‘WHEN are you waking up, Helen?’
The plaintive cry, accompanied by a persistent tugging at the sheet which was all that covered her, forced Helen to open her eyes. Sophie was standing beside her bed, still in her baby-doll pyjamas, her thumb tucked unhappily into her mouth.
Helen stifled a groan and blinked rapidly, trying to clear the sleep from her eyes. There was a heavy sense of apprehension hanging over her, which she couldn’t quite interpret at this moment, and her head was throbbing dully, as if she’d slept too long.
‘Oh, Sophie,’ she said, struggling to focus on her watch. ‘What time is it?’
‘It’s late,’ replied Sophie defensively, making snuffling noises with her thumb. ‘Mummy said I could come and wake you up. She says she’s got a headache.’
Haven’t we all? thought Helen with some resignation, rolling on to her back. For heaven’s sake, what time was it? Tricia didn’t usually surface before she did.
When she finally made sense of the pointers on her watch, she gave a horrified gasp. It was half-past eight. She could hardly believe it, but she’d slept long past her normal deadline. She’d acclimatised with a vengeance, and Tricia had a right to feel aggrieved.
And then, as she turned to Sophie to tell her she was sorry, the reasons why she had overslept surged over her. Oh, God, she thought, remembering why she had lain awake for several hours the night before, how could she have been so stupid? She’d actually let Matthew Aitken crawl all over her. She’d let the brother of the man who’d destroyed her father’s life almost make love to her. And, what was worse, she hadn’t stopped him. She’d encouraged him to do it.
‘He-len!’
Sophie’s protest was more of an angry whine now, as if she sensed Helen wasn’t listening to her any more. Helen’s eyes might be open, but she wasn’t looking at her. She was staring right through her, and Sophie didn’t like it.
‘What?’ With an effort, Helen forced her treacherous thoughts aside and struggled to pay attention. ‘Oh—yes, I am late, aren’t I?’ she said ruefully. ‘Go and tell your mummy I won’t be long. I must just wash my face.’
‘You slept in.’ Henry’s appearance in the doorway heralded another accusation, and Helen wondered if Tricia realised how like her her son was. ‘You’re not s’posed to sleep in,’ he added reprovingly. ‘You’re s’posed to give us our breakfast.’
‘And I will,’ said Helen wearily, ‘just as soon as I’ve cleaned my teeth and got some clothes on. Now—’ she forced a smile ‘—why don’t you two do the same? I’m sure you can manage to put your clothes on without me for once.’
‘We’re not s’posed—’ began Henry, but Sophie cut him off.
‘I’m staying here,’ she declared, depositing herself on the end of Helen’s bed. ‘I want to watch you get dressed. I can, can’t I? I’m a girl.’
‘Well—’
‘If you’re staying, I’m staying,’ announced Henry, and Helen pushed aside the sheet with a tired hand.
‘You’re neither of you staying,’ she declared, making sure her nightshirt covered her thighs before swinging her legs out of bed. ‘I won’t be long, I promise. Now, be good children and go and brush your teeth.’
With the door closed firmly behind them, Helen drew the first unrestrained breath of the day. At least she had a few minutes to recover herself. She had the feeling she was going to need them this morning.
Examining her reflection in the mirror above the bathroom basin, she wasn’t surprised to find the shadows around her eyes had deepened. Ever since she’d discovered that her mother was staying on the island she’d had a problem sleeping. But last night—and that encounter with Matthew Aitken—was something else.
Dear God, she thought, smoothing the fine veins below her eyes with the tips of her fingers, why hadn’t she just kept out of the way, as she’d intended? Why had she gone for the walk along the beach? And why had she chosen to swim?
It had been such a crazy thing to do. Even now, with the benefit of hindsight, she couldn’t honestly say what had driven her into the ocean. She’d been hot, of course, and restless, and her nerves had been taut and strung. But she hadn’t intended to ruin her dress by soaking it with salt-water.
Nevertheless, that was what she had done, and until Matthew had come upon her she’d quite enjoyed the freedom to be herself. She’d told herself she wouldn’t think about Fleur, wouldn’t allow her to ruin this trip. But the trouble was, she’d already done that. Helen was never going to forget she was there.
