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‘Damn you, have you turned to ice?’ he swore at her.

Deep within her, Frances felt passion stir in her body, but she would not respond to this savagery. Once Gray had wooed her with patience and gentleness to evoke the reciprocation he desired, now he was using violence and pain.

‘Let me go. you brute!’ she gasped.

He laughed derisively.

‘You’re my wife, Fran. I’ve a right to do with you what I will.’

He bent her backwards, his intention plain on his face, and her feet slipped on the polished floor as he bore her down.

‘Gray,’ she cried. ‘For pity’s sake! Someone may come in!’

The sound of running footsteps along the corridor outside indicated that someone was coming. Gray released her so suddenly she fell. He turned away, straightening his tie and pulling down his waistcoat. Frances scrambled to a chair, trying to adjust her collar to conceal the marks on her throat and neck, as Lesley burst into the room. Unaware of the tension in the air, she ran straight to Gray and threw her arms about his neck,

'Oh, Gray, Gray!’ She was laughing and crying. ‘You’ve come back!’

A spasm crossed the man’s face, and for a moment he looked like his old self. He gently disengaged himself from Lesley’s clinging arms and held her at arm’s length.

‘At least someone is glad to see me,' he remarked. ‘But please don’t weep over me, Les, you'll damp my shirt.’

‘Damn your shirt,' she cried happily. ‘Oh, this is marvellous!' She turned to Frances. ‘Aren’t you crazy with joy? Have you told him about Robbie?'

The mask had descended again and Gray’s face and voice was full of suspicion as he demanded:

‘Robbie? That’s a new one. Who's Robbie?’

Frances was powerless to intervene. Not like this should Gray have been told about the birth of his son; but Lesley would suppose he had already been informed. She said now:

‘Why, Fran’s baby, of course ...’

‘Oh, Fran’s had a baby, has she?' he cut in. ‘Congratulations, Fran—you omitted to mention that little event. Were you so hot for Ian you couldn't wait to be sure I wasn't coming back?'

For a moment Frances did not grasp his meaning, then it hit her, and rage boiled up in her. She turned on him furiously, her eyes flashing.

‘You cad, you brute!’ she blazed. ‘How dare you insinuate such beastly things! You leave me for your precious boat, get yourself involved in all sorts of thuggery, and haven’t the decency to let me know you’re still alive. I’ve done as you asked, tried to keep your business going, while you amused yourself with that American bitch. Then you come back to insult me, assault me, call me names. I hate you, loathe you, do you hear?’

Both Lesley and Gray were staring at her as if she had gone mad, it was so unlike the gentle Frances they knew to be so enraged. She rushed on, not caring:

‘Robbie’s mine, and I won’t let you come near him, Gray, to contaminate him with your cynicism and base suggestions. God knows I loved you . . .’ her voice broke, but she recovered and went on, ‘but you scorned my love, and there are limits to what the greatest love can bear. You’ve killed mine. Go back to your Samantha and your American pals. I never want to see or speak to you again!’

She ran out of the office, slamming the door behind her.

Frances
was in such a state of emotional turmoil that she had run out of the building and was half way down the street, before the cold wind recalled her to her surroundings and the realisation that she had left her coat and bag in Gray's office. She used public transport when she went to Crawfords, occasionally a taxi, for she did not own a car and had never learned to drive. She did not need one, living in a town. Her way lay through several not very salubrious streets before reaching the residential area where she lodged, and she preferred to avoid walking through them. The short afternoon was drawing to a close and the street lights had come on, as she stood biting her lip, wondering what to do. She shrank from returning to the building and running the risk of encountering Gray, and the only solution seemed to be to ring up Lesley and ask her to bring out her things. Would Lesley still be with Gray? She must risk that, and the chance that he might answer the telephone. Her present predicament would appeal to his saturnine humour, and he would tell her it served her right. She walked on looking for a telephone kiosk, and hoped that when she found one the instrument would be working. In these days of hooliganism there was no guarantee it would be.

Insufficiently clad, she was shivering, and when a car slid to a halt by the curb a little way ahead of her, she stared at it with lacklustre eyes. The driver got out and waylaid her.

‘Mrs Crawford, are you all right?’

