The Hidden Years (69 page)

She might have banished him physically from her presence,
but his image was with her constantly. During the day when she tried to
work herself hard enough to ensure that she slept at night, and during
the night when she was almost afraid to fall asleep because of the
intensity of her dreams of him.

She had lost weight, there were shadows under her eyes and
it was no wonder that Colin Hedley was frowning at her, worried.

She gave him an abstracted smile.

'Yes, Colin, I'm fine,' she lied. 'Just a bit tired.'

'Look, why don't I see the buyer for you?' he suggested.

She was about to refuse when she had a sudden mental image
of her garden, a sudden fierce thirst for the comfort of her long
herbaceous borders where the mingled colours of her plants would rest
coolly on her sore eyes. Eyes that were sore from the tears she cried
at night when she was restlessly asleep. She wanted to feel the cool
moistness of the earth in her hands; to have her faith, her belief that
what she was doing was worthwhile and right reinforced. An hour or so
working in her garden would soothe and calm her nerves in much the same
way as its cool, healing colours would soothe her tired eyes, and who
knew, perhaps if she worked hard enough, breathed in enough healthy
fresh air, she might even be able to sleep properly and not be
tormented by her dreams of Lewis?

Woolonga… She could see it so clearly in her
mind's eye, and had not realised until now how treacherously her brain
had stored up from Vic's letters so many details of the sheep station
and the homestead itself. It would be a harsh environment and certainly
not one that would welcome the soft pastel colours of her English
flowers with their thirst for the cool rain and gentle sun of an
English summer, but she could have a garden there none the less; she
could…

Stop it, she told herself fiercely as she turned to Colin
Hedley and thanked him, agreeing with his suggestion. The buyer was one
who had visited the mill before, and who was merely coming to place a
repeat order. The store which he represented had been pleased with the
cloth they supplied. She herself had paid a discreet visit to its
drapery department on her last visit to London and had been pleased to
see how advantageously it was displayed and how well it was selling.

As she had so correctly foreseen, there was a growing
need, a growing desire for softness and luxury, so that her soft-hued
tweeds, despite their cost, were outselling their duller, harsher
competitors.

It was a relief to get back into her car and drive through
the leafy lanes to Cottingdean.

The house drowsed in the sunshine, slumbering beneath the
weight of its venerable years. As always when she came back to it she
was conscious of a deep sense of peace, of continuity, of being part of
the magical chain that linked generation to generation.

Here was a different kind of completeness from that she
had experienced with Lewis. Their completeness had been that of two
people designed by nature to be together—here her
completeness came from the knowledge that she was a very small but very
necessary part in the huge mosaic that was humanity.

She parked the car and walked round the side of the house
so that she could walk through the kitchen garden and along the double
border. Lavender lined the footpath that led to the kitchen garden, her
progress wafting its scent around her, her tweed skirt, made from a
Vogue pattern in tweed woven at the mill, of the same soft-hued shade
as the plant so that she blended perfectly into her surroundings. The
skirt was a copy of the latest Dior line, pencil-slim with a flirty
back pleat. She had thought it rather sophisticated for her lifestyle
but the vicar's wife had persuaded her to make it, claiming that in her
position as proprietor of the mill she needed to show visiting buyers
just how well the fabric made up.

She had allowed herself to be persuaded, although she
still felt guilty over the added extravagance of the court shoes she
had bought in Bath to go with her new outfit.

As she approached the house, she wondered if Edward would
have had his lunch. His appetite had diminished recently, and his
temper had become alarmingly short. She felt her stomach muscles bunch
and tense.

She knew the signs now, knew quite well that his almost
childish sulks would lead eventually to one of his violent outbursts.

Ian had told her quite firmly that she was not to put up
with them; that if they continued, for her sake if not for his own,
Edward would have to submit to some kind of restraining treatment.

'He can't help it, Ian,' she had told the doctor. 'He
doesn't mean any harm.'

'Not afterwards,' Ian had agreed shortly. 'But he's a very
strong man, Liz, far stronger than you.'

She knew it was true; the muscles in Edward's arms had of
necessity become extremely powerful, and the last time he had grabbed
hold of her during one of his jealous rages she had indeed felt very
afraid, and the bruises his hands had left on her skin had taken over a
week to fade.

She frowned as she approached the house, the breeze
rustling her crepe de Chine blouse, so that the fabric pressed lovingly
against her breasts as she leaned forward to touch the petals of a
newly opened rose.

From the library window Edward watched her jealously. She
looked so young, so beautiful, with the breeze moulding the soft cloth
to her body. So desirable… He felt the familiar burn of
helpless frustrated desire sear through him and cursed under his
breath. If fate had seen fit to destroy his manhood, to take from him
the physical ability to express his desire for her, then why could it
not also have taken away the mental and emotional capacity to feel that
desire?

He watched her with bitter, brooding eyes. There was a
pain in his head, where a great vein throbbed. He touched it with his
hand and felt the pulsing throb right down through his body. It had
rained during the night, and despite all Liz's attempts to keep his
rooms dry and warm his sensitive flesh felt the aching bite of the
rheumatism that tormented him.

With all the too keen perception of a jealous lover he
sensed that Liz had changed, that his relationship with her was somehow
threatened; that she was slipping away from him.

As he watched her progress through the garden and saw the
way she stopped to inspect and admire her flowers, the very way she
looked and touched them so expressive of the love she felt for them
that he was actually jealous of the attention she gave them, hating
them almost for the way they took up her time and her care, time and
care which ought to have been given to him. He hated those hours when
she was out of the house, gone beyond the control of his jealous
demands, gone where she could meet other people… other men.

