by Anne Mather
CHAPTER TWO
SHE had misunderstood Alex’s appealing look, she thought bitterly, trying to maintain some semblance of composure. It was sympathy, not understanding, she had glimpsed in his face, and she was tempted to turn on him angrily, scorning the lies he had told her to get her here. He had said Dion was in Amsterdam—or had he? All he had actually said was that he had gone there two days before.
‘Will you not come in, Martha?’ intoned her husband now, his voice as cold as the censure in his eyes. ‘Alex, we will talk later.’
‘Yes…’
Alex turned away, but not before he had given Martha another of those reluctantly compassionate looks, though she was too intent on the interview ahead to notice it. With a stiffening of her backbone she stalked past her husband into the room, and then stopped short at the sight of her father-in-law, seated behind his square mahogany desk. Somehow she had expected Dion to be alone, and her step faltered as she heard her husband close the heavy door behind them.
‘Martha!’ Aristotle Myconos got heavily to his feet, and she saw he limped as he came round the desk to greet her. Like his sons he had aged, but although she eyed him warily, there was nothing but polite courtesy in his eyes. ‘I am so glad you agreed to come here. As you can see, I am not so young as I used to be, and I leave most of the legwork to my sons these days.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Martha’s response was clipped, but she couldn’t help it. Whichever way she looked at it, she had been tricked, and she didn’t like it.
‘Please…’ Aristotle indicated a dark green leather armchair, placed to one side of his desk. ‘Will you not sit down? I realise you are feeling we have deceived you, but it was not reasonable for you to expect me not to tell Dion about your letter.’
Martha drew a deep breath. She was at a distinct disadvantage here. Before her was this old man, looking every one of his sixty-odd years, and behind her, boring into her shoulder blades, was the malevolent gaze of her husband. What was Dion doing here? What did he have to say to her? And why did she have the feeling she had been manipulated once again?
Composing her words carefully, she said: ‘I told Alex I didn’t want to come here. What we have to say to one another could have been said just as well in a letter—’
‘Could it?’
The harsh tones that interrupted her were so unlike Alex’s that Martha wondered how she could ever have mistaken them, however briefly. As she clutched her handbag as a sort of lifeline, Dion strode from the door to join his father, standing before the desk, feet slightly apart, arms folded across the muscled leanness of his chest. Like his brother and his father, he too was wearing formal clothes, but the dark colours he chose accentuated the alien cast of his skin, and clung to the narrow outline of his hips.
Facing him, Martha half wished he had remained where he was. In the years since their separation, she had succeeded in banishing his image to the farthest recesses of her mind, but now here he was again, tearing the veils aside, exposing her futile hopes and deepest fears.
‘I wrote to your father because this is his island, and I hoped he might understand the position I was in,’ she said now, realising she had to answer him. ‘Roger—that is, Mr Scott—has—has been a good friend to—to us—’
‘You mean—to you and your daughter?’ enquired Dion coldly, and his father put a restraining hand on his arm.
‘To—to Josy and me, yes. And—and to my sister.’
‘Oh, yes, your sister,’ Dion nodded. ‘We must not forget her, must we?’
Martha drew a trembling breath and appealed to Aristotle, ‘Is the answer no? Is that what you’re about to tell me? Because if it is—’
‘Will you not sit?’ Aristotle gestured towards the chair again, and although the last thing Martha wanted to do in her husband’s presence was to increase his advantage, she realised her father-in-law was finding the standing too much, and he would not sit down unless she did. With a hesitant little shrug she took the seat he offered, and with obvious eagerness he sought the relief of his own chair.
‘Now,’ he said, resting his palms on the desk, ‘let us be honest with one another, hmm?’
‘Pateras!’
‘Ohi, Dionysus.’ His father ignored his angry remonstrance. ‘It must be said, and at once. It is not fair to keep the reasons for this interview from your wife. If, as you say, you wish to be free of this marriage, then it is right that Martha should understand from the outset.’
