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I opened my eyes to blankness.

It had to be the biggest shock of my life, worse than the moment of my birth, because that trauma--a purely physical one--was surely far less terrifying than waking to a mental void.

Where was I? What had happened? I turned my head. The movement hurt, but I ignored the pain. I received an impression of a drab room that was also dim despite the apparent brightness of the day beyond its tall, dirty windows. I was sure I'd never seen my surroundings before. Then I became aware of how weak I felt and realized I must be ill. But this couldn't be a hospital. Weren't hospitals clean and bright--and full of bustle?

Before I could think further, a head blotted out everything and I found myself looking into a man's face. Even in my bewildered state I couldn't help admiring his extremely good looks, the thick long lashes framing dark, anxious eyes whose lustrous depths were like a clear but bottomless pool, although their owner looked as though he hadn't slept for some nights. His light olive complexion was topped by a head of black hair that was so unruly its owner might just have climbed out of bed. Oddly this--and even the shadow that indicated he hadn't shaved for a while--only added to his attractiveness. But it was a stranger's face. Then Imust be in hospital. And he must be a doctor.

"You're awake. Thank God!" he said, letting out his breath in a sigh. His voice was rich and deep, but hoarse with anxiety. "How are you feeling?"

He moved back a pace and I saw he couldn't be a doctor. Doctors didn't dress in shabby jeans and tee-shirts--at least not while on duty. And of course this room couldn't be a hospital room. For a start, hospitals didn't use beds as huge as the one in which I lay. It was clearly meant for a married couple...

"Where am I? What's happened?" The words came out in the raspy whisper of a voice that hadn't been used for a while.

He frowned, studying me thoughtfully. He spoke slowly, almost as though he thought I would have trouble understanding: "You have been in a car accident."

I tried to recall the accident, but there was nothing but blankness. My mind could conjure up no images whatsoever. I couldn't even imagine myself behind the wheel of a car. And when I struggled to picture myself in familiar surroundings--somewhere more comforting than where I was--I couldn't do that. But the worst thing was that I seemed to have no identity: I couldn't remember my own name. Perhaps if I could see my face...

"Do you have a mirror?" My request came out in a choked whisper.

From the dressing-table he picked up a hand mirror. To my surprise it was heavy, silver-backed and as bright as the room was dim. My hand could barely hold it as I lifted it to my face.

"See, your beauty is unmarked," he said with a fervor that, coming from a stranger, sounded odd.

I stared into the mirror.

I didn't know what to expect. But his words hadn't been just a euphemism to tell me my face was unscarred. The stranger studying me from the mirror would have been classed as beautiful by most people. Enormous, wide-spaced eyes of aqua-gray stared at me with my own bewilderment and inquiry. In spite of illness the oval face, although thin and pale, had flawless skin framed by curtains of silvery-blonde hair that would shine once the dirt had been washed away. The generous mouth--too sensitive, I thought in dismay--was quivering on the verge of tears. Only the exotic, catlike slant of the eyes gave the face enough character to stop it having the insipid sameness of looks paraded in beauty contests.

But the stranger in the mirror had no help or comfort to offer me.

I let the mirror drop to the counterpane and sank back on the pillows, tears squeezing themselves from under my closed eyelids, though I strove to check them. "Who am I? And who are you? I guess you must be my husband, but I've no idea what your name is, never mind my own."

When seconds passed and I didn't get an answer to my strangled questions, I opened my eyes, blinked away the tears and looked at him with accusation. To my surprise, even in the dimness I could see a flush on the high, sharply molded cheekbones that gave his face an air of arrogance--an arrogance from a bygone age. But why did he look so stunned? When he answered, his voice sounded harsh with anger.

"You're Rebecca, my wife, of course. You were on your way home in your car and some idiot, probably drunk and driving on the wrong side of the road, slammed into you almost at our gate and drove off, leaving you for dead. I brought you home from hospital only this morning and you've been sleeping ever since."

So I had been in hospital. That must be why I'd expected to find myself in a hospital ward. But since I couldn't remember waking to find myself in hospital, this information only made the situation worse.

I sent him an entreating glance. Please tell me something that will help me remember!

"Rebecca who?" That was as much as I could get out. Talking made me feel so weak.

"Estevan."

Whatever I had been expecting it wasn't what sounded like a foreign name. But of course,I told myself, if I was married to him it would be his surname and not the one I was born with. When I studied him again I could see his heritage, if not in the broad build of his tall, elegant figure, then at least in its proud carriage and certainly in those exotic good looks.

"You're...Spanish?"

"My father was."

For some reason this made me curious. "And your mother?"

"She was the only daughter of English farmers. My sister Leecy and I grew up in England on my grandparents' farm. My parents have since retired to Spain where my father has two brothers. My sister married a doctor and I hardly ever see her. She and her husband spend more time overseas than they do at home." With this he picked up the mirror and placed it carefully back on the dressing-table. "Look, you don't really want to listen to me spouting about my family. It'll only exhaust you. And you must be hungry. What say I get you some soup and then let you sleep? You'll probably remember more when you wake up again."

More? I thought bitterly. I can't remember anything.

But I was exhausted, as he had surmised. And he had also guessed correctly that I was hungry.

While he was in the kitchen I took the opportunity to look at my surroundings with more care, which reinforced my first impression of the room's poverty. Even the oilcloth on the floor--laid, I guessed, before the second world war--was torn and dirty with age, although the huge bed was new and the aged bedcover concealed a down-and-feather duvet. All the same, I hoped the rest of the house was in a better state.

I must have been madly in love to have married a man whose home offered so little comfort. This room, for instance, would be freezing in winter. Imagine putting feet warm from bed onto that cold, bare floor! Then I noticed that there was a fireplace with an elaborate overmantel. But even it looked as though it hadn't seen a fire for a generation at least.

His reappearance put a stop to my gloomy thoughts. He put the tray he was carrying on the bedside table and I felt unaccountably shy as he lifted me to a sitting position, placed more pillows behind my head and tucked a tea-towel under my chin. Then he sat on the edge of the bed and started spooning hot chicken soup into my mouth with as much care and patience as a trained nurse, spilling not a drop and stopping only when I couldn't keep my eyes open any longer. I heard him put the bowl back on the tray and was aware of his movements as he took away the tea towel and pillows--was too much aware of those dark eyes that were the last thing I saw.

But I didn't hear him leave the room.

When I next awoke it was with as much fright as the first time--for it was the bouncing of the bed that disturbed me. I opened my eyes to see that it was now night-time. By the light of a bedside lamp a male form was climbing into bed beside me. At the gasp that I was unable to stifle he froze. Dim though the light was, I was sure it was guilt that suffused his face with red.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you." He spoke in a whisper.

"What d'you think you're doing?" I couldn't keep the indignation out of my voice.

"Coming to bed. I'm tired of the old couch. It's too short for me--and it has a broken spring. Besides, you're well enough now for me to come back to bed with you."

My imagination ran riot at what this could mean. "But I don't even know your name!"

He sighed. "I'm sorry--it's difficult for me to comprehend that everything's strange to you, including me. I'd hoped you'd remember once you'd had some proper sleep. My name's Raoul."

I frowned, puzzled. "But that's...French isn't it?"

"Yes. My mother felt that my father's name--Rafael--was too much of a mouthful to call a child and that the English Ralph was too abrupt."

