see.’ Clare smiled wryly. ‘Oh, it’s far worse than that.’ It was hard to resist the temptation to tease her credulous sister-in-law. ‘In fact I doubt if you should even risk talking to me! The telephone wires might go white hot and burn you.’ She walked restlessly back into the house, the phone in one hand and the receiver in the other, trailing the long flex behind her. Damn Emma. Who else had she told? ‘Tell Geoff not to bother coming, Chloe. I’m beyond redemption. I’m unrepentant and probably dangerous.’ She meant it to come out jokingly, but her voice sounded too serious. Behind her the door opened a crack and a golden nose pushed through it enquiringly. Clare ignored it.
‘You must talk to Geoffrey, Clare.’ Chloe’s voice had lost its lightness. In the rectory she shivered suddenly. ‘Please. He genuinely wants to help you.’
‘I told you, tell him not to come. Tell him to mind his own business.’ Clare took a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. It’s just that there are too many people breathing down my neck at the moment, Chloe, and I don’t need it. Whatever problems I’ve got I have to sort them out myself. Look, I’ve got to go.’ Suddenly she couldn’t bear to talk any more. ‘I’ll see you in London soon. We’ll have lunch. OK?’
She put the phone down, not sure whether to be angry or amused. First Emma; now the pompous pontiff; Chloe; Henry; Zak!
Was it really so dangerous to daydream about the past?
Thoughtfully she walked upstairs, past the flowers in the hall and on the landing, smelling the polish and the roses, seeing the curtains blowing gently in the breeze. The afternoon was hot and still and her bedroom was very silent, shadowed by the half-drawn curtains. She stood in front of her dressing-table mirror and studied her eyes critically. They were large, a clear transparent grey, with a slightly darker ring around the iris, fringed with long dark lashes, set attractively far apart beneath a broad brow. Her fair skin was tanned to an even gold. She stared at herself, unblinkingly critical, then she began to pull off her clothes. Naked, she wrapped a towel around herself and ran downstairs.
The heavy cover was over the pool but she dragged it off, feeling the wind cold now it was touching her skin, negating any warmth there might be in the hazy sunshine. Throwing down the towel she dived in, feeling her breath caught and dragged from her body by the chill of the water.
Twenty minutes’ swim and an hour’s gentle, meticulous yoga left her body toned and relaxed, receptive. Automatically she drew her legs into the cross-legged position, resting her hands, forefinger and thumb circled, on her knees. Slowly she emptied her mind. Around her the crisped autumn leaves drifted down onto the pool and settled in the still, clear water. She did not see them. She was repeating to herself, as Zak had taught her, the mantra which would dispel all outside thoughts.
Om Nama Shivaya; Om Nama Shivaya; Om Nama Shivaya …
Don’t let the mind stray; don’t let any pictures come; relax; gently hold the mantra.
Om Nama Shivaya; Om Nama Shivaya …
She was stiff and cold when she had finished. Dragging the cover over the pool once more, she made her way back to the house. The kitchen was immaculate as usual, not so much as a teaspoon out of place. She curbed a sudden childish urge to make an incredible mess and went instead to the bread bin. She cut herself a thick wedge of Sarah’s homemade bread and plastered it with butter and honey, then she wandered into the hall. The house was totally silent. Casta was asleep on the lawn, under a walnut tree. Standing at the window, eating her bread, Clare watched the dog for a while, thinking idly that this – eating and doing nothing – was how people got fat. She turned. Even the fire was silent. Sarah hadn’t bothered to light it that morning, and neither had she.
The phone rang as she was reaching for the box of matches.
‘Clare, I shall need you in London on the first of November. Would you put it in your diary? Dinner with the Beatties.’ Paul’s voice was uncompromisingly brusque.
Clare hitched herself up on to the table, still wearing only the towel, the wedge of bread in one hand. ‘So, they’ve forgiven me, have they? And until the first, Paul. Won’t you be needing me until then?’ She emphasised the word sarcastically.
‘Clare.’ His tone was warning.
‘That is, by my count, Paul, nineteen days. One could go around the world comfortably in nineteen days. I can have a fortnight in Scotland and still be back easily –’
‘No, Clare! I said, no!’
‘Just how do you intend to stop me, Paul?’ To her annoyance she found her voice was shaking. ‘I’m not your property; you don’t own me.’
‘Clare.’ Paul took a deep breath, clearly audible over the phone. ‘Darling, you’ve misunderstood me. I do need you there.’ He enunciated the words slowly as if she were a half wit. ‘Look, I’ll be home tomorrow night. We’ll talk then. I …’ he hesitated. ‘I have a surprise for you.’
‘Really?’ Clare raised an eyebrow. ‘To have you home mid week would be surprise enough.’ She hung up and took a bite out of her bread, feeling surprisingly cheerful suddenly. For once she had had the last word. And she was right. He didn’t own her. She was not a prisoner. There was nothing to stop her leaving. Her car had been left in London because she had driven back with Paul in the Range Rover, but there were trains and taxis. She wasn’t locked in and spied on like poor Isobel. She stood up. To plan her escape would give her something to do today. She could find out train times, plan connections, arrange to hire a car when she got to Aberdeen, and in the meantime there was always Isobel.
She finished her bread and honey thoughtfully. If there was some threat in Isobel’s appearance it was being perceived by others, not herself. She had been afraid when Isobel appeared suddenly and uninvited before the dinner party in London, but that had been because it had taken her by surprise. Now, when she thought about it, she could see what had happened. She had been tired. Her mind had been distracted, she had sat down with the specific intention of relaxing for a few moments, and she had lit her candles. Her brain had misinterpreted the signs, that was all. There was nothing sinister in it. To Clare, Isobel was a friend – a companion – a part of herself. Why should she let other people make her afraid of summoning the past? What possible harm, logically, could there be in a dream?
It was as if a tremendous weight had been lifted from her mind. There was nothing wrong in daydreaming. Her mistake had been to tell people about it. Everyone had their secret dreams and memories; she was no different from them. Except that she had talked about them. In future she would make sure that she kept them to herself.
Buoyed up with sudden resolution Clare ran up to her bedroom and, carefully closing the door, she pulled open the drawer in her dressing table where she kept the candles. Shivering as her towel slipped to the floor, she paused. For a moment she frowned. She wanted to stand naked before the candle flame, arms raised to draw back the veil into the past. It seemed a dramatic, almost natural gesture to make, one of which Isobel would have approved; one she might have made herself. But was that somehow wrong? Did that smack of deliberately summoning spirits? Was that what Zak and Geoff were afraid of? For a moment she hesitated, tempted, then, with sudden self-consciousness she turned away. She pulled on some jeans and a sweater.
Then she lit the candle.
Lord Buchan had returned. He stood staring at his wife, his eyes fixed on her face. ‘So, my lady, I am told you are riding dangerously long distances each day for no reason. May I know why?’
Isobel could feel the heat rising in her
