Another Life Read online

  Reaching the house, Sara saw that several cars were parked in the drive, but Clyde's was not one of them. No doubt he had been delayed at the hospital. In the kitchen, her future mother-in-law confirmed the thought. Giving Sara a quick hug, she declined her offer of help; she could cope best if she worked alone, she said, then added, 'The rest of the family are in the garden. Why don't you join them?'

  Unhurriedly Sara strolled through the trees. She had met several members of Clyde's family, and was looking forward to knowing them better, but the last days had been tiring, and she was enjoying the warmth of the sun on her skin, the feel of the soft grass beneath her feet.

  Set against a forested slope, the house was particularly lovely with its gracefully curving Cape Dutch gables, and the splashes of scarlet bougainvillaea against the pristine white of its walls. The windows were mullioned, the glass aflame with golden shafts of sun, and from the big carved wooden door, wide stone steps led on to a carpet-smooth lawn. Bushes and shrubs were everywhere; mainly the indigenous plants of the Cape Peninsula. There were aloes and proteas, their waxy flowers making a spectacular display. There was a clump of strelitzia, the strange yellow flowers shaped like exotic birds poised for flight. There were the rockflowers, mesembreanthemums of deep purple, and daisies of every size and colour.

  In a small arbour she saw a bench and sat down. Nearby was an ornamental pool, and a kingfisher dipped and soared above the water. Dancer that she was, Sara was enchanted by the grace of the bird's fluid movements.

  She did not know when she became aware of the voices. Perhaps it was only at the sound of her name that she jerked up. Two women were talking, and she recognised the one voice, not the other. Belinda, Clyde's sister, was talking to a woman a little older than herself. Sara's first instinct was to join them, then, as she was caught by something in the voices, she remained where she was.

  '…and with Sara he may never get there, I suppose,' the stranger was saying.

  'Not in the foreseeable future, Mary,' Belinda agreed.

  'What a damned shame!' Mary was indignant. 'Clyde was always outstanding. He'd have made a fantastic surgeon. As a family doctor he'll be wasted.'

  'Not wasted, perhaps. But he won't be fulfilling his potential.' There was a pause. Then Belinda said, 'As long as I can remember, my brother has wanted to be a surgeon. This… this marriage has just shattered us all.'

  From the start Sara had registered a certain coldness in Belinda's attitude. It was something Clyde had dismissed when she had mentioned it. She was too sensitive, he had said, so that she made too much of vibrations. His sister, older than himself and unmarried, had always inclined towards protectiveness; a slight suspicion of any woman he might choose to marry was only natural. With a longer acquaintance Belinda's stiffness would vanish. Wanting to believe him, Sara had not pursued the subject.

  'Have you talked to him?' Mary wanted to know.

  'Once or twice, with no success.' The bitterness in Belinda's tone deepened. 'He's completely infatuated with the girl.'

  'How did she catch him?'

  Catch him… Sara cherished the memory of the day in the dressing-room, when Clyde had appeared to tell her how much he had enjoyed her dancing. Every moment of the scene was as clearly engraved on her mind as if it had just taken place. There had been the fatigue and exhilaration which followed the strain of the performance. Then the shock, disbelief almost, at first sight of the tall lean stranger with the chiselled features and the piercing blue eyes. The feeling, insane perhaps and ridiculous, that he was above all other men she knew, that she would never meet another like him. The tingling as he had taken her hand and kissed it in a gesture of homage that seemed to belong to another age. The certainty that if she never saw him again she would nevertheless never forget him.

  And then the wonder when it became clear that his own feelings were very similar to her own. The wonder of knowing that her own impact on Clyde had been as great as his had been on her.

  Catch him… Even when she had understood what was happening to her, she had been stubborn. They could be friends, she had told him almost despairingly, when he had proposed marriage for the fourth time. She could still remember his answer.

