The Sanchez Tradition Read online

  The night before Rachel was due to leave, Olivia gave a small dinner party. It was quite a success, and Rachel felt a sense of gratitude towards Olivia and Marcus for making her so welcome in their home. There was no doubt that she would miss them and the beauty of Juanastra Bay. Maria had been subdued, too, when Rachel saw her into bed, for the little girl cared little for her Aunt Irena.

  Olivia retired directly the party was over. She was still rather unwell, and Rachel felt quite anxious about her. She determined to write frequently to her once she got back to England, and maybe some day she would be able to come back and see them.

  Rachel helped Sancha to clear away the debris after the guests had departed and Marcus said goodnight, and it wasn’t until Rachel went back into the lounge to see whether she had missed any glasses that she found Irena waiting for her. At first, she thought their meeting was accidental, but Irena walked past her and closed the door, saying: ‘I want to talk to you, Rachel,’ in a cold restrained tone.

  Rachel compressed her lips. She had no desire to talk to Irena and had hoped she was going to escape such a scene, but it was obvious that Irena had something to say and she intended to say it with or without Rachel’s permission.

  Irena lit a cigarette before beginning, and Rachel contemplated ignoring her altogether and leaving the room, but she knew that would make her appear a moral coward, and while she did not like Irena, she certainly did not fear anything she might say to her.

  ‘Please, Irena,’ she said now, ‘tell me what it is you have to say, and then let me go to bed. I’m very tired, and I have to be up early tomorrow morning.’

  Irena exhaled and regarded her through a veil of tobacco smoke. ‘Don’t alarm yourself, Rachel, what I have to say won’t take long.’ She walked slowly across to the french doors which still stood wide to the night air. ‘Did you know that André has applied to the courts for his divorce? If everything goes according to plan, he and Leonie will be married before the end of the year.’

  A knife turned in Rachel’s stomach. ‘Is that all you have to tell me?’ she asked tautly.

  Irena shook her head. ‘That’s part of it, Rachel,’ she replied, with a mocking smile. ‘This is the rest.’ She opened her evening bag and extracted a piece of paper. ‘André asked me to give you this. He said you would know what it was for.’

  Rachel frowned, taking the slip of paper and opening it with trembling fingers. It was a cheque for five thousand pounds. She stared at it disbelievingly, and then looked up uncomprehendingly at Irena. Swallowing hard, she said faintly: ‘I don’t understand; what is this?’

  Irena gave her a speculative glance, noting her pale cheeks and shaken appearance. ‘I understood you would know what André meant,’ she said chillingly. ‘Surely you understand why he sent it?’

  Rachel stared again at the cheque. It was André’s handwriting all right, and it was dated only three days ago; the day Irena left for Brazil. ‘He—he gave you this!’ she murmured, almost inaudibly, her emotions churning nauseously.

  ‘Of course.’ Irena shrugged her narrow shoulders. ‘Honestly, Rachel, don’t look so shook up! It’s only money!’

  Rachel felt mortified. That André should send her money was bad enough; that he should send it with Irena was doubly humiliating.

  With an overwhelming feeling of faintness enveloping her, Rachel knew she had to get out of the room before she disgraced herself in front of her sister-in-law. But before she left she tore the cheque into a dozen tiny pieces, scattering them in Irena’s face with childish retaliation.

  ‘You—you can tell your brother I don’t want his filthy money!’ she cried, groping her way to the door. ‘I never did!’ and with that she wrenched open the door and went out into the cool hall.

  She stood for a moment, waiting for the dizziness to recede, and then made her way unsteadily to her bedroom. She would never have believed André could be so cruel, so unfeeling, or that he could have thought to humiliate her like that in front of Irena. What had he told his family about their relationship that Irena should speak with such confidence about the reasons for him offering her money? How could he have betrayed her like that, at a time when she was actually bearing his child? It was horrible, unthinkable! What did it matter that he knew nothing about the baby, he surely could not have lost all respect for her so swiftly! Or had she been right in her assumption that his reasons for coming to Brazil had been ones of revenge, and that this final humiliation had been his winning card…?

