Brittle Bondage

by Anne Mather

Simon locked the door, and they climbed back into the Range Rover for the bumpy ride back to the main house. Although the evening had been sunny when they set out, the sky was overcast now and rain spattered the windscreen. A fair approximation of her mood, thought Rachel ruefully, wondering why she suddenly felt so empty inside.

  Mrs Barrass had obviously been expecting them. She opened the door as the Range Rover stopped, allowing a couple of collies to escape and jump about Rachel’s ankles. A small woman, grey-haired, and stocky, like her son, she seemed to enjoy watching the younger woman trying to avoid the dogs’ muddy paws.

  ‘They won’t hurt you,’ she said scornfully. Then, to her son, ‘You’ve been long enough. The tea’s brewed and waiting.’

  ‘Sorry, Mother.’ Simon’s smile, and the considerate way he drew back to let Rachel precede him into the house almost made her doubt her interpretation of his attitude at the cottage. But his eyes, meeting hers, still mirrored a cold defiance, and Rachel shivered as she stepped past him into the kitchen of Kingsmead.

  ‘Did you like the cottage?’

  Realising Mrs Barrass was speaking to her, Rachel sought a suitable reply. ‘It’s a little remote,’ she said carefully, glancing about her at the heavy wooden dressers and massive leaded hearth. Perhaps she should be grateful Simon wasn’t expecting her to live here, she thought, with a wry grimace. She could just imagine Mrs Barrass standing over her as she cleaned the grate.

  ‘Remote?’

  The older woman looked at her son, and Simon gave a careless shrug. ‘I don’t think Rachel’s had time to consider all the advantages yet, Mother,’ he said. ‘Did you mention a cup of tea?’

  Mrs Barrass gestured towards the pot, set on its stand on a table that had been scrubbed almost white. ‘Seems to me she doesn’t know how lucky she is to have a friend like you,’ she declared, adding milk, willy-nilly, to the cups. Rachel felt like saying she didn’t take milk, just to be awkward. She didn’t like being spoken about, as if she wasn’t there.

  ‘Yes, well …’ Simon glanced her way, and, as if realising he was in danger of losing any credibility he had, he made an attempt to rescue the situation. ‘Rachel isn’t used to living on a farm.’

  ‘Then maybe you ought to think again before letting her move into the cottage,’ retorted his mother shortly. ‘I never did think it was a good idea. Cottages are for workers, not for bits of skirt!’

  Rachel gasped. ‘I beg your pardon——’

  ‘You heard what I——’

  ‘Yes, I did. And I want to know what you meant by it.’

  ‘Mother! Rachel!’

  Simon dived into the fray, red-faced and flustered at this turn of events, and Rachel, looking at him, began to wonder what he had said about her. The question had never come up before, and she supposed she had been guilty of thinking it was all a foregone conclusion. Surely he had told his mother he had asked her to marry him. Or, because she was still technically married, had he let her think it was something else?

  ‘Don’t—don’t speak about Rachel like that, Mother,’ Simon muttered now, albeit in a wheedling tone. ‘She didn’t ask to move into the cottage. I suggested it. As we—as we’re walking out together, it seemed the least I could do.’

  Rachel blinked. ‘Simon, didn’t you——?’

  ‘I don’t care whose idea it was,’ declared Mrs Barrass, overriding Rachel’s attempt to discover the truth. She looked at the other woman with a definite gleam of malice in her eyes. ‘And don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to, missy. Getting our Simon to support you! He’s a generous soul, I know, but I won’t stand by and let him be made a fool of.’

  Rachel could hardly speak, she was so indignant. ‘Whatever gave you the idea that I might make a fool of your son?’ she demanded, when she could get her tongue round the words. ‘And whatever you may think, he will not be supporting me, wherever I decide to live. I have a perfectly good job, and I can support myself, thank you. Whatever he’s told you, I can do without his help.’

  ‘Rachel——’

  Simon groaned, but his mother took no notice of her son’s dismay. ‘Then why are you even looking at the cottage, if that husband of yours isn’t threatening you with eviction? According to what Simon says, he’s given you an ultimatum. He wants a divorce, or some such thing, and he intends to sell the house out from under you.’

  Rachel was stunned. ‘Is that what Simon told you?’

  ‘Isn’t it true?’

