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  And, in all honesty, Rachel was not opposed to the idea of having a baby. What she was opposed to was Matthew's arrogant assumption that he could rule her life. Nevertheless, as month succeeded month and she didn't conceive, she had to face the possibility that perhaps she couldn't.

  It was a traumatic time, she remembered unwillingly, and even her success as a television presenter couldn't possibly assuage her unhappiness. She went from being determined not to have a baby to wanting one desperately, and all without Matthew's sympathy, or knowledge.

  It was then that Barbara started coming to the house to help Matthew. As a director of several other companies as well as Kirkstone Television, he was a busy man, and once again it had been Aunt Maggie's suggestion that Barbara should help out as part-time secretary. She had nothing else to do, having still not found a job, and Aunt Maggie said he would be doing her a service by giving her some real work experience. Of course, Matthew had Patrick Malloy to do most of his secretarial work, but there was no denying that another typist would be useful. In consequence, Rachel came home from work many evenings to find her husband and her cousin sharing an after-work drink in the library, and even though Lady Olivia didn't approve of the situation either there was nothing they could do.

  For her part, Rachel's hands were tied. She could hardly ask Matthew to dismiss her cousin when there was nothing she could do to take her place. And she could hardly tell him she wanted a baby when it was becoming distressingly obvious that she couldn't have one. For, in spite of their increasing polarisation in daylight hours, at night her husband still came to her bed as regularly as ever. That aspect of their relationship was as satisfactory as it had ever been—although there were times, she knew, when Matthew despised himself for his need of her.

  And then, one evening, she was late arriving home. Very late, she recalled bitterly, wondering if even then she could have saved her marriage. But by the time she arrived home, it was too late. The damage had been done. And nothing Matthew could say or do could persuade her to forgive him.

  She used to drive herself home in those days, Matthew having taught her to drive soon after their marriage. He had even bought her a car—a sporty little Peugeot—to enable her to get about when he was unable to escort her.

  She remembered that on the way home she had been thinking that perhaps tonight she might conceive. Lady Olivia was away, for once—a too infrequent occurrence—and she was anticipating them having the place to themselves with a genuine sense of excitement. The doctors she had consulted had all been of the opinion that she was trying too hard to have this baby, but they didn't understand what it meant to her. They didn't know she was in danger of losing the only man she would ever love.

  Maybe tonight she would succeed, she told herself eagerly. If she didn't, it wouldn't be her fault.

  It was after ten when she parked the car at the side of the house and entered the building. The sight of her uncle's car parked on the drive was daunting—it meant Barbara was still here—but she determined not to let that faze her. Entering the house, she went straight to the library, prepared to apologise herself, if necessary, for the delay in getting home. But there was no one there. Empty glasses stood on the cabinet, and an empty bottle of Scotch was rolled significantly under a chair, but the room itself was empty.

  Her first thoughts, she remembered, were that they must have gone out, and although that idea wasn't appealing she could only blame herself. After all, she was invariably home by seven-thirty, and just because there had been an electrical failure at the studios, there was no reason why she shouldn't have phoned. But the situation between her and Matthew was so volatile at the moment that she had found excuses not to fuel his impatience, and it had never occurred to her that it might precipitate disaster.

  Watkins was in the hall when she came out of the library, but when she asked him if he knew where Matthew was he was strangely reticent. But his eyes did turn guiltily to the ceiling above their heads, and with a growing sense of apprehension Rachel left him to run headlong up the stairs.

  She had heard their voices before she reached the suite of rooms which she and Matthew shared. She remembered hearing Barbara's laughter, and Matthew's rueful chuckle, so that when she threw the door open she was half prepared for what confronted her.

  But even then the reality was so much worse than the anticipation. Rachel had stared aghast at her half-naked husband, his chest bare, his trousers pooled around his ankles, and Barbara's hands hooked into the waistband of his briefs, caught in the act of pushing the black silk over his lean hips.