  CHAPTER NINE

  IT took Rachel several weeks to accustom herself to life in London again. There was so much to do, so many things to arrange, and over and above all the pain she felt when she visited her father’s grave was the agony of self-recrimination she felt when she recalled the way André had treated her.

  It was so strange to live again in the flat above the shop but alone now in a world grown alien by her father’s absence. Mrs. Verity, who kept the adjoining newsagents, seemed to be the only person she really knew, for since her marriage to André she had not made many friends. People did come to see her, old friends of her father’s, but there was no one close enough for her to share any confidences, and she seemed to shrink within a shell so that her manner did not encourage overtures from outsiders.

  The shop needed a thorough cleaning, and she was grateful when Mrs. Verity’s daughter, Hannah, offered to give her a hand. Between them they managed to shift everything, sweeping and whitewashing so that the old place began to smell fresh again. Hannah’s boy-friend, John Adamson, came to help them and he moved all the heavier items, for which Rachel felt an immense sense of relief. She knew that too much exertion might harm the baby.

  During the weeks of the cleaning, she got to know Hannah and John quite well, and they managed to penetrate the shield of aloofness that she had caught about her. She knew that sooner or later she would have to tell them of her condition, for although she remained quite healthy, it would inevitably begin to show.

  When the shop was finished, she went to see the solicitor again; she had seen him first soon after her arrival back in England, and she asked his advice about the advisability of selling. Mr. Cropper was quite a young man, and he regarded Rachel rather speculatively.

  ‘You want to sell?’ he enquired.

  Rachel hesitated. ‘I’m not sure,’ she admitted. ‘It’s just that—well, I wondered whether it might be a good idea.’

  Mr. Cropper shrugged. ‘It rather depends what you intend to do, doesn’t it, Rachel,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘I mean—your father explained to me that you might be going to live in the Bahamas, but now that you’re back do you intend to stay?’

  Rachel bit her lip. ‘Oh yes, I intend to stay,’ she answered.

  Mr. Cropper frowned. ‘Then in that case, if, and I say if, you sell the shop, what do you intend to do—where do you intend to live? And have you another income?’

  ‘If I sell the shop, I expect I shall be able to find a flat somewhere,’ she replied. ‘Then—later—I could get a job. I’m a qualified librarian.’

  Mr. Cropper studied her. ‘But surely, Rachel, if you do sell the shop, you realise you may find the rents currently being charged in the metropolitan area rather exorbitant for your means.’ He sighed. ‘Come now, Rachel, tell me honestly, why do you want to sell a business that could conceivably provide you with a comfortable living? Your father let everything slide. It’s up to you to take it in hand and make a success of it!’

  Rachel bent her head. ‘I’m afraid the shop might be too much for me,’ she said slowly.

  ‘Too much for you!’ echoed Mr. Cropper incredulously. ‘A young woman of your age could take a business like that in her stride!’

  Rachel looked at him steadily. ‘I’m pregnant, Mr. Cropper,’ she said quietly.

  Harold Cropper was taken aback. His rather florid features took on a purplish tinge and he looked absolutely embarrassed. ‘I—I see,’ he said, obviously astounded by this revelation. ‘I’m sorry, Rachel
, I had no idea….’

  ‘Why should you have?’ asked Rachel dryly. ‘But as I am, and as you now know, what do you suggest I do?’

  ‘Tell me,’ he said, recovering slightly and wiping his forehead with a handkerchief. ‘Your husband—he is still your husband, isn’t he?’ and at her nod, he continued: ‘Does he know about—well, this other man?’

  Rachel compressed her lips. ‘There is no other man, Mr. Cropper,’ she said distinctly.

  ‘You mean….’

  ‘Yes. This is my husband’s child.’

  ‘Then for God’s sake, what is he doing letting you come back here alone to attempt to start up an old business—–’

  ‘He doesn’t know.’

  ‘He doesn’t know?’

  ‘No. And I don’t intend to tell him. So can we go on….’

  ‘Just a minute!’ Mr. Cropper swallowed hard. ‘Rachel, you can’t just come in here with a story like this and expect me to give you a decision just out of my head. I need time to think—to assimilate what you’ve told me. For heaven’s sake, why haven’t you told him?’

