by Anne Mather
It was possible to reach the stables from the house without going out into the storm. A covered walkway led from the back of the building to the centrally-heated block, and Helen, who had never traversed its sacred pavements before, felt a twinge of panic at the first scent of horseflesh. Keep calm, she told herself severely, but it wasn’t easy, knowing that Charles expected so much of her.
The stables were gloomy in the grey light, only an occasional flash of sheet lightning bringing a shaft of brilliance to the shadowy passages and making the animals shift uneasily. Helen wished they could have chosen another evening, and she was relieved when Charles switched on the electric lights. The mingled smells of leather and clean straw served to distract her senses from other things, but when she saw the stalls and the narrow gangway between she had the strongest urge to turn and run.
‘So,’ said Charles, indicating the animal in the first stall, a spirited grey that tossed its head at their approach. ‘This is Moonmist. What do you think? Could you handle him, do you suppose?’
‘H-handle him?’ Helen expelled her breath on a nervous laugh. ‘Heavens, no! I—I couldn’t handle any horse. Not—not yet, anyway.’
‘What about Lacey here?’ Charles stroked the neck of a gentler-looking chestnut, that whinnied its appreciation. ‘She’s harmless enough. Come and stroke her. She won’t bite you.’
Helen hesitated, but another look at Charles’s set face sent her forward, reaching out almost blindly towards the animal. If she failed now he would never forgive her, and it was with a weak sense of relief that she felt the silky coat beneath her fingers.
‘Well, well…’ Charles was impressed, but she didn’t like his tone. ‘I can hardly believe it. When did you say this miracle took place?’
‘It’s no miracle, Charles.’ Bravely, Helen allowed the mare to nuzzle her fingers. ‘It—it just happened. One minute I was terrified, and the next I wondered why I’d ever been so timid.’
‘And what did Manning say?’ inquired Charles caustically.
‘Oh—he was surprised, of course—’
‘You said he wasn’t there!’ Charles cut in coldly, and she realised he had deliberately trapped her.
‘He wasn’t,’ she asserted, refusing to be bullied. ‘But I told him.’
‘Really?’ Charles was absolutely furious. ‘You told him? You went straight away and told him you’d stroked his horse?’
‘It wasn’t like that.’
‘What was it like?’
Helen sighed. ‘Oh, Charles! Must we go on with this? I’ve done as you asked and stroked—er—Lacey. Can we go back to the house now, please? I’m feeling cold.’
‘Why? It’s warm in here.’
‘Charles!’
‘In a minute, in a minute.’ He clamped his jaw together, moving further down the gangway, speaking to some of the animals he passed, with little of the antagonism he had used towards his fiancée. He seemed determined to get his pound of flesh, and Helen wrapped her arms defensively around herself, wishing she had taken her own advice and not driven to Ketchley this evening.
‘Come here, Helen.’
Charles’s voice broke into her musings, and she looked up rather anxiously to find he was nowhere in sight. ‘I—where are you?’ she faltered, but when he called again, she guessed he had gone through the door at the end into the adjoining block.
‘Must I?’ she appealed, wishing she had never started this, but when he didn’t reply she had no choice but to do as he wished.
It was only when she reached the end of the row of stallsthat she realised Charles had not gone into the next building. The door to the end cubicle was open, and Charles was inside, crouched at the feet of a huge black beast that seemed to loom over Helen like some malevolent monster.
Somehow, she didn’t know how, she prevented herself from crying out, and as if disappointed at her lack of reaction, Charles rose to his feet again and nodded towards the animal.
‘This is Poseidon,’ he said, and Helen’s heart lurched in recognition of the name. ‘Look, I wanted to show you what that fool brother of mine caused to happen. Here—on the fetlock. Can you see? Come nearer. Luckily the tuft prevented a more serious cut, but it was pretty nasty all the same.’
Helen hung back. Poseidon was quiet enough now, but she did not trust its beady black eyes, or the way its ears lay back against its head. What was Charles trying to do? Cure her of her fears—or magnify them?
