Книга - Brittle Bondage

Brittle Bondage
Anne Mather









Mills & Boon is proud to present a fabulous collection of fantastic novels by bestselling, much loved author

ANNE MATHER

Anne has a stellar record of achievement within the

publishing industry, having written over one hundred

and sixty books, with worldwide sales of more than

forty-eight MILLION copies in multiple languages.

This amazing collection of classic stories offers a chance

for readers to recapture the pleasure Anne’s powerful,

passionate writing has given.

We are sure you will love them all!


I’ve always wanted to write—which is not to say I’ve always wanted to be a professional writer. On the contrary, for years I only wrote for my own pleasure and it wasn’t until my husband suggested sending one of my stories to a publisher that we put several publishers’ names into a hat and pulled one out. The rest, as they say, is history. And now, one hundred and sixty-two books later, I’m literally—excuse the pun—staggered by what’s happened.

I had written all through my infant and junior years and on into my teens, the stories changing from children’s adventures to torrid gypsy passions. My mother used to gather these manuscripts up from time to time, when my bedroom became too untidy, and dispose of them! In those days, I used not to finish any of the stories and Caroline, my first published novel, was the first I’d ever completed. I was newly married then and my daughter was just a baby, and it was quite a job juggling my household chores and scribbling away in exercise books every chance I got. Not very professional, as you can imagine, but that’s the way it was.

These days, I have a bit more time to devote to my work, but that first love of writing has never changed. I can’t imagine not having a current book on the typewriter—yes, it’s my husband who transcribes everything on to the computer. He’s my partner in both life and work and I depend on his good sense more than I care to admit.

We have two grown-up children, a son and a daughter, and two almost grown-up grandchildren, Abi and Ben. My e-mail address is mystic-am@msn.com (mailto:mystic-am@msn.com) and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.




Brittle Bondage

Anne Mather







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




Table of Contents


Cover (#ue646e9f4-abe4-585c-b125-c88a2d77999a)

About the Author (#ubb8165cb-0321-54c5-8a4e-9284063131b1)

Title Page (#ubc6df571-6752-52df-a367-f01ea15cfaac)

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)




CHAPTER ONE (#ua5f2a8c1-4f28-5b1b-aaa1-20ceb9333f30)


RACHEL poured herself a second cup of coffee, and tried not to be aware that her daughter was scowling at her across the width of the pine kitchen table. The postman had just been, so she could distract herself by pretending to study the bills and circulars that made their regular flight through her letterbox. Well, only one bill this morning, she saw with some relief, running her thumb under the flap of the plain brown envelope. Her eyes widened at the sum the electricity company was demanding, and she made a mental note to ask Daisy to be more economical in her use of lights and heating in future. Her daughter seemed to think it was perfectly natural to turn on every utility in the house as soon as she got home. Rachel had lost count of the number of times she had gone into Daisy’s bedroom and found the television running in her absence. She couldn’t even take a shower without leaving sound and vision on.

‘You’re not really going to marry him, are you, Mum?’

Abandoning the sullen silence she had maintained all through breakfast, Daisy propped her elbows on the table and assumed a pleading look. Evidently she had decided that silence would get her nowhere. A more constructive approach was needed, and she didn’t have a lot of time.

‘Aren’t you going to be late?’ Rachel responded obliquely, unwilling to get into another argument, when there was no time to pursue it. ‘Oh, and remember to take your trainers out of the bathroom. It’s just as well they weren’t muddy. The last time you went running——’

‘Mum!’ Daisy’s tone was urgent now. ‘You can’t just not talk about it.’ She paused. ‘If you are thinking of marrying Mr Barrass, don’t you think I should be asked my opinion? I don’t want to go and live at that gloomy old place. I like living here. This is our home.’

‘I know that,’ Rachel sighed. ‘But, unfortunately, we can’t always do what we want. Besides, this house is too big for just the two of us, Daisy. And obviously Simon can’t move in with us.’

‘Why can’t he?’

‘You know why.’ Rachel picked up her cup and carried it to the sink. ‘Kingsmead isn’t just Simon’s home. It’s a working farm.’ She took a breath. ‘And in any case, this house belongs to your father. I don’t think he’d be too enthusiastic about another man moving in.’

Daisy hunched her shoulders. ‘Have you told Daddy what you’re going to do?’

‘No.’ Rachel turned away and ran some hot water into the sink. She had wondered if Daisy might have mentioned Simon on her last visit with her father, but evidently Daisy had hoped that if she didn’t mention it, it might all go away.

‘Why not?’

Rachel steeled herself not to make some comment she might later regret, and turned back to her daughter. ‘Daisy, we can’t talk about this any more now. I suggest you go and wash your hands and collect your school bag. The bus will be here soon, and you don’t want to miss it.’

Daisy sniffed. ‘I don’t care,’ she muttered, making no attempt to do as she had been told. At nearly nine years of age, she was just beginning to show some independence, and Rachel thought it was a pity she had taken a dislike to Simon before she’d really had a chance to get to know him.

‘Go and get ready now,’ she ordered, suppressing the impulse to try and reason with her once again. And, although Daisy still looked mutinous, she responded to the tone of her mother’s voice. But, it was obviously going to take some time to convince her that moving to Kingsmead would be best for all of them. Yet Daisy needed a father, and Simon was an ideal candidate for the job.

And, thinking of Daisy’s father reminded Rachel of the other unwelcome task she had to do today. At some point, she was going to have to ring Ben and tell him what she intended to do. And ask for a divorce, she acknowledged tensely. She’d never thought she’d be the first to say that.

Daisy came back into the room wearing her navy school coat and carrying her duffel bag. Whatever happened to satchels? thought Rachel ruefully, realising anew how her daughter was growing up. When she was her age, she’d been considered a child and nothing more. Daisy was a young adult, with all the doubts and hang-ups of an adolescent.

‘Ready?’ Rachel tried to instil some optimism into her voice, but Daisy was in no mood to respond to it.

‘As if you care,’ she mumbled, digging into her pockets for the fingerless gloves she’d brought back from London on her last visit. ‘Oh, Miss Gregory asked me to give you this,’ she added, discovering a slip of paper advertising for helpers for a jumble sale there was to be held at the school. ‘As you helped last year, she thought you might want to help again. I told her you’d probably be too busy, what with Mr Barrass and everything, but Miss Gregory said to tell you anyway.’

Rachel’s mouth turned down at the corners. She didn’t believe for one moment that Daisy had been discussing her affairs with her teacher. Particularly not anything that involved Simon Barrass. As with her father, Daisy chose to bury her head in the sand and hope the problem would go away. She was just trying to provoke her mother, and it was simpler to play along.

‘Oh? What did Miss Gregory say to that?’ Rachel enquired now, and had the doubtful privilege of seeing her daughter’s face suffuse with colour.

‘I don’t remember,’ muttered Daisy sulkily, going into the hall and peering out of the window. ‘Here’s the bus. I can’t talk now. I’ve got to go.’

Rachel kissed her daughter goodbye and watched as Daisy ran down the path, and climbed aboard the yellow minibus, which would take her to her private school in Cheltenham. There was a primary school in the next village, but it had been Ben’s idea to send Daisy to Lady’s Mount Academy and, as he was paying, Rachel had found it difficult to object. Besides, around the time Daisy was starting school, there had been rumours that the school in nearby Lower Morton was going to close. The fact that it hadn’t, yet, was no surety that it wouldn’t in the future. And Daisy was happy at Lady’s Mount, even if it was going to be harder to get her there once they had moved to Kingsmead.

Closing the door, Rachel paused a moment to look around the pleasant entrance hall of the house. Panelled in oak, with exposed beams and an inglenook fireplace, it had been the first thing that had attracted them to the house seven years ago. And, even after everything that had happened, Rachel knew she would miss the place terribly when they moved. It was such a friendly house, warm and south-facing, with plenty of room for the expanding family they had planned when they came to live here. Now, she and Daisy rattled around like peas in the many spacious rooms, and for all her many misgivings, it was time they moved on.

Refusing to get maudlin about it, Rachel dried the few breakfast dishes she and Daisy had used, and then ran up the dog-leg staircase to put on a little make-up. She didn’t use much—just a touch of eyeshadow and a smear of blusher. And a coat of amber lipstick, to go with the tawny highlights in her hair.