  ‘My husband is in the process of obtaining a divorce,’ replied Rachel calmly.

  Mr. Cropper shook his head. ‘Then how—–’ he began, and then halted. ‘I’m sorry, Rachel, if I sound old-fashioned, but I was a friend of your father’s, and quite honestly I think you’re making a terrible mistake allowing your husband to obtain his divorce without telling him of your condition. Good heavens, it’s his child, too.’

  ‘André has no rights where this child is concerned,’ said Rachel bitterly. ‘He paid for it with a cheque for five thousand pounds.’

  ‘Five thousand pounds!’ Mr. Cropper was obviously out of his depth. ‘You have the cheque?’

  ‘No. I tore it up.’

  Mr. Cropper could not have looked more perplexed, but manfully he refrained from making any further observations even though it was obvious that he would have loved to continue discussing what had occurred. Eventually he said:

  ‘I think, as I said, Rachel, I need time to think this over; will you come back and see me in—say—two or three days, and I’ll try and have an answer for you?’

  Rachel nodded. ‘All right.’ Then a thought struck her. ‘You don’t have it in mind to attempt to tell my husband what I’ve told you, do you?’ she asked suspiciously.

  Mr. Cropper looked put out. ‘Of course not. My clients’ affairs are confidential, as you know,’ he exclaimed.

  Rachel allowed herself a smile as she rode back to Chelsea in the bus. Mr. Cropper was such a transparent person, and quite obviously he found it difficult to accept her explanations. But she trusted him implicitly, and he had been a good and loyal friend to her father despite the fact that he was years younger.

  Hannah Verity came round soon after Rachel’s return, and she found Rachel stretched out on the couch in the small living-room of the flat. She was a nice girl, round and comely, with long straight fair hair and blue eyes.

  ‘Hey!’ she exclaimed, when she saw Rachel. ‘You look pale, Rachel. Are you all right?’

  Rachel smiled. ‘I just feel a bit tired, that’s all,’ she admitted. ‘Would you make me a cup of tea, Hannah? I just got back about a quarter of an hour ago, and I’m dying for one, but I hadn’t the energy.’

  ‘Sure thing.’ Hannah went into the tiny kitchen and busied herself putting on the kettle and setting out the cups. Then she came back to the door of the living-room. ‘Would you like me to go round for Mam?’ she asked anxiously.

  Rachel smiled again. ‘Oh no, Hannah, I’ll be okay.’ Then she sighed. ‘Oh, you’ve got to know sooner or later, anyway, I’m going to have a baby.’

  Hannah’s eyes widened miraculously. ‘You’re pregnant!’ she exclaimed. ‘Oh, lord, I didn’t know! And you doing all that work and all!’

  ‘Women aren’t frail plants, you know, Hannah,’ replied Rachel, swinging her legs to the ground. ‘I’ve quite a strong constitution. But I get tired easily, that’s all.’

  ‘I see.’ Hannah disappeared quickly as the kettle began to sing, and she returned a few moments later with a tray of tea which she set on the table beside Rachel.

  ‘Join me,’ said Rachel, indicating the seat opposite. ‘I suppose I’ve aroused either your disapproval or your curiosity.’

  Hannah gave an exclamation. ‘Don’t be silly, Rachel,’ she exclaimed. ‘What’s there to disapprove of? You’re married, aren’t you?’

  Rachel sighed. ‘Yes, I am. But my husband doesn’t know I’m pregnant.’

  Hannah flushed. ‘Oh, I see. It’s not his child.’

  ‘Yes, it is.’ Rachel sighed again. ‘Oh, Hannah, I can’t explain, but André—my husband, that is—doesn’t love me. He—he wants a divorce.’

  ‘The pig!’ Hannah was vehement. ‘Leaving you in the lurch like this!’

  ‘It’s not quite like that,’ Rachel had to admit. ‘André would consider it a matter of principle to take care of both me and the baby if he knew. Indeed, I’m sure he would give up all thoughts of a divorce. But I don’t want him that way, can you see? If—if he really loved me, it would be different. Then I would tell him. But he doesn’t. He—he did some terrible things, things that left me in no doubt as to his feelings for me.’ She bit her lip, controlling herself with difficulty.

