Kingdom of Shadows

  He followed her into the living room and he found himself looking at the rug where she had been sitting. There was no sign now of the remains of the candle, but he thought he could smell it, mixed with her subtle perfume in the air.

  ‘You’re sure you’re not too tired, Clare? Paul told me you weren’t feeling very well.’

  ‘No, I’m fine. Come on down and talk to me while I make us both some coffee. The lift at Coleman Street got stuck with me in it and I made a bit of a fool of myself, that’s all. I’m afraid it will be all around the bank tomorrow.’ She smiled wanly.

  ‘Oh Clare, how terrible.’ He followed her down the steep flight of steps.

  ‘I’ve been claustrophobic since I was a child. So silly really.’ She busied herself filling the kettle and plugging it in whilst he sat down on a stool watching her, his long legs folded under the breakfast bar.

  ‘Clare, I couldn’t help seeing, through the curtains, upstairs. What were you doing with that candle?’ He hadn’t meant to ask; hadn’t meant to admit to spying on her.

  She glanced up at him sharply, but she smiled.

  ‘Meditating.’

  ‘You mean like praying?’ He looked embarrassed.

  ‘Perhaps, a little. Although, not the way I do it.’ She was playing with her sapphire engagement ring, twisting it around her finger so that the facets caught the light. ‘It’s very strange, Henry. Something I started doing to help me unwind a bit.’ Suddenly she found she wanted to tell someone about it. ‘When I was a child I had a sort of imaginary playmate – I think a lot of children do. She was called Isobel.’ She paused for such a long time that he wondered if she had forgotten he was there.

  ‘Go on,’ he said at last.

  ‘My brother was four years younger than me, and we never got on, really. We still don’t –’ she smiled wistfully. ‘So, I was a lonely child.’ Isobel’s brother was four years younger and a posthumous child, like James. She had stopped speaking and was staring into space, recognising the strangeness of the coincidence for the first time. With a little shake of the head she went on. ‘I suppose that’s how children always react to loneliness: an imaginary friend.’ She paused again.

  Henry said nothing, afraid to interrupt her train of thought.

  ‘She was a real person,’ she went on, at last. ‘An ancestress of ours. My great aunt used to tell us stories about her. Long, involved, exciting stories. I don’t know where they came from, if they were true, or if she made them up, but they caught my imagination. I would act them out again and again in my head or in my games. Sometimes Isobel was my friend. Sometimes she was me and I was her …’ Her voice trailed away. Behind her the kettle boiled and switched itself off. Henry didn’t move.

  ‘I hadn’t thought about her for years – not until I went to Duncairn again in June. Now she has come back. Not to play with’ – she laughed, embarrassed – ‘not like when I was a child, but when I meditate. It is as if I am opening a door, and she is there waiting … She is much more real than before. No longer my creation. It is as if she has a life of her own.’

  Henry could feel the skin prickling slightly on the back of his neck. He cleared his throat. ‘I expect the meditation technique allows your imagination a free hand,’ he said slowly. ‘But if it upsets you, you should stop.’

  ‘Oh, it doesn’t upset me. I enjoy it. It’s so much more exciting than –’ She stopped abruptly. ‘I was going to say than real life, but that sounds so awful.’

  Henry grinned. ‘It’s not awful at all. It’s quite understandable. Real life is – well – real. Your Isobel presumably has more fun in her life.’

  Clare smiled. She was thinking of Robert’s kiss. ‘Indeed she does. Do you think I’m quite mad?’

  ‘Only marginally.’ He was relieved to see the strain leaving her face.

  ‘Please don’t tell Paul. I don’t think he’d understand. I know this isn’t exactly a world-enhancing pastime, but in a sense it’s a serious exercise, and it’s better than TV.’ She smiled disarmingly. ‘Paul thinks I should be happy pottering about like Gillian and Chloe or your partners’ wives, organising NSPCC coffee mornings and church jumble sales and discussing fashion and make-up, but I’m not like that. I need something more; something different to them. The trouble is, whenever I try to explain to him that I would like to get a job, or do some really serious studying, we get back to babies.’ Her jaw tightened.

  ‘Babies?’ Unobtrusively Henry leaned forward for the jar of instant coffee and drew the empty mugs towards him.

