by Anne Mather
‘I think perhaps we should be leaving,’ Jarret said flatly, his lean features guarding his real feelings. ‘Naturally you need time to consider this, Mrs Chase, and maybe consult with your legal advisers. Whatever, I’ll give you my address and telephone number, and the address of my solicitors, and perhaps you’ll let me know what you decide.’
‘Yes.’ Mrs Chase sounded doubtful. Then, as if afraid Margot might change his mind for him, she did the unforgivable thing so far as Helen was concerned. ‘But I’m quite prepared to accept your proposition, on a trial basis—say, of a month—and if you’d like to have the necessary papers drawn up, I’ll be happy to sign them!’
CHAPTER THREE
THE gardens at Ketchley were perfumed with the early promise of summer. Although it was only the middle of May, already the hedges were bright with hawthorn blossom, and clumps of violets decorated the sheltered borders. There was broom, providing its own splash of golden brilliance, pink and white and purple pansies, and acres of buttercups in the paddock where Charles was exercising his latest acquisition. It was a chestnut filly, young and spirited, and he was not having an easy time keeping her obedient to the leading rein.
Helen scuffed her feet rather restlessly as she hung back from the perimeter of the fence, watching the filly’s antics from a safe distance. It was strange, she thought, not for the first time, that in spite of her relationship with Charles he had not been able to squash her fears about horses. They terrified her—she freely admitted it. And in the early days she had never felt quite able to believe that Charles could love anyone who disliked his beloved animals so much. Of course, time and subsequent events had disproved her theory, and every day she tried to persuade herself that time would also remove her fears.
It hadn’t, as yet, and this morning she waited somewhat impatiently for her fiancé to finish his work-out and come and talk to her. For all the bright sunlight, it was quite cold just standing around, and she stuffed her hands further into the pockets of her scarlet nylon jacket, and was glad she had not succumbed to her mother’s suggestion to wear a skirt. Her navy corded pants were very welcome, and tucked into the tops of her boots provided a steadfast barrier between herself and the errant wind.
‘What do you think?’
With her shoulders hunched, and her chin tucked into her chest, Helen had been unaware of Charles’s approach, but her fiancé’s arm across her shoulders brought her head up with a start.
‘Have you finished?’
‘For the present,’ he conceded, smiling, his eyes warming appreciatively as they rested on her delicately-cut features.
Charles Connaught was a man in his middle thirties. A little above average height, with dark good looks, he was considered quite a catch in the rural area in which they lived, and Helen had always experienced a sense of pride in knowing he had chosen her. Apart from her aversion for horses, they had quite a lot in common, including a love for the countryside, as well as similar interests in art and literature. They had known one another for a number of years, but it was not until two years ago, when Helen was nineteen, and bridesmaid at a friend’s wedding where Charles was a guest, that their relationship had developed.
Now Charles lifted his lips from hers to comment casually: ‘You feel frozen! You should learn to ride, instead of hanging back like a lion-tamer’s apprentice!’
Helen’s eyes twinkled. ‘I like the comparison,’ she remarked, adding, with a shiver: ‘And I am cold! I’ve been waiting almost half an hour.’
‘Sorry.’ Charles’s apology was sincere. ‘But I didn’t expect you over this morning. I thought you said you were working.’
‘I should be,’ admitted Helen glumly, linking her arm with his as they walked towards the house. She and a school friend ran a craft shop in Malverley, and she enjoyed her work immensely. But this morning she had other things on her mind, and at the last minute she had phoned Karen and asked if she could manage without her.
‘So what’s wrong?’ asked Charles now, frowning as he met her mutinous gaze. ‘Not Manning again!’
Charles had taken the news that Mrs Chase was going to let rooms to Jarret Manning without much enthusiasm, but it was two weeks now since that revelation, and his work and subsequent events had served to rob it of any urgency. However, his doubts were rekindled by Helen’s attitude, and he promptly stopped and demanded to know what had happened.
‘Oh,…’ Helen scuffed the toe of her boot against the gravelled path. ‘Well, if you must know, the final arrangementshave been made. Jarret Manning moves in a week today.’