It was Lesley’s boy-friend, Douglas Maxwell, and Frances stared at him blankly, trying to collect her wits. He was a well set up young fellow, with red hair, keen blue eyes and resolute chin. Though he and Lesley sparred, he never allowed her to ruffle him, and laughed at her more extravagant outbursts.

‘Mrs Crawford,’ he said more urgently, ‘is something wrong? You look as though you’ve had a shock. Can I take you home?’

Frances recognised him with relief.

‘That would be very kind of you, Doug. I ... I’ve mislaid my handbag.’

Douglas firmly ushered her into the front seat of the car and wrapped a rug round her legs. He was not a man who wasted words and he thought Frances looked ill. As he started the car, he asked: 'Perhaps your bag was snatched? You’ve been attacked?’ as that would account for her dishevelled appearance.

‘I was,’ she said dully,
^:
by a wild beast.’

She covered her face with her hands and shuddered, because that was how Gray had behaved, the man she had loved!

Douglas looked startled. Some ruffian must have accosted her, he thought.

'You ought to go to the police,’ he said anxiously.

‘They couldn’t do anything.’ Becoming aware of Douglas’ anxious expression, she strove to speak more rationally. ‘I can’t tell you what happened, but it’s not a police matter, nothing’s been stolen. Lesley
will bring my things. Just run me home, there’s a dear, and I’ll be all right.’

Douglas had a great admiration for Lesley’s friend, and was a little in awe of her. She was quite an important person at Crawfords, besides being thought very beautiful and poised. To find her coatless on a winter afternoon walking the streets like a zombie was certainly surprising, but apparently nobody had been killed or injured and she obviously did not want to talk. So being tactful as well as kind, he asked no further questions, hoping Lesley would enlighten him, and drove her to her door.

'Shall I come up with you?’

‘There’s no need. Murdoch will be there. Thank you, Doug, ever so much. I don't know what I’d have done if you hadn’t come along..'

‘A pleasure, Mrs Crawford.'

He watched her go up the stairs to the next floor, still looking half dazed, and disappear through the door of her flat, wondering what could have happened at Crawfords to upset her. That he never did learn, for Lesley was reticent, and no one in the firm ever knew the full story of the young master’s return.

The door was not locked, so Frances was able to gain her bedroom without being seen. She changed her dress, bathed her face and neck, added some make-up and wound a chiffon scarf about her throat and felt somewhat restored.

The premises consisted of an upper storey flat, with two bedrooms, bath, kitchen and living room. There was an attic above where Murdoch and Caesar slept. The Highlander—his first name was Angus, though no one ever used it—was not only a domestic help, but he had proved an efficient baby-minder. Frances had no qualms about going out and leaving him in charge. He had acted as batman and cook to Gray, but a baby was something else.

He adored the ‘wee maister’, as he called Robbie, and a strange rapport existed between the old man and the infant.

Frances went into the sitting room where a bright fire burned and Robbie was strapped in his low chair, chewing a rusk. He was old enough to crawl now and Murdoch confined him to his chair when he was too busy to watch him all the time. The child was all Crawford, fair-haired, grey-eyed, and already he had Gray’s imperious lift of the head. He was on the whole a good baby, sweet-tempered and contented, but he could when thwarted display a violent temper. He waved his rusk and crowed as Frances came in, and she bent down to kiss him. Caesar came to greet her, and sniffed at her skirt, then he whined and ran to the door. Frances knew that although she had changed, he had detected some lingering scent of Gray upon her.

‘He’s not there, old boy,’ she said, scrambling to her feet, as Murdoch came in carrying a tray of tea for her. Sadly she went to sit by the lire. He should have been there, but he had not even asked where she was living.

Murdoch drew up a coffee table to her side and set his tray upon it.

‘Ye be cauld, mistress,’ he said, noticing her slight shiver as she thought of Gray. ‘It be reet raw out.’ He looked at Caesar. ‘What’s up wi' the dog?’

There was no point in prevaricating, he would have to know.

‘Mr Graham’s come back,’ she said tonelessly.

‘The good Lord be praised!’ He looked eagerly at the door. ‘He be on his way?’

