by Penny Jordan
His casual arrogance infuriated Jaime.
‘It might not matter to you,’ she agreed, ‘but Fern and I have to live here after you’ve gone.’
‘And you’re frightened it will spoil your chances with Thomson? I’ve already told you, Jaime,’ Blake said in a harsh voice, ‘he isn’t the man for you—he isn’t man enough for you.’
‘I can’t do it, Blake. We can’t simply move in with you.’
‘Not even to protect Fern?’
Jaime’s heart slammed to a full stop and then started beating again as the full horror of his words sank in. She had been right, not to trust her instincts. Blake did know about these threats, and that was why he wanted them to move in with him. Perhaps he had originally gone along with Caroline’s plans and was now having second thoughts. Perhaps what had happened at the school had alerted him to the reality of their danger and now he was trying to protect them— or rather, he was trying to protect Fern.
‘It’s impossible,’ she said it shakily, too sick at heart to try and conceal her reaction, ‘and besides,’ she added numbly, ‘there’s your work; you won’t be able to concentrate on your writing with us around.’
‘So who’s going to watch over you, Jaime? Thomson?’
‘At least Charles’ motives are honest ones,’ Jaime snapped back, stung by the contempt in his voice when he mentioned Charles’ name. She straightened up from unpacking her shopping, just in time to see the thin cruel line Blake’s mouth had become. His eyes glittered, green jade shot through with gold, a sure sign that he was in danger of losing his temper. She stepped back automatically, although there had never been a single occasion when Blake had ever hurt her physically, and as though the act of her cowering away snapped the final threat that held his temper in check, Blake advanced on her, grasping her shoulders and almost violently shaking her. ‘Stop casting me as the villain of the piece, Jaime,’ he demanded angrily, ‘and don’t cower away from me like that. God, I can almost understand why some men are driven to violence by women!’ He looked down into her pale face and swore suddenly, his mouth covering hers before Jaime could utter the smallest protest.
It was a bitter travesty of the kisses they had shared last night, a cold, cruel method of branding her as his possesion, more effective than any blow, lacerating her pride and bruising her soft mouth. She tried not to respond; not to let her lips soften into submission beneath the hard pressure of his; but to her shame, they accepted his touch, knowing and wanting it no matter how contemptuous it was.
‘Damn you, Jaime. You make me forget that. . . .’ He broke off, and released her. ‘I’m going now. If you won’t come and live with me, at least promise me that you’ll take care?’
Her pride still smarting from the angry kiss he had forced on her Jaime snapped bitterly, ‘It’s a bit too late for you to start worrying about us now, isn’t it?’
For a moment, a white, haunted look subtly changed Blake’s features so that she might have been looking at a stranger, and then it changed, angry colour burning along his cheek bones, his eyes as bitter as his voice.
When he had gone, Jaime sank down in a chair, burying her face in her hands as she rocked back and forth, trying to exorcise the pain tearing into her. It got worse, not better. Her body craved him as it might a drug, her heart yearned for him, and her mind feverishly tried to resist the claims of the other two and think only of Fern and how Blake had put his child at risk.
There was another meeting of the protest committee that evening, and Jaime forced herself to go. The young couple next door had returned and promised to sit in with Fern. Jaime felt happier about leaving her with them than with Mrs Widdows who would be able to do nothing to protect Fern if anything should happen. As she got ready, a small traitorous voice reminded her that, with Blake, Fern would have been completely safe, but how could she agree to live with him, loving him as she did and yet suspecting his involvement with Barrons and Caroline?
Charles came to pick her up, his manner stiff and formal. Jaime knew she ought to offer some explanation about Blake’s presence in the cottage, but the words simply would not come.
‘We’ve got someone down from the Department this evening to talk to us about the problems they have to face. Do you know how many historic buildings have been deliberately destroyed this year alone?’
Jaime did not, and, since statistics were one of Charles’ hobby horses, she listened with one ear to his outpourings, relieved when they finally reached the church hall where the meeting was to be held.
