the key Diane had given her.
The heavy studded door swung inward surprisingly easily on its hinges as she inserted the key, with none of the creaking and groaning she had been expecting. Half smiling at her own ghoulish imagination, she saw with relief that the sun was filtering through the blinds that shuttered the windows on either side of the door, and she was able to close it against the elements without fear of being unable to see. Nevertheless, she opened one of the blinds as soon as the door was shut, and looked about her with less confidence than curiosity.
She was standing in the hall of the house, she saw, with an enormously high ceiling arching away above her head. Directly ahead of her, twin staircases curved to a central flight that rose to the first floor, and in the dust-moted shafts of sunlight she could see the square portrait of a man that faced the first floor landing. To right and left, closed doors indicated the sitting rooms and drawing rooms that Sara had envisaged, while in the well of the stairs, a square oak chest shone with the patina of years. Shone …
Sara’s eyes widened, then she blinked. She had not really noticed before, but now she came to think of it, the place was surprisingly clean considering that no one was living there. Looking down at the polished wooden floor at her feet, strewn with rugs in a variety of shades and colours, she realised it, too, was well polished, and the faint smell that rose to her nostrils was that of beeswax.
A sense of unease rose inside her. Either Mrs Penworthy was as worthy as her name suggested, or Diane was wrong about the house being uninhabited. What if Adam, like his wife, had offered the place to a friend? What if right now, the present inhabitants of the house were out for the afternoon, visiting other friends or shopping …
Her immediate impulse to flee was stifled. Surely if anyone was living in the house, they would have opened the blinds? Besides, wouldn’t Diane have known if her husband was back in England? She wouldn’t have sent her, Sara, down here if there was the remotest chance that Adam was back in the country, would she?
Her heart slowing its quickened beat a little, she tried to think coherently. After all, Diane had known she was coming down here, and what more natural but that she should ask this Mrs Penworthy, whoever she was, to come in and tidy round in readiness? Surely that was the only explanation, and justification in fact for her decision to come and investigate. If she had turned round and left without even entering the building, she would never have known the trouble that lady had gone to on her behalf, and she assured herself that she ought to be honoured to be treated in this way. A wave of warmth towards Diane engulfed her. It had been kind of her to go to all this trouble. Uncharacteristically so, remembering the callous way she had denounced Tony’s behaviour. How could she in all conscience turn it down?
‘So you came, Diane!’
The deep masculine voice that riveted her to the spot came from an opened doorway to the right of the hall. It was a leather-studded door, the kind of door that indicated its usage beyond, and until that moment had scarcely imprinted itself on Sara’s mind. A library, or a study, she had registered in passing, and moved on to other things.
But now the door stood wide, and a man was standing in the aperture, the dim light behind him hardly illuminating his still form. A tall man, with a lean body, and straight dark hair that fell smoothly across his forehead. His features were vaguely distinguishable—high cheekbones, a prominent nose, a thin-lipped mouth—but it was not these characteristics she recognised. She had seen pictures of Adam Tregower, and she had no doubt that this was he, but it was his motionlessness that identified him for her—that, and the dark glasses he wore, and the drawn blinds behind him. What would a blind man want with sunlight?
His words were less easy to interpret. So you came, Diane! What did it mean? What did he mean? Had he sent for his wife? Had he contacted Diane and asked to see her? Asked her to come down here, in fact?
Sara’s heart pounded unevenly. Her immediate impulse to deny the identity he had placed upon her was silenced by a feeling of intrusion, an invasion into this man’s privacy that she had had no right to make. It was not herself who should be standing here, but Diane, and to deny the truth of that statement was to tear aside Adam Tregower’s self-respect. How could she tell him that Diane had sent her here? How could she admit to being an unwilling tool in some game Diane was playing, for as the minutes passed she became more and more convinced that the other girl had known her husband was waiting at the house.
Yet, equally, how could she not deny it? This man had been married to Diane for five years. He must know her face, the sound of her voice. But Adam Tregower was blind now, a victim of his own despair, and it was seven years since they had lived together …
‘Diane …’
The man spoke again, and Sara stared helplessly in his direction. She had to speak, she had to answer him. Dear God, what did Diane expect of her?
‘Adam?’ she breathed tentatively, and she heard his sigh of relief. ‘I—how are you?’
‘How do I look?’
Evidently her husky tones were unidentifiable, and a trembling breath escaped her. What ought she to do? Denounce herself here and now, or tread deeper into this mire of deception? Adam Tregower had suffered so much. Could she honestly prevent him from suffering more? Why had he sent for Diane? Why did he want to speak to her? And why hadn’t Diane told her?
Anger gripped her. Diane had known her husband was here: she was convinced of that now. So many small things were falling into place, not least the obvious one of Diane’s suggestion that she should spend a couple of weeks at the house, a house she had taken care never to describe, so that Sara had expected something entirely different. Diane had known Adam was here, had known he was expecting his wife—and had sent her in her place, knowing that in her own grief, her sympathies would respond to this man’s helplessness.
‘You—you look well,’ she got out now, although she could hardly tell his colouring in this half light. ‘Adam, I—’
‘It was good of you to come.’ His words interrupted any explanation she might have hoped to make, and there was a curiously ironic note to his voice. ‘I wondered if you would. You lead such a—busy life. So different from my own.’
Sara’s mouth was dry. Outside, she saw with alarm, the clouds were gathering once more, and even as her eyes darted to the blind she had drawn, a few drops of rain spattered the window. All of a sudden the precariousness of her position seemed untenable, and she took an involuntary step backward.
‘Please.’ As if aware of her panic, Adam Tregower stepped forward, moving surely across the hall towards her. ‘Won’t you come into the library? We can have a drink together before dinner, and it’s easier to talk in less formal circumstances.’
‘Oh, but …’ Sara cast another longing look towards the windows. She couldn’t stay here, she thought wildly, but how could she get away without proving that Diane had made a fool of him yet again? Maybe he did not expect her to stay. Surely he knew Diane would never agree to remain at the house, alone with him. Perhaps his invitation was for dinner only, a chance for them to talk together about—about—what? Old times? Hardly. Her work? Hardly that either. A divorce? She breathed more freely. Yes, perhaps that was it. Adam wanted a divorce. He might have found someone else, someone he wanted to marry. A Portuguese girl maybe. A biddable Portuguese dona da casa, with no desire to do anything but care for her husband and bring up his children.
‘Diane.’
He was closer now, and in the shaft of light issuing through the unguarded window she saw his eyes, shadowed behind the tinted lenses of his glasses. Deeply set
