by Unknown
'Thanks,' she said, as her aunt made a sound of impatience before disappearing upstairs. 'I'll make the call now.' Then, aware of the clammy after-effects of her exchange with Matt, she added, 'And then I'll take a bath, if you don't mind. I'd like to freshen up.'
Justin was predictably peevish when she told him she wouldn't be back at work until Monday. 'You said two days, Rachel,' he reminded her irritably, and she could hear his pencil beating a tattoo on his desk—a sure sign of his uncertain temper.
'I know I did,' she conceded ruefully, perched on the edge of Uncle Geoff's worn leather armchair. 'But—well, Barbara was my cousin, and—and I can't just walk out on them.'
'Your aunt and uncle?'
'Yes.'
'The aunt and uncle who've made no attempt to see you in ten years?'
Rachel sighed. 'Yes.'
'Oh, Rachel!'
'Well...' She was defensive now. 'Look, circumstances alter cases. You know that. And—and it's different now, now Barbara's—Barbara's -------------------- '
'Dead?'
'Not here,' amended Rachel uncomfortably. 'Justin, she was their only child. It's only natural that they should feel bereft.'
Justin was silent for a moment. Then he said harshly, 'And are you planning on taking your cousin's place? Now that Barbara's dead, do you feel differently about what happened between her and your ex-husband? Have you seen him, by the way? You must have, I suppose. Is he part of this sudden desire to assuage your aunt and uncle's grief? Perhaps you're hoping you can assuage his grief, too?'
'No!' Rachel was incensed at his words. 'That's not true.
None of it. To start with, Aunt Maggie would be the last person to want me here, and as for taking Barbara's place—well, I couldn't. I wouldn't want to. My home's in London now. I'm happy there. The last thing I need is for you to start putting ideas like that into Dan's head. Five days more and I'll be back. And that's a promise.'
'I'm sure our inestimable producer will be glad to hear it,'
remarked Justin drily. 'But you still haven't mentioned Conroy.
How's he taking it? Or would you rather not say?'
'You are a bastard, Justin.' Rachel's fingers clenched around the receiver. 'Matt—Matt's upset, of course.' Or was he? She had seen no evident signs of it. 'And naturally I've see him, and—
and spoken to him. It was no big deal. We are civilised human beings. Or, at least, some of us are.'
'All right, all right.' To her relief, Justin appeared to accept her protestations at face value, and Rachel breathed a little more easily. 'OK. So we can expect you back in the office on Monday morning, right? Bright and early, hmm? Just in case we're swamped with mail.'
'Right.'
Rachel made her farewells and replaced the receiver, not realising until after the phone had been put down that she was trembling. It was ridiculous, she thought impatiently. It wasn't as if Justin had been particularly objectionable. On the contrary, if anything, he had been fairly easy on her, and she knew he would intercede with Dan Stern on her behalf. No, her call to Justin was not to blame for her present state of upheaval. She had been on edge ever since yesterday, when she had had that run- in with Matthew and his daughter. And his attitude towards her today in no way reassured her that the past was literally dead and gone.
Sitting comfortably in the bath some fifteen minutes later, however, she was more inclined to dismiss her earlier apprehensions. Lying back in the water, made soft by a little of Aunt Maggie's bath salts, she endeavoured to relax. What were five more days, after all? she asked herself logically. At home, in London, five days could pass incredibly quickly, particularly if she was obliged to work on Saturday mornings too. And spending a few days in such spectacular surroundings ought to be an advantage. She had always loved the scenery of the Lake District, and she could surely put up with her aunt's ill- humour if it meant so much that she should stay.
And, however much she tried to avoid the fact, she did owe her aunt and uncle quite a lot. She had often wondered what might have happened to her if her father's brother and his wife had not taken her in. Twenty years ago, the alternatives of either a foster home or an orphanage had not sounded at all inviting, and she had been unutterably relieved when Mr Jennings, her father's solicitor and the executor of his will, had informed her she was to live with her relations.