  Barbara herself was almost decent, although her unbuttoned blouse and mussed hair spoke of a greater intimacy. And, of all of them, she was the one with the least to lose, the one with the most to gain.

  The tableau was imprinted on Rachel's mind for months to come. How she had stood there, looking at them, without throwing up, was an achievement in itself. How could Matthew have done it? Had their relationship sunk to such an ebb that he could actually justify his actions? For there had been no shame, no contrition. Only a bland defiance in the face of her distress.

  Of course, he had been drunk, she had realised that later. Not falling-down drunk, not incoherently intoxicated, but coldly, and calculatedly, immune to any recrimination. He had simply appeared not to care what she thought of him, and Barbara had burst into crocodile tears, with more than a hint of triumph.

  There was no row then. That came the following morning, after Rachel had spent a sleepless night in a spare room. She had no idea how long Barbara had stayed, or indeed if she was still in the house, when she went downstairs before breakfast. But Matthew was waiting in the library for her, and the exchange that followed was just as horrible as she had anticipated.

  What could she expect, he demanded, when it was obvious she thought more about her bloody job than him? Why should she complain if he found sympathy elsewhere? Their marriage was just a sham anyway; she had no intention of ever giving him a family.

  There was more in the same vein—angry, bitter words that tore through Rachel's stand for independence, and found it wanting. She was just a shell, he told her, a miserable, useless thing, who held on to her puerile career because it was the only thing she was good at. Just because they were married there was no reason for her to think she was indispensable. If he wanted to have sex with someone else, he would do it, and to hell with her.

  Rachel remembered him slamming out of the house after that, and her being scarcely able to climb the stairs again. But climb them she did, and she packed a suitcase with sufficient clothes to see her through the next couple of days before following him out of the house. She didn't take the car. She called a taxi. And only Watkins saw her go, a troubled, anxious figure.

  The ironic thing was, Matthew came after her. She had never thought he would, but he did. It wasn't difficult for him to find the address of the holiday apartment she had temporarily leased in Penrith, and, once it became apparent that she wasn't coming back, he came to find her.

  But it was too late. She refused to speak to him, locking herself behind closed doors and not answering his phone calls.

  Of course, it couldn't go on. Her work at the studios was suffering, and she knew that it was only a matter of time before she would be forced to leave the area.

  Her uncle came to see her, too, but he had little more success. His assertion that Barbara was grief-stricken by what had happened was not quite believable, particularly when Barbara herself showed so little remorse. And when Aunt Maggie came to see her six weeks later to impart the news that Barbara was expecting a baby, Rachel didn't hesitate before seeking a divorce.

  The days and weeks that followed were the worst kind of purgatory. But at least Matthew no longer pestered her.

  Evidently Barbara's news, combined with the divorce papers he had been served, had at last killed any lingering responsibility he felt towards her. And when Simon Motley offered to use his influence to find her a job in London Rachel jumped at
the chance to leave this miserable period of her life behind.

  But it was not quite over. A week after moving into the apartment that the London studios had found for her in Kensington, Rachel was taken ill in the night. Racked with pain, she could do nothing until morning, when she rang the studios and explained that she thought she ought to see a doctor. She was bleeding, and although she thought it might be her period she had never been so sick before.

  The doctor was sympathetic, but unable to help her. It was too late. She was having a miscarriage, he told her gently. But, because she had waited so long before calling him, there was nothing he could do...

  Of course, she had been shattered at the news, particularly so after everything that had gone before. For days and days she had been unable to do anything but cry, and, although the doctor reassured her that it was a perfectly natural reaction, she knew better.

  It was just something else to blame herself for, and it took months, years, before she was able to get it into perspective. She knew it had been walking in on Barbara and her husband that had put all other considerations out of her head, but for a long while she continued to bear the burden for her baby's loss of life.

  It had been a little boy, they had told her, when she had asked, perfect in every way. Matthew's son. Perhaps the only thing that could have saved their marriage, and she hadn't even known.