  'I'm a man, Sara, a normal man with normal needs. I want you—as a wife, not as a friend, not even as a mistress. I want to come home to you every evening, to reach for you in the night…'

  There had been a hardness in his tone, so that she had recognised the ultimatum for what it was. Either she married him or she would not see him again. And with it had come the recognition of her own feelings, so that she knew that in loving Clyde she had discovered a meaning in life that transcended the importance of the dance.

  That moment had been precious. She did not want it cheapened by the words spoken by Belinda and her friend. Blindly she looked around her, searching for a way of escape, a means of getting out of earshot. If there was more to the conversation she did not want to hear it. But she was trapped. The only way out of the arbour was past the two women. She could not take that way without revealing that she had listened to them talk.

  'It wasn't difficult to catch him,' she heard Belinda say. 'Clyde was on the rebound. He was just beginning to accept that Andrea had taken up with someone else.'

  Pain stabbed at Sara, sharp and unexpected. The name had been dropped so casually into the conversation. Clyde had never spoken of an Andrea, had never even hinted at the existence of a previous relationship. Yet Belinda's mention was so matter-of-fact as to leave no doubt that such a relationship must have been very real.

  Don't say any more, she pleaded silently. Don't destroy something, that's been so beautiful. Unbidden came the memory of the night in Clyde's arms, when for a while there had been no meaning except the expression of love between two rapturous bodies. Don't say any more…

  'Andrea Stanford?' Mary asked curiously. 'Professor Stanford's daughter? Was Clyde serious about her?'

  'Very much so. Now there's a marriage that would have benefited him. A man in the Professor's position… Clyde could only have progressed.'

  'And yet…' there was a thoughtfulness in Mary's tone, 'if Clyde is serious about becoming a surgeon, perhaps this marriage won't affect him.'

  'It can hardly do otherwise. He'll have to devote himself to making a living, providing all the fripperies a girl like that will want. Andrea's father would have made it possible for him to further his studies. With Sara life will just become the drudgery of a family doctor's existence.'

  'She's a pretty little thing,' Mary offered. 'I've seen her dance. I can understand why he fell in love with her.'

  'Love!' Belinda's contempt was sharp. 'All Clyde feels is infatuation. When he wakes up and realises what his little dancer has made of his life he'll start to hate her.'

  'Surely it's not too late to talk to him. God, Belinda, it's hot here, can't we find some shade? And I'd like a cool drink…'

  They were moving away now, their voices becoming an indistinguishable blur, their words lost. Sara could leave the arbour now. Nobody would see her.

  But she made no effort to move. It was as hot as Mary had said. Even here, where the tracery of creepers provided shade of a sort, the sun shafted through in burning rays. Yet Sara felt cold, a numbing coldness that came from inside.

  Much of what Belinda had said could well stem from simple dislike, a clash of different personalities. But it was impossible to dismiss everything. Clyde had been alone at the ballet, a strange situation now that Sara considered it for the first time. A man as good-looking as Clyde Montgomery would not have to look far for beautiful women to accompany him. Perhaps after his recent break with the woman he had intended marrying, the thought of another date had been abhorrent. And with the abhorrence there could yet have been the unconscious wish for a new relationship, the wish to show Andrea that she had not hurt him as much as she imagined. People did find new partners on the rebound, Sara knew.

  The more she thought about it, the more likely it seemed that
this was what had in fact happened. Men like Clyde did not normally fall in love as quickly as he had done.

  Something else Belinda had said was true. Clyde was ambitious. He himself had told her that riches and fame meant much to him. She knew that he had thought of specialising in surgery, but had gathered that he planned to do so some time in the future, when he had set aside enough to withdraw from practice for a few years. She had not dreamed that his plans had been so immediate, that only their marriage had put a stop to them. He had not talked much about his plans, just as he had not talked about Andrea Stanford. Perhaps he had been tactful. Sara wished he would rather have been honest.

