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  A Relative Betrayal

  Anne Mather

  First published in Great Britain 1990 by Mills & Boon Limited

  © Anne Mather 1990

  Australian copyright 1990

  Philippine copyright 1990

  This edition 1990

  ISBN 0263 76659 4

  CHAPTER ONE

  'RACHEL'S coming!'

  'Is she?' Matthew had had plenty of opportunities during the long nights since Barbara's death to face that possibility—and decide he didn't give a damn.

  'Yes.' His mother-in-law pressed the palms of her hands together. 'She'll be staying at the vicarage, of course.'

  'Of course.'

  Matthew was annoyingly indifferent, and Mrs Barnes shook her head. 'Well, someone had to invite her!' she exclaimed, as if needing to defend her position. 'Barbara was her cousin, after all.'

  Matthew abandoned any attempt to answer any one of the dozens of letters that had flooded in since his wife had died, and got up from behind his desk. 'I'm not saying you shouldn't have done it, am I?' he asked wearily, pushing back the unruly weight of hair from his forehead. 'For God's sake, Maggie, you can invite who you like. It's your daughter's funeral, not some bloody garden party!'

  'Oh, Matt!'

  His harsh words achieved what he had been most hoping to avoid. His mother-in-law dissolved into noisy tears, and Matthew was obliged to take her in his arms and comfort her.

  But who was going to comfort him? he wondered bitterly, as the garrulous little woman's tears soaked through the grey silk of his shirt. God, he wished this whole charade was over! Perhaps then he'd find some meaning to his life; some peace.

  Mrs Barnes at last composed herself sufficiently to draw back from him, patting the patch of wet cloth on his chest with a rueful hand. 'Oh, dear,' she said looking up at him with misty eyes. 'You must forgive me. But I get so upset every time I think about it.'

  'I know.' Matthew managed a polite smile, hoping against hope that she would leave now. It was strange, but since Barbara had died the house seemed to have been full of people, and he desperately wanted to be alone, however selfish that might be.

  But, of course, his mother-in-law had something more to say. 'I didn't want to ask her, you know,' she confided, and he didn't need to be reminded who she was talking about. 'No. It was Geoffrey—he insisted. But then, she's his relation, isn't she?

  Not mine.'

  Matthew heaved a sigh. 'It doesn't matter, Maggie.' He propped his lean hips against his desk and waited. Surely she would go now? He didn't know how much more of this he could take.

  'Oh, well.' Mrs Barnes gave him a wistful look. 'So long as you understand I had nothing to do with it.' She paused, and then added anxiously, 'I hope there won't be any trouble. For Barbara's—and for Rosie's—sake.'

  'I'm sure there won't be.'

  Matthew could hear his voice losing all expression, and he was amazed that his mother-in-law could remain so totally unaware of it. But then, she had never been particularly perceptive, he reflected grimly. Or Barbara would never have succeeded in convincing her that their marriage had ever been anything more than a sham.

  'Where is Rosie?' she asked now, and Matthew strove to contain his impatience.

  'I don't know,' he replied tautly, glancing towards the long, mullioned windows. 'About the estate somewhere, I suppose.

  Perhaps she's down at the stables. I really have no idea.'

  'You wouldn't like me to find her and take her home to the vicarage, would you?' Mrs Barnes suggested hopefully. 'I mean—I'm sure Agnes does a fine job but she's not like—

  family. Is she?'

  Matthew pushed himself away from the desk. He could imagine his daughter's reaction if he told her she was going home with her grandmother, and it wasn't fit for his mother-in-law's consumption. 'I—think I'd rather she stayed here,' he declared, choosing his words with discretion. 'Agnetha's fairly competent, and Rosie has to get used to—to the situation.'

  'I know, but ----- '

  Mrs Barnes looked as if she was about to have a relapse, and, although Matthew despised himself for his lack of sympathy, he had to prevent another display of emotion. 'I think it'll be easier on you this way,' he declared, walking past her to the heavy door and opening it. 'And now I must beg your indulgence and get on. There's such a lot to do; you understand?'

