A Distant Sound of Thunder Read online

  Piers St. Clair opened the door and she had to pass him to enter the room. As she did so she was supremely conscious of him and despite her anger her legs were slightly weak. Then she deliberately directed her attention to her surroundings, finding the booklined room exactly how she imagined a library should be. The room overlooked the gravelled forecourt of the building, for this room was at the front of the house. The heavy drapes at the windows were of dark green velvet, as were the upholstered armchairs that were scattered about the room. Again here a log fire spluttered in the grate casting leaping shadows upon the walls. Piers put on tall lamps which only partially dispelled the illusion, and Rebecca thought how much she could have appreciated it if there had been no disturbing tensions to mar her enjoyment.

  Paul seated her near the fire and joined his father at a cabinet set in the wall which contained a varied assortment of spirits. Rebecca watched them together, noticing the similarities between them which hitherto had not occurred to her. They were not alike in looks or build, but although Paul’s eyes were blue and his father’s very dark, they had the same shape, the same long length of lashes. He moved like his father, effortlessly, and his hair grew in the same way. They both had long-fingered hands and now that she knew they were father and son she noticed a certain familiarity of manner, of attitude, of indolence almost.

  ‘What would you like, Rebecca?’ asked Paul, studying the contents of the cabinet. ‘Whisky, gin, vodka? Or just a martini, perhaps.’

  ‘A martini would be fine,’ agreed Rebecca automatically, and Paul poured the vermouth and handed it to her. He and Tom Bryant both had whisky, while Rebecca noticed that Piers poured himself a generous measure of brandy. She recalled what he had said once, at Adele’s house, in Fiji, when he had chosen brandy, and she wondered rather desperately whether his equilibrium had been upset this afternoon.

  Tom seated himself near her, and said: ‘What do you think of Sans-Souci, Miss Lindsay?’

  Rebecca was glad she had the glass in her hands to occupy her attention. ‘It’s—very impressive,’ she said awkwardly. ‘Paul didn’t warn me, I’m afraid. I imagined something less spectacular.’

  Tom smiled, leaning forward in his seat, taking a drink of his whisky. ‘Yes, I thought as you did. After all, there are very few of these places still privately owned. Most are put into the hands of the National Trust.’

  Piers came to stand before the fire, his back to the flames. ‘I have decided to sell the house, Tom,’ he said, rather harshly.

  Tom looked up in surprise. ‘Have you? Well, you’ve talked about it long enough.’

  Piers shrugged. ‘It is an expensive white elephant,’ he said. ‘Besides, as you know, I never cared for the place.’

  Paul looked at Rebecca. ‘My mother chose Sans-Souci,’ he said, by way of explanation. ‘When she was alive she was always giving parties here. She loved entertaining, didn’t she, Father?’

  Rebecca gave Piers a hasty glance, wondering how he would react to Paul’s casual chatter. But Piers seemed indifferent to his son’s observations, and Rebecca found herself wondering about Jennifer St. Clair.

  Tom took up the conversation again, speaking to Paul now, and from time to time Rebecca felt Piers’ eyes upon her. She wondered what he was thinking; what construction he had placed on her presence here; and inwardly quivered. She found herself speculating about him, wondering whether, now that Jennifer was dead, he intended marrying again. From his attitude towards her it was painfully obvious that whatever he had felt for her in Fiji had been a fleeting thing, and her agony all these years had been self-inflicted.

  They were interrupted by someone knocking at the door and when Piers called: ‘Come!’ Gillean entered the room. He addressed his master although he glanced towards Paul for confirmation. ‘I’ve had the green room made up, sir. Is the young lady staying the night?’

  Rebecca glanced angrily at Paul who had the grace to colour self-consciously, but Piers gave no attention to either of them. ‘Oui, Gillean,’ he said shortly. ‘Miss Lindsay is staying the night. And perhaps it would be a good idea to show her her room now.’

  Rebecca rose abruptly. She did not want to stay; she wanted to walk out of this room, out of this house, and never come back, but that was impossible. Besides, it would be running away again…

  ‘Thank you, Gillean,’ she said, through taut lips. ‘I would like to go to my room.’

  ‘Rebecca?’ Paul sounded anxious.

