For The Love Of Sara

“You’re a traveller, then, sir?” suggested the older man, curiously, but Joel shook his head.

“I — I have business in Langthwaite,” he conceded, realising that by saying nothing he was likely to be turned away. “Can you put me up?”

“Well, it’s nothing fancy like,” retorted Mr. Harris. “There is a room you can have. My wife’s making up the bed now. Would you be wanting meals as well?”

Joel restrained the impulse to swear. Of course he wanted meals. Did they think he was without the normal demands of the human body? “If — that’s possible,” he remarked, with admirable calmness. “Naturally, I don’t expect your wife to put herself out for one guest. Some sandwiches this evening would do fine, and perhaps some toast in the morning.”

Mrs. Harris, or at least Joel assumed it was that lady, appeared behind them. “Is this the gentleman who is wanting to stay the night?” she asked, and her husband nodded. “Very well, sir. Your room’s ready. And I expect you’re hungry, aren’t you?”

“I — well —” Joel looked helplessly at Mr. Harris, and he nodded with a finality that displayed a decision made.

“Yes, Ellie. The gentleman — I don’t know your name, do I, sir? — he is hungry—”

“Kingdom,” said Joel at once, “Joel Kingdom. From London.”

In what seemed a remarkably short space of time, he was shown to his room on the first floor, given free use of the bathroom, and then fed in a tiny dining room which he suspected was generally only used by the family. Mrs. Harris herself served him, although the blonde from the bar found the excuse to pop in and out asking him whether he had everything he wanted. Joel, who was used to the effect his swarthy attraction had on the opposite sex, found her obvious charms less than appealing, and his mouth was wry by the time he had eaten soup, cold roast beef and pickles, and a piece of Mrs. Harris’s crusty apple pie.

Mrs. Harris herself bustled in as he was finishing the lager he had had with the meal and she looked gratified at his empty plate. “You enjoyed it, then, sir?”

Joel nodded, massaging the aching muscles of his left shoulder. “It was very good, thank you, Mrs. Harris. You’ve been very kind.”

Mrs. Harris beamed, her plump face mirroring her pleasure. “And you’re only staying until tomorrow?” she asked, beginning to gather the dirty dishes together.

Joel rose to his feet. “I hope so.” Then, as she quickly looked up, he added: “I mean, of course, I hope my business doesn’t take longer than that.” He sighed. “I have to get back to London.”

“You work in London, Mr. Kingdom?”

“Sometimes.” Joel was non-committal.

“But your home’s there?”

“You could say that.”

Mrs. Harris was clearly trying to find an opening to ask what business he had in Langthwaite, and Joel was equally unwilling to assist her. He suppressed a yawn with his hand, and said:

“If you don’t mind, Mrs. Harris, I’ll go up to my room now. It’s been a long day, and I am rather tired.”

Mrs. Harris hid her frustration. “Of course, sir. You know where it is?”

“Of course.” Joel smiled, and the woman responded to the spreading charm it generated. “I’ll say goodnight, then.”

“Goodnight, sir.” Mrs. Harris smiled in return, and Joel turned to cross the hall to the stiarcase.

The blonde appeared in the doorway to the bar. “Aren’t you coming back for another drink?” she asked him coyly.

Joel shook his head. “No, thank you.”

“You’re never going to bed!”

“Why not? It is after ten o’clock, you know.”

“Mercy me! Ten o’clock!” The girl raised her eyes heaven-ward. “I thought you Londoners were used to late hours. What’s happened to the swinging seventies?”

“I think they hanged themselves,” returned Joel dryly. “Goodnight.”

His room was under the eaves, and the ceiling sloped towards the window. He could stand upright just inside the door, but from then on it was a losing battle. Still, the bed looked long and comfortable, and he would be glad to stretch his aching limbs. That work-out in the gym that morning had been intended to relax his mind as well as his body, but the way he felt right now it hadn’t succeeded in either direction.

The bathroom didn’t sport a shower, but he ran a shallow bath and sluiced himself before going back to his bedroom. Then he removed his robe, turned out the light and slid between the cotton sheets. The bed was icily cold. The inn was not centrally heated. But the heat generated by his thoughts soon warmed him through.