The first thing Jaime noticed was the drastic reduction in attendance. There was no sign of Paul Davis, and Charles said, curtly, that he understood that the Barrons were substantial investors in the independent radio station that Paul ran.
‘He’s probably decided that it would be more diplomatic of him to withdraw from the campaign,’ Charles told her.
So, gradually, Barrons were whittling down the opposition to their plans. It only needed her to convince Charles to withdraw and they would virtually have a clear field. Jaime shivered despite the warmth of the summer evening. Could she now expect their harassment to increase? Both they and Caroline must be anxious to see a conclusion to the sale.
The speaker, an attractive and vigorous woman in her forties, spoke well and with great feeling about the problems their Department had to face. Their only means of punishing those who transgressed against preservation orders was the threat of prosecution, plus a large fine.
‘And, of course, an unscrupulous building company always claims that the demolition or destruction is the fault of the contractors who acted contrary to instructions. Once a building has been destroyed, there is nothing we can do, and very often the profit element on whatever is built on the land is such that they can pay the fine and still show a substantial profit at the end of the day.
‘I could list a dozen or more incidents where old and historically valuable buildings have been destroyed over a bank holiday weekend by a man with a bulldozer, acting on apparently “misunderstood” instructions. We believe he has understood his instructions all too well, but the problem is in tracting those instructions back to the company who stands to profit the most.
‘Barrons is one of the companies we know to use these underhand methods, but we’ve never been able to prove it. The BBC are actually hoping to do an in-depth enquiry programme on just this sort of abuse, and if they do, we’re hoping that it will highlight the problems we face.’
‘Do you think Barrons will try to destroy the Abbey?’ someone called up from the audience.
‘I don’t know. The owner is very keen to sell to them, but I understand there is another buyer— not offering quite as much, but someone who wants to keep the Abbey as a home and restore it. Obviously, as far as we and you are concerned, this would be a much more attractive proposition, but we can’t entirely discount the fact that Barrons may insist that they have a prior lien on the purchase.’
The rest of the evening passed quickly. Charles drove Jaime home, in silence, speaking only when he had brought his car to a halt outside the cottage.
‘In view of your apparent reconciliation with your husband, our . . . relationship will have to be terminated. I can’t help wishing you had spoken to me first, Jaime,’ he added in a pained voice. ‘As your legal adviser, I should have been made aware of your intentions, and on a more personal note, you must have known. . . .’
‘Charles, I do apologise,’ Jaime interrupted, feeling obliged to mirror his formal tone, ‘and, of course, I hope we shall stay friends.’
As she got out of the car she had to suppress a faintly hysterical laugh. They had both been so absurdly formal, like a couple out of a treatise on correct manners. As she walked up the path to the cottage door, she reflected that, at least, she could not now be expected to bring pressure to bear on Charles to quit the Committee. All she could hope was that whoever it was who was prepared to buy and live in the Abbey managed to persuade Caroline to sell it. That would solve a
ll their problems.
Her neighbours greeted her warmly when she walked in, and assured her that Fern had been no trouble. Jaime thanked them for sitting for her and then, when they had gone, began her routine nightly check of the house. She had just finished when the ’phone rang. She stared at it with compulsive dread for several seconds before lifting the receiver.
‘Jaime?’
Blake’s voice sounded sharp.
‘Blake. Is ... is something wrong?’
‘No, I just wanted to check that you got back safely. You did go to tonight’s meeting, didn’t you?’
‘Yes.’ Her voice dull and flat, Jaime gave her repty. Just for a second, she had been warmed by his concern; had wanted to pour out to him her hopes that the Abbey might have an alternative buyer, and then she had remembered his involvement with Caroline.
‘That’s all right then,’ now his voice was as devoid of feeling as her own, ‘I’ll say “goodnight” then.’
The ’phone in the Lodge was in the hall and, just as she was about to replace the receiver, Jaime heard someone knock on the door, and then Caroline’s voice reached her.
‘Darling. . .’ she heard her say, ‘here I am, at last.’