  Rebecca looked at him scornfully. ‘I’ll see you later, Paul,’ she said briefly, and with a husky: ‘Excuse me!’ she walked out of the room.

  Gillean followed her and then indicated that she should follow him. Rebecca managed a faint smile at the elderly servant. It wasn’t his fault after all, and she should not be uncivil to him. They crossed the hall and passed through a heavy oak door into the passage beyond, and Rebecca realised they were in one of the towers. Gillean began to climb the spiral staircase, and she went after him, pausing now and then to peer through the narrow windows that appeared at intervals. They emerged on to a landing, and Gillean pushed open the door of one of the rooms, allowing her to precede him inside.

  Now Rebecca looked round with undisguised pleasure. It was a charming room, octagonal in shape and illuminated by wall lights which Gillean had switched on as he opened the door. The carpet which penetrated every corner of the room was pale green tumble twist while the bedspread and curtains were a slightly darker shade of brocade. Gillean watched her reactions politely and then said: ‘Your bathroom adjoins this room, miss. Unfortunately the rooms are not inter-communicating, but you do have this part of the building to yourself.’ He smiled.

  Rebecca gave an involuntary gesture. ‘It’s marvellous, thank you, Gillean,’ she said.

  Gillean nodded. ‘I’m glad you like it, miss. Is there anything else you’ll be wanting?’

  Rebecca hesitated a moment. ‘I don’t think so, Gillean. What time is dinner?’

  ‘Usually about seven-thirty, miss. Mr. St. Clair—he has a drink in the library before the meal—where you were a few minutes ago. Perhaps you could join the family there about seven-fifteen.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I see,’ Rebecca nodded. ‘Do I go down the same way we came up?’

  ‘No, that’s not necessary, miss. Look here.’ He led the way back on to the landing and indicated the two doors. ‘That door is your bathroom and this other one leads into the main gallery. This used to be the usual way into the main building.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ Rebecca said again. ‘Thank you.’

  Gillean nodded and smiled again. ‘There’s plenty of hot water if you’d like to take a bath anyway. I’ll leave you now.’

  ‘All right.’ Rebecca managed a responsive smile and he left her. Then, when it was no longer necessary to behave unnaturally, she closed the door and sank down on the bed, burying her face in her hands.

  Of course, eventually she had to get up again and she went into the bathroom and stripped off all her clothes. As Gillean had said, the water was boiling and she ran herself a deep bath in the porcelain tub which could have held four adults comfortably. There were bath salts, too, and she scented the water liberally and lay in its perfumed depths for a long time. Somehow the heat of the water banished the coldness inside her and she refused to consider the evening ahead. It was something to face and get through and there was no point in anticipating disaster.

  Even so, she could not prevent herself from thinking about Piers St. Clair. It was at once an agony and an ecstasy to think of him when for so long she had denied him entry to her conscious mind. So long he had been there in her subconscious without the power to penetrate the numbness in which she had enfolded herself. But now he would not be denied and a curling pain of anguish tore at her stomach. Paul had said his mother was dead, so that meant that Piers was a widower. She recalled with clarity the cruelty of his expression as he had looked at her this afternoon and knew without a shadow of a doubt that that fact meant nothing to him so far as
she was concerned. On the contrary, he had treated her as though he found her presence in his house distasteful…

  She wondered what he thought her relationship with his son was. And she also wondered whether it was part of Adele’s plan to reveal to Paul exactly what her relationship had been with his father. Rebecca shivered, even in the hot water. It was terrifying to realise how destructive Adele could be.

  She was in her bedroom applying mascara to her lashes when there was a knock at her door. With trembling fingers she put the mascara brush aside and called: ‘Who—who is it?’

  ‘Me! Paul!’

  Rebecca felt suddenly weak with relief, but she felt no gratitude towards Paul because of that. It was his fault they were here at all, and certainly his fault that they were committed to staying the night. ‘What do you want?’ she called impatiently.

  Paul heaved an exaggerated sigh. ‘Open the door, honey. I want to see you.’

  ‘No.’ Rebecca put the mascara away. ‘I’m not fully dressed yet. I’ll see you at dinner.’

  ‘But I want to explain—’

  ‘There’s nothing to explain, Paul. Just go away.’

  ‘Oh, Rebecca, please! Let me see you.’

