It was a long time before she finally dropped off to sleep.
* * *
‘You won’t forget that the publisher is coming to see you this afternoon, will you, Uncle John?’ Emily reminded her relative.
They had just finished breakfast. Matt had gone upstairs to collect some papers. Her uncle was going with him to his college and, knowing how quickly Uncle John lost all track of time once he was with his cronies, Emily had taken the opportunity of reminding him of his afternoon appointment.
‘No, I shan’t forget. While he’s here, I’m hoping that Matt will have time to read through the manuscript. I’d value his opinion. By the way, that young man who telephoned you last night—’
‘It wasn’t anything important, Uncle John,’ Emily responded quickly. ‘Will you be in for dinner tonight?’
‘No. We’ll both be dining at High Table. Now, what time did you say that young man was coming to see me?’
‘Two-thirty,’ Emily replied patiently, one eye on the kitchen door as she waited for Matt to reappear, her stomach twisted in knots of tension.
And yet, for all her anguish and self-criticism, breakfast had not been the ordeal she had anticipated. In fact, if she hadn’t known just how Matt regarded her, she would have been completely deceived by his manner towards her.
This morning, for instance, he had insisted that she sit down and finish her own breakfast, and that he make the fresh pot of tea her uncle had requested. Before she could protest he had been out of his chair, filling the kettle.
And then after breakfast he had thanked her so warmly, so caringly almost, as though it concerned him that the management of the household fell on her shoulders.
Although she was always an early riser, she had been surprised to find him coming in from the garden when she had gone downstairs dressed in her customary uniform of plain brown skirt and an equally dull shirt and jumper.
‘That’s a wonderful garden you’ve got out there,’ he had commented as easily as though they were indeed strangers.
‘It’s rather overgrown, I’m afraid,’ had been her stilted reply. ‘I just don’t get the time.’
‘No. Well, perhaps while I’m here your uncle will allow me to indulge my back-to-nature instincts and do some work on it.’
He had brought into the kitchen with him the cool, sharp scent of the early morning, and without even knowing she was doing it she had been drawn closer towards him, so that abruptly and shockingly she had suddenly realised she was within touching distance of his fingertips. She had taken a step backwards then, saying jerkily that she must take her uncle a cup of tea otherwise he would wonder what had happened to her.
‘I thought you worked here as his researcher-cum-assistant,’ he had challenged her almost angrily. ‘Not as his housekeeper.’
‘I enjoy looking after him,’ she had retaliated defensively, keeping her back to him, her body stiff with the resentment and bitterness of all the years of listening to her parents’ bewilderment at this totally alien urge to nurture she seemed to possess. ‘Some people do, you know. I find nothing demeaning or menial in wanting to provide someone with a comfortable home. Not every human being wants to strive for academic or material success; we don’t all want to climb mountains and conquer the world, and it infuriates me that, just because we don’t want these things, we’re constantly made to feel that we’re some sort of sub-species.’
He said quietly, ‘I quite agree. There’s a very special satisfaction to be found in discovering and recognising one’s talents and in finding the most satisfying way of utilising them. Contentment is a state of mind that far too few people really value as they ought, although of course in this day and age your sex is often forced to take on the triple role of wife, mother and contributor to the family income as well.’
‘You mean, not all women are allowed the luxury of indulging their desire to nurture? Well, I know how lucky I am.’
‘And your fiancé, does he know how fortunate he is, I wonder?’
The soft-voiced question had completely silenced her. She had been so determined to defend herself from what she had seen as his criticism of her way of life—the same kind of criticism she had received so often from her family and friends—that she had completely forgotten everything else. She had stared at him, unaware of the confusion darkening her eyes and the way they were suddenly shadowed with fear.
What was the matter with the man, Matt had wondered bitterly, that he could induce such uncertainty and low self-esteem in the woman he proclaimed he loved? What was their relationship based on, that she had felt the need to lose herself and her innocence in his arms?
He had turned away from her so abruptly that Emily had thought he must have somehow or other divined that tiny betraying twist of sensation inside her; that he must have known of that idiotic, helpless yearning deep inside her, impelling her to move closer to him even while she had remained frozen where she stood, immobilised by the strength of what she had been feeling. And then he had been gone, striding through the kitchen, leaving her to come back to reality and to wish that she had never, ever met him.
Now, as soon as she heard the sound of him coming downstairs, she turned her back towards the kitchen door, busying herself with a small, unnecessary task, so that there was no need for her to do anything other than throw a stiff ‘goodbye’ over her shoulder to them as he and her uncle made their departure.
With him gone, she knew she ought to have felt easier, better—that she ought to have been able to shut herself away in her small office and concentrate on her work. She ought to have been, but she was sitting staring unseeing into space far more than she ought to, she recognised.
CHAPTER SIX
SINCE this wasn’t one of the days when Mrs Beattie came to help in the house, once the men had gone Emily had plenty to do before she could shut herself away in her small office and get to work on Uncle John’s notes.
As she went upstairs to clean the bedrooms and bathrooms, she knew how irritated both her parents would be if they could see what she was doing. At home order was only imposed on the chaos of her parents’ household by Louise. Her parents, so untidy and uncaring at home, though, were strict disciplinarians when it came to preparing for their travels; she knew that her mother especially found it extremely difficult to understand how any daughter of hers could actually enjoy housework, and Emily had always felt as though in doing so she was letting her down in some way.
She remembered how when, as a child she had asked one Christmas for a doll, her mother had gently tried to persuade her to have something else instead.
For a time she had striven to match her parents’ way of life, but she hated travelling, hated not having a home…roots. She loved the mental stimulation of working on her uncle’s book, but she also found pleasure in polishing the house’s old furniture, in cooking meals, in arranging the wind and rain-damaged flowers she rescued from the garden.
Her uncle left his bedroom and bathroom in a state of wild disorder; but, to Emily’s surprise, when she walked cautiously into Matt’s room, having stood outside the closed door for a good ten minutes giving herself a firm talking to, and telling herself that she must look on him as nothing more than another colleague of her uncle’s, she discovered that, not only was the bed neatly made, but also that everything in the room was as pin-neat as it had been before Matt moved in.
Only a jacket lying casually on the back of the armchair testified to the fact that the room was occupied. Automatically she walked towards it and picked it up. It was the same jacket he had worn that fatal night when they had met—she was sure of it.
Its familiar scent of worn, soft leather enveloped her so that, without knowing she was doing so, her fingers curled tightly into the worn fabric, as though it gave her some support. Memories, so sharply clear, so shockingly wanton, so intensely real that she could even feel their echo in the immediate physical reaction of her body, swamped her.
Now, when it was far, far too late for