By now he was between the sheets. Propped on one elbow, he looked down at me uncertainly, a bit like an actor who wasn't too sure of his next move let alone the accompanying lines. But I was determined not to give him any cue. I had nothing to say anyway. Well, that wasn't strictly true. Rather, I had too much to say. The trouble was my lines were all questions--questions tumbling so thick and fast I didn't know where to start. And he looked too badly in need of sleep to spare the time to answer them. We stared at each other for a long moment of silence, my heart starting to thud apprehensively at the grimness that settled over his features.

It was he who broke that stretched-out, uncomfortable pause. "There's no need to look at me like that. I'm too tired to...make any demands of you. Besides, you're still not well enough. But if I'm to care for you properly I need a better night's sleep than I've been getting since you had the accident."

He turned his back on me and settled his pillow under his head.

"Goodnight. Sleep well." With these gruff words he reached out and switched off the bedside lamp.

Some husband! I thought. I'm surely not too sick for a goodnight kiss!

However, I said nothing. After all, as far as I was concerned he was a stranger. Within five minutes his deep, even breathing told me he was asleep. But for me sleep just wouldn't return. I told myself it was because I had been sleeping most of the day. In reality it was surely that my overworked brain kept coming up with more and more questions. In the morning, I told myself, I'll put every one to him. I'll grill him mercilessly. I refused to admit to myself that his presence in the bed beside me was in any way disturbing.

Out of consideration for Raoul's need for sleep I tried not to toss and turn. In the end increasing pressure on my bladder gave me a good excuse to satisfy my curiosity about the house. Carefully I pushed back the duvet and swung my legs off the bed. To my surprise my feet found a pair of slippers waiting for them.

It was very dark. The only light in the room came from the large figures on the digital alarm clocks, one on each bedside table. But I reckoned these would be bright enough to help me feel my way to the door.

I was surprised at how weak I was. I had to use the bedside table to stand up. I can't remember how I steered myself across the room, but it must have taken me ages. Once outside I gently closed the door. Then I really was in total darkness. I groped along the wall, feeling for the light switch. It was pure chance, I'm sure, that led me to it. By the glow of the unshaded bulb I saw I was standing in what had once been a grand hallway in a Victorian house. I quickly found the lavatory, which was sadly in need of replacement.

Though my legs felt tottery under me, my curiosity was too great to allow me to go back to bed without at least glancing into all the rooms. I found the other bedrooms--of which there were a surprising number--all empty except for boxes and pieces of stored furniture. It confirmed my impression that Raoul and I had no children and that I was alone in the house with him. It looked, in fact, as though we were still settling in and hadn't unpacked everything. There was an incredible amount of dust.

Downstairs I was surprised--and much relieved--to find a large modern kitchen in a quaintly Victorian farmhouse style, looking as though it had hardly been used. The house also boasted what had once been an elegant formal dining-room and a huge drawing-room that showed signs of being in the process of redecoration--though, from all the dust, it appeared the workmen had abandoned it years ago. Feeling suddenly weak, I sank down on the old couch Raoul had mentioned. I was wondering how he had managed to get any sleep at all on it when the silence was broken by a click as the door behind me opened.

I started and whirled, unaccountable guilt suffusing my face in a hot crimson tide. It was, of course, Raoul, his hair even more disheveled than before, squinting blearily at me in the light from the naked bulb. And he still needed a shave. How could a man be so attractive when he looked so rumpled and tired?

"What on earth are you doing down here? You're not well enough to be out of bed!" He looked and sounded annoyed.

Like a chidden child, I stared at him in sullen defiance. With long strides he crossed the room. Next moment he had scooped me up just as he would a child who was too sleepy to walk up to bed. Instinctively I shrieked with the shock of being abruptly lifted into the air.

"Put me down! Put me down at once!"

"Very well--but I doubt you'll be able to get yourself back upstairs," he said, promptly yet gently placing me on my feet. To my mortification I felt myself swaying dizzily and was forced to clutch the nearest thing, which happened to be the front of his pajama top.

"See?" The arrogant complacency in his gaze sent tears of humiliation instantly welling from my eyes. I lowered my lids to hide them and to shut out that hateful expression--and found myself staring at the hand clutching his chest. For a moment I was sure I could feel his heart thudding against my palm. So he really was angry with me--much angrier than he even admitted--for waking him up and for being stupid enough to come downstairs when I had recently been in a coma. And how could I blame him? Hastily, in utter confusion, I withdrew the hand.

Fortunately for me he chose that very moment to pick me up again, or I would certainly have reeled like a drunk. At first I turned my face from him and gazed at my surroundings to avoid having to look at him, but found myself feeling even giddier, and so insecure I felt the need to cling to something. However, there was nothing to cling to except him, and I steadfastly refused to do that. So I concentrated instead on my hands clenched together in front of me. This meant I had no choice but to lean against him, with the side of my head pressed against his chest, and so could hear as well as feel the beat of his heart, which slammed against my ear with unnecessary noise and vigor. If he went back to bed with so much anger bottled up inside him, I told myself, he'd never get the sleep he so badly needed.

"I'm sorry I've been such a nuisance and made you angry," I whispered.

"You haven't--just a little foolish. And of course I'm not angry with you." The chilling curtness of his voice, rather than reassuring me, simply increased my mortification.

We continued up the stairs in silence. Once in the bedroom he settled me in bed and tucked the duvet firmly around me.

"Now stay there," he said, hands on hips, like a mock-stern father with a disobedient small daughter. "If you want anything, just ask for it."

"Do you have a potty?" I spoke without thinking in a desperate attempt to lessen his annoyance.

Much to my surprise it worked. He threw back his head and laughed. It completely transformed his face, making him less medieval looking. I couldn't help smiling at the success of my silly question.

"The lavatory's right opposite the bedroom, and I suspect you've already found your way to it. But I think perhaps you might be hungry again and I'd rather not be woken by your rumbling insides--so how about I make you some scrambled eggs and a cup of tea?"

I ventured an upward peep at him. With the broad grin still on his face he looked devastatingly handsome. "Thank you. That would be lovely."

The eggs came with hot buttered toast, all of which I devoured greedily while he lay back and watched me inscrutably through thick, lowered lashes. At the first sip of the tea, however, I made an involuntary grimace of distaste.

He sat up quickly. "What's wrong?"

I held out the offending cup. "It's horribly sweet. Do you mind if I leave it?"

He shrugged and took the cup from me. "No, of course not. Tastes do change after an illness. But I'm too tired to make you another. You'll have to put up with water."

A few minutes later he placed the refilled cup on my table, returned to his side of the bed, climbed in and snapped out the light--all without so much as another glance in my direction. "Goodnight."

Again he was asleep before me. But at least I must have eventually slept, for the insistent Beep! Beep! Beep! of the clock on my bedside table dragged me from dreamless depths. It was still as black as midnight. Furiously, without thinking, I shot out my hand and thumped the clock into silence.

The loud thud was what woke Raoul. He sat up, switched on the light and looked at me in momentary fright.

"You all right?" Then, without waiting for my answer: "Was that the alarm?"

"What's it doing going off in the middle of the night? And why can't you set the one on your side instead? I hate alarm clocks!"

He grinned, and something inside me did cartwheels while my burst of ill-humor instantly vanished. "It isn't the middle of the night any more--it's nearly dawn. And I always set yours to go off before mine. It's a good incentive to get up when the alarm's on the other side of the room."

