by Anne Mather
Helen could have done without being reminded at this particular moment of her obligation as Charles fiancée. Charles was the chairman of the local committee which organised the yearly event, and while in ordinary circumstances she managed to hide her misgivings, right now she could not suppress the grimace of dismay that crossed her face. It was as well the library door opened just then, distracting Charles’s attention from her lack of enthusiasm.
Jarret himself looked less than pleased at the interruption. He had shed the sweater he had been wearing earlier in favour of a collarless sweat shirt, and its sombre colour did little to lighten his equally sombre expression. His eyes moved swiftly over Charles and Mrs Chase, coming to rest on Helen’s pale face, and then turning with a lightning change of direction back to her mother.
‘Yes?’ he said, the terseness of his query evident in the single syllable, without any need to elaborate his impatience at this interruption.
‘Oh, Jarret.’ Mrs Chase spoke uncomfortably. ‘I’m sorry if we’re being a nuisance, but—but Charles wanted to speak to you and—’
‘I can handle this, Mrs Chase.’
Charles was ineffably self-confident, and Helen, lingering in spite of herself, felt an anxious surge of apprehension. Did he really know who he was dealing with? she wondered. Had he even considered that Jarret was not his brother’s keeper, and would most likely say so in no uncertain words?
‘It’s about last night, Manning,’ he continued now, squaringhis shoulders in an unconscious effort to maintain the upper hand. ‘I’m sure you know to what I’m referring.’
‘Yes.’
That was all Jarret said, and Helen, hovering at the foot of the stairs, was riveted to the spot.
‘Yes—well—’ Clearly, Charles had not expected so monosyllabic a reply. ‘You must realise that a certain amount of damage was caused.’ He paused, and when Jarret still said nothing more, but just stood regarding him with cool hard enquiry, he went on: ‘Aside from the obvious recklessness of trying to mount Poseidon, Vincent could have suffered some serious injury, not to mention the fact that that animal is worth a considerable sum of money!’
Jarret inclined his head. ‘And what do you want me to do about it?’
‘What do I want you to do about it?’ Charles was obviously staggered now, as much by his apparent success in winning his point as by the cool indifference of the question. ‘I—why—’
‘Will a hundred pounds cover the damage?’
Jarret’s offer was delivered in such a mild tone that Charles was completely deceived, and instead of accepting the olive branch, such as it was, he lost his head.
‘A hundred pounds!’ he echoed, his voice rising as his temper expanded. ‘Who do you think you’re dealing with? Some snotty-nosed trainer grumbling about some nag not worth the candle? Poseidon is a prize stallion, not that I’d expect you to know anything about that! He’s a thoroughbred—a temperamental thoroughbred, and psychologically he could have been marred for life! You and Vincent, you’re both the same, utterly thoughtless, utterly irresponsible!’
Jarret’s mouth hardened into a thin line, and even across the hall, Helen could see the steely glitter of his eyes. ‘Why, you pompous hypocrite,’ he said slowly. ‘You goddamned puffed-up little weed! Who the hell are you calling thoughtless and irresponsible? If you’re not sufficiently capable of keeping your brother in order, why in heaven’s name do you think I should be?’
There’s going to be a fight, thought Helen weakly, horrified by the deterioration of the situation. Charles hadnever come up against anyone like Jarret Manning before, and his whole attitude had been one of aggression right from the start. Instead of accepting that he had made his point, that at least it was not going to cost him anything to get the stalls repaired, he had jumped in with both feet, and now there seemed no way of retrieving his dignity. Charles was not a fighter. He was a country gentleman. And although he was more heavily built than Jarret, she doubted he would stand a chance if it came to blows.
