Season of Shadows

by Yvonne Whittal

  'My head aches, but otherwise I'm fine.' Those heavy-lidded eyes glittered strangely as they travelled over her, seeking their own reassurance, and her hands fluttered nervously as she straightened the sheets about her, almost as if she were afraid he would guess her secret. 'I'm sorry to have caused you so much trouble,' she apologised unsteadily.

  'My God, what were you trying to do?' he exploded unexpectedly with a violence that made her jump. 'Kill yourself?' he added harshly.

  'What happened wasn't intentional, and I've said I'm sorry,' she reminded him agitatedly.

  He stared hard at her for long, tense seconds, the line of his jaw taut, then he got to his feet and walked some distance away from her as if he could not bear to be near her. 'I'll get you something to eat,' he said, turning towards the door.

  'Please, I—I couldn't eat anything now.'

  He nodded slowly. 'I'd better leave you, then, to get some rest.'

  'Before you go, Anton, there's something I—I have to say to you.'

  'You're tired, Laura,' he said roughly, his hand resting on the polished brass handle of the door. 'Won't it keep until morning?'

  'No, it won't,' she insisted, and her mouth went dry as he moved away from the door to stand just beyond the circle of light coming from the bedside lamp. She passed . the tip of her tongue nervously across her lips, and swallowed. 'Please, Anton, I—I want you to know that I—I'll give you your freedom whenever you want it.'

  A deathly silence settled in the room, and, just for one fleeting moment, she wondered if it had not been a mistake to let him know that she was aware of his desire to end their marriage, but the next moment he set her mind, if not her heart, at rest by saying coldly, 'That's very generous of you, Laura. I shall keep that in mind.'

  Laura felt peculiarly drained of emotion when the door closed behind him seconds later, and not even when she heard the Jaguar being driven at speed from the house did she feel anything other than the dull pain in her injured head. Anton was going to Camilla, of course, and he was understandably in a hurry to tell her that his wife had announced herself willing to free him. How thrilled Camilla would be at the news of her easy victory—how triumphant! But what did it matter? Laura thought dully. Nothing mattered now any more—nothing at all!

  Sally and Jemima greeted Laura with concern when she came down to breakfast the following morning, but fortunately she was able to assure them that, apart from a slight headache, she ailed nothing more. She told Gina the same when she telephoned minutes after Sally had been driven off to school, and an hour later Laura was driving herself to Sea Point for her usual session with Alex.

  Laura was coming down Bellavista's wide staircase late the following afternoon when she heard raised voices in the hall below, and she hurried down the rest of the way to find Eddie involved in a verbal altercation with a young man who looked vaguely familiar. She stepped warily into the hall and asked, 'What's the problem, Eddie?'

  'This gentleman is from the newspapers, madam, and Mr Anton said—'

  'We've met before, Mrs DeVere. On the day after your sister and brother-in-law died, to be exact,' the young man interrupted, and when her brow cleared on recognition, he added cheekily, 'On that occasion I was ordered off the property, but this time I have information you would be well advised to listen to.'

  'Shall I see him off the premises, madam?' Eddie asked, his manner threatening.

  'No, Eddie,' Laura said at once. 'I'll see Mr…'

  'Farrell,' the young man supplied his name. 'Tim Farrell.'

  'Come this way, Mr Farrell,' Laura gestured towards the living-room, and the reporter smiled triumphantly at the glowering Eddie as he stepped into the hall and followed Laura. 'You said you had information. What information are you referring to?' she questioned once they were seated.

  'Robert Dean had been on a friendly mission for one of our oil companies to an oil-producing state in North Africa. He stopped over at Walvis Bay, and on that same night a Russian trawler made an unscheduled stop at that same harbour,' Tim Farrell explained without hesitation. 'One of the crew was taken off the trawler with suspected appendicitis, but it was a false alarm, and the trawler left again before dawn.'

  Laura hid her surprise admirably behind her controlled features. 'What are you trying to say, Mr Farrell?'

  'The trawler had docked next to the Bluebird, and, according to my informant, your sister and brother-in-law spent the evening with friends, leaving the Bluebird unguarded.'