Even so, Fleur hadn’t recognised her. She wouldn’t have made that stupid mistake over her name if she had. Giving Matthew a bogus surname had been reckless, of course, but with a bit of luck she might get away with it. She had the feeling they wouldn’t be seeing either him or his sister-in-law again after last night. Even without what had happened, Matthew had been bored, and Tricia’s attempt to get him to talk about his work had patently annoyed him.
Besides, if the name she’d given was ever questioned, she could always pretend that he had been mistaken. Gregory—Graham—they did sound sufficiently alike to support her theory, and she would like to think that Lucas would defend her.
She sighed. She’d liked Matthew’s assistant very much. He’d talked to her a lot as she’d toyed with her supper, and, for all he worked for the enemy, he was one of the nicest men she’d met.
Yet she hadn’t treated Matthew Aitken like an enemy, she reminded herself unhappily, unable to keep her humiliating thoughts at bay. For all her proud intentions, she’d given in without a contest, and if he hadn’t pushed her away, she’d have let him prove it.
Oh, God!
Pressing her lips together, she stared painfully at her pale, drawn features, but she found no answers in her dry-eyed gaze. Although she wanted to cry, she wouldn’t let herself. She wanted nothing to remind Tricia of the night before.
She had hoped she might sneak back to the villa without anyone seeing her, but, as everything else had worked against her that evening, she wasn’t really surprised when she didn’t make it. By the time she had dragged herself up from the sand, fastened her bodice and squeezed the water from her hem, the card-players had left the table. They were sitting on the veranda when she tried to slide past them and, despite her best efforts, Andrew had seen her.
It appeared, though she had learned this only incidentally, that Lucas was indirectly to blame for her exposure. Apparently he hadn’t been able to grasp the rules of bidding, and the game had had to be abandoned.
But her appearance had provided a much more noteworthy topic for conversation, and Helen had had to stand there, feeling like one of her own charges, while Tricia took her to task for leaving the villa. Helen’s explanation, that she had gone for a walk and fallen into the ocean, had not been received with any sympathy. It was madness, Tricia had declared, to go walking after dark on her own, and she had appealed to her husband to support her.
Helen had been uncomfortably aware that Andrew Sheridan was more interested in the way her wet skirts clung to her legs, and that her mother was watching her, too, with narrowed eyes. Dear God, she’d thought, she could do without this. And where was Matthew? Had he gone home to change?
In the event, it had been Lucas who’d taken pity on her. Although she suspected he had his own motives for helping her, he had suggested she ought to be allowed to go and dry herself. He’d made some comment about them not wanting their nanny laid up with pneumonia, and the veracity of this statement had rung a chord.
She hadn’t returned to the party. For all she’d been curious to know how Matthew was going to explain his absence, she’d remained in her room for the rest of the evening. She’d told herself she didn’t want to hear what lies he would tell to excuse himself, but the truth was she was too ashamed to see him again.
It also meant she hadn’t had to speak to her mother again. And she supposed that was a blessing in disguise. The woman she remembered bore no resemblance to the brittle creature who’d sat at the Sheridans’ table. Yet obviously this was the real Fleur, and not the childhood illusion she recalled.
The children were washed and dressed, and tucking into bowls of Rice Crispies when their mother came into the kitchen. For once Tricia was dressed, but whether that was to endorse the fact that Helen had slept in or because she had other plans, Helen couldn’t say.
‘Oh, so there you are,’ she declared, as if Helen spent her time trying to avoid her. ‘I was beginning to wonder if you’d decided to give notice. After last night’s little fiasco, there was always a doubt.’
Helen refused to be intimidated, but she looked down at the barely touched croissant on her plate and made a pretence of spreading it with conserve. For all her determination, she didn’t trust herself to meet Tricia’s eyes without flinching, and the last thing she needed was for her employer to suspect she had something to hide.
‘Did you want something, Tricia?’ she asked, aware of the children looking on with interest. Henry, particularly, enjoyed any kind of altercation, and even Sophie’s eyes were round as she looked at them over her spoon.
