by Anne Mather
Catherine could think of no good reason for refusing, but she needed some time to herself. ‘Make it the day after tomorrow,’ she said, and then despised herself when Laura's anticipatory smile disappeared.
‘The day after tomorrow?’ she said, with evident disappointment. ‘Oh! Well—all right. But what are you going to do tomorrow?'
Catherine gripped her handbag very tightly, forcing a casual tone. ‘Just have a lazy day,’ she answered. ‘See you!'
‘See you,’ echoed Laura, with a sigh, and Catherine entered the house feeling an absolute pig.
Lily was waiting for her in the hall.
‘Miz Royal wants to see you, Miz Fulton,’ she said, rather diffidently. ‘She's in the library. Will you go straight through?'
Catherine sighed now. After her conversation with Mrs Prentiss, the last thing she needed was a scene with Elizabeth.
‘I—will you tell Mrs Royal I'm just going up to wash my hands,’ she said, going towards the stairs, but as Lily nodded her head and turned away, Elizabeth's voice arrested her:
‘Have you a minute, Catherine?'
Catherine turned, one hand resting on the baluster. ‘I was just going to rinse my face and hands, Mrs Royal,’ she explained tightly.
‘I'm sure that can wait,’ replied Elizabeth imperiously. ‘If you don't mind…'
Catherine saw the sympathetic look in Lily's eyes as she made her way back to the kitchens, and took strength from it. Holding her head high, she preceded Elizabeth into the library.
Elizabeth was still wearing her working attire of silk shirt and jodhpurs, which was strange for this hour of the afternoon. But perhaps as Jared wasn't here, she had less interest in her appearance, thought Catherine, realising as she did so that she had never felt her felinity so strongly as she did with this woman.
‘You've been to Fourwinds,’ Elizabeth said, as she closed the library doors.
‘Yes.’ Catherine saw no reason to enlarge upon it.
‘Laura invited you.'
‘Of course.'
‘Of course.’ Elizabeth indicated a chair, but Catherine preferred to stand. ‘It's reassuring to know she thinks of you as a friend.'
Catherine let that go. ‘You wanted to speak to me, Mrs Royal?’ she prompted.
Elizabeth sighed, subsiding into a low chair with her usual grace. ‘Oh, dear, we've come a long way in ten days, haven't we? We began as friends, and what are we now? Antagonists—enemies?'
‘I think you're exaggerating, Mrs Royal.'
‘I hope so. I really hope so.’ She bit her lip delicately. ‘About last night, Catherine—'
‘I really don't think we—'
‘Please! Don't jump to conclusions. I was about to apologise for—for perhaps making more of something that everyone else sees in its true perspective. ‘I'm sorry. There—now will you sit down?'
Catherine felt an immense sense of weariness enveloping her. ‘Why did you want to speak to me, Mrs Royal?'
Elizabeth exhibited a moment's impatience. ‘I'm trying to tell you, Catherine,’ she snapped. Then she forced a smile. ‘You could help by telling me that you accept my apology.'
Catherine bent her head. She knew she was being ungracious, but she couldn't help it. She was so tired. ‘It doesn't matter,’ she said quietly. ‘And I'm sorry you felt the need to say anything.’ She looked up. ‘If that's all…'
‘It's not all.’ Elizabeth pressed her lips together for a moment. ‘I—I wanted to talk to you about—the wedding.'
‘The wedding?’ Twice in one afternoon? It was too much! Catherine stared at her bewilderedly. ‘What wedding?'
‘The wedding. Our wedding. Jared and Laura's wedding, of course.’ Elizabeth linked her fingers together. ‘You must have known they were planning to get married. People don't get engaged for nothing, now do they?'
‘I—I—’ Catherine could feel her mouth opening and shutting like a fish and endeavoured to prevent it. ‘I—didn't realise anything was arranged.'
‘No? Well, you haven't been here long enough to know everything, have you?’ inquired Elizabeth pleasantly. ‘However, it's been understood for some time that the engagement has lasted long enough. Naturally Jared didn't want to rush things after his father died, but I think a suitable interval has elapsed now, don't you? It crossed my mind that you might be glad of the diversion. You can't find life too exciting here. Not after London. And who knows, once he's married, perhaps Jared will allow you to return to England, and the—friends you have there.'
