A Haunting Compulsion Read online

  ‘I think you should go,’ she said, wrapping her arms about herself. ‘I—I’ve told you, we’ve said all there is to say.’

  ‘And you still think I was responsible for Betsy being pregnant?’ he demanded grimly, and at her nod: ‘Rachel, I swear to you by everything that’s holy that I was not!’

  ‘How can you say that?’ She turned to him then, her lips parted incredulously. ‘Jaime, when you came back from Greece you knew she’d been to see me!’

  ‘Yes.’

  He nodded, and she shook her head. ‘How?’

  ‘She phoned me, the minute I got back to the apartment. You must have told her I was due back—’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Well, the studios maybe!’ He was impatient. ‘Somehow she’d got that knowledge, but not from me, and of course the first thing she told me about was the child.’

  Rachel caught her breath. ‘You can stand there and tell me that?’

  ‘Why not? It’s the truth.’

  ‘But—if you were not the father, why should she tell you? Wouldn’t it have been more in keeping for her to tell the child’s father?’

  Jaime sighed. ‘You have to understand Betsy. Rachel, she’s not like other women—’

  ‘Obviously not.’ Rachel was so strung up, she didn’t care who she hurt. ‘If I’d been her, I’d have been waiting for you with a shotgun! Either that, or a bill from an abortion clinic, wrapped up in divorce papers!’

  Jaime massaged the back of his neck wearily. ‘You’re completely obstinate about this, aren’t you? You won’t even listen to my explanations.’

  Rachel’s chin wobbled. ‘Were you, or were you not, still married to her?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, damn you. Yes!’ he snarled, and with an abrupt exclamation he bent and hauled on the trousers of the dinner suit he had worn the night before. Zipping them to his waist, he put his arms into the sleeves of his shirt, and pulled that on too.

  ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘I’ve had it. You win.’ He rescued the rest of his belongings where they had fallen, and walked barefooted to the door. ‘I can’t go on banging my head against a brick wall,’ he declared flatly. ‘After a certain length of time you forget why you started it, and once that happens, you begin to think it wasn’t worth it.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  AFTER HE HAD GONE, Rachel was shaking so much she had to sit down on the bed until she could control herself. The aftermath of Jaime’s lovemaking, combined with the awful scene that had followed, had evoked a devastating reaction, and her limbs felt weak, and on the point of collapse.

  It didn’t help to acknowledge that she was as much responsible for what had occurred as Jaime. It didn’t prevent her from feeling a frustrated resentment that he should still have the power to overwhelm her inhibitions, to submerge her personality, and make her a willing supplicant to his desires. She should not have drunk so much the night before. She should not have invited him into her room. And she should not have been foolish enough to fall asleep in the company of a man without shame or integrity.

  Yet that wasn’t entirely true either, she thought, chewing unhappily at her thumbnail. He had done nothing to her without her full knowledge, and last night, when she had been weak and vulnerable, he had shown her sympathy and compassion.

  But for what purpose? she demanded of herself now. Had he intended this all along? But she dismissed this thought without consideration. Until she became jealous of his association with Angela, she had had no contact with him all evening.

  The fact remained, it had happened, and in spite of her bitter turmoil, the haunting echoes of emotion would not be denied. Her body still throbbed at the memory of Jaime’s possession, and there were faintly purple marks on her skin, where in his passion he had bruised her.

  With a feeling of tearful self-derision, she rolled into a ball on the bed and drew the tumbled covers about her. It was too early yet to get up, too early yet to face the day; and she was suddenly very sleepy. Pulling the coverlet about her ears, she buried her face in the pillow, and although she was sure she would never rest, oblivion quickly claimed her.

  * * *

  She awakened to a shaft of sunlight, streaming through the crack in the curtains, and to the realisation that Maisie was standing by the bed holding a tray.

  ‘I thought I’d better disturb you, miss,’ she said, as Rachel blinked rather absently up at her. ‘It’s after eleven, and Mrs Shard said as how you weren’t too well last night.’

  Rachel closed her eyes again, and then opened them with a firm determination. ‘No. No, I wasn’t, Mrs Armstrong,’ she responded, struggling up on to her pillows. ‘I—I must have been more tired than I thought.’