  Hannah shook her head. ‘How awful for you! But how will you manage? The shop and all?’

  Rachel shrugged. ‘That’s why I’ve been out. I went to see my solicitor to ask him whether I ought to sell it.’

  ‘I see.’ Hannah nodded, looking round regretfully. ‘It’ll be a pity to sell it now, after you’ve got it so nice. It’s a nice little business. It could be much better. If you had someone, someone like John, who knew a bit about antiques….’

  ‘Does John know about antiques?’

  ‘Some. He used to come in here when your father was alive and talk to him, but I don’t suppose you noticed.’

  Rachel shook her head. ‘Not really, although now you mention it, I vaguely recall there was a boy…’ She shrugged. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t sell after all. I could always leave you and John in charge while I have the baby.’

  Hannah laughed. ‘We’ll be married by then,’ she said consideringly. ‘Maybe it’s not such a crazy idea.’

  Rachel shook her head. ‘It’s no good, Hannah, I’m going to have to sell. I couldn’t possibly afford to pay you to look after the shop, and in any case, I’m going to be useless in about three months’ time.’

  Hannah sighed. ‘I suppose you’re right. One day John and I are going to have a shop of our own though. It’s what we both want, and Dad says he’ll help us.’

  Rachel nodded. ‘I suppose it is nice, having a family business,’ she remarked slowly. ‘It’s just when it develops into a corporation it becomes something else again.’ But Hannah did not know to what she was referring.

  Mr. Cropper finally decided it might be the best thing for Rachel to sell, and the shop was duly assessed by an estate agent, and put up for sale. Rachel thought that the sooner the deal was accomplished the better. She wanted to make other arrangements long before the baby was born.

  She had several people come to see the place and all wanted possession of the flat along with the shop. She supposed it was only to be expected. After all, in these days it was safer to live on the premises. Of course, she had quite a few couples come simply out of curiosity, and she grew tired of showing people round who had absolutely no intention of buying but were merely amusing themselves at her expense. She had to watch the articles in the shop, too. People were not averse to helping themselves.

  But finally a buyer, an interested buyer, came along, and after some haggling with the estate agent, he settled on a price. Rachel was forced to accept at last that she was really leaving the neighbourhood. However, Mrs. Verity had offered her temporary accommodation once the sale went through, so she was not alarmed about not yet having a place of her own. All the same, it would be a wrench to leave.


  One evening, she was just getting out of the bath when she heard someone hammering on the outer door of the shop. With an exasperated exclamation she glanced at her watch. It was after nine o’clock and it was a filthy night, for it had been raining since early evening. It was the kind of English summer weather that sent holidaymakers abroad, and she couldn’t imagine who could be calling at a time like this. Deciding it must be someone to look around who was not yet aware that the place had been sold, she ignored the hammering, and reached for her dressing-gown. It was made of heavy silk in a dark shade of blue, and she tied the cord securely about her thickening waist. Then she emerged into her living-room and started to comb her hair.

  The hammering ceased and she breathed a sigh of relief. Whoever had called had obviously gone away in defeat. But moments later the banging started again, and Rachel felt the faintest stirrings of alarm. Surely no one would knock like that at this time of the evening. Was it possibly teenagers causing trouble?

  Her fingers lingered near the telephone. Should she call the Veritys and have them investigate for her? Or should she go down and find out for herself? She hesitated. She could go down in the dark. The lights from the street outside provided sufficient illumination.

  With determination, she opened the living-room door and emerged on to the landing above the shop. She could see a man’s silhouette by the panels of the door, and she trembled a little. Whoever it was had stopped banging, but was still waiting, sheltering under the canopy of the doorway. Rachel bit her lip. How dared he come here at this time of night, whoever he was, disturbing her like this? Were he the new owner himself, he still had no right to arrive without first warning her.

  She hovered uncertainly at the top of the stairs, and then, as she was about to turn and go back into the living-room, the man pushed open the letter box and shouted: ‘Rachel! Open this door! I know you’re in there! For God’s sake, I’m soaking!’