  Rebecca hesitated, and then she stood up and reached for her trousers. Buttoning them round her slim waist, she pulled on the jacket and went resignedly to the door. Opening it, she confronted Paul who was looking particularly attractive in a dark dinner jacket.

  ‘You realise I can’t dress for dinner, don’t you?’ she said, rather shortly. ‘Honestly, Paul, you planned all this, didn’t you?’

  Paul stepped into the room, glancing round with interest. ‘No, I didn’t plan it. How could I plan a fog?’

  Rebecca sighed. ‘Well, anyway, I just wish we could have stayed in the village.’

  ‘That would have aroused comment,’ observed Paul dryly.

  ‘I don’t particularly care,’ retorted Rebecca tautly.

  ‘Why? Don’t you like it here? Is it Aunt Adele? I know she can be trying at times.’

  Rebecca controlled her colour. ‘No—no, nothing like that.’ She bit her lip. ‘Did—did your father know I was coming?’

  ‘How could he? He was in Amsterdam.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Rebecca compressed her lips.

  Paul looked at her curiously. ‘What’s wrong, Rebecca? You’ve seemed edgy ever since you came here. Is it something I’ve done?’

  Rebecca coloured now. ‘Of course not.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘It’s seven-fifteen. Oughtn’t we to be going down?’

  Paul came close to her. ‘You’re beautiful, do you know that?’

  Rebecca moved to the door. ‘Oh, not now, Paul,’ she said, a trifle impatiently, and Paul gave her a pained glance.

  ‘What’s wrong with me?’ he exclaimed. ‘You freeze up every time I get near you.’

  Rebecca shook her head. ‘I thought we understood one another.’

  ‘We do—that is—all right, Rebecca. I’m sorry. I guess I’ve loused up your weekend altogether, haven’t I?’

  Rebecca relented. ‘No—no, it’s not you. It’s me,’ she replied, sliding her hand through his arm. ‘Shall we go down?’

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE library seemed filled with people all of whom turned to regard the newcomers, Rebecca thought, as she and Paul entered together. And yet there were only four other people present: Adele, Sheila, Tom Bryant and Piers. Of all of them, Tom’s face was the most friendly, and Rebecca was glad he was there.

  Sheila, in a soft clinging gown of lemon chiffon, looked quite startlingly attractive, and Rebecca wondered why she should feel so surprised to see her there. After all, when she had been Adele’s nurse she had often dined with her patient, and if in this instance the circumstances were different, given that this was not Adele’s house, why should it matter?

  Adele, herself, seated regally in her wheelchair, seemed poised to enjoy some inner amusement, and Rebecca felt repelled by her avid expression. But in spite of that, in spite of Sheila’s beauty, in spite of Tom Bryant’s cheerful countenance, it was to the other man that Rebecca’s eyes were compulsively drawn.

  Piers St. Clair looked darkly handsome, his linen immaculate, his dinner jacket sleek and expensive. He looked every inch the successful man he was, and Rebecca wondered however she had had the temerity to treat him as she had done. He was like a stranger, and although her nerve ends tingled when she looked at him, she could hardly believe he had once held her in his arms and made passionate love to her.

  ‘Ah, there you are, Paul.’ Adele was the first to speak. ‘We were beginning to think you were not coming down.’ Her words were blatantly insinuating and Rebecca felt her colour rising. She was glad when Piers turned away, saying:

  ‘What will you both drink?’

  Paul glanced at Rebecca, raising his eyebrows, and on impulse, she said: ‘I’ll have a brandy and soda, Paul.’

  Piers did not look round but merely measured out their drinks and Paul went to take them from him as he turned. Sheila, sipping a glass of sherry, looked at Rebecca curiously, and Rebecca wondered what construction she was putting on all this.

  Piers lit a cheroot and Tom Bryant said: ‘The fog’s much thicker. Has anyone been outside?’

  ‘No.’ Paul listened with interest. ‘Is that a fact? I guess you’ll have to stay, too, Tom.’

  ‘Tom was staying anyway,’ remarked Piers, inhaling deeply. ‘How are things at the hospital, Paul? Did you give Harrison that information?’

  ‘Yes.’ Paul moved to his father’s side. ‘He was interested. He asked whether you thought the project was feasible.’

