Captive Destiny. Anne Mather

was right about one thing, she thought, tracing her name in the dust that thickly covered an old cedarwood ottoman. This was the dust of decades. She doubted Mrs Ingram had ever done more than check for dampness, and she began to wonder whether she might not be more sensible to let well alone. Who knew what hairy monsters might lurk among these piles of outdated magazines and discarded books, the rolls of old wallpaper and battered suitcases, filled with faded curtains and worn-out bedding? She was not normally afraid of insects, but the prospect of meeting spiders or beetles up here sent a shiver down her spine.

      Then she gave herself a mental shake. She was being fanciful, she decided impatiently. The attic was just another room, after all, and cleaned out it would make a pleasant storage place for David’s old drawings. At present they littered the drawers of his study, but if she could persuade him to let her store them up here, he would have so much more room to work. Besides, it wasn’t healthy to have all this dust about the place, and it would give her a great deal of satisfaction to show Mrs Ingram what she had done.

      Fortunately she had secured her hair beneath a scarf before tackling the first removals, for the dust flew freely, and she sneezed as particles invaded her nose and tickled her throat. It would be easier, she decided, to investigate the contents of suitcases and boxes up here, rather than drag them through the house, and then those that were to be discarded could all be disposed of together.

      Box after box contained toys, she found, and she realised Mrs Ingram must have kept every toy David had ever had. It was a disconcerting discovery, and although she was tempted to throw the lot out, she decided to speak to her mother-in-law first. After all, they were not hers to dispose of, and if Mrs Ingram wanted to keep them, that was her prerogative.

      Other boxes contained paint and wallpapering equipment, but after levering off a lid from one of the paint tins and finding only solid glue inside, Emma put the whole lot aside to be thrown away. There was a suitcase full of old photographs that would need to be sorted, and a couple of albums filled with pictures of David growing from a boy into a man. Emma spent a few minutes flipping through these pages, and was shaken when she found Jordan’s face staring up at her from a group photograph. It appeared to have been taken when he was at university, but the picture was stuck firmly into the album and she couldn’t turn it over to discover whether it was dated. It was unexpected, finding a photograph of Jordan here, and she quickly turned the page to hide his sardonic features from sight. David had been part of the group, too, although he was a couple of years younger than Jordan, and she frowned. She had not known they had attended the same university, or indeed that they had known one another so long.

      The shock of even visually encountering the man who had so lately thrown her feelings into turmoil left her taut and vulnerable. The task she had set herself was no longer remote from the problems he had created, and with depression digging at her dwindling enthusiasm, she decided to call it a day. Not even Mrs Ingram’s reluctant approval could spur her on at that moment, and the idea of a cup of coffee was far more attractive.

      She was picking her way towards the trapdoor when she stumbled over what she saw to be the sleeve of a sweater hanging carelessly over the side of a cardboard box. It was old and dusty and she bent to pull it out and throw it with the other things for disposal. But her fingers encountered something hard within its folds, and as she curiously pulled the fabric aside, an oblong object fell to the floor with a distinct thud.

      Frowning, she bent to pick it up and saw with surprise that it was a lady’s handbag. Mrs Ingram’s? She pulled a face. She didn’t think so. It wasn’t at all the sort of thing her mother-in-law would use. It was too cheap, for one thing: not leather; and once it had been a garish shade of red.

      Whose, then? she wondered, perplexed. It was too modern to have belonged to some long-dead occupant of the house, and besides, the sweater wrapped around it was familiar to her. David had once had a sweater of that colour, with that particular pattern around the welt and sleeves. She hadn’t seen him wearing it for ages and ages, but she was sure it was the same one.

      Feeling a little like Alice, or maybe Pandora, she turned the clasp fastening and opened the flap. To her surprise the bag was not empty, but filled with the usual paraphernalia to be found in any woman’s handbag—purse, make-up, perfume; even some letters and a cheque book. Exactly as if whoever had been using the handbag had lost it. She pulled out one of the letters to read the address and then stared in amazement. The handwriting on the letter was David’s, she would have recognised it anywhere, and the addressee was someone called Miss Sandra Hopkins, 11, Montford Street, Stratford. The date on the letter was almost exactly four years ago.

      Aware that she was trembling, Emma saw, as if in silent replay, the crumpled wreckage of David’s car after the accident that had crippled him. It had been this time of year, the roads frozen and treacherous with black ice. David had been driving to Stratford—to see a client, or so he had said. Emma had never discovered who that client was, but then she had had no reason to disbelieve him. Was it possible he had been going to meet this girl—this Sandra Hopkins? And if so, why hadn’t he told her? If he had cared about this girl, why had he insisted on marrying her? And what was more to the point, why was the girl’s handbag in their attic, wrapped up in his sweater inside a cardboard box?

      ‘Emma!’

      David’s angry voice echoed hollowly from the floor below. Since his illness, he seldom ascended to the first floor, even though with two metal sticks he was capable of climbing the stairs. But obviously today he had made that effort, and was presently standing at the foot of the attic stairs, calling up to her.

      She was tempted not to answer him. She needed time to absorb what she had just learned in private, but from the tone of David’s voice she guessed he was afraid she might have discovered the handbag, and that gave it all a horrible credence.

      ‘Emma! Answer me! I know you’re up there. Come on down. I told you not to bother cleaning that place out. It’s not necessary.’

      Taking a deep breath, Emma tucked the handbag into the waistband of her pants, and lowered herself on to the top step. Then she fitted the trapdoor in place and descended to the landing below where David awaited her. His eyes went instantly to the wedge of red plastic that pushed her chunky sweater aside, and then unbecoming colour stained his pale cheeks.

      If Emma had needed any further proof that David knew of the handbag’s existence, his guilty appearance was enough, and pulling it out, she said, rather unevenly:

      ‘I think we need to have a little talk, don’t you?’

      ‘It was all your fault!’

      The accusation was so unexpected that Emma was speechless. They were facing one another in David’s study after he had insisted it was too cold to discuss the matter on the upstairs landing, but now she wondered whether his excuse to go downstairs had been motivated by the desire to gain breathing space. Certainly it was the last thing she had expected him to say, and for a few moments she was so shocked she could Only stare at him.

      But at last she gathered herself sufficiently to say weakly: ‘My fault?’

      ‘Yes, your fault,’ declared David, returning confidence adding assurance to his voice. ‘So cold—so frigid! A warm-blooded man could freeze before you’d thaw for him. Such a puritan little soul, I sometimes wondered what—–’ He broke off abruptly at this point and when he spoke again, she had the distinct impression he was not finishing the sentence in the way he had originally intended. ‘I wondered—what kind of a wife you’d turn out to be!’

      ‘Wait a minute.’ Emma moistened her lips. ‘Are you telling me the—the relationship you obviously had with this girl was the result of my refusal to sleep with you before—before our marriage?’

      ‘What else?’ muttered David moodily, and she moved her shoulders in a helpless gesture.

      ‘You can’t expect me to believe you!’ she exclaimed, a sense of hysteria lifting her voice. ‘My God, David, you can’t honestly expect me to swallow that!’

      ‘Why not? It’s the truth. You were a frigid creature. Still are, most likely. Only I’ll never