Brittle Bondage

by Anne Mather

  Of course, he’d tried to talk to her, to explain that if Elena was pregnant—as she claimed—it was nothing to do with him. He’d blamed Elena—Rachel—anyone but himself. It wasn’t what she’d thought, he’d yelled, losing his temper completely when she’d refused to listen, but if he had decided to have an affair—which he hadn’t, he insisted—she’d have only herself to blame.

  Which had been a bitter reminder that it was months since they had made love. Afraid of getting pregnant again, Rachel had been unwilling to take any chances. Even his suggestion that she should leave the precautions to him had met with a tearful refusal. In her misery, Rachel had insisted on keeping him at a distance, and perhaps it was her fault that he’d found solace with someone else.

  Ben had moved out the next week. Rachel didn’t know that until later. She had gathered up a few of her belongings, and her daughter, and left for London that afternoon. She and Daisy—who had happily regarded the trip as an unexpected holiday—had spent the next two weeks with Rachel’s widowed mother in Kensington. Rachel had used the time to think and plan for the future, only returning to Wychwood when she had been sure of what she wanted to do.

  What she had not expected was that Ben should have moved out. After all, the house was his. She had contributed nothing to it, and he had every right to stay there. On top of which, it was obviously much too big for her to maintain on the salary she got from Mr Caldwell, the local antiquarian. Daisy would miss it, it was true, but in Rachel’s opinion they had no choice but to sell.

  However, in this instance, Ben had proved decidedly obdurate. After a letter from her solicitors, laying out the situation as she saw it, he had arrived at Wychwood one cold November afternoon, and proceeded to inform her that if she chose to obstruct the arrangements he was making for his daughter’s future, he would oppose the order she was making to obtain custody of the child. He had no intention, he said, of allowing her misplaced bitterness to foul up his daughter’s life, as it had fouled up his own. She would stay at Wychwood, because that was what he wanted, and he would maintain its upkeep, just as he had done in the past. She was a selfish, self-centred woman, he had added, but he was prepared to accept that Daisy would probably be happier with her.

  Privately, Rachel had thought that it probably suited him not to have the responsibility for a seven-year-old. To all intents and purposes, he was a free man; a wealthy man, moreover, whose reputation as a writer and an historian was growing in leaps and bounds. What she couldn’t understand was why he didn’t want a divorce. In his position, she was sure she would have.

  But perhaps it had suited him, too, to have an absentee wife and daughter in the background. On the one hand, it proved his masculinity, if any proof were needed. And, on the other, it prevented him from getting embroiled in any other serious relationships. There had been several women mentioned in connection with him in articles she had read since they separated. Though Elena Dupois had never figured in any of these articles. He had evidently lost interest in her once the novelty of having sex with a girl half his age had worn off, and the baby she had presumably had was never mentioned.

  Perhaps it had been adopted. Perhaps he was maintaining it and Elena somewhere else. Rachel told herself she didn’t want to know. As far as she was concerned, that period of her life was over.

  Rachel had sometimes wondered what Daisy really thought of their separation. The explanation she had been given—that Mummy and Daddy had each decided they needed more time to themselves—had sufficed when Daisy was younger, but latterly she had begun to question the reasons why they chose to live apart. This had been especially evident since Simon Barrass had come into their lives. Daisy made no secret of her dislike for the burly farmer, and she had even gone so far as to ask why, if her mother needed a man’s company now, she didn’t just ask her father to come back and live with them.

  Sometimes, Rachel wished Daisy had been older when she and Ben split up. It would have been so much easier if she could have explained what had happened, and why the separation had taken place. As it was, she was obliged to deal in euphemisms and half-truths, balancing the need for honesty with her daughter’s fragile expectations.

  Which brought her back to the prospect she still faced of telling Ben what she planned to do. Had she really hoped Daisy might have prepared the ground for her? After all, Simon had been around for some considerable time, and Daisy spent one weekend every month with her father.