  ‘No——’

  ‘Mother, I never said any such thing!’ Simon glared at Mrs Barrass now, and for a moment Rachel thought how absurdly alike they looked. ‘What I said was, Rachel wants a divorce just as much as her husband. And—as the house belongs to her husband, she’s looking for somewhere else to live.’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  ‘YOU were back fairly early last night, weren’t you?’ asked Mrs Collins at breakfast, and Rachel wondered how long she could go on without telling her mother what had happened. ‘I was reading when you came in, and I was sure you’d see my light. I thought you might have come in and told me what the cottage is like. I didn’t hear Simon’s voice, so I assumed you were alone.’

  ‘I was.’ In all honesty, Rachel could have come in even sooner, but after Simon had dropped her off she’d sat for over an hour in the greenhouse. ‘I didn’t want to disturb you,’ she added, not altogether truthfully. ‘Gosh, is that the time? I really should get moving.’

  ‘Rachel.’ Her mother’s voice arrested her, as she got up from the table. ‘What’s wrong? I know there’s something. Can’t you tell me?’

  Rachel sighed. ‘Oh, Simon and I have had a—a difference of opinion.’

  Mrs Collins frowned. ‘I’d say that was an occupational hazard as far as that man is concerned.’

  ‘Yes, well—maybe it is.’ Rachel hoped she might get away with the equivocation. ‘Did—er—did you have a nice evening? Daisy wasn’t any trouble, was she? She’s so much enjoying having you here.’

  ‘She’s enjoying having her father here better,’ remarked Mrs Collins, without rancour. She paused. ‘Rachel, are you going to tell me what’s troubling you? Or must I spend the day worrying that you’ll have no one to confide in after I’ve gone.’

  Rachel looked dismayed. ‘You’re leaving?’

  ‘Tomorrow or the next day,’ her mother confirmed gently. ‘Rachel, I can’t stay here indefinitely. I’ve told Ralph I’ll be back in New Zealand before the end of August, and there’s such a lot to do.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Rachel felt hollow. ‘Ralph.’ He was the man her mother was going to marry. ‘It seems so short a time, when you say it like that. I’ll come and help you pack, of course. But I suppose there’s quite a lot of sorting out to do.’

  ‘That’s right.’ Mrs Collins caught her lower lip between her teeth. ‘You could come with me, of course.’

  ‘Tomorrow? Oh, I don’t see how I——’

  ‘I mean—to New Zealand,’ corrected her mother firmly. ‘You could. Ralph’s a widower, as I’ve told you, and he has no children. In addition to which, he has this big house overlooking Auckland harbour. Daisy would love it, I’m sure.’

  Rachel felt the unwelcome prick of tears behind her eyes. ‘Oh, Mum, you know I can’t do that.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well—because——’

  ‘Because of Simon Barrass, I suppose.’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘What do you mean, not exactly?’ Her mother looked impatient. ‘Something has happened, hasn’t it? It wasn’t just a difference of opinion you two had last night. What happened?’ She looked anxious. ‘He didn’t—assault you or anything, did he? If he did, I’ll——’

  ‘Of course he didn’t try to assault me.’

  Rachel managed to sound almost amused at the suggestion, although the argument she had had with Simon on the way home had bordered on the physical at times. He had been furious with her for refusing to listen to what he saw as reason, and it had only
been his fear of what more she might say to his mother, she was sure, that had forced him to control his temper.

  And, maybe, an unwillingness to accept that their relationship had been fatally damaged, she conceded now. Simon was nothing if not a survivor, and she was sure he thought she would come round, once she had had time to think it over.

  ‘So, what did happen?’ persisted Mrs Collins. ‘Was the cottage an absolute wash-out, or what?’

  ‘It was—all right,’ said Rachel cautiously. ‘But, if you must know, Simon hadn’t told his mother we were getting married.’ She sighed. ‘He may have been hoping to break the news to her gently. We’ll never know. She got me angry, and I’m afraid I wasn’t so discreet.’

  ‘You told her?’ Mrs Collins looked impressed.

  ‘In a manner of speaking.’ Rachel had no wish to go into the details. ‘Um—I really do have to go, Mum. Mr Caldwell’s just looking for an excuse to bawl me out.’

  ‘Oh, very well.’

