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‘You must know it does.’ Emma shifted her weight restlessly from one foot to the other. ‘I mean—how can I go out to the West Indies? I have a home—and a husband.’ She avoided his eyes as she said this. ‘I can’t just abandon them without thought or consideration.’
‘No one’s asking you to,’ replied Jordan shortly. ‘I realise how difficult it would be for you. And I’m quite prepared to accept your refusal, should you feel you can’t do it.’
Emma expelled her breath on a heavy sigh. Then she faced him squarely. ‘You don’t really care, do you?’ she exclaimed tautly. ‘You don’t really want me to go out there.’
‘If I’ve given that impression, then I’m sorry,’ replied Jordan politely. ‘Naturally I want what’s best for my father. And if he wants to see you, I shall do everything in my power to accommodate him.’
‘To accommodate him?’ Emma’s lips trembled at the dispassionate tone of his voice. ‘You’re so cold, aren’t you, Jordan? So unfeeling. To you it’s just another job of work, and if anyone’s feelings are hurt, then hard luck!’
‘I see no reason for you to feel so emotively about it,’ he retorted harshly. ‘As you’ve already pointed out, my father has ignored your existence for several years. Why should you rush to his defence now?’
‘He’s dying, Jordan.’
‘And does that eradicate the sins of the past? Are you one of those people who believes that repentance equals forgiveness?’
‘What are you saying, Jordan? What sin has your father committed? Ignoring my existence hardly warrants condemnation.’
‘In your eyes, perhaps not,’ he conceded stiffly. ‘Very well. Do I take it that you’ll come?’
Emma turned her back on him, resting her chin on her knuckles, trying desperately to decide what she ought to do. Obviously, she could make no decision without first discussing it with David, and she already knew what his reaction would be. But here and now she had to decide whether she wanted to go, whether there was any point in holding out hope that she would agree.
After a few moments, she said: ‘What—what would be the arrangements? How would I get to—to Valentia?’
There was a pause, and then Jordan replied: ‘A direct flight operates between London and Barbados. An inter-island transport flies between Seawell and Valentia.’
‘I see.’ Emma turned again, slowly. ‘And—and how long would all this take? I mean—how long would I be away?’
Jordan shrugged. ‘That would be up to you, of course. Technically, the flight to Barbados takes something like ten hours, but bearing in mind the four-hour time lag, you can complete the journey in half a day. The inter-island flight is much shorter—a matter of forty minutes, no more.’
‘And—flights to Valentia; they’re pretty frequent?’
‘No.’ Jordan shook his head. ‘Generally they’re laid on when required. Valentia’s population doesn’t exceed five hundred, so as you can imagine, there’s not a lot of need for a regular service.’
Emma absorbed this with difficulty. Somehow she couldn’t imagine herself flying off to the West Indies at a moment’s notice, going to see a man to whom she was practically a stranger, seeing sights and people totally alien to her normally limited existence. She had seen pictures of the Caribbean islands, shared a common longing for their beauty and tranquillity. But never at any time had she seriously considered going there. She wasn’t at all sure she wanted the dream exposing, for nothing was ever quite as attractive as one anticipated.
‘I’ll have to talk it over with David,’ she said at last, and Jordan’s lean mouth turned downward at the corners.
‘Then you might as well give me your answer right now,’ he remarked cynically. ‘We both know Ingram will never agree to your going anywhere with me.’
‘With—with you?’ Emma’s eyes were wide.
‘Why, yes, with me,’ agreed Jordan dryly. ‘You didn’t imagine I would let you fly out there on your own, did you?’
Emma made a helpless gesture. ‘I thought—that is—the company—–’
‘I have a very capable general manager,’ Jordan interrupted her curtly. ‘Even I am not so heartless as to let my father die alone. At the moment, I’m dividing my time between Abingford and Valentia, but as the time runs out, I’ll stay on the island.’ His lips twisted. ‘There are telephones. My father saw to that.’
Emma didn’t know what to say. Considering going to Valentia alone was one thing. Contemplating the trip with the one man she had hoped never to see again was quite another.