  'I still don't understand what you're getting at.' Tim Farrell smiled that cheeky, triumphant smile as he delivered the conclusion to his story. 'If my theories are correct, then the trawler's unscheduled stop was planned and, as fate would have it, they had an ideal opportunity to plant that bomb on board the yacht.'

  'You're merely supposing, Mr Farrell,' she said with a coldness that matched the chill in her veins.

  'Not everything I've told you is supposition, Mrs DeVere, and unless you can prove me wrong, this story is going into print tomorrow.'

  Was this some form of moral blackmail? Laura wondered, suppressing her anger and her fears with difficulty as she said: 'I'm afraid I can't confirm or deny your theories, but I—'

  'Then my story goes into print as it is,' he announced flatly, preparing to leave.

  'Mr Farrell, I must ask you to reconsider,' Laura pleaded desperately now as she leapt to her feet to confront him. 'If not for my sake, then for the sake of their child… don't publicise your theories.'

  'My theories are based on certain facts, Mrs DeVere, and it's my job to make my findings public,' he stated adamantly, but he lost a considerable amount of his cockiness when Anton walked into the living-room, but Laura sighed inwardly with relief. She did not know how or why he had come home so early, but the main thing was that he was there.

  'If you print any of that drivel, I shall personally sue you and your newspaper, but if it's a story you want, then I'll give it to you,' Anton said in a calm, deadly voice that sent an involuntary shiver up Laura's spine as he continued. 'Robert Dean and his wife were on a pleasure cruise, nothing more, and the explosion on board their yacht was caused by an electrical fault which started a fire near the petrol supply tanks. That's all.'

  'If that's all, Mr DeVere, then why has this entire incident been shrouded in such secrecy?' Tim Farrell demanded, obviously not in the least convinced.

  'There's never been any need for secrecy,' Anton explained. 'It's merely been my intention to shield their daughter from the horror of what actually happened. A violent storm is a hazard to every yachtsman at sea. Their daughter knew this, and I decided that the knowledge that they were shipwrecked in one such storm would be a more acceptable explanation for someone of her age.'

  'Is this the truth, Mr DeVere?' Tim Farrell questioned daringly.

  'Do you doubt my word?' Anton demanded autocratically, the height and size of him dwarfing the young man considerably.

  'How do you explain that Russian trawler docking beside them in Walvis Bay on such a flimsy excuse, and why did the explosion occur at the exact time Robert Dean was to break radio silence?' the reporter continued a little sceptically, and with a boldness Laura had to admire.

  'The time of the explosion was a coincidence, nothing more, and the trawler…' Anton shrugged his broad shoulders beneath the superbly tailored jacket of his dark grey suit and said authoritatively, 'its unscheduled stop was quite innocent. They thought they had a sick man on board, but it turned out they were wrong, and they left at once.'

  'It seems I'm not the only one who's been investigating the accident,' the reporter remarked suspiciously.

  'No, Farrell, you're not, and I've heard several other improbable theories from various sensation-seekers such as yourself,' Anton assured him harshly. 'There was no mystery involved in their deaths, as the official investigation proved, so drop the subject, and find yourself a sensational story elsewhere.'

  Tim Farrell's face fell. 'There's been an official investigation, then?'r />
  'Naturally,' Anton smiled, but his eyes remained hard and cold. 'If you stop to have a chat to your editor you'll discover that an official report is being prepared for tomorrow's edition of your newspaper, and the contents will be exactly as I told you, except that your editor, along with several others, has kindly agreed not to dwell on the explosion on board the yacht.'

  The young man went white, then red as he glanced from Anton to Laura and back again, but anger and defeat was mirrored in his eyes when he said abruptly, 'I'm sorry I wasted your time.'

  Anton and Laura faced each other in silence until the outer door closed behind him, then Laura asked jerkily, 'What's the truth, Anton?'

  His mouth tightened ominously, then his explanation fell harshly on her ears. 'The Russian trawler and the bomb on board the Bluebird is fact, but there's no proof to lay accusations at anyone's door. We're pretty sure, though, that someone must have known that Robert had it in his power to alleviate the oil crisis in South Africa. He had influential friends in the right places who might have sold oil to us at a not so exorbitant price, and this was what our enemies wanted to prevent.'