  'Of course, of course.' Mrs Barnes dabbed her eyes with the lace handkerchief she had taken from her pocket, and walked reluctantly towards him. 'But you will let me know if you need any help, won't you?' She paused beside him, looking up into his dark face through tear-drenched eyes. 'I know that's probably a silly thing to say. And I'm sure you feel you've all the help you need. But, at times like this, families should stick together.'

  Matthew felt as if the smile he offered was merely a stretching of his facial muscles. But it evidently satisfied his mother-in-law, which had been his intention. 'Thanks,' he said, bending to bestow a dutiful kiss on her cheek. 'I'll be in touch.'

  'Do.'

  She wiped her eyes one more time, raised a hand in farewell and departed. Matthew waited to ensure that Watkins was there to see her out, and then went back into the library and closed the door.

  Leaning back against it, he surveyed without emotion the pile of letters and cards awaiting his attention. So many people had written; so many business colleagues, or acquaintances, who had felt it their duty to offer their condolences. They had hardly known Barbara, but that didn't matter. The tragic circumstances of her demise had overruled formalities. There was a unifying quality about death that brought people who were virtual strangers together, and it was up to him to respond to their kindness.

  But it was difficult, bloody difficult, he acknowledged grimly, straightening away from the door and making his way across the room. A tray of drinks resided on a table in the chimney alcove, and it was to this that he headed, pouring himself a stiff Scotch and drinking it straight down. Then, before replacing the stopper in the crystal decanter, he poured another and carried it over to his desk.

  'My dear Matt,' he read tersely, 'We were so sorry to read of your tragic bereavement...' The words of the letter on the top of the pile leapt out at him, and he flung himself down on to his chair and closed his eyes. 'So sorry to read of your loss'—'our deepest sympathy in this time of mourning'—'so sorry to hear of Barbara's death'—the trite phrases were endless! He didn't even need to read them to know what each and every one of them would say. They all talked of Barbara's illness, her tragic death at the age of only thirty-two, of his loss. His loss...

  His nerves tightened. How could you be married to someone for almost ten years, and yet still feel so little remorse at her passing? He and Barbara had been man and wife; they had produced a daughter, for God's sake! But there had never been any love between them—just a greed for money and possessions on her part, and a desire for revenge on his.

  He opened his eyes again and, sitting up in his seat, he swallowed half the whisky in his glass. It was no good, he told himself tautly. He was getting maudlin, and for all the wrong reasons. Barbara was dead. Whatever she had done in life was over. He had to think of the future. Of Rosemary's future, at least. Maggie had been right about one thing. Agnetha was not family—and his daughter took advantage of that.

  He groaned suddenly and ran weary fingers through the over-long hair at the nape of his neck. Rachel was coming to the funeral! he thought savagely, acknowledging for the first time the real reason why he had been so impatient with his mother-in-law. It had been all very well telling himself he didn't care what she did when the chances of her taking time off from her job in London and making the long journey to Cumbria had seemed so unlikely. But now, faced with the reality that tomorrow he was going to see her again, his reactions were not half as positive.


  A tentative knock at the door put his thoughts to flight and, glad of the interruption, Matthew lay back in his chair. 'Come in,' he called, and Patrick Malloy, his secretary and personal assistant, put his head into the room.

  'Sorry to intrude ' he began, and then, realising Matthew was alone, he opened the door a little wider and stepped inside. 'Oh—has Mrs Barnes gone?'

  'As you see,' remarked his employer flatly, throwing the remainder of the whisky to the back of his throat. He held his glass out towards the other man. 'Get me another, Pat, will you?'

  Patrick closed the door behind him and crossed the floor. 'It's a little early, even for you, isn't it?' he commented, with the familiarity of their long association, but he took the glass and did as he was bidden. 'What happened? Did she tell you she's inaugurating a Barbara Conroy Memorial Fund?'

  Matthew's head swung round. 'She's not, is she?' His dismay was evident, and Patrick shook his head.

  'Not that I know of,' he reassured him drily, handing over a rather smaller measure of Scotch than Matthew had previously poured for himself. He waited until his employer had taken a generous mouthful. 'You look shattered, do you know that?' He paused. 'So—what did she want?'