A door opened from the stairs, at the point where the small landing created the right angle. Beyond the door was a room set into the eaves of the adjoining garage, with a partially sloping roof, and wide dormer windows.

Although she didn’t really have the time to waste, Rachel opened the door on to what had been Ben’s study, and stood for a few moments looking in. When Ben moved his desk out, she had moved a work table in, intending, at that time, to use the study as a sewing-room in future. But she never had. Such sewing as she did do, she did in the family-room downstairs, and, apart from looking emptier than it used to do, the room was much the same as when Ben had worked there. His books were gone as well, of course, and the hi-fi system he’d sometimes played while he was working. Now it was just a junk-room really, not an office at all. There was no lingering trace of Ben’s occupancy. A conscious choice on her behalf.

All the same, she knew she would find it a wrench parting with the house. Although Ben had insisted she live in it after the separation, she was fond of the place. But it was still Ben’s house. She was still Ben’s wife. And that was something else she had to deal with. As Simon had said, the sooner the better.

A watery sun appeared as she was leaving. So far it had been a wet spring, and although the daffodils and crocuses were out they were all waterlogged in their beds. At the weekend, she’d have to make an effort to prune the roses, she thought, passing the prickly patch of bushes on her way to the garage. And the greenhouse needed cleaning, if she hoped to grow any decent tomatoes this year.

Except that she wouldn’t be cultivating the greenhouse this year, she reminded herself. Simon had suggested she should move into one of the tied cottages on the farm, while they were waiting for her divorce to be final and they could get married. It was more sensible, he said, pointing out that it took him a good twenty minutes to get to Upper Morton, where she lived, and a further twenty minutes to get back.

‘Just think of all the petrol I’ll save, when I can walk home after seeing you!’ he had exclaimed, and although he had smiled when he said it, she didn’t really know if he was serious or not.

In any event, there were other advantages as well. Not least the fact that she wouldn’t have the upkeep of this house making a drain on her wages. Simon had said she could live at the farm rent-free, and she couldn’t deny that lately keeping their heads above water had become a constant strain.

She could have asked Ben to increase her allowance—the allowance she got for Daisy, and which was far more generous than the upkeep of one small girl warranted—but she had her pride. If she could have afforded it, she would have supported Daisy herself. But it wasn’t fair to expect Daisy to suffer, just because her mother had some misguided desire for independence. It was Ben who had betrayed his family; Ben who had destroyed their marriage. He deserved to pay something for the privilege. The fact that what he did pay her hardly made a dent in his small change shouldn’t concern her. Until now they had had the house, and just enough to live on. If Ben felt any emotion at her changing circumstances, it should be one of relief. After all, it would be to his advantage if she didn’t have to rely on him for anything.

But, as she drove through the stone gateposts that marked the boundaries of Wychwood, Rachel couldn’t help the unwilling thought that Ben was unlikely to see it that way. He was amazingly possessive when it came to his daughter, and she doubted he’d take kindly to the thought that some other man was going to take his place in their lives. He hadn’t put up any opposition when she had applied for custody of Daisy, and he had been charitably disposed to allow her to make what visitation rights she thought fit. But that had been two years ago, when, so far as Rachel was concerned, there had been no one else on the horizon. How Ben would react to the news of Simon’s entry into their lives was anyone’s guess, but Rachel doubted he would applaud the fact that she was upsetting Daisy’s life once again.

Well, that wasn’t her fault, she told herself now, turning out of Stoneberry Lane and driving swiftly through the village. Upper Morton was the twin of its rival, Lower Morton, and when she and Ben had first seen the two villages they had been hard pressed to choose between them. They had just known they wanted to live in this part of Gloucestershire, and finding the house of their dreams had seemed to seal their fate.

And it had, thought Rachel ruefully, though definitely not in the way they had envisaged. After all, they had been happy in the beginning. Ecstatically so, considering the gamble they had taken, when they didn’t always know how they were going to pay the mortgage.

But it had been so different from the flat they had lived in in London, with a garden for Daisy to play in, and lots of room for Ben to work without being disturbed. Room for their family to grow, too, although that hadn’t happened. Would things have turned out differently if she had been able to have another baby? Would Elena Dupois have come into their lives, if Rachel hadn’t decided to go back to work?

It wasn’t as if they had needed the money. By that time, Ben had had his first advance on the novel he had written about the Falklands War. His agent was already talking about overseas sales and film rights, and Ben was writing furiously, completing his second manuscript.

Rachel had sometimes wondered if the enormity of Ben’s success had in any way contributed to her proven inadequacies. If his first attempt to write a political thriller hadn’t had such immediate appeal, would she have examined her own defeats so minutely? She hadn’t been envious of Ben, but she had felt inferior to him. A feeling she had never experienced when he was a journalist, working for a national daily, and she had been straight out of art school, training with one of the larger auction houses in the West End.

It was pointless going over all the old arguments at this stage. Pointless remembering how shattered she had been when she had miscarried for the second time. There was nothing wrong with her, the doctor had assured her. His suggestion was that she should wait a few months and then try again. But Rachel had refused to do it. She had been too distressed, too drained, too afraid of what it was doing to her own self-esteem to risk another pregnancy. When Ben attempted to persuade her, she accused him of having no feelings; when she told him she wanted to find a job, he accused her of being jealous.

She supposed that was the turning point in their marriage. Ben assumed that being his wife was not enough for her, and she had no convincing answer. She couldn’t explain her feelings. Not to his satisfaction, anyway. A yawning rift opened between them, and Ben was left to draw his own conclusions.

And that was when Elena Dupois came on the scene. Obviously, Ben couldn’t look after Daisy while Rachel was at work, so they advertised for an au pair. Elena answered the advertisement. She had been working for a family in Cheltenham who were moving away, and as she wanted to stay in the district she was able to take up the post immediately.

Rachel’s lips tightened. She supposed she should have seen the writing on the wall. Elena was younger than she was and prettier than she was, and from the very beginning she hadn’t tried to hide her admiration for Ben. It was ‘Monsieur Ben says this’ and ‘Monsieur Ben says that’ until Rachel wanted to scream that ‘Monsieur Ben’ wasn’t the only person who lived in the house.

But she was good with Daisy, and, as her daughter was doing now, Rachel had tended to bury her head in the sand. She hadn’t wanted to see what was happening under her very eyes. She hadn’t wanted to believe that Ben was cheating on her with the doe-eyed French girl.

Until that morning when she had arrived home unexpectedly and found them in what could only be described as ‘compromising circumstances’. Even now, two years later, Rachel could still feel the cold horror she had felt then. She’d felt sick, nauseated; she’d wanted to run away and hide, and come back later, when she could pretend it had never happened. But, instead, she’d disgraced herself completely by throwing up all over the bathroom floor. Her ignominy had been complete when it was Ben himself who cleaned her up and guided her into their bedroom, so that she could lie down for a while. With only a towel to cover his nakedness, she remembered. It was only later she had decided she wanted to kill him.

Of course, he’d tried to talk to her, to explain that if Elena was pregnant—as she claimed—it was nothing to do with him. He’d blamed Elena—Rachel—anyone but himself. It wasn’t what she’d thought, he’d yelled, losing his temper completely when she’d refused to listen, but if he had decided to have an affair—which he hadn’t, he insisted—she’d have only herself to blame.

Which had been a bitter reminder that it was months since they had made love. Afraid of getting pregnant again, Rachel had been unwilling to take any chances. Even his suggestion that she should leave the precautions to him had met with a tearful refusal. In her misery, Rachel had insisted on keeping him at a distance, and perhaps it was her fault that he’d found solace with someone else.

Ben had moved out the next week. Rachel didn’t know that until later. She had gathered up a few of her belongings, and her daughter, and left for London that afternoon. She and Daisy—who had happily regarded the trip as an unexpected holiday—had spent the next two weeks with Rachel’s widowed mother in Kensington. Rachel had used the time to think and plan for the future, only returning to Wychwood when she had been sure of what she wanted to do.

What she had not expected was that Ben should have moved out. After all, the house was his. She had contributed nothing to it, and he had every right to stay there. On top of which, it was obviously much too big for her to maintain on the salary she got from Mr Caldwell, the local antiquarian. Daisy would miss it, it was true, but in Rachel’s opinion they had no choice but to sell.