With that he switched off his own alarm, climbed out of bed and started to strip by dropping his pajama trousers. A tide of hot shame washed over me and I quickly turned my back, pulled the duvet close under my chin and shut my eyes. Only the deepening of the brown against my eyelids warned me that he had walked round to my side of the bed. At the suddenness at which my eyes flew open his mouth quirked and his eyes gleamed sardonically. He had thrown on the tee-shirt and jeans he had worn the day before, but he hadn't bothered to comb his hair. And his face still sported a dark shadow that was now almost the untidy beginnings of a beard. Goodness knows how devastating he'd look in decent clothes after a good shave, I found myself thinking. He leaned over and switched off my alarm so that it wouldn't go off again.

"I'm off to work now. I'll bring your breakfast up when it's light after I've showered and shaved. In the meantime get yourself some more sleep. You can come downstairs for a bit later in the day if you feel well enough."

"Yes, Doctor."

My mockingly meek reply elicited the result I had aimed at--the devastating grin that set my insides churning. I wanted to ask where he worked and what he did, but didn't dare risk bringing back the moodiness that seemed to be characteristic of his volatile personality. After he'd been to the lavatory and gone downstairs I heard a door close after him and the crunch of rapid footsteps on a gravel drive. But once the footsteps died I didn't hear the expected sounds of a garage door opening or a car engine starting up. Well, if he had to walk to work that would account for his having to get up before dawn, I told myself. Not to mention going without breakfast. That was when it struck me: my accident had probably written off our only car.

This thought brought all the questions I wanted to ask him to the forefront of my mind. Some of them, surely, could be answered by simply nosing around the house.

I snapped on the light and gingerly climbed out of bed. Now where would I be likely to find my clothes? The bedroom didn't appear to have a wardrobe. Then I noticed there was a second door in the far wall. When I opened it I saw what had once been a smaller bedroom. It had been divided into two rooms, one of which was a walk-in wardrobe-cum-dressing room. The other, I guessed, would soon be a bathroom. It already had a large corner shower box enclosed entirely in glass with gold trim. When I tried the mixer I was surprised to find it was plumbed in.

I had no trouble finding underwear and a pair of soft, flat-heeled leather shoes and there were plenty of jeans and tee-shirts. However, there was very little in the way of smart clothing: a short cocktail-type dress and a periwinkle blue evening gown, both of them elegantly plain, but nothing suitable for, say, office wear. I could hardly go around the house in evening clothes, however plain, so I chose the smartest jeans and a knitted tee-shirt in blue and headed for the shower.

By the time I finished dressing I was feeling weak again. I found some cheap skincare products in the bathroom but no makeup. Also, there was no sign of a hair-dryer so I had to make do with using the comb from the silver-backed mirror and brush set.

As I dealt with the tangles in my hair I studied myself in the mirror and didn't like what I saw. I had tucked the tee-shirt into the jeans but it was still obvious they were too big for me. Even if they fitted, I told myself bitterly, I was far too thin--and far too pale without makeup--to bring a spark of desire to Raoul's eyes. And wet hair clinging to my head was somehow even less appealing than dirty hair, I thought, giving the offending locks a tug that made me wince.

When I was as ready as I was likely to be I made my way downstairs, clinging to the carved banister all the way. A glance around the drawing-room told me there was nothing there that might yield bits of my past to me, apart from a built-in glassed bookcase covering half of one wall and filled with an odd assortment of books. I saw classics from the eighteenth to the twentieth century along with an amazing variety of modern novelists, together with a wide range of biography, history, geography and a collection of agricultural tomes that looked very hard reading. Then my eyes lit on a motley and very shabby collection of children's books. One of the titles stood out starkly: Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm. With trembling fingers I lifted it from the shelf and opened it at the flyleaf. But there was nothing there and none of the other books yielded anything either.

I then made my way to the dining room where only a writing bureau--a large, handsome piece of genuine Victoriana--gave any promise of hidden secrets. There I found an item of the sort I was looking for: a photograph album. I saw myself, a radiant bride in off-white bridal attire that refused to give my memory the clues that I demanded. And there was Raoul beside me, as devastatingly handsome as I had imagined in his formal garb. In one photograph he was looking at me rather than the camera. My breath caught on a sob as I compared this elated, ardent bridegroom with the moody man of the present.

Absentmindedly leaving the writing bureau wide open, I sat on the nearest dining chair and continued turning the album leaves, peering hopefully at the wedding guests. But their faces had nothing to say to me either. Then wedding photos gave way to honeymoon snapshots. The exotic surroundings in which they were taken--mostly snow-clad ski slopes--were no more enlightening.

I was so engrossed in my search for my past that I didn't hear the dawn chorus begin. And with the drapes still drawn I didn't realize it was daylight until Raoul's voice cut the silence like a whip cracking.

"What the devil do you think you're doing going through my desk?"

I gasped and almost leapt in the air with shock. The album thudded to the floor.

Raoul's face was blacker than storm clouds, his eyes dark and sparking with fury. He seemed to tower above me like a wrathful god bent on vengeance. I staggered to my feet, the better to face his bewildering and surely unjustified rage, and stood there swaying, more dizzy from shock than weakness. And suddenly I could hardly see him properly for the tears that rushed unbidden to my eyes. Furiously I fought them back.

"They're only our w-wedding photos." The effort of talking shattered my rickety defenses. I broke into noisy, undignified weeping.

Raoul made a small sound that my mind registered as disgust. I couldn't blame him. I must have looked and sounded repulsive. But when he spoke his words astonished me. And even more astonishing was the frantic pleading in his voice.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. Please don't cry."

Then his arms were around me. But his embrace was fatherly rather than what I found myself wanting--that of a husband and lover. Even the peculiar sweaty smell he had acquired from whatever work he had been doing didn't dampen my unexpected burst of passion. He didn't seem to notice anything amiss in the way I clung to him, however, and patted my shoulder awkwardly.

"I'm sorry," he said again. "In the poor light I didn't realize it was you--I just saw the open desk and someone reading my things. Please forgive my foul temper: I'm not myself these days."

And with this rather formal and oddly unconvincing apology he made to put me away from him. I immediately loosed my hold on him to avoid the embarrassment of having it done for me. Gently he pushed me back onto the chair before picking up the album and returning it to the writing bureau. Then he turned back to me.

"Am I forgiven then?"

I looked up at him in astonishment. The pleading look in his eyes was irresistible. And after all, he hadn't hurt me--he'd only shouted at me. Besides, the sight of a tall, broad man with hands clasped behind his back like a schoolboy pleading for leniency from a stern schoolmaster was too much for my peculiar brand of humor. My sobs turned to almost hysterical giggles. I couldn't stop even when the austere, cold look returned to his eyes, telling me I had deeply offended him. I had evidently married a rather humorless man, I told myself wryly.

By the time I had composed myself he had turned on his heel and left the room. I could hear him in the kitchen, where he sounded as though he was slamming the pots and pans around in a temper. I sighed and went to open the drapes and turn off the light. How long had I put up with my volatile husband and this huge, grotty house?

However, when I ventured into the kitchen and saw Raoul calmly stirring porridge at the stove I realized that the bare, hard walls and floors had magnified every sound and my overworked imagination had supplied the rest.

"It smells good," I said as a tentative apology. "Would you like me to butter the toast or something...?"

He looked at me briefly--critically, I thought sourly. "Sit down. You're still not well. And we'll have to do something about your hair. It's not yet warm enough for you to be wandering around with wet hair hanging down your back."

Some minutes later I found myself staring into a bowl of unappetizing-looking grunge floating in a sea of cream and sprinkled with brown sugar. It tasted no better than it looked--I found both its texture and its sweetness revolting--but I did my best to force it down my unwilling throat as though I was enjoying it. It was a stupid effort to please Raoul that didn't fool him, however.

