the story which had obsessed her as long as she could remember, the story she had told these two children again and again.
But how had she heard it herself? She couldn’t remember who had told her first. The story had always been with her, part of her bones, part of her soul. The joy, the pain, the love and, at the last, the fear and despair. And with it the recurring nightmare.
‘Aunt Margaret?’ James gave a tentative cough. ‘The king … on Rathlin …?’
With a start she dragged her thoughts back to the present. She forced herself to smile.
‘I’m sorry, James. I think I must be a little tired.’ She glanced at Clare, almost afraid that the girl had read her thoughts, but Clare was no longer looking at her. Her eyes were fixed on the window, staring up at the thick mat of grey cloud which hung over Airdlie House. Her eyes were full of pain.
‘Clare!’
Only the astonishment in James’s face made Margaret realise how panicky her cry had sounded.
The girl jumped up. ‘Yes, Aunt Margaret?’ She came to stand at the old woman’s side, her face full of anxiety. ‘What is it?’
‘Nothing, my dear, nothing.’ Margaret levered herself to her feet. Her imagination was running away with her again. It was crazy to think one could unwittingly pass on an obsession. Another fear to lay at the door of her over-fertile brain. The child was growing up, that was all. On the threshold of womanhood. Soon she wouldn’t want to listen to an old woman’s ramblings any more. She would be far more interested in boys and pop music and clothes. There would be no time then for a story so many generations old. No time at all. She would forget.
Margaret took a stick in each hand and gripped them firmly, placing the two black rubber tips squarely on the polished boards on either side of her swollen feet. ‘Let’s go and start making tea, shall we?’ she said. ‘The Bruce and his spider can come later.’
‘You know, you are being bloody unfair to Paul!’
Gillian Royland reached for the tumbler and sipped lazily at the fruit drink. She pushed her sunglasses up into her hair and peered at her sister-in-law myopically from beneath her shady hat. ‘Don’t you want children, for God’s sake?’
‘You know I do.’ Clare eyed the other woman’s hugely pregnant bulk beneath the expensively cut sundress, then she lay back on the towel and closed her eyes, one hand dangling in the pool feeling the silkiness of the water against her fingertips. They were in the garden of Clare’s country home, Bucksters.
‘Then why won’t you have some tests to find out what’s wrong?’
Clare sighed. ‘Paul and I have both been to Dr Stanford.’
‘Oh yes, a chat with your GP.’ Gillian heaved herself up higher on the cushioned chair. ‘What does he know about it? I told you, you must go and see my gynaecologist in Harley Street.’
‘There is nothing wrong with me, Gill.’ Clare clenched her fist in the water, unwilling to talk about the questions, the tests, the humiliations she and Paul had already faced. ‘John Stanford said I should learn to relax a bit more, that’s all.’
‘And you respond by going to this crazy guru!’
‘He’s not a guru!’ Clare sat up impatiently, shaking her wet hair back from her face. ‘He teaches yoga. Millions of people study yoga. There is nothing wrong about it. You should try it. Yes, even in your condition!’
‘Hey, keep calm.’ Gillian hastily dropped the glasses on her nose, retreating at once from the threat of an argument. She eyed her tempestuous sister-in-law wryly. ‘You certainly need to learn how to relax.’ When Clare didn’t respond, she went on tentatively, feeling more secure behind the glasses. ‘Everything is all right between you and Paul?’
The question hung for a moment between them. Clare clasped her arms around her knees, her shoulders hunched as a breath of cold touched them. A few leaves drifted down from the beech hedge into the still blue water. ‘Why shouldn’t it be?’ she said at last.
Gillian watched her covertly. ‘No reason at all. You are both coming to our party on Saturday, aren’t you?’ She changed the subject so abruptly that Clare stiffened.
‘If Paul can get away from London this weekend.’ Clare stood up suddenly with effortless grace and stood poised by the side of the pool, conscious for a moment of her sister-in-law’s critical stare. Then she dived into the water. The cold was biting, invigorating, touched already by that frisson of autumn in the air. It was the first day of October.
By the time she pulled herself up the ladder at the far end of the pool she was shivering violently.
‘He’s still furious about your great aunt’s will, isn’t he?’ Gillian’s cool voice brought Clare up short as she stooped for her towel.
‘He told you that?’ Clare swung to face her.
‘He told David about it, in the end. But we’d guessed something was wrong. Everyone thought she would leave you and James half of her money each.’
‘It was hardly everyone’s business!’ Clare retorted.
‘Oh come on, we are family.’ Gillian began to lever herself to her feet. ‘Paul isn’t worried about money, is he, Clare?’
‘Paul?’ Clare stared at her, visibly shocked by the question. ‘What on earth makes you ask that?’
The two women eyed each other for a moment, Clare’s steady grey eyes meeting Gillian’s pale watery ones. Uncomfortably Gillian looked away. ‘Nothing. Nothing at all. He just seemed so upset about it, that’s all.’
‘He was upset for me.’ Clare rubbed her hair energetically. ‘He thought I minded.’
‘And don’t you?’
Clare shook her head. ‘I wanted Duncairn, that was all.’
She stood for a long time after Gillian had gone, gazing down at the pool as another shower of golden leaves pattered on to the water. She had minded about the money, of course. She had minded dreadfully. It would have given her her freedom.
She dried herself lazily and dropped the towel as the breeze died away again and the sun reappeared, warming her chilled skin. Running her hands slowly down her own slim, tanned body she was scowling, thinking of her sister-in-law’s swelling, fertile figure, when she noticed that behind her a woman had appeared at the gateway in the high hedge which enclosed the pool area. She waved. ‘Come on, Sarah, and have a swim whilst the sun is out,’ she called.
Sarah Collins frowned. Tall, smartly dressed, a woman in her early fifties, she wore an apron over her skirt. In her hand was a packet of letters.
‘The post came just as Lady Royland was leaving,’ she called back. ‘I thought I’d bring yours over. I can’t swim now. I’ve an enormous amount to do this morning.’
Had she imagined the slight emphasis on that last pronoun, Clare wondered: the unspoken implication