  The arrangement had been worked out by Ben, of course. Every four weeks—and more frequently during school holidays—a car arrived to collect Daisy and her belongings from Wychwood, and transport her to Ben’s luxurious town-house in Elton Square. Usually there was a uniformed nanny in attendance, who took care of the little girl’s personal needs while she was staying with her father. And kept her out of his way, on those occasions when he had guests, or went out to dine, thought Rachel ruefully. These days, Ben’s company was much in demand at literary gatherings, Press launches and the like. Rachel knew this, because she still cut out every article she found about him from newspapers or magazines. It was a fruitless exercise, she knew, and one which she told herself she was only doing for Daisy’s sake. But the fact remained that she still felt an unwilling twinge of pride every time she saw his name in print. After all, she had recognised his talent even before he’d recognised it himself. It had been her idea that he should take a chance and give up his regular job, and try for the thing he most wanted. That he had been so successful was all due to him, of course, but without her encouragement he might never have taken the plunge.

  She was so engrossed with her thoughts that she almost drove past the small antiques shop where she worked. Mr Caldwell’s establishment was an attractive double-fronted dwelling that sat squarely in the High Street, with a post office and general dealers on one side of him, and the doctor’s surgery on the other. With its bow windows and leaded panes, it invited inspection, and Mr Caldwell always made sure they had some unusual item in the window to encourage would-be customers to come inside. At present, an eighteenth-century tripod table had pride of place, with a Chinese ormolu clock set squarely on its mahogany surface. Mr Caldwell liked to create a gathering of matching pieces together, which was why there was a pair of Queen Anne chairs standing at either side of the table, though it was obvious to an experienced eye that the chairs were not in the same class as the table. Rachel had learned that an experienced eye was worth more than a dozen reference books, and it was her aptitude for seeking out a bargain that had persuaded Mr Caldwell to take her on in the first place.

  Now, Rachel parked her Volkswagen at the back of the shop, and, after making sure it was locked, she crossed the yard to the rear entrance. Mr O’Shea, who restored many of the scratched and damaged items of furniture Mr Caldwell bought to a convincing originality, was already at work in the warehouse that adjoined the shop. A cheery individual, he always had a smile and a friendly word for Rachel, and today was no exception.

  ‘Spring is on its way,’ he announced, with sturdy conviction. ‘So why are you looking so troubled, lassie? That old besom hasn’t been complaining again, has he?’

  ‘Oh, no.’ Rachel cast a guilty glance towards the front of the building, but her lips twitched in spite of herself. ‘And you shouldn’t say such things, Mr O’Shea. Do you want to get me into trouble?’

  ‘Away with ye, lassie. He’ll not be parting with you in a hurry. You’re too valuable to him, Rachel, and that’s a fact. You’ve got a good eye. Aren’t I always telling you so?’

  ‘You’ve got the gift of the gab,’ retorted Rachel drily, admiring the finish he was putting to a figured walnut chest. ‘Is this that Queen Anne chest that Cyril found in Worcester? It’s beautiful. You’ve done a lovely job on it.’

  ‘Ah, so there you are at last, Rachel.’

  Her employer’s voice put an end to her conversation with Mr O’Shea, and, following Mr Caldwell into the cramped passageway that led through to the front of the shop, R
achel reflected, not for the first time, that any fire inspector who examined this place would probably close it down as a fire hazard. Every spare inch of space was covered with crates and boxes of china, while framed portraits and uncut canvases were a constant threat to her legs and ankles.

  But, for all that, Rachel loved her job. She loved the smell and the touch of old things, and, it was true, she felt she did have a certain aptitude for the work. The arts degree she had left college with might have seemed important at the time, but it was the innate ability she possessed to recognise shape and colour, and a memory for detail, that had impressed her present employer. In the five years she had worked for Cyril Caldwell, she had proved her worth again and again, which was why she knew he wouldn’t be pleased to hear she was planning to get married again. Cyril liked to feel he had her whole and undivided attention.

  Rachel was wondering whether she ought to break the news to him now, before it filtered down through the grapevine that operated so efficiently between the villages, when Mr Caldwell spoke.

