Sara Craven - Temple Of The Moon

The waiter arrived with her drink and she paid him and murmured her thanks.

She had always known that there was more affection than passion in her feelings for James, but she had never intended that their marriage should be anything other than a normal one. She had been shocked and hurt to discover that James seemed in no hurry at all to consummate their relationship. At first, she had felt she ought to be grateful for his consideration—he had told her that he felt they should take time to become mentally attuned to each other before they became lovers in the physical sense—but as time went on Gabrielle felt growing doubts that James had ever wanted a wife in the real sense at all. And far from becoming mentally attuned, they seemed to be growing apart.

She had assumed that as his wife, she would be expected to take part in a certain amount of socialising. That he would have colleagues to entertain and that she would act as his hostess as she had sometimes done for her father. But they saw no one. James went each day to the Institute of Central American Studies and she was left entirely to her own devices. In the evening he read or worked in his study while she sat alone watching television.

Once and only once she had suggested that they might do some entertaining. His face had taken on the frozen look she had come to dread. ‘When I wish my privacy to be invaded by a chattering horde of strangers, I’ll tell you, Gabrielle.’

In spite of his unspoken disapproval, Gabrielle had invited Aunt Molly to visit her, but her aunt had not been nearly so reticent.

‘Good heavens, child, it’s like living in a museum!’ She walked over to one of the showcases and inspected its contents with raised eyebrows. ‘It must cost James a fortune in insurance. Some of these things are incredibly valuable.’ She swung round and looked her niece over with a touch of grimness. ‘And what are you, exactly? The latest addition to his collection?’

Gabrielle had naturally protested, but Aunt Molly’s words had stayed in her memory.

The greatest disappointment of all had been James’ refusal to let her take part in any of his work. During their courtship he had patiently answered all her eager questions. Now she was made to see that her curiosity was a nuisance to him, and that she interrupted his concentration.

He was busy, she told herself, but when all this paperwork was behind him and he began to prepare for the real work—for the expedition to the Yaxchilan region that she knew was brewing, then he would need her. Perhaps when they were actually in the Yucatan her enthusiasm would be the inspiration that he had once spoken of, instead of the irritation it now seemed.

She could hardly believe it when she learned that he was going without her.

‘But you’ll be gone for months,’ she had burst out. ‘You can’t mean to leave me here alone. What will I do?’

He stared at her. ‘Do? Occupy yourself in the same way as other wives, I imagine. You have the flat to run and …’

‘The flat!’ Gabrielle’s voice was contemptuous. ‘Mrs Hutchinson runs the flat and you know it. I’m not even allowed to so much as boil an egg on that immaculate stove of hers.’

James looked a little flustered and murmured something about ‘female squabbles’.

‘James,’ she put her hand on his arm, trying not to notice his almost instinctive withdrawal, ‘please let me come with you. I’ve always dreamed of going to the Yucatan—you know that. Besides,’ she flushed, ‘we are supposed to be—getting to know one another better. How can we do that if we’re thousands of miles apart?’

James made an irritable exclamation. ‘Why is it women can never understand that a man’s work and his personal relationships must be kept separate?’ he asked in martyred tones.

‘I accept that—or at least I accept that’s the way you feel about it,’ Gabrielle said desperately. ‘But you said once that I could be—an inspiration to you. Was that just words, or did you really mean it?’

‘Of course I meant it.’ James sighed. ‘And you are an inspiration to me, my dear. From the moment I saw you, I knew you were the one woman whose beauty would complement the setting I’d devised here. The rain forest——’ he frowned and shook his head. ‘That wouldn’t do at all.’

‘Why not?’ Gabrielle asked bitterly. ‘Are you afraid the goddess might come down off her pedestal and behave like a real woman after all? That I might get hot and dirty, and covered in leeches and insect bites like other human beings? I know what’s involved, James, and I’m prepared to accept it if it means I can stand just for a moment on the pyramid of the Sun at Palenque, or look down into the sacred well at Chichen Itza.’ She ended on a note of appeal.

‘Well, I’m not prepared to accept it,’ James said flatly. ‘Nor am I prepared to argue about this any more. I’ve made my wishes clear, I think. There’s nothing further to discuss.’

Up to the day of his departure, she had hoped secretly that he might relent—suggest that she joined him later, but she should have known better. His goodbyes to her were almost abstracted, as if his mind had gone ahead of him to that violent and beautiful land where stone ruins stood deserted and forgotten among the towering trees.

His letters when they came were brief, containing none of the detail or description she hungered for. All she had learned was that the expedition which was being led by a Professor Morgan was based at the Institute’s headquarters in Merida, the capital of the Yucatan, and that her own letters should be directed there.

But she could not occupy every minute of the endless day in writing to James. She wasn’t even sure that her letters were wanted or that her small items of news would hold any interest for him.

Photography had been her salvation. She had wandered through London, enjoying the summer weather and recording her impressions on film more for her own amusement than with any commercial intention. There was a tiny boxroom at the flat, as immaculately neat and sterile as the other rooms, and Gabrielle turned this into a temporary darkroom, ignoring Mrs Hutchinson’s hostility to the move. One set of pictures involving children’s street games had excited her, and these she had sent to Vision.

An invitation to meet the editor Martin Gilbert had followed and soon she was working regularly for them. It was over lunch with Martin and one of his feature writers one day that the name Yaxchilan had cropped up unexpectedly and she had said without thinking, ‘The place of green trees.’

‘Quite right.’ Martin had sounded surprised. ‘Now how did you know that?’

She tried to make her laugh sound light. ‘Don’t sound so surprised! The Mayan jungle happens to be one of my obsessions.’ She twisted the plain gold ring on her left hand. ‘That’s where my husband is now, as a matter of fact.’

‘Indeed?’ Martin gave her a long considering look. ‘I’m surprised that you’re not with him—feeling as you obviously do.’

Gabrielle bent her head. ‘I have my work here,’ she said tonelessly. ‘Perhaps I’ll go another time. Anyway, you haven’t explained what your interest is in the expedition?’

Martin laughed. ‘Need you ask? We have our sights set on a feature—a big one. You know the sort of thing—cities where no human foot has sounded since the Maya left all those centuries ago—carving the memorial to a civilisation out of the encroaching jungle. There’s always a fascination in that sort of thing, and we’ve been lucky enough to persuade Dennis Morgan, the man leading the expedition, to write the copy for us, so we can concentrate on the visual side.’

‘It—it all sounds wonderful.’ Gabrielle forced a smile. ‘And a wonderful trip for someone,’ she added bleakly, not noticing the speculative glance being exchanged by Martin and his companion.