Charles’s good-looking features expressed his disapproval. ‘I don’t know what your mother is thinking of,’ he declared, slipping his arm about Helen’s waist as they continued their stroll towards his parents’ home. ‘I mean, it’s not as if the fellow was seriously committed to buying King’s Green.’
‘I think that’s part of the attraction,’ murmured Helen thoughtfully. ‘Oh, Mummy talks of what she’ll do when the house is sold, but quite honestly, I think she’s really dreading moving out. After all, she’s lived there for almost twenty-five years, and it’s quite a wrench when you remember there’ve been Chases at King’s Green for over two hundred years.’
‘But surely she realises that someone like Manning isn’t the kind of chap to move into Thrushfold,’ exclaimed Charles, stepping behind her as they reached the porch so that she could precede him into the house. ‘Damned Londoner! What does he know about King’s Green and its traditions?’
Helen caught her lower lip between her teeth as she entered the hall, wondering what Charles would say if she told him exactly how knowledgeable the other man was. She knew she was deliberately avoiding mentioning her own conversations with Jarret in an attempt to put what had happened between them out of her mind, but she still felt the sense of guilt that came from deceiving her fiancé in this way. Yet how could she tell him, without provoking trouble for both herself and her mother, not to mention the humiliation to herself of confessing to his moral blackmail? All the same, her natural inclination to be honest was being strained, and she hoped that once Jarret was settled into King’s Green she would be able to keep any other associations out of her thoughts.
Mrs Connaught met them in the hall. Charles’s mother was a slim, attractive woman in her fifties, and she and Mrs Chase had a casual acquaintanceship which Helen knew Mrs Connaught hoped would be strengthened by her marriage. The Connaughts had been at Ketchley almost as long as the Chases had been at Thrushfold, andthe joining of the two families was looked forward to with much anticipation.
‘Come into the sitting room and get warm,’ exclaimed Mrs Connaught, after greeting her prospective daughter-in-law with a kiss on the cheek. ‘You look chilled to the bone, Helen. Charles, couldn’t you have left that animal for once, and looked after your fiancée?’
‘Oh, really…’ Helen didn’t want to be the cause of a family argument. ‘It was my fault really. I wanted to watch. But this is lovely!’
There was an open fire burning in the sitting room grate, and its warmth was very welcoming. As Helen entered the room, however, following Mrs Connaught, another man rose from the chair he had been occupying beside the fire and grinned irrepressibly across at her. It was Charles’s younger brother, Vincent, and Helen uttered a delighted cry.
‘What are you doing here?’ she exclaimed, as he came across the room to greet her. ‘I thought you were supposed to be in Vietnam or Thailand or somewhere!’
Vincent Connaught was a journalist, working for a national newspaper, and although his parents were proud of him, Helen also knew that both Mr and Mrs Connaught worried about the dangerous locations their younger son reported from.
‘I’ve got a couple of weeks’ holiday,’ he explained now, taking advantage of his soon-to-be-brotherly status to plant a less than brotherly kiss on her parted lips. ‘Mmm, your lips are freezing. It’s just as well I know there’s a warm-blooded woman underneath.’
‘Thank you, Vi
nce, that’s quite enough of that,’ declared his brother, putting his arm possessively about his fiancée’s shoulders, and although Charles’s tone was amiable enough, Helen sensed the restraint he was endeavouring to hide. There had never been much love lost between the two brothers, they were too dissimilar, and Charles had never learned how to distinguish when Vincent was being deliberately provoking.
‘So—how are things with you?’ the younger man persisted now, addressing his question to Helen. ‘Come andsit down and tell me what you’ve been doing since I last saw you.’
‘That was Christmas!’ remarked Helen dryly, pulling away from Charles’s possessive hold, and taking the seat his brother had been occupying. ‘A lot can happen in five months, as you should know.’
‘We’d all like some coffee, wouldn’t we?’ suggested Mrs Connaught now, determinedly ignoring the tension between her two sons. ‘Helen? You’d like some, wouldn’t you? Oh, and do take off that jacket. You won’t need it in here, Vincent is endeavouring to sustain the kind of climate he’s just left behind in Bangkok.’
