Anne Mather - For The Love Of Sara

“And — her husband?” Joel’s eyes were narrowed beneath heavy lids.

Francis shrugged. “How should I know? Dead, I suppose. Father said she was a — a widow!”

“ A widow ?” Joel paced restlessly across the room. “I don’t believe it!” He swung round on his half-brother. “Are you sure this isn’t all some malicious trick to get his own way?”

“Wh—what do you mean?”

Joel shook his head. “I don’t know, I don’t know. Father always hated me for thwarting him —”

“I don’t think he hates you, Joel —”

“Don’t you? I do. I think he’d marry Rachel just for that reason.”

“You’re crazy!”

“Am I?” Joel’s expression was broodingly malevolent. “If I thought…” He broke off. “Is that all?”

“What — what more can I tell you?”

“What did Father say when he told you?”

“I’ve told you everything I know.”

“Except how you came to see them together last night.”

Francis sighed. “That was accidental. Father doesn’t know I saw them.”

“So?”

“I was going to Freddi’s,” he named a gambling establishment with which Joel was not unfamiliar, “but I was short on funds —”

“—as usual—”

“— and I suddenly remembered Perry Simons.” Perry Simons owned Peruccios. Joel knew this, too. “I went round there, I was going to ask him for a loan. Then I saw them.”

“And you left?”

“Yes.”

“What time was that?”

Francis glanced at his watch. “Around eleven.”

“And it’s eight-thirty now. What have you been doing for nine and a half hours?”

Francis shook his head. “I — I didn’t know wh—what to do. I — I didn’t kn—know wh—whether to t—tell you or not.”

“Why not?”

Francis shook his head. “I w—walked for m—miles. I ended up b—back at the fl—flat at about four. I would have r—rung you then, but I th—thought you m—might be — other — otherwise engaged.”

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.

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.”