Temple Of The Moon

She had always known that there was more affection than passion in her feelings for James, but she had never intended that their marriage should be anything other than a normal one. She had been shocked and hurt to discover that James seemed in no hurry at all to consummate their relationship. At first, she had felt she ought to be grateful for his consideration—he had told her that he felt they should take time to become mentally attuned to each other before they became lovers in the physical sense—but as time went on Gabrielle felt growing doubts that James had ever wanted a wife in the real sense at all. And far from becoming mentally attuned, they seemed to be growing apart.

She had assumed that as his wife, she would be expected to take part in a certain amount of socialising. That he would have colleagues to entertain and that she would act as his hostess as she had sometimes done for her father. But they saw no one. James went each day to the Institute of Central American Studies and she was left entirely to her own devices. In the evening he read or worked in his study while she sat alone watching television.

Once and only once she had suggested that they might do some entertaining. His face had taken on the frozen look she had come to dread. ‘When I wish my privacy to be invaded by a chattering horde of strangers, I’ll tell you, Gabrielle.’

In spite of his unspoken disapproval, Gabrielle had invited Aunt Molly to visit her, but her aunt had not been nearly so reticent.

‘Good heavens, child, it’s like living in a museum!’ She walked over to one of the showcases and inspected its contents with raised eyebrows. ‘It must cost James a fortune in insurance. Some of these things are incredibly valuable.’ She swung round and looked her niece over with a touch of grimness. ‘And what are you, exactly? The latest addition to his collection?’

Gabrielle had naturally protested, but Aunt Molly’s words had stayed in her memory.

The greatest disappointment of all had been James’ refusal to let her take part in any of his work. During their courtship he had patiently answered all her eager questions. Now she was made to see that her curiosity was a nuisance to him, and that she interrupted his concentration.

He was busy, she told herself, but when all this paperwork was behind him and he began to prepare for the real work—for the expedition to the Yaxchilan region that she knew was brewing, then he would need her. Perhaps when they were actually in the Yucatan her enthusiasm would be the inspiration that he had once spoken of, instead of the irritation it now seemed.

She could hardly believe it when she learned that he was going without her.

‘But you’ll be gone for months,’ she had burst out. ‘You can’t mean to leave me here alone. What will I do?’

He stared at her. ‘Do? Occupy yourself in the same way as other wives, I imagine. You have the flat to run and …’

‘The flat!’ Gabrielle’s voice was contemptuous. ‘Mrs Hutchinson runs the flat and you know it. I’m not even allowed to so much as boil an egg on that immaculate stove of hers.’

James looked a little flustered and murmured something about ‘female squabbles’.

‘James,’ she put her hand on his arm, trying not to notice his almost instinctive withdrawal, ‘please let me come with you. I’ve always dreamed of going to the Yucatan—you know that. Besides,’ she flushed, ‘we are supposed to be—getting to know one another better. How can we do that if we’re thousands of miles apart?’

James made an irritable exclamation. ‘Why is it women can never understand that a man’s work and his personal relationships must be kept separate?’ he asked in martyred tones.

‘I accept that—or at least I accept that’s the way you feel about it,’ Gabrielle said desperately. ‘But you said once that I could be—an inspiration to you. Was that just words, or did you really mean it?’

‘Of course I meant it.’ James sighed. ‘And you are an inspiration to me, my dear. From the moment I saw you, I knew you were the one woman whose beauty would complement the setting I’d devised here. The rain forest——’ he frowned and shook his head. ‘That wouldn’t do at all.’

‘Why not?’ Gabrielle asked bitterly. ‘Are you afraid the goddess might come down off her pedestal and behave like a real woman after all? That I might get hot and dirty, and covered in leeches and insect bites like other human beings? I know what’s involved, James, and I’m prepared to accept it if it means I can stand just for a moment on the pyramid of the Sun at Palenque, or look down into the sacred well at Chichen Itza.’ She ended on a note of appeal.

‘Well, I’m not prepared to accept it,’ James said flatly. ‘Nor am I prepared to argue about this any more. I’ve made my wishes clear, I think. There’s nothing further to discuss.’