‘Is that right? Is that where you’ve been?’ exclaimed Helen, in admiration. ‘How exciting! How long were you there?’
‘Long enough to get himself arrested,’ put in Charles scornfully, removing his own sheepskin coat. ‘Here, let me take your jacket, Helen. I’ll just leave it over the chair here.’
Helen smiled at her fiancé, but she was interested in what Vincent had to tell her, and for the next few minutes she listened enthralled while he described the city that has been called the ‘Venice of the East’. He spoke about the meandering delta-arteries that gave the city its distinction, and the wonderful palaces and temples. It was a whole new world from that of Thrushfold and the problems of King’s Green, and for a while Helen was able to put her own troubles to the back of her mind. Vincent was not like Charles. They shared similar appearances, but that was all. He was much more easy-going, and although Helen would not have trusted him with her affections, she enjoyed their casual relationship.
It was Mrs Connaught who eventually brought up the subject of Jarret Manning. Helen reluctantly explained the latest development, but it was Vincent who chose to intervene, thus forestalling his mother’s commiserations.
‘Jarret Manning!’ he echoed disbelievingly. ‘The Jarret Manning! He’s coming to live in Thrushfold? Lord help us!’
‘Vincent!’ His mother looked reprovingly at him. ‘What’s it to you where this man lives?’
‘But I know him!’ protested Vincent impatiently. ‘We used to work in Fleet Street together. Hell, this is great news! Where is he going to stay?’
Charles’s mouth turned down at the corners. ‘Helen has just explained,’ he stated coldly, seating himself on the arm of his fiancée’s chair. ‘The fellow’s renting rooms at King’s Green.’
‘Hardly renting rooms, Charles,’ murmured Helen ruefully, while Vincent burst into delighted laughter.
‘You mean he’s staying with you, Helen?’ he demanded. ‘My God! No wonder Charles looks so sick about it.’
‘Vincent, please!’ Mrs Connaught flashed her elder son an entreating look, and in the few moments Helen had to collect her thoughts, an awful idea struck her. What if Jarret chose to confide what had happened between them to Vincent? What if it amused him to try and cause trouble between the brothers?
‘Manning is not staying with the Chases,’ Charles declared now. ‘Inasmuch as he’s not a—visitor.’ He paused, clearly wondering how much he should explain. ‘There is some possibility that he may buy King’s Green at the end of the summer, but for the present Helen’s mother is allowing him the use of the library.’
Vincent shook his head incredulously, and then turned to Helen. ‘So he is staying with you.’
‘He’s staying in the house,’ persisted his brother.
‘That’s splitting hairs, Charles, and you know it,’ retorted Vincent tersely. ‘So, Helen? Have you met him?’
‘Of course she’s met him,’ exclaimed Charles, equally tersely. ‘Mother, can I have some more coffee? This is almost cold.’
Ignoring the older man, Vincent came to squat by Helen’s chair. ‘You were saying something earlier about him moving in?’ he said, despite his brother’s obvious irritation. ‘Did you say next week? I’m afraid I wasn’t paying proper attention.’
‘Yes. A week today,’ agreed Helen, rather awkwardly, conscious of Charles’s disapproval. ‘Are you planning to contact him?’
‘Well, I was hoping you might tell him where I am,’ remarked Vincent, raising his eyebrows appealingly. ‘I’dhate to intrude if he’s coming down here to get away from it all. But you could give him this number, if you would.’
‘Helen’s not a messenger girl,’ put in Charles shortly, and Vincent rose abruptly to his feet.
‘Nor is she a dummy, dummy,’ he retorted harshly, and Mrs Connaught stepped between them before something drastic took place.
‘Really, you two!’ she protested, trying to strike a lighter note. ‘You can’t be together five minutes without squabbling! I’m sure Helen will be only too pleased to let Mr Manning know that you were enquiring after him, Vincent, and as for you Charles—I think you could try and be a little more forgiving. Good heavens, your brother has hardly been in the house more than twelve hours!’
An uneasy truce ensued, but Helen knew better than to mention Jarret Manning again, although as Charles escorted her to her car he had something else to say.
