Captive Destiny

During this traumatic time, Emma had seen little of Jordan, or his parents. She had not thought a lot about it, being in the grip of her own grief, and needing to comfort her mother. But as the weeks passed and the scandal died down, he still continued to avoid her, and her suspicions were born.

It took some time before the truth gradually began to sink in. Jordan had been interested in her only so long as she was her father’s daughter. By marrying her, he would have gained ultimate control of both family’s shareholdings. Once that situation no longer applied, he had decided to cut his losses. Why marry a girl without a penny to her name when there were plenty of well-heeled ladies around only too willing to share their inheritance with a man as attractive as Jordan Kyle?

She had considered the possibility that perhaps her father’s suicide and the scandal which had ensued might have affected his feelings towards her, but she couldn’t believe Jordan to be so small-minded, so the obvious explanation seemed the most probable.

Whatever, Emma had suffered a severe relapse herself. Her relationship with Jordan had been such that she had never given the idea of not marrying him any serious consideration, and to discover that he had deceived her in that way had been more than she could bear. As soon as she was capable of finding a job, she had taken herself off to London, wanting to put as much distance between herself and the Kyles as was humanly possible. Her mother had encouraged her decision, and Emma had decided that so far as her mother was concerned, the break-up of their relationship had not been unexpected.

Inevitably, time wrought its own miracles of healing. Emma was lucky enough to get a job in an auction house in London. She had always been interested in antiques, and her apprenticeship there served her in good stead when she finally returned to Abingford. She came back when she discovered her mother was finding it difficult to live on the allowance she made her, and for a while Emma shared the flat with her again.

It was about this time she met David Ingram once more.

She had met him first in Jordan’s company. David was a freelance commercial artist, working at that time on an advertising campaign for Tryle Transmissions. She had known immediately that she attracted him, but whether that was because she was the boss’s girl-friend or not, she could never be sure. What had always been apparent was that any girl who could hold a man like Jordan had to have something, and several of his friends had made passes at her when they thought Jordan wasn’t looking.

Emma had quite liked David, although she had sensed his feelings towards Jordan contained quite an element of envy. He had always had an intense ambition to be wealthy, and having money meant a lot to him.

From the minute he learned that Emma was back in Abingford to stay, he had started dating her, and within a very short time he asked her to marry him. Emma had demurred, insisting that they hardly knew one another, secretly wondering whether Jordan might ring her once he knew she was home again. She knew he was still unmarried, unattached, if what the papers said was true, and she cherished hopes that perhaps time would have worked its miracle for him, too.

But as the weeks and months went by, and there was no word from Jordan, she was forced to accept that so far as he was concerned, their affair was over. Her mother, guessing her feelings, had ridiculed such foolishness. David, she said, was a far better candidate than Jordan Kyle could ever be, and besides, she wanted Emma to have nothing more to do with that family.

The crunch came the night Emma casually encountered Jordan at the charity ball. He had spoken to her politely, but that was all. His eyes had looked straight through her and she had known that whatever there had been between them was dead—and buried. That was the night she had accepted David’s proposal, and lived to regret it. His accident, just four days before the date of the wedding, had destroyed any idea she might have had for cancelling the ceremony. Instead, it had been conducted around his bed in the hospital, the only thing, they said, that would give him a reason for living. A reason for living …

Emma pressed her lips together tightly now. That was ironic. From the moment David learned that he was paralysed from the waist down, he had despised the life he was forced to live, and gradually he was forcing Emma to despise her life, too. It was as if there was a malignant cancer growing inside him that was gradually corrupting his soul, and Emma seldom looked into the future without a sense of despair.

If only David had accepted his disability. If only he could appreciate how good it was to be alive, instead of persistently bemoaning his lot in life, and allowing the envy he had always possessed to poison and destroy what little happiness they might have had.

‘Emma!’ She heard him calling her now, the irritability evident in his voice. ‘Emma, what in God’s name are you doing? Does it take half an hour to make a cup of coffee?’

‘Coffee!’ Emma started guiltily. She had forgotten to turn on the percolator.

‘I won’t be long,’ she called in reply. ‘I’m just finishing the dishes!’ and as if to emphasise this point she clattered plates and dishes on to the draining board.

But later that night, lying in the lonely isolation of her bed, she gave in to the frustrated tears that stung the backs of her eyes. She and David didn’t even share a bedroom, he having decided he needed the double bed they had once intended to use for his own use downstairs, while she occupied the single divan in the bedroom upstairs. How could she suggest going to the West Indies? she thought helplessly. Apart from anything else, it was unfair to David to even think of such a thing when he was stuck here at home, hating the cold weather. There had never been money for expensive holidays. Even the accident insurance had been denied to them on a technicality, which Emma had never understood, and without her job in those early days they would have had to have applied for social security.