He lay on his back with his arms behind his head and stared grimly towards the shadowy flowers visible on the cretonne of the curtains. So — he was here, in Langthwaite, and somewhere out there, within a mile’s radius, was Rachel — Rachel Gilmour as she called herself now, but Rachel just the same.

Bitterness brought the sickly taste of bile to the back of his throat. That Rachel should think she could do this, to him! His hands balled themselves into fists. If he had her here now, he thought, he would wring her neck!

But such passion was wasted, and he knew it. Coolness and calmness, and a sense of objectivity would serve him far better. After all, he could not be absolutely sure she was doing it to spite him, although the alternative was equally unpalatable…

He deliberately unclenched his fists and forced the muscles of his neck to relax. Was it really only three days ago that Francis had come to him with the story? It seemed as though he had known it for much longer than that.

He had been working, he remembered, putting the finishing touches to the portrait of Lady Antonia Barrie, when Francis came hammering at his door. He had not been pleased at the intrusion. He had got up especially early to take advantage of the light, and when his half-brother interrupted him he had been less than civil. It wasn’t until Francis had stammered out the story in that way he had when he was distressed that Joel realised this wasn’t another of the simple monetary scrapes Francis had often got himself into.

Even then he had been loath to get involved. “But I don’t see why you should imagine the fact that our father is thinking of getting married again should trouble me!” he had declared impatiently.

Francis, as tall as himself but thinner, fairer, had paced restlessly about Joel’s studio. “Of course, it wouldn’t bother you, would it?” he had demanded fiercely. “Your grandmother left you more than adequately provided for. Unfortunately, I don’t have rich relations like that on my mother’s side. And if Father marries again, why shouldn’t he disinherit me, as he disinherited you?”

Joel had raked his hair back from his forehead with frustrated hands. “That didn’t trouble you too much at the time,” he observed dryly. Then: “It was different with me, Fran, you know it was! Father could never see that I wasn’t cut out to play power politics at the Bank. And, as you say, my grandmother made Father’s participation in my career less than necessary. You’re different, Fran. You’re his son. And even if he does marry again, which I personally doubt, there’s little chance now that he’ll sire more children. Good God, he’s sixty-three!”

Francis turned on him then. “Men have been known to have children at ninety, and you know it!” He paused, his face changing, becoming more calculating. “Besides,” he regarded his half brother scornfully, “you haven’t heard it all yet. You haven’t asked who the woman might be.”

Joel shrugged. “Does it matter?”

“It might. Her name is Gilmour, Rachel Gilmour.” He hesitated, enjoying the effect his words were having. “Her name was Rachel Abbey before she married her first husband!”

And that was when Joel had crossed the studio and done something entirely uncharacteristic. He had caught his haf-brother by his shirt front and dragging him up close to him said savagely: “What are you saying?”

Francis, abashed by his older brother’s intimidation, had struggled to free himself. “It — it — it’s the — t—truth, Jo—Joel! It — it is — Ra-Rachel, it — it is!”

Joel had released him so violently that Francis had spun across the studio and landed on the floor amidst a pile of canvases and an easel. His face had twisted angrily as he got to his feet, and as he brushed his clothes he had stared maliciously at his brother.

“It — it’s not m-my fault!” he muttered, grimacing as his stammer continued. “Just — just because — you d—don’t like the — tr—truth when you — hear it!”

Joel had hardly been listening to him. He believed Francis all right. He wouldn’t come here with a story like that unless he had proof that it was true. But that didn’t make it any better. Searching for a cheroot amongst a mess of paints and sketches on the long board beneath the window, he put one between his teeth and lit it with hands that were no longer steady. Then he stared grimly out of the window for several silent minutes, looking over the rooftops of London to the curve of the Thames in the distance. When he had himself under some semblance of control he turned back to Francis. The younger man had lit a cigarette and was puffing at it nervously, but his expression was defiant when Joel said:

“Tell me what you know,” in low uncompromising tones.

Francis shifted from one foot to the other. “I’m not sure I want to tell you anything,” he muttered.

Joel’s jaw stiffened. “Don’t tempt me, Francis,” he said, in the same low tone. “Now, how do you know it’s — Rachel?”

“I’ve seen her!”