‘Did I want something?’ echoed their mother, and Helen’s heart sank at the obvious aggression in her tone. ‘I want an explanation, if that’s not too much to ask. I assume you know that one of our guests left the party without saying goodbye? I want to know what you said that caused him to push you in the water.’
‘Did someone push you in the water, Helen?’ exclaimed Henry, his cereal forgotten in his excitement, but Helen had no time to feed his curiosity.
‘No one pushed me in the water,’ she exclaimed, resentful of the implication. ‘I told you what happened: I fell. That’s all there is to say.’
‘Really?’
Patently Tricia didn’t believe her, and Helen thought how ironic it was that the Sheridans had got totally the wrong end of the stick. ‘Yes,’ she said now. ‘How could you think anything different? And—and as for one of your guests—leaving, perhaps you should ask yourself why, not me.’
Tricia gasped. ‘What do you mean?’
Helen pressed her lips together. ‘Nothing,’ she said at last. ‘I don’t mean anything. But if we’re talking about Matthew Aitken, I don’t think he was exactly thrilled with the evening.’
‘Mmm.’ Tricia rested her chin on the knuckles of one hand. ‘He wasn’t the easiest of supper companions, I will admit. So—you didn’t see him again, after we went to play cards.’
‘I didn’t say that.’ Helen couldn’t tell an outright lie. Fudging about how she’d got wet—that was prevarication. But if Tricia should ask Matthew, she couldn’t be sure of what he might say.
‘So you did see him?’
‘Briefly.’ Helen licked her lips. ‘He was going for a walk, I think.’ She crossed her fingers in her lap. ‘He must have walked home.’
Tricia frowned. ‘He didn’t say where he was going?’
That was simple. ‘No.’
‘Was this before or after you—fell into the water?’ asked Tricia slyly. Then, ‘You know, I can’t believe he’d abandon the party like that, in spite of what Fleur had to say.’
Helen stiffened. ‘What did she say?’
‘Oh, this and that.’ Tricia gave her an irritated look. ‘She asked where we’d found you, actually. I suppose you’re not the usual sort of nanny.’
Helen took a breath. ‘I—thought you meant she’d said something about—about Matthew Aitken,’ she said, not sure whether she ought to be alarmed about Fleur’s interest in her or not. Probably not, she assured herself ruefully. Her mother had only ever been interested in herself.
‘Well, she did,’ Tricia exclaimed now, rather petulantly. ‘She made some excuse about him getting ideas at the most inconvenient times.’ She sighed. ‘I suppose I shouldn’t have suggested playing bridge, but Fleur was so enthusiastic. She said she’d missed playing awfully since she went to live in the United States. Apparently, her late husband’s father breeds horses, and nat urally—’
‘She said that?’ Helen broke in, swallowing convulsively. ‘That she’d missed playing bridge since she went to live in Florida?’
‘Yes.’ Tricia’s eyes narrowed. ‘But how do you know she lives in Florida? I don’t recall her talking to you, and I certainly didn’t tell you that.’
Helen felt her colour deepen. ‘Oh—well, Lucas must have mentioned it,’ she replied hurriedly. She forced herself to remain calm. ‘Does it matter? I don’t suppose we’re likely to see them again.’
‘You might not,’ said Tricia tartly, ‘but I’m sure Drew and I will get an invitation to Dragon Bay. It’s only polite, in the circumstances. And Fleur knows how much I’d love to see the house.’
‘But it’s not her house, is it?’ Helen pointed out, and then was relieved when Henry chose to speak. She’d said too much already. She should learn to keep her mouth shut.
‘Can we come?’ he asked, and for a moment both women looked blank. ‘To Dragon Bay,’ he added. ‘Are there really dragons there? Sophie won’t like it if there are.’
‘I will, too,’ declared his sister, digging him in the ribs, but their mother was in no mood to listen to their bickering.
‘Just mind your own business, both of you,’ she said. ‘And only speak when you’re spoken to. This is a private conversation. I’m talking to Helen, not you.’
‘But are there dragons?’ persisted Sophie, who was always slower than her brother, and her mother gave her a fulminating look.
‘Of course there aren’t,’ she snapped. ‘Don’t you know when Henry’s teasing you? Now, hurry up and finish your breakfast. And stop slurping into your food.’