"I'm sorry: I should've realized it would be a bit rich for you when you're still recovering. And there's no need for you to shove anything down your throat just to please me." He sounded as though he was still trying to rid himself of his earlier burst of irritability.

He finished his own, took mine away with his empty bowl and replaced the bowls with plates of toast before handing me a mug of black coffee and pushing cream and sugar across the table. Tentatively I tasted the coffee and, finding it already to my taste, ignored the cream and sugar. When I had emptied my cup he refilled it without even asking if I wanted more.

"You make delicious coffee, Raoul," I said through the steam of the second cup.

He smiled faintly. "So you've always said."

Well, it was now or never. There wasn't much point waiting until he was in a sunny humor since it wouldn't last anyway.

"Raoul, how long have we been married?"

He stared at me open-mouthed and seemed to do a quick mental calculation. "About a month."

Only a month and he's already tired of me? I thought incredulously, humiliation nearly choking my vocal cords so that my next question came out almost in a croak: "And how long have we lived here?"

With his elbows on the table and using both hands, he raised his coffee mug as though to deliberately cover the lower part of his face.

"Since our honeymoon--about three weeks--but I've been here three years." The muttered, reluctant reply that I seemed to wait ages for didn't sound too certain.

I was aghast. If he'd lived here for three years why had he made no attempt, before bringing me here as his wife, to clean up what must have taken decades to accumulate? And why had I apparently been just as lax in my housekeeping? "That long? Then how come the place is still filthy?"

So many expressions crossed his face I couldn't keep up with them. All I knew was that anger seemed the final one as his mouth tightened and he put his mug down abruptly. His chair squealed in protest on the floor tiles as he shoved it back, the sound seeming to make all my teeth stand on end in protest.

"The pasture was in an even worse state and at the time my livelihood seemed more important than a comfortable home so I lived in a caravan over by the milking sheds. We'll get the place done all in good time. Now I've got work to do. I'll be back around noon to make you some lunch." He turned at the door, scowling fiercely, and jabbed a forefinger at me."And don't get any ideas about cleaning up. You're not strong enough yet. Besides, it's a job for professionals."The door closed behind him with a sharp click. I was still staring blankly at it when it reopened. "I'm sorry, I forgot. Your hair needs drying."

I was still too stunned to protest. I don't know where he found the hair-dryer, but he disappeared upstairs and was back within a few minutes carrying it and the comb and mirror from the dressing-table. He plugged the dryer in over one of the counter tops and turned to me.

"I can do it myself," I muttered sullenly and made to get to my feet.

But he was too quick. I gave a startled squeal as he picked me up chair and all and dumped me by the sink bench. Using the comb, he started unskillfully blowing hot air through the strands picked up by the comb. If he continued like this until it was dry, I reflected ruefully, my poor hair would finish up looking like a bird's nest.

Five minutes of strained silence later he said in impatient surprise: "Women's hairdressers must charge huge fees. This is going to take ages."

"And don't you have to get back to work?" My reminder was tactlessly pointed.

He paused undecidedly. "I guess so. But are you sure you can manage? You're still weak, and sitting with your hands above your head--"

"Oh, stop fussing!" And I snatched both hair-dryer and comb from him.

He turned on his heel and walked out without another word. I had a sudden urge to run after him and apologize for being so ill-tempered when he had only been trying to be helpful, but by then he had already left the house, slamming the door behind him. And from the sound of his footsteps on the gravel he was walking with such fast, angry strides I would need to run to catch him up. So I turned back to the job of drying my hair. It did take a long time, and my arms certainly started aching before my hair was even half dry. But by the time I had finished I was very pleased with the result. It looked and felt like pale, shining strands of silk.

I loaded up the dishwasher and tidied the kitchen, by which time I had to admit to feeling very tired. Bed again? The idea didn't appeal at all. Then I remembered: there was a large, near-new television set standing opposite the couch in the drawing-room with a pair of huge speakers on either side of it. Television--perhaps because it demanded no intellectual exercise from the viewer--was always a good soporific. I would spread out and watch it until I dropped off to sleep.

However, I couldn't get the set to work. Pressing the only button on its front merely turned on a red light. Then a niggling memory came back to me and I realized I needed a remote control. In searching for the device I found hi-fi units together with a large collection of both LPs and CDs behind two pairs of cupboard doors that filled the rest of the wall beside the bookcase, but the remote control I found there belonged to the CD player. I finally found what I was looking for hidden behind some CDs--although it still wouldn't turn on the television. Maybe it had dead batteries.

Well, I would have to make do with reading. I knew instinctively that I enjoyed reading more than watching television, but it did require more effort. And what about some music? I asked myself, scanning the shelves of CDs. There was an amazing selection to choose from. To avoid having to make a decision I simply took the first my hand alighted on--a selection of Handel's concerti grossi--put it in the CD player and pressed the play button.

Having established that the music was to my taste, I stood a few moments in front of the bookcases wondering who my favorite authors were and which books I had already read. My gaze fell briefly on Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm. It must have been mine as a child--I could hardly imagine Raoul reading it as a boy--but next moment I saw, with shock, that there was another Rebecca there--Daphne du Maurier's. It would do as well as any other, I thought, taking it down.

Much to my surprise I didn't go to sleep but became so engrossed in the book that when the music ended I wasn't aware of it. And I didn't even hear Raoul's footsteps on the gravel. The sound of the drawing-room door opening was the first indication of his return. I looked up in surprise, letting the book drop to my chest, but he made no move to enter the room.

"Sorry. Did I wake you up?"

"No. I've been reading."

"Lunch?"

"Yes, please."

"In here?"

"No, thanks. I'll come to the kitchen."

What stiff, polite inanities, I thought as I put the book down and followed him to the kitchen. I was surprised to find that, according to the clock on the oven, it was five past one. And Raoul must have been in the house for some time. His dark curls were wet from the shower and combed almost flat, and he had changed into fresh jeans and tee-shirt. The now clean lines of his jaw emphasized the sharpness of those high, arrogant cheekbones.

I seated myself at the table and he placed a knife and fork in front of me. He broke the awkward silence as he took an omelet pan from one of the pot drawers. "It's a lovely day and there's no wind. Why don't you take your book into the orchard for the afternoon?"

"Orchard?" The word brought a brief scene to my mind's eye of row upon row of stunted fruit trees roofed in bird-proof netting--a vision that vanished as fast as it had come.

"Yes. Some air and sunshine will do you good--bring a bit of color to your cheeks." As he spoke Raoul looked me up and down so critically I flushed to the roots of my hair. He grinned teasingly--a grin that set my pulses racing, which in turn served to deepen my blush. "And pink cheeks become you so."

"Don't patronize me!" I snapped, furious with myself for rising so easily to his bait. I added some sour comment to the effect that my looks might please him more if I had some makeup--for I musthave owned some cosmetics, surely?

"With your looks you don't need any makeup," he said shortly, making me blush even more--this time with anger. But before I could think of a sharp retort he floored me by apologizing. "Sorry--I was only teasing. Obviously you're still not well enough for it."

I stared at my hands clenched on the table in front of me. "You don't understand." My voice was tight with the churning of my emotions. "It's as though my life started yesterday when I woke up with no past and--even worse--a husband who's a complete stranger."

By now he was using a fork to beat the omelet mixture with unnecessary vigor. "Perhaps I understand better than you think." (How insufferably pompous he sounded!) "Though you're probably physically well enough for lovemaking, because of your amnesia there's an understandable mental barrier. In such circumstances I couldn't possibly expect it of you. It seems to me we need to start afresh. All I ask is that you'll let me court you again."