  Matthew expelled his breath heavily, and then lifted guarded grey eyes to Patrick's face. 'Rachel's coming,' he said simply, and the other man caught his breath.

  'I see.'

  'Do you?' Matthew got up from his chair again and paced across to the windows. 'Who'd have thought it, hmm? Rachel—

  coming to Barbara's funeral.' His lips twisted. 'Do you think she's coming to gloat?'

  'You know Rachel's not like that,' retorted Patrick at once, but Matthew was unconvinced.

  'Do I?' he countered, turning back to face his friend. 'I don't know anything about Rachel any more. It's been over ten years, Pat. Ten years!'

  'I know.' Patrick's angular features were troubled. 'So, how do you feel about it?'

  Matthew looked grim. 'The truth?'

  'Of course.'

  'Then—angry. Bloody angry!' said Matthew violently. 'I don't want her here. I wish to God I didn't even have to see her.

  It's been too long. Too many years. If it weren't for Rosemary, I'd probably never see any of the Barneses again after tomorrow.'

  Patrick inclined his head towards Matthew's glass. 'Is that why you're drowning your sorrows in Scotch?' he enquired, not without some irony, and his employer scowled.

  'I'm not drowning my sorrows,' he retorted curtly. 'I'm just trying to get through the next couple of days with some dignity.'

  'And afterwards?'

  Matthew frowned. 'What do you mean—afterwards?'

  'I mean after the funeral. Have you thought what you're going to do about Rosemary? Now that—now that Barbara's not here any more, don't you think you ought to consider sending her away to school?'

  Matthew sighed. 'Is that what you think?'

  Patrick was ambivalent. 'She does need discipline,' he pointed out evenly. 'And unless you're going to spend more time at Rothmere --------------- '

  'Take up the life of a gentleman farmer, is that what you mean?' Matthew was sardonic.

  'It's what your father would have wanted you to do,' replied Patrick quietly. 'And you know how your mother feels.'

  'Yes.' Matthew acknowledged the fact that his mother would prefer him to live at home. But since his marriage to Barbara he had expended more and more energy attending personally to his business interests elsewhere, and spending most of his time away from the estate.

  'Anyway,' Patrick could see his employer was becoming broodingly introspective, and quickly changed the subject, 'why don't you take Rosemary over to Helen's this afternoon? It would do you both good to get out of the house, and you know she and Gerald would be pleased to see you.'

  Matthew considered the prospect of driving over to his sister's home near Ambleside, and shrugged. The idea of visiting the small hotel they ran overlooking Windermere was appealing, except that people might recognise him, and he wasn't in the mood to be sociable.

  'I'll think about it,' he said without enthusiasm, finishing the whisky in a gulp. 'Do you know where Rosemary is, by the way? I haven't seen her since—well, since suppertime last night, actually.'

  Patrick gave him a resigned look. 'So what's new?' he remarked, taking Matthew's empty glass from him and replacing it on the tray. 'Do you want me to find her? She'll be around somewhere.'

  Matthew hesitated a moment, then he shook his head. 'No,'

  he said flatly, flexing his shoulders and walking towards the door. 'I'll catch her later.' He paused with his fingers on the handle. 'I'll be in the gym, if you want me. See you at lunch.'

  He had skirted the hall and the drawing-room and was passing the morning-room when his mother called his name behind him. 'Matthew! Matthew, wait! Didn't Watkins tell you I was waiting to speak to you? Come into the parlour. I want to talk to you.'

  Matthew's sigh was heartfelt, but, short of offending one of the few people he really cared about, he had little choice but to obey. 'I do have things to do, Mother,' he declared patiently, walking back towards her, and, remembering Watkins' face when he had shown Mrs Barnes out of the library, he guessed the old man had thought better of interrupting him.

  'So do I,' responded Lady Olivia Conroy, pausing with her hand on the door, so that Matthew was forced to pass her on his way into the room. 'Ugh—you've been drinking! Matthew, it's barely twelve o'clock!'

  '12.02, to be precise,' remarked Matthew evenly, halting in the centre of the softly fading Aubusson carpet. He thrust his hands into the pockets of the worn corded jacket he was wearing and faced her politely. 'What can I do for you?'