  He would grow to hate her, Belinda had said. The first flush of infatuation would fade, and there would be no lasting love to sustain it. It was then that he would grow to resent his wife for the career he had forgone and which meant so much to him. Perhaps he would even grow to hate her—and Sara knew that she loved him too much to endure that.

  She had to talk to him, had to tell him that she would not marry him, had to find a way of telling him in a way that would not let him persuade her otherwise; for if he knew her reasons for backing down he would dispel them and insist on the marriage. Later he would regret it.

  She had to talk to him, as soon as possible. The wedding was only just over two weeks away. Emerging from the arbour, she saw the gabled house, and stopped short. The party! Already people were gathered on the lawn just below the stone steps.

  She could not go to the party, could not talk to the many people who had come to meet the bride. She could not smile and play the part of a girl excited and in love. A certain amount of pretence lay before her, that much she knew, but she also knew that there were limits to how much she could tolerate.

  There were more cars on the drive now, she saw as she approached the house, but Clyde's was not one of them. If she moved quickly she might manage to leave here before he arrived. He would be angry that she had given him the slip, especially when he found out the reason, but his anger was something she would have to face. It would be easier to contend with than the part of the radiant bride.

  Clyde's mother was disappointed when Sara told her she could not stay. She had a dreadful headache, she said, felt as if she was coming down with flu. Clyde would look after her, said his mother, she should lie down in one of the bedrooms and when he came he would prescribe some medicine.

  Sara was adamant. She was sorry to leave the party, especially when it was being given in her honour, but she felt that the only place for her was home. She was glad that she did not see Belinda on her way to the car. If that girl had said she was sorry Sara was leaving, she might well have countered with something she would later regret.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The knock at the door came less than an hour later, and Sara did not have to wonder who was there. She took a deep breath for courage as she crossed the room.

  'Sara darling, what's wrong?' Clyde's face was creased in concern as he strode into the room. And then, as he looked down at her, his expression altered. 'Mother said you were ill, but you don't look it.'

  Sara swallowed. 'I'm not.'

  The frown deepened. 'Then why did you leave the party?'

  'Clyde…' She choked on the name.

  'Darling, what's wrong?' He had closed the gap between them and she saw that he meant to draw her to him. She took a step away.

  'Sara! You're very white. Darling, what is it?'

  It was very hard to maintain her composure. He was no more than inches from her, and despite her decision to break with him, she was swept with the desire to be in the haven of his arms. He looked so tall, so virile. There was no way she could prevent her senses responding to him. It took every bit of self-control she possessed to maintain her composure when with every nerve and fibre she ached to fling herself against him and to beg him for reassurance that Belinda's assertions had not been true.

  'We have to talk.' Her voice was very low.

  A muscle tightened in the long line of the jaw. 'I don't think I like the sound of that.'

  'Sit down, Clyde,' she said quietly.

  His eyes narrowed. They could be warm as the sky on a sunny day, but now they held a touch of steel. As if he sensed what was coming, Sara thought.

  He walked to the two-seater couch. 'All right then, let's sit.' From his attitude it was clear that he intended her to join him.

  She went instead to one of the cane chairs by the window. Strange how hard it was to give her feet purpose. Normally her legs were like finely-tuned precision instruments, conditioned to responding to the slightest direction, but at this moment they felt as insubstantial as water.

  'Sara darling,' Clyde's voice was unexpectedly gentle, 'I've never seen you look so miserable. Whatever it is that's worrying you, it can't be as bad as you think it is.' He leaned forward, his arms long enough to reach to her from the couch, and as he took her hands in his she felt the familiar quickening in her bloodstream. It came to her that it would be well-nigh impossible to get Clyde out of her system.

  She tried to withdraw her hands from his, for the contact only made it more difficult to say what she had to—but failed. His hold was deceptively light. He was not making it easy for her.

  The blue eyes held hers, steady, too perceptive. Sara let her own eyes slide from his gaze. She swallowed hard, then said, with all the conviction she could muster, 'I can't marry you.'