  Laura's aching head was spinning with the effort to assimilate these new facts and, turning from him, she said weakly, 'I think I'll go upstairs, if you don't mind.'

  'Before you go,' he said abruptly, reaching the door before her and closing it in a manner that placed her on her guard for some unknown reason, but she understood why the next instant when he asked, 'Who's your friend in Sea Point?'

  Laura knew at once that no one but Camilla could have passed this information on to him, and her pulse hammered nervously in her throat as she said with forced casualness, 'It's no one you would know.'

  'Is it a man?' he demanded harshly, his eyes glittering hard as they flicked over her.

  She shrugged tiredly. 'What difference does it make? I'm entitled to have friends of my own, aren't I?'

  'Is he a friend, or a lover?'

  'Don't be ridiculous! Alex—' She bit her lip, cursing herself for that slip of the tongue in her moment of anger.

  'So it's Alex, is it?' he smiled cynically, lessening the distance between them until he towered over her like a hawk preparing for the kill. 'Alex who?'

  'It's none of your business!' she snapped furiously, only to find her shoulders gripped in fingers of steel intent on punishment.

  'That's where you're wrong, Laura. It's very much my business.' His voice was low and dangerous. 'Do you tell me freely, or do I have to force the truth out of you?'

  'You have no right to question me like this,' she protested hotly. 'I don't question your affair with Countess von Dissel, and I—'

  'Be very careful what you say, Laura,' he interrupted, his hands biting deeper into the soft flesh of her upper arms, and his nearness a bitter-sweet agony that made her want to weep. 'Now, tell me,' he insisted, his eyes like twin blades piercing her soul. 'Who is this man you've been seeing?'

  'His name is Alex Muir,' she relented in fear. 'He's an artist, and he was responsible for the decor of that new business centre in the city.'

  'Is he your lover?' he shot the next question at her, making her flinch.

  She shook her head dumbly, unable to speak past the lump in her throat.

  'Don't lie to me, damn you!' he shouted, shaking her until it felt as if her neck would snap.

  'I'm not lying to you,' she gasped, her head falling forward until her hair veiled the tears on her thick, dark lashes. 'Please, you're h-hurting m-me,' she begged at last, unable to stand the pain a moment longer.

  'Do you expect me to believe you went to this man's flat for two days in a row, and that your association with him is purely platonic?' he demanded cynically, slackening his grip on her arms, but not releasing her. 'What do you think I am, Laura? A halfwit?'

  She raised her head and stared unwaveringly for a moment into those cold, accusing eyes, then she said with complete honesty, 'I've been going to Alex's flat every morning for the past two weeks.'

  'So I'm getting the truth at last, am I?' he grated, his lips drawn back against his teeth in a sneer, then she was released with a suddenness that made her stagger. 'Go on,' he ordered harshly. 'I'm waiting for an explanation.'

  'I met Alex once, very briefly, at the start of our holiday at Gordon's Bay, and we met for the second time at the opening of that new business centre.'

  'Was that when you both discovered that you had an undying passion for each other?'

  Laura felt like slapping him, but she curled her fingers tightly into her palms. 'The only passion Alex has ever displayed in my presence is his passion for art,' she said tritely. 'He's doing a portrait of me.'

  'At his suggestion, or yours?' Anton wanted to know, his eyes narrowing.

  'It was at his suggestion.'

  His mouth curved derisively. 'It's a nude study, no doubt.'

  'Just what do you think I am, Anton?' she demanded hoarsely, her eyes sparkling with an inner anger.

  'You're my wife, and I forbid you to see this man again,' he stated coldly.

  'I'm afraid I have to go for the final sitting tomorrow.'

  'Forget it!' Anton thundered, towering over her once more in a way that made her tremble inwardly with renewed fear. 'I will not have people making nasty speculations about my wife!'

  'Do you prefer them to make nasty speculations about Camilla and yourself?' Laura countered swiftly in a flash of anger she could not control.

  Anton went peculiarly white about the mouth, then one hand encircled her throat, exerting a pressure which almost shut off her supply of air. 'Don't drive me too far, Laura,' he warned savagely. 'You will not see this man again. Do I make myself clear?'