  'You can stop adopting that supercilious attitude for a start,'

  said his mother shortly. 'Really, Matthew, I don't know what's the matter with you. I shouldn't have thought Barbara's death would have been such a shock; in the circumstances.'

  Matthew regarded her dispassionately. 'What circumstances?'

  'Oh, Matthew!' Clearly he was annoying her, but he didn't seem able to help it. 'You know what circumstances. The fact that Barbara had been ill for the better part of a year, and—

  and...'

  'And?' he prompted.

  'And you and she hadn't been close for—well, for years!'

  Matthew inclined his head. 'I see.'

  'What do you see?' Lady Olivia was obviously impatient.

  'Matthew, please; I'm your mother. If there's something troubling you, then tell me. Ever since Barbara died I've tried to get close to you, but I can't. You're shutting me out. You're shutting everyone out! Darling, we're your family. Don't you think we deserve some consideration?'

  'Oh, God!' Matthew's shoulders sagged. 'I'm not shutting anyone out, Mother. I just need some time alone, that's all. It's natural enough, isn't it?' He tried to be flippant. 'It's not every day one becomes a widower!'

  His mother's expression was eloquent of her feelings. 'I think there's more to it than that,' she declared firmly. 'I'm not a fool, Matt. I know this marriage had its problems.'

  'Its problems?' echoed Matthew caustically. 'Oh, yes,'

  'So why are you acting as if you're grief-stricken?' countered his mother sharply. 'Helen tells me you haven't been over to see Gerald since you got back. Or the children. You know how Mark and Lucy dote on you. Goodness knows, you've always had more time for Helen's children than you have for your own daughter! What's the matter with you, Matt? Why are you behaving like this?'

  Matthew turned away from her pained bewilderment, staring broodingly out of the long windows that overlooked the parterre at the side of the house. At this time of the year the lawns were edged with pansies and dwarf hyacinths, and the deep blue stems of salvias grew among clusters of cream and yellow saxifrage. Beyond the formal gardens, acres of rolling grassland swept away towards Rothmere Fell, and Matthew's eyes were drawn to the purple slopes where only sheep could scratch a living. When he was a boy, he had scrambled
up those slopes with Brian Spencer, his father's shepherd, but nowadays he hardly gave them a thought. He left the running of the estate in his agent's hands, and spent his days attending board meetings and business lunches, and fighting a growing propensity for boredom.

  'Matthew!'

  His mother's voice arrested his wandering thoughts, and he forced himself to turn round again and face her. 'I'm listening.'

  'You're not, or I'd have had some answers before now,'

  replied Lady Olivia tensely. 'What is it? Is it Rosemary? You know, something will have to be done about that child, before it's too late.'

  Matthew regarded her frustrated face with some affection for a moment, and then flung himself on to one of the buttoned satin sofas that faced one another across a polished maplewood table.

  'Did you know Rachel was coming to the funeral?' he enquired lightly, keeping his tone as casual as possible, and his mother gave a gasp.

  'No!'

  'Yes.' Matthew considered the toe of the boot he had propped disrespectfully on the corner of the table. 'Mrs Barnes gave me the news this morning. Apparently the Reverend invited her.'

  Lady Olivia seemed to require some support herself now, for she sank down on to the sofa opposite her son and gazed at him disbelievingly. 'But why? Didn't he realise it was hardly in the best of taste?'

  Matthew shrugged. 'As Maggie said, she is Barbara's cousin.'

  'Is she in favour?' His mother was surprised.

  'I wouldn't say that.' Matthew grimaced. 'But she's making the best of it. And it's true. Rachel is Barbara's cousin.'

  'And your ex-wife!'

  'So?'

  'Matthew! Surely even you can see the unsuitability of your ex-wife attending your second wife's funeral?'

  'Yes.' Matthew's stomach muscles clenched. 'But I can hardly stop her, can I? She is—family.'

  'Family?' Lady Olivia's echo of the word was scathing. 'I don't know how you can suggest such a thing! I could say she was nothing but trouble from the moment you laid eyes on her. You were engaged to Cecily Bishop, do you remember? That's who you should have married.'