"Court?" My cheeks still aflame, I ventured a quick upward peep at him. But he seemed more interested in the state of the egg mixture than assessing my reactions to a speech so chillingly nonchalant it might just as well have been about a business arrangement. It wasn't until he jerked his head round and said with irritable impatience, "Well? At least say something," that I realized he hadn't heard my croaked query above the noise he'd been making with the fork in the stainless steel basin.

But my mind was suddenly blank and I couldn't think of anything to say: I needed a few more moments to compose myself. "Sorry. What was that...?"

It was his turn to redden. But it wasn't with embarrassment. "You heard me." The words were even more chillingly curt than his suggestion had been.

I tried to pull myself together and find a reasonable reply that wouldn't irritate him further. "It seems...silly courting when...when--" I trailed into helpless silence. It was only my mind that finished the sentence: we're already married.

"Would you have me turn rapist then?" Both question and tone of voice were intended to shock. I gulped and fastened my gaze on my suddenly trembling hands. When he apparently became aware I wasn't going to reply he left the bench and in two quick strides was standing over me. I tried hard not to flinch. "My touch is offensive to you only because with your loss of memory I seem like a stranger. Is that so?" Was he trying to play the psychologist?

"I...yes." All at once it seemed easier to answer in monosyllables. I was glad he was standing behind me and I didn't have to look at him.

"So, we get to know each other again--go through a second courtship."

I longed to ask what was the point of such a ritual if he no longer loved me--for not once had the word passed his lips despite all the care he had taken of me. I didn't even know whether he called me by my full name or something less formal, such as Becky.

"Okay? Is that agreed?" he asked insistently. And with this he placed a hand on my cheek.

"Yes." The word came out in a strangled whisper--for what his touch was doing to me seemed incredible. How could the feel of a man's work-roughened hand on my face send such delicious tremors coursing through me?

"Good."

And his hand moved to stroke my chin before firmly tilting my head back until I was looking straight up into the depths of those amazing dark eyes. But with his face upside-down--and in shadow--their expression was unreadable.

He started to caress my face lightly with his lips while his fingers fondled my throat. The ripples of pleasure intensified and I closed my eyes the better to enjoy them. Then his exploring hands, slowly passing the wide neckline of the loose tee-shirt, stealthily found the swell of my breasts, exploring the tender flesh with feathery gentleness. I gave a small involuntary moan as the ripples turned to surging currents. They turned to a fiery explosion of arousal--and another of alarm--when his fingers found my nipples.

At my involuntary jerk he instantly removed his hands and straightened up. "I'm sorry, I must be out of practice. I'm going too fast for you."

And he returned to taking out his frustration on the omelet mixture by turning the gas on full and almost banging the pan over the flames. He cooked in a seething silence that I didn't even try to break. I thanked him in a tiny, stiff voice when he set my omelet before me. I was surprised to find it tasted as good as it looked. When I said so he laughed sardonically. "One of the few things I cook really well. I'm glad you enjoyed it."

All the while as we ate, his earlier words rang through my mind in all their ugliness: "Would you have me turn rapist then?"

Oh if only I could regain my past! If only I could be again the Rebecca he had once, presumably, loved. And surely this moody man was no longer the Raoul that the Rebecca of my past had fallen in love with? For I had to acknowledge to myself that, shorn of his moodiness, the man sitting opposite me could as easily lay claim to my heart as he had my body's traitorous senses.

By now we were enjoying our coffee. It was Raoul who broke the uncomfortable silence of the meal. "Penny for your thoughts?"

"Pardon?"

"Your thoughts seem rather serious--and not entirely pleasant. I hope I'm not the subject of them."

I looked at him pleadingly. "Is there no way you can help me regain my memory--my identity--my past?"

He sighed heavily and stood up. "It'll all come back in time. The doctors at the hospital said you'd sustained very little injury--and certainly none to your head. Your days of coma mystified them and they seemed to think all you need is to get as much rest as you can to regain your strength. Now fetch your book and I'll get you settled in the orchard before going back to work."

I did as he bade me while he swiftly tidied the kitchen. It was only then I realized I had been so wrapped in the personal tragedy of my lost identity that I hadn't even thought about what lay behind the tall Victorian windows with their decades of grime. At least if there's an orchard we must have a reasonably large section.

Raoul led me not to the back door as I had expected but to the imposing front entrance with its panels of stained glass, their beauty dimmed by a thick layer of dirt. He flung the door open with the flourish of a magician to the sort of spring day which is everyone's idea of spring but which in reality the season seldom bestows. And whatever I had been expecting, it wasn't the view that met my gaze.

The circular gravel drive fronting the house was dominated by a large fountain that very obviously no longer worked. But the twelve oak trees lining the drive that swept down to the wrought iron gates dominated everything and, judging from their size, were probably older than the house. The bright green of their lacy mantles against the tender blue of the sky was simply breathtaking. The gently rolling hills and valleys beyond, also bright with spring's bounty, were a perfect foil for the oaks.

When I turned my gaze back to Raoul's I caught a glimpse of the man I thought he must once have been. In fact he looked like a proud bridegroom watching his bride's reaction to her first glimpse of the home he had created just for her.

"It's lovely," I breathed as he put an arm around my shoulders and drew me close to his side.

"Welcome home, Rebecca of Twelveoaks Farm." So he had a sense of humor after all, I thought, giggling like a schoolgirl at his silly little joke as we turned left and he steered me along the gravel drive that continued down the side of the house. I hardly noticed the ruins of what must have been some long-dead Victorian's lovingly planted front gardens.

At the back the drive widened into a yard where there were stables--now converted to garaging--and something that was possibly more awesome than the oak trees with their backdrop of what I found out later was the countryside of Hampshire, for Raoul's orchard wasn't the commercial thing I had briefly imagined and as quickly forgotten. Instead it was the stuff of romantic dreams: a grove of brides and bridesmaids brazenly flaunting the beauty of their extravagant pink and white finery, their feet firmly planted in a carpeting of grass that offered their outstretched arms bridal bouquets of bluebells and daffodils along with other wild spring flowers that I couldn't name.

There was a gravel pathway leading past the orchard to a gate set in a low stone wall. Raoul ignored the path, however, taking me instead across the lush grass and straight under the canopy of bridal lace to the far end of the orchard. There a wood-and-wrought-iron garden seat sat among the daffodils under an archway covered in a climbing rose that was yet to come into bud. When the blossoms were all gone, I realized, the riot of roses would take over as the focal point in this simple but glorious paradise. From a copse beyond the low stone wall a cuckoo called. All the elements of Nature had colluded to create a perfect setting for romance, I reflected blissfully.

Rendered speechless and rather misty-eyed by the beauty Raoul had shown me, I turned to him and smiled tremulously. He looked down at me with such warmth, grinning so much like a schoolboy who had pulled off a magic trick even more successfully than he had anticipated, that it was hard to believe those dark eyes could turn hard and cold.

Raoul pulled me close and I raised my face for his kiss, tingles of excitement already setting my pulses racing. Rebecca dropped unheeded to the grass as I wound my arms around him. But when I waited long moments in vain for his lips to claim mine I opened my eyes again, feeling very foolish--to find him staring down at me with that cold, haunted look that I dreaded so much.

"What's wrong?" I whispered in dismay.

He seemed to make a great effort to pull himself together. "Nothing--I just have a lot of work to do. Enjoy your afternoon. I'll see you for dinner."

