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He came over to where she stood and looked down at her. A lock of dark hair had fallen across his forehead, making him look boyish. ‘I think perhaps my father was right after all,' he said, leaning over and helping himself to a thickly buttered crust. ‘It was his idea that Melanie should have a governess, and you’re certainly very good with her, Rachel. You’ve made more progress with her in two months than anyone else has in two years.' He munched the crust, his eyes resting on her thoughtfully. ‘I really am most grateful to you.’

Rachel wasn’t sure whether she dropped the bread knife or threw it down. She only knew she wanted to shout at him, ‘I don’t want your gratitude. I want more than that. I’m only human, can’t you see I’m in love with you?’ But she didn’t say any of those things. She bent down to pick up the knife but he reached it before her and as he handed it to her his hand brushed hers.

‘Thank you,’ she said. What else was there to say?

Melanie didn’t speak through tea, though Richard tried to encourage her to talk in spite of Rachel’s warning glances. He was obviously disappointed at her lack of co-operation.

But as Rachel tucked the little girl up in bed and kissed her goodnight Melanie reached up and put her arms round Rachel’s neck. ‘Goodnight, Rachel,’ she said, slowly and deliberately.

‘Goodnight, darling. Would you like to say goodnight to Daddy, too?’ Rachel could hardly trust herself to speak.

Melanie nodded.

‘All right, I’ll go and fetch him.'

She went along to Richard’s study and knocked at the door. He had changed, she noticed as he opened it; he was wearing beige flared trousers and a dark brown rollneck shirt. Behind him, in the pale green jump suit that suited her so well, Moira was comfortably draped in an armchair, a drink in her hand. It was a cosy and intimate scene.

‘Melanie would like to say goodnight to you,’ she told Richard briefly.

His face lit up. ‘I’ll come right away.’

‘Don’t be long, Rick. The dinner starts at eight and there are drinks first.’ Moira’s voice was proprietorial.

‘We’ve plenty of time.’ He came out and closed the door behind him, following Rachel up the corridor to Melanie’s bedroom.

Rachel watched as he stood looking down at his little daughter, his expression a mixture of perplexity and affection. He leaned over her and stroked the side of her face gently with one finger. ‘Goodnight, little one,’ he said softly.

‘Goodnight; Daddy.’ The words came slowly, as if she had to think carefully before uttering them. Her velvety brown eyes, as she gazed up at her father, were dark and unfathomable.

‘Goodnight, little one,’ he repeated, straightening up. Rachel noted with surprise that he hadn’t kissed her.

They left Melanie and Rachel closed the door quietly. In the corridor Richard hesitated as if there was something he wanted to say.

Rachel looked at her watch. ‘Moira is waiting. You’ll be late for your dinner,’ she said flatly.

‘Yes. It’s a Young Farmers thing. Moira asked me if I’d go along with her.’ He shrugged. ‘I usually escort her on these occasions.’ Still he hesitated.

‘I hope you have a nice evening.’ She went to her own door, but he got there first and opened it for her.

‘Thank you.’

He looked down at her; they were standing very close, too close for Rachel’s peace of mind. ‘Thank
you
for everything.’ He bent his head and Rachel had the feeling that he was about to kiss her, but the door further up the corridor opened and Moira s voice said, ‘Aren’t you nearly ready, Rick?’ at which he straightened up and turned away.

‘Yes, I’m coming, Moira.’ Rachel was almost sure there was a note of exasperation in his voice, but later she realised that she must have imagined this because it was very, very late when she heard his car return after his evening out with Moira McLeod. Sometimes Rachel felt she had come to Scotland only to find more heartache than she had left behind in Suffolk.

As Rachel had told her aunt, she and Ben were keeping an eye on the cottage, lighting fires as and when they felt it necessary. Rose’s fears that her home might be damp were entirely unfounded, the cottage was built like a castle, with walls a foot thick in places and the stout oak doors and heavily latticed windows were guaranteed proof against the worst weather.

One afternoon, when Melanie was playing happily with Mrs Munroe’s granddaughter, Jeannie, in the barn, Rachel went to the cottage to find some books Rose had asked Alistair for the previous evening.

Ben was already there. He had lit the fire and was fixing some shelves up over the sink.