  Her mother had no choice but to let her go, though Rachel guessed she hadn’t heard the last of it so far as Mrs Collins was concerned. Her main hope was that she could avoid telling her the full extent of her disillusionment. After what had happened last night, she didn’t see how she and Simon could ever share a life.

  But that wasn’t her mother’s problem, and Rachel couldn’t allow her to make it so. However appealing her offer might sound—and the idea of leaving England and escaping from the mess she had made of her life was tempting—she couldn’t do it. This was her mother’s time, not hers. All Mrs Collins should have on her mind at the moment was her own wedding. She shouldn’t have to think about sharing her new home with her daughter and granddaughter. And, no matter how understanding Ralph was, Rachel doubted he’d appreciate having a ready-made family dumped on him before he’d even been on his honeymoon.

  So, until her mother left England, she must try and maintain the fiction that she and Simon were still together. It shouldn’t be too difficult, if Mrs Collins was leaving to go back to London soon. Besides, she had no desire for Ben to find out what had happened. After his behaviour, there was always the chance he’d think he was the reason she was having second thoughts.

  Which wasn’t true, she assured herself, despising the shiver of anticipation she felt just thinking about that scene in the orchard. God, how could she be so hypocritical as to despise Simon for lying to her? Was she any better, letting Ben do what he’d done?

  And wasn’t it also possible that it was Ben’s treatment of her that had made her so wary of Simon? If she hadn’t had the memory of that passionate interlude to distort her relationship with Simon, would she have reacted so negatively to his demands? She’d never know. And there was no denying the fact that he had kept the truth—if it was the truth—from his mother. His excuse had been that Mrs Barrass was old-fashioned; that until Rachel had got her divorce and was free, his mother couldn’t regard her as his fiancée. There might be some truth in that, Rachel was prepared to accept, but nothing could alter the fact that he hadn’t told her what he was doing.

  The trouble was that since Ben had turned up, she had found it incredibly difficult to think positively about her future. She might not want to admit it, but he had destroyed her peace of mind, and although she didn’t believe that she still loved him, the feelings he inspired in her were disruptively intense.

  ‘I saw you and your husband going off together the other evening,’ Cyril remarked, as they shared their coffee-break that morning. He had been off the previous day, but he had obviously been waiting to mention it. ‘Does Barrass know you’re still running around with Ben? I wouldn’t have thought he’d be too keen.’ Rachel shrugged, refusing to be provoked. ‘Ben gave me a lift home, that’s all,’ she said casually. ‘I like that Meissen flower seller. Who’d have thought you’d find so many valuable pieces at Romanby Court?’

  ‘Well, I would, obviously,’ retorted Cyril, not deceived by her attempt to divert him. ‘There might be even prettier pieces out at Watersmeet. I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been inside the place.’

  Rachel coloured. ‘Watersmeet?’ she said faintly, wishing she had seen this coming. ‘Oh—you mean the house Ben is thinking of buying,’ she appended, realising there was no point in being coy. ‘No. I don’t think you’d find anything to interest you there, Mr Caldwell. The Armstrongs weren’t collectors. At least, I didn’t think so.’

  Cyril looked disappointed. ‘You’ve been there, then,’ he said sourly.

  ‘Didn’t you know?’ Rachel guessed she had spoiled his attempt to disconcert her. ‘Yes. Ben showed me the house a couple of days ago. He wanted my opinion as to whether I thought Daisy would like it.’

  And let him make what he likes of that, she thought grimly, glad that her hands were wrapped around her coffee-cup to disguise their shaking. It had taken an immense amount of courage to adopt just such a careless attitude, and she hoped he wouldn’t press her and expose her foolish weakness.

  The sound of the shop bell came as a welcome relief. Setting down her cup, Rachel brushed through the curtain to attend to their customer. She hoped by the time she came back Cyril might be in a less provoking mood. But the man who was waiting in the sales area did nothing to encourage that expectation.

  It was Ben, standing squarely in the middle of the floor, gazing somewhat concentratedly out of the window. Whatever he had come for, he was evidently not looking forward to her appearance, Rachel thought tremulously. But what was he doing here? Did he want her to lose all credibility?