He dropped a swift, brotherly kiss on my cheek. Hurt and humiliated, I quickly lowered my arms to my sides. He removed his own arms and, apparently not noticing my rigid face and posture, turned on his heel and strode through the orchard in the direction of the gravel path, heedlessly knocking blossoms to the ground as though in anger. Too stunned for a few moments to move but wanting to know where he was headed, I followed him and was just in time to see him disappear over a rise in the farm on to which our property backed. So he worked for a local farmer, I mused.

I turned to look back at the house, huge and solid, with its warm red brick that matched the wall fronting the road, its gables and the tall, narrow windows that gave it the slightly forbidding manner of so many Victorian homes. And a horrible thought occurred to me. Perhaps the house went with Raoul's job, whatever that was. I had assumed--goodness knows why--that we owned it. I had no idea of house prices--I don't think I could have priced a dozen eggs or a bottle of milk--but I knew such a large house, standing as it did in over three acres of grounds, must be worth a fortune.

Through a curtain of tears that turned it into a blur, I looked at the orchard. It was still the same, but somehow the brightness of the day was clouded, the insistent call of the cuckoo merely mocking. I no longer wanted to sit in the romantic little bower: it wasn't the right place for the lovelorn to weep.

I had enough presence of mind to retrieve Rebecca from between the clumps of daffodils where it had fallen before running into the house and collapsing on the old couch in a fit of weeping that left me feeling almost as weak as when I'd woken to find myself without a past.

But at heart I knew myself to be a practical as well as romantic young woman. So as soon as I calmed down I went upstairs to the bathroom and washed my face in cold water. If only I had some makeup! I thought fretfully as I stared at my red swollen eyes in the spotty mirror. But since there was nothing I could do to hide the results of my weeping, I went back downstairs and set about trying to find something for dinner. It didn't seem right for Raoul to work so hard and have to cook the meals as well. Somewhat to my astonishment--for the kitchen wasn't very well stocked--I found lamb chops in the freezer and set them aside to defrost. A brief search yielded carrots, potatoes and some frozen peas. And what about pudding? A farm laborer worked hard. I thumbed through a recipe book and discovered I needed an hour and a half to steam a simple self-saucing pudding. Yes, there was plenty of time to make one, and--again to my surprise--all the ingredients I needed were in the pantry.

It was when I opened the appliance garage to look for the cake mixer that I saw the telephone jack. Where, then, was the telephone? After I had the pudding gently steaming away I searched the house from top to bottom but found only several more empty jacks and a telephone directory. A little later, bored with nothing to do and not wanting to read, I turned on the stereo amplifier and then the tuner, hoping to get a news report. But the latter wouldn't work. I was distinctly puzzled. No television; no radio; no phone.

I sat at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee and thought hard. It seemed very odd that a near-new television and an expensive state-of-the-art tuner should have broken down--especially at the same time. The lack of a telephone gave those two things more importance, made them appear almost sinister. And then there were Raoul's odd, morose moods. Had he something to hide from me? If he had, I vowed, I would find out as soon as he arrived home.

Two hours after I had put it on I found that the pudding had turned out well. However, I decided not to start the rest of the meal until I heard Raoul's footsteps. The evening was going to be difficult enough without the risk of greeting him with a burnt dinner. When, well after dark, I finally heard the crunch of his footsteps I knew from their slow, dragging sound that he was exhausted.

I waited in the kitchen, my heart beating furiously in my throat. One part of me wanted to rush out and confront him at once; another sympathized with his weariness and longed only to soothe it away; and yet a third, cowardly, part wanted to do nothing that would worsen a probably already morose temper.

I stood in uncertainty for too long: his footsteps stopped right outside the kitchen door. Suddenly I realized I couldn't face him. My agitation would be only too obvious and he would instantly demand to know what was wrong. I almost leapt to the sink and grabbed a potato and paring knife. However, fortunately for my shaking hands, he didn't come in but spoke through the closed door. "I need a shower. I stink."

By the time he came down again--showered, changed and shaven--the dinner was ready and I had managed to compose myself. His brooding expression lightened at sight of the pile of small chops, their fat brown and crisp but their meat still tender and juicy.

"Oh, you are an angel. It smells delicious." He seated himself at the table where I had placed his plate. Surprisingly, he started talking about his work. "I've had such a foul day--four difficult calvings and I lost one of them. Several more are due any time--and one of them promises to be troublesome. I'll have to check up on her during the night I'm afraid."

"Why can't your boss see to his own cows in the middle of the night?" I asked indignantly as I seated myself at the table.

He looked at me in bewilderment. "They're my cows."

My mind did several double-takes. "You mean--you mean that farm on the other side of the wall...this house...?"

He looked at me with a strange glint in his eyes. A peculiar, thoughtful little smile quirked his mouth--as though something had just occurred to him. "We own both this house and the farm that keeps it going. It's what the Realtors call a country estate. And what's more we own it lock, stock and barrel."

We continued eating in silence while I digested this. So I had married a farmer who was more comfortably-off than he looked--albeit one who was obviously working too hard. While the knowledge didn't help to fill in my past, it did add a few more pieces to the jigsaw puzzle of Raoul's personality, because I had seen at once that he was no self-taught farmer: his speech and manners were those of an extremely well-educated Englishman. He could have been a lawyer, an accountant--a doctor or surgeon, even.

Later, when I placed the reheated pudding in front of him, I wondered what I'd said or done wrong as I watched the puzzling array of expressions that crossed his face. When he looked up at me it was with a rather tight little smile. "My favorite. You must be coming right then."

"No: that page in the recipe book looked the most used," I said tartly.

He sighed and rose abruptly to put the coffee on. I regretted my ill-humor at once on seeing the moroseness return as he came back to the table, ate his pudding in silence, took our empty plates to the dishwasher and checked the coffee maker--all with such apparently calm indifference that something in me snapped. I suddenly didn't care if I put him in a towering rage. All the same, I schooled my voice carefully to keep out any hint of accusation. "Why haven't we got a telephone?"

Maybe I imagined it--but he seemed to stiffen. "We're waiting to be connected."

I couldn't argue with that. I didn't know if there was a waiting list, or how long such a list might be. "Don't they give isolated rural areas priority?"

He shrugged wearily. "I've no idea. I suppose I should get on to them--but spring is a busy time on a farm."

A time, I thought sourly, when a telephone is surely even more of a necessity than usual in case he needs to call in the vet.

I pressed on: "And what about the broken-down TV and tuner?"

He laughed unconvincingly. "Sorry--I've been too busy to do anything about them too." Then, as though changing the subject, he added with deliberate casualness: "Oh, by the way, I've got a team of men coming first thing in the morning to spring clean the house in readiness for redecorating. While they're here you might like to amuse yourself with those catalogues we sent for before your accident. I dug them out again. Choose paint and wallpapers, drapes, carpets, floor tiles, lights, furniture, bathroom fittings--whatever you want." I gaped at him. He had taken the wind out of my sails with a vengeance! His next words seemed to indicate he thought I needed bringing down to earth: "Oh, don't imagine you can just buy whatever takes your fancy. I've a budget and I expect you to stick to it."

But the sum he then named made me gulp in disbelief. "That much?"

"It's a big house. You'll probably be surprised at how much it will swallow." And he turned his attention back to the coffee maker.

But I don't think I even heard him. Already I was picturing the delight of restoring those beautifully proportioned rooms to their former grandeur--minus the dreadful clutter that characterized most Victorian interiors. He had unwittingly hit upon something that would keep me happily occupied for ages.