  ‘Paul wants me to have babies.’

  ‘And you don’t?’

  ‘Oh, I’d love to have one; I sometimes think I can’t live without one; I look into people’s prams and things.’ She smiled wistfully. ‘But then I get depressed about it and all I want to do is forget about babies altogether.’ She paused for a moment thinking again of Paul’s phone call earlier that day. The tests were OK and yet suddenly he’d changed his mind. Now he too wanted to forget about babies. She bit her lip. Somehow it didn’t ring true, but that was something she could worry about later. She smiled at Henry. ‘That’s when I’d like to do something positive; something to take my mind off children altogether. I wish Paul really could forget about babies for a bit. In fact I wish the whole Royland family weren’t so obsessed with procreation.’

  Henry laughed. ‘Tough. Tell him you’re on the pill, taking a degree in Oriental studies and about to rebuild your fairytale castle with your own hands once you’ve finished your brick-laying apprenticeship, and there will be no babies until you’re forty at least. I gather motherhood late in life is all the rage these days. That should fix him.’

  She giggled delightedly. ‘Oh Henry, I’m so glad you came round. You put everything in perspective. Bless you.’

  Henry picked up the kettle. Suddenly he felt ridiculously happy.

  James was surprised Paul agreed to meet him so quickly. Perhaps it was something in the suppressed excitement of his voice which had prompted his brother-in-law to suggest lunch that day. They met in the foyer of the bank after James had walked through from the Westlake Pierce dealing room in the new building.

  ‘So,’ Paul looked at the younger man with some curiosity as they made their way briskly along Coleman Street, ‘what is all this about?’ James was very like Clare to look at. Roughly the same height, which was fairly short for a man, slim, dark-haired, the same large grey eyes; but curiously, the features didn’t make him look feminine at all. On him they were rugged and handsome. Handsome enough to pull women in droves according to his sister, even before he had inherited his fortune.

  ‘I wanted to know how Clare is.’ James looked him straight in the eye.

  ‘She’s fine. That was a stupid incident last night. She has to learn to be less neurotic, that’s all.’

  ‘Last night?’ James raised an eyebrow. ‘What happened last night?’

  ‘She was trapped in a lift for a minute or two and it shook her up. Isn’t that what you meant?’ Paul said mildly.

  ‘No.’ For a moment James looked uncomfortable, then with a slight shrug, he went on. ‘No, I was talking about this man teaching her to cope with mental stress or whatever it is. Why is she so stressed?’

  Paul gave a deep sigh. ‘I wish I knew. But, as to her handsome yoga teacher,’ – he gave a half smile – ‘I think you can take it that he will shortly be getting his marching orders. Clare’s neuroses, such as they are, are better served by rest and quiet than by some quasi-spiritual mumbo jumbo. I’m sending her on a holiday next month. That will help her more than anything else.’

  ‘Lucky Clare,’ James said dryly. ‘Does she know yet?’

  Paul caught the note of sarcasm and looked up. Unexpectedly he smiled. ‘No,’ he said. ‘She doesn’t know yet.’

  It was not until they were sitting at their table downstairs at Gows and their food had arrived that James dropped his bombshell.

  ‘What do you think about the offer for Duncairn?’ he asked inn
ocently as he picked up his fork.

  ‘The what?’ Paul stared at him.

  ‘Clare received an offer for Duncairn. Didn’t she tell you? She turned it down, of course. I gather they didn’t mention a figure –’

  ‘Who? Who wants to buy it?’

  ‘Ah well, that’s the interesting point. Clare didn’t know – the offer came through a third party, but I’ve done some nosing around amongst my pals.’ James stopped and put a forkful of fish into his mouth, chewing slowly, well aware that Paul was waiting.

  ‘And?’

  ‘And I gather there is some speculation about surveys they’ve been doing up that coastline. Word is one of the oil companies might have put in a pre-emptive bid just in case they decide to test drill. The bet is that the offer is from one of the big consortia, or, just possibly from an outfit called Sigma Exploration, a US-based company which is trying to get a larger foothold overseas. There’s been a lot of talk about them in the City lately. You must have heard of them. They’re trying to raise some big bucks.’