However, in this instance, Ben had proved decidedly obdurate. After a letter from her solicitors, laying out the situation as she saw it, he had arrived at Wychwood one cold November afternoon, and proceeded to inform her that if she chose to obstruct the arrangements he was making for his daughter’s future, he would oppose the order she was making to obtain custody of the child. He had no intention, he said, of allowing her misplaced bitterness to foul up his daughter’s life, as it had fouled up his own. She would stay at Wychwood, because that was what he wanted, and he would maintain its upkeep, just as he had done in the past. She was a selfish, self-centred woman, he had added, but he was prepared to accept that Daisy would probably be happier with her.

Privately, Rachel had thought that it probably suited him not to have the responsibility for a seven-year-old. To all intents and purposes, he was a free man; a wealthy man, moreover, whose reputation as a writer and an historian was growing in leaps and bounds. What she couldn’t understand was why he didn’t want a divorce. In his position, she was sure she would have.

But perhaps it had suited him, too, to have an absentee wife and daughter in the background. On the one hand, it proved his masculinity, if any proof were needed. And, on the other, it prevented him from getting embroiled in any other serious relationships. There had been several women mentioned in connection with him in articles she had read since they separated. Though Elena Dupois had never figured in any of these articles. He had evidently lost interest in her once the novelty of having sex with a girl half his age had worn off, and the baby she had presumably had was never mentioned.

Perhaps it had been adopted. Perhaps he was maintaining it and Elena somewhere else. Rachel told herself she didn’t want to know. As far as she was concerned, that period of her life was over.

Rachel had sometimes wondered what Daisy really thought of their separation. The explanation she had been given—that Mummy and Daddy had each decided they needed more time to themselves—had sufficed when Daisy was younger, but latterly she had begun to question the reasons why they chose to live apart. This had been especially evident since Simon Barrass had come into their lives. Daisy made no secret of her dislike for the burly farmer, and she had even gone so far as to ask why, if her mother needed a man’s company now, she didn’t just ask her father to come back and live with them.

Sometimes, Rachel wished Daisy had been older when she and Ben split up. It would have been so much easier if she could have explained what had happened, and why the separation had taken place. As it was, she was obliged to deal in euphemisms and half-truths, balancing the need for honesty with her daughter’s fragile expectations.

Which brought her back to the prospect she still faced of telling Ben what she planned to do. Had she really hoped Daisy might have prepared the ground for her? After all, Simon had been around for some considerable time, and Daisy spent one weekend every month with her father.

The arrangement had been worked out by Ben, of course. Every four weeks—and more frequently during school holidays—a car arrived to collect Daisy and her belongings from Wychwood, and transport her to Ben’s luxurious town-house in Elton Square. Usually there was a uniformed nanny in attendance, who took care of the little girl’s personal needs while she was staying with her father. And kept her out of his way, on those occasions when he had guests, or went out to dine, thought Rachel ruefully. These days, Ben’s company was much in demand at literary gatherings, Press launches and the like. Rachel knew this, because she still cut out every article she found about him from newspapers or magazines. It was a fruitless exercise, she knew, and one which she told herself she was only doing for Daisy’s sake. But the fact remained that she still felt an unwilling twinge of pride every time she saw his name in print. After all, she had recognised his talent even before he’d recognised it himself. It had been her idea that he should take a chance and give up his regular job, and try for the thing he most wanted. That he had been so successful was all due to him, of course, but without her encouragement he might never have taken the plunge.

She was so engrossed with her thoughts that she almost drove past the small antiques shop where she worked. Mr Caldwell’s establishment was an attractive double-fronted dwelling that sat squarely in the High Street, with a post office and general dealers on one side of him, and the doctor’s surgery on the other. With its bow windows and leaded panes, it invited inspection, and Mr Caldwell always made sure they had some unusual item in the window to encourage would-be customers to come inside. At present, an eighteenth-century tripod table had pride of place, with a Chinese ormolu clock set squarely on its mahogany surface. Mr Caldwell liked to create a gathering of matching pieces together, which was why there was a pair of Queen Anne chairs standing at either side of the table, though it was obvious to an experienced eye that the chairs were not in the same class as the table. Rachel had learned that an experienced eye was worth more than a dozen reference books, and it was her aptitude for seeking out a bargain that had persuaded Mr Caldwell to take her on in the first place.

Now, Rachel parked her Volkswagen at the back of the shop, and, after making sure it was locked, she crossed the yard to the rear entrance. Mr O’Shea, who restored many of the scratched and damaged items of furniture Mr Caldwell bought to a convincing originality, was already at work in the warehouse that adjoined the shop. A cheery individual, he always had a smile and a friendly word for Rachel, and today was no exception.

‘Spring is on its way,’ he announced, with sturdy conviction. ‘So why are you looking so troubled, lassie? That old besom hasn’t been complaining again, has he?’

‘Oh, no.’ Rachel cast a guilty glance towards the front of the building, but her lips twitched in spite of herself. ‘And you shouldn’t say such things, Mr O’Shea. Do you want to get me into trouble?’

‘Away with ye, lassie. He’ll not be parting with you in a hurry. You’re too valuable to him, Rachel, and that’s a fact. You’ve got a good eye. Aren’t I always telling you so?’

‘You’ve got the gift of the gab,’ retorted Rachel drily, admiring the finish he was putting to a figured walnut chest. ‘Is this that Queen Anne chest that Cyril found in Worcester? It’s beautiful. You’ve done a lovely job on it.’

‘Ah, so there you are at last, Rachel.’

Her employer’s voice put an end to her conversation with Mr O’Shea, and, following Mr Caldwell into the cramped passageway that led through to the front of the shop, Rachel reflected, not for the first time, that any fire inspector who examined this place would probably close it down as a fire hazard. Every spare inch of space was covered with crates and boxes of china, while framed portraits and uncut canvases were a constant threat to her legs and ankles.

But, for all that, Rachel loved her job. She loved the smell and the touch of old things, and, it was true, she felt she did have a certain aptitude for the work. The arts degree she had left college with might have seemed important at the time, but it was the innate ability she possessed to recognise shape and colour, and a memory for detail, that had impressed her present employer. In the five years she had worked for Cyril Caldwell, she had proved her worth again and again, which was why she knew he wouldn’t be pleased to hear she was planning to get married again. Cyril liked to feel he had her whole and undivided attention.

Rachel was wondering whether she ought to break the news to him now, before it filtered down through the grapevine that operated so efficiently between the villages, when Mr Caldwell spoke.

‘I have to go out,’ he said, leading the way into the showroom. ‘I’ve just heard that there’s a group of Meissen figurines among all that junk they’re selling out at Romanby, and I want to get there and take a look at them before Hector Grant gets his hands on them all. You can manage here, can’t you? I thought you might unpack that box of glassware, if you have the time. And there’s some discrepancy in those figures Parkers sent us. You might have a look at those, too.’

Rachel hesitated. ‘Well——’ This might not be the most appropriate time, but she wondered if it wouldn’t be easier on her to give Cyril her news when he didn’t have the time to argue. ‘I did want to have a word with you——’

‘Later, Rachel, hmm?’ But it wasn’t really a question. He was already consulting the watch he kept in his waistcoat pocket, mentally calculating the time it would take him to get to Romanby Court, and checking that he had his cheque-book and catalogue in a safe place.

‘OK.’

Rachel decided not to push it. There was no guarantee that her news wouldn’t delay him anyway, and she had no wish to be the excuse he would give if he didn’t happen to acquire any of the Meissen figures.

‘Good, good.’

He made his way to the shop door, a slightly shabby figure in his tweed suit and battered felt hat. But one of the first things he had taught her was that it was unwise to go to an auction looking too affluent. Dealers were a canny breed, and the less successful you looked, the more successful you were likely to be. He had also told her that you had to stay close to the competition. Many articles were sold, not because they were intrinsically valuable, but because someone liked the look of them. Antique dealing was a buyer’s market. The secret was to create a demand for something, and then sell it at the highest price you could get.

The doorbell chimed as he went out, and Rachel expelled her breath on a rueful sigh as she went to watch him get into his car. Like the man himself, it was shabby, too, an old Peugeot estate car of doubtful vintage. Cyril had had the car as long as Rachel could remember, and she felt a twinge of affection as he pulled away from the kerb. He might be old and cantankerous at times, but he had supported her when she’d needed it most. Which was an unwelcome reminder of that call she had to make, and, after watching Cyril disappear out of sight, she went back to her desk.




