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‘Perhaps if you said you’d live with him, without the marriage bit?’ suggested Beth, the most staunch advocator of marriage in the whole of London, who drove her children mad by insisting anything else was living in sin.
Rosalie gave her aunt a hug. ‘Beth, I’m really going to miss you,’ she said, meaning it. ‘But it’s not even the marriage thing, although that is a sign of huge commitment. It’s more…letting him know how much I love him, you know? Miles would always belittle me to puff himself up and I know Kingsley wouldn’t do that, but when someone is sure of your love they can change…’ Her voice trailed away as she gazed at her aunt. ‘Oh, I don’t know how to put it,’ she said flatly. ‘I just know it scares me to death.’
Beth looked at her for a long moment. ‘And how much does not being with him scare you?’ she said softly. ‘And don’t answer now,’ she added as Rosalie opened her mouth. ‘Think about it. All right?’
Rosalie did think about it. She thought about it all through the next few nights when she tossed and turned until dawn in the sticky heat, the anticipated storm and change in the weather yet to make an appearance.
She woke very early on the Friday morning when Kingsley was due back, even though she hadn’t managed to fall to sleep until way after two.
She had made the worst mistake of her life. Even marrying Miles paled into insignificance beside sending Kingsley away. Suddenly her mind was crystal clear for the first time since she had met him and she knew exactly what she wanted.
Miles was gone—in every sense of the word. Gone from her mind, her heart, her life and this world, so what was she doing letting him ruin her life for the second time? Beth was right, the possibility of not being with Kingsley scared her a hundred times more than accepting him fully into her life.
Kingsley was nothing like Miles, not in character and he had shown her that. His honesty, his straightness, his ability to face issues head-on—Miles had had none of those qualities. Miles had been a pile of dead men’s bones beneath the outward façade of handsomeness and debonair conviviality, nothing about the person he had pretended to be before they’d married had been real. And she had allowed a man like that to convince her that love meant constriction and fear.
She sat up in bed, turning on the bedside lamp and staring into the dimly lit room. What a fool she’d been, what a blind, stupid fool. Kingsley had bared his heart to her, given everything he knew how to give and she hadn’t even listened to him, not really. What had she done?
Her stomach twisted and she climbed out of bed, padding along to the kitchen and making herself a strong cup of coffee.
Why hadn’t she found the courage to tell him she loved him? she asked herself helplessly. He hadn’t phoned or contacted her since he’d gone and she didn’t blame him. He’d clearly washed his hands of her. But how could she live in a world in which Kingsley was living, and not be with him? To know he was free to meet someone else, to marry someone else, to have babies with someone else.
She groaned, laying her head on the cool surface of the breakfast bar for a moment. She wanted to be with him more than anything in the world but she’d been too hung up by the terrors of the past to recognise it. When he’d left she’d thought a few days’ separation would make him see that she was right and that they had no future together. What if that was exactly what he did think? How ironic when she’d done a full hundred-and-eighty-degree turn, if he’d done the same.
She drank the coffee scalding hot, and it was as she finished the last mouthful that she thought, What am I doing? What am I doing? If he loved her, if he really loved her it would be with warts, pimples and all. That was the sort of guy he was. So…did she believe he really loved her? She felt a surge of joy such as she hadn’t felt since she’d been very young rise up. Yes, she did. She did. So it was logical to believe he hadn’t changed his mind. Her fears and emotions might lead her down one path but she had to stand on logic and trust. She couldn’t keep doubting him or herself, not if this relationship was going to have any future. And she wanted a future with Kingsley, oh, so much.
She found herself pacing the small kitchen and stopped abruptly, realising she was so tense her hands were clenched tight.
A bath. And then a call to the airport to see what time his flight arrived. She’d meet him. Whatever time he landed she’d be there waiting for him. She glanced at the kitchen clock. In fact she’d call the airport first, just in case it was an early arrival.
They were very sorry, the anonymous voice at the airport said politely, but there were no flights arriving from Jamaica today. Hadn’t she heard about the cyclone?
No, she hadn’t, Rosalie said tightly.
Cyclone Kimberley was heading straight for the coast and unfortunately holding course despite all predictions it would swing away; consequently all flights were cancelled for the foreseeable future. If she would like to ring tomorrow they might have news then.
She put the telephone down very carefully, her hands shaking. And then picked it up immediately to phone Kingsley’s secretary in England for details of where he was staying, before she remembered it wasn’t yet five o’clock.
The next four hours were the longest of her life.
She had a bath and washed her hair, cleaned the kitchen from top to bottom, including washing the inside of the cupboards and rearranging everything, after which she rearranged it all back again. Her mind was plaguing her with vivid pictures. Kingsley buried under a pile of debris. Kingsley trapped and injured or worse. And all the time thinking she didn’t love him, that she didn’t want him. She couldn’t bear it. She just couldn’t bear it.
She phoned Jenny at home at eight o’clock, explaining she had a few things she needed to sort out and that she wouldn’t be in the office until much later, if at all. Apart from a little juggling with a couple of afternoon appointments there was nothing too vital to sort out.
At nine she spoke to Kingsley’s secretary in the office at Oxford. ‘Oh, hello, Miss Milburn,’ the girl said politely. ‘Mr Ward’s number in Jamaica? Sure, I have it here. Just a minute.’ There was the sound of rustling paper, and then the disembodied voice said quietly, ‘Awful about his friend, isn’t it? And not been long married too. And now there’s all this panic about the cyclone.’
Rosalie’s heart was lurching. ‘His friend hasn’t…?’
‘Oh, no, he hasn’t died, but it looks like he’s paralysed, although they can’t move him yet to a hospital in the States.’
‘Right.’ She took down the number, gave her thanks and put the receiver down, aware her hands were shaking so badly the numbers were barely recognisable.
It was around three in the morning in Jamaica—should she wait a while or phone now? Selfishly, she admitted, she was going to phone now. She needed to talk to him, to tell him how she felt, and she might not be able to get through anyway if the cyclone had hit. Her stomach went over at the thought.
The hotel receptionist sounded weary—no doubt she had been taking calls from anxious relatives and friends for most of the night—but she put Rosalie through to Kingsley’s room without any argument, after indicating Mr Ward might have already joined a number of other guests who were preparing to shelter in the basement.
The phone was picked up immediately. ‘Hello?’
‘Kingsley, is that you?’ Stupid opening line considering it was hardly likely to be anyone else. ‘It’s Rosalie.’
