Yesterday's Scars. Carole Mortimer
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in the airport lounge. Dear kind James, the chauffeur who had been with the Savage family every since she could remember, his wife Sara being the cook and housekeeper.
Hazel hugged him, huge tears of emotion welling up and threatening to overspill. ‘Oh, James, it’s lovely to see you!’
He held her away from him. ‘Why, Miss Hazel, I wouldn’t have recognised you, you’re so grown up.’
She laughed. ‘I’ll take that as a compliment, James, thank you.’ She licked her lips nervously. ‘Rafe hasn’t come with you, then?’
The middle-aged man frowned. ‘He would have come himself normally, you know that. But since he was hurt he doesn’t go out much.’ His face brightened. ‘But it should be different now you’re home again. Mr Savage has certainly missed you.’
Hazel doubted that very much, but didn’t argue with him. Something else he had said held her attention much more. ‘You say Rafe has been hurt?’ she asked sharply. ‘What do you mean by hurt?’
James stashed her suitcase in the boot of the Mercedes, just one of the cars kept for the use of the members of the Savage family. She supposed she could be considered part of the family, although she had never considered herself as such. Rafe had a much more sturdy Range Rover for transporting himself about the estate.
James looked at her sharply now, his surprise unhidden. ‘Why, he was hurt in the accident, Miss Hazel. Hurt quite badly too. Of course he won’t admit to the pain he has, but you can see it in his eyes. You’ll probably notice it more than we do, having been away so long.’
Hazel frowned her puzzlement. ‘I don’t understand all this, James. Are you telling me that Rafe has been involved in an accident?’
James halted in the process of opening the car door for her. ‘You mean you don’t know? Didn’t Miss Celia write and tell you?’
She shook her head. ‘What should she have told me, James? Tell me what’s happened to Rafe!’
He shook his head. ‘I would have thought someone would have told you,’ he muttered to himself.
‘Tell me, James!’ she pleaded.
He sighed. ‘Mr Savage was on the launch. No one realised, least of all him, that there was a leak in the petrol tank. One lit match and the whole thing went up. You know how Mr Savage likes to smoke those cheroots of his, it was inevitable it would happen as soon as he went on board. Luckily he was thrown clear, but the left side of his face was badly burnt and he had a crushed bone in his left hip that’s left him with rather a nasty limp at times.’
Hazel paled at this information. Rafe maimed and scarred! Oh, it didn’t bear thinking about. She and Rafe might have argued constantly, but she had never been able to deny that he was a fine specimen of manhood—at least, he had been! ‘Oh God!’ she groaned. She felt physically sick. ‘When—when did it happen, James?’
‘About a year ago now. Mr Savage——’
‘A year ago?’ she burst out. ‘But I—I——No one told me!’
James closed her car door behind her and climbed into the driver’s seat. ‘That’s very odd, Miss Hazel, because I’m sure that when he was so ill Mr Savage asked for you. Miss Celia promised him she’d write to you.’ He began to look uncomfortable, as if realising he had said too much. ‘I suppose she must have decided it was better not to worry you.’
‘Yes,’ she agreed hollowly.
Celia! A viper in paradise was a good description of Rafe’s sister. Celia of the laughing, teasing, spiteful blue eyes, long black lustrous hair, and a perfect petite figure; she managed the Savage household with the arrogance of all the Savage women before her. And she deliberately hadn’t told Hazel of Rafe’s accident, Hazel felt sure of that.
There had never been any love lost between them and on the death of Rafe’s mother Hazel had known she couldn’t stay at Savage House any longer. Celia had married at twenty but was widowed two years later when her husband was killed in a car accident, and so she had moved back with her mother and brother. Four years ago Mrs Savage had died, Hazel’s only ally as far as she was concerned, and Celia had taken over.
But she had never believed Celia would go to the extreme of keeping something of such importance concerning Rafe away from her, she had never believed she would go that far.
At twenty-seven, twelve years Rafe’s junior, Celia was one of the most beautiful women Hazel had ever seen, and she was surprised that she had never remarried. But why should she feel it necessary when she had the privileged position of running the Savage household? As Celia was only six years Hazel’s senior the two girls were of an age where it should have been possible for them to have been friends. But there had always only ever been antipathy between them.
Celia had always resented the fact that Rafe had taken over Hazel’s care on the death of her parents, declaring vehemently to anyone who cared to listen that Hazel wasn’t a true Savage, that she didn’t belong at Savage House. And Hazel supposed she was right, but where else could a ten-year-old child go?
‘I suppose you’re right,’ she agreed more strongly with James. ‘But I’ll be glad to get home.’ And strangely enough she meant it. Ever since the chauffeur had told her of the accident she could think only of Rafe, of what seeing him again would mean to her. He had always been so masculinely handsome, so male, and now that maleness had been marred.
She couldn’t wait to reach the house, leaving James to bring in her luggage from the car as she ran inside to see Rafe. Celia strolled casually out of the small salon at her entrance, looking coolly beautiful as usual.
‘Is Rafe home?’ Hazel asked breathlessly.
Celia gave a mocking smile. ‘Thank you, Hazel, I’m very well,’ she said dryly.
‘Oh—oh, yes.’ Hazel blushed. ‘Is Rafe home?’
Celia ran her tongue thoughtfully over her heavily painted lips. ‘Well, he hasn’t made a point of staying home to greet you, if that’s what you mean. This isn’t a case of the return of the prodigal, you know. Rafe is out on the estate like he is any other day.’
‘Oh.’ Hazel couldn’t hide her disappointment from this woman, much as she would have liked to. Nothing had changed at Savage House, it seemed, still the same hate from Celia and indifference from Rafe. She had never known which was the worse to bear.
Celia looked bored. ‘Your usual room has been prepared for your stay. Have James take your things upstairs. I’ll be out for the rest of the afternoon, so please yourself what you do. Just don’t go bothering Rafe when he comes in.’
Hazel held herself stiffly. ‘I had no intention of doing so, Celia.’ She halted the other woman as she made a move to leave. ‘Why didn’t you tell me about Rafe’s accident?’
‘Tell you what, Hazel? That he’s maimed and no longer the man of your girlhood dreams, but a scarred embittered man who doesn’t want to be bothered by your stupid adoration? Rafe saw no reason to ask for your return,’ Celia added cruelly. ‘He didn’t want you fussing around him in an effort to show him how devoted you are. You aren’t wanted here, Hazel.’
Hazel tried not to flinch at the harshness of Celia’s words. In her three years’ absence she had forgotten just how barbed Celia’s words could be, but she was being reminded very forcefully. ‘I’m going to my room,’ she said stiffly.
Celia wrenched open the door. ‘The guest-room,’ she corrected.
Hazel swallowed hard. ‘The guest-room,’ she agreed dully.
She went slowly up to her room. Celia’s resentment seemed to have grown in her absence, not lessened. The room she referred to as the guest-room had been Hazel’s room for the past eleven years. But what hurt Hazel the most was Rafe’s callousness in not even being here to greet her.
The view from the