Sophie’s jaw wobbled, and she gave her brother a tearful glare. She usually got the worst of any argument, and Helen thought again how little Tricia understood her own children.
‘Anyway,’ she continued, just when Helen was beginning to think she’d got away with it, ‘for someone who’s supposedly not interested in seeing them again, you appear to have asked an awful lot of questions. Which reminds me, what did Matthew Aitken say when you—met him on the beach? I assume you didn’t talk about the weather?’
Helen took a breath. Her thoughts were racing wildly, and she cast about for something trite to say. What had they talked about? she wondered. Aside from the sarcastic comment he’d made about her swimming fully clothed, she couldn’t remember a thing. The trouble was, it was what he had done that was balking her memory. From the moment he’d touched her, it was all as painfully clear as a bell.
‘He—we—talked about swimming,’ she said at last, realising there was a danger in admitting it, but accepting it was the lesser of two evils. If she refused to answer, Tricia was bound to become suspicious, and making something up was almost as bad.
Liars had to have good memories, she acknowledged unhappily, and dealing with Matthew Aitken was far too fraught. The closer she stuck to the truth, the better. And it wasn’t such an unusual topic, after all.
‘Swimming?’
The other woman stared at her disbelievingly, but before she could say anything more there was an unholy crash. Helen guessed Sophie had been trying to pay Henry back for teasing her, and, in reaching across the table, she’d sent her dish tumbling to the floor.
The ensuing uproar successfully diverted the conversation away from Helen. Maria came rushing in, declaring that the milk would sink into the tiles and go sour. And Sophie, getting down from her chair, slipped on the mushy cereal. Somehow she cut her leg on a shard of china, and because it had started to bleed she began to scream.
It was too much for Tricia. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ she exclaimed, looking disgustedly at her daughter, before leaving them to deal with the mess without her. And, although Helen wouldn’t have wished Sophie hurt for the world, she couldn’t help being grateful for small mercies.
‘Will I still be able to go in the water?’ asked Sophie later, sniffing into a tissue as Helen applied a strip of plaster to her thigh. ‘You said we could play in the rock-pools today, didn’t you? I’ve got my bucket and spade all ready.’
‘Your bucket and spade,’ scoffed Henry, hands in pockets, watching the proceedings with a jaundiced eye, but Helen ignored him.
‘I think we’ll just do a little fishing with our nets this morning,’ she declared, half wishing she’d never suggested going on to the beach now. They were too accessible there, too vulnerable. And although, after what had happened the night before, she didn’t flatter herself that Matthew Aitken would want to see her, she’d no wish to reinforce his impression that she was easy.
Easy!
Oh, God! Straightening from her task, Helen got to her feet with a heavy heart. How had it happened? she wondered. How had she got herself into such a situation? It simply wasn’t like her. She’d always considered herself so self-contained before. Naturally, she’d had men-friends. In fact, one man had actually got as far as asking her to marry him about two years ago. But she’d been quite content living with her father. And, although she’d expected to get married one day, she’d certainly been in no hurry.
Was in no hurry now, she appended, remembering that even in the depths of her despair she’d never considered taking that way out. Marrying someone just to provide herself with financial support had never been an option. In fact lately, since she’d come to work for the Sheridans, she’d begun to wonder if marriage was so desirable after all. Living with someone had to be easier. And, best of all, it kept your options open.
Last night must have been an aberration, she decided. She simply wasn’t the type to act that way. She was exaggerating what had happened and punishing herself needlessly. For heaven’s sake, the man had only kissed her. It was no big deal.
And yet, remembering how mindlessly abandoned she’d felt when he moved over her, it wasn’t quite so easy to dismiss the whole affair. He hadn’t only kissed her, he’d touched her intimately. And she’d wanted him to do it. She’d wanted him to do more…
‘Why are you looking so cross, Helen?’
Sophie was gazing up at her with her thumb in her mouth, a sure sign that she wasn’t totally convinced she hadn’t done something wrong, and Helen forced herself to smile at her.
‘I’m not looking cross,’ she denied, not altogether truthfully. ‘I’m just’ thinking, that’s all. I believe I saw some shrimp nets in the cupboard, that the Parrish children must have left behind. Why don’t we take them with us? You never know what we might find.’