There was a coldness flooding Catherine's system. It began in her stomach, a hard little core of ice, that spread its chilling tentacles to the extremities of her being. So that was it, she thought bitterly. For some reason, Elizabeth had decided she wanted her out of the house, and if it meant submitting to Jared's marriage to Laura, she was prepared to do it. She must have known that sooner or later the situation would arise, so why not now? Mrs Prentiss, at least, would be delighted!
‘This is rather sudden, isn't it?’ Catherine couldn't quite keep the edge out of her voice. ‘Laura didn't mention it to me, and I'm sure she would have done if…'
Elizabeth took a moment to smooth the cloth of her breeches. ‘As a matter of fact, Jared and I only discussed it last night. After you had gone to bed.'
‘But you cou—’ Catherine broke off, biting her tongue. She had almost fallen into the trap Elizabeth had unwittingly laid for her. Or was it unwitting? She couldn't be absolutely sure Elizabeth didn't know about that late night outing. Jared might well have told her. Catherine's flesh crept at the thought. Shaking her head, she muttered: ‘It was—rather late, wasn't it?'
‘Jared told me he intended spending a few days at the beach house. I thought we should get matters settled before he left.'
Catherine looked into Elizabeth's complacent face, and wished she knew the truth. Had Jared spoken to his stepmother after he got back in the early hours of the morning? How could he have done so? Unless their relationship overstepped the bounds of common decency… She shivered, in spite of the heat of the day. She couldn't believe that he could have come back to Elizabeth after making such violent love to her. But if he hadn't, was all this a lie? A fabrication? Would Elizabeth dare to suggest such a thing without Jared's permission? Catherine had to concede that she probably would not.
‘So,’ she shifted restlessly, ‘when is the wedding to be?’ She would not let Elizabeth see how much this news had shocked her.
‘These things take a little time to arrange,’ replied Elizabeth, crossing her legs. ‘Six or eight weeks, I should think.'
‘Eight weeks.’ Catherine's lips tightened. ‘Laura will be pleased.'
Elizabeth met her gaze without flinching. ‘I'm sure we all are,’ she countered silkily, and Catherine had the strongest urge to scratch her eyes out.
CHAPTER SEVEN
CATHERINE had a letter from Tony next morning. It was like a breath of fresh air to read his jaunty writing, reminding her that despite his difficulties, he had never buckled under the strain.
She had written to him just over a week ago, giving him her address, and a brief but amusing résumé of events since her arrival. She had touched a little on the antagonism Jared was exhibiting towards her, but had omitted to mention the deception she was practising. She guessed that Tony would not approve of that, whatever her newly-appointed guardian might think of him.
Elizabeth came into the morning room as Catherine was finishing her breakfast, and her eyes immediately alighted on the letter with its British postmark.
‘The boy-friend, one presumes,’ she commented slyly, and Catherine snatched up the letter and thrust it into the pocket of her jeans.
‘A friend, yes,’ she conceded shortly.
Elizabeth smiled, and Catherine suddenly realised she was not wearing her working clothes. Instead, she was slim and elegant in a lime green skirt suit, the green and white striped lapels of the jacket matching the contrasting hem of the skirt. It was the first time Cath
erine had seen her legs without covering, but although they were quite short, they were as neatly proportioned as the rest of her.
‘I expect you're wondering where I'm going,’ Elizabeth remarked, noting the girl's admiring interest with mild satisfaction. ‘As a matter of fact, I rang Marion Prentiss. I thought we should get together—to discuss the arrangements and so on. She was most agreeable, so I'm going over there this morning. I suggested that you might like to come along too, but she said that you had told Laura that you wanted a lazy day. Is that right? I must say, you did look rather—peaky, yesterday evening. Perhaps our climate doesn't agree with you, after all.'
There was a grain of maliciousness in what Elizabeth was saying, although it was delivered with a conciliatory smile. Catherine chose to accept it in kind.
