by Anne Mather
Latimer cleared his throat. ‘Yes, sir, she got them. I believe she's very well, sir. I think everyone's had a taste of cold, though, since the weather changed.'
Jake nodded thoughtfully. ‘And your family are okay? How is that son of yours doing? The one at university. Do you think he'll go in for physics and chemistry?'
‘He wants to, sir.’ Latimer sounded enthusiastic. ‘His results are satisfying so far, I think. He's into his third year now, you know. I'm sure he appreciates your interest, sir.'
Jake's lips twisted a trifle ironically. He doubted whether Alan Latimer shared his father's attitude. Like all young people he was arrogant, and while he might be glad of a chance to work in the Howard Foundation laboratories, he certainly wouldn't beg for such a position. Jake admired his spunk. Alan was like he had been, eager to succeed and impatient of his father's dated ideas of one's station in life.
Jake's house stood in Kersland Square, a tall Georgian building with wrought-iron balcony rails and urns of flowering plants by the door. The door was painted white with a brass knocker, and it was one of a row of such houses all owned by business or professional people. Latimer, whose wife was also housekeeper in the establishment, and his family lived in the basement in a modern self-contained flat that was the envy of their friends and relations.
Jake stopped the limousine at the door and slid out.
‘Will you be needing me any more this evening, sir?’ Latimer had climbed out too and was standing awaiting instructions.
Jake turned up the collar of his coat against the cold night air. ‘I don't think so, thanks,’ he replied, shaking his head. ‘You can put the car away.'
‘Yes, sir.’ Latimer saluted and Jake turned and mounted the steps to the front door, letting himself in with his key.
He stepped into a wide hallway, carpeted in shades of blue and gold, with pale oak-panelled walls and a crystal chandelier suspended overhead. It was a beautiful entrance, its only piece of furniture an exquisitely engraved oak chest on which was standing a vase of dahlias, their closely curled heads providing dashes of colour against the panelling.
To the right and left of the hall, panelled doors gave on to dining and reception areas, and Jake's study. But these doors were presently closed, and Jake frowned as he unbuttoned his coat, throwing his briefcase carelessly on to the polished surface of the chest. Where was Helen? She always came out to greet him. Hadn't she heard the car? Or the door being opened?
He threw off his coat and was about to cross the hall when the door at the back of the stairs which led to the kitchen and basement quarters opened and Mrs Latimer appeared.
She smiled warmly, and took his coat from him. ‘Good evening, sir, and welcome home! Have you had a good trip?'
Jake forced himself to be polite. ‘Fine, thanks, Mrs Latimer. How are you?’ The question was perfunctory, and he glanced round impatiently.
Mrs Latimer answered quietly, her gentle face troubled. She was a small woman, with greying brown hair and a friendly countenance. She had been with Jake for the last ten years, since her youngest child was old enough to fend for itself, while her husband had worked for him for over thirteen years. They knew their employer very well by this time, and she sensed his intelligent query.
‘Where is Mrs Howard?'
Mrs Latimer coloured. ‘I'm afraid she's out, sir.'
The hell she is! Jake suppressed the angry outburst. ‘Where?'
‘I'm not sure, sir. She didn't say. I only know she's with Mr Mannering.'
‘Mannering?’ Jake was astonished. ‘Keith Mannering?'
‘I believe so, sir.’ Mrs Latimer looked uncomfortable. ‘Er—I've dinner ready, sir. I expect you're hungry. If—if you'd like to wash—'
Jake loosened his tie. ‘Tell me,’ he interrupted her, his eyes distant, ‘did my wife know I was expected home this evening?'
‘Of course, sir. Your flowers arrived from Glasgow yesterday evening.'
‘I see.’ Jake narrowed his eyes, the feeling of homecoming, of complacency almost, which he had felt coming here in the car vanishing beneath a tide of fierce resentment. ‘Very well, Mrs Latimer. I'll take a shower. I'll eat in'—he consulted the broad gold watch on his wrist—‘in say twenty minutes.'
‘Yes, sir.’ Mrs Latimer nodded politely, and without another word Jake went up the stairs, taking them two at a time, his temper simmering.
He thrust open the door of his bedroom and entered the room, kicking the door to behind him. It was an attractive room, chocolate brown walls and an apricot bedspread toning well with light oak furniture and deeper apricot drapes. In the light of the lamp by his bed it should have soothed him, but it didn't. He felt furiously angry, betrayed almost, that Helen should choose this evening of all evenings to be out. She had never done this before. She had always been there when he arrived back from one of his business trips, ready to smile and listen to him as he told her of his dealings, ready to offer sympathy or tentative advice if required. Goddammit, he thought violently, that was what she was here for. He had bought her for that purpose, not to go gallivanting off with bloody Keith Mannering!