‘I—I’d really rather not,’ she got out, licking her dry lips. ‘Oughtn’t we to be going back to the house? I really am—very cold.’
‘Coward!’ Charles’s tone was derisive, and she thrust her hands into the pockets of her jacket.
‘Perhaps I am,’ she agreed, refusing to be baited in that way. ‘But at least I know what I am!’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
Helen sighed. ‘Let’s go back, Charles,’ she suggested. ‘I’m cold, and I see no point in provoking an argument with you. If you want the truth, that creature scares me. But you knew that before you even opened the door.’
‘Poseidon?’ Charles moved closer to the stallion, running his hand over the creature’s smooth black coat. ‘Poseidon wouldn’t hurt you. Not while I’m here. He’s beautiful, isn’t he? So sleek, so streamlined. He’s going to sire some magnificent foals.’
Helen was not impressed. A cold chill had invaded her spine when she looked into its wicked little eyes, and she doubted it felt any more sympathy towards Charles than it did to anyone else.
‘Are you coming?’ she asked now, looking longingly back down the gangway. ‘Let’s go down to the pub and have adrink. I—I could do with one.’
Charles gave her a pitying look. ‘Been too much for you, has it? I thought it would. You’re no equestrian, Helen. You never will be. And you can tell Manning I said so.’
Helen had had enough. Without waiting for Charles’s permission, she marched away along the planked catwalk, not really caring what he thought of her. His attitude both shocked and disturbed her, and she was beginning to realise there were more traits to her fiancé’s nature than she had ever dreamed. Unpleasant traits, too, traits she would rather not know about, and that made her overwhelmingly aware that Charles was insensitive when his wishes were in jeopardy.
The sudden flash of lightning followed closely by a heavy crack of thunder was startling, and she was glad she was near the door. All the animals were shifting a little restively in their stalls, and she guessed they were as nervous of the storm as she was of them. When she heard Charles cry out it was all one with the rumbling menace around them, and for a moment she thought he was trying to trick her again. But as the echoes of the thunder died away she could still hear Poseidon’s excited clamour, and the unmistakable sound of his restless hooves.
‘Charles…’ She stopped and called his name, but he made no response. ‘Charles,’ she cried again, ‘Charles, answer me! Stop fooling around. You’re frightening me!’
‘Helen!’ Charles’s voice was faint. ‘Helen, for God’s sake, help me! I’ve—I’ve twisted my leg, and I can’t get out.’
Helen stood stock still. She didn’t know whether to believe him or not. Charles was in such a funny mood, and she was terrified that this was some new test he was devising.
‘Where are you?’ she called, her voice tremulous and uneasy, and she heard his curse of impatience.
‘Where do you think?’ he demanded hoarsely. ‘In Poseidon’s stall. He kicked me, the brute! For heaven’s sake, give me a hand.’
Helen went back along the gangway on leaden feet. She was sick to her stomach, but nothing could have prevented her from going to his aid. No matter how frightened she was, he was her fiancé, and she could not abandon him.
The storm continued to rage about them, and every timethe lightning struck she expected the lights to be extinguished. But to her relief, although they flickered in protest, they remained constant, and at last she reached the end of the line.
&nbs
p; She didn’t know what she had expected to find. She supposed her worst fear was that Poseidon might be waiting to spring out at her, but as soon as she saw the situation she realised how foolish that was. The black horse was secured by a leading rein to the wall of the stall, and it was Charles who demanded her attention, crouched in an awkward huddle on the floor.
‘Bloody fool,’ he muttered, as Helen halted wide-eyed in the doorway. ‘Come and help me up. The damn thing could have killed me.’
‘Why? How?’ Helen hurried forward, too concerned about her fiancé to be really scared of the horse. ‘What happened? I thought you could handle him.’
‘Oh, don’t make a fool of me, Helen,’ Charles snapped angrily, groaning as he struggled to his feet, his whole weight bearing down on her shoulder. ‘How was I to know the thunder would spook him like that? If his hooves had encountered my head instead of my knee…’
Helen thought that Charles should have anticipated such an occurrence, but she knew better than to say so, and leaning painfully on her, they managed to get out of the stall and close the half door.