Frances shook her head. 'Mr Graham has formed other ties,’ she told him in the same flat tone. ‘Oh, he’ll be seeing you before long, I'm sure, but we shan’t be living together.’

Murdoch said nothing, though his face creased with disappointment. Robbie was demanding attention, and he lifted him out of his chair.

‘I will bath the wean and put him to bed for ye,’ he said kindly. ‘Sit ye here and sup your tea, for ! can see ye be chilled to the bone.’

Frances made no protest and smiled gratefully. She felt a great emptiness inside her. She had lived for months in anticipation of Gray’s return; everything she had done had had that end in view. Now he had come, and her expectations had crumbled to dust.

She looked round the comfortable room which she and Lesley had furnished with part of her legacy. There was an open fireplace built of stone, plain beige walls with a few good reproductions of famous landscape artist pictures, a three-piece suite covered in bright cretonne; the tray on the coffee table was silver, the crockery bone china: they had been her grandfather’s possessions. Caesar had gone back to the hearthrug, which his bulk obliterated. He twitched in his sleep; from the bathroom came the rumble of Murdoch’s deep tones and Robbie’s shouts of glee.

Gray’s man, Gray’s dog, and Gray’s baby. He could claim the first two if he so desired, but she would fight tooth and nail to keep her child from him. Her sides were bruised from the grip of his hands, hut that was nothing to the wounds to her susceptibilities. She no longer cared what had happened to him or what he was going to do so long as he left her and Robbie in peace. Lesley would have convinced him that Robbie was his child, nor did she believe he had really believed he was not. It had been another opportunity to insult her. Her mind reverted to Gray’s story; it was an ugly one and he had cause for bitterness, but there was no excuse whatever for his long silence, except his perversity. A few words on a postcard could have relieved the worst of her anxiety.

She recalled the days in hospital when Robbie was born. The daytime had been bearable, the Fergusons and Mrs Crawford had visited her, but the evening hour, when the young husbands came from their work to see their wives and offspring, had been hard to bear. Gray had been in hospital too, but he had not wanted her, he had had Samantha to condole with him to offer the sympathy he would not accept from her, the unwanted wife.

What would he do next? Appeal for restitution of conjugal rights? Was that the phrase solicitors used? Frances shivered, but not with cold. When she had told Murdoch they would not be living together, it was what she intended, but would Gray accept her decision, or would he force his way in here, disrupting her household, demanding his rights? She did not fear brutality, Gray’s ‘cruelty’ would be much more subtle than that. He would exploit the physical attraction between them which her burning resentment could not entirely withstand for his own satisfaction, while he despised her for her acquiescence, and deny her his confidence and trust. That acid tongue of his would sear her tenderest feelings, and when he had tired of tormenting her he would go back to Samantha.

She could not endure it, she would not, but where could she find sanctuary? Lesley and his mother would support his claims. They would consider she should do her wifely duty, not understanding how deeply she had been wounded.

Murdoch called to her from the bedroom and she went in to say goodnight to Robbie. Rosy and sweetsmelling from his bath, he cuddled in her arms and sleepily nuzzled at her breast. He had been bottle-reared, as she had been unable to feed him herself, but he liked the comfort of the contact. As his long lashes closed over his eyes, she laid him down gently. This gift she owed to Gray, and she would always be grateful for it, but it was all she wanted now, and it was possible he might try to take the child from her. She did not reason that that would be difficult, for the mere thought threw her into a panic. She must go away, at once, before Gray sought her out and asserted his claims. When Lesley came in, much later than usual, she found Frances feverishly packing a suitcase.

‘What on earth are you doing, Fran?’

'I'm going away,' Frances told her. ‘You and Caesar can manage with Murdoch to look after you. I ... I don’t know how long I’ll be gone, perhaps for good. I'll be staying at some small hotel while I look around.'

She thrust a packet of diapers into the case. Lesley sat down on a chair.

‘If your flight has anything to do with Gray, it isn’t necessary,' she said coolly. 'He asked me to give you a message from him, no doubt anticipating you might do something foolish. He’ll respect your wish never to see him again. Were you afraid he’d force his way in here?’

This was an anti-climax to her fevered imaginings and, overcome, Frances sank down upon her bed.