  ‘I have to go out,’ he said, leading the way into the showroom. ‘I’ve just heard that there’s a group of Meissen figurines among all that junk they’re selling out at Romanby, and I want to get there and take a look at them before Hector Grant gets his hands on them all. You can manage here, can’t you? I thought you might unpack that box of glassware, if you have the time. And there’s some discrepancy in those figures Parkers sent us. You might have a look at those, too.’

  Rachel hesitated. ‘Well——’ This might not be the most appropriate time, but she wondered if it wouldn’t be easier on her to give Cyril her news when he didn’t have the time to argue. ‘I did want to have a word with you——’

  ‘Later, Rachel, hmm?’ But it wasn’t really a question. He was already consulting the watch he kept in his waistcoat pocket, mentally calculating the time it would take him to get to Romanby Court, and checking that he had his cheque-book and catalogue in a safe place.

  ‘OK.’

  Rachel decided not to push it. There was no guarantee that her news wouldn’t delay him anyway, and she had no wish to be the excuse he would give if he didn’t happen to acquire any of the Meissen figures.

  ‘Good, good.’

  He made his way to the shop door, a slightly shabby figure in his tweed suit and battered felt hat. But one of the first things he had taught her was that it was unwise to go to an auction looking too affluent. Dealers were a canny breed, and the less successful you looked, the more successful you were likely to be. He had also told her that you had to stay close to the competition. Many articles were sold, not because they were intrinsically valuable, but because someone liked the look of them. Antique dealing was a buyer’s market. The secret was to create a demand for something, and then sell it at the highest price you could get.

  The doorbell chimed as he went out, and Rachel expelled her breath on a rueful sigh as she went to watch him get into his car. Like the man himself, it was shabby, too, an old Peugeot estate car of doubtful vintage. Cyril had had the car as long as Rachel could remember, and she felt a twinge of affection as he pulled away from the kerb. He might be old and cantankerous at times, but he had supported her when she’d needed it most. Which was an unwelcome reminder of that call she had to make, and, after watching Cyril disappear out of sight, she went back to her desk.

  CHAPTER TWO

  IT FELT odd to be punching in the buttons that made up Ben’s London phone number. Irritating, too, that she didn’t even need to consult her address book to remind herself what they were. She assumed it was because she had used the number fairly often in the early days of their separation. After she’d been convinced by Ben’s attitude that he wouldn’t deal with her solicitors.

  Still, it didn’t make it any easier to make the call, and she was annoyed to find her hands were trembling. Dear God, she thought, what did she expect him to do, for heaven’s sake? Appear like a wrathful genie out of the mouthpiece? She was only asking to terminate something that had been terminated in everything but name for the past two years. She knew nothing about Ben’s life any more, and he knew nothing about hers. It was time they had a formal severance of their marriage. Daisy might not like it, but Rachel had a life of her own to lead.

  The phone seemed to ring an inordinately long period of time before it was picked up, and Rachel was just beginning to think he must be away when it was answered.

  ‘Yes?’ It was a woman’s voice, and Rachel’s nerves tightened. ‘This is Knightsbridge …’ She gave the number. ‘Who is this, please?’

  Rachel wanted to hang up. She wanted to make some obscene comment, and slam down the phone. But she didn’t. What did it matter to her who answered Ben’s phone? she chided herself grimly. It wasn’t as if she wanted a reconciliation. Actually she wanted anything but.

  All the same, she resented the offhand tone in the woman’s voice. As if her call had interrupted something crucial, and the woman had been told to get rid of her as quickly as possible. She hadn’t even said anything, and she was already being made to feel a nuisance.

  She sighed. This was silly. She was getting paranoid over the call. The woman didn’t know who she was yet. She could be the Prime Minister’s secretary, or even the Prime Minister himself. Until she indentified herself, how could they know?

  ‘Um—who am I speaking to?’ she asked, realising she was still on the defensive when it was too late to do anything about it. But she was loath to give her name to one of Ben’s bimbos. If he wanted to know who it was, he should have answered the phone himself.