‘Is it very painful—your leg, I mean?’ she asked, as they limped along between the stalls to the door, and Charles ground his teeth together.
‘What do you think?’ he retorted, offering no thanks for her assistance, and Helen kept her mouth shut until they reached the house.
In the sitting room, the full extent of Charles’s injury became apparent. Poseidon had obviously kicked him violently, and the skin around the knee was black and blue already.
‘Do you think it’s broken?’ Helen asked, kneeling down beside him, but Charles only brushed her concern aside.
‘It’s bruised, that’s all,’ he insisted, bending it with evident difficulty. ‘Go and get me a double Scotch and soda.That’s all I need. No damned animal’s going to get the better of me!’
‘At least let me call the doctor,’ she suggested gently. ‘After all, it’s going to be very painful for some time. He could probably prescribe some pain-killers—’
‘Don’t patronise me, Helen.’ Charles snatched the Scotch and soda from her hand without ceremony. ‘I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, it serves him right for forcing me to go into the stables, aren’t you—’
‘No!’
‘—and if he had to call the doctor, everyone’s going to know that Connaught can’t control his own blasted animals!’
‘No, Charles!’
Helen was appalled at his bitterness, but Charles only swallowed the Scotch at a gulp and demanded another. He downed it at the same pace, then viewed Helen with malevolent eyes.
‘Come here,’ he muttered, patting the couch beside him. ‘Come and smooth my brow with your cool fingers. You’re always saying I never make advances towards you when we’re alone. Come and let me alter that opinion.’
‘Oh, Charles…’ Helen shook her head helplessly. ‘What is the matter with you? Please, let me call Doctor Bluthner. He only lives a few hundred yards away. I know he’d be only too glad—’
‘I said come here, Helen.’
Charles stretched out his hand towards her, and with a feeling of intense unwillingness she joined him on the couch. When he turned towards her, she saw his eyes were bloodshot and slightly glazed from the amount of alcohol he had consumed, but what disturbed her most was the familiar brush of his hands across her thighs.
‘Little Helen,’ he said thickly, burying his face in the hollow of her neck. ‘My sweet saviour! Well, you deserve something for what you did tonight.’
His hand moved to the zip of her pants and a feeling of cold rejection gripped her. What did Charles think he was doing? He had not kissed her or aroused her in any way. He seemed to have only one object in mind, and that withthe sole intention of his own gratification.
She tried to push his hand away, but he was very strong and very determined. The zip was propelled downward, and his eager fingers sought to invade the secret warmth within.
‘No, Charles!’
She fought him like a wild thing, struggling and heaving and kicking her legs, and as her efforts made contact with him, he was forced to release her.
‘You bitch!’ he muttered, both hands seeking his injured knee and cradling it protectively, and belatedly she felt a pang of remorse.
‘I’m sorry, but—’ she was beginning, when the sound of the outer door opening and voices entering the house suddenly silenced her. They also made her overwhelmingly aware of her state of undress, and she hastily dragged her zip into place and smoothed her ruffled hair as footsteps crossed the hall.
She did not know who she had expected to see, certainly not Vincent, Charles’s brother, and with him, Jarret Manning. The two men halted in the doorway assessing the scene they had interrupted, and then Vincent broke the awkward stillness by saying: ‘It’s a filthy night, isn’t it?’ in wry amused tones.
Helen could not have felt worse. She could almost see what Jarret was thinking and Vincent was no doubt of the same opinion. Only Charles seemed unembarrassed by their presence, his reaction to their arrival taking on an entirely different aspect.
‘What the hell are you doing here, Manning?’ he snapped, making no attempt to get up and greet his brother, and Vincent swiftly intervened.
‘He didn’t want to come in, Chas, but I insisted. I rang him from the station in Malverley. There were no cabs to be had, and I needed a lift. The least you can do is offer him a drink.’
‘We—er—we didn’t hear the car,’ Helen ventured, addressing herself to Vincent, and he grinned.