‘Which cupboard?’ exclaimed Henry, proving he wasn’t wholly immune to the delights of the beach, and Sophie pushed herself in front of him indignantly.
‘I’ll get them,’ she said. ‘Where are they, Helen? And I’ll need my bucket, won’t I? To put the fishes in.’
‘Fish,’ said Helen firmly, stopping Henry from pinching his sister’s bottom, and giving him a reproving stare. ‘We’ll need the buckets to collect the fish. Well—the crabs and tiny molluscs we’re likely to find in the rock-pools.’
‘What are moll—molluscs?’ asked Henry with difficulty, but Helen just ushered him out of the door.
‘I’ll tell you when we find some,’ she said. ‘And I’ll get the nets myself. I suggest you get your bucket, unless you want to be left out.’
With both children wearing hats, and their still pink limbs liberally coated with sun-blocking cream, Helen shepherded her charges on to the beach. Happily, from her point of view, it was completely deserted, and after dropping their towels in a prominent place she escorted them down to the nearest cluster of rocks.
The pools were warm, and for all her earlier apprehension Helen soon found she was enjoying herself. It reminded her of holidays she had spent with her father when she was a child. He had had endless patience with her, and it couldn’t have been easy being a single parent in those days. Of course, she had had a nanny, too, but, unlike Henry and Sophie, she hadn’t been abandoned to her own resources. Whenever possible James Gregory had looked after his daughter himself, and it was this that had created the bond between them that she’d found so hard to let go.
‘Oooh, what’s that?’ asked Sophie, grimacing, and skipping out of the water as a weird-looking creature emerged from the shade of the rocks. Even Henry got out of the way as its spiny shell turned in his direction, and, recognising it as a sea-urchin, Helen scooped it out of the water.
‘Not to be touched,’ she said decisively, shaking it out of the net into another pool some distance away. ‘Those spines can dig into your toes, and it hurts when you try to get them out.’
‘Ugh.’ Sophie gave a theatrical shiver, and Helen thought it had been a salutary lesson for them all. They weren’t on the beach at Bournemouth, and for all its beauty this paradise did have one or two unpleasant inhabitants.
‘I wasn’t afraid,’ declared Henry, brave after the event, and Helen gave him an old-fashioned look.
‘Then I’ll get you to deal with the next one we see,’ she said pleasantly, and smiled as he looked anxiously about him.
Notwithstanding the heat, and the ever-present danger of the children falling over and hurting themselves, Helen found herself relaxing. Away from the house, and with no disturbing neighbour on the horizon, she could almost convince herself that nothing bad had happened. Even the thought of her mother, sunning herself on Matthew’s veranda, only aroused a muted resentment. Despite the shock she’d had, she’d lived for almost twenty years without seeing her mother, and she had to be pragmatic if she wanted to keep her job.
Because they never stayed out too long, in a short while Helen peeled off her shorts and T-shirt and took them down to the water’s edge. She reasoned that salt-water was unlikely to cause Sophie any problems, and it was so good to feel the comparative coolness on her skin after the undiluted heat of the sun.
Both children wanted to swim, but Helen didn’t let them go out of their depth. For all it looked so idyllic, the current was quite strong. Henry grumbled, as usual, but he was still wary of finding another sea urchin, and Sophie splashed about quite happily in the shallows.
She was so busy keeping tabs on both children, however, that she wasn’t aware of anyone’s approach until a woman spoke. And, because Henry and Sophie only stared at the visitor, Helen guessed who it was before she turned her head.
‘Hello, Miss—Graham?’
Her mother was alone. Helen hadn’t expected her to be, and she’d already steeled herself to meet Matthew’s mocking gaze when she turned around. But only Fleur was standing there, looking like an exotic butterfly in billowing silk trousers and a poncho-like top of flowing chiffon. She was wearing dark glasses, too, which made her expression hard to read. But the fact that she was here at all caused a sudden sinking in Helen’s stomach.
Oh, lord, she thought, grasping Henry’s and Sophie’s hands and drawing them closer, as if in protection. Did Fleur know who she was? Was that why she had come?