  Piers bent his head, listening to his son with frowning concentration, and Rebecca felt bereft. Until that moment, she had not realised exactly how much she was relying on Paul’s support, and to have it removed, even to the other side of the room, was rather devastating.

  Tom Bryant moved to her side before Adele could engage her in conversation, and he offered her a cigarette smilingly. ‘You look pretty anxious,’ he observed. ‘Was it so important that you should get back to town tonight?’

  ‘What? Oh—oh, no, not really.’ Rebecca pressed her lips together. ‘It’s simply that I wasn’t prepared…’ She glanced down ruefully at her cream trouser suit.

  Tom chuckled. ‘Without wishing to sound affected, Rebecca; I may call you that, mayn’t I?’ and at her nod, he continued: ‘I would say that what you’re wearing is adequately appealing. You’re one of the few women I know who can wear trousers attractively.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Rebecca smiled at him warmly. ‘You’ve no idea how much you’ve helped me.’

  Tom shrugged. ‘It’s not difficult to be pleasant to someone like you.’ He glanced down at her slim fingers. ‘You’re not married?’ He shook his head. ‘That surprises me.’

  Rebecca bit her lip. ‘Marriage isn’t everything.’

  ‘No.’ Tom inclined his head in agreement. ‘I’m not married myself. However, I am a slightly different proposition. My work takes me away a lot. It wouldn’t be fair to expect a woman to live the kind of nomadic life I lead.’

  ‘I expect if a woman loved you, she wouldn’t mind,’ remarked Rebecca gently. ‘After all, one can’t always map out one’s life and expect it to follow a given course, just because you direct it so.’

  ‘You talk with feeling—is that from your own experience?’

  ‘I suppose it is.’ Rebecca sipped her brandy and soda. ‘Oh, this is good. Do you like brandy, Tom?’

  ‘No, whisky’s my ruin, I’m afraid. You should talk to Piers. He’s quite an expert on cognac. His family come from the wine-growing areas.’

  Rebecca was glad of the excuse of the brandy to account for the suddenly heated skin of her body. Tracing her finger round the rim of her glass, she said: ‘You’ve known—Paul’s father for a long time, I suppose?’

  ‘God, yes.’ Tom nodded. ‘And you met him some time ago, too. Out in Fiji when Piers visited Adele, is that rig
ht?’

  Rebecca trembled a little. ‘Yes—that’s right,’ she agreed, glancing round awkwardly. But no one was listening to their conversation. Piers and his son had separated and now Paul was talking to his aunt while his father was handing Sheila another glass of sherry. Sheila looked up at Piers with limpid blue eyes, holding his gaze with her own for what seemed like a long moment. Rebecca felt her heart begin to pound heavily and she looked quickly away. Surely not, she thought, nauseously. Surely Piers wasn’t involved with Sheila! And yet why not? Why should she be surprised? She had only been Adele’s nurse when she had attracted his attention. She closed her eyes for a brief period and when she opened them again she found Tom regarding her with obvious concern.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he was asking, frowningly. ‘You look very pale suddenly. Is something wrong?’

  Rebecca shook her head, bringing the colour back into her cheeks. ‘I felt a little faint, that’s all,’ she excused herself. ‘It’s very close in here.’

  Tom continued to watch her anxiously. ‘Are you sure?’ he persisted. ‘I thought you looked rather strained earlier on. Perhaps you’re working too hard. I imagine your work is quite demanding for one so young.’

  Rebecca tipped her head to one side, concentrating on what Tom was saying to the exclusion of everything else. ‘I find nursing a very rewarding occupation,’ she said now. ‘The hours are long and sometimes inconvenient, I suppose, but I don’t go out a lot, so I don’t mind.’

  ‘And what about all these parties nurses are always throwing? I understood there was plenty of social activity within a hospital.’

  Rebecca smiled. ‘I’m afraid parties are not my metier. I’m rather an isolationist, I suppose. I enjoy listening to music, and reading—’

  ‘Oh, come on, Rebecca!’ The shrill tones deriding what Rebecca had just said startled her, and she swung round to confront Sheila who had walked over to listen to their conversation now. ‘You always used to love entertaining. We gave dozens of parties at the flat when we shared.’

  Rebecca flushed. ‘That was some time ago, Sheila.’