A Haunting Compulsion

by Anne Mather

  She could hear the sound of men’s voices coming from the library, as she crossed the hall towards the stairs, and assumed Robert and his sons were sharing a lazy afternoon by the fire. Nancy had taken the baby upstairs after lunch, ostensibly to put Lisa down for a nap, but she hadn’t reappeared again, and Rachel guessed she was preparing for the dinner party. The Armstrongs had offered to baby-sit again, and were going to take Lisa to their flat, which was attached to the main building, but entirely independent of it, and no doubt Nancy wanted to make the most of her unexpected freedom.

  In her own room, Rachel found the box containing Jaime’s present sitting on the dressing table. Mrs Shard had discarded the wrapping paper, and only the box and its velvet-wrapped contents remained, a disturbing reminder that he was still a source of danger to her.

  Unwrapped, the ring gleamed dully in the fading light of the winter’s afternoon. But nothing could hide its beauty, and on impulse Rachel slipped it on to her engagement finger.

  If fitted perfectly, and she held out her hand, spreading her fingers to admire it more fully. How had he acquired such a ring? she asked herself frustratedly. Why should he have such a ring in his possession? Unless—and as the thought occurred to her, she pulled off the ring abruptly—unless it had belonged to Betsy, and she had given it back.

  With a sense of revulsion she wrapped the ring up again, and thrust it into the box. Now that the idea had implanted itself in her head, she could not get rid of it, and even the sight of the box that contained it, was offensive to her. She didn’t want to have to look at it. She didn’t want to be reminded where it had come from, and after a moment’s hesitation, she got to her feet and picked up the box.

  The corridor outside her room was deserted, and after checking that no one was about, she walked swiftly to Jaime’s door. She would put the box in his room. He would never know who had put it there. And if he suspected it was his mother, he might have second thoughts before returning it to Rachel again.

  Without hesitation, she opened the door and insinuated herself inside. It took only a moment to cross the brown and gold patterned carpet and place the box on the table beside his bed, but after it was done, she did not immediately make her escape. Something, some reluctant sense of nostalgia, caused her to linger a moment, to look round the bedroom, that had once been so familiar to her, to absorb with bitter-sweet poignancy, the appointments she remembered.

  Jaime’s bed, like hers, was a square four-poster, with a modern mattress overlaid by a gold brocade spread, but the bed, like the room, was bigger, and faced east, across the grey expanse of the ocean. Rachel moved now, sliding her fingers over the heavy chest of drawers that stood beside the double wardrobe, stroking the backs of the tortoiseshell brushes that resided on the dressing table, then paused in the window embrasure, staring out at the darkening sea.

  In her absorption in her surroundings she had not noticed the line of light beneath the bathroom door, and when it was suddenly opened, and a shaft of brilliance thrown across the carpet, she turned with a gasp, a hand to her mouth, to find Jaime standing there, looking at her.

  CHAPTER SIX

  RACHEL’S INITIAL SENSE of humiliation, in being caught in such an ignominious position, was not helped by the fact that Jaime’s only attire was a pair of brief cotton trunks. Above them, the brown expanse of his chest and shoulders was bare, with the light covering of fine dark hair arrowing down to his navel, and disappearing beneath the waistband of the black trunks. He was apparently in the process of changing the dressing on his leg, and Rachel’s blood quickened at the sight of the raw, ugly wound in his thigh. Her eyes were drawn to it automatically, to the ruthlessly torn muscle and the purplish flesh around it, then Jaime spoke and she tilted her head, hiding her involuntary reaction.

  ‘What do you want?’ he demanded, coming into the room with evident difficulty, dragging his injured leg a little, and she suddenly saw the opened box of dressings on the edge of his bed that she had overlooked earlier. ‘I can’t believe this is a social call, so I presume you do have a purpose for being here.’

  Rachel drew a deep breath, as he seated himself on the side of the bed. He picked up a pair of scissors, and while she watched in unwilling fascination he cut off a length of the fine pliable material to make a pad, which would serve as a protection for the injury. He seemed totally indifferent to her presence there, neither disconcerted nor embarrassed by her attention, while she was a mass of taut nervous energy, tormented by the sympathy she was badly trying to conceal.