CHAPTER TWO (#ua5f2a8c1-4f28-5b1b-aaa1-20ceb9333f30)


IT FELT odd to be punching in the buttons that made up Ben’s London phone number. Irritating, too, that she didn’t even need to consult her address book to remind herself what they were. She assumed it was because she had used the number fairly often in the early days of their separation. After she’d been convinced by Ben’s attitude that he wouldn’t deal with her solicitors.

Still, it didn’t make it any easier to make the call, and she was annoyed to find her hands were trembling. Dear God, she thought, what did she expect him to do, for heaven’s sake? Appear like a wrathful genie out of the mouthpiece? She was only asking to terminate something that had been terminated in everything but name for the past two years. She knew nothing about Ben’s life any more, and he knew nothing about hers. It was time they had a formal severance of their marriage. Daisy might not like it, but Rachel had a life of her own to lead.

The phone seemed to ring an inordinately long period of time before it was picked up, and Rachel was just beginning to think he must be away when it was answered.

‘Yes?’ It was a woman’s voice, and Rachel’s nerves tightened. ‘This is Knightsbridge …’ She gave the number. ‘Who is this, please?’

Rachel wanted to hang up. She wanted to make some obscene comment, and slam down the phone. But she didn’t. What did it matter to her who answered Ben’s phone? she chided herself grimly. It wasn’t as if she wanted a reconciliation. Actually she wanted anything but.

All the same, she resented the offhand tone in the woman’s voice. As if her call had interrupted something crucial, and the woman had been told to get rid of her as quickly as possible. She hadn’t even said anything, and she was already being made to feel a nuisance.

She sighed. This was silly. She was getting paranoid over the call. The woman didn’t know who she was yet. She could be the Prime Minister’s secretary, or even the Prime Minister himself. Until she indentified herself, how could they know?

‘Um—who am I speaking to?’ she asked, realising she was still on the defensive when it was too late to do anything about it. But she was loath to give her name to one of Ben’s bimbos. If he wanted to know who it was, he should have answered the phone himself.

‘I’m—Karen Simpson, Mr Leeming’s secretary,’ responded the woman, after only a momentary hesitation. ‘Do you wish to speak to Mr Leeming? If you’ll give me your name, I’ll see if he’s available.’

His secretary! Rachel’s lips twisted. Well, she’d heard it called worse names. Ben had never had a secretary; not to her knowledge. And she was sure Daisy would have mentioned it, if there had been another woman around.

‘I think you’ll find he’ll speak to me,’ she said, aware that she wasn’t being very polite, but incapable of reacting any differently. ‘I’m Mrs Leeming. Mr Leeming’s wife!’ She emphasised the relationship with childish defiance. ‘Perhaps if he has a minute you could ask him to come to the phone.’

‘Mr Leeming’s wife!’ Clearly, the woman was impressed. Or was she simply surprised? Rachel wondered ruefully. She wasn’t handling this in a very mature way, and she wished she could ring off and start all over again.

‘Yes, Mr Leeming’s wife,’ she repeated now, with less emphasis. ‘Is Mr Leeming there? It is rather important.’

‘Just a minute, Mrs Leeming.’

The phone went dead. Though not quite dead, Rachel amended, winding the cord nervously round her finger. Evidently Ben had one of those phones with a cut-out button, ideal for monitoring unwanted callers. Rachel wondered if he had one in his bedroom, and then despised herself for the thought. His private arrangements were nothing to do with her any more.

‘Rachel?’

The voice in her ear was suddenly uncomfortably familiar. It might have been months, years even, since they had had a conversation, but that dark, mellow tone was unmistakable.

‘Hello, Ben.’ Rachel wished she had something to lubricate her dry throat. ‘I’m sorry if I’m disturbing you.’

Now why had she said that? she wondered impatiently. The accusation behind her words was clearly audible. Why couldn’t she have just launched into the reason why she was calling, instead of giving him a chance to make some clever retort?

‘I can stand the break,’ he responded shortly, and if that was a double entendre she didn’t have time to acknowledge it. ‘What is it? Has something happened to Daisy?’

She supposed she should have realised that Ben was bound to associate her reasons for calling with his daughter, but just for a moment she felt a spurt of resentment that this should be so. She had a life, too, she wanted to exclaim loudly. Not everything in her world had to revolve around Daisy.

But once again, common sense won out over her reckless inclinations. And she wondered suddenly why she was making this call. She could have written to Ben just as well. But he was on the line now, and she was committed. If she didn’t tell him the truth, she’d be a coward as well as a fool.

‘Daisy’s fine,’ she replied quickly, mentally rummaging through her recent altercations with her daughter for something positive to relate. ‘She seems to be enjoying school, and she’s made a lot of friends, as I’m sure she’s told you. Oh, and I’ve been asked to help out at the jumble sale again. It’s a week on Saturday. Last year, I ran one of the stalls.’

‘Am I invited?’

‘What?’ For a moment, Rachel was too shocked by his response to remember exactly why she had chosen to tell him about the jumble sale. Then, ‘Oh—oh, no. That’s not why I was ringing. Um—we don’t visit the school together, do we? We agreed that we wouldn’t encroach on one another’s——’

‘All right.’ Ben’s voice held a note of censure now. ‘I should have known better than to think you wanted us to appear as a family again. So—if you’re not ringing about Daisy, what are you ringing about, Rachel? I don’t know if Karen told you, but I am rather busy.’

Karen! Rachel controlled her anger with an effort. ‘Your secretary,’ she said sweetly, though she feared he would hear the acid in her tone. ‘I didn’t know you had a secretary, Ben. Daisy never mentioned her. Is she new?’

‘What’s it to you?’ Ben could be obstructive, too, and she felt her nails dig into her palms. ‘Come on, Rachel, I’m sure you’re not ringing to check on my staff appointments. Did you decide to accept my offer of an increase in your allowance? I can backdate it, if you like. I dare say a lump sum would come in handy.’

‘You don’t make me an allowance,’ retorted Rachel hotly, furious that he should immediately think she was short of money. The fact that she usually was was immaterial. She refused to take anything from him that was not specifically targeted for Daisy.

‘As you like.’ Ben sounded bored now. ‘But if you’re not ringing about Daisy and you’re not ringing about money, what do you want? The last time I tried to have a conversation with you, you informed me we had nothing to say to one another.’

Rachel sighed. ‘Look,’ she said, trying to sound as reasonable as her intentions had been before she picked up the receiver, ‘I didn’t call you to have an argument. I’m sorry if I’ve called at an inconvenient time, but I wasn’t sure I’d find you in this evening. Um—as a matter of fact, I probably should have written to you. Solicitors prefer these things down on paper, don’t they? Just so there’s no mistakes. Only you wouldn’t deal with Mr Cockcroft before, and before contacting him, I thought I should warn you. I mean, I’m sure we can be adult about this. I surely didn’t intend for us to get cross with one another. I know you won’t believe this, but I was only trying to be polite——’

‘Hold it! Hold it right there!’ Ben broke into her breathless monologue in harsh tones. ‘For God’s sake, Rachel, what the—hell—are you talking about?’

The hesitation before the word ‘hell’ warned her of his dwindling patience. And she was fairly sure that if Miss Simpson hadn’t been on hand he wouldn’t have been so scrupulous. She was familiar with Ben’s sometimes colourful use of the language, and the mildness of the epithet in no way detracted from its force.

‘Divorce,’ she blurted hurriedly, before his arrogance and her timidity defeated her again. ‘I want a divorce, Ben. I—I’ve met someone else, and we want to get married.’

There was total silence after her announcement. If it wasn’t for the fact that Rachel already knew that the phone had a cut-out, she’d have been quite prepared to believe he had hung up on her. But that wasn’t Ben’s way. For all his faults, he had never been one to back off from a challenge. And this was a challenge, she realised belatedly. To his authority, if nothing else.

The silence stretched, and then, just when her nerves had reached screaming point, he said calmly, ‘I think we need to talk.’

Rachel breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Oh, I agree,’ she said, swallowing the sudden flood of saliva that had filled her mouth at his words. ‘That’s why I’m ringing. I thought if we could arrange the details now, and you could make an appointment to see your solicitor——’

‘No.’

The denial after she had felt such an overwhelming sense of relief was shattering. ‘What do you mean, no?’

‘I mean you’ve misunderstood me.’