I was deep in my daydream and didn't even realize I hadn't thanked him until he turned from the coffee maker as though to check my reaction. And at sight of my dreamy expression his face instantly split into that heart-stopping grin that made him look like an overgrown schoolboy who had pulled off a particularly difficult magic trick. As indeed he had, I acknowledged later. But right then I was too happy to realize he had deftly avoided answering my questions as to why he had cut us off from the outside world. It was so good to see the morose, haunted look disappear from his eyes, if only temporarily. Impulsively I stood up and flung my arms around him. Instantly he drew me close.

"Thank you, Raoul. Thank you so much. I won't let you down. I'll make Twelveoaks a credit to both of us."

He accepted the invitation of my breathlessly parted lips with urgent passion. When his hands wandered from my waist down to my buttocks to pull me closer with firm, exploratory caresses, his fingertips seemed to act like matches striking tinder--for an all-consuming flame instantly blossomed down there, growing stronger by the second.

Then, abruptly, he let me go. With the removal of the hard, enfolding warmth of his body it was as though cold water had been thrown on flames that water couldn't quench. I felt suddenly cold outside while still burning inside.

"The coffee's ready," he mumbled, as though by way of explanation. By now he had his back to me and was pouring the aromatic liquid into two mugs. "I'm sorry. My day's really been too exhausting for complicated things like wooing my wife all over again."

I longed to retort "It didn't feel like that to me!" But I didn't. Stupid pride kept me silent.

He placed my cup on the table and sat down with his own. Why did I feel like a whore who had offered herself to a man in return for extravagant presents? one part of me agonized as I sipped the hot, comforting drink. It wasn't like that at all,the other part answered fiercely. After all, heis my husband, even if he more often seems like a stranger. Besides, something that makes life more comfortable for both of us can hardly qualify as a personal gift.

Well, then,my insistent inner cross-examiner demanded, what was it like? For a moment I couldn't answer. All I knew was that I desperately wanted to know what was troubling Raoul so badly that it caused such wild mood swings. Whatever it was, I yearned to help him, while also at the same time wanting to fling at him anything hurtful I could think of because his moodiness was making me so miserable. And more than anything else I wanted his lovemaking--not just kisses and cuddles, however passionate, but the full act of love. That was when my internal accuser came up with the answer to my muddled feelings: You're in love with him!

I was given no time to deny or analyze this mind-shattering disclosure--or even to retort in defense: Surely it's usual for a wife to love her husband. For Raoul's voice cut through the turmoil of my thoughts with sharp concern. "You're awfully flushed. In fact, you don't look at all well. You've obviously overdone things on your first day up. Get yourself off to bed and I'll clean up the mess." He gave a quick glance in the direction of the sink-bench. "You haven't left much anyway." With that he picked up our cups and carried them to the dishwasher.

I stumbled to my feet.

"Will you be long coming up?" My voice was stiff and tight and--to my ears at least--anxiously hopeful.

"Oh, I'll sleep on the couch to avoid disturbing you when I go out." The casualness with which he said this--as if refusing a proffered drink--made the words all the more wounding.

"Goodnight then." It was a stiff, almost choked whisper.

I--unfairly--gave him barely a second to turn from the dishwasher and bid me a proper goodnight. And when he didn't instantly abandon the plates he was putting in I turned on my heel and walked out. Tears scorched my eyelids and blurred my vision as I stumbled upstairs to the bedroom, pulled off my clothes and, ignoring my night-gown, flung myself into bed, where I cried myself to sleep with heedless abandon.

Next morning I woke up to find it was already full daylight and my beside clock--Raoul had obviously unset its alarm and taken the second clock--told me that he should be back from milking soon. I had just dragged my blue silk dressing gown on and washed my face in cold water--again cursing the fact that I seemed to own no makeup to disguise the dark circles under my eyes--when I heard the unmistakable crunch of Raoul's footsteps approaching.

Without even pausing to think, I dragged the comb through my hair and hurried down the stairs, clutching the front of the dressing-gown closed with one hand. I met him just about to enter the kitchen. He looked hollow-eyed but seemed otherwise normal.

I spoke first, a little too quickly. "How are the cows?"

"Mothers and daughters both doing well." Was there a hint of humor in his answer?

He looked at me critically. I squirmed with humiliation as I felt the blood rush to my face. However, he said nothing about my puffy eyes and the pallor of my skin before the blush had taken over but gestured, instead, to the stacks of catalogues and bundles of fabric, wallpaper and other samples he had obviously placed on the table during the night.

Can any woman resist such things--especially when choosing decor for her own home? But before I could do more than glance at the cover of the top catalogue he went on: "I've got something else too. I meant to give it to you last night but...things got a bit out of hand." Almost diffidently he handed me a large paper bag with the logo of Boots the Chemist on it. "You did say you wanted some makeup. And I remember now--that's what you were going out to buy when you had the accident."

I took the bag warily, almost unwillingly. This was going to be another embarrassing scene. How could he possibly know what colors to buy? And how on earth had he managed to find the time to go into town--wherever that was? I was delighted, however, to discover the foundation, powder, lipstick, blusher, coverstick and eyeshadows were all in perfect shades for my coloring. He had also bought a complete skincare system. And, judging from the packaging, I suspected he had chosen an unnecessarily expensive brand.

Raoul chuckled at my astonishment. "The haughty young woman behind the counter was most helpful. She assured me that with your large eyes and thick long lashes--and with such pale hair--too much eye makeup wasn't necessary--could in fact be disastrous. And since I suspect you've been using my things, I let her choose some skincare for you." I looked up at him, suddenly shy--unsure after last night's fiasco how to thank him--to find him looking down at me with that eager schoolboyish expression. "Well, doesn't a thoughtful husband deserve at least a thank-you kiss?"

He was now holding out his arms to me and I stood up with alacrity. Unfortunately I forgot I hadn't fastened the dressing-gown. Its slippery silk was bad enough--but the padding between the lining and the outer layer of silk that gave it warmth made it heavy as well. Without my hand to keep it closed it fell open and almost slipped off my shoulders. Instinctively I made to pull it closed--but not before my left breast found itself cupped in Raoul's right hand. His touch instantly turned my limbs to water. He drew breath in an astonished hiss. Before I could do or say anything, he had taken the hand from my breast and snaked it around my back. With his other hand he effectively prevented me from covering myself before slipping that hand to join the other and pulling me to him so roughly it drove the breath from my lungs.

"Are you deliberately teasing me?" His voice rasped in my ear. His hands roamed my body ruthlessly until there surely wasn't an inch of it he hadn't touched, while his mouth, savagely demanding, crushed mine. Even as he set the fire blazing within me, the terror he awoke partially quenched the flames. Married to him or not, I wasn't going to submit to such rough, undisciplined lovemaking--especially a roughness born of anger. Somehow, eventually, I managed to drag my lips free of his. At the same time I struggled desperately.

"You're hurting me!" My cry was angry as well as frightened--although his strong hold of me wasn't actually hurting.

...And I was instantly free.

I grabbed the edges of the dressing-gown, pulled them around me with as much dignity as I could muster and fled. I don't remember getting dressed. But I remember very clearly waiting tensely for Raoul to come up and apologize. But he didn't. Instead, I eventually heard his footsteps crossing the back yard. I rushed to the window and, through a curtain of tears so thick it made the bright spring day look dull, watched his retreating back. He moved with dragging steps, his normally proud, erect carriage slumped like that of a man in despair.

