don’t know. But don’t, anyway.’
Rachel picked up one of the suitcases and flicked it open. Inside she found some clean underclothing and a towel. Leaving the bedroom, she entered the luxurious surroundings of the bathroom and although there was no need to do so, she locked the door. Then she turned on the shower and began stripping off her clothes. Her brain felt thick and fuzzy, and she was finding it hard to assimilate all this. It was too much in twenty-four hours, and she gave up the will to think ...
WHEN she returned to the bedroom some twenty minutes later and spoke to her husband there was no answer. From the heaviness of his breathing he was obviously asleep, and she tiptoed through to the sala and closed the door behind her.
She felt somewhat brighter now and infinitely fresher. She had cooled the water of the shower as she had stood under it, so that her flesh still tingled from that contact and her blood had cooled.
It was almost dark and someone had lit lamps on the patio outside. In the fading light all manner of moths and flying insects came to dance with death around the flames to fall with singed wings upon the mosaic tiling below.
Rachel put on a tall standard lamp with an exquisitely embroidered shade that shed mellow light over the room, and then stretched her length on one of the soft hide couches. It was early yet and she knew that dinner here was served much later. Besides, no doubt she and Malcolm would eat here in the suite.
But with the relaxation came time to think and she wondered with a sense of despair exactly what Malcolm had said to Luis Martinez to explain his marriage to her. She believed what Malcolm had said earlier. To these people such a marriage would need some explaining. He could not possibly have, told the truth.
She sighed. What was the truth? Did she know any more? Or had her mind rejected everything connected with this unholy alliance? If this state of affairs here, this unexpected removal to Mendao had changed her life overnight, how much greater had the change been three years ago when she married Malcolm Trevellyan?
She had lived in Mawvry for most of her life. She had moved there with her father when her mother had died and Rachel herself had been only seven years old.
Her father had been an artist, too. Until her mother’s death he had made a pretence at earning a living for her sake, but after she was dead he had seen the opportunity to remove himself and his daughter from the tiny house in Bloomsbury which he had owned, to an even tinier cottage in the Cornish fishing village of Mawvry.
Rachel had loved it. She had her father’s appreciation of beautiful things, and Mawvry was beautiful. Her father had indulged his passion for painting and sculpture, buying a small fishing boat to supplement his income during the summer months by taking tourists out for pleasure trips around the bay. They had lived simply and Rachel had never considered to wonder how her father managed to support them.
Occasionally in the summer, he would sell a painting and then he would buy steaks and wine and he and Rachel would have a feast. But mostly they lived more modestly, with Rachel learning to cook and sew and care for them both.
Malcolm Trevellyan had always lived in Mawvry. His house was visible on the cliffs above the bay, and Rachel had soon learned that he was not liked among the villagers. He owned property in Mawvry, cottages which he rented to the fishermen and their families, but he was not a good landlord. He loathed spending money, and the roofs of his cottages leaked during the winter months, making them damp and unhealthy.
Fortunately, or so Rachel had always thought, her father had been able to buy their cottage so in that respect they had no dealings with Malcolm Trevellyan. She had never cared for the man. Ever since she was about fourteen, he had gone out of his way to speak to her, but she had not liked the predatory look in his eyes. Of course, she had not understood then why he should look at her in such a way.
Now she shivered and pressed the palms of her hands against the soft leather. If only her father had confided his difficulties to her, allowed her to get a job in one of the towns close by, instead of permitting her to spend her days painting, assuring her that they had no money worries.
When the crisis had come, inevitably Malcolm Trevellyan had been at the core of it. Unknown to her, he had bought their cottage several years earlier when her father needed money. Then, later, he had loaned her father more money, making no demands for payment, pretending to be his friend.
When Rachel was eighteen, his motives had become clear. He had asked her to marry him, and when she had almost laughingly refused, half imagining he could not be serious, he had given her father an ultimatum: persuade Rachel to do as he asked or he would ruin him.
Her father had been desperate. He could not believe that a man he had supposed to be his friend should turn on him in this way. Rachel herself had been distrait. She could see her father failing daily, unable to do anything to help himself. None of the villagers could help them. No one was wealthy enough to pay her father’s debts.
Rachel had inevitably come to a decision. She had no other alternative. She went to Malcolm Trevellyan and agreed his terms.
Her father had begged her not to do it He had assured her he would get the money somehow. He would take the boat out. He would start fishing for himself. These were good fishing waters. He would succeed.
But Rachel knew he would not, and she and Malcolm Trevellyan were married a few days later.
There began for Rachel the most terrible few months of her life. Adding to her anxiety for her father was her own revulsion for the man who had made himself her husband, and she submitted to his demands on her with a despairing humility.
To her father she pretended that everything was turning out all right, but he was not deceived. He saw her change from a glowing creature of warmth and vitality into a slender wraith of pale cheeks and hollow eyes.
He blamed himself, and he could not stand it for very long. Six months later he took out the fishing boat and never returned. A verdict of accidental death was reached, but Rachel knew her father’s death had been no accident.
It was as though the whole bottom had dropped out of her world and she had had a nervous breakdown.
It took many months for her to recover. To give him his due, Malcolm secured the very best attention for her, but his motives were not wholly altruistic. He wanted his wife again in every sense of the word, but nevertheless, during that period, she grew to rely on him to a certain extent.
By the time she was fully recovered, any thoughts she might have had of leaving him, of trying to get a divorce, had become distant and unreal, and she hardly needed his reminder that he still possessed her father’s promissory notes and would use them if she tried to thwart him.
Instead, she started to paint again, drowning the inadequacies of her life in her art, creating pictures which occasionally brought her money. What small amounts she did earn this way proved sufficient to buy the personal necessities she needed without having to ask Malcolm for every penny, for he seemed to grow meaner as time went by.
And then, just before Christmas last year, he had had a thrombosis. It had been a comparatively mild affair which had left him weakened but active. Although she urged him to take care, he seemed to imagine he was immune after recovering from the first attack so easily, but eventually, two months ago, he had had the second