All the same, it had been a daunting experience, travelling north to Cumbria to live with an aunt and uncle she had never even met. Her father had been totally unlike his brother, so Mr Jennings had told her. Her uncle had been quite content to enter the Church and live a quiet existence, whereas her father had chosen to help his fellow man in a totally different way. After qualifying for the medical profession, he had taken himself off to Africa, where he had considered his talents could be put to best use. He had married her mother, a nurse he had met working in Nigeria, and for the first five years of Rachel's life Lagos had been her home. Then, tragically, her mother had died in one of the seasonal outbreaks of some intestinal disease that was prevalent in the area, and her father, grief-stricken by his loss, had packed up himself and his small daughter and moved back to England.
But from then on, until his death some six years later, they had never settled in one place for longer than a few months. Her father, once a caring, conscientious physician, had started drinking, and although Rachel was too young to understand all that was happening she soon realised that their nomadic existence and her father's growing dependence on the bottle were linked.
Nevertheless, when he died she was devastated. He was all she had had, and she had loved him very much. She was frightened, too, by the knowledge that, although she was almost twelve years old, and had been taking care of the various apartments and rented houses she and her father had lived in for the past six years, the authorities were not going to allow her to live alone and look after herself.
That was when Percy Jennings, her father's solicitor, had come to her rescue. It was he who located her father's brother and informed him of Philip Barnes's death. Until that time there had been no communication between the brothers—not since before Rachel was born, anyway—and when she was told that he had offered her a home she had known an overwhelming sense of relief. In spite of her father's addiction, her experiences of family life had all been good, and although she had been a little apprehensive on that journey north she had never doubted that she would be made welcome.
Consequently, it had been quite a surprise to encounter hostility in her new home, almost from the first day. It soon became apparent that Geoffrey Barnes's sense of responsibility for his orphaned niece was not shared by his wife and daughter.
Aunt Maggie had taken an immediate dislike to her, and Barbara had resented her. From the tentatively happy anticipation of making a new life with her new family, Rachel had sunk into a chasm of despair, and the first few months she had spent at St Mary's vicarage had been the most miserable time of her life.
Of course, she had rallied. She was not her father's daughter for nothing, and she made friends of her own who compensated for her cousin's spitefulness. And Uncle Geoff had always treated her with affection, she acknowledged honestly. The trouble was, he had always seen the best in people, particularly in his own family, and in consequence he'd never known the many minor injustices Rachel was made to suffer.
The water was getting cold now, and, wrapping the rather rough towel which Aunt Maggie had provided around her, Rachel stepped out of the bath. It had all happened a long time ago, she told herself firmly, determining not to brood about the past. Just because she was here, in Rothside, in the vicarage where it had all started, there was no reason to start remembering events that no longer had any bearing on her life.
After ensuring that the landing was deserted, Rachel scuttled back to her room, shivering in spite of the evidence that the central heating had been set in motion. The ancient pipes and radiators were clunking their way into action, filling the old building with odd bangs and clangings
. That was a sound Rachel remembered well from winter mornings, but, aware of the dangers of remembering, she resolutely dismissed the thought.
Matthew stalked down to the stables in a foul mood. The morning had begun badly, and it showed no signs of improving.
The conversation he had had with his mother at breakfast had been partly to blame. She was concerned about Rosemary. She was upset about the way he had boorishly banished her to bed the previous afternoon. But she could have no idea of the anguish he had felt when he had found his daughter talking to Rachel. He had wanted to punish them both. But, of course, he couldn't do that. So, instead, he had used Rosemary as a convenient scapegoat and taken his anger out on the child yet again. He wasn't proud of what he had done. He had felt bloody awful about it for the rest of the day, as a matter of fact. Thank God for the anaesthetic effects of alcohol, he thought broodingly. At least, he had been able to induce a blessed state of unconsciousness for a while.
But seeing Rachel again had hit him harder than he could have anticipated. He found that wounds he had thought healed and, if not forgotten, at least invisible, were dangerously vulnerable. She had hurt him—hurt him badly—and scars like that just didn't fade away.