‘You know,’ he said, after helping her behind the wheel of the sleek little Alfasud, ‘your mother could change her mind about letting Manning stay in the house. After all, as you said yourself, it’s only a trial period. Would you like me to have a word with her? I really can’t believe she really wants her life disrupting in this way.’
Helen grimaced. ‘You don’t know Mummy,’ she observed dryly, putting the little car into gear. ‘She’s almost looking forward to it. It’s years since she’s been so well off, and what with the wedding and everything…’
‘Our wedding,’ echoed Charles, with some satisfaction. ‘But you know, my father is quite willing to shoulder that burden—’
‘No chance,’ retorted Helen ruefully, shaking her head. ‘Mummy is far too independent for that.’
‘Oh, well…’ Charles straightened from bestowing a warm kiss on her cheek. ‘Until this evening, then. You haven’t forgotten we’re dining with the Harveys?’
‘No, I hadn’t forgotten,’ agreed Helen with a faint smile. ‘See you later.’ And letting out the clutch, she allowed the car to move smoothly away.
During the short journey to Thrushfold, however, her thoughts returned to the unhappy chance of Vincent’s knowing Jarret Manning. Until then she had not knownthat Jarret had once been a journalist, and it was disconcerting to realise that she had entirely misjudged his occupation. Her concept of Margot acting as some kind of female Svengali lost credence in the light of his obvious literary experience, and her own remarks about their association made her cringe. Still, there was no denying that Margot was involved with him, and remembering that awful scene before they departed, Helen did not look forward to seeing either of them again.
It was almost lunchtime as she drove between the stone gateposts and accelerated along the drive to the house. The beeches and sycamores were almost in full leaf, shielding the curve of the track, and concealing until the last moment the sleek green Ferrari parked near the porch. Its smooth lines were dusty, but there was no mistaking its elegance, and Helen remembered well the unwilling admiration she had felt watching Jarret and Margot drive away in such a vehicle. Now, however, it made her feel like turning round and driving back to Ketchley, but even as the thought entered her head, Jarret himself emerged from the porch and saw her.
There was nothing for it but to stand on her brakes, and bring the little Alfa to an abrupt halt alongside the Ferrari. Then, unclipping her safety belt, she thrust open her door and got out to face him, hoping she did not look as
disconcerted as she felt.
‘Good morning.’ Using the tone she generally reserved for trying customers, she offered the greeting, and Jarret responded with a non-committal ‘Hi.’ As she extracted her bag from the car and pocketed her keys, however, she was conscious of him watching her, and in the same acid tone she added. ‘We didn’t expect to see you until next week, Mr Manning. Is Aunt Margot with you?’
Jarret hesitated a moment, his mouth taking on a vaguely sardonic twist, and then he shook his head. This morning he had shed the more formal attire of his previous visit for mud-coloured Levis and a matching denim shirt, and with the sleeves rolled back over his muscled forearms he looked hard and more dangerous, somehow. In spite of his declared need to get away from London, he was remarkably tanned for someone who lived in the city,she thought sourly, wondering whether Margot had accompanied him to whatever holiday location he had chosen. Obviously he did not neglect his creature comforts, and for some reason this irritated her still more.
She expected him to make some scathing retort to her challenge, but all he did was open the door of his car and emerge seconds later with his arms full of books. ‘I decided to make a start on the removal,’ he remarked, indicating his burden, ‘and your mother has kindly invited me to lunch.’
Helen moved her shoulders in an offhand gesture. ‘Oh,’ she said blankly. ‘Oh, I see.’ And then pressed her lips together with the thought that her mother might have taken the trouble to ring the Connaughts and warn her.
Circling the two cars, she walked rather stiffly into the house, just as her mother was emerging from the library. ‘I’ve cleared the last two drawers now, Jarret,’ she was beginning enthusiastically, and then halted in surprise when she saw her daughter. ‘Oh—Helen! I thought you said you were lunching in town.’
Helen’s nails curled into her palms, and she pushed her hands aggressively into the unzipped pockets of her jacket. ‘No, Mummy,’ she said, clearly and succinctly. ‘I said I was going to see Charles, not to the shop, and I told you I’d be back for lunch.’
