He deliberately unclenched his fists and forced the muscles of his neck to relax. Was it really only three days ago that Francis had come to him with the story? It seemed as though he had known it for much longer than that.
He had been working, he remembered, putting the finishing touches to the portrait of Lady Antonia Barrie, when Francis came hammering at his door. He had not been pleased at the intrusion. He had got up especially early to take advantage of the light, and when his half-brother interrupted him he had been less than civil. It wasn’t until Francis had stammered out the story in that way he had when he was distressed that Joel realised this wasn’t another of the simple monetary scrapes Francis had often got himself into.
Even then he had been loath to get involved. “But I don’t see why you should imagine the fact that our father is thinking of getting married again should trouble me!” he had declared impatiently.
Francis, as tall as himself but thinner, fairer, had paced restlessly about Joel’s studio. “Of course, it wouldn’t bother you, would it?” he had demanded fiercely. “Your grandmother left you more than adequately provided for. Unfortunately, I don’t have rich relations like that on my mother’s side. And if Father marries again, why shouldn’t he disinherit me, as he disinherited you?”
Joel had raked his hair back from his forehead with frustrated hands. “That didn’t trouble you too much at the time,” he observed dryly. Then: “It was different with me, Fran, you know it was! Father could never see that I wasn’t cut out to play power politics at the Bank. And, as you say, my grandmother made Father’s participation in my career less than necessary. You’re different, Fran. You’re his son. And even if he does marry again, which I personally doubt, there’s little chance now that he’ll sire more children. Good God, he’s sixty-three!”
Francis turned on him then. “Men have been known to have children at ninety, and you know it!” He paused, his face changing, becoming more calculating. “Besides,” he regarded his half brother scornfully, “you haven’t heard it all yet. You haven’t asked who the woman might be.”
Joel shrugged. “Does it matter?”
“It might. Her name is Gilmour, Rachel Gilmour.” He hesitated, enjoying the effect his words were having. “Her name was Rachel Abbey before she married her first husband!”
And that was when Joel had crossed the studio and done something entirely uncharacteristic. He had caught his haf-brother by his shirt front and dragging him up close to him said savagely: “What are you saying?”
Francis, abashed by his older brother’s intimidation, had struggled to free himself. “It — it — it’s the — t—truth, Jo—Joel! It — it is — Ra-Rachel, it — it is!”
Joel had released him so violently that Francis had spun across the studio and landed on the floor amidst a pile of canvases and an easel. His face had twisted angrily as he got to his feet, and as he brushed his clothes he had stared maliciously at his brother.
“It — it’s not m-my fault!” he muttered, grimacing as his stammer continued. “Just — just because — you d—don’t like the — tr—truth when you — hear it!”
Joel had hardly been listening to him. He believed Francis all right. He wouldn’t come here with a story like that unless he had proof that it was true. But that didn’t make it any better. Searching for a cheroot amongst a mess of paints and sketches on the long board beneath the window, he put one between his teeth and lit it with hands that were no longer steady. Then he stared grimly out of the window for several silent minutes, looking over the rooftops of London to the curve of the Thames in the distance. When he had himself under some semblance of control he turned back to Francis. The younger man had lit a cigarette and was puffing at it nervously, but his expression was defiant when Joel said:
“Tell me what you know,” in low uncompromising tones.
Francis shifted from one foot to the other. “I’m not sure I want to tell you anything,” he muttered.
Joel’s jaw stiffened. “Don’t tempt me, Francis,” he said, in the same low tone. “Now, how do you know it’s — Rachel?”
“I’ve seen her!”
“You’ve — what!”
“I — I’ve seen her. Oh, for God’s sake, Joel, stop looking at me like that! It’s not my — f—fault.”
“Go on. Where did you see her?”
“L—last night. With — with Father! It — it’s true!” This as Joel threw his cheroot to the floor and ground it under his heel. “They — they were — d—dining together.”
“Where?” Joel took a step towards him, and Francis took a step backward.
“At — at — Peruccios. I — I saw them, I tell you.”
Joel moved his head disbelievingly from side to side. “Start at the beginning.”
Francis drew heavily on his cigarette, and blew the smoke into the air above their heads. “Well — well, I’ve — I’ve known for some time that — that there was a woman … oh, yes, I have. Since — since my mother left — I’ve always been able to tell.”
“For the Lord’s sake, get to the point!”
“Well — well, about — about a week ago, Father told me that — that there was someone —”
“But you didn’t choose to tell me that!”
“Not immediately, no!” Francis was defensive. “Joel, as you’ve just pointed out, he’s sixty-three! I assumed — who wouldn’t have? — that — that this women, whoever she might be, would be a contemporary of his! After all, you have to admit, both your mother and mine were near his own age at the time he married them.”
“All right, all right. Go on.”
“Well, I didn’t say much, I didn’t ask much. He told me—oh, how he must have laughed when he told me — that her name was Mrs. Gilmour, Mrs. Rachel Gilmour. Rachel’s not such an uncommon name, is it?”
“And that was all?”
“No. No, he said — she came from Yorkshire. That — that she worked in a village called — Langth — whistle, Langthwaite — something like that — as — as a housekeeper to a retired colonel.”
“A housekeeper to a retired colonel!” Joel repeated the words sceptically.
“Yes. Yes, that’s what he said!”
“You must have made a mistake —”
“I tell you, I saw her —”
“Not about that. About — what she’s doing.” Joel’s fists clenched. “Francis, you know Rachel was at college — when — when —”
“When she walked out on you? I know. But how do you know she finished her training? That — that was six years ago. She — she’s been married. She — she’s got a child!”
“A child?” Joel’s tanned face was pale. “Did Father tell you this too?”
“Y — yes.” Francis stubbed out his cigarette in an onyx ashtray. Then he looked up. “Th—that might account for the fact that she’s someone’s housekeeper, mightn’t it? I mean, it’s not easy to get jobs with — with children.”
“And — her husband?” Joel’s eyes were narrowed beneath heavy lids.
Francis shrugged. “How should I know? Dead, I suppose. Father said she was a — a widow!”
“A widow?” Joel paced restlessly across the room. “I don’t believe it!” He swung round on his half-brother. “Are you