Of course, his mother suspected what was wrong. That was why she had intervened. And although, at the time, he had been furiously angry at her interference, later on he had acknowledged that it was probably the safest thing.
Nonetheless, their conversation this morning had been just as acrimonious. Just because Rachel's name had not been mentioned, it did not mean it was not uppermost in both their minds. And then, to cap it all, when his conscience drove him to find Rosemary and make amends by taking her over to Ambleside for the day, once again she was nowhere to be found.
Agnetha had not improved matters, by reporting that she had found both cigarettes and matches in Rosemary's bedroom that morning. 'She is very naughty girl, ja,' she declared, giving Matthew a winning smile that completely contradicted her words. She fluttered long, feathery eyelashes at him. 'You vish I should help you find her, Mr Conroy? I come with you, jaV Her gaze lingered on his well-formed mouth. 'Ve help each other, no?'
'No.'
Matthew had been curt and abrupt, but he had no time now for Agnetha's flattery. He wasn't a conceited man, but he had been aware for the past sue months that the Swedish girl was hoping he might be attracted to her. And the way she was looking at him at this moment convinced him that sooner or later she would have to go. He had put up with it while Barbara was alive. To have given the girl notice would have aroused too many awkward questions, and Barbara had been hysterical enough as it was. But now Barbara was gone. He had no further reason to procrastinate. And it was only his impatience to find his daughter that prevented him from telling her there and then.
The lake lay beneath a mantle of grey vapour, and, in spite of his knit shirt and hacking jacket, Matthew shivered. Yet it was the time of year that he liked best, when the high peaks still carried a cap of snow, but down in the valley bluebells made a carpet beneath his feet.
There was so much colour, he reflected, reluctantly diverted by his awareness of nature. Daffodils and tulips still grew beneath the copse of silver birch and cypress trees that screened the stable block from the house, and almond and cherry blossom sprinkled the paths that led into the cobbled yard. And a dusky pink clematis would soon be growing over the wall of the stables, its delicate flowers sheltered from the winds that blew from the west.
Jim Ryan, his head groom, was just emerging from a barn as his employer strode into the yard. The diminutive Irishman had worked for Matthew, and his father before him, for almost forty years, and although he was in his late fifties now he was still as spritely as ever.
'Morning, Mr Matt,' he saluted the younger man cheerfully, in much the same way he used to address Matt's father when he was alive. 'It's a dull day. Are you thinking that it's likely to get out?'
'Let's hope so.' Matthew's response was crisp, his eyes intent as he glanced round the yard. He acknowledged the shouted greeting of a boy curry-combing a bay mare in the middle of the yard, and thrust his hands into his pockets as he surveyed the surrounding stalls.
'Would you be wanting Saracen saddled?' enquired Ryan tentatively, sensing his employer's mood and not wishing to draw attention to it. 'Sure, and he'd be glad of the exercise, wouldn't you know?'
Matthew expelled his breath slowly. 'Is Rosemary here?' he asked after a moment. 'I thought she might be.'
'The little one?' The Irishman frowned and shook his head.
'No, sir. I haven't seen the young lady this morning, I'm afraid.
You'll be looking for her, then?'
'As you say.' Matthew took another breath, trying to control his irritation. Where the hell was she? She ought to know better than to go wandering off. And if she wasn't riding her pony, had she cut across the fells to Rothside yet again?
'Would you have me send young Peter over there to help you?' Ryan was asking now, but Matthew shook his head.
'No,' he said shortly. And then, realising he was being boorish, he softened his words with a slight smile. 'No, I'll find her. Thanks for your help, Jim. I'll let you know if there's anything you can do.'
Striding back towards the house, Matthew remembered he hadn't asked Jim Ryan about the cigarettes, but he decided that could wait. Besides, it was hardly likely that one of his stable-boys would have given them to her. He thought they had more sense, particularly as they knew they were not indispensable, and it would hardly be worth risking dismissal for such a ridiculous offence. No, Rosemary had to be getting them from somewhere else. But where? Agnetha didn't smoke, so he couldn't blame her.