  That was when Justin had been such a comfort. Although their association had been brief up to that point, he had made her feel she had at least one friend in London. But it had been a while before she'd told him the full story, in all its ugly detail.

  CHAPTER NINE

  RACHEL was out of bed and sitting by the window when there was a scuffled sound outside her door the next morning. She was feeling much better: not half as shaky as she had felt the previous day. But she was unwillingly coming to accept Dr Newman's opinion that it would be days at least before she was well enough to drive back to London, and although she was impatient there was nothing she could do.

  Now, hearing the curious sound of rustling paper, she got up from her chair and walked, albeit a little unsteadily, across to the door and pulled it open.

  Rosemary practically tumbled into the room. She had evidently been crouching down, probably looking through the keyhole, Rachel thought resignedly, and when she'd opened the door the little girl had lost her balance.

  'We must stop meeting like this,' she remarked drily, as the child picked herself up off the floor and stuffed the bag of sweets she was holding into her jeans pocket. 'Did you want something?'

  Rosemary's cheeks were pink, and for once she looked almost attractive. It was mostly her sallow complexion that gave her face such an unhealthy appearance, but now, with colour in her cheeks and her hair neatly combed into a tight braid, she appeared quite pretty.

  'I came to see how you were,' she answered now, as Rachel made her way back to her chair. Rosemary watched her sink rather weakly on to the cushions, and then gave a rueful grimace. 'I s'pose it was my fault again that you cut your head on the rocks. I came to say I'm sorry. I'm sorry you got hurt.'

  'Yes. So am I,' murmured Rachel, leaning her head back against the pillows behind her, and feeling ridiculously weary after her brief exertion. 'But don't worry, it wasn't your fault.

  Not really. I just—stumbled, that's all. It could have happened to anyone.'

  Rosemary hesitated a moment, biting her lip, and then she turned and closed the door. 'Daddy was ever so worried about you,' she confided, leaving the door to approach the woman. 'I think he thought he had killed you,' she added dramatically.

  'You were just lying there on the sand, not moving. And then I saw the blood, and he just flaked!'

  'Flaked?' echoed Rachel wearily, half wishing the child would go so that she could close her eyes. But, having come to a dubious understanding with the little girl, she had no desire to resurrect her hostility. All Rosemary really needed was attention, and she wondered how long it was since either of her parents had given her any.

  'You know,' Rosemary was saying now. 'He kind of— went all to pieces. Grandmama says it was because of the shock, but I think it was something else.'

  'Do you?' Rachel sighed and met the little girl's gaze with wary eyes. There were times when Rosemary could be unnervingly perceptive, and she was half afraid of what she was about to reveal.

  'Yes.' Rosemary paused, pulling the bag of sweets out of her pocket again, and offering one to Rachel. When she refused, Rosemary took a toffee for herself, and unwrapped it with the air of someone about to impart a state secret. 'I think my father was so upset because he likes you

  '

  'Likes me?'

  'Yes. Oh, I know he seemed angry --- '

  'He didn't seem angry, Rosemary, he was angry,' Rachel informed her flatly. And then, after a moment, 'Mostly because you hadn't told anyone where you were going.'

  'Oh, thatV

  Rosemary was disparaging, but Rachel lifted her head. 'Yes, that,' she agreed, regarding the little girl reprovingly. 'You know that was naughty, don't you?'

  'Well, no one's cared where I was before,' retorted the child, scuffing her shoe against the carpet. "Cept Grandmama, sometimes.'

  'Oh, Rosemary, that's not true!'

  'It is true.' The little girl was adamant. 'Ask anyone. Mrs Moffat says I'm just allowed to run wild.'

  And that was so adult a statement that Rachel had to believe she had heard it. Trying to ignore her own feelings, she said consolingly, 'Mrs Moffat was probably talking about—well, while your mother was ill. Obviously, she couldn't look after you then, and your father was very upset

  '

  'No.'

  Rosemary pushed her hands into her pockets, and looked down at her feet, and Rachel sighed. 'No, what?' she prompted gently. 'No, Mummy couldn't look after you ?'