Rachel blinked, totally confused now. ‘You’re saying I can’t have a divorce?’

‘No——’

‘Then what?’ She recovered a little of her composure and struggled to sound reasonable. ‘I think you should say what you mean, Ben. Like you, I have work to do, too.’

And as if to endorse the point, the door of the shop opened at that moment, its bell chiming delicately round the elegantly furnished showroom. A man had come into the shop, a man of middle height, with square, sturdy shoulders, and a well-muscled, solid build. He was wearing tweeds, and a pair of green boots, his thinning fair hair hidden beneath a buttoned corduroy cap.

It was Simon Barrass, and Rachel, who would have normally been delighted to see him, viewed his presence now with a nervous eye. It wasn’t that she didn’t want him here, she told herself, shifting the receiver from one ear to the other. She just didn’t want him to interpret her tolerance of Ben’s attitude as intimidation. Having heard the story of what had happened from Rachel, Simon was, naturally enough, resentful of the pain Ben had put her through. He had already threatened to deal with him personally, if her soon-to-be-ex-husband made things difficult for her. And, although she wasn’t entirely convinced that Simon, burly though he was, could threaten Ben, she didn’t want their marriage to begin in such a way. Apart from anything else, Daisy would never forgive Simon if he hurt her father. And as for accepting him …

‘Look, we can’t talk now,’ she declared hurriedly, as the urge to avoid Simon’s learning who she was talking to overcame her desire to get things settled with Ben. Catching Simon’s eye, she gave him what she hoped was a welcoming smile. ‘Um—can I ring you later? I’m afraid I’ve got a customer.’

‘Have you?’

Ben’s response was heavily ironic, and she wished she had the freedom to tell him exactly what she thought of him. But until the divorce was finalised it was unwise to antagonise him. And she had delivered quite a broadside. Perhaps it was as well to give him time to absorb the news.

‘Yes,’ she said now, submitting to the rather wet kiss Simon was bestowing on her ear with some misgivings. ‘I won’t be a minute,’ she assured him softly, covering the mouthpiece as she did so. Then, ‘Will that be convenient?’ she enquired in a businesslike tone, as her fiancé chose to wedge his hips on the desk beside her.

‘OK, Rachel.’ To her relief, Ben seemed to accept her explanation. ‘Oh, give my love to Daisy, won’t you? Tell her Daddy says he’ll see her soon.’

‘I will.’

Taking no more chances, Rachel put down the receiver, only realising as she looked up into Simon’s curious face that she hadn’t even said goodbye. Oh, lord, she wondered, had he been able to hear Ben’s last few words?

‘Awkward customer?’ he asked, arching brows only a couple of shades darker than his hair, and Rachel gazed at him uncertainly, not sure how to answer him.

‘Not—not really,’ she offered, casting her eyes down and pretending to rummage in the drawer for some papers. She was sure her face must be scarlet. She wasn’t a practised liar. And she wasn’t entirely sure why she was prevaricating anyway. It wasn’t as if Ben had refused to discuss a divorce. She pulled out what she had supposedly been looking for, and assumed a bland expression. ‘You’re an unexpected visitor.’

‘But not an unwelcome one, I trust?’ suggested Simon, smiling, and she breathed a treacherous sigh of relief.

‘Not at all,’ she said, not altogether truthfully, allowing him to grasp her hand and squeeze it tightly between both of his. ‘I just thought you’d be busy, that’s all. With all the spring planting and everything.’

‘We’d be in a poor state if I was only now beginning the spring planting,’ declared Simon reprovingly, massaging her wrist between his palms. ‘You’ve a lot to learn, Rachel, and it’s going to be my pleasure to teach you. Now, where is that old codger you work for? I want to ask him a favour.’

‘Mr Caldwell?’ Rachel was surprised. She wouldn’t have thought Simon and Cyril had anything in common.

‘Yes, Cyril,’ said Simon forcefully, releasing her hand and getting up from the desk. ‘I’ve got to go to Bristol this morning, and I told Mother I was going to take you with me.’ He glanced round. ‘Now, if you’ll just point me in his direction——’

‘He’s not here.’ Tamping down the indignation she felt at not being asked whether she wanted to go to Bristol with him or not, Rachel got up too, rubbing her hands together. Then, realising it was just a nervous way of drying her sweating palms, she ran them swiftly down the seams of her linen skirt. ‘Mr Caldwell,’ she explained. ‘He’s gone to a sale at Romanby. I don’t know how long he’ll be. Probably several hours at the least.’

‘Oh, damn!’ Simon’s use of epithets was always conservative, but there was no doubting his irritation at this news. ‘And I suppose you can’t leave the shop, can you? What a nuisance! The sooner you’re not dependent on this place for a livelihood, the better!’

Rachel swallowed. So far, this had not been the best day she had ever had, and it was getting no better. ‘What do you mean, Simon?’ she asked. ‘I hope to work for Mr Caldwell for many years to come. I like it here. I like my job. I thought you understood that. I thought you realised how important it is to me.’

Simon blushed now, his fair, good-looking face flushing with unbecoming colour. It made him look both younger and less confident, and Rachel felt a twinge of conscience for reacting as sharply as she had. It was all Ben’s fault, she decided, resenting the fact that he was still occupying too large a place in her thoughts. She ought to feel flattered that Simon enjoyed her company so much. After all, he hadn’t left Wychwood until nearly midnight last night.

‘I do, of course.’ He spoke urgently now. ‘I didn’t mean that I wanted you to give up your job, Rachel. It’s just that we get so little time alone together. I’m very fond of Daisy, you know that. But she is inclined to hover over us whenever I’m—at your house.’

Rachel bit her lip. She wanted to defend her daughter, but the truth was Daisy was very possessive whenever Simon was around. It was her way of protecting what she saw as her father’s property, and not until she and Ben were divorced would Daisy really accept that their marriage was over.

‘It’s—difficult, I know,’ she conceded, and saw the colour in Simon’s face fade a little at her words. ‘But we do have time together after Daisy’s gone to bed.’

‘Mmm.’ Simon didn’t sound convinced. ‘So long as she doesn’t feel sick, or want a drink, or discover a spider in the bathroom.’

Rachel had to laugh then. ‘She does have a mine of excuses,’ she agreed. ‘But once Ben and I are divorced …’

‘It can’t be soon enough for me,’ declared Simon, nodding. ‘It should be easier then, as you say. Providing your ex-husband doesn’t try to maintain too much influence over her. You know, Rachel, it might be an idea to make an alteration to the custody order to the effect that you’ll take control of Daisy’s schooling. It’s obviously not going to be practical to keep her at Lady’s Mount after you’ve moved to Kingsmead. There’s a perfectly adequate school in Lower Morton, and when she’s eleven——’

‘I think we ought to talk about this at some other time, Simon,’ Rachel broke in hurriedly, realising that until she had discussed it with Ben there was no way she could make arbitrary judgements. Simon had no idea how her husband would react to any change in his daughter’s circumstances, and just because he hadn’t jumped down her throat when she broached the subject this morning was no reason to assume he was indifferent to her plans. She’d ring him again this evening, and try and get some definite decision from him. Perhaps after he’d had time to think it over, he’d see it was for the best.

‘I suppose you’re right.’ To her relief, Simon at least seemed prepared to accede to her wishes. Or perhaps he was simply relieved. ‘Well, I suppose I’d better go. If you can’t come with me, you can’t. I’ll think of you when I’m sitting in Alberto’s, enjoying one of his peppered steaks.’

‘Do that.’

Rachel accompanied him to the door of the shop, and allowed him to give her a rather more intimate kiss before taking his leave of her.

‘I’ll see you tonight,’ he said, replacing his cap as he stepped out into the cooler air. ‘About seven, hmm?’

‘Oh, I——’ Rachel struggled to find the words. ‘Would you mind if we didn’t see one another tonight? I—well, I’ve got to speak to Ben some time, and—and tonight seems as good a time as any.’

‘Without me listening in, do you mean?’ he asked drily. ‘I suppose that’s why you put him off just now.’ He paused, and then added pointedly, ‘Don’t forget to give Daisy his love.’

Rachel’s breath escaped with a rush. ‘You heard!’

‘Well, my hearing is fairly acute, despite my advanced years,’ remarked Simon evenly. ‘Why didn’t you tell me he’d rung you, Rachel? I thought we didn’t have any secrets from one another.’

