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by Unknown

  'You must remember the good times, Matt,' someone was saying as they approached, and with a pang Rachel wondered how popular Barbara had been.

  'Matt, we're here,' Maggie was saying now, interrupting the speaker to tug arrogantly at Matthew's arm, and Rachel wished the floor would open up and swallow her. She didn't want to be here. She didn't want to be a part of this very personal occasion.

  And, most of all, she didn't want to speak to the man who had once been the whole core of her existence.

  He was looking exceptionally composed for a bereaved man, she thought bitterly. Tall, and dark, and attractive, his sombre attire only adding to his air of controlled sophistication. He didn't look like a man who had just lost his much-loved wife, but then Matt had always had the uncanny ability to hide his feelings, she remembered.

  'Maggie, Geoff,' he responded now, allowing his mother-in-law to bestow a fervent kiss on his cheek before his eyes moved beyond her to the young woman who hung back from their intimate circle. 'Rachel,' he added stiffly, and she had, perforce, to step forward and offer her own condolences.

  'I'm sorry,' she said, aware that his use of her name had attracted more than one pair of eyes. 'Please—believe me.'

  'Oh, I do.'

  But Matthew's eyes were cold, his expression as hard and unforgiving as that of the slim, elderly woman standing at his side. Lady Olivia had reacted violently to his use of Rachel's name, but like her son she would not make a scene in public.

  'Rachel,' she echoed, but her lips were thin and forbidding. It was obvious how she felt, and Rachel shivered in spite of the press of bodies around her.

  'Lady Olivia,' she responded, steeling herself against the almost uncontrollable urge to escape. 'This is a very sad occasion.'

  Matthew's mother's lips twisted. 'Yes,' she said. 'It is.' But the meaning behind her words was obscure, and Rachel was glad when someone else came to claim Lady Olivia's attention.

  Several white-coated attendants, hired for the occasion, were making their way among the guests with trays of glasses containing sherry or whisky, and the huge doors to the dining-room had been opened up to display the sumptuous cold buffet laid out on damask-covered tables. As people relaxed, and cigars were lit, a haze of tobacco smoke rose above the gathering, and the level of sound gradually rose in volume.

  Rachel, compelled to accept at least one drink before making her escape, allowed herself to be engulfed in the mel6e. Her aunt and uncle were paying little attention to her now, her aunt, at least, enjoying the dubious notoriety of being the mother of the deceased. Her uncle seemed less aware of his surroundings, and she guessed I hat for him this was something of an ordeal. But at least he had his faith to sustain him, she thought ruefully. For herself, she had no such panacea.

  It was time to leave, she decided grimly. She had done what Aunt Maggie had demanded she do and paid her respects, but now it was time for her to go. Perhaps, in spite of Uncle Geoff's invitation, she should have stayed away. It was obvious that Matthew's mother thought so. And Matt, too, although he was probably enjoying her discomfort. Whatever, she couldn't wait to put as many miles as possible between herself and this painful exhumation of the past.

  Putting down her glass, she began to thread her way back across the hall. Occasionally someone recognised her, and rather stilted greetings were exchanged, but on the whole she avoided any further embarrassment. Happily, they were all too busy helping themselves to the mouth-watering canapes that were presently being circulated, and swallowing more of Matt's extremely good Scotch. It had turned into just another cocktail party, thought Rachel, somewhat cynically, depression settling like a heavy weight upon her shoulders.

  She was within a few yards of the door when the accident happened. Someone stepped back heavily on to her toe, and she had to choke back the automatic protest that sprang to her lips.

  But even as she struggled to restrain her indignation the perpetrator of her injury pushed rudely past her, and she realised belatedly exactly who it was.

  'Wait a minute!' she exclaimed, forgetting for a moment where she was as she lunged forward awkwardly and grasped the child's arm. Balancing on her uninjured foot, she swung the girl round to face her, only to wish she hadn't when she saw Rosemary's tear- stained face.

  'What do you want?' the little girl asked defensively, evidently recognising her, and Rachel wondered what particular malevolent god had chosen that she should make one abysmal mistake after another.