‘I need some time,’ she said now, pushing back her hair with a nervous hand. ‘Surely you can grant me a couple of days. When are you leaving?’
‘At the end of next week,’ he answered, taking his hands out of his pockets to fasten his coat. ‘When will you let me know what you’ve decided? At the weekend? Or is that too soon?’
‘No—no.’ That gave her three days. ‘No, I’ll know by the weekend.’
‘Good. Will you ring me?’
Emma linked her fingers together. ‘I don’t have your number.’
‘It hasn’t changed,’ he reminded her shortly. ‘Abingford double-six-one-nine. Or you can ring me at the office. I’m sure you remember that number.’
Emma’s skin prickled. ‘My father’s number, you mean?’ she countered tautly, and saw the faint colour run up under his tan.
‘You remember,’ he observed, and turning, opened the door into the showroom. ‘Until the weekend, then …’
Emma nodded, and followed him out into the now empty shop, empty, that was, but for Gilda lounging carelessly on the edge of her desk. When she saw them, her eyes flickered thoughtfully, then she put aside the pen she had been holding and smiled.
‘Good afternoon, Jordan,’ she said, the mockery in her tones only lightly veiled. ‘This is an unexpected honour.’
Jordan’s expression was equally sardonic. ‘Good afternoon, Gilda,’ he responded in kind. ‘Still as defensive as ever, I see.’
‘Defensive!’ Gilda straightened to face him, and then subsided again as she realised she was automatically proving his point. Controlling her temper, she said: ‘Might one ask why you’re slumming? I’m sure you have enough antiques in that mansion of yours to furnish half a dozen salerooms, so I can’t believe that’s why you’re here.’
Jordan smiled then, and Emma had to admire his self-control. ‘You’re right, of course, Gilda,’ he agreed imperturbably, turning up the collar of his coat against the cold outside. ‘Quite enough antiques. Yes. Nice to have seen you again. G’bye, Emma!’ And with a polite nod to both of them he left.
‘Conceited bastard!’ declared Gilda as soon as the door had closed behind him, and Emma was glad of the brief respite to collect her own composure. ‘What did he want? Can’t he take no for an answer? You did say you had refused his invitation, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, of course.’ Emma turned aside to rescue the sandwich she had brought for her employer from her handbag. ‘Here you are: ham! Are you ravenous?’
‘Not particularly, but put the kettle on, will you?’ said Gilda, peeling the sealing plastic from the roll. Then, as Emma moved to comply, she added: ‘Well? Are you going to tell me what he wanted, or aren’t you?’
Emma sighed. ‘His father wants to see me, that’s all.’
‘Old Andrew?’
‘Not so old. He must be about—sixty-five.’
‘Even so …’ Gilda was perplexed. ‘I didn’t know he’d come back to live at Athehnere.’
‘He hasn’t.’
Emma disappeared into the back office to fill the kettle in the tiny cloakroom adjoining, but Gilda moved to stand, eating her sandwich, at the open doorway, and she was waiting for her when she emerged again.
‘Emma …’ she said, chewing almost absently. ‘Emma, he hasn’t asked you to go out to the Caribbean, has he?’
‘As a matter of fact—–’
‘But why? Emma, why?’ She gulped. ‘You can be considering it!’
Emma plugged in the kettle. ‘Why not?’
‘Why? Why, because—because—how do you know it’s his father who wants to see you? How do you know it’s not some devious—–’
‘Gilda!’ Emma’s impatient use of her name silenced her. ‘Don’t be foolish! Jordan Kyle isn’t interested in me. Good heavens, you said yourself he was involved with Stacey Albert! And in any case, aren’t you forgetting—I’m married!’
‘Is that what you call it?’ retorted Gilda sharply. ‘Being at the beck and call of a man who’s only half a man!’
‘Gilda!’ Emma was trembling now as much with nervous reaction as indignation, although she would never have admitted it. ‘Gilda, David isn’t responsible for his condition.’
‘Isn’t he?’ Gilda was unsympathetic. ‘Who is, then? Who else was at the wheel of the car if it wasn’t himself? He was alone when they found him, wasn’t he? You can’t blame yourself for that.’
