hair thick and smooth from a centre parting, her cheekbones high and lightly tinted with becoming colour, her nose firm and straight, her wide mouth, with its sensuous lower lip, deceptively vulnerable. Yet the delicate conformity of those features chilled her somewhat, the slight tilt at the corners of dark-fringed green eyes only emphasising their cool remoteness. Her beauty had long since ceased to please her; the gratification which came from knowing she was attractive to men had died when Jaime proved its worthlessness; and although she still attracted male eyes wherever she went, she had learned to keep the opposite sex at a distance.
The train ambled through Durham station without stopping, and then picked up speed again between the two cities. Already the air felt fresher, colder, even within the air-conditioned comfort of the compartment. It was more than two years since she had been this far north, and longer than that since Jaime first brought her to Clere Heights, and introduced her to his family. But she remembered the sharpness of the air, and the sound of the wind as it whistled around the eaves of the house, and the tumult of the waves, spuming on the rocks beneath. Clere Heights was built on the very edge of the ocean, high above the unpredictable currents of the North Sea, and there was no place in the house where one could escape its savage thunder.
Jaime’s room had been at the back of the house, Rachel remembered reluctantly, overlooking the bay, which in summer could be as calm and as blue as the Mediterranean. But on winter nights, the roar of the elements had been strongest here, and it took some determination for her to push away the memories her thoughts evoked now. It was all in the past, she told herself impatiently, but that didn’t prevent it from hurting.
Of course, his parents had known, but she had not blamed them. They were not responsible for their son’s behaviour, and the friendship which had sprung up between Rachel and the Shards had survived in spite of everything. Nevertheless, she could not help feeling she was accepting their hospitality under false pretences, and if Jaime knew, she doubted he would approve.
The train rumbled ponderously over the Tyne Bridge, and below her a ship’s siren hooted mournfully from the trailing vapours of the fog that shrouded the river. The station was just beyond the bridge, a cavernous edifice, blackened from the age of steam, and presently damp and misty, and heavy with the smell of diesel.
The inter-city express which had brought Rachel from King’s Cross pulled into the platform, and tightening the belt of the dark red leather coat about her slim waist, she hoisted her suitcase and struggled to the carriage door. She guessed Jaime’s father would have come to meet her, and dismissing the proffered services of a young porter, whose keen gaze had alighted on the graceful lissomness of her figure, she walked as quickly as she could towards the ticket barrier.
There was no sign of Robert Shard, however, in the press of people waiting to meet the train. Tall, like his son, his grey head would have been instantly noticeable, she was sure, but there seemed mostly women standing in groups, watching the discharging passengers.
‘Rachel! Rachel, I’m here!’
The slightly breathless feminine tones attracted Rachel’s attention as she was replacing her return ticket in the bag looped over her shoulder. Glancing round, she saw not Jaime’s father but his mother hurrying towards her, her attractive features flushed with anxiety, her ready smile breaking as Rachel saw her.
‘Oh, my dear, I was so afraid I was going to be late!’ Elizabeth Shard enveloped the girl in a warm embrace, bestowing a welcoming kiss on her smooth cheek. ‘It’s quite foggy out of town, and I got stuck behind a horse-box, and I was convinced the train would be punctual when I wasn’t.’
Rachel laughed, returning the older woman’s hug enthusiastically, feeling her earlier misgivings melting slightly in the warmth of Liz’s greeting. ‘Actually, it is on time,’ she conceded humorously, glancing at her watch. ‘But so are you, so calm down. I’ve just walked off the platform.’
‘Have you? Have you really?’ Liz examined her face with a worried scrutiny, and then gave a little laugh. ‘Thank heavens for that! I can breathe freely again. Now, shall we get some assistance?’
Before Rachel could protest, Liz had summoned the very porter she had refused earlier, but fortunately he seemed not to notice. Picking up Rachel’s suitcase, and the leather travel bag containing the book and magazines she had brought for the journey, he led the way outside, and tucking her arm through Rachel’s, Liz urged them to follow him.
‘At least I had no difficulty in parking,’ she remarked, as they emerged into the damp misty air, and detecting a trace of irony in her voice, Rachel wondered why. Perhaps it had something to do with Robert’s not meeting her, she reflected, and hoped her visit was not a cause for contention between them.
‘Did you have a good journey?’ Liz asked, supervising the loading of Rachel’s belongings into the boot of the sleek grey Jaguar that was awaiting them in the station yard. ‘It’s such a filthy night. Not at all like the day before Christmas Eve! I wonder what’s happened to all our white Christmases.’
Rachel smiled, and made some suitable response, then coiled herself gratefully into the front seat of the car. It was good to feel warm again, and when Liz came to join her she said as much.
‘Yes, it is rather chilly,’ her hostess agreed with a grimace. ‘Never mind, we still have open fires at Clere Heights.’
‘I’m looking forward to that,’ Rachel admitted, settling more comfortably in her seat, and again sensed a certain tenseness as Liz started the engine.
‘So, how are you?’ As if to dispel any such suggestion, Liz changed the subject. ‘We were so sorry to hear about your father. It must have been a terrible shock.’
‘It was rather,’ Rachel agreed, with a sigh. ‘But it wasn’t so unexpected, you know. He’d had heart trouble for a number of years.’
‘Yes,’ Liz nodded. ‘I remember Jaime—that is—you spoke of it when you were here before.’
Rachel nodded, aware of how difficult it was going to be to avoid using Jaime’s name, and added: ‘It’s over now. It’s almost four months since Daddy died. And thank goodness, I have my work.’
‘Yes.’ Liz slowed to accommodate traffic lights, then went on: ‘You’re an assistant editor now, aren’t you? You must find that more exciting than secretarial work.’
‘Oh, I do.’ Rachel spoke with enthusiasm. ‘It means I can use my own initiative, instead of only portraying someone else’s. I find it very interesting.’
‘But not too hard, I hope.’ Liz gave her a swift glance. ‘You look—thinner. I hope they’re not working you too hard.’
Rachel smiled. ‘Thinner is hardly a flattering description,’ she commented teasingly. ‘You should say slimmer. Thinner implies skinny.’
Liz gave a reluctant laugh. ‘Well, you’re not that. But you’re not as—rounded as I remember.’
Rachel bent her head. That was true. But it wasn’t entirely due to her work, or to the shock of her father’s death. She had lost weight after the break-up with Jaime, and she had never really regained it.
‘That’s enough about me,’ she said now, refusing to become introspective. ‘How about you—and Robert? Are you both well?’
‘Rob and I?’ Liz spoke a little breathily. ‘Oh—why, yes. Yes, we’re fine, thank you, Rachel. Nothing seems to bother us. Except for the occasional cold, you know,