‘I can believe it,’ he teased, but when she didn’t respond he added: ‘I guess the rain drowns most things.’ He turned to Jarret. ‘Do you want a drink, mate?’
‘No, thanks.’ Jarret spoke for the first time, his gazeflickering over Helen and then moving to her fiancé on the couch. ‘I’d better be getting back. Can I give you a lift, Helen?’
‘Me?’ she gasped, and Charles said harshly: ‘She’s got her own car, Manning. She doesn’t need any lifts from you!’
‘The roads are pretty bad, though,’ put in Vincent, touching Helen’s sleeve. ‘Quite honestly, I’d advise you to go with Jarret. You can always pick up your car in the morning.’
‘You keep out of this, Vincent.’ Charles glared up at him with angry eyes, and his brother viewed his position with some curiosity.
‘You going to stop me, Chas?’ he enquired unpleasantly, and as Helen tried to intervene, he went on: ‘What happened to you? Why are you sitting there like a wounded cockerel? Helen kick you where it hurts, did she?’
‘It was the horse—it was Poseidon,’ Helen exclaimed, gazing appealingly at the younger man. ‘Charles has damaged his knee—’
‘Don’t tell me Poseidon did the kicking!’ Vincent evidently found it quite hysterical, and Charles turned angry eyes on his fiancée.
‘Why the hell don’t you learn to keep your mouth shut?’ he demanded, hands clenching and unclenching round his drawn-up knee, but before Helen could answer him Jarret grasped the other man’s collar.
‘Just who do you think you’re speaking to?’ he grated, putting his face close to Charles, and Helen felt a rising sense of hysteria herself.
‘For heaven’s sake!’ she exclaimed. ‘This is ridiculous! Oh, I’m going home. I’m not going to listen to any more of this. You can fight it out among yourselves!’
Ignoring all of them, she crossed the hall and let herself out of the house. Vincent had been right, it was a filthy night, but she preferred the storm outside to the one going on in the house. She glimpsed Jim Stanford’s Mercedes as she raced to her own car, and wrenching open the door she coiled herself thankfully behind the wheel. She didn’t want to think any more, she just wanted to drive, and she set the car in motion without a backward glance.
The thunder had abated, but the rain had not, and the roads were minor floods as she turned towards Thrushfold. The blackness of the tarmac absorbed the reflection of her headlights, a
nd it was impossible to see further than a few yards ahead of her. But she wasn’t alarmed. Her desire to escape from the remembrance of the scene at Charles’s home banished all fear, and she just wanted to reach her own home and her own room.
She supposed she had been driving perhaps ten minutes when she became aware of the headlights behind her. A car was following her, and she could guess whose car it was. Jarret had to come home, and this was the only likely route. The awareness of his encroachment on both her life and her emotions made her quicken her pace, as if by physically adjusting the space between them she could adjust her life accordingly. It didn’t work, of course, he was just as disruptive to her peace of mind, and with a sob rising in her throat she pressed her foot down hard on the accelerator.
It was a risky thing to do in the circumstances. The tyres spun wildly on the slippery road, and the lack of traction sent her skidding sideways. She struggled to hold on to the wheel, but it seemed to be wrenched from her fingers, and she thanked God for her seat-belt, as the Alfa swung helplessly across the road and into the ditch.
She was not hurt, only shocked, but she was still sitting there, slumped in her seat, when the door was wrenched open and Jarret’s anxious face appeared.
‘Helen, for God’s sake—’ he was muttering, only to break off abruptly as she turned shamefaced eyes in his direction. He stared at her half angrily for a moment and then, gathering himself, he grated: ‘Are you all right?’
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak, and he straightened, pushing balled fists into the pockets of his dark pants. Unlike her, he was not wearing a jacket, only the silk shirt he had worn for dinner that evening, and in the courtesy light from her open door she could see the rain soaking his thinly-covered shoulders.
‘I—I’ll be all right,’ she got out jerkily, making a helpless gesture. ‘You—you go. You’re getting soaked—’
‘And how do you propose to get out of the ditch?’ hedemanded harshly. ‘Can you lift it? Or do you expect to drive out of there?’
