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‘Malcolm is in New York at present,’ Tamara told him curtly.
‘Is he indeed? Does he know yet, or are you keeping it a happy secret until he comes back? You won’t be able to wait much longer, will you?’ he asked insultingly. ‘What’s it going to be? A seven months prem?’
Tamara’s fingers curled impotently into her palms, itching to wipe the sardonic look off the autocratic male face above her.
‘Tamara, are you okay?’
Nigel appeared on the terrace, his forehead creased in a frown. ‘While we’re here, Zach, how about showing us over the main house, and telling us a bit about your plans for it?’
At first Tamara thought he was going to refuse, but then he seemed to change his mind.
‘What gave you the idea in the first place?’ Nigel asked him as they walked through the garden to the drive which apparently led to the main house.
‘Oh, it grew on me gradually. I inherited this place from an uncle—quite out of the blue. The main house had been neglected for years. The old
man had offered it to the National Trust and they’d refused—they won’t take any house without at least some sort of contribution towards its upkeep, but Gerald wouldn’t accept this, and so to punish them he started to let the house collapse around his ears.
‘Fortunately for me the Dower House was tenanted and the tenants kept it in good order.
‘As for turning the main house into a rehabilitation centre—I suppose the germ of the idea was born when I did a tour in Northern Ireland. Those kids don’t stand a chance; from the very moment of their birth hatred of the opposing religion is inculcated into them; they drink it in with their mother’s milk, and it’s much the same over here with the children who eventually become petty criminals and victims of racial violence. What I want to do is to give them a chance—before it’s too late—to discover an alternative way of life, to live not in some approved school or remedial centre but in a place that teaches them self-respect and self-reliance …’ He broke off suddenly. ‘Sorry about that, I tend to let myself get carried away once I start.’
‘Don’t apologise,’ Nigel smiled at him. ‘I admire you—and envy you in a way, and I wish you every success.’
‘I’ll need it,’ Zach replied grimly, ‘and my first success must be my book.’
‘I can see why,’ Nigel agreed frankly as they rounded the final bend and the house stood before them, decaying and dismal; a hotch-potch of styles and tastes. Tiles were missing from the roof; windows broken; the whole place had a tired, defeated air that touched Tamara’s heart.
‘What made you go into the Army?’ he asked suddenly. ‘You were at Cambridge, weren’t you?’
‘Yes. In those days I planned to be a writer, but somehow I found myself becoming more and more disenchanted with the privileged world I inhabited. I left Cambridge without my degree and bummed around the world for a couple of years. I got involved with a group of mercenaries in Africa and discovered I had a talent for commanding men. It seemed only sensible if I was going to fight to do so with the best, so I came home and joined the Army.’
Having already learned the skills which must have made him invaluable to the S.A.S., Tamara thought inwardly, suspecting that Nigel had no idea of what Zach’s role in the Army had actually been.
Zach showed them over the huge rambling house, pointing out its possibilities. There was a home farm attached to the estate, on which the boys would work.
‘We can’t be entirely self-supporting, of course,’ he admitted, ‘but the farm runs profitably and there’s still scope for the small specialised engineering units of a type we could set up here. I’ve several ideas in mind.’
It was late afternoon before Nigel and Tamara left. They drove several miles in silence, and then Nigel said softly,
‘That’s him, isn’t it? The man you fell in love with; the father of your child?’
‘Was I so obvious?’ Tamara asked wryly.
‘No. I was just putting two and two together. I’m sorry about landing you with the job of helping him with his book.’
‘There wasn’t any way you could get out of it,’ Tamara admitted wearily. ‘He thinks I’m still engaged to Malcolm—I didn’t tell him the truth because …’
‘Because you don’t want him to guess that the baby is his?’ Nigel supplied gently. ‘He seemed very insistent on having you work for him.’
‘Punishment,’ Tamara explained briefly. ‘He seems to think I’m forcing Malcolm into a marriage that he doesn’t want. He even accused me of becoming pregnant to force Malcolm’s hand.’
There was a shocked silence and then Nigel said worriedly, ‘Tamara, if you don’t feel that you can cope with this. You’ve got the baby to worry about now, as well you know. If you feel he’s going to give you a hard time …’
‘The boot ought to be on the other foot,’ Tamara joked lightly. ‘How times change! It used to be the woman who hated and despised her vile seducer, and now … now …’
A soft white hankie was pushed into her trembling hands. Nigel let her cry for a few minutes and then when she had herself under control and had blown her small nose defiantly, he said, ‘Tamara, are you sure about this, I could tell him you’ve changed your mind?’
And have him find out later from Malcolm that their engagement was over and had been for some weeks, and then possibly guess the truth?