  Dizzy, and horrifyingly close to fainting, she said hastily, 'Very clear.'

  She was released at once and stood swaying before him for a moment until her head cleared, then, choking back a sob, she wrenched open the door to beat a hasty retreat up to her room.

  Dinner was a silent affair that evening, with Anton seated morosely at the head of the table. Sally ventured a questioning glance in Laura's direction, but Laura gestured her unobtrusively to silence, and afterwards they both trouped upstairs without speaking.

  Alone in her room once more, Laura supposed it had been wrong of her to agree to sit for Alex without Anton knowing, but she felt that Anton was as much to blame for the existing situation. He had openly encouraged Camilla, and had made no secret of the fact that he had preferred her company. Now that her anger and her hurt had subsided, she realised that her visits to Alex's flat could very easily have been interpreted incorrectly. When they saw his flat, of course, they would realise their mistake, but… Oh, damn!

  A car came up the drive, and, thinking it might be Graham, Laura touched up her make-up and went downstairs a few minutes later. She heard the low murmur of Anton's deep-throated voice as she crossed the hall, but it was Camilla's voice which made her jerk to a halt when she reached the living-room door.

  'Anton darling,' Laura heard her say, 'you really must try to hurry things along a little.'

  'I'm doing my best, Camilla, but it will be soon, I promise you,' Anton replied in a calm, reassuring voice.

  'I can't wait,' Camilla sighed.

  'Neither can I,' Anton agreed with a hint of impatience in his voice, and through the chink in the door Laura saw Camilla move towards Anton, presumably into his arms.

  She did not stay to witness more, and, turning blindly, she made her way upstairs as swiftly as her trembling legs would allow. When she reached the sanctuary of her bedroom Camilla's 'I can't wait' ricocheted tauntingly through her mind, and hard at its heels followed Anton's impatient, 'Neither can I.'

  'Dear heaven,' she thought as she lowered her trembling body on to the bed and buried her face in her hands, 'how-much pain and suffering can one person endure before that stage is reached where it no longer matters?'

  Laura slept badly that night, but when she awoke the following morning she had come to a decision ab
out what she would do. She was going to Alex's flat for that final sitting, regardless of what Anton might say or do.

  'I'm not supposed to be here,' she told Alex later that morning as she arranged herself into her usual position on the low stool near the window.

  'Why not?' Alex asked, glancing at her sharply. .

  'Anton has discovered that I've been coming here,' she explained, bitterness curving her mouth. 'He thinks we're having an affair, and has forbidden me to see you again.'

  'You shouldn't have kept it a secret from him that you were coming here to have your portrait painted.'

  'Perhaps,' she shrugged carelessly. 'But if he can do just as he pleases, why can't I?'

  'That's a dangerous attitude to adopt with a man like Anton DeVere,' Alex warned. 'You should know better than I do that he's not the kind of man to accept that type of reasoning.'

  'He's selfish, egotistical, arrogant, and—'

  'And you love him,' Alex filled in quietly for her when she paused.

  For a moment Laura could not speak, then she groaned, 'Oh, God, I wish I were dead!'

  'Cheer up, Laura. Things are usually never as bad as they seem,' he reassured her with that flashing smile which usually drew a similar response from her. 'How's the head?'

  'It's aching a bit this morning, but I'll survive.'

  I'll survive. Her own words echoed back at her hollowly while Alex worked on in silence. She would survive, but she would not have lived. She swallowed down the painful lump in her throat, and stared fixedly out of the window in an effort not to cry, but the restless, turbulent sea offered her no peace of mind, nor the comfort she so desperately needed.

  'You can relax, Laura,' Alex said at last, putting down his brushes. 'It's done.'

  'May I look now?' she asked eagerly, swinging her legs stiffly to the floor.'

  'Not yet,' he smiled. 'I still have to add the finishing touches, but for that I regrettably shan't be requiring your delightful presence.'

  Laura stared at him for a moment, taking in the sun-bleached hair, and the tall, lanky body clad in old denims and paint-bespattered blue shirt. In a short space of time he had become her friend, and someone she could confide in, she thought, and then she sighed, 'I think I'm going to miss these sessions here with you.'