  'What!' The word was an explosion. The grip on her hands tightened as his fingers grew rigid. The fragile hands of the dancer felt bruised, but now she made no move to escape him. 'Say that again!' His tone was savage.

  Tears had gathered behind her lids, and at the back of her throat a lump had formed. Keeping as tight a rein as she could on her emotions—it would make nonsense of her statement if she were to let herself cry—she said once more, 'I can't marry you.'

  There was a moment of silence, a silence that was almost tangible in its intensity. Sara did not let herself glance at Clyde. To do so could well be her undoing.

  Then he said softly, 'Look at me.'

  Blindly she shook her head. 'I… Don't make it harder.'

  'I'll make it as hard as I damn well wish!'

  She grew rigid as one hand left hers and caught her chin. He drew her round to face him. Short of closing her eyes there was no way of escaping his gaze.

  'Now,' Clyde said very softly, 'say it again.'

  He was very near her. Through the threatening tears she could see every line and crevice of the chiselled face; the furrows that curved from the edge of his nostrils to the corners of his mouth, the firmness of the jaw and chin, the bushiness of eyebrows that were as fair as his hair, and the eyes, those wonderfully intelligent eyes that could warm with laughter and love and tenderness and which were now alight with an alarming perception, as if he could see right through to the thoughts inside her. She could feel his power and virility communicated through the touch of his fingers, a touch which inevitably brought to mind all the moments she had spent in his arms. She could smell the maleness of him, so that briefly she felt quite dizzy.

  For a moment she was tempted to go back on her words. Let Belinda Montgomery think what she liked about the ballet dancer her brother wanted to marry! It did not matter what she thought. All that mattered was that Sara loved Clyde, that he loved her, that she would never know a similar love. Spiteful words should not have the power to ruin two lives.

  But a small voice told her that what Belinda had said did matter. Clyde's sister could not have known of the eavesdropper in the arbour. She had only stated the situation as she saw it. And while Sara longed to disbelieve what she had heard, that part of her which was still rational knew it was true.

  'Sara…' Clyde was so close to her that she could feel his breath fanning her cheek.

  Heedless of the tears that now trembled on her lashes, she met his gaze as steadily as she could. 'I can't marry you. You must accept it.'

  She heard him take a breath. 'Why?'

/>   He would not believe her if she said she did not love him. Her tears, her obvious distress, were enough to refute the truth of the words. As if in answer to her thoughts, he said, 'Don't tell me your feelings have changed.'

  She shook her head. The solution came suddenly, so that she wondered why she had not thought of it before. As a dancer she needed exquisite control. She had not known she was capable of the control she summoned now.

  Her voice was only slightly unsteady as she said, 'I've had an offer. The company wants me to dance Swan Lake.'

  The expression in the blue eyes altered fractionally, as if he wondered how the news could affect him.

  'Congratulations. It's what you've always wanted.'

  'That's right. And that's why…' she dug her nails into the soft palms so hard that they hurt, 'I've decided to accept the offer.'

  Clyde shot her a look that was long and level. 'That's fine with me.'

  'We'll be going on tour. We could be away a long time…'

  His eyes were narrowed, watchful. 'That does change things. The purpose of marriage is to be together.'

  'That's why… Clyde, you have to understand.' She was unaware of the pleading in her tone.

  'You could decline Swan Lake. There'll be other roles, opportunities to dance in the city.'

  'No!' The wildness of despair was in the exclamation. 'I'm a ballet dancer, with all it entails— touring, the lot.'

  'And you're saying your career means more to you than marriage?'

  'Yes.' The word emerged on a half-sob.

  Silence followed the affirmation, a silence more total than the earlier one. Clyde's face had grown very pale, the skin as taut over the gaunt cheekbones as if drawn over a mask. The blue eyes had never been quite so cold. For what seemed a long time he sat very still, his gaze never leaving her face. Sara thought later that during those moments she did not breathe.