wonder whether Jaime intends to join us,’ Liz said at last, after Robert had asked Rachel about her journey, and received only monosyllabic replies. She gave the girl an apologetic look. ‘Dr Manning actually suggested that he should spend some time in bed, to allow his wound to heal, but you know what—I mean—well, Jaime wouldn’t listen.’ She offered an embarrassed smile. ‘Er—perhaps you ought to go and see what he’s doing, Rob,’ she finished appealingly. ‘We can’t keep Maisie waiting indefinitely.’
‘All right.’
Robert got up from his seat beside Rachel on the couch, and with a good-natured grimace left the room. In his absence, Liz offered Rachel another drink, and after she had refused said:
‘You’re not worrying about this, are you, darling?’ She sighed. ‘I know it can’t be easy for you, but after all, you and Jaime are civilised people. You can meet as old—acquaintances, can’t you?’
Rachel concentrated on the clear liquid in her glass. ‘If—if that’s what—Jaime wants.’
‘Oh, I’m sure it is.’ Liz was fervent. ‘I think he may be glad of the opportunity to—well, repair the damage. Oh, not for any personal reasons, but simply because he would like to heal the breach.’
Rachel could not answer her, not least because her own preconceived ideas were in shreds. She had thought she could handle Jaime, now she wasn’t so sure whether she could handle herself. And the knowledge that he still had the power to disturb her was terrifying.
‘He’s not coming, after all.’ Robert breezed back into the sitting room with a distinct air of relief. ‘He says he’d rather have supper in his room. He’s got a little pain, I think, and he doesn’t feel like making the effort to come downstairs.’
‘Oh!’ Liz bit her lip and looked uncertainly down into their guest’s taut face. ‘Well—but what about Rachel? Doesn’t he want to see her? To say hello?’
‘He asks to be excused this evening,’ Robert explained, as Rachel started to make her own protestations. ‘He says he’ll see her tomorrow—which I’m sure will be time enough for both of them,’ he concluded, with another grimace. ‘Now, shall we eat?’
The meal was served in the intimate dining room, that overlooked the cliffs at the back of the house. Tonight, of course, the curtains were drawn, and the only evidence of their proximity to the ocean was the persistent murmur of the sea on the rocks. The fog had reduced sound as well as visibility, and its muted cadences were low and resonant.
The food, as always, was excellent, but Rachel ate little, making the excuse that she had had a sandwich on the train. ‘I expect my appetite will improve with all the fresh air I’m going to get,’ she explained, breaking the protracted silence, and Liz smiled her understanding.
‘I think you need time to relax, and get used to us again,’ she declared, as Maisie served their coffee. ‘Don’t worry about anything. It will all work out, you’ll see.’
It was a relief, nevertheless, to escape to her room later. Closing her door, Rachel wished ardently that there had been a key, but there wasn’t, and she could hardly jam a chair under the handle. What possible explanation could she give Liz and Robert, if they discovered her in such a predicament? And besides, if Jaime was in pain, he was unlikely to come to her room again tonight.
Someone had turned on the electric blanket on her bed, and after a cursory wash and a cleaning of her teeth, Rachel unplugged it before climbing wearily between the heated sheets. It was deliciously warm and comfortable, and with the distant murmur of the sea from the other side of the house, she endeavoured to relax. But she couldn’t forget that the last time she had stayed at Clere Heights she had not slept alone, and the knowledge that Jaime was there, only a few yards away across the corridor, filled her with apprehension.
Eventually she slept, and although her sleep was shallow and punctuated with turbulent nightmares, she awakened feeling at least partially rested. Outside, the fog seemed to have given way to a brighter morning, and after watching the play of light between the heavy curtains at her windows for several minutes, she at last thrust back the covers and went to investigate for herself.
As she had suspected, the mist had lifted, and the view from her window encompassed the whole of the garden at the front of the house, and the village of Rothside in the distance. Although the trees were bare now, and the lawns had lost their lambent greenness, the thick hedges were dense and sturdy, with here and there a budding sprig of holly to provide a splash of colour.
The village lay below them, its roofs grey-tiled and solid, with the spire of the church just visible above a cluster of poplars. The road to the village ran beyond the barrier of rhododendrons, and wound its way down between fields, that Rachel remembered as being pastureland. Now, however, they had been ploughed, and left to turn their dark furrows to the blue sky, ready for sowing when the frosts of winter were over.
It was all much as she remembered it, she thought unwillingly, admitting that until now she had not realised how sharply it had remained in her memory. The house, and the village, and the tussocky cliffs sloping down to the river estuary, where the Roth spilled its waters into the North Sea.
She shivered suddenly, as the coolness of her room struck through the thin satin of her nightgown, and was starting back to warm herself beneath the covers when there was the lightest of taps at her door. She stiffened for a moment, and then, realising that Jaime would be unlikely to knock and announce himself, she opened her mouth to call: ‘Come in!’ when the handle turned and Maisie’s head appeared.
‘Oh, you’re up!’ she exclaimed, opening the door wider to reveal the small tea tray in her hands. ‘I thought you might still be sleeping, and Mrs Shard said not to disturb you if you were.’
Rachel relaxed. ‘I was just re-acquainting myself with everything,’ she admitted, taking the tray from her eagerly. ‘Hmm, I could just do with a cup of tea. Especially yours, Mrs Armstrong.’
‘Indeed!’ The housekeeper sounded sceptical, but she looked pleased, and Rachel perched on the side of the bed, setting the tray beside her.
‘Is—is everyone up?’ she asked, raising the wide-rimmed china cup to her lips. ‘What time is it? My watch seems to have stopped.’
‘It’s a quarter to nine,’ replied Maisie chattily, plainly disposed to linger. ‘Oughtn’t you to put on a dressing gown or something? You’ll be catching your death in that flimsy thing.’
Rachel smiled. ‘Well, I was beginning to feel a bit cold,’ she admitted. ‘But your tea has warmed me up beautifully.’
‘Mmm.’ Maisie pulled a wry face. ‘Well, so long as you’re sure.’ She twitched the fringe of the bedcover into position, then added: ‘Mrs Shard is downstairs, taking tea in the morning room, while she opens the mail, but Mr Shard isn’t up yet, and nor is Jaime.’
‘I see.’ Rachel caught her lower lip between her teeth.
‘That was a rare old business, wasn’t it?’ Maisie went on. ‘Jaime getting shot like that, and being brought home on crutches.’ She moved her shoulders expressively. ‘My, my, you should have seen his mother’s face when he limped into the house!’
‘I—I can imagine.’ Rachel’s blood quickened at the thought of it.
‘Yes—well, he came to the right place,’ Maisie opined firmly. ‘It’s only right that he should come home and be looked after by people who care about him.’
‘Of course.’ Rachel wondered if this was a subtle criticism of her.
‘Of course, Mrs Shard was worried about that, what with you coming and all,’ the housekeeper continued. ‘But I said to her, I did, this is Jaime’s home, I said, and Miss Williams won’t expect you to consider her feelings at a time like this.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Armstrong.’ Rachel put down her cup. ‘That was delicious.’ She moistened her lips. ‘Er—will