Besides, what could Andrew Kyle have to say to her that was so desperately important that he should send for her practically on his dying bed? It didn’t make sense to her, so how could David be expected to understand, let alone agree to the trip?

She sighed. Jordan would not be surprised if she refused. Relieved, was his more likely reaction. After all, how boring it would be for him having to escort her all that way, and embarrassing, too, if she chose to bring up the past. But she wouldn’t do that, she thought, fumbling under her pillow for a paper tissue. She had some pride! Of course, he didn’t know that, and now he would never find out.

CHAPTER THREE (#u912ca2db-0990-552c-9ab0-7f2392060f40)

THE attic at Mellor Terrace was dark and gloomy, the only light coming through a tiny window set up high in the roof. There was no electricity, and Emma had to use a torch to see what she was doing. It was chilly, too, but she had put on thick trousers and a chunky sweater, and the effort of her exertions was keeping the cold at bay.

Looking round the cobwebby interior of the attic, she wondered how many years it was since anyone had been up here. Mrs Ingram had shuddered at the prospect of climbing the rickety old staircase that coiled to the upper regions of the house, and she had shown little interest in Emma’s plans to clean the place out. One of her arguments for Emma giving up her job was to imply that she had not the time to keep up with her housework, but she ignored the fact that she had not entered the attic so long as Emma had known her.

David had been much less emphatic. On the contrary, he had stated that as there was never likely to be more than two of them living in the house, the three spare bedrooms provided more than enough storage space without disturbing the dust of decades that filmed everything in the attic. He had got quite annoyed with her for bringing the matter up, and it was one of those occasions when Emma had kept her own counsel.

But since then she had had private thoughts about it, and this morning she had needed something energetic to do, something to take her mind off her decision to refuse Jordan’s invitation. Cleaning out the attic had seemed an ideal occupation, and as David was busy with his drawings, she had come up here straight after breakfast.

David was right about one thing, she thought, tracing her name in the dust that thickly covered an old cedarwood ottoman. This was the dust of decades. She doubted Mrs Ingram had ever done more than check for dampness, and she began to wonder whether she might not be more sensible to let well alone. Who knew what hairy monsters might lurk among these piles of outdated magazines and discarded books, the rolls of old wallpaper and battered suitcases, filled with faded curtains and worn-out bedding? She was not normally afraid of insects, but the prospect of meeting spiders or beetles up here sent a shiver down her spine.

Then she gave herself a mental shake. She was being fanciful, she decided impatiently. The attic was just another room, after all, and cleaned out it would make a pleasant storage place for David’s old drawings. At present they littered the drawers of his study, but if she could persuade him to let her store them up here, he would have so much more room to work. Besides, it wasn’t healthy to have all this dust about the place, and it would give her a great deal of satisfaction to show Mrs Ingram what she had done.

Fortunately she had secured her hair beneath a scarf before tackling the first removals, for the dust flew freely, and she sneezed as particles invaded her nose and tickled her throat. It would be easier, she decided, to investigate the contents of suitcases and boxes up here, rather than drag them through the house, and then those that were to be discarded could all be disposed of together.

Box after box contained toys, she found, and she realised Mrs Ingram must have kept every toy David had ever had. It was a disconcerting discovery, and although she was tempted to throw the lot out, she decided to speak to her mother-in-law first. After all, they were not hers to dispose of, and if Mrs Ingram wanted to keep them, that was her prerogative.

Other boxes contained paint and wallpapering equipment, but after levering off a lid from one of the paint tins and finding only solid glue inside, Emma put the whole lot aside to be thrown away. There was a suitcase full of old photographs that would need to be sorted, and a couple of albums filled with pictures of David growing from a boy into a man. Emma spent a few minutes flipping through these pages, and was shaken when she found Jordan’s face staring up at her from a group photograph. It appeared to have been taken when he was at university, but the picture was stuck firmly into the album and she couldn’t turn it over to discover whether it was dated. It was unexpected, finding a photograph of Jordan here, and she quickly turned the page to hide his sardonic features from sight. David had been part of the group, too, although he was a couple of years younger than Jordan, and she frowned. She had not known they had attended the same university, or indeed that they had known one another so long.

The shock of even visually encountering the man who had so lately thrown her feelings into turmoil left her taut and vulnerable. The task she had set herself was no longer remote from the problems he had created, and with depression digging at her dwindling enthusiasm, she decided to call it a day. Not even Mrs Ingram’s reluctant approval could spur her on at that moment, and the idea of a cup of coffee was far more attractive.