  ‘And you think some of it is to buy Duncairn?’ Paul’s eyes narrowed. ‘For God’s sake, Clare never mentioned it!’

  ‘She doesn’t know,’ James put in hastily. ‘Not about Sigma.’ He hesitated. ‘She’ll put up a hell of a fight for Duncairn, Paul –’

  He stopped, astonished, as Paul laid down his knife and fork, his food untouched, and pushed back his chair. His face was white … ‘Fight,’ he said slowly. ‘She doesn’t even know the meaning of the word. If someone is offering big money for that heap of stones, and she opposes the sale, I’ll make her sorry she was born!’

  Turning on his heel, he headed for the staircase.

  4

  Clare was out in the tiny suntrap of a garden at the back of the London house when Paul arrived. An open book had been discarded on the paving stones beside her chair as she lay, dressed in a low-necked cotton blouse and shorts, soaking up the afternoon sun.

  For a moment she didn’t see him as he stood in the doorway watching her, then sensing his presence, she opened her eyes. He stepped out on to the terrace and stood looking down at her in silence.

  Clare sat up, startled. ‘Paul? What is it? Did you forget something?’ That morning he had left before she was awake, and she had not heard him return the night before.

  ‘I’ve just had lunch with your brother.’

  ‘Oh?’ Clare felt her stomach tighten warningly. Deliberately she resisted the urge to scramble to her feet. She stared hard at the litter of crisp dead leaves nestling in the moss against the bricked border of the flower bed, and waited.

  ‘He tells me someone has offered to buy Duncairn.’ His voice was even.

  ‘That’s right.’ Clare tried to sound casual. ‘Crazy isn’t it? I expect they wanted to develop the hotel.’ She carefully avoided looking at him.

  ‘No doubt. May I ask how much they offered you?’

  ‘They didn’t mention a figure. They said if I were interested we could discuss a price, but as I have no intention of selling, there is nothing to discuss.’ She knew she was speaking too quickly.

  ‘And you weren’t even interested enough to find out how much they were considering offering you?’ His tone had a mocking, dangerous ring.

  ‘No.’ She stood up abruptly, her shoulders hunched, and took a few steps away from him, studying a bruised rosebud with exaggerated care.

  ‘What if I told you that it was worth a fortune to the right person,’ he said quietly.

  ‘It wouldn’t make any difference.’ She turned to face him. ‘I suppose James told you that he thinks they want it for an oil terminal or something. Well, even if they do, I don’t care. I’m not selling.’

  ‘Not a terminal, Clare. They think there is oil there.’

  She stared at him. ‘I don’t believe you!’

  ‘It’s true. Whether you believe it or not, and whether there is really oil there or not is immaterial. The fact is, one of the oil companies believes there may be, and they want to acquire the land. Under different circumstances, I might have agreed with you and said keep the land, although rents and revenues are unlikely to be worth much, but we need the capital, and with the oil industry in such turmoil, the sensible thing is to go for money in the hand. Now. If this company wants to invest in a speculative deal, then you should take their offer. It will be a big one.’ He was watching her intently, his voice still carefully even. ‘They might change their mind later.’

  ‘No.’ Clare clenched her fists. ‘Don’t you see? I don’t want to sell.’

  Paul sighed. ‘I appreciate your sentimental attachment to the place, but you must overcome it. People have to move with the times.’

  ‘No. No they don’t. Aunt Margaret left Duncairn to me. She meant me to have it for ever.’ She was trying to breathe calmly.

  ‘And pass it on to your children?’ Paul’s voice was acid.

  Clare froze. ‘Mine or James’s,’ she whispered at last.

  Paul sat down on the wooden bench near her. Behind him the mellow London stock bricks of the wall radiated a gentle heat from the sun. He took a deep breath, determined to seem calm. ‘Clare,’ he said with exaggerated patience, ‘I do appreciate your feelings, darling, but they are totally irrational. When the price is right one must always sell.’