  ‘I’m—Karen Simpson, Mr Leeming’s secretary,’ responded the woman, after only a momentary hesitation. ‘Do you wish to speak to Mr Leeming? If you’ll give me your name, I’ll see if he’s available.’

  His secretary! Rachel’s lips twisted. Well, she’d heard it called worse names. Ben had never had a secretary; not to her knowledge. And she was sure Daisy would have mentioned it, if there had been another woman around.

  ‘I think you’ll find he’ll speak to me,’ she said, aware that she wasn’t being very polite, but incapable of reacting any differently. ‘I’m Mrs Leeming. Mr Leeming’s wife!’ She emphasised the relationship with childish defiance. ‘Perhaps if he has a minute you could ask him to come to the phone.’

  ‘Mr Leeming’s wife!’ Clearly, the woman was impressed. Or was she simply surprised? Rachel wondered ruefully. She wasn’t handling this in a very mature way, and she wished she could ring off and start all over again.

  ‘Yes, Mr Leeming’s wife,’ she repeated now, with less emphasis. ‘Is Mr Leeming there? It is rather important.’

  ‘Just a minute, Mrs Leeming.’

  The phone went dead. Though not quite dead, Rachel amended, winding the cord nervously round her finger. Evidently Ben had one of those phones with a cut-out button, ideal for monitoring unwanted callers. Rachel wondered if he had one in his bedroom, and then despised herself for the thought. His private arrangements were nothing to do with her any more.

  ‘Rachel?’

  The voice in her ear was suddenly uncomfortably familiar. It might have been months, years even, since they had had a conversation, but that dark, mellow tone was unmistakable.

  ‘Hello, Ben.’ Rachel wished she had something to lubricate her dry throat. ‘I’m sorry if I’m disturbing you.’

  Now why had she said that? she wondered impatiently. The accusation behind her words was clearly audible. Why couldn’t she have just launched into the reason why she was calling, instead of giving him a chance to make some clever retort?

  ‘I can stand the break,’ he responded shortly, and if that was a double entendre she didn’t have time to acknowledge it. ‘What is it? Has something happened to Daisy?’

  She supposed she should have realised that Ben was bound to associate her reasons for calling with his daughter, but just for a moment she felt a spurt of resentment that this should be so. She had a life, too, she wanted to exclaim loudly. Not eve
rything in her world had to revolve around Daisy.

  But once again, common sense won out over her reckless inclinations. And she wondered suddenly why she was making this call. She could have written to Ben just as well. But he was on the line now, and she was committed. If she didn’t tell him the truth, she’d be a coward as well as a fool.

  ‘Daisy’s fine,’ she replied quickly, mentally rummaging through her recent altercations with her daughter for something positive to relate. ‘She seems to be enjoying school, and she’s made a lot of friends, as I’m sure she’s told you. Oh, and I’ve been asked to help out at the jumble sale again. It’s a week on Saturday. Last year, I ran one of the stalls.’

  ‘Am I invited?’

  ‘What?’ For a moment, Rachel was too shocked by his response to remember exactly why she had chosen to tell him about the jumble sale. Then, ‘Oh—oh, no. That’s not why I was ringing. Um—we don’t visit the school together, do we? We agreed that we wouldn’t encroach on one another’s——’

  ‘All right.’ Ben’s voice held a note of censure now. ‘I should have known better than to think you wanted us to appear as a family again. So—if you’re not ringing about Daisy, what are you ringing about, Rachel? I don’t know if Karen told you, but I am rather busy.’

  Karen! Rachel controlled her anger with an effort. ‘Your secretary,’ she said sweetly, though she feared he would hear the acid in her tone. ‘I didn’t know you had a secretary, Ben. Daisy never mentioned her. Is she new?’

  ‘What’s it to you?’ Ben could be obstructive, too, and she felt her nails dig into her palms. ‘Come on, Rachel, I’m sure you’re not ringing to check on my staff appointments. Did you decide to accept my offer of an increase in your allowance? I can backdate it, if you like. I dare say a lump sum would come in handy.’