As Liz straightened up from what she was doing she glanced
towards the house, tension gripping her body as she saw Edward watching
her.

From this distance it wasn't possible for her to see his
expression, but she could tell simply from the way he held his body
that he was angry.

She had a moment's cowardly desire to turn her back on
him… not to go into the house at all, but to hide herself
away in the garden where it was impossible for him to come after her.

Her own thoughts made her grimace in distaste. It wasn't
Edward's fault. She must never forget that he was in constant pain or
how he had suffered…

Or how much he loved her… A love which she
didn't want, a treacherous voice whispered. A love which threatened to
suffocate and destroy her… but she banished these thoughts,
refusing to give in to the temptation to listen to them.

The forecast was good. She would go in and persuade Edward
to sit in the garden. He could sit in his chair in the shelter of the
long border while she did some weeding.

Not even to herself would she admit how much she would
have preferred to work there alone, and that in deciding to have Edward
with her she was in reality giving herself a penance.

Once inside the house, she didn't pause to admire the way
the sunlight picked out the mellow richness of the restored panelling,
nor to let her fingers stroke gently down the rich pattern of the
damask curtains, all small pleasures which normally brought so much
simple joy to her day.

Sometimes, on her way through the house, she would find
herself standing for minutes at a time admiring the workmanship in a
Persian rug she had rescued from one of her bargain-hunting expeditions
at country house sales, which had then been carried home and lavished
with affection and care until it was cleaned and restored to its
original beauty.

Slowly she was filling the house with beautiful things,
bought not because she had a shrewd eye for a bargain and not even
because Cottingdean was a large house which needed a large amount of
furniture no matter what it looked like, but simply because a certain
piece, a certain painting, a certain fabric, would catch her eye, its
beauty calling out to her so that she just could not resist it.

Had anyone told her that she had the natural eye of the
true collector, that her bargains would one day be worth many, many
times what she had paid for them, she would not have been impressed.
She had bought them because she had fallen in love with them and that
was how she cherished them, as much-loved friends, just as she loved
and cherished her garden and its plants, the flock and its sheep, and
all those human lives that fell within the domain of her care.

She paused outside the library door and then opened it;
Edward was now positioned behind his desk. He didn't look up as she
walked in and her heart sank, but, ignoring the obvious signs that he
was not in a good mood, she chatted cheerfully to him, coaxing him out
into the garden.

Leaving him in a warm, sheltered spot, she then went
upstairs to shower and change, cursing under her breath as the water in
her bathroom refused to run hot.

One day Cottingdean's antiquated hot water system was
going to have to be replaced. She closed her eyes, not wanting to think
about how much it would cost or where the money was going to come from.

If the mill was successful.

She dressed quickly in an old skirt and blouse and then
hurried back outside, collecting her trug and her tools on the way.

Edward was where she had left him. He ignored her while
she adjusted his chair so that he could get the full benefit of the
sun, but while she worked in the border, gently removing the clinging,
throttling weeds from around the base of her plants, she was conscious
of his brooding presence, his anger and jealousy, and she wished
whole-heartedly that she had left him inside so that she could enjoy
the peace of the garden unhindered by the souring atmosphere created by
his mood.

'That Australian's still in the village, then.'

She tensed as he spoke, glad that her back was to him as
she felt the guilty heat of the colour running up under her skin.

'Yes,' she agreed, keeping her voice as expressionless as
possible.

'He's been here looking for you,' Edward told her.

Liz held her breath. She knew that Lewis had been to the
house on a couple of occasions but on both of them she had told Chivers
to tell him she wasn't available. Even so, something in Edward's voice
sent a shiver of presentiment running down her spine. Or was it simply
her own guilt that was making her so presciently aware of Edward's
antagonism towards him?

It was just as well she had told Lewis there was no future
for them, she thought tiredly. She certainly wasn't cut out for a life
of deceit, for lies. Leave Edward, he had said to her. Leave
him… leave him… How could she? How could she
leave a man who was so vulnerable, so dependent on her, a man who had
after all done her no wrong?

And what about David? David who loved Edward as Edward
loved him… How could she destroy David's security, his home?

'He wants you,' Edward said challengingly from behind her,
causing her to turn round abruptly.

'No… no, that's not true,' she denied.

'He wants you,' Edward persisted, ignoring her. 'And you
want him. And why shouldn't you, after all? He's a whole man, able to
give you what I never can, but you're my wife, Liz…'

Guilt, compassion and her deep inbuilt dislike of seeing
anyone suffer either emotionally or physically took her from the border
to the side of Edward's chair, her hand going out to touch his arm
comfortingly.

'I'm not letting him have you,' he told her. 'Him or
anyone else…'

The vein in his temple was throbbing ominously, and Liz
recognised despairingly that he was in the grip of one of his black
moods.

She tried to soothe him, to reassure him, but he refused
to listen to her, making such wild and impossible accusations about
relationships he imagined she had had with other men, and using such
obscene words to describe her that for a moment she felt too sickened,
too shocked to do anything other than stand in stunned silence.

But then she forced herself to step outside her own
humiliation and shame that he should harbour such thoughts about her,
such appalling, shockingly untrue thoughts, and to calm him down, but
it was already too late. As she put her hands on his arms, gently
trying to restrain him, he fastened his hands around her throat with
such strength and power that she couldn't break free.

'I'll kill you before I'll let him have you,
Liz… Oh, they'll hang me for it, I don't doubt, but why
should I care? What is there left in this life for me other than to rot
away inside the prison of my own flesh? I can't be a man ever again,
not the kind of man you could love or desire. Not a man like the men
you take to your bed in place of me… Who are they, Liz? Tell
me their names, tell me, damn you…'