  'Um—nothing,' she said abruptly, releasing her and lifting the offended foot from her shoe to rub it tenderly against the calf of her other leg. 'Forget it.'

  Rosemary hesitated. 'I suppose you're expecting me to thank you for not telling my father what happened yesterday,' she declared suddenly, and Rachel looked up from examining the purpling bruise on her instep to find the child still confronting her.

  'I beg your pardon?'

  'Is that why you're here?' Rosemary demanded suspiciously.

  'I heard Grandma tell Daddy that you wouldn't dare to come here to the house, but you're here now, so is that why?'

  Rachel slid her foot back into her shoe and expelled a careful breath. 'Your—your mother was my cousin,' she said, after an awkward moment. 'That's why I'm here. Not—not for any other reason.'

  Rosemary frowned. 'Then why haven't I seen you before? If you're really Mummy's cousin, why haven't you come to visit?'

  Rachel hesitated now. 'It's a long story --- '

  'And not one for your ears, rabbit,' remarked a cool, crisp voice behind them. 'What's going on here? Aren't you supposed to be helping Mrs Moffat in the kitchen?'

  Rachel stiffened. The dark, velvety tones of her ex-husband's voice were unmistakable, and she didn't need to see Rosemary's instinctive reaction to his words to know who had joined them.

  'I don't want to help Mrs Moffat,' Rosemary mumbled now, casting an appealing look in her father's direction. 'You only want me to stay out of the way. You don't really care what I want to do!'

  Matthew moved into Rachel's line of vision, and, although she was loath to study his dark features, his daughter's words were so startling that she felt compelled to observe his expression.

  'I think you've done quite enough, Rosemary,' he declared, his tone still even, but icily remote. 'And as you prefer to be defiant rather than enjoy yourself in the kitchen, I suggest you find Agnetha and have her put you to bed. You'll really be out of the way then, won't you?'

  'No!'

  Rosemary's cry was anguished, a mixture of indignation and desperation, a frantic appeal to his finer feelings, but Matthew was not to be persuaded.

  'Bed, Rosemary,' he said implacably, gesturing towards the inner hallway and the staircase which, Rachel knew from experience, curved elegantly around its panelled walls.

  Rachel wanted to protest. She found herself wanting to say that perhaps Matthew's judgement had been a little harsh, and that Rosemary's remarks might have a grain of truth in them.

  But she didn't. She didn't know enough about the situation to warrant making some unguarded comment, and besides, her own experiences with Rosemary were hardly grounds for encouragement. It was nothing to do with her, she told herself firmly. Just because, for a moment there, she had felt a reluctant pang of sympathy for the child, there was no reason to get involved in what was possibly a long-running battle between them.

  There was a pause then, when Rachel half expected the girl to exhibit some further show of defiance, but it passed. With artificially bright eyes and only the faintest reddening of her nose to betray her emotions, Rosemary marched away towards the stairs, and Rachel was left to confront the child's father with her defensive shell not quite intact.

  Around them, the silence which had descended when Rosemary had challenged her father was quickly replaced.

  Although Rachel was sure that Matthew's other guests would all have liked to go on listening to their exchange, politeness, and embarrassment that they might be observed, forced them to contrive an air
of normality.

  'Matt,' she murmured stiffly now, using his name as both an acknowledgement and a farewell, then, walking rather gingerly on her still-painful instep, she started again towards the door.

  'Rachel!'

  Matthew's impatient summons was all too familiar, but she pretended not to hear. If she could just make it out on to the forecourt, she was sure she could persuade one of the liveried chauffeurs from the funeral directors to take her back to the vicarage, and once there she intended to pack and leave before her aunt and uncle noticed she was missing. Cowardly perhaps, but justifiable under the circumstances.

  'Rachel!'

  This time, Matthew's hand gripping the yielding flesh of her upper arm was determined. It was not like that other occasion, when there had been only the sheep and the birds that inhabited Rothdale Pike to observe them. Here, not only were they the cynosure of those eyes near enough to see what was happening, but their words could be overheard by as many people as cared to listen.