I went slowly downstairs to retrieve the bag of cosmetics. It would never do for the workmen who would soon be here to see me--a bride of little more than a month whose husband was obviously both thoughtful and generous--with eyes red and swollen from weeping.

And there in the kitchen beside the jumble of gilded boxes was Raoul's apology. He had used a piece of paper from a notepad on the counter top, the type of thing people leave by their telephones. His writing was bold and naturally elegant, though I could well imagine it being sometimes illegible. The note bore no salutation and no signature. Instead, he had plunged straight into his apology:

I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Please, please forgive my boorish behavior. I can only offer the excuse that I thought you intended to arouse only to refuse. I know, of course, you aren't like that. I also realize I seem like a stranger to you. I will try to be patient and wait till you're ready. Only please don't keep me waiting too long.

I read it again. With the sound in my mind of Raoul's voice saying the words, the note was very eloquent. But the inclusion of one other ingredient could have made it more so. Why, why--oh why?--is there no mention of love?I asked myself bitterly. Could he not at least have scrawled the word on the bottom? There was only one explanation, and my pride found it hard to swallow: he didn't love me any more. And he was too honest to pretend, even to me, that his feelings for me were anything other than carnal.

I stood at the table desperately trying to subdue the tears that nevertheless coursed down my face. Crying isn't going to help me,I told myself crossly. I don't want to be the sort of woman who breaks down with the least provocation. It's only the accident--my amnesia--that makes me like that.

There were two obvious alternatives to my predicament--and one of them wasn't feasible in my circumstances. For where would I go?--an even more important question when I considered that I didn't know where I was in the first place. And I certainly didn't know if there was anyone out there to whom I could turn. Besides, I had no money--not that I knew of, anyway. It really was Hobson's choice, I realized bitterly. But I'm a fighter, aren't I?I told my reflection some time later in the bathroom mirror as I put the finishing touches to my makeup. No one is going to see the broken heart behind the lovely mask.

So I was bright and smiling when I opened the front door to the team of workers--men whose glances all told me I had made a successful start. While they got on with their work in the rest of the house, I sat at the kitchen table. I had already made rough floor-plans of the house--somewhat out of proportion but adequate for my purposes. After much hard work I managed to divide Raoul's budget satisfactorily into mini-budgets for every room and make lists of what each room would require. I had no intention of sticking too rigidly to the budgets, but with so many rooms to do I needed some sort of system.

There was so much noise in the house and I became so engrossed in my work that I didn't hear Raoul return for lunch. When the kitchen door opened suddenly I nearly leapt out of my chair. He entered slowly, uncertainly. As with the day before, he had showered and changed. A sudden mantle of shyness dropped over me, giving my muddled feelings away in a tide of blushing, while my heart beat against my ribs with the frenzy of a wild bird trapped in a cage. Why does he always make me feel like this--reduce me to the level of a blushing schoolgirl? Schoolgirl shyness won't help at all,I scolded myself.

So I rose and forced myself to go to him. His kiss was all I could have wished. But for my knowledge that he didn't love me I could have drowned myself in the passion of that embrace. Things could, in fact, have gone further if the house hadn't been full of strangers--for I knew I could deny him no longer.

His voice was hoarse as his lips finally released mine. "You got my note? I'm forgiven then?"

"Yes," I said. "Yes."

There was no opportunity to say more. The kitchen door opened abruptly. The newcomer--Bob Wright, foreman of the team of workers--retreated in confusion with a mumbled apology. While Raoul went out to see what he wanted I carefully cleared away all my papers and started making a quick lunch of ham sandwiches.

Over lunch I tackled Raoul with something that had been bothering me. "How do I make arrangements--get quotes and things--without a telephone?"

It was obvious he hadn't given the problem any thought. Nevertheless, he solved it very quickly by putting his hand in his jeans pocket and bringing out the smallest cell phone I could imagine. "I've managed to persuade Telecom to do the connection first thing tomorrow. There's a phone around somewhere. I'll find it and plug it in for you. In the meantime you can use this."

"But won't you need it?"

"I've hardly used it anyway. it's only for emergencies. And I can always come back to the house."

I found myself almost wishing an emergency would arise that afternoon. But then, I reflected ruefully, the workmen will still be here.That afternoon I took all the measurements for the bedroom and used Raoul's cell phone to order everything I needed to complete the room.

That evening Raoul announced, abruptly, that the farm hand he was employing on a part-time basis would become full-time, starting the following day, since he wanted to increase his herd. Eventually, he said, he would like to restore what in Victorian days had been the farm manager's house and install, say, a married couple in it. This would mean help on the farm for him and help in the house for me.

"There's no way you can look after a house this size on your own. You really need a full-time housekeeper."

I doubted he would find the staff he wanted, but I didn't say so. He got on with some paperwork on one end of the table while I returned to my catalogues and samples until I couldn't keep my eyes open any longer. I stood up and said hopefully: "Are you coming up to bed?"

"I've got to get these accounts finished. And I'm afraid I need to go to London first thing in the morning to consult my lawyer--and see to a few business arrangements. The farm hand I mentioned will be taking over all my work until I get back. He's a close friend whom I trust implicitly. His name's Andrew. You don't have to worry about putting him up or even feeding him, however: he's using the caravan. It's fully equipped. I'll leave the cell phone with him."

I'm sure if he'd been looking at me instead of his columns of figures he would have seen my disappointment and dismay. And why hadn't he mentioned having to go to London earlier?

"Are you going to be away long, then?"

He looked vague. "Possibly. There's a conference I'm booked to attend. I also have some business affairs to see to. The farm isn't our only source of income, you know. And surely you'll be too busy to get lonely? I'll ring you every day so you can keep me abreast of the redecoration."

Before I could say anything he rose and swept me into his arms, looking down at me with that enigmatic, haunted little smile. His kiss was both tender and passionate, if a little brief. Perhaps it was business that was troubling him. But if things weren't going right, I asked myself, why was he spending a small fortune on the house?

Disconsolately I made my way up to the bedroom where the walls had already been stripped and only the dreadful drapes and torn oilcloth remained. To my surprise I went to sleep without any trouble but woke up around midnight. Raoul hadn't come to bed. Then he must be sleeping on the couch. Tears pricked my eyes. I tossed and turned, imagining the empty days stretching ahead of me without the sound of his footsteps to look forward to three times a day. Suddenly I could stand it no longer: I would go down and wake him if necessary--tell him I loved him and beg him to make love to me, even though I knew he no longer loved me.

Without further ado I climbed out of bed and donned the dressing-gown that had caused such trouble only that morning. Quietly I crept downstairs. With my heart pounding like a kettledrum I slowly twisted the handle of the drawing-room door. The room was very dark. Slowly I felt my way over to the couch. But it was empty.

This was too much for my overstretched nerves. I was now beginning to have second thoughts. What if he rejected me? I forced myself to go to the kitchen. But, as soon as I saw the narrow strip of light beneath the door that told me Raoul was still working, my courage completely deserted me. In my mind I saw myself opening the door; Raoul's surprised expression as he raised his head; the barely suppressed irritability of his "What's the matter?" How could I beg him to make love to me after such a greeting?

I turned and quietly made my way back to bed. I drew the shabby brown curtains back from one of the windows and sat staring at the near-full moon, its calm, blank face blurred through a film of unshed tears. The pain in my heart was simply too tight to allow them release.

When I look back now I marvel at how differently things would have turned out had I carried out my resolution. But whatever the outcome would have been between me and Raoul, I do know one thing: the terror that was even now building up for me would almost certainly have been averted.

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