‘Rose has hinted that she’d like shelves up here several times, so I thought I'd do them while she’s out of the way,’ he said, measuring and marking the wall and then tucking the pencil behind his ear.

‘You and Rose don’t exactly hit it off, do you?’ commented Rachel with a faint smile.

‘Oh, it’s not that. But she wouldn’t appreciate shavings and wood chips all over her kitchen, so it’s best to get it done and the mess cleared away before she comes home.’ He screwed a bracket on the wall and stood back to eye it up. ‘All the same, you’re right, we don’t get on. At least, Rose apparently dislikes me. Personally, I’ve nothing against her, except she’s a bit starchy, but I suppose she can’t help that.’ He screwed the other bracket on to the wall and laid the shelf on it. ‘There, that’s about it. Do you think there’s room for another one above it, Rachel?’

Rachel studied the wall for a moment. ‘No, I think I’d put a narrow one underneath. It’ll be easier for her to reach, she’s not very tall.’

‘Good idea.’ He measured the wall again.

She watched in silence for a while, then she said, ‘Did Richard’s wife ... I mean, was she unfaithful to Richard, Ben?’

‘Blast!’ Ben dropped the pencil he was holding in the sink, retrieved it and marked the wall. ‘No, of course not. What makes you think she was?’

Rachel frowned. Was his reply a shade too vehement? She thought of the photograph he had shown her of Richard’s wife, a radiant, almost coquettish photograph. A photograph Ben himself had taken. ‘Something Aunt Rose said. She told me that Celia was on her way to meet another man when she was killed.’ Carefully, almost too carefully, Ben finished screwing brackets on the wall and placed the shelf in position. Then he gathered up his tools and put them in the bag. When he had done this he sat down in the armchair on the opposite side of the fire to Rachel. His face was white and set.

‘Your aunt seems to have overlooked one vital thing in her slanderous accusations,’ he said, ‘and that is that Celia’s car went over the cliff on the way
back
from Dunglevin.’

Rachel bit her lip. ‘Are you sure?’

‘As sure as anyone could Be in such a situation. The place where the car went over would be exactly right for anyone taking the bend too wide and fast on the way
from
Dunglevin. If she’d been going the other way the car would have gone over at a completely different place. It couldn’t have gone over where it did, there were crash barriers, bushes—oh, the angle would have been all wrong. I’ve been there, paced it out; it’s quite obvious what happened.’

‘But why should she have been coming back? If she wasn’t going to another man but to visit her mother who was ill ....’

Ben made a gesture with his hands. ‘I’m only telling you what I know. Celia was killed coming
back
from Dunglevin. I’m not concerned with what everybody else says; all I know is that it should never have happened to such a beautiful woman, so full of life .... ' He got up from his chair and began searching for a brush and dustpan to sweep up the shavings he’d made in an effort to recover his composure.

Rachel watched him in silence, more confused than ever. He had loved Celia, there was no doubt about that. But had she been going to him on the night of her death? Or was she, as he claimed, killed on her way back from Dunglevin? In which case why had she gone there in the first place? Then again, was Ben simply saying these things to put everyone off the scent? She sighed. Instead of discovering answers all she’d succeeded in doing was uncovering more questions.

She got up from her chair. ‘I’d better go and look for the books Aunt Rose has asked for,’ she said, changing the subject. ‘She told Alistair they were in the bookcase in her bedroom.’

‘I’ll just finish clearing up here, then I’ll be on my way,’ said Ben.

Rachel went upstairs to find the books. Rose’s bedroom was as neat as the rest of the house, with a pretty chintzy bedcover to match the curtains. The highly-polished floorboards were dotted around with scatter rugs and Rachel decided she would have to have a word with her aunt about such highly dangerous floor covering. Carpets would be not only safer but warmer.

She selected the three books Rose had asked for and turned to go, but the rug slipped, taking her feet from under her, and she went down heavily, with a cry and a thud.

‘Rachel, are you all right?’ Ben’s voice came from the foot of the stairs.

‘I—I think so. The rug slipped....’ Before she could get to her feet Ben was beside her. ‘No, nothing seems to be broken.’ Gingerly, she felt her elbows and knees. ‘It was a stupid thing to do, I’d only just been thinking that I must persuade Auntie to carpet this room because these rugs were dangerous.’ She laughed ruefully.

‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ Ben asked again, anxiously.

‘Perfectly, thank you.’ She smiled at him reassuringly and together they left the bedroom.

‘Oh! I do beg your pardon.’ Richard was standing at the foot of the stairs and from his expression there was no mistaking his interpretation of Rachel and Ben leaving the bedroom together, particularly as Ben had his arm round Rachel, innocent though it may have been. ‘The back door was open so I came in to investigate.’ His tone was icy. He turned away. ‘I would suggest that if you’re going to make a habit of this kind of thing,’ he laid heavy emphasis on the last words, ‘you make sure that the doors are closed in future.’ He left then, without giving either of them a chance to explain.

Ben grinned, his spirits restored. ‘And I hadn’t even kissed you! However, that’s soon put right.’ He put his hand under her chin and his mouth came down on hers.

Quickly, Rachel twisted away. ‘No Ben. I don’t feel that way about you, any more than you do about me. You’re my very good friend, that’s all.’

He sighed. ‘You’re right, Rachel. I’m fond of you, too, but not in that way.’ He shook his head. ‘Sometimes when I look at you I think I must be out of my tiny mind.’

Rachel preceded him down the stairs. It was quite true. Ben would never be any more to her than a very good friend, while Richard ..... Richard. After this afternoon’s events, mistaken though he had been in his conclusions, how would she ever face Richard again?

As it happened, facing Richard again was not as difficult as Rachel had anticipated. He came to the playroom where Rachel was giving Melanie her daily lessons one morning about three days after the incident at Rose’s cottage.

‘Hullo, Daddy,’ said Melanie, beaming, in the slow, precise way she had. Her speech was still limited and spasmodic, but Rachel was optimistic. One thing she had found, though, it was useless to try and force the little girl to talk; she would only speak when she chose to. It was clear that Melanie would never be a chatterbox.

‘Hullo, little one.’ Richard went over to her and ruffled her hair. He seemed a little more at ease with her these days. ‘And what are you learning today?’

Melanie pointed to her Ladybird reading book.

‘Are you going to read to me, then?’

Melanie shook her head.

‘Why not?’ He shot a questioning glance at Rachel, who managed to convey to him not to press her. ‘All right, I’ll read it to you.’ He began to read, ‘Peter and Jane like apples. Here is a plum tree .....’

‘Apple tree,’ Melanie corrected seriously, automatically pointing to the word he had misread.

‘Oh, yes, so it is.’ He read on, with Melanie correcting all his deliberate mistakes, for several pages. Rachel was gratified to see that her little pupil didn’t miss a trick and that Richard was both surprised and pleased at his little daughter’s progress.

He got up to go. ‘Moira’s brother, David, will be home next week,’ he told Rachel, his voice and expression impersonal, ‘and I’ve invited them over for a meal on Thursday evening. They usually come over when David is home. Do you think you could sort out menus and things with Mrs Munroe? I don’t know what she’s like when it comes to slightly more sophisticated cookery; her everyday menus are nothing to write home about, I must say. We miss Rose in that direction.’

‘I’ll have a word with her,’ Rachel promised. ‘I’m sure we can work something out between us. Will Alistair be there? I’ll need to know numbers.’

‘No, it’ll just be the four of us.’

Rachel raised her eyebrows. ‘Four?’

‘You’ll partner David.’ He looked directly at her for the first time. ‘That is, unless you have a prior engagement.’ There was no mistaking his meaning.

To her fury, she felt herself blush. ‘I’ve no prior engagement,’ she said quietly.

Melanie was restive after her father had gone and refused to co-operate at all. In fact, in a fit of temper she swept all her books from the table and jumped on them. Rachel sighed. This was a new pattern of behaviour and she wasn’t sure whether it indicated progress or regression. In any case the whole process was a case of two steps forward and one back. She made Melanie help her to pick up the books and then took her for a walk.

Mrs Munroe tightened her lips at the prospect of a dinner party and it was only Rachel’s promise to organise everything that pacified her. So it was that Rachel spent most of the day of the dinner party in the kitchen preparing the food herself, while Mrs Munroe stood by lamenting on the unnecessary expenditure and fuss and insisting that plain wholesome food was more digestible. Rachel didn’t argue. The food Mrs Munroe served was certainly plain and probably wholesome, but not always particularly digestible!