‘We don’t. And he didn’t.’ Rachel felt terrible now. ‘I rang him. I just—didn’t want to involve you, when it wasn’t necessary.’

‘Everything you do is necessary to me,’ retorted Simon, gazing at her with pale possessive eyes. ‘But I’ll respect your wish to deal with your husband on your own terms. However, if there should be any problem over the divorce——’

‘There won’t be.’ But Rachel crossed her fingers as she said it.

‘I hope not.’ Simon balled one fist and pressed it into the palm of his other hand. ‘It’s not as if you want anything from him. You’re only finalising something that should have been finalised long ago.’




CHAPTER THREE (#ua5f2a8c1-4f28-5b1b-aaa1-20ceb9333f30)


IT WAS after six when Rachel and Daisy got home.

Mr Caldwell didn’t get back from Romanby until nearly five, and then he insisted on being brought up to date with everything that had happened in his absence. It didn’t help that he had imbibed rather too freely in the hospitality tent at the sale, and consequently needed Rachel to repeat everything several times before he grasped what she was saying.

Daisy noticed, of course.

On those occasions when Rachel had to work late, the bus dropped her daughter off at the shop, and Daisy spent the time between her arrival and their leaving either reading, or doing her homework, or chatting with Mr O’Shea. She was a great favourite with the garrulous restorer, and Rachel was immensely grateful to him for making her feel so welcome.

But, as was to be expected, this evening Daisy chose to be a little too forthright in her opinion of Mr Caldwell’s behaviour. ‘Is he drunk?’ she hissed, in the kind of stage-whisper guaranteed to carry to the back of an auditorium, and the elderly antiquarian regarded her with unconcealed dislike.

‘If you can’t teach that child any better manners than that, then perhaps you ought to find somewhere else for her to stay until you get home from work,’ he declared contentiously, and Rachel thought how strange it was that some days just lent themselves to discord. Perhaps this wasn’t a good night to ring Ben after all. In the present climate, he was likely to oppose her every suggestion.

‘I think you should apologise to Mr Caldwell at once, Daisy,’ she said now, putting the question of how she was going to deal with Ben aside for the moment. She wanted no complications with her job to add to her other problems, and although Daisy stared at her with accusing eyes, she recognised an order when she heard one.

‘I’m sorry,’ she muttered mutinously, and although Mr Caldwell looked as if he would have liked to pursue the vendetta the shrill peal of the phone diverted his attention. And, by the time the call was over, he had forgotten all about chastising Daisy. A situation Rachel had assisted by making sure her daughter kept out of his sight until it was time for them to leave.

Consequently, she was in no mood to contemplate ringing Ben, after she had just watched Daisy demolish a plate of fish fingers and chips. Her own plate was barely touched, and, deciding she deserved some compensation for the day she had had, Rachel rescued a chilled bottle of hock from the fridge. She had put the wine to cool in anticipation of Simon’s joining her for supper that evening, but as he wasn’t coming now she had no reason to wait before opening it.

Pouring herself a glass, she carried it into the family room, standing in the middle of the floor, surveying these so familiar surroundings. It was the one aspect of her relationship with Simon that didn’t fill her with enthusiasm. She would miss this house; she would miss living here. For all its less favourable associations, she had been happy here. It was her home. It had been her home for the past seven years. She couldn’t cast it off without some feelings of remorse. And lamenting what might have been if Ben hadn’t torn their lives apart …

‘Can I watch television, Mummy?’

Rachel turned to find her daughter regarding her from the open doorway, and although her melancholy mood inclined her to be generous, she didn’t immediately grant her request.

‘Do you remember what happened this afternoon?’ she reminded Daisy severely. ‘You were rude to Mr Caldwell, and I said there’d be no television for the next two days.’

‘I remember.’ Daisy wedged her shoulder against the door.

‘Well, then?’

‘But it’s not fair.’

‘It is fair.’ Rachel steeled herself against her daughter’s mournful expression. ‘You know perfectly well you don’t make personal comments about anyone. I’ve already had to speak to you once today about your attitude towards Simon.’

‘This is different,’ argued Daisy hotly.

‘How is it different?’

‘Well …’ Daisy sniffed. ‘You said people who drink shouldn’t drive,’ she declared, and Rachel sighed.

‘So?’ But she knew what was coming.

‘Well, Mr Caldwell had driven, hadn’t he? All the way from Romanby. What if he’d had an accident? What if someone—some child—had been killed?’

Rachel shook her head. ‘Nothing happened.’

Daisy rolled her eyes. ‘But what if it had?’

‘That still doesn’t excuse your behaviour.’

Daisy expelled her breath on a noisy sigh. ‘But he wasn’t supposed to hear!’ she protested fiercely, and Rachel had to suppress an unforgivable desire to laugh. Daisy looked so indignant; so frustrated. And, while there had been no excuse for what she’d said, she was only a child. Things seemed so black and white when you were only nearly nine. It wasn’t until you were older that you saw the shades between.

All the same …

Rachel was still undecided what she should do, when Daisy pushed herself away from the door, and dragged her feet across the carpet to the window. The curtains were still undrawn, and the bowls of spring bulbs Rachel had planted the previous autumn were reflected in the glass. She watched Daisy as she plucked broodingly at the delicate shoots, thinking how much more like her father she became with each succeeding year. Not just in her looks, though she was going to be tall, like him, and her mop of unruly curls was every bit as dark; but also in temperament: Daisy could be just as moody as her father, if things didn’t happen to go her way.

Beyond the windows, it was getting dark, though not as black as it had been in the depths of winter. Already there were signs that the evenings were getting longer, and in another month or two, they’d be able to sit outside after supper. Though not here, Rachel reminded herself yet again. If Simon had his way, they’d be moving to Kingsmead, when Daisy’s school broke up for the Easter holidays.

And it was the thought of this, as much as anything, that persuaded Rachel to give in. However much she might tell herself that Daisy had as much to gain from the move as she did, to begin with it wasn’t going to be easy for her. For either of them, admitted Rachel honestly. Much as she cared for Simon, living in a cottage at Kingsmead was going to make a big change in all their lives.

‘Oh, all right,’ she was beginning, ‘we’ll say no more about it——’ but she never got to finish. As she moved towards her daughter, intent on healing the breach that had opened between them, searching headlights swept across the lamplit room. The cutting of a powerful engine left an uneasy silence in its wake, and even before Daisy let out a crow of excitement Rachel sensed instinctively that it wasn’t Simon’s car.

‘It’s Daddy! It’s Daddy!’ cried Daisy, dancing up and down in undisguised delight. She glanced round at her mother, all her previous ills forgotten, and grinned expectantly. ‘Did you hear what I said? It’s Daddy! Did you know he was coming? Oh—do you think he’s going to stay?’

Not if I have anything to do with it, thought Rachel grimly, as her daughter flew past her on her way to open the door. Dear lord, this was all she needed. She should have known better than to think she could dispose of Ben with just a phone call.

Tom between the need to gather her scattered defences and the equally potent need to greet Ben as if his arrival hadn’t just plunged her into a state of blind panic, Rachel emptied the remaining wine in her glass in one convulsive gulp. She wished now she had chosen brandy instead of the pale white juice of the grape. She could have done with something stronger before she saw her husband again.

And, foolishly, her hand went to her hair, the tawny brown hair that Ben had always liked her to wear long. As if it mattered what she looked like, she thought, reassured that the French plait was still in place none the less. Not that she could compete with the glamorous women she had seen him escorting around town in the articles she collected so assiduously. Nor would she want to, she assured herself impatiently. But at least she hadn’t put on too much weight or gained a lot of grey hairs.

And it wasn’t as if she hadn’t seen him since that awful morning when she had found him and Elena together. In the early days of the separation, he had come back to the house on several occasions to collect books and papers he had left behind. He’d always warned her he was coming, of course, and most times she had made a point of being out. He had had a key that fitted their locks in those days. It wasn’t until later that she’d had them changed.

But that was over a year ago now. Recently, their only contact had been through Daisy. As she remembered this, she heard his voice in the hall outside and her mouth went dry. Whatever he had come for, Daisy had invited him in.

She realised that if she waited any longer he would find her there, frozen in the middle of the living-room carpet, clutching her empty wine glass, like a talisman. So, putting the glass down, she took the necessary steps to bring her to the door. He was not going to disconcert her, she told herself fiercely. But her hands were cold and shaking, and there was a feeling of raw apprehension pooling in her stomach.

