’
Piers looked at her intently. ‘Surely my son has invited you to stay the weekend? Besides, it’s getting quite foggy. It would be madness to attempt to drive back to London tonight.’
Rebecca’s lips froze and she looked wordlessly at Paul. ‘You can’t blame me for the weather, honey,’ he remarked innocently, spreading his hands.
Rebecca twisted her gloves. ‘But I’m not—prepared,’ she protested. ‘Surely we can get back to town?’
Paul looked impatient. ‘Why should we? There’s plenty of room here.’
‘Paul, before we came—’
‘I think we can consider the matter closed,’ said Piers suddenly in a bored tone. ‘You cannot leave tonight, so you might as well accept it. Now, shall we have that drink?’
Rebecca pressed her lips together angrily. It was bad enough that Paul should take this method of getting his own way without the positive awareness that Piers St. Clair considered she was behaving childishly. And there was nothing she could do, short of making a scene, so she allowed Paul to take her arm and guide her across the hall to the library in silent resentment.
Piers St. Clair opened the door and she had to pass him to enter the room. As she did so she was supremely conscious of him and despite her anger her legs were slightly weak. Then she deliberately directed her attention to her surroundings, finding the booklined room exactly how she imagined a library should be. The room overlooked the gravelled forecourt of the building, for this room was at the front of the house. The heavy drapes at the windows were of dark green velvet, as were the upholstered armchairs that were scattered about the room. Again here a log fire spluttered in the grate casting leaping shadows upon the walls. Piers put on tall lamps which only partially dispelled the illusion, and Rebecca thought how much she could have appreciated it if there had been no disturbing tensions to mar her enjoyment.