Up to the day of his departure, she had hoped secretly that he might relent—suggest that she joined him later, but she should have known better. His goodbyes to her were almost abstracted, as if his mind had gone ahead of him to that violent and beautiful land where stone ruins stood deserted and forgotten among the towering trees.

His letters when they came were brief, containing none of the detail or description she hungered for. All she had learned was that the expedition which was being led by a Professor Morgan was based at the Institute’s headquarters in Merida, the capital of the Yucatan, and that her own letters should be directed there.

But she could not occupy every minute of the endless day in writing to James. She wasn’t even sure that her letters were wanted or that her small items of news would hold any interest for him.

Photography had been her salvation. She had wandered through London, enjoying the summer weather and recording her impressions on film more for her own amusement than with any commercial intention. There was a tiny boxroom at the flat, as immaculately neat and sterile as the other rooms, and Gabrielle turned this into a temporary darkroom, ignoring Mrs Hutchinson’s hostility to the move. One set of pictures involving children’s street games had excited her, and these she had sent to Vision.

An invitation to meet the editor Martin Gilbert had followed and soon she was working regularly for them. It was over lunch with Martin and one of his feature writers one day that the name Yaxchilan had cropped up unexpectedly and she had said without thinking, ‘The place of green trees.’

‘Quite right.’ Martin had sounded surprised. ‘Now how did you know that?’

She tried to make her laugh sound light. ‘Don’t sound so surprised! The Mayan jungle happens to be one of my obsessions.’ She twisted the plain gold ring on her left hand. ‘That’s where my husband is now, as a matter of fact.’

‘Indeed?’ Martin gave her a long considering look. ‘I’m surprised that you’re not with him—feeling as you obviously do.’

Gabrielle bent her head. ‘I have my work here,’ she said tonelessly. ‘Perhaps I’ll go another time. Anyway, you haven’t explained what your interest is in the expedition?’

Martin laughed. ‘Need you ask? We have our sights set on a feature—a big one. You know the sort of thing—cities where no human foot has sounded since the Maya left all those centuries ago—carving the memorial to a civilisation out of the encroaching jungle. There’s always a fascination in that sort of thing, and we’ve been lucky enough to persuade Dennis Morgan, the man leading the expedition, to write the copy for us, so we can concentrate on the visual side.’

‘It—it all sounds wonderful.’ Gabrielle forced a smile. ‘And a wonderful trip for someone,’ she added bleakly, not noticing the speculative glance being exchanged by Martin and his companion.

When, a few weeks later, she was offered the assignment, she still could not believe it. She had convinced herself that her lack of overseas experience would count against her, and Martin told her frankly that she had not been far wrong.

‘It was the fact that your husband is an actual member of the expedition that swung the balance in your favour,’ he admitted. ‘It gives you the sort of “in” that no one else could hope for. Besides, I like your work, and I have faith in it. Why shouldn’t we take a chance on you?’

‘You won’t regret it.’ Gabrielle could hardly contain her rising excitement. It wasn’t just a tremendous professional opportunity, she had realised at once. It was also a chance—the best possible chance—to get her personal relationship with James on a proper footing. They could not continue as they were—she knew that. But it did not seem fair to come to any decision in isolation. James had to be consulted—she felt she owed him that, although she knew wryly that it was unlikely that he would have extended the same courtesy to her.

The more she thought about their marriage and the form it had taken, the more convinced she became that an annulment was the only answer. It was not a pleasant prospect, but it had to be faced. At best, it would be an honourable admission by them both that a mistake had been made and would leave them free to pursue their separate lives as if this strange, brief marriage had never existed. But if James did not agree—Gabrielle’s heart sank every time she considered the possibility—then it must be made clear to him that she was not prepared to go on living this half-life with him. If their marriage was to continue, it had to be a real marriage with her own career and personal aspirations respected.