When she reached the doorway, she paused, steeling herself to face the man who had once been her only reason for living. God, how naive she had been in those days, she reflected bitterly. However much she loved Simon, he would never have that kind of power over her. No man would. Ever again.

‘Hello, Rachel.’

Despite her determination to take control of the situation, Ben beat her to the punch. Even though he had been laughing with Daisy, and fending off her efforts to climb all over him, he still seemed to sense the exact moment when his wife appeared in the doorway. Straightening, he adjured Daisy to behave herself, and swept back his hair with a lazy hand. And, as she met those night-dark eyes, and saw the veiled hostility lurking between the thick fringe of his lashes, Rachel knew in that instant that this was not a conciliatory visit.

‘Hello,’ she responded, resisting the effort to check that her skirt was straight, and that the hem of her blouse hadn’t escaped from her waistband. The skirt was dusty, she knew, after unpacking the china Mr Caldwell had left her with that morning. There might even be a ladder in her tights. If only she’d thought to look.

‘How are you?’

His question was perfunctory, and she thought how typical it was that once again Ben should have taken her unawares. He stood there, cool and assured, in a black cashmere sweater and black trousers, totally in control of himself and this conversation. And she was letting him do it. This was her house, dammit, until she moved out anyway. He had no right to come here and treat her like a visitor in her own home.

‘I’m fine,’ she said now, icily. ‘You?’

‘Tired,’ he admitted carelessly, though there didn’t appear to be a tired bone in his lean-muscled body. On the contrary, he looked fit and aggressively masculine, his superior height reminding her what it was like to look up at a man again.

At five feet nine, taller in heels, Rachel was generally on eye-level terms with the men of her acquaintance. Not least Simon, who was inclined to be self-conscious about his lack of height, and encouraged her to wear flat heeled boots and shoes when they went out together.

‘Really?’ she remarked now, refusing to feel any sympathy for Ben. ‘Then I can’t imagine why you’ve driven all this way. I did say I’d ring you later. There was no need for you to make a personal call.’

‘Wasn’t there?’ Ben’s mouth had a faintly ironic curve to it. ‘Well, I beg to disagree.’ He glanced down at Daisy, doing her best to attract his attention. ‘Where my daughter’s concerned, nothing is too much trouble.’

‘She’s my daughter, too,’ retorted Rachel, and then wished she hadn’t allowed him to force her into such a revealing remark. She’d get nowhere here if she let her temper get the better of her. That was obviously why he’d come. Because he knew it would put her on the defensive.

‘Aren’t you going to offer Daddy a drink?’ Daisy protested now, clearly not unaware of the tension between her parents and doing her best to neutralise it. ‘Mummy’s just opened a bottle of wine,’ she told her father innocently. ‘I’ll get you a glass, shall I? While you and Mummy go and sit down.’

‘I don’t think——’

‘Your father can’t drink and drive——’

Rachel and Ben spoke simultaneously, and Daisy looked from one to the other of them with anxious eyes. ‘Daddy won’t be driving any more tonight, will he?’ she asked her mother frowningly. Then, turning to her father, ‘You’re not driving straight back to London, are you?’

‘Not immediately, no.’

Ben looked at Rachel now, and she felt her face turning red. It was typical of him to arrive when he knew Daisy would be there to defend his actions, she thought angrily. If she turned him away now, she’d be a pariah in her daughter’s eyes as well.

As well?

‘I’m sure your father hasn’t come all this way just to see us, darling,’ she declared, taking the coward’s way out. ‘You forget, he used to live here, too. Daddy has friends in the neighbourhood. He’s probably planning to visit them.’

‘Friends who chose to believe you rather than me,’ he countered in a low tone, leaving Daisy to walk past Rachel on his way to the kitchen. He glanced back at her shocked face, his smile at once accusing and mocking. ‘You don’t mind if I have a drink of water, do you? I am rather thirsty. It’s been quite a while since lunch.’

Rachel’s breath eased out slowly, but, meeting her daughter’s troubled gaze, she knew she’d met her match. She had no earthly reason for denying Ben either a drink of water, or a bed for the night, if that was what he wanted. This was still his house, and her over-reaction to his appearance was hardly beneficial to her cause.

But the trouble was, she thought as she forced a brittle smile for Daisy’s benefit and followed him into the kitchen, she didn’t want him here. In the past few months, she had succeeded in banishing all memory of her husband from these rooms, and when she was cooking a meal in the kitchen or reading in the cosy snug she no longer saw Ben’s image, superimposed across the room. She used to. For weeks, months, maybe even a year or more, she had seen nothing else. She’d never felt relaxed, never felt free of his prevailing presence. But now she did—and he was going to spoil it all again.

But not for long, she reminded herself firmly. Once she and Daisy moved out of this house, there would be nothing to remind them of her ex-husband. Nothing at all.

It was dark now, and although Ben had his back to her as he ran the tap, she could see his reflection in the window above the sink. Was it just her imagination, or did he look a little weary, as he had said? In any event, he was just as arrogant as ever, she told herself fiercely. And just as unscrupulous, if he didn’t get his own way.

‘Are you hungry?’

It wasn’t what she had planned to say, but the words were out, and Daisy gave her a beaming smile. Evidently, she had said the right thing as far as the little girl was concerned. But then, Daisy was the ultimate optimist. She still thought her parents should be civil with one another.

Ben turned, the glass of water he had requested in his hand. ‘Is that an enquiry, or just wishful thinking?’ he asked drily. ‘Don’t tell me: I can have some dry bread with the water!’

‘The water was your choice,’ retorted Rachel shortly, and then, realising she was letting him rile her again, she forced herself to calm down. ‘Naturally, if you’re hungry, you’re welcome to anything we’ve got.’ She mentally catalogued the contents of the fridge, before adding, ‘There’s some ready-made lasagne, or I could make you a ham sandwich.’

Ben leaned back against the sink unit, regarding her with dark disturbing eyes. It was an intent look, intended to intimidate she was sure. And, despite her best efforts, she couldn’t help feeling self-conscious. What was he thinking? she wondered. Was he comparing her plain, homely appearance with the woman he had left behind him in London?

When he took a drink from his glass, and his attention was briefly diverted, Rachel felt as if a solid weight had been lifted from her shoulders. But her relief was short-lived when he set the glass on the drainer, folded his arms, and looked at her again.

‘I’m not hungry,’ he informed her flatly, casting a disparaging glance at the still-uncleared supper table. Her barely touched meal of fish fingers and chips looked greasy and unappetising, and she wished she’d had warning of his coming so that she could have at least disposed of the plate. ‘It doesn’t look as if you were hungry either,’ he observed. ‘Or was the wine more appealing? You ought to be careful, Rachel. Drinking alone can be dangerous.’

Rachel’s lips tightened. ‘I don’t generally drink alone!’ she snapped.

‘No?’ Ben’s eyes narrowed slightly, and, as if sensing their conversation was not going as well as she had hoped, Daisy broke in again.

‘D’you want to come and see my room, Daddy?’ she asked, tugging on his hand. ‘I want to show you my computer. It’s not as big as yours, but it’s ever so good——’

‘Later, sweetheart.’ Ben allowed his daughter to hang on to his arm, but when she attempted to pull him away from the sink he resisted. ‘Right now, your mother and I have some things to say to one another. Why don’t you go upstairs and watch television? I promise I won’t leave without saying goodbye.’

‘Goodbye!’ Daisy looked disappointed now. ‘You’re not really going, are you?’

‘We’ll see,’ said Ben evenly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. His own hair was almost as long as Daisy’s, Rachel noticed scornfully. Ben had really got into the artist’s mould. She was surprised he wasn’t wearing an earring.

Daisy hunched her shoulders. ‘I’m not allowed to watch television,’ she said sulkily, and Ben looked to Rachel for an explanation.

‘I—yes, you can,’ she muttered quickly, not wanting to get into another discussion concerning Daisy’s discipline. ‘Do as your father says, darling. We’ll forget all about Mr Caldwell this time.’

‘Caldwell?’ Ben arched an interrogative brow as Daisy trudged reluctantly out of the room, and Rachel waited until she heard the little girl going upstairs, before she answered briefly.

‘A little upset at work, that’s all. It wasn’t important.