  Jaime put the pad over the raw line of stitches, that still oozed moisture as he moved. Evidently his leg was not healing as rapidly as it should with the demands he persistently made upon it, and Rachel itched to go and examine it, to assure herself it was not festering.

  Then he reached for the bandage he had discarded earlier, but as if becoming aware of her eyes still watching him, he looked up at her half impatiently. ‘What do you want, Rachel?’ he asked shortly, obviously in some pain. ‘I can do without an audience while I’m doing this, so do you mind saying what you have to say and going?’

  Rachel caught her lower lip between her teeth. ‘It looks—nasty,’ she ventured, her words in no way answering his demands, and his mouth compressed into a thin line.

  ‘It is nasty,’ he declared flatly. ‘Bullet wounds are not known for their grace of appearance. And don’t tell me my mother sent you to dress it for me in her absence. I can put up with some things, but that’s the outside of enough!’

  Rachel frowned. ‘Your mother usually dresses it for you?’

  ‘She winds on the bandage,’ Jaime admitted dryly. ‘It isn’t in the easiest position for me to handle myself. But don’t worry, I can do it, so your assistance isn’t needed.’

  Rachel hesitated for a moment, then walked slowly across to him, going down on her knees beside him and grasping the end of the bandage. ‘I’ll do it,’ she said, and when it seemed as if he was going to ignore her, she schooled her features and looked up at him. ‘Let me,’ she insisted. ‘It’s the least you can do now I’m here.’

  Jaime let go of the bandage abruptly, but his features were angry and tightly drawn. ‘What the hell does my mother think I am?’ he muttered savagely. ‘I may be immobilised, but I’m not impotent!’

  Rachel concentrated on what she was doing, not responding to his furious outburst. Instead she lifted the pad he had placed earlier and examined the wound for herself. At close quarters, she could see the knotted stitching, holding the flesh together, and after ensuring that it was clean and not suppurating, she replaced the pad.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Jaime shifted impatiently on the bed. ‘For God’s sake put the bandage on, will you, and be done with it. I can’t wait to see my mother and tell her what I think of her!’

  Rachel began winding the bandage round his thigh, keeping it firm and crease-free and not too tight. ‘As—as a matter of fact, your mother didn’t send me in here,’ she admitted reluctantly, as she neared the end of the roll. ‘I—I came to return your ring, and—and you jumped to the wrong conclusion.’

  Jaime stared at her ominously. ‘So why are you doing it?’

  ‘Someone had to.’ Rachel was defensive. ‘And—and I didn’t think you’d mind, as—as you’re obviously not perturbed about me seeing you in—in only—’

  ‘—my underwear?’ he finished dryly, and Rachel nodded. ‘So why should I be perturbed about that?’ he countered. ‘You’ve seen me often enough without it.’

  ‘I know.’ Rachel didn’t want to get involved in that kind of conversation. ‘Anyway,’ she strove desperately to find an alternative, ‘it’s finished now. Does it—I mean, it feels all right, doesn’t it? Not too tight, or anything.’

  Jaime looked at her for a long disturbing moment, and then flopped back resignedly on the bed. ‘No, no, it’s okay,’ he assured her expressionlessly. ‘Honestly, the district nurse couldn’t have done better.’

  ‘Good.’ Rachel
got to her feet and looked down at him. ‘Well, I’d better be going, then. I—I have to get ready for the party.’

  ‘The party! My God, yes, the party.’ Jaime grimaced. ‘Do you think anyone would notice if I didn’t turn up?’

  ‘You’re not serious?’ Rachel gazed at him anxiously. ‘You know your mother would be upset.’

  ‘No, I’m not serious,’ agreed Jaime wearily, propping himself up on one elbow, and Rachel’s tongue circled her lips doubtfully.

  ‘You—you feel all right, don’t you?’ she ventured, aware of his pallor. ‘I mean, you’re not feeling sick, or headachy?’

  ‘No.’

  Jaime spoke flatly, and Rachel sighed. ‘How—how did it happen?’ she exclaimed. ‘Aren’t news teams supposed to be protected, or something? You don’t carry any weapons, so why did they shoot you?’