Fifteen minutes later he was behind the wheel of the Range Rover, on his way to the village. None of his staff knew where Rosemary was, and he was rapidly losing patience with the whole affair. All the same, he couldn't help remembering his daughter's face when he had bawled her out the previous day.
He hoped to God she hadn't done anything really rash, like thumbing a lift into Penrith or Carlisle. She was reckless enough to do it, and his anger was tempered now with an unwilling sense of anxiety.
He was halfway along the lake shore when he saw them. A mile beyond the gates of the estate the road dipped down towards the lake, and in summer tourists parked above a shingly stretch of beach, and launched windsurfers and dinghies into the shallow water. Presently, however, it was too early for holiday-makers, during the week at least, and the woman and child who were exploring the rocky inlet were completely unaware of anyone's observation.
For a moment, Matthew was almost blinded by the anger he felt at seeing them together yet again. Then, without even thinking what he was doing, he stepped on his brakes, bringing the Range Rover to a screeching halt in the middle of the road, only realising his mistake when a van behind set up a noisy protest.
'Blast!'
Raising a hand to placate the driver behind, Matthew thrust the vehicle violently back into gear and drove it on to the parking space above the beach. Instead of being able to come upon his daughter and her companion unawares, the noisy horn-blowing had drawn their attention to his ignominious arrival, and when he climbed from behind the wheel Rosemary already looked as if she was on the point of taking off.
But it was the woman who took the initiative. As if assessing Rosemary's feelings, she took the little girl by the hand and faced him with cool condemnation, her green eyes meeting his without any trace of intimidation.
'Were you trying to frighten us?' Rachel enquired coldly, as Matthew strove to regain his composure. 'Was it absolutely necessary to make such a noise? We're not blind. We would have seen you, sooner or later.'
Matthew's jaw clamped. 'It wasn't my fault,' he declared, between his teeth. 'What do you take me for? Some kind of moron? I stalled the car, that's all. Someone else blew their horn.'
Rachel regarded him doubtfully. 'Then who was it?'
'The idiot behind,' retorted Matthew, not altoget
her charitably. It had been his fault, after all. He took a steadying breath. 'Might I ask what's going on?'
'Rachel's been showing me how to play ducks and drakes,'
put in his daughter quickly, evidently feeling confident enough to loosen her hand from Rachel's. 'Look!' She bent and picked up a flat pebble, and made an amateurish attempt to send it skimming across the water. 'Rachel says you used to be good at it. Were you, Daddy? Were you? Will you show me?'
The child's prattle had given Matthew time to gather his thoughts, however, and his initial anger at finding his daughter with the woman he had believed would be safely back in London hardened.
'Never mind about that, how dare you leave the estate again without my permission?' he demanded fiercely, catching the child's arm in a purposeful grasp and jerking her swiftly towards him. 'Do you realise I've spent the past hour looking for you?'
'Daddy!'
Rosemary's cry was painful, but Matthew was in no state to care if he was hurting her. His own feelings were too raw and chaotic to pay much attention to his daughter's.
'For goodness' sake ---- '
Rachel was evidently shocked by his behaviour, but Matthew hardly cared what her reaction might be. 'It didn't occur to you that people might be worried about her, did it?' he snarled. 'After all the publicity there's been about children wandering off on their own, and being picked up by some pervert, you happily let her stay with you, indifferent to any upheaval it might be causing.'
Rachel stiffened now. 'You can hardly pretend that it's the first time,' she stated, aware of Rosemary's anxious eyes upon her, and Matthew scowled.
'Whether it is or not is no concern of yours,' he retorted. 'The fact remains, you didn't give a--' He broke off at this point and rephrased his statement. 'You didn't care that her absence might create a panic. It's bad enough that you should be the one to find her, without--------'
'I didn't know that you were looking for her!' Rachel interrupted him abruptly. 'And it's not been my impression that you particularly care where she is, in any case.'