He had been hurt, he was angry, in no mood to get involved with another woman, and who could blame him? Her heart had filled with sympathy and pity; she had ached to do something for him, make him smile again, if only for a moment.
She had looked around to find him and seen him leaving the party, wandering off through the garden in the direction of the beach, his face moody, body wearily graceful under his elegant casual clothes.
‘Come and dance with me,’ Uncle Alex had invited her, but she had refused, saying she would rather just wander round and talk to people.
In fact, she had already made up her mind to follow Patrick. Maybe if he talked about his feelings it might help? she had thought hopefully. Perhaps he’d be glad of a sympathetic ear? Oh, she had found it easy to think of reasons for going after him; you could always find excuses for doing what you badly want to do.
She had slipped away down to the beach, and seen the track of his footsteps in the sand. Childishly, she had walked in his footprints, which were so much larger than her own, placing her feet carefully where his had trod, looking along the darkened beach, listening to the sound the waves made grating on pebbles, the slow whisper of the tide withdrawing again.
She had been so engrossed with thinking of Patrick that she hadn’t heard a sound before someone leapt out at her, from behind a beached boat. She had had just that one brief glimpse, seen tanned skin, moonlight on light brown hair. She had tried to cry out, been silenced, heard an English voice angrily threaten her, and been sure it was him.
As he forced her down on to the sand she had fought desperately, shocked and terrified, while in her head she had thought, Does he think that this is why I followed him? Does he think I want this?
Even more disturbing was the fact that she couldn’t stop herself thinking, too, Did I want him to make love to me? Was that why I followed him down here? Have I asked for this? Invited it? Is it my fault this is happening to me?
When the sound of voices had made him stop and she was left alone, weeping, in pain and misery, she had crawled into the clean salt sea and been half tempted to let herself be washed away on the outgoing tide. But something stronger than she knew, deep inside her, an anger against the man who had done this to her, a life force which would not give in, had dragged her up out of the sea, just as Uncle Alex had come looking for her.
Susan-Jane had noticed her long absence from the party, had been concerned enough to ask if Alex knew where she was, and people had started looking for her, calling her name in the garden, along the beach. The sound of their voices had frightened her attacker away, she realised later.
Uncle Alex had found her staggering up towards the villa, bleeding and weeping. She remembered his stunned white face, his anger, as he’d got out of her what had happened, wrapped her in a towel, and taken her into the villa, where the police and doctor were called.
‘Who did this to you?’ Uncle Alex had asked.
‘The Englishman...’ she had wept, not even remembering his name in her confused condition. ‘It was him...the Englishman...’
‘Englishman?’ Uncle Alex had asked. ‘Do you mean Ogilvie?’
‘Yes,’ she had said, and again, when the police asked, ‘Do you mean Mr Patrick Ogilvie?’ she had repeated it.
‘Yes, it was him.’
She had been so sure.
Afterwards, when they had told her it had been someone else, it had not been Patrick Ogilvie, she had felt a bewildering mix of reaction—relief, that he hadn’t hurt her like that, after all; shock, because it had been some total stranger and her view of what had happened had changed again; and eventually distress because of what she began to realise she had put Patrick through.
‘He must hate me,’ she had said to Uncle Alex.
‘It was an honest mistake; you can’t be blamed,’ her uncle had soothed, but she had not been comforted.
She knew Patrick must hate her, especially when she heard that he had left Bordighera without even going back to the villa to collect his things, and, later, that he had walked out of his contract to illustrate Rae Dunhill’s books because he was so angry with Rae for having been ready to believe he had attacked Antonia.
She had seen Rae briefly before she, too, left Bordighera. ‘I feel very badly about having accused your friend,’ Antonia had whispered, and Rae had given an impatient little shrug.
‘Oh, nobody blames you,’ she had said flatly. ‘Don’t worry about it. From what the police have said, it sounds as if the real guy did look vaguely like Patrick.’
Antonia had suppressed an instinctive shudder of reaction at that, hating the thought; but Rae Dunhill hadn’t seemed to notice the change in her expression.
She had been too busy talking. ‘It’s just a pity it happened now, at this particular moment in his life. Patrick was already off balance after his engagement was suddenly broken off. That hit him hard; I’m afraid this has been the last straw. I went over to see him the other day, and hardly recognised him. He was always such an easygoing, reasonable guy. You could always talk to Patrick—he was never difficult; I could always get him to do what I wanted—but out of the blue he told me he wouldn’t work with me again, he was backing out of his contract. At first I didn’t believe he meant it, but suddenly he’s like granite. I actually felt quite nervous of him, he’s so different.’
Antonia had winced, filled with guilt, knowing that all