  Clenching her teeth, she looked up at him, willing him as she had done before to let her go, but this time he chose not to obey her silent command. 'I think we should talk, Rachel,' he said, his voice just as cool and deadly as it had been when he'd spoken to his daughter. 'Now— or later. It's all the same to me.'

  Rachel took a steadying breath. 'Why?' she countered tensely, refusing to let him intimidate her, and his eyes narrowed.

  'Why do you think?' he retorted. 'I want you to tell me why you followed Rosemary from the village yesterday. You were following her, weren't you? In spite of what she says.'

  'What does she say?' asked Rachel unwillingly, curious to know how the child had defended herself, but Matthew was having none of that.

  'I want to hear your story,' he told her, without releasing her arm, and Rachel's face flamed. He was treating her like a child, too, she thought indignantly. And embarrassing her as well, today of all days.

  'I should have thought you had more important things to think about,' she countered hotly, keeping her voice low with an effort. 'Matt, please—are you trying to humiliate me? Wasn't what happened ten years ago enough for you?'

  Matthew's grey eyes narrowed. 'Humiliating you?' he echoed, barely audibly, and this time she had no fear that anyone else could overhear his harsh denial. 'Humiliating you?

  Oh, Rachel, you don't know the meaning of the word!'

  'Matt! Matt, I've been looking everywhere for you!' As Matthew's hand fell away from Rachel's arm, Lady Olivia insinuated herself between them, her eyes, so like her son's, assessing in an instant the potential danger in the situation. Lady Olivia hadn't been looking for Matt, decided Rachel bitterly—

  although her interruption had probably not come a moment too soon. She had known exactly where he was all the time, and she had undoubtedly made a beeline for them. 'There are people waiting to speak to you,' she added, sliding her arm through his and circumventing any further exchange between the protagonists. 'Rachel,' she murmured, in much the same way as Rachel had used Matthew's name earlier, and, refusing to be diverted, she drew her son away.

  With no further obstacle to her departure now, Rachel felt suddenly loath to go. Even though she was aware that the little scene that had just concluded had not totally removed the covert glances being cast in her direction, she no longer felt the need to escape. The worst had happened. Matt had revealed his hatred for her, and embarrassed her in front of his friends. What more could he do to her?

  CHAPTER FOUR

  IN THE event, Rachel had to send for a taxi to take her back to the vicarage. And, in consequence, she was still gathering her things together when she heard the crunching sound of a limousine's wheels on the gravel of the drive.

  Her room, the room she had occupied wheri she had lived at the vicarage, was a small room at the front of the house, and so she could look down at the long black car without impediment.

  For a heart-stopping moment she wondered if it was Matt, come to continue his denunciation, but it wasn't. Her aunt and uncle were climbing out of the limousine, and her heart sank abruptly at this obvious obstruction to her plans.

  Leaving her case still open on the narrow bed, she hesitated only a moment before going downstairs. Favouring her left foot, she trod the creaking treads of the stairs with some misgivings.

  But the vicarage was old, and there was no way she could avoid the bald announcement of her presence.

  Her aunt and uncle were in the drawing-room, and as Rachel pushed open the door she could hear her aunt's stifled sobs. In spite of everything, she felt incredibly sorry for her. Her aunt was going to miss Barbara a lot, not least because she had always contrived to give her daughter the best, and Barbara's eventual marriage to Matthew Conroy had been the ultimate triumph. Without any other children to compensate them, her aunt and uncle had no one else—which was one of the reasons why Rachel had allowed herself to be persuaded to come here.

  But she knew now that it had been a mistake, and the malevolent face her aunt turned in her direction only emphasised the fact.

  'Er...' Rachel looked towards her uncle, who had risen to his feet at her entrance, and sought for words. 'I—

  er—I thought I'd be going - '

  'Going?' echoed her uncle blankly. 'Going where?' demanded her aunt, with sudden animation.