She was picking her way towards the trapdoor when she stumbled over what she saw to be the sleeve of a sweater hanging carelessly over the side of a cardboard box. It was old and dusty and she bent to pull it out and throw it with the other things for disposal. But her fingers encountered something hard within its folds, and as she curiously pulled the fabric aside, an oblong object fell to the floor with a distinct thud.

Frowning, she bent to pick it up and saw with surprise that it was a lady’s handbag. Mrs Ingram’s? She pulled a face. She didn’t think so. It wasn’t at all the sort of thing her mother-in-law would use. It was too cheap, for one thing: not leather; and once it had been a garish shade of red.

Whose, then? she wondered, perplexed. It was too modern to have belonged to some long-dead occupant of the house, and besides, the sweater wrapped around it was familiar to her. David had once had a sweater of that colour, with that particular pattern around the welt and sleeves. She hadn’t seen him wearing it for ages and ages, but she was sure it was the same one.

Feeling a little like Alice, or maybe Pandora, she turned the clasp fastening and opened the flap. To her surprise the bag was not empty, but filled with the usual paraphernalia to be found in any woman’s handbag—purse, make-up, perfume; even some letters and a cheque book. Exactly as if whoever had been using the handbag had lost it. She pulled out one of the letters to read the address and then stared in amazement. The handwriting on the letter was David’s, she would have recognised it anywhere, and the addressee was someone called Miss Sandra Hopkins, 11, Montford Street, Stratford. The date on the letter was almost exactly four years ago.

Aware that she was trembling, Emma saw, as if in silent replay, the crumpled wreckage of David’s car after the accident that had crippled him. It had been this time of year, the roads frozen and treacherous with black ice. David had been driving to Stratford—to see a client, or so he had said. Emma had never discovered who that client was, but then she had had no reason to disbelieve him. Was it possible he had been going to meet this girl—this Sandra Hopkins? And if so, why hadn’t he told her? If he had cared about this girl, why had he insisted on marrying her? And what was more to the point, why was the girl’s handbag in their attic, wrapped up in his sweater inside a cardboard box?

‘Emma!’

David’s angry voice echoed hollowly from the floor below. Since his illness, he seldom ascended to the first floor, even though with two metal sticks he was capable of climbing the stairs. But obviously today he had made that effort, and was presently standing at the foot of the attic stairs, calling up to her.

She was tempted not to answer him. She needed time to absorb what she had just learned in private, but from the tone of David’s voice she guessed he was afraid she might have discovered the handbag, and that gave it all a horrible credence.

‘Emma! Answer me! I know you’re up there. Come on down. I told you not to bother cleaning that place out. It’s not necessary.’

Taking a deep breath, Emma tucked the handbag into the waistband of her pants, and lowered herself on to the top step. Then she fitted the trapdoor in place and descended to the landing below where David awaited her. His eyes went instantly to the wedge of red plastic that pushed her chunky sweater aside, and then unbecoming colour stained his pale cheeks.

If Emma had needed any further proof that David knew of the handbag’s existence, his guilty appearance was enough, and pulling it out, she said, rather unevenly:

‘I think we need to have a little talk, don’t you?’

‘It was all your fault!’

The accusation was so unexpected that Emma was speechless. They were facing one another in David’s study after he had insisted it was too cold to discuss the matter on the upstairs landing, but now she wondered whether his excuse to go downstairs had been motivated by the desire to gain breathing space. Certainly it was the last thing she had expected him to say, and for a few moments she was so shocked she could Only stare at him.

But at last she gathered herself sufficiently to say weakly: ‘My fault?’

‘Yes, your fault,’ declared David, returning confidence adding assurance to his voice. ‘So cold—so frigid! A warm-blooded man could freeze before you’d thaw for him. Such a puritan little soul, I sometimes wondered what—–’ He broke off abruptly at this point and when he spoke again, she had the distinct impression he was not finishing the sentence in the way he had originally intended. ‘I wondered—what kind of a wife you’d turn out to be!’

‘Wait a minute.’ Emma moistened her lips. ‘Are you telling me the—the relationship you obviously had with this girl was the result of my refusal to sleep with you before—before our marriage?’

‘What else?’ muttered David moodily, and she moved her shoulders in a helpless gesture.

‘You can’t expect me to believe you!’ she exclaimed, a sense of hysteria lifting her voice. ‘My God, David, you can’t honestly expect me to swallow that!’

‘Why not? It’s the truth. You were a frigid creature. Still are, most likely. Only I’ll never know now, will I?’