Martha could feel all the colour draining out of her cheeks at Aristotle’s words. She had been shocked to see her husband, naturally, but it had not been entirely unexpected. This was! That Dionysus might be considering divorce had never entered her head. Not for years. And what was more, the idea was not even acceptable to her. What about Josy? she wanted to cry, but she didn’t. She sat in frozen silence, trying desperately not to show how completely stunned she felt.
‘So…’ Aristotle surveyed her across the desk with quiet courtesy. ‘You understand now why Dionysus is here. When you wrote to me concerning this matter of an archaeological survey, we took the opportunity to promote this meeting. These things are better said face to face. It has been in his mind for some time, I know, and your correspondence made it easier for us all.’
‘I—I see.’ Martha’s mouth was horribly dry, and she had difficulty in articulating at all. ‘And—and Roger’s survey?’
‘Mou theos!’ snapped Dion angrily, even while Martha realised her words must sound incredibly foolish. But she couldn’t bring herself to speak of anything else at this moment, and even his anger could not take away the feeling of disorientation that was gripping her.
‘Be calm, my son.’ Aristotle’s controlled tones were a contrast to her husband’s. ‘Will you summon Andros? We all need a drink, I believe.’
While Dion crossed the floor and jerked open the door, Martha tried to get a hold on her emotions. But it wasn’t easy with Aristotle’s thoughtful eyes upon her, and without asking permission, she rose from her chair and crossed to the windows, staring out unseeingly at the terraced gardens below the villa. Dear God, she thought unsteadily, and she had thought Dion was there to make some demands upon her! She couldn’t have been more wrong.
She heard the clink of glasses on a tray, and turned as Dion, accompanied by another manservant, re-entered the room. The man set the tray he was carrying on the desk, and bowed his head politely before making his departure. Then Dion crossed to the desk and with evident brusqueness asked her what she would like to drink.
There was lemonade there, and Martha picked that, unwilling to stretch her nerves any further by the introduction of alcohol. Dion and his father both chose gin, and her husband swallowed half his at a gulp before refilling his glass. As the chair she had been occupying was too close to the tray for comfort, Martha decided to perch on the window seat, and the cooling breeze the open window emitted helped to keep the faintness she was feeling at bay. This interview which had started so badly had suddenly got worse, and she had little confidence in her own ability to handle it.
‘Now…’ Aristotle spoke again. ‘First of all I suggest we clear up this matter of—Mr Scott? Is that right? Ah.’ He nodded, as Martha agreed with his identification. ‘I am sure you know, without my having to tell you, Martha, I never allow any historians to visit Mycos.’
‘But that was not why you came, was it, Martha?’ enquired her husband, with cold accusation, and with a shock she realised that there was more to this even now than she understood.
‘I—I’m afraid—’
‘Oh, please do not attempt to deceive us with your lies!’ Dion grated angrily. ‘You did not write to my father because you felt some—some philanthropic desire to help this man you speak of.’
‘Then why did I write?’ she found herself asking, unable to prevent the question from spilling from her tongue, and once again it was Aristotle Myconos who tried to cool the situation.
‘Dionysus, let us not jump to conclusions,’ he sai
d, and there was a warning in his eyes that Martha failed to comprehend. ‘Let Martha tell us her reasons. Then we can discuss this matter.’
‘I’ve told you my reason,’ she exclaimed, coming to her feet again. ‘What other reason could there be?’
Dion’s narrow lips curled. ‘You did not consider perhaps that, now the child is older, it might be possible for you to sue for maintenance?’
‘Maintenance?’ Martha was horrified. ‘No! No, of course not.’
‘Dion…’ Again that warning note in his father’s voice, but this time he ignored it.
‘I should tell you,’ he said coldly, ‘I have been to England. I have seen the circumstances in which you live. And it is no surprise to me that you have finally decided that independence is not everything you thought it to be.’
His words temporarily numbed Martha. Dion had been to England! He had seen the circumstances in which she lived! What did that mean? Had he seen Josy? Did he know about Sarah? His next words enlightened her.