‘On the contrary,’ she said smoothly, ‘I love this weather, and I'm never happier than when I'm sunbathing. If I looked a little tired, it's because Laura is so—energetic. Too energetic for me, I'm afraid.'
Elizabeth's smile disappeared. ‘So you don't want to come?'
‘No, thanks.’ Catherine finished her coffee and pushed the empty cup aside. ‘But don't worry about me. I don't get bored. I'm very happy here.'
Elizabeth drove away soon after ten, and Catherine breathed a sigh of relief when the sound of the engine died away. With Jared at the beach house, she had the house to herself, and there was a certain excitement in the thought. All those rooms that she had never explored. Elizabeth was not like Mrs Prentiss. She had not taken her guest on a conducted tour. But then perhaps Mrs Prentiss wouldn't have done if she hadn't wanted something. How astonished she must have been to receive Elizabeth's call. Catherine couldn't help a small smile. Did Laura's mother think she had had anything to do with it? Well, in a way, she supposed she had, she mused. But not in the way Marion Prentiss would think.
Leaving the lounger beside the pool, she strolled restlessly through the gardens. Henry's brother, Raoul, was trimming the hedges beside the path that flanked the tennis courts, and his big brown eyes widened at the sight of her in scanty red shorts and a white halter top. Flushing, Catherine beat a hasty retreat, walking back to the edge of the pool and staring down frowningly into its depths.
She wondered what Jared was doing. Was he working? Was he finding it easier to concentrate down at the beach house, within sight and sound of the surf he loved, than in the isolated confines of his studio? His studio…
Turning, her eyes sought the second floor of the house. It was up there somewhere. She knew it was. She had once questioned Susie when she encountered the girl carrying a tray of food upstairs. There was a second staircase, at the end of the corridor opposite to the one where her room was situated. But no one went up there. Except by invitation…
With assumed nonchalance, she walked into the house. Lily was in the morning room, clearing away the breakfast dishes, and she looked expectantly at her.
‘You want something, Miz Fulton?’ she asked, straightening from her task.
‘I—no, nothing, thank you, Lily,’ Catherine gave her a faint smile. ‘I'm—just going up to my room, for—for a book.'
Lily nodded and resumed what she was doing while Catherine walked quickly across the room and ran lightly up the stairs. But on the gallery, she paused. Did she really intend invading his studio? Dared she do such a thing? And what if she was discovered?
She sighed impatiently, angry with her own indecisiveness. No one knew she did not have permission to enter the studio, and she intended no harm, after all. She just wanted to see where he worked, to examine some of his canvases.
She walked along the corridor she had seen Susie taking with the tray with an outward confidence it was hard to simulate. But if she was seen, it would be better to look as if she knew where she was going.
She reached the end of the corridor without incident and there it was—the narrower flight of stairs leading to the second floor. Taking a deep breath, she lifted her foot on to the first step, and dismissing the twinges of her conscience climbed to the top.
She was on a narrow landing with only two doors opening from it. Which to choose? She bit her lip and turned the handle of the first. It was a bathroom, and she closed the door again quickly, and reached for the second.
She found herself looking into an enormous apartment which seemed to stretch across half the width of the house. Long windows on three sides could let in the maximum amount of daylight, but right now shafts of sunlight only filtered through the slatted blinds. As in the beach house, the walls were stacked with canvases, but there were also drawing boards, tables bright with jars and tubes of colour, oils and enamels, varnishes, bottles containing brushes, pens and charcoal, palette knives, pads and drawing tablets, all the paraphernalia associated with the craft. It was a veritable Aladdin's cave, and Catherine closed the door and leaned back against it, savouring the delights of exploration.
An easel stood in the middle of the floor, bare of any canvas. She guessed Jared had taken whatever had been on it with him. The portrait of the governor-general's lady, perhaps. The commission which was demanding his undivided attention.
She sighed and straightened, walking across the floor boards lightly, unwilling to alert anyone downstairs to an awareness of her whereabouts. She guessed this room had been specially designed to meet Jared's needs, but she doubted it was soundproofed.