  ‘Yes, miss.’

  Maisie’s expression was carefully impersonal, and Rachel, frowning as she endeavoured to show a composed face, suddenly realised why. In her haste to sit up, she had forgotten she was wearing only the satin negligee she had thrown about her, to protect her naked form from Jaime’s eyes, and as she had not fastened the robe, it was now gaping revealingly.

  ‘Oh!’ Recognising this fact, Rachel quickly drew the two sides of her robe together, and offered the housekeeper an apologetic smile. ‘I—er—I must have put my robe on in mistake for my nightie.’

  ‘Would this be your nightdress, miss?’

  Maisie set the tray across Rachel’s semi-reclining form, and bent to pick up the scrap of green satin from the floor, where Jaime had discarded it.

  ‘What? Oh—oh, yes, so it is.’ Rachel refused to make any further explanations. ‘Thank you, Mrs Armstrong. Would you just leave it on the end of the bed?’

  ‘Right, miss.’ Maisie examined the nightgown briefly as she folded it and laid it on the end of the bed. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, when she seemed to be examining her feet, she added: ‘Is there anything else I can get you?’

  ‘No. No. This looks lovely.’ Rachel smiled her thanks for the tray, on which resided orange juice, toast, cherry jam, and coffee, and fluted curls of butter on a transparent china dish. ‘I—er—thank you, Mrs Armstrong. Will you tell Mrs Shard I’ll be down in half an hour?’

  ‘Very well, miss.’ Maisie moved towards the door. ‘It’s a lovely morning. It’s a shame to miss it.’

  ‘Yes.’ Rachel faltered for a moment, then she said: ‘Is—is everyone else up?’

  ‘All but Miss Hylton, miss,’ Maisie replied, folding her hands. ‘Mr and Mrs Hylton had breakfast with Mr and Mrs Shard, and young Robin and his wife are having theirs just now.’

  ‘I see.’ Rachel caught her upper lip between her teeth. ‘And—er—and Jaime?’

  ‘Didn’t you know, miss?’ Maisie genuinely looked surprised. ‘He left half an hour ago.’

  ‘Left?’

  Rachel couldn’t keep the consternation out of her voice, and Maisie nodded. ‘You knew he had a phone call from London, didn’t you? From the studios?’

  ‘No.’ Rachel could feel what little colour she had draining out of her face.

  ‘Well, he did.’ Maisie was disapproving. ‘It seems they need him to fly out to the United States, to attend some high-level meetings there or something. Anyway, he said he’d go, even though his mother begged him to reconsider.’

  ‘But—his leg—’

  ‘That’s what his mother and father said, but he seemed to think he could cope. He said he was no invalid, and that in a job like his you learned to take life as it came.’ Maisie shrugged. ‘They sent a car to take him to the airport at Newcastle, and they’ve arranged a charter flight to take him to London.’

  ‘I see.’ Rachel felt curiously empty. ‘I didn’t know.’

  ‘No, I can see that,’ responded Maisie dryly. ‘Have you got a headache or something? You’re looking very pasty.’

  Rachel endeavoured to pull herself together. ‘Oh, it’s probably a hangover, Mrs Armstrong,’ she murmured, determinedly picking up the coffee pot and pouring herself a cup of the hot black liquid. ‘I’ll be all right when I’ve had this. You’ll
see.’

  Maisie left, but not without evident misgivings. Rachel guessed she found her presence here at Clere Heights something of an enigma. In Maisie’s world, one’s son’s ex-girl-friends were not treated as friends of the family, and although she seemed to like Rachel, no doubt she found the whole situation slightly irregular.

  Rachel drank her coffee, forced down half a slice of toast, then got out of bed. It was going to be easier, she thought, knowing she did not have to face Jamie, but she couldn’t deny a troublesome sense of anxiety at the knowledge he was on his way back to London. He should not have gone, she thought unhappily, and no doubt if she had not been here, his mother would have offered more persuasion to keep him here. As it was, she felt like the cuckoo in the nest, and she wondered if she still had the nerve to carry it through after what had happened.