‘You have not sued for divorce. This man, whoever he is, has not made any apparent effort to marry you, to father the child he seeded in you. You must be getting desperate to give the child a name!’
‘You are wrong,’ she declared now. ‘Totally and utterly wrong! I—I—if you think Roger is—is Josy’s father, then you’re crazy!’
Dion took a step towards her at this piece of insolence, but as if mindful of his father’s watching presence, he halted. ‘Then who is he? Tell me that?’ he demanded. ‘And tell me why you dared to write to my father asking for a permission you knew would be denied you!’
Martha’s breathing was shallow and uneven, but she managed to say what she had to. ‘After—after I left you, I stayed with Sarah for a while, but her apartment was tiny, just a bed-sitter, and her landlady didn’t take too kindly to having a baby’s nappies hanging in the bathroom. Then—then—’ She broke off, still unwilling to give him the satisfaction of knowing about Sarah’s accident, and of how useless the apartment had become to someone confined to a wheelchair, and went on less convincingly: ‘We needed somewhere else, somewhere I—I could wheel a pram. Roger offered us the ground floor of his house.’
Dion regarded her through lowered lids. ‘Why should he do that?’
‘Would you believe—kindness?’
Dion’s lips thinned. ‘You ask too much.’
‘Obviously.’ Martha held up her head. ‘Well, if that’s all there is to say…’
‘It is not.’ Dion cast brooding eyes in his father’s direction. ‘There are still things we have to say to one another.’
His father rose abruptly to his feet. Pushing back his chair, he came round the desk, but when Martha began to accompany him to the door, he waved her back again, saying:
‘You will eat lunch with us before you leave, Martha. You must be hungry. I will go and speak with Maria myself.’
‘Oh, no—please—I mean—’ Martha glanced awkwardly at her husband. ‘I think it would be better if I left right away.’
‘You forget, there is still the matter of the divorce to discuss,’ put in Dion bleakly, and his father bowed his head politely and left the room, alone.
With his departure, Martha felt an increasing weight of tension. Dion in his father’s company was barely tolerable, Dion alone was terrifying. It wasn’t that he frightened her exactly, although his anger did send frissons of apprehension along her spine, but she was afraid of the power he had over her, the dark power that both attracted and repelled, and which had driven her to the very edge of sanity during those first weeks after she had left him.
Dion, for his part, seemed curiously loath to break the silence that had fallen between them, and while Martha sipped nervously at her lemonade, her eyes darting anxiously about the room, he walked heavily over to the windows and stared indifferently out to sea. She thought he was composing how next he might humiliate her, and she was shocked when he asked suddenly:
‘Why did you do it, Martha? Why did you leave me? Did I ask you to go? Did I threaten you with divorce? If this man meant so much to you, why did you not tell me before the child was born?’
Martha put her glass down carefully on the corner of the desk, and then, arming herself with what little composure she had left, she said: ‘You know why I left you, Dion. You couldn’t possibly expect me to stay with you after the things you said. I may not have the Myconos money, but I do have some pride, and no one—’ her voice cracked ignominiously, ‘—no one, least of all my husband, is going to call me a tramp and get away with it!’
‘Poli kola, what would you call it?’ he demanded, turning then to face her, his eyes narrowed and provoked. ‘How was I supposed to react? Should I have said—of course, I understand about these things! It is natural that my wife—my liberated English wife—should need the admiration of more than one man! No!’
Martha drew an uneven breath. ‘It’s hopeless. You’re unreasonable! You just won’t listen—’
‘Oh, parndon!’ His features were hard and angry. ‘But what am I supposed to listen to? More lies? More evasions? You dare to come here pleading for this man, knowing you are causing nothing but pain and embarrassment to me and my family, and you think I am unreasonable!’
Martha sighed. ‘Roger Scott is a family friend,’ she said wearily. ‘Just a family friend.’
Dion left the window to join her by the desk, regarding her coldly as she stood her ground. ‘And is he the father of your child?’ he asked bleakly. ‘This family friend?’