  He turned at the sound of the curtains swishing against the arm of a Hepplewhite carver. In dark trousers and a collarless sweatshirt, his hands pushed carelessly into his pockets, he looked relaxed and disturbingly familiar. The image of how he had looked two evenings ago, eyes glazed, mouth sensual, intent on the pursuit of sexual gratification flashed briefly across her mind, and her pulse quickened. Oh, God, had she really sunk so low? A quick tumble in the woods, with no questions asked?

  ‘Hi.’

  His dark eyes met hers across a pair of matching armchairs, and she thought how humiliating it was that he should think he could come here and behave as if nothing had happened. Perhaps he’d come to tell her he was leaving. Daisy would be disappointed. She’d been most put out because her father hadn’t appeared the night before.

  Once again, aware of Cyril’s penchant for eavesdropping, Rachel was obliged to be civil. ‘Hello.’ The word was crisp but she couldn’t help it. Her expression alone should have told him he wasn’t welcome here.

  ‘Can we talk?’

  ‘Here?’ Rachel’s response was slightly hysterical, and controlling herself with difficulty she quickly shook her head. ‘Are—are you leaving?’ she asked, casting a meaningful glance over her shoulder. Or—or can I sell you something? We’ve got some rather nice porcelain in the back.’

  Ben’s mouth compressed. ‘We need to talk,’ he said, apparently indifferent to her frantic efforts to make him understand that their conversation could be overheard. ‘What time is your lunch break?’

  Rachel expelled an unsteady breath. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know,’ she said now, avoiding his compelling gaze. ‘Um—I am rather busy——’

  ‘Rachel——’

  Her husband’s warning use of her name was still echoing round the shop when Mr Caldwell came through the dividing curtain. ‘Ben,’ he said genially. ‘I thought I recognised your voice. How delightful to see you again. Are you still enjoying your holiday?’

  ‘Very much.’ But Ben’s tone was guarded now, his eyes on Rachel, willing her to look his way.

  ‘Did I hear you inviting Rachel out for lunch?’ the old antiques dealer continued now. And then, without waiting for an answer, ‘You can have the rest of the morning off, my dear, if you’d like to. As you can see, Ben, we’re not busy, and I’d be a very poor fellow if I couldn’t do this for a friend.’

  Rachel seethed, knowing full well that this was Cyril’s way of getting his own ba
ck. He must have heard the reluctance in her voice when she spoke to Ben. His smile, and the glinting amusement in his eyes, confirmed it. It would serve him right if she handed in her notice, she thought. She could—if she decided to go to New Zealand.

  ‘I’ll get my jacket,’ she said tersely, realising there was no point in trying to argue. Even if Ben chose to get the message, Cyril was determined to have his pound of flesh. And perhaps she did need to speak to Ben. He had to understand how humiliated she felt.

  ‘I hear you’re thinking of moving back to the district,’ Cyril was saying, as she rejoined them, and Ben gave a cursory nod.

  ‘I’m thinking about it,’ he agreed, catching Rachel’s eye before she could avoid it. ‘Has my wife been telling you we went to see a house at Watersmeet on Monday?’

  ‘I didn’t have to tell him anything,’ she retorted, before she could prevent herself, and then could have bitten out her tongue when Cyril gave a smug smile.

  ‘You know what villages are like, Ben,’ he said, giving his assistant a rueful look. ‘Your—er—wife is a little touchy this morning. I’m afraid I may be to blame.’

  Rachel face was burning when they stepped out into the street, and the look she cast in Ben’s direction was eloquent with meaning. ‘I suppose you think this is amusing,’ she said, lowering her voice when she realised she was attracting attention. ‘Have you no more sense than to come to the shop? Do you want Cyril to broadcast the news that we’re having lunch together?’

  ‘I don’t particularly care what Cyril says,’ replied Ben mildly, glancing up and down the High Street. ‘And are we having lunch together? After the way you received my invitation, I’d have thought that was in the balance.’

  Rachel pressed her lips together. ‘You said we needed to talk,’ she reminded him, and Ben inclined his head. ‘Well——’ She squared her shoulders. ‘I agree with you. It’s time we got some things straight. You can’t go on interfering in my life.’

  Ben made no response to this, and Rachel wondered if her pronouncement had finally got through to him. Wondered, too, why she didn’t feel more relieved if this was so. This was the man who had ruined her life, she reminded herself. She couldn’t be feeling sorry for him. Not after what he’d done.