‘For heaven’s sake!’ It was Mrs Chase who came between them as Charles’s features suffused with hectic colour. ‘Can’t we at least be civil about this? Charles, really—I didn’t know you intended to start a row of this magnitude, or I would never have allowed you to—to do so.’ She looked helplessly at Jarret, not quite knowing what to say to him, and under her appealing gaze, the fury in his face subsided.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, but his words were addressed to Helen’s mother, not to Charles. ‘I regret I’m not always polite when my work is being interrupted.’ He flashed a glance at the other man, and then saw Helen still hesitating at the bottom of the stairs. His eyes narrowed slightly, as if calculating her reactions, before turning back to her mother. ‘Perhaps you would explain to—Connaught here that my offer still stands. He can even send the bill to me, if he likes, and I’ll see that it’s paid. More than that, I don’t see what I can do.’
He didn’t wait to see the relief in Mrs Chase’s face, or the blustering indignation in Charles’s. He simply stepped backward and closed the door, leaving them all in various stages of stunned incredulity.
Helen’s mother recovered first, urging Charles across the hall and into the drawing room, only noticing her daughter’s presence as she turned away.
‘What are you doing, hanging about down here, Helen?’ she demanded testily, clearly disconcerted to find she was still there, and Charles cast a resentful look in his fiancée’s direction.
‘And this is the man you allow to drive you to work!’ he declared, with justifiable wrath.
‘The man Mummy invited to stay here,’ Helen reminded him shortly, unable to let that go undefended, but hermother just tossed her head.
‘A storm in a teacup!’ she exclaimed, marching into the drawing room. ‘A lot of fuss over nothing. And you, Charles, should have known better than to start it.’
Charles was outraged. ‘I didn’t start it!’ he asserted. ‘You don’t know what happened last night.’
‘Yes, I do.’ Mrs Chase was not at all put out by his anger. ‘Vincent was over here earlier on this morning, apologising to Jarret for making a fool of himself.’
‘What?’
‘It’s true.’ Mrs Chase was complacent. ‘You know what he’s like, Charles. Vincent never could drink a lot, and since when did he need encouraging to do anything?’
Charles clenched his fists. ‘Manning was there. He should have stopped him.’
Mrs Chase looked at him squarely. ‘Could you?’ she asked pointedly, and as Charles’s expression began to falter, she added: ‘I suggest we have a nice cup of tea, and forget all about it.’
CHAPTER SIX
IT was impossible, of course. None of them could forget that the antipathy between Jarret and Charles had flared into open conflict. It meant that the casual relationship which Mrs Chase had hoped would exist between her future son-in-law and her house guest never materialised, and Helen had to avoid all mention of the other man when she was with her fiancé.
Not that Jarret intruded into her life. On the contrary, since that first morning when things had gone so abysmally wrong she had had little opportunity to show her own opinion of him. He did not appear again at breakfast time, and as she frequently lunched in town, only dinner presented any problems. But again Jarret asked to be excused, taking his meals in the library, leaving the tray outside to be collected by Mrs Hetherington. It was a convenient, if unsatisfactory, arrangement for all of them, and during the following weeks Helen learned that three people could live in a house without really sharing it. Just occasionally she heard the sound of music emanating through the thick walls of the library, and guessed Jarret was taking a break from working, but for the most part the only sound was the faint click-click of the typewriter.
She heard from Charles that Vincent had left again only days after his reunion with Jarret. She had known there could not be too many days of his holiday left, but she was surprised and a little upset to think he had
gone away without saying goodbye. Still, after the furore there had been, perhaps it was all for the best, and she had enough to do, now that Charles had been given the keys to their new home. Most evenings they spent at the house, choosing colour schemes and measuring for curtains and carpets, and Helen endeavoured to recover the enthusiasm for her coming marriage, which lately seemed to have been dissipated by her mother’s antagonism and her own uncertainty. Not that she was uncertain of her love for Charles, she toldherself severely, only of his demands on her, and the growing awareness that perhaps their association did lack physical expression. She could not entirely dismiss the remembrance of her reactions to Jarret’s lovemaking, and while she might condemn his sexuality, she could not deny her unwilling response. Perhaps Karen was right, she thought doubtfully, maybe she too needed a more physical relationship.
The following evening she drove to Ketchley in a rather emotional frame of mind. It was three weeks since Jarret had moved into King’s Green, and this evening, for the first time in weeks, he had joined her mother and herself for dinner. He was apparently going out, judging by his dark brown denim suit, his tie knotted neatly over a matching beige shirt. Even his hair was slicked back by the dampness of his shower, and her suspicions had been realised when her mother had asked him what time he expected to be home.