Now——’ She squared her shoulders. ‘What did you come here for? I told you the gist of what there was to tell this morning. The fact that I want a divorce shouldn’t really surprise you.’

‘Did I say it did?’ Ben straightened away from the sink. ‘But I don’t think this is the place to be having this discussion,’ he went on neutrally. ‘Why don’t we go into the other room?’ His brow arched. ‘Unless it’s already occupied, of course.’

‘Already occupied?’ Rachel looked at him blankly for a moment before comprehension dawned. ‘Oh—no. Simon’s not here right now,’ she assured him coolly. ‘We can go in there if you like. Though I can’t imagine what we have to talk about.’

‘Can’t you?’ Ben shrugged. Then, ‘Simon,’ he remarked experimentally. ‘Simon what?’

‘Does it matter?’ Rachel endeavoured not to sound as resentful as she felt as she led the way into the family-room. She saw her empty wine glass on the mantelpiece and wished she’d carried it into the kitchen with her. ‘Who he is needn’t concern you.’

‘Like hell!’ For the first time, Ben exhibited some emotion other than the guarded hostility he had revealed so briefly on his arrival, and Rachel felt an unexpected twinge of fear. ‘Do you honestly think you can just tell me you want to marry someone else, without any reaction from me?’

Rachel swallowed. She had been going to sit down in one of the velvet armchairs beside the fire, but his vehemence—his violence—kept her nervously on her feet. ‘I didn’t think you’d care,’ she replied carefully, linking her fingers together at her waist. ‘Um—why don’t you sit down?’

Ben had halted just inside the door of the room, and was presently looking about him, evidently registering the changes that had been made since he was last here. There was no particular expression on his dark face as his brooding gaze slid over the silk-printed curtains at the windows and alighted on the set of ceramic tiles that had taken the place of the original water-colour that used to hang above the fireplace. But she knew he was remembering how they had chosen the furnishings for this room together. It was their first attempt at interior designing, and she recalled how proud they had been of their efforts. Which was why she had torn down the curtains and stowed the picture away in the loft when he left, she remembered tensely. She hadn’t been able to afford to totally redecorate the house, but in her own small way she had effected a modest transformation.

Now, Ben moved further into the room, and, desperate for something to do, Rachel went to draw the curtains. How many times in the past couple of years had she drawn these curtains, she reflected, wondering where Ben was and who he was with? Well, tonight she knew, but, conversely, it gave her no relief.

‘I will have a drink,’ Ben remarked, behind her, and she swung round, half guiltily, to find him opening the doors of the bureau. In the old days they had always kept a supply of wines and spirits in the cupboard below the bookcase, but no longer. He straightened, frowning. ‘Where is it?’

‘Where’s what?’ asked Rachel innocently, and had the satisfaction of seeing his frustration for a change.

‘The Scotch,’ he replied sardonically. ‘Don’t tell me: you keep it in the sitting-room these days. Another attempt to alter the old order, Rachel? I noticed you’d moved the picture. Where is it? Under your bed, with pins stuck in it?’

‘Why would I do that?’ Rachel was proud of her control. ‘It wasn’t a picture of you.’

His smile was sardonic. ‘Point taken,’ he conceded drily. ‘Now—where the hell is that Scotch? You may not need one, but I surely do.’

Rachel pressed her lips together for a moment, and then gave in. ‘If you must know, it’s in the kitchen,’ she told him resignedly. ‘In the cupboard above the fridge. I don’t keep much alcohol in the house, as it happens. I don’t like spirits, and in any case it’s too expensive.’

Ben let that go without comment, leaving the room briefly to get the whisky, before coming back again, bottle and glass in hand. He poured himself a generous measure, then, raising the glass to his lips, he offered her a silent toast, savouring the single malt with evident appreciation.

Rachel watched him half apprehensively. She was fighting the urge to demand that he state what he’d come for and go, and only the fact that she might inadvertently reveal how nervous he made her was keeping her silent.

Besides, she chided herself again, what was she worried about? It wasn’t as if she was afraid of him. At no time had Ben ever threatened her or her custody of Daisy.

‘So——’ Ben’s eyes flickered over her stiff erect figure, ‘you’re looking well.’

‘Thank you.’ Rachel refrained from returning the compliment, even if it was true. Ben did look well; a little leaner than she remembered, but disgustingly healthy none the less. He evidently didn’t spend all his time labouring over a hot typewriter or a word processor or whatever it was he used to write his books these days. His body was taut, not to say hard, and she guessed he must still work out once or twice a week. Unless his romantic exploits constituted a viable alternative …

‘You’ve put on some weight,’ he added, lowering his glass and surveying her rounded hips with a critical eye. ‘But it suits you,’ he added. ‘I always did think you were too thin.’

‘And your opinion is the only one that matters, I suppose?’ flashed Rachel angrily, immediately feeling as fat as a couch potato. ‘Honestly, Ben, your arrogance is amazing! Believe it or not, but I don’t give a—a——’

‘Damn?’ he supplied pleasantly, but she ignored him. ‘A monkey’s,’ she asserted, with some relish, hoping he got the hidden message, ‘what you think I look like.’

‘You used to,’ he reminded her, the expression in those dark eyes hidden by the narrowing of his lashes. ‘So, why don’t you tell me about this new man in your life? I imagine you care what he thinks.’

‘Yes, I do.’ Wishing he would sit down so that she could do the same, Rachel steeled her knees against their embarrassing tendency to shake. ‘He—he’s everything you’re not: sweet, and kind—and faithful.’

Ben didn’t look impressed. ‘He sounds like a bloodhound,’ he remarked unkindly, and Rachel felt like slapping his mocking face. ‘Does Daisy share your views?’

Rachel drew a deep breath. ‘Daisy—Daisy doesn’t know Simon as well as I do.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘It means what it says.’ Rachel couldn’t sustain his cool interrogative stare any longer without betraying that she wasn’t at all convinced what Daisy’s feelings were. Turning away, she pretended to adjust a fold in one of the curtains, before continuing carefully, ‘Daisy doesn’t know Simon that well yet.’

‘No?’

‘No.’

‘But she likes him?’

Behind her, Ben’s voice was disturbingly persistent, and Rachel had to turn round again without having gained any advantage from the brief reprieve. ‘I—I haven’t discussed it with her,’ she replied, not altogether truthfully. ‘Um—naturally, she’s very loyal——’

‘To me?’

‘To our marriage,’ Rachel amended firmly. ‘She is only eight, Ben. Obviously she still hopes there’s some chance of us—of our——’

‘—getting back together?’

‘Absurd, isn’t it?’ Rachel managed to sound suitably amused at the suggestion. ‘I’ve told her how it is. She just doesn’t——’

‘How is it?’

His question disconcerted her—as it was meant to do, she realised impatiently. He had emptied his glass now, and was waiting for her answer with what she could only identify as mild derision in his expression. The fact that he was baiting her gave her a feeling of frustration, and it was doubly infuriating to know that he could still do it so easily.

‘Can we keep to the point, Ben?’ she enquired, trying to ignore the heat that was invading her face once again at his words. ‘I’m not enjoying this, even if you are, and I’d appreciate it if——’

‘I thought that was the point,’ he interrupted her obliquely, cradling his empty glass between his palms. ‘I’d like to know what you’ve told her. Am I still the evil seducer of pubescent women?’

‘I never told her th——’ Rachel broke off abruptly, realising he was only trying to provoke her into defending herself once more. ‘You know perfectly well that so far as Daisy is concerned, you’re her hero.’ Her lips twisted with conscious irony. ‘But then, heroes are in short supply these days, and she doesn’t have a lot of experience.’

‘Unlike her mother?’ suggested Ben, putting down his glass, and pushing his hand into the pockets of his trousers, and Rachel drew in a steadying breath.

His action had made her unwillingly aware of how lovingly the fabric of his trousers followed the muscles of his hips and thighs. Though she didn’t want to notice it, the fine wool delineated the strength and leanness of his bones, accentuating the power in his legs and moulding the swell of his sex. She had forgotten how physical he was, she realised. Forgotten what it was like to be aware of a man in any way other than an intellectual one. With Simon, it was his kindness and his personality that had drawn her to him first; his ability to treat her like someone important, someone special. She’d deliberately obliterated the sexual attraction Ben had always had for her, and it was disturbing to realise that it had not been erased, only buried beneath a layer of pain and bitterness.





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