For The Love Of Sara

His meaning was not lost on Joel, and his lips twisted. He gave a final look at Lady Antonia’s portrait and then walked across the studio to the door leading into the main body of the penthouse. “Okay,” he said heavily. “I’ll make some coffee. I gave Heron the night off, so he won’t be in until later. We can talk just as well in the kitchen.”

Later that day, Joel had learned that Rachel, if it was Rachel as Francis insisted, had returned to Yorkshire. He found his father was not averse to talking about Mrs. Gilmour when he discovered that his younger son had told Joel of his plans. Joel was forced to bite his tongue and control his fists when confronting his father’s smug countenance, and indeed, if he had had any lingering doubts as to the veracity of Francis’s story, they were dispersed by that interview with his father. James Kingdom was obviously well pleased with himself, and Joel found his anger turning against Rachel with destructive violence. How could she? he had asked himself again and again. How could she think of doing this to him? And the answer came back that she hated him now as he was beginning to hate her.

Nevertheless, he could not let it happen, just like that. He found himself championing Francis’s rights, and refusing to admit his motives were less than unselfish. If Rachel had already been married and had produced a child, she had proved she was fertile, and his father was still a powerful and virile man. Two wives were enough for any man, thought Joel bitterly, without acknowledging that had his own mother not died soon after his birth, his father might only have had one.

But that was three days ago now. In that time, Francis had managed to find out that Rachel’s employer was a Colonel Frenshaw, who lived at the Old Hall, Langthwaite. A not-too-difficult place to find, Joel had thought, until he began this journey…

He turned restlessly in the narrow bed, wishing himself back in his own bed in his own apartment. He had told no one but Francis and his man, Heron, of his real motives for coming to Yorkshire, and he had no doubts that Erica would be curious on his return. Erica…

He determinedly brought the image of the girl he would no doubt marry one day to his mind. Six years had drawn a distorting veil over Rachel’s features, and although he could remember the details of her appearance it was hard to put them in the right perspective. Besides, he didn’t particularly want to remember Rachel, until he had to…

Six years. It was a long time. She would be what? Twenty-four or twenty-five by now. He should remember. She was ten years younger than he was. He sighed, recalling how amazed he had been that a girl of her age should have had the power over him that she had had. Power that she had abused, he told himself savagely. Well, all that was in the past. No woman, either before or since, had had that kind of power-that kind of control over him, nor ever would again. When he met her tomorrow, or perhaps confronted was a better word, she would soon realise she had bitten off more than she could chew by challenging him like this. How could she? he asked himself again; how dared she imagine she could make herself a member of his family without arousing any reaction from him? Or perhaps that was exactly what she wanted to achieve. The idea struck him forcibly, leaving him cold with anger. And no doubt his father was a willing accomplice.

Yet still he couldn’t believe it. But what other conclusion could he draw? He turned his head restlessly into the pillow and wished he had had that last drink in the bar. A strong double whisky might have soothed his nerves, dulled the sharp edge of exhaustion that was keeping him awake, cast into oblivion the destructive desire for revenge which was tearing him apart.

CHAPTER TWO (#u58e16b3f-55b3-5e21-9bf6-5d6ed687da2b)

AT breakfast the next morning it was a simple matter to ask Mrs. Harris where the Old Hall was situated.

“Colonel Frenshaw’s place?” she asked, raising her eyebrows. “You’re a friend of his, Mr. Kingdom?”

Joel attacked his grapefruit with more determination than enthusiasm. “Not exactly, Mrs. Harris. I — er — I do know someone who works for him, though.”

“Oh, that would be Mr. Hanson, would it, sir?”

Joel’s head jerked up. Pushing the straight hair off his forehead, he frowned. “Hanson? No, I know no one of that name, Mrs. Harris.”

Mrs. Harris pursed her lips. “Oh, don’t you?” she shrugged. “I thought as how you might. Mr. Hanson, he’s the Colonel’s secretary, see. Educated young chap, he is. Gets in here sometimes of a weekend.”

Joel’s frown deepened. “Indeed?” He hesitated. “No. The person — the person I know is, I believe, Colonel Frenshaw’s housekeeper.”

Mrs. Harris’s face cleared, but she was surprised, and looked it. “Young Mrs. Gilmour?” she exclaimed.

Joel looked down at the grapefruit again. “That’s right.”

Mrs. Harris raised her eyebrows. “I don’t know the young lady, except to say hello to. She doesn’t come in here, and being the publican’s wife, I don’t get out a lot.”

“No, of course not.” Joel’s brain was working furiously. “Are — are there other — members of staff? At the Hall, I mean?”

“Not as I know of, sir. There’s just the Colonel, and Mr., Hanson, and Mrs. Gilmour, of course. Oh, and the little girl Sara.”

Joel felt his nerves prickle. “Mrs. — Gilmour’s — child?”

“Yes. But of course, you’d know that.”

Joel made no reply. So the child was a girl, Sara. He shook his head. He couldn’t imagine Rachel being old enough to be a mother. And yet…

“You were going to tell me where the Old Hall is situated,” he reminded Mrs. Harris.

She nodded, taking away the half eaten dish of grapefruit and replacing it with a plate of ham, eggs, sausages and tomatoes. Ordinarily Joel would have done full justice to such a meal, but this morning after his restless night, the fried breakfast looked nauseating. Nevertheless, he had to make an effort, and tackled the bacon first.

“If you follow the Cragstone road for about a mile, you’ll come across it, sir. On your left. You can’t miss it. It’s the only house for miles.”

“Thank you.”