‘Not too late, I hope,’ he assured her smilingly, and watching his lean features relax in response, Helen was stricken by the realisation that she resented his intention of taking time out. He was supposed to be here to work, she thought indignantly, disregarding the fact that that was precisely what he had done for the past three weeks.
Although she had hung around after Mrs Hetherington had cleared the table, her mother had not said if she knew where he was going, and as Jarret himself had already departed, Helen had had to stifle her curiosity. She refused to ask the question, and as she and her mother had still not entirely resolved their differences, she left the house feeling distinctly fretful.
Charles was waiting for her when she arrived at his home, and after a brief word of greeting to his parents she climbed into the Range Rover for the drive to Petersham. The house Charles had bought lay on the outskirts of this tiny hamlet, only two miles from his parents’ home, and for the first time Helen felt no pride of ownership as he turned between the iron gateposts.
The house was reasonably new, built just before the last war, and considerably modernised by its last owner. There was an Aga cooker, and oil-fired central heating, and thefour bedrooms and two bathrooms would be ample for their needs. The present decoration was rather old-fashioned, however, and in these weeks before their wedding Charles intended to employ a firm of interior designers to alter it to their taste.
Inside, it was chilly, in spite of the heat of the day, but the electric fires in the main reception rooms soon dispelled the draughts, and Helen endeavoured to pay attention to what Charles was saying.
‘So we’ve decided the main colour scheme should be green and gold in the hall, and beige and brown in the drawing room,’ he said, checking the clipboard in his hand. ‘Did you have any further thoughts about the dining room? I think blue is a little cold, don’t you?’
Helen sighed, unbuttoning the jacket of her cream suede slack suit, loosening a further button of the silk shirt underneath. She felt discontented and restless, her blood prickling hotly under her skin, her senses alive to an urgent dissatisfaction, and certainly in no mood to discuss colour schemes. Karen had hinted that now they had a place of their own, where they could be alone together, Charles would probably become more demonstrative, but so far he seemed totally indifferent to their isolation. If anything, he seemed to avoid a more tangible contact, and was quite happy debating interior decorating. It was irritating and frustrating, and she wondered if he was afraid to show his feelings too strongly.
‘I was speaking to Martin Coverdale the other day, and he says he can let us have a dining room suite at cost, if we care to go and have a look round his warehouse,’ Charles went on, diligently ignoring her apparent lack of interest. ‘I think that’s jolly good of him, don’t you? I mean, he has some damn good stuff and—’
‘Oh, can’t we talk about anything else than furniture these days!’ Helen broke in abstractedly, torn by her emotions, by the way she was feeling, and her own inability to handle it. ‘I mean—’ she pushed her silky hair back behind her ears, leaving her hands cupping her neck, ‘—why don’t we ever talk about us? Ourselves! Our feelings for one another! And not just—just paint and wallpaper and—and household articles!’
Charles looked astonished, but then, recovering his composure, he said: ‘I should have thought that was our primary consideration at the moment!’ in an offended tone.
Helen sighed. ‘Well, it shouldn’t be. What about us, Charles? Why don’t we ever talk about ourselves, about our relationship? Why don’t we ever do anything about it?’
Charles looked slightly embarrassed now. ‘What is there to do?’ he protested. ‘We love one another, we both know that—’
‘Do we?’
‘What do you mean—do we?’ Charles made a play of putting his fountain pen back into his pocket. ‘Of course we do, Helen. I don’t know what’s the matter with you.’
‘Karen says there should be more to our relationship than—than there is.’
‘Oh, Karen does, does she?’ Charles could look at her now, secure in his condemnation of the older girl. ‘And I suppose she knows all about it. Where does she get her information, I wonder? Through her association with John Fleming, I suppose.’
Helen gasped. ‘You know about that?’
‘I should think half Malverley knows about it. They’re not exactly discreet, are they?’
‘They’re in love.’