  As she swung her feet to the floor, her toe encountered something soft and woollen, that was definitely not the carpet’s pile. Frowning, she looked down, then her shoulders sagged as she recognised one of Jaime’s dark socks. It was lying, half turned inside-out, just where Maisie had rescued her nightgown, and remembering the housekeeper’s momentary absorption with her toes, Rachel’s face burned. Dear God, no wonder Maisie had expected her to know where Jaime had gone! A sock was so unmistakable, and its meaning equally so.

  As she took her shower, and later dressed in jeans and a sweater, Rachel tried to decide what she ought to do. Was Maisie likely to tell her employer, and if so, was Liz likely to mention it to her?

  It was highly speculative, and probably unlikely, but the fact remained, Maisie must know what had happened. To combine the sock with Rachel’s own state of undress, and the discarded nightgown lying on the floor, constituted a watertight case in anyone’s book, and Rachel didn’t think she could stand anyone’s censure, or sympathy.

  She carried her own tray downstairs, and encountered Liz herself coming out of the kitchen. Jaime’s mother smiled kindly at her, and asked how she was feeling, then, after explaining that the Hyltons would be leaving after lunch, she continued on about her business as if nothing untoward had happened. She neither mentioned Jaime nor his departure, and Rachel could only assume Maisie had not told her.

  Maisie herself was busy at the sink, peeling the outer leaves from a dishful of sprouts. She smiled her thanks when Rachel set the tray down on the draining board, and asked her if she felt better now that she was up.

  ‘I’m fine,’ said Rachel briefly, circling her tongue with her lips. ‘Er—is there anything I can do to help?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Maisie shook her head. ‘It’s a cold meal for lunch. I thought some ham and cold sliced turkey, and a dish of tossed salad. These sprouts are for this evening. When there’ll just be the family again.’

  Rachel nodded. ‘And me,’ she inserted quietly.

  ‘Well…’ Maisie turned to look at her. ‘You’re family, aren’t you? Or almost.’

  ‘Not even almost,’ contradicted Rachel heavily. Then: ‘Maisie, I know you saw that sock just now—’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with me, miss,’ declared Maisie, making no attempt to deny she knew what Rachel was talking about. ‘What you and Jaime do in your own time is not my affair.’

  Rachel sighed. ‘I just wanted you to know—’

  ‘I mind my own business,’ said Maisie flatly, and then, as if feeling obliged to reassure her, she added: ‘I know Jaime, miss. I’ve known him since he was so high. And I know how he used to feel about you—’

  ‘Maisie!’

  For once Rachel forgot to be polite, but the housekeeper didn’t appear to notice. ‘You listen to me,’ she said. ‘If you and he are getting back together, then I won’t be the only one who’s pleased. That one,’ she gestured with her head, and Rachel knew she meant Liz, ‘she worries about him all the time, she does. What with that business over his wife and all! Been nothing but a source of trouble to him, she has, and him only trying to do what’s best for her.’

  Rachel knew she shouldn’t get involved in a discussion about Betsy with Mrs Armstrong, but her curiosity was such that she couldn’t deny just one question. ‘Did—did you ever meet his wife, Mrs Armstrong?’ she asked tentatively, and was amazed at the look of bitterness that crossed the housekeeper’s face.

  ‘Oh, aye,’ she said, her knife tearing savagely into the vegetable in her hand. ‘I met her, several times. He used to bring her here to Rothside, until that trouble with the Marshall boy.’

  ‘The Marshall boy?’ Rachel was getting in deeper every minute.

  ‘Yes—Terry Marshall, at the garage. Don’t you know him?’

  Rachel’s mouth felt dry. ‘You mean—the young man Robert called the local Lothario?’

  ‘That’s him.’ Maisie grimaced, and then shook her head. ‘Well—after that, she wasn’t welcome here any more.’

  Rachel stared at the housekeeper’s bent head, dying to ask what had happened to make Betsy unwelcome at Clere Heights, but there were limits to even her audacity. With a helpless gesture she turned away, and only as she reached the door did Maisie speak again.