‘No!’
Martha’s denial was automatic, but she realised as she spoke that it might have been simpler not to answer him. She was getting into deep water, and until she had had time to think about the divorce, time to consider what she was going to do about Josy, she should not make such unequivocal statements.
‘Then who?’ Dion was relentless. ‘Someone in London, that I know. Someone your sister introduced you to, perhaps? She never wanted you to marry me, did she? That was never in her scheme of things. She would enjoy hurting me through you, wouldn’t she?’
Martha gasped. ‘That’s a rotten thing to say! And it’s not true. Sarah’s not like that. She cares about me, that’s all. She knew that money was your god, and she was afraid I might be stifled by it. She wanted me to be happy, but she was not to blame for our incompatibility.’
Dion’s face darkened ominously. ‘We were not incompatible!’ he declared angrily. ‘At least, not before she interfered.’
Martha trembled with indignation. ‘You could always find excuses for your own inadequacy, couldn’t you, Dion?’ she taunted, and then gulped convulsively as his hands fastened on her upper arms.
‘Have a care what you say to me, Martha,’ he grated harshly. ‘You are my wife still, and in my country that counts for a little more than it does in yours!’
‘Are you threatening me, Dion?’
She squared her shoulders bravely, but the pressure of his fingers through the thin cotton of her shirt was agonising. She would have bruises there tomorrow, she thought tremulously. Dion did not know his own strength, and once she would have gloried in the raw passion of his nature. But now she was aware of so many other things, of the savagery in his face, and the anger in his voice, of the power he possessed to destroy her at will, and the painful awareness that he was the only man who could make her run the whole gamut of so many conflicting emotions.
He looked down at her and saw the apprehension in her face, the uneasy anticipation of what form his retribution might take, and a low groan escaped him. He had never struck a woman, and despite the chasm that yawned between them, he could not strike her now. His eyes, boring into hers, clouded with impatience, and her lips parted to allow a tiny gasp of relief to escape her.
‘I should kill you!’ he muttered, his teeth grating together. ‘You tell me you do not want a child yet, that it is too soon, that we need time to be alone together, before we assume such a responsibility. And I agree with you! I am happy to
have you to myself—’
To possess me,’ put in Martha unevenly, and winced as his fingers tightened.
‘Etsi—to possess you, as you say,’ he agreed harshly. ‘And was not that possession to your liking also?’
‘Dion, please…’ Martha’s cheeks flushed, but he ignored her.
‘No matter,’ he said, his lips twisting. ‘The truth is, you betrayed me with another man, you let him give you the child that you denied me. And for that you deserve more than my contempt!’
Martha shook her head. ‘There’s no point to this discussion—’
‘Is there not?’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Why should you care if I enjoy—torturing myself in this way?’
Martha tried to twist away from him, but it was to no avail, and with a feeling of desperation she exclaimed: ‘You’re not torturing yourself, Dion. You’re torturing me! You’re hurting me! Will you please let go of my arms?’
‘Why should I?’ Instead of doing so, he jerked her towards him, and now she could feel the bones of his legs against her shaking knees, could smell the clean masculine aroma of his body, mingling with the heat of his breath. ‘I have anticipated this moment since your letter to my father arrived. I wanted to hurt you, to humiliate you, to see your disappointment when we saw through your puny schemes.’ He paused, his eyes dropping briefly to the panting rise and fall of her breasts. ‘And I wanted to see how the years had treated you, to see whether you had suffered, as you made me suffer!’
‘Dion!’
She gazed up at him helplessly, conscious that against her will, he was arousing her awareness of him as a man, a man moreover who had been her husband, and who had once been able to weaken her limbs by the simple exchanging of a glance. She didn’t want to remember these things, she didn’t want to acknowledge that instinctive attraction between them, that had tom down the barriers of race and society, and made them both prisoners of its urgent expression. It was not love, it had never been love, on his part at least, she exhorted herself, but that didn’t prevent the devastating effect he was having on her senses.