  ‘And everything has a price, of course.’ She sounded very bitter. ‘So, tell me, Paul. What is the price for Duncairn? Were you thinking of driving them up? Holding an auction perhaps in a marquee in the castle grounds? What is it to me, after all? Just some scrubby moorland, some inaccessible cliffs, the feus of a fishing village, a ruin and a hotel that makes no money! You’re right. I should sell it at once! I can’t think why I should have delayed.’ She flung herself towards the door. Then she stopped and faced him again. ‘Money! That’s all you think about! For God’s sake, why do we need any more capital? Haven’t we got enough? We’ve so much more than most people have.’ Her voice had risen passionately.

  ‘No, we haven’t got enough. As I told you before, Clare, one cannot have enough money,’ he replied coldly. ‘And as your aunt failed to leave you any at all to administer the estate, and as you seem convinced she had your welfare at heart, I can only assume that she had some idea of its worth. It may be that she did after all leave her property divided equally between you and James. And if that was the case, she expected you to sell.’

  ‘She did not.’ Clare stared down at him. ‘You know perfectly well she did no such thing. I don’t understand you any more, Paul. If we needed the money, this would make sense, perhaps. But we don’t.’ She pushed her hair back from her face. ‘Do we?’

  For a moment he hesitated, then he shook his head. ‘I need all the money I can get, Clare. For investment.’ He gave a hard, humourless smile. ‘And I intend to get it. And I am not going to let you stand in my way.’

  There was a moment’s stunned silence as Clare stared at him. ‘What do you mean?’ she managed to ask at last.

  ‘I mean, I intend to see to it that you accept that offer. You’ll have no children, Clare, to pass on some stupid old woman’s sentimental vision of a family seat to. The Gordon connection with that land would die with you anyway, because I’m damned if you’re leaving it to your brother. He’s got enough as it is.’

  ‘I could still have children, Paul –’ In her confusion at his sudden rage Clare seized on her one bit of hope. ‘You said there is nothing wrong with me –’

  ‘No! Accept the fact. You will never have children. John Stanford told me so, Clare. We didn’t want to hurt you, we didn’t want you to blame yourself, so we agreed to say nothing to you. But it’s you. You who can never have a baby!’ He stood up, his face taut, his bitterness, anger and impotence focussing at last on her, battering her, determined to hurt her as he had been hurt. ‘Inheritance means nothing when the line is barren, you might as well face it. Do you think if you did decide to leave Duncairn to James that he would keep it for one single minute? Of course he wouldn’t. He
would sell.’

  ‘Paul –’

  ‘No, Clare. No more crazy excuses. I want you to give me that letter. I’ll contact the solicitor –’

  ‘I burnt it.’ Quite suddenly she was completely calm. She looked at him coldly. ‘I have no intention of selling, Paul, or of letting you do it for me. The land is mine. And it will remain so.’

  Their eyes locked. For a moment she thought he was going to hit her. Then, abruptly, he pushed past her and went into the house. A few minutes later she heard the front door bang.

  For a long time she sat quite still on the bench, her mind a blank. The October sun had slipped behind the rustling, paper-dry leaves of the plane tree in the garden behind theirs, throwing cold, flecked shadows over the paving. She shivered violently.

  Barren. The most desolate word in the English language. No pregnancy; no baby; no sons; no daughters. Just a useless empty woman, hated by her husband. The look in his eyes had been more eloquent than any of the words he had thrown at her. He disliked her and he despised her. The change in him which had started the day Aunt Margaret’s will was read was now complete. The Paul she knew, the Paul she had married, had disappeared. His charm, his sense of humour, his carefree extravagance – all had gone. Had he never loved her then, at all? Was the acquisition of money going to take the place of the family they would never have? She stood up and blindly she turned and ran into the house. Picking up the phone with a shaking hand, she began to dial.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Royland, Dr Stanford is on his rounds at the moment. Can I get him to ring you when he comes in?’ The polite voice was impersonal.

  Clare closed her eyes. ‘No. No thank you. Don’t worry him. It wasn’t important.’ Slowly she put down the receiver. For a long time she sat staring into space, then at last she stood up. Walking slowly upstairs she went into her bedroom and drew the curtains.

  Her legs crossed, her hands resting loosely on her knees, she tried to force herself to breathe steadily. She could hear her heart pounding in her chest, feel the throbbing of her nerves, like electric shocks in her stomach. Calm. She must be completely calm before she lit the candle.