  Rachel moistened her dry lips. 'Um-back to London,' she managed, after a moment. 'Home,' she added, for good measure. 'If I leave now, I should - '

  'But this is your home, Rachel.' Her uncle was gazing at her with anxious eyes. 'My dear, have you forgotten already what we were saying as we drove to Rothmere? Don't you see? This is our chance, our opportunity to be reconciled.'

  Rachel didn't know what to say. It was certainly not what she had expected, and, looking at her aunt, she still couldn't believe she had any part of this plea for reconciliation.

  'Uncle Geoff,' she began awkwardly, 'I do appreciate what you say, but—well, I can't stay here. My work—

  my friends—are in London - '

  'He's not asking you to live here,' broke in her aunt abruptly.

  Drying her eyes with impatient fingers, she, too, got to her feet.

  'But you can't leave—not yet; not tonight. It wouldn't be right.

  What would people say?'

  Rachel was getting a little bit sick of worrying about what other people might say, or think. It was ten years since she had left the area. Ten years since she had had to care what anyone might say or think about her actions. That was one advantage of living in London. She could come and go as she pleased, with no one to feel answerable to. She had got used to being free, uncommitted, and if sometimes she found her life a little empty, it was the price she paid to guard her independence.

  'I don't see how my staying on here for another night will silence any speculation,' she said at last, looking at her uncle rather than Aunt Maggie. 'And, as I say, I do have a job

  '

  'Another night?' exclaimed her aunt, with irritation, and Geoffrey Barnes rubbed his hands together nervously as he was left to explain their wishes.

  'We thought—well, that you might stay on over the weekend,' he ventured, giving Rachel a hopeful look, and she sighed.

  'But it's only Tuesday, Uncle Geoff. That's five more days!'

  'Little enough, I should have thought, after what we've done for you,' retorted her aunt bitterly. 'What would you have done all those years ago if we hadn't taken you in, that's what I'd like to know? All those years we gave you a home, and now you can't spare five days to give your uncle and me a little support when we need it.'

  'Oh, Aunt Maggie ----- '

  'Maggie, my dear, we don't want Rachel to stay because she feels she owes us something -------------- '

  Rachel and her uncle spoke together, but Maggie Barnes was unrepentant. 'Why not?' she demanded, responding to her husband's reproachful words. 'She does owe us something, and if this job of hers was important enough to break up her marriage for, then surely she can take a cou
ple of days off when she feels like it without its causing the whole television station to close down!'

  Rachel bent her head. They all knew that the idea that she and Matt had separated because she had been offered a better job in London was just a myth, but this was hardly the time to resurrect those old grievances. And her aunt knew it. That was why she was using it now. Because she knew Rachel wouldn't—

  couldn't— contradict her. Not with Barbara's body lying scarcely cold in its grave.

  'We would be grateful if you could stay, of course,' her uncle murmured now, evidently torn between his desire to please his wife and his Christian duty to be fair. 'But only if you feel you can,' he added awkwardly. 'I mean, we'll understand if you have to get back to London.'

  Would they? Rachel wondered. She doubted that her aunt would forgive her if she chose the latter course, and, while she might tell herself that subsequent events had destroyed the normal family ties there should have been between them, nothing could alter the fact that they had given her a home when her father had died.

  'All right,' she said at last, feeling an undeniable sense of entrapment. 'I'll stay until Sunday. But I'll have to ring Justin Harcourt. He's expecting me back in the office tomorrow morning.'

  'Justin Harcourt?' muttered Aunt Maggie scornfully, gathering her bag and gloves together and making for the door.

  'What kind of a name is that for a man? Justin! I suppose he's one of those left-wing intellectuals, with long hair and Jesus sandals!'

  'Nevertheless, he is my boss, and I have to call him,' replied Rachel, biting back the urge to defend Justin to them. The brilliant, bulky editor of Network Southeast didn't need any defending, and she was not about to play into Aunt Maggie's hands by extolling the awards he had won for television journalism, or announcing that the programme they both worked on was presently the number one current affairs programme in the UK.

  'You can use the telephone in my study,' said her uncle helpfully, more than relieved at her capitulation, and Rachel forced a smile.