She replaced the receiver, feeling acutely sick. Were Caroline and Blake already lovers? She had always known that Caroline was attracted to Blake, and Blake? . . . Blake had never refused an attractive woman’s advances, surely she already knew that?
After another disturbed night, Jaime woke up late, but this morning there was no Blake to make breakfast for her. After eating a slice of toast and drinking a cup of coffee, she got Fern ready for her visit to the Vicarage, instructing her to play quietly in the sitting room while she changed for her appointment with the insurance assessor.
A tailored, soft yellow skirt she had bought the previous summer, teamed with a blouse in the same colour, decorated with pretty, self-embroidery, seemed appropriately formal without being too dressy. As she brushed her dark hair, Jaime debated whether to put it up and then decided against doing so. A touch of blue eyeshadow to emphasise the dark sapphire of her eyes, and the merest covering of soft pink lip gloss completed her make-up and then she was hack downstairs, calling to Fern.
Mary Simmonds came out to the Mini when Jaime arrived, escorted by the four-year old twins, Simon and Mark. By the time Jaime was ready to leave five minutes later, having refused a cup of coffee, Fern was already expertly bossing the two little boys about, and they were her willing slaves.
‘Don’t worry about rushing back,’ Mary Simmonds told Jaime when she explained where she was going, ‘Fern can stay all day if necessary.’
An empty Ford estate car was already parked outside the school when Jaime arrived, and, as she locked her Mini, Jaime frowned faintly. She had noticed a certain sluggishness in her brakes as she drove to the school. The car had been serviced only recently, and she would have to take it back to have the brakes re-checked— another potential expense.
As she stepped into the school, a tall, fairhaired man came towards her, wiping dusty fingers on what had once been a pristine white handkerchief.
‘I know,’ he grinned, when he saw the look on Jaime’s face, ‘my mother will kill me. She keeps threatening to buy me only dark-coloured ones. I’m Rick Brewer,’ he introduced himself, ‘and you must be Jaime? Bill told me you were very attractive, but he didn’t do you justice. You must be very upset about all this,’ he added, gesturing to the room behind him. ‘I doubt that any of the fittings can be salvaged. Bill tells me you’ve had to close your classes down for the time being.’
‘I’m afraid so,’ Jaime agreed.
‘Well, you’re fortunate in having Bill as your broker. He’s very thorough, and I believe you’ve followed all the advice he gave you. You do have a loss of earnings policy with us, as well as general cover, which means that we will compensate you for loss of earnings during the time the building is out of commission. We shall need to see your books, of course, to estimate just exactly what your weekly takings are, and I should like to discuss with you the sort of time scale envisaged for getting this place sorted out. How do you feel about us discussing things over lunch?’
Jaime accepted his invitation unhesitatingly, and then explained that she kept her books at the cottage.
‘Fine, we’ll go in my car and pick up the books on the way back. I thought we’d eat at a place I know near Dorchester.’
He told her the name, and Jaime recognised it. The Belfry was a very well-known local restaurant with a first-class reputation. She had only been there once before—with Henry and her mother.
‘Would you mind if I drove my own car?’ she asked him, quickly explaining about the brakes and adding that the local dealer, from whom she had bought the car and who had serviced it since, was on the way to their destination.
‘I can call in on the way back and leave the car there, if you wouldn’t mind giving me a lift back to the cottage?’
‘Not at all.’
They went inside, and Rick spent close on an hour walking round, inspecting the damage and making notes. ‘There doesn’t seem to be any structural damage fortunately, but we’ll check that out, just in case. I wish everyone was as thorough about their insurance as you’ve been.’ He frowned, and Jaime asked sympathetically, ‘Are you worrying about somewhere in particular?’
‘Yes, I shouldn’t really tell you this, but the fire policy on the Abbey lapsed last month and hasn’t been renewed. Of course, it is expensive to insure an old building like that, but it’s taking a terrible risk not to have it insured.’
It was twelve o’clock when they left the village, Jaime following Rick’s car as he drove towards Dorchester and The Belfry.