Joel poured himself some coffee and drank slowly. It was half past eight. Was nine o’clock too early to go calling? He had contemplated telephoning first, but dismissed the idea. He wanted to see Rachel’s face when she saw him. He wanted to feel the surge of satisfaction that would come when he confronted her with his contempt.

He ate sparingly, much to Mrs. Harris’s disappointment, but he thanked her warmly for the meal and her hospitality, and added a not ungenerous gratuity to the bill. Then he collected his belongings from his room and carried them out to the car.

It was an unexpectedly mild morning for early March, and he decided to stow his sheepskin coat in the boot and wear instead the jacket that matched his dark blue suede pants. Sliding his arms into the sleeves of his jacket, he surveyed the village square with more enthusiasm. Seen in the light of a strengthening sun, it had a certain charm which he had missed the night before. He noticed that there were daffodils and narcissi growing in every available patch of earth, and all the buildings had a scrubbed, well-cared-for appearance. A couple of dogs were scratching beside the drinking fountain that formed part of the wall that edged the churchyard, and even as he stood there the church clock chimed the hour. He glanced quickly at his watch. The time had come, and he wished he felt more prepared for it.

Unlocking the door, he slid behind the wheel of the Mercedes sports. The engine fired at the first flick of his wrist, and a faint smile of satisfaction momentarily dispelled the deep lines beween his brows.

With Mrs. Harris’s directions, it was not difficult to find the Cragstone road, and not far outside the village he came upon a rambling stone building which could only be the Old Hall. Smoke drifted from chimneys so obviously someone was up and about, and an old station wagon was parked on the forecourt. Rusty wrought iron gates hung half off their hinges leaving the entrance wide for anyone to drive through. Joel had stopped just outside the gates, undecided whether to leave the car there or not, but then, with a characteristic shrug of his shoulders, he released the brake and drove between the gateposts, and cruised along the gravel drive to stop beside the station wagon.

His arrival aroused no immediate response beyond a halfhearted barking from the back of the house. He got out of the car and stood for a moment looking up at the blank windows. So this was where Rachel had lived — how long? The last two — three years, maybe? He flexed his shoulder muscles. Since her husband died, no doubt. Francis had said she was a widow. And Gilmour? Who was Gilmour? What had this man been who had married her so briefly? Why had she married him? Because she loved him? If so, love came more easily to her than it had done to him…

He flung the thoughts aside, and walked round the two vehicles to the porch. A bellrope invited usage, and with a tautening of his stomach muscles, he pulled, hard. The sound echoed and re-echoed throughout the house and he hoped that no one was sleeping in there. The noise would awaken the dead.

He waited. For a few minutes he began to think that either no one was in or no one was up. But the smoking chimneys and the station wagon seemed to negate such an idea. And indeed, after an interminable time footsteps sounded across the hall beyond the half fluted glass door and presently it was opened. A young man stood regarding him expectantly, a thin, reddish-haired young man, with a small beard and moustache that were no doubt intended to give his face maturity. “Yes?”

Joel was taken aback. He had half expected Rachel to open the door, and now she hadn’t he was temporarily speechless. Then he gathered himself, and said shortly: “I’d like to speak to Mrs. Gilmour.”

“Rachel?”

The young man raised his eyebrows, and there was a touch of hostility in the way he said her name. Joel felt a ridiculous temptation to grab him by his collar and demand whether he had been given the right to use her Christian name, but instead he replied: “Yes, that’s right. Rachel.”

The young man was definitely hostile now. “I’m afraid she’s busy at the moment,” he said. “Perhaps you could call back later.”

Joel contained his impatience. “Just tell her that there’s a Mr. Kingdom asking to speak to her,” he said. “I think you’ll find she’ll speak to me.”

“Kingdom?” The young man regarded him coldly. “You’re some relation of — James Kingdom, then?”

“Not that it’s any business of yours, but yes.” Joel put one foot on the threshold. “Now, will you please deliver my message?”

The young man shrugged and turned away to cross the parquet flooring of the wide entrance hall. Joel rested his shoulder against the doorpost and watched him sourly. That, of course, was the Hanson fellow Mrs. Harris had spoken about. He was younger than he had expected. He wondered what his relationship was with Rachel.

He half turned and looked back across the gardens edging the drive. Someone had taken the trouble to mow the lawn quite recently, and the rhododendrons would be quite beautiful when they were out. Something was jutting from beneath the rhododendron bushes, something that had once been red, but which was now streaked with dirt and dried leaves. It looked like a wheelbarrow, a very small wheelbarrow. A toy wheelbarrow, in fact. His lips twisted. The child — Sara’s — no doubt.

“You wanted to see me?”

The low voice sounded right behind him, and his head jerked round almost of its own volition. He had not heard her approach, but Rachel was standing just inside the doorway, her hands thrust into the pockets of the gingham apron she was wearing over shabby slacks and an open-necked shirt blouse. Her face was thinner than he remembered, unnaturally flushed in places and pale as death in others; her body was thinner, too, but her hair, the silky ash-blonde glory of her hair which he had always found such a sensual pleasure in burying his face in, was still as beautiful as ever, albeit unattractively confined at the moment in a severe knot at the nape of her neck. Joel straightened slowly, allowing his eyes to move over her in a deliberately insolent way, and was faintly gratified by the way she shifted under his gaze.

“Well, well,” he remarked mockingly. “Mrs. Gilmour, as I live and breathe.”

“What do you want, Joel? I’m employed here, and I have work to do.”

She spoke quickly, breathily, and she cast a fleeting glance over her shoulder as she did so. That was when Joel saw the man, Hanson, lurking in the background, and his patience snapped.