‘Love!’ Charles snorted derisively. ‘I doubt either of them knows the meaning of the word.’
Helen’s lips trembled. ‘Well, at least they show their feelings for one another. They’re not afraid to exhibit their emotions or lose control now and again.’
‘And you think I am?’ asked Charles coldly.
‘Well, aren’t you?’ Helen sniffed. ‘I mean, you never kiss me as if you couldn’t bear to let me go. You seem quite content to wait. It makes me wonder sometimes.’
‘Does it?’ Charles’s mouth had thinned to a straight line, and she could tell he was very angry. ‘It doesn’t occur to you that I might be constantly controlling myself, keeping my feelings in check, respecting you too much to—to take advantage of you?’
Helen hunched her shoulders, a little uncertain now. ‘I—why—I don’t know,’ she mumbled, and he put downhis clipboard on the stairs, and came purposefully towards her.
His hands descended on her shoulders and he jerked her towards him, his mouth seeking hers with fierce urgency, and she felt an unexpected sense of dismay. It wasn’t that he hadn’t kissed her before, he had, many times, but never in this rough, unfeeling way. She thought at first it was anger that was dictating his behaviour, but as his kisses grew harsher and more demanding, she realised he was becoming aroused by this savage display. His mouth, hot and wet, assaulted hers, and crushed against his strong body, she had little opportunity to protest. If she had needed any confirmation that Charles was a normal male with normal masculine needs, she had been given it, but what appalled her most was his apparent indifference to her lack of response. He was concerned only with his own needs, his own satisfaction, and as the embrace continued she felt herself growing cold inside. What had begun as a desire for reassurance had become a struggle for survival, and she was exhausted when he at last let her go.
‘Well?’ he said thickly, looking down into her flushed face with triumphant eyes. ‘Are you satisfied now? I want you, Helen, never doubt that. But I’m prepared to wait until I have the right to take what’s mine.’
Helen shuddered with revulsion. She could hardly bear to look at him. Did he really believe his selfish lovemaking had satisfied her? Did he really think those ho
t greedy kisses had aroused anything other than disgust inside her? She felt she wanted to scrub all traces of his caresses from her, and turning aside, she sought to hide her horror from him.
‘What’s the matter? Embarrassed you, have I?’ Charles demanded, secure in his own self-confidence. ‘Well, you asked for it, Helen. I’m only a man, not a machine. And you’re a very beautiful woman, you know that.’
‘I—I—perhaps we ought to go,’ she ventured, wiping the back of her hand across her lips, and was appalled to hear his amused laughter.
‘Why?’ he countered. ‘Don’t worry, I can control myself. Now, let’s consider the kitchen. I think those dark red tiles are rather effective, don’t you?’
With the greatest difficulty Helen managed to sustain her composure for the rest of the evening, but she was enormously glad she had driven herself to Ketchley and could therefore avoid Charles’s accompanying her home. She wanted to think, and she couldn’t do so in his bombastic presence. Even so, driving back to King’s Green, she was intensely aware that at present the prospect of giving Charles exclusive rights to do with her body as he wished filled her with revulsion.
It was a shadowy night, the moon obscured by successive banks of cloud, giving only a fitful light as she drove up the lane towards her home. The trees that interspersed the hedges cast elongated phantoms across her path, and occasionally a large insect flew into her headlights sacrificing itself for that brief moment of glory.
She drove through the drive gates, glancing at the clock on the dash. It was only a few minutes after half past ten, and she breathed a little sigh of resignation. At least Charles didn’t believe in late nights, and she had had no difficulty in convincing him that she wanted to be home before the pubs turned out.
She left the car in the stable yard, noticing as she did so that the Ferrari was back. Her surprise was tinged with relief, and as if needing to dispel this emotion before going into the house, she wandered across to the paddock fence. Wherever Jarret had gone, it had not been to London, and her brows drew together as she realised she had not known he had friends in the area. Unless he had met up with Vincent again…Yet if he had, she doubted he would have been home so early, and curiosity made an unwelcome addition to her already troubled thoughts.