‘I don’t. I just wish you wouldn’t talk like that about—about my husband.’
‘But he’s not your husband, is he?’ pursued Gilda relentlessly. ‘He never has been. And don’t forget, I was with you that week before the wedding. I know the doubts you had, long before Master Ingram chose to smash himself, and your relationship, before it had even been consummated.’
‘Oh, Gilda …’ Emma dropped two teabags into the pot. ‘Must you keep bringing that up? David and I are married. We’ve been married for almost four years. Why can’t you accept it? There’s no point in thinking about what might have been. This is here and now, and there’s no—no—–’
‘Escape?’ suggested Gilda dryly, but Emma vigorously denied it.
‘No. I was about to say there’s no—altering it. That’s all.’
‘All right.’ Gilda finished the sandwich and delicately licked her fingers. ‘So where does that leave us? Oh, yes—Jordan’s invitation to temptation.’
‘Gilda!’ The kettle boiled at that moment, and she made the tea with hands that spattered drops of boiling water all over the papers on the desk. ‘Jordan’s father is ill. He wants to see me before—in case—anything happens.’
‘I see,’ Gilda nodded.
‘That’s confidential, Gilda.’
‘Of course,’ Gilda agreed. ‘But that doesn’t answer the question, does it? Are you seriously considering going?’
‘I don’t know …’ Emma added milk to the teacups. ‘I honestly don’t know.’
The chiming of the shop bell brought their conversation to an abrupt halt, and leaving Gilda to drink her tea in peace, Emma went to attend to the customer. For the rest of the afternoon, she was kept busy and although she knew that Gilda only had her well-being at heart, she was relieved. The whole situation was too new, too fraught with difficulties, to discuss coherently, and the arrival of Gilda’s latest boy-friend just before closing time curtailed any prolonged farewells.
‘See you Friday,’ she called, as she left the shop, but she was not unaware of her employer’s impatience at the knowledge that it would be two days before she heard her decision.
Outside, Frank Horner’s Jaguar was parked at the kerb. A man in his early fifties, he had already been married twice before, and Gilda was his present quarry. Gilda herself took him much less seriously. She had not reached the age of forty-two without learning a little about the opposite sex, and while her slim figure and good looks attracted plenty of attention, she seldom got seriously involved with anyone. She was a career woman, first and foremost, and the income from the shop more than compensated any need for security. Emma doubted she would ever get married, despite Frank Horner’s ambitions.
David’s mother had left by the time she got home, and to her relief David was engrossed in his study, working on his present commission. He spared a moment to greet her, and then, while she set the casserole she had prepared at lunchtime on a low light and went to bathe and change before serving their evening meal, he returned to his work.
Later, eating their meal from a serving trolley set before the fire in the drawing room, Emma let herself relax. It was pleasant in the lamplit room with the television playing away quietly in one corner, there to be seen or not as the mood took her. She could almost convince herself that they were any ordinary couple sitting eating their supper together, until David got bored with quiet domesticity and thrust his tray savagely aside.
‘God, I wish this weather would improve!’ he muttered, reaching for the bottle of Scotch on the table beside him and splashing a generous measure into his glass. ‘I’m so sick of being confined to this house, day in and day out! I get so bored I could scream!’
Emma gathered the dirty dishes together on to the trolley. ‘We could go out tomorrow, if you like,’ she offered mildly, looking up to see his reaction, and predictably, he scowled.
‘With you driving?’ he demanded, and then shook his head. ‘You know I hate being driven by a woman.’
‘I know that. But unless you do—–’
‘I know, I know. Don’t remind me. Unless you drive, I can’t go anywhere.’
‘David, you know you could have transport …’
‘One of those ghastly three-wheelers? No, thanks!’
‘No. I believe there are other vehicles—–’
‘It doesn’t matter. They’re all the same. They all have disabled driver on the back.’
‘Well, that’s what you are, David,’ Emma pointed out quietly. ‘Surely you see that if you could only accept that, things would be so much easier …’
‘For you, you mean. Would it take some of the guilt from your shoulders knowing I was mobile?’