The car park was quite full when they got there. Rick explained that he had already booked a table, hoping that she would accept his invitation. ‘This place is far too busy to leave getting a table to chance.’
As they walked into the restaurant Jaime was glad that she had taken the trouble to dress smartly for their meeting. All the other diners seemed to be very well-dressed, mainly older couples with a sprinkling of dark-suited businessmen. A couple of tables were occupied by farmers, looking uncomfortable in their tweed jackets and firmly buttoned shirts.
Then, as they were led to their table, a trio on the other side of the room caught her eye. She recognised Blake and Caroline immediately, but the third occupant of the table was unfamiliar to her.
‘Ummm,’ Rick commented, following her gaze. ‘That looks like Guy Barron over there, but I don’t know who he’s with.’
‘You sound as though you don’t approve of him,’ Jaime remarked, without telling him the identity of his companions. She was speaking automatically, not really caring what response he made as long as it helped her to blot out the pain of seeing Blake with Caroline and Guy Barron. So her suspicions had been correct. It gave her no satisfaction to know that she had been right not to trust her instincts, the instincts of a woman deeply in love who would defend the actions of the man she loved no matter what he might do.
‘I don’t. He had a policy with us—an old farmhouse he had supposedly bought for his own use. It burned down, and twelve months later he managed to persuade the local council to give his company planning permission for a small estate on the land. Not only did he get the profit from the houses, he also got the fire insurance as well. Of course, we couldn’t prove a thing, but we had our suspicions. He’s an extremely ruthless man, and not above straying on to the wrong side of the law if he thinks he can get away with it, or perhaps I should say that he’s not above paying someone else to do the straying.’
Delightful though she was sure the lunch was, Jaime barely tasted it. All the time they were in the restaurant she was acutely conscious of Blake at the other side of the room.
Rick Brewer was a pleasant companion and she felt guilty because she wasn’t able to respond to him as she ought. Her feeling of relief when they finally left was cut short by the emergence of Bl
ake and his two companions at almost the same time. They all paused in the car park, not half a dozen yards from Jaime. Blake looked up and saw her, his eyes moving coldly from her to Rick before returning to his companions. He made no attempt to acknowledge her presence which, illogically, hurt Jaime more than anything else.
She watched as he and Guy Barron shook hands, and then ushered Caroline towards the Ferrari.
They must have made a detour into town for something, Jaime realised when she was halfway home, as she glimpsed the now-familiar outline of the Ferrari in her driving mirror, the black car gradually cutting down the distance between them.
Because of her concern for her brakes, Jaime did not want to push her small car, and she was conscious of Rick Brewer in front of her, matching his speed to hers. Blake would soon overtake them—he had plenty of opportunity; the road was straight and wide enough; and yet, for some reason, he chose not to do so. It was less than a mile to the garage, and Jaime heaved a mental sigh of relief. She wasn’t at all happy about her car, not being a confident driver at the best of times. It was actually comforting to have Blake behind her. He wasn’t driving too close as so many drivers did, and she kept glancing into the mirror, comforted by the sight of the curved black bonnet behind her.
Rick had pulled out to overtake a stationary car, when it happened. Someone had parked at the side of the road, almost dangerously so, and Jaime followed his example, but, just as she was about to overtake, the rear door of the car was thrust open and a small child jumped out.
There wasn’t time to think, only to act instinctively, and Jaime put her foot down hard on her brakes, appalled to discover that there was just nothing there and that she was on a direct collision course with the open door and the young child.
The other side of the road was clear, open fields beyond the hedge, and Jaime pulled hard on her wheel automatically, wincing at the sharp squeal of her tyres as she managed to pull the car round, and it careered uncontrollably across the road, heading straight for the hedge. Jaime tried to steer as best she could, hoping that her car would run out of momentum before it hit the hedge, but she had forgotten about the deep grass-covered ditch, and suddenly the front wheels dipped down and she was flung into the steering wheel. It hit her chest with an impact that knocked her breathless, her seat belt cutting painfully into her as her hands left the wheel and the car plunged to a standstill.