  Jaime considered for a moment, then he shrugged. ‘They didn’t aim at us, exactly,’ he said. ‘Didn’t my mother tell you? We were caught in the crossfire between the government forces and the guerrillas. I suppose it was fortunate we were captured by the government forces. I don’t believe the rebel army carries any wounded.’

  ‘You mean, they might have killed you!’ Rachel was horrified.

  ‘Well, they might have tried to use us as hostages at first,’ Jaime reflected, ‘to try and get some of their men released from prison.’

  ‘And if they couldn’t, they would have killed you?’

  ‘It’s all speculation,’ said Jaime, sounding bored now. ‘It didn’t happen that way, and in any case, what’s it to you?’ He rolled on to his back again. ‘I might as well be dead.’

  ‘No!’ Rachel spoke vehemently, and he turned on to his side to look at her.

  ‘No?’ One dark brow quirked. ‘Why not? We never see one another, so what does it matter?’

  Rachel clenched her fists. ‘I don’t wish you dead.’

  ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘No.’ She gazed at him mutinously. ‘You should take more care of yourself. Your—your mother worries, you know she does.’

  Jaime expelled his breath on a sigh. ‘I’ll bear that in mind.’

  ‘I wish you would.’

  ‘I will.’

  Jaime was looking tense now, and Rachel moved towards the door. ‘The—er—the ring’s there,’ she said, indicating the box on the table beside the bed. ‘I—er—I’ll see you at dinner—’

  ‘Wait!’ Jaime levered himself upright as she halted uncertainly. ‘Take the ring with you. I want you to keep it.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Yes.’ He reached for the box and held it out to her. ‘It’s yours.’

  Rachel put her hands behind her back. ‘I—I can’t take a gift like that from you.’

  ‘Because it’s too valuable? Yes, you said. Or is it because you don’t believe I bought it for you?’

  ‘You didn’t.’ Rachel’s mouth quivered. ‘You said so. And I—I’d as soon not wear something you bought for Betsy.’

  ‘I didn’t buy it for Betsy,’ he snapped, aroused now. ‘And why can’t you wear it? Don’t you think you’ve earned it?’

  ‘That’s a rotten thing to say!’

  ‘I feel rotten,’ he retorted coldly. ‘Okay.’ He tossed the box carelessly on to the bed, and its contents spilled on to the coverlet. ‘Forget it! I’ll get rid of it some other way.’

  Rachel hovered uneasily. ‘You—you have no right to criticise me—’

  ‘Don’t I?’ He rolled on to his side facing away from her. ‘Go away, will you? I’m tired of this conversation.’

  Rachel opened the door, reluctantly aware that he had won this particular encounter. How was it that he could make her feel like a heel, when it was he who was responsible for this impossible situation? She slammed his door behind her, with a little display of temper, then glanced about her apprehensively as she realised how compromisingly she had drawn attention to herself.

  In her own room, she expelled her breath in a sigh of frustration. The idea of showering and changing and getting ready for a dinner party had never seemed more undesirable, and she flung herself on her own bed in a gesture of revolt. Jaime thought he could say what he liked to her, treat her with as little respect as a—a—? Her mind baulked at the inevitable conclusion. Well, she would make sure he did not have another opportunity. In future she would keep out of his way, and any sympathy she felt she would obliterate.

  She felt a little better after that, and by the time she had showered and dried her hair she was beginning to anticipate the evening ahead with some degree of enthusiasm. At least, in company, she could forget the emptiness of the future, and maybe this experience of Jaime would accomplish what time had not—to rid her of any lingering regrets for their separation.

  She applied a delicate make-up, accentuating the slight tilt at the corners of her eyes, and outlining her mouth with a glossy brick-coloured lipstick. Then, after brushing her hair into its silky shoulder-length curve, she picked up the dress she was going to wear.

  It, too, was silky, a plain dull red sheath, with a low vee above its wrap-over neckline, elbow-length sleeves, and a clinging skirt, that was slit almost the length of her thigh. It was certainly one of the most sophisticated dresses she had ever possessed, and its deceptively simple lines drew attention to the curve of her full breasts, and revealed the shapeliness of her long slender legs. She looked good, and she knew it, and for once she was glad to shelter behind the shield of her beauty.