Emma sighed. They had had this argument before and it always ended the same. ‘David, accepting your disability would make it easier for you, too. Don’t you see? There’s so much in life to enjoy—–’
‘Not in my life. I’m just a living vegetable. I just about manage to feed and clothe myself, and that’s all.’
‘You have your work …’
‘My work!’ David snorted. ‘Do you think I don’t know that all the jobs I get now are second-rate commissions? Langley never sends me anything worthwhile any more. That’s why he never comes here. He daren’t show his face.’
‘David, Harry Langley doesn’t come here because you’re so unpleasant to him when he does, that’s all. And I think you’re wrong. The commissions he sends you are good commissions. It’s just that you don’t take the—the interest in them that you used to do.’
‘Don’t give me that! I’m interested all right. David Ingram used to be a name to be reckoned with, and I’m not about to give that up.’
‘Then—then stop feeling so sorry for yourself!’ exclaimed Emma urgently. ‘And stop drinking so much. That’s the second bottle of Scotch you’ve started this week.’
‘Who’s counting?’ retorted David, and deliberately refilled his glass.
Shaking her head, Emma rose and wheeled the trolley out of the room. It was useless trying to reason with him, particularly when he’d been drinking. His self-pity was absolute, and she could see no end to it.
As she loaded the dishes into the sink, she pondered the improbabilities of her life thus far. Gilda had been accurate about the doubts she had had before her marriage to David. There had been times in those weeks before the wedding when she had considered calling the whole thing off. She had not loved David as she should have done, but he had known that and wanted her anyway, and she had foolishly allowed herself to be persuaded.
It was all down to her feelings for Jordan Kyle. Maybe if she had never known him, her affection for David would have been enough. As it was, she had known what love could be like between a man and a woman, and didn’t they always say that a woman never forgot her first affair?
She sighed, dipping her hands into the soapy water. The trouble was, she had never known a time when Jordan had not played some part in her life. She remembered when she was little more than a toddler and he was already twelve or thirteen years old, the way he had given her rides on his back, taught her how to swim, had snowball fights with her, and given her trips on the crossbar of his bicycle. As she grew older he was always there, to tease or mock, to chide or admire, the older brother she had never known. Because they were both only children, and because their fathers were partners in business, it was natural that they should see a lot of one another, and by the time Emma was eighteen and home from boarding school, her infatuation for Jordan was complete.
The magical thing had been that he appeared to feel the same. For all there were ten years between them, he had never seriously bothered with any other girl, and that summer of her maturity had been the most marvellous summer of her life. Although even then Jordan had already joined the company and was starting to make a name for himself in the cold hard world of finance, all his free time he had spent with Emma, and their relationship became the most important thing in her life. She had adored him with all the stirring passion of her youth, and had been able to deny him nothing …
The blade of a knife skimmed her finger, and a thread of blood appeared along the parting skin. With an exclamation, she ran the cut under cold water, wondering whether the careless gesture had been an omen. Certainly it epitomised the savagery of their parting when it happened; she had felt then that she was bleeding—but inside.
It had happened so suddenly, so unexpectedly, so brutally. So wrapped up in her own feelings had she been, she had not noticed the strain in her father’s face which had increased daily, the anxiety her mother must have been feeling. Instead, when the crash came, it tore into her like a physical blast, shattering her home and her family, everything she had held dear.
Her mother had stood up well under the strain. She had blamed Emma’s father entirely, and perhaps this had been her means of recovery. And it was true, Jeremy Trace had been gambling recklessly, using shareholders’ money to subsidise his debts. He had always enjoyed the good life, sometimes to the detriment of his wife and daughter, but inevitably time had caught up with him. Even then, he had taken the easiest way out. He had shot himself in the library of their home, leaving his womenfolk to settle his debts and face the inevitable scandal that followed.
Andrew Kyle had tried to help them, but naturally he had to think of his shareholders first, and in any case, her mother had not wanted his assistance. Instead, she had sold the house standing adjacent, to the Kyle home, and moved herself and Emma into a tiny flat in Abingford, overlooking the yard of St Stephen’s Church.