  ‘I won’t tell Mrs Shard, if that’s what you’re worried about,’ she declared perceptively, and Rachel bit her lip. ‘She’s got enough to worry about as it is,’ she added obscurely, and Rachel could only offer a helpless word of thanks as she went out of the door.

  Lunch was a subdued meal, with none of the previous evening’s conviviality. Even Robin was slumped morosely in his seat, the reason for which became clear when Rachel accidentally overheard Angela’s name used with some asperity by his wife in the living room afterwards. Apparently, after Jaime’s disappearance with Rachel the resourceful Angela had turned her attention on Robin, and knowing his susceptibility to a pretty face, Rachel could guess what had happened.

  Angela, for her part, looked sullen and heavy-eyed, and the glances she cast in Rachel’s direction were not friendly. Rachel guessed the other girl suspected where Jaime had disappeared to, and Jaime’s sudden departure this morning had forestalled any attempt she might have planned to use Robin to make him jealous.

  With the Hyltons’ departure, the situation eased a little, and when Liz suggested Scrabble they all agreed. It was quite a cosy scene beside the sitting room fire, Rachel reflected, with the grey winter’s afternoon closing in around them, but with Jaime gone they all seemed to feel it in their own peculiar ways.

  For her part, Rachel was trying very hard to view what had happened objectively. It was easy to tell herself that now that Jaime had gone she should relax and enjoy herself, but somehow it didn’t come off. With Christmas Day over, and another five days to fill before New Year, she didn’t think she could stand the inactivity, and she found herself struggling for words to explain why it would be better if she went back to London.

  Liz herself grew strangely withdrawn as the afternoon wore on, and at teatime she excused herself on the pretext of having a headache. For the first time Rachel glimpsed a certain weariness in her face that had not been there before, and she wondered if Jaime’s departure was responsible for his mother’s sudden depression. If so, she was glad she had not insisted on leaving straight after her arrival, and conceivably precipitated this mental crisis.

  In the event, Liz did not come downstairs again that day. She asked Robert to convey her apologies, and the rest of the family shared a rather silent dinner, before having an early night. Somehow, with Jaime’s departure, and Liz’s illness, none of them felt much like being sociable, and when Rachel reached the sanctuary of her room she felt the weight of what had happened bearing down on her like a ton of lead.

  Where was Jaime now? she wondered. From what she had gathered from his father and brother, he was spending tonight in England and flying out to the States tomorrow, and her skin prickled when she considered where, and with whom, he might be sleeping. Would he go and see Betsy? Was it his usual practice to bid goodbye to her? Or would he spend the night at the apartment, that luxurious penthouse that Rache
l remembered so well? Certainly he would have everything he needed there, and be on hand to take a cab out to the airport in the morning.

  Rachel undressed and got into bed, and snuggled down determinedly beneath the covers. She could sleep tonight without fear of disturbance, she told herself resolutely, but somehow that thought gave her no satisfaction. It was impossible to forget she had spent the early morning in Jaime’s arms, or not associate her feelings now with those she had suffered after their separation. Then, she had hardly slept for weeks, tossing and turning in her lonely bed, tormenting herself with thoughts of him and Betsy together. It was worse now, after the self-betrayal she was guilty of, the condemning realisation that no matter what she believed, she was still as susceptible to his physical appeal.

  When Liz didn’t appear for breakfast the next morning, Rachel was concerned, and she sought out Robert and asked if there was anything she could do to help.

  ‘Well, I think she might be glad of a few words with you,’ he said gently, giving her shoulder a friendly squeeze, and Rachel knew a moment’s apprehension that seemed totally illogical.

  When she entered the Shards’ bedroom later that morning, however, her own fears dissolved in her anxiety for the older woman. Liz looked pale and drawn, her hands plucked agitatedly at the coverlet, and she was obviously in some pain. But when she saw Rachel her warm smile appeared, and she beckoned the girl closer, patting the bed beside her.

  ‘Sorry about this, darling,’ she said, after Rachel had bent to kiss her, and the girl seated herself reprovingly beside her.

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ Rachel exclaimed, patting Liz’s hand. ‘It’s you we’re concerned about. Now, is there anything I can get you? Robert says you haven’t eaten a thing!’