  She heard a car arrive as she was dressing, and guessed the Hyltons were here. Remembering what Liz had said about their daughter being the same age as she was, she decided she had better go down, and allow Liz the chance to go and change, if she had not already done so. She doubted Nancy would make the effort, and as she was ready, she might just as well.

  As she had suspected, Liz and Robert were entertaining their guests in the sitting room. Maisie had provided tea, but when Rachel entered the room Liz looked up gratefully.

  ‘Oh, there you are, my dear,’ she exclaimed, as Robert and Bernard Hylton got politely to their feet. ‘Come and join us. I want you to meet Angela.’

  Bernard Hylton was a little like Robert, tall and burly, but with a bristling ginger moustache. His wife, Alice, was tall, too, but painfully thin, and evidently much in awe of her aggressive husband.

  Angela Hylton resembled neither of them. She was of average height and build, with a mass of curling red hair, that surrounded her pale face like a fiery aureole. She was pretty, in a brittle, snapping kind of way, and Rachel knew, without her even opening her mouth, that she and Angela were unlikely to be allies.

  ‘Angela is a model,’ remarked Liz, after the introductions were over. ‘She’s been all over the world in the course of her work, haven’t you, Angela?’

  ‘Well, almost.’

  Angela spoke in a breathless girlish voice that Rachel immediately detested, and then chided herself for so-doing. After all, Angela was nothing to her. She had no reason to judge the girl so harshly. It was just something about her that seemed to set Rachel’s teeth on edge.

  As she had expected, Liz made her excuses and went to change, and as the two men were discussing business matters Rachel endeavoured to play hostess.

  ‘Do you live near here, Mrs Hylton?’ she asked politely, and Alice Hylton gave a small smile. Away from her husband, she was still rather reticent, but she admitted that actually they lived just outside Newcastle.

  ‘But we always come to Liz and Robert’s on Christmas Day,’ she said. ‘And usually they come to us at New Year.’

  ‘How nice.’ Rachel acknowledged this with an inclination of her head. ‘Christmas is a time for traditions.’

  ‘You haven’t spent Christmas at Clere Heights before, have you, Miss Williams?’ Angela asked, her hands clasped round her knees, and Rachel had to concede that she hadn’t.

  ‘But my father died earlier this year, and Liz and Robert knew I’d be on my own.’

  ‘In London?’ A
ngela made a moue with her lips. ‘Is one ever alone in London?’

  ‘One can be,’ replied Rachel smoothly, ignoring the bland criticism. ‘Do you always spend Christmas with your family, Miss Hylton?’

  ‘Not always.’ Angela’s lips tightened. ‘But when I heard that Jaime was home, I couldn’t wait to see him.’

  Rachel rode this unexpected blow, and forced an expression of mild interest. ‘Do you know Jaime well?’

  ‘Of course.’ Angela’s tone was scornful now. ‘I’ve known him since I was about six years old! He used to tease me abominably!’

  ‘Angela used to follow him around like a shadow,’ Alice Hylton remarked, looking affectionately at her daughter. ‘She and Robin were always getting into mischief because of Jaime.’

  Rachel pressed her lips together. The picture of the young Angela trailing in Jaime’s footsteps was not a palatable one, in spite of her professed lack of interest, and for once she was quite relieved to remember that it was Betsy whom he had married.

  ‘Where are the boys?’ Angela asked now, and Rachel’s skin prickled at the familiar intonation. She wondered how much Liz had told the Hyltons of her involvement, and whether indeed Angela had any knowledge of her relationship with the Shard’s elder son.

  ‘Robin and Nancy will be down in a few minutes.’ It was Robert who broke in then, after overhearing Angela’s query. ‘I expect you’re dying to see my granddaughter, aren’t you, Alice? I bet you didn’t think we’d beat you to being grandparents.’

  Alice looked shyly embarrassed, and her husband spoke for her. ‘Well, it’s true Angela has been engaged a couple of times, Rob, but I guess she’s still looking for the right man.’ He shrugged. ‘As for Colin, he’s married, as you know, but his wife seems determined to carry on with her career, and I can’t see them having a family in the near future.’

  ‘What does your daughter-in-law do?’ asked Rachel, in the silence that followed, and Bernard gave her a friendly grin.