  'No, she never looked after me,' mumbled Rosemary bitterly.

  'She was always too busy to talk to me, and Daddy is never here.'

  Rachel gasped. 'I'm sure you're wrong. About your mummy not caring about you, I mean. And—and your father is a busy man.'

  Rosemary looked unconvinced. 'Anyway, Miss Seton took care of me,' she said. 'Until Daddy got rid of her and hired Agnetha.'

  'Miss Seton?'

  'She was nice.' The child's face relaxed, transforming her pale features. The resemblance to Matthew had never been more marked, and Rachel's stomach muscles tightened. 'I wanted her to stay, but Daddy said she was too old, and that I was too old to need a nursemaid.'

  'I see.' The identity of Miss Seton resolved, Rachel breathed a little more easily.

  'Anyway, I don't need anyone to look after me,' Rosemary asserted suddenly. 'I can look after myself.

  Better than you can, it seems to me. Why didn't you tell Daddy why you were chasing me?'

  'Oh...' That was not so easy to answer, and Rachel lay back against her pillows rather tiredly. 'Let's say it's our secret,' she murmured. Then, 'Does he know you buy cigarettes at the village shop?'

  'No.' Rosemary hunched her shoulders. 'But he knows about the cigarettes. Agnetha told him.'

  'Agnetha?'

  Rosemary nodded. 'She found them in my bedroom and split on me,' she answered sulkily. 'Daddy was furious. He says he's going to send me away to school because I'm so disobedient. I bet he used to smoke when he was my age. And I bet Grandpa didn't punish him!'

  'I wouldn't be too sure about that, if I were you,' Rachel was saying rather drily when the bedroom door abruptly opened to admit the small yet imposing figure of Lady Olivia.

  Rachel offered an inward groan at this unwelcome intrusion, and Rosemary adopted a defiant stance, as if this was the last place she was supposed to be. It probably was, acknowledged Rachel wearily. Matthew did not approve of her associating with his daughter, and she didn't suppose his mother did either.

  'So this is where you are, Rosemary,' her grandmother observed now, her sharp eyes briefly shifting to Rachel's drawn features before returning to the chi
ld. 'I thought your father warned you about disobeying him again. Run along, at once.

  Agnetha is waiting. And no slipping out to the stables. Mr Ryan has orders not to let you near Marigold for at least a week.'

  'Yes, Grandmama.'

  Rosemary had little alternative but to submit, and, looking at Lady Olivia's grim features, Rachel couldn't help thinking she would have done the same. She hoped the old lady hadn't come here to cause trouble. Just at this moment, she didn't have the strength to defend herself.

  Offering the child a rueful smile as she let herself out of the door, Rachel made a determined effort to gather her resources.

  She and Lady Olivia had had many confrontations in the past, but never had she felt less equipped to deal with another. The old lady mustn't guess that, though. She already possessed an overwhelming advantage.

  'Well, Rachel,' she said now, as the door closed behind Rosemary. Slim and elegant in her simple but expensive grey dress, her almost white hair coiled into a knot on top of her head, Matthew's mother seated herself on the ottoman, crossing her ankles in true aristocratic fashion. 'Dr Newman tells me you're feeling a little better this morning.'

  'Yes, I am.' Rachel's fingers curled defensively over her wrist. 'I'm sorry I'm being such a nuisance.'

  'Hardly that.' Lady Olivia's inbred sense of courtesy did not allow for rudeness. And it would have been rude to imply that Rachel had chosen to be brought here. After all, she had been unconscious when Matthew had carried her into the house.

  'However, you must admit this is an unusual situation.'

  'Yes.' Rachel took a steadying breath. 'Well, you can be sure that as soon as I'm able to leave, I will.'

  Lady Olivia made no answer to this, merely linked her somewhat gnarled hands together in her lap and allowed a pregnant silence. Then, apparently having some trouble marshalling her words, she remarked unexpectedly, 'You appear to have made a hit with Rosemary.'