There was a door at the far side of the room, and it opened, as she half expected, into a second corridor with more doors opening from it. Probably at one time, this top floor of the building had had similar proportions to the lower floors, but the need to expand the studio had divided the house. She wondered why the studio had not been built at this side of the house, but as she retraced her steps, her question answered itself. The windows at the side of the studio commanded a magnificent view of the distant ocean.
She walked across the room again, bending to examine some of the canvases leaning against the walls. They covered an amazing variety of subjects—some portraits, some landscapes—figures imprisoned forever in scenes alive with passion and colour. The workers in the cane fields, scythes catching the sunlight, faces dark and alert, teeth white and realistically uneven. The yachts down at the Careenage, the harbour policemen in their uniforms, the shellfish squirming in their pots. There were fishermen and sailors, market vendors with their goods, the wobbling wheels of the ‘Jackass’ carts had a dimension Catherine had seldom seen. Windmills and ruined plantation houses, the sails of a schooner in the sunset, and the seething, rolling thunder of the surf.
She was enthralled, entranced, fascinated by a talent so tangible she could actually feel it. On her knees, she turned over the canvases, feeling no sense of intrusion, absorbed as in an exhibition that had to be shared.
Behind the canvases, she came upon a handful of sketches, swiftly executed things of charcoal, pushed away where no one might be expected to see them. She turned them over rapidly, eyes widening in disbelief as she recognised their subject. Her own face stared back at her in a dozen different moods, sad and wistful, alert and excited, sulky or just plain provocative. But not just her face—her body as well, unclothed, and burgeoning with motherhood.
Her lips parted on a gasp, half admiration, half dismay, and as she sat there with the sketches in her hands, she heard footsteps on the stairs, and a moment later the studio door was thrust open. She had expected it might be Susie, Henry even, or at the outside, Elizabeth. But Jared stood there staring at her, and her hands trembled uncontrollably at the look in his eyes.
‘What are you doing?’ he demanded, striding across the floor and snatching the sketches out of her grasp. ‘Who gave you permission to come up here? Where's Liz? I don't believe she would do such a thing?'
Catherine remained on her knees. She had not seen Jared since she had ridden away on his motor-bike leaving him stranded at the beach, and the enormity of both offences momentarily paralysed her. He looked down at her angrily, tall and disturbingly masculine in a d
enim waistcoat and jeans, the rolled up sketches beating a tattoo against his thigh.
‘Well?’ he said. ‘Are you dumb as well as deaf? What are you doing up here?'
Catherine expelled her breath on a sigh. ‘I should have thought that was obvious. I wanted to see where you worked. I was curious. Is that unreasonable?'
‘You should have asked me if you wanted to come up here.'
‘Oh, yes?’ She looked up at him bitterly. ‘And I suppose you'd have granted my request?’ She bent her head again. ‘Well, anyway, it's done now. I'm sorry if you object.'
‘Are you?’ The sketches were thrust aside, and he hauled her unceremoniously to her feet. ‘Don't pay lip service to me, Catherine! I know you too well. You're not sorry—except perhaps that you were caught!’ His hands were heavy at her armpits. ‘Well, I hope you're satisfied now!'
She looked up into his lean dark face, and fear had no part of the emotions she was experiencing now. She was remembering what had happened between them before she leapt on to his motor-cycle and rode away—remembering his unleashed passion, the same passion she had just admired in his paintings, in those sketches that mocked the savagery of his anger.
‘Are you?’ she breathed huskily, and felt his fingers tightening as they moved down the sides of her body to her waist and lower… He was looking down at her, heavy lids shadowing the grim frustration in his eyes, his mouth twisting as he acknowledged her awareness of his weakness. ‘You're supposed to be at the beach house,’ she whispered, her tongue appearing to moisten her upper lip, and he nodded his head in bleak resignation.
‘I know, I know. But I had to come back. There were things I needed…’ A pulse beat rapidly near his hairline, and his jaw was clenched tight.
‘Wh—what things?’ she probed, stretching out a hand to explore the hollow of his navel, but he knocked her fingers away and with a supreme effort thrust her away from him.