She sighed and bit her lip. It was wrong and cowardly, she told herself, to pray that James would opt for an annulment, yet if she was honest with herself she knew that to take up her life again with him, as his wife in deed as well as name, was the last thing she wanted. If he insisted that their marriage must be given a chance, she would have to concur, she thought wearily, and tried to subdue the quiver of revulsion that went through her.

She had been terrified that James would get wind of her visit and do something to prevent it, so she had persuaded Martin to notify the Institute that the party gathering in Merida was being joined by ‘G. Christow’ instead of ‘Mrs J. Warner’. Later she had chided herself for cowardice and had made herself write to James, telling him the truth. She had been on edge ever since, in case word came from the Institute, rejecting her. In the meantime she had gone ahead blindly with her arrangements, obtaining the necessary documents, and having her smallpox vaccination renewed.

She had flown by jet from London to Mexico City and then had used one of the smaller domestic airlines to fly her to Merida. She would have preferred to travel there by train, stopping off on the way to visit the famous ruins at Palenque, but had sacrificed her own wishes under the compulsion to get to Merida and establish herself with the expedition.

One of her first actions, after taking up her reservation at the hotel, had been to write a note to Professor Morgan announcing her arrival and sending it round to the Institute. She knew they would all be busy with last-minute preparations for the trip and felt it would be better to allow the professor to contact her at his own convenience rather than arrive on the Institute doorstep, tacitly demanding attention they might not have time to give her. For the past twenty-four hours she had not dared to leave the hotel in case a message came for her, but she had been disappointed. She told herself resolutely that much of the depression she was feeling was due to jet lag—nothing more. But James’ failure to meet her at the airport, followed by this chill silence from the Institute, was unnerving to say the least.

The hotel doors swung inwards, and she glanced up instinctively as she had done so many times during the course of the day. But this was no influx of wet, disgruntled tourists. It was a man, on his own, and somehow Gabrielle knew, as her casual gaze fixed and sharpened, that he was no tourist. He was tall and long-legged moving with an easy animal grace in denim shirt and pants with a matching rain-spattered jacket slung carelessly over one shoulder. He threaded his way through the chatting groups to the reception desk where a smiling clerk turned to greet him. She couldn’t hear what passed between them, nor could she lip-read, but he was obviously asking a question, and Gabrielle felt a sudden, illogical trickle of apprehension along her spine as the newcomer turned, his eyes flicking almost indifferently over the tables. She sensed rather than saw the clerk reply, and knew with all the certainty of pounding heart and pulses that they were both looking at her.

She picked up her glass with fingers that shook, and took a hasty sip. Surely this couldn’t be Professor Morgan? Martin had given her the impression of a much older man—a contemporary of James, she had decided in her own mind. For an endless moment, she made herself look down at the table, trying to pretend she was oblivious to his regard.

‘Is your name Christow?’ She had not heard his approach and she started violently, spilling a little of her drink. His voice was low and resonant, but held no welcoming warmth.

Gabrielle looked up reluctantly. He was standing over her, his thumb hooked negligently into his belt. At close quarters, the attraction she had only sensed across the room was quite devastating and she was conscious that they were the cynosure of envious feminine eyes from adjoining tables.

‘Yes,’ she said at last, ‘I’m Gabrielle Christow. And you?’

His face was narrow, the cheekbones and jawline prominent, with dark hair in need of cutting springing aggressively back from his forehead. Against his deep tan, his eyes were as pale as aquamarines. They held incredulity and hostility in almost equal amounts.

He said slowly, ‘My God, I don’t believe it. The fools! The bloody, incompetent fools!’

Gabrielle stiffened, aware as he was not of the interested ears surrounding them.

She said with a hint of ice, ‘I’m afraid I don’t follow you.’

‘No?’ One of the slanting dark eyebrows lifted in a sardonic question. ‘Were you naively expecting to be welcomed with open arms? If so, I’m afraid, young woman, you’re in for a sharp disappointment.’

Gabrielle was very pale. She stammered, ‘But I though—I mean, Vision made all the arrangements—I understood I was expected.’

‘We were expecting a photographer from Vision to join us—yes.’