He stripped off his clothes and walked naked into the bathroom, turning on the shower and stepping under it, uncaring that he soaked his hair. He moved beneath the sensuous stream of water, enjoying its cooling balm to his heightened senses. How dared she be out? he thought furiously. How dared she allow her name to be coupled with a man who had deserted her three years ago while he, Jake, was out of the country? God, what would his friends be saying? What would they be thinking?
He turned off the shower and wrapped a huge bath-sheet about him, towelling himself dry automatically. Then he rubbed his hair thoroughly and went back into his bedroom. He dressed in closefitting black suede trousers that moulded the strong muscles of his legs, and a cream silk shirt. He didn't bother to dress formally. There was no point. And besides, he was in no mood to put on a dinner jacket.
On impulse he crossed the landing and opened the door of Helen's bedroom. Switching on the lamps, he surveyed its feminine charm sardonically. There was a soft fluffy white carpet underfoot, while the bedcoverings and curtains matched each other in delicate shades of rose pink. The dressing table was strewn with jars and bottles and atomisers, the usual paraphernalia found on any woman's dressing table, while a sliver of chiffon lay carelessly at the foot of the bed where she had discarded it. Jake's teeth fastened harshly on his lower lip and he switched out the lamps abruptly and closed the door with a decisive click. He was amazed at the anger that was gripping him. He had the strongest impulse to do something quite violent. How dared she do this to him? he asked himself again, as he descended the thickly carpeted staircase. Who the hell did she think she was dealing with? Some blasted nondescript, who hadn't the sense he was born with? Some ignorant northerner who wouldn't object to his wife having aristocratic boy-friends? No, by God, not he, not Jacob Anthony Howard! When he acquired a possession it was his, in its entirety, not just part of the time, not just when he chose to take it out and look at it, but always!
He crossed the blue and gold hall and entered the low, light lounge that gave on to the dining area. The lounge was large and lit by concealed lighting along the ceiling moulding. It was decorated in shades of blue and green, and its soft, feather-cushioned sofa and armchairs were massive and extremely comfortable. It was a comfortable room, a lived-in room, vastly different in design from the reception lounge across the hall where he did most of his entertaining.
The dining area was divided from the lounge by a teak librenza, fitted with bookshelves and places for objets d'art. Helen collected articles in jade and ivory, and there were several exquisitely carved pieces on the librenza. The dining table was dark polished wood with some dark, leather-seated, ladderbacked chairs to match it. Mrs Latimer had laid a place at the table for him, the rush place-mat and silver cutlery reflected in its polished surface.
Jake regarded her ministrations silently for a moment or two and then wit
h an impatient gesture he walked across to the cocktail cabinet and poured himself a stiff Scotch. He swallowed it at a gulp and poured himself another before flinging himself into one of the enormously soft armchairs, draping one leg over its arm.
He looked round the room restlessly, unable to relax. Nothing had changed. The turquoise velvet drapes at the windows toned marvelously with the soft blue-green of the carpet into which one's feet sank luxuriously; his hi-fi equipment in its polished teak cabinet still stood in one corner, while the unblinkingly broad screen of the colour television matched it in the other. Bookshelves flanked the marble fireplace in which an electric fire gave out a pseudo-log effect, unnecessary now that the powerful central heating system was in operation. The tasteful mixture of ancient and modern should have pleased him, but he found nothing to appreciate in it. He was consumed with resentment and anger, and it infuriated him that he should have arrived back here with such enthusiasm, only to have that enthusiasm doused by the thoughtless attitude of his wife.
Mrs Latimer appeared in the aperture which led to the dining area. ‘If you're ready I'll serve dinner, sir,’ she suggested politely.
Jake swung his leg to the floor and rose abruptly to his feet. ‘Yes. Yes, all right, Mrs Latimer. I'm coming.'
He finished his drink and left his empty glass on the cabinet before crossing the room to the dining area. Seated at the empty table, he tried to show interest in the food his housekeeper had prepared. He was tempted to question her about Helen's activities while he was away. He wanted to know how often she had seen Mannering and whether he had been to the house. His jaw tightened. The idea of Keith Mannering here, in his house, was almost too much to contemplate without violence.
But he said nothing and attempted to behave as though Helen's absence was not important. Mrs Latimer had prepared his favourite dinner, roast beef and Yorkshire pudding with a raspberry crumble to follow, and he could not disappoint her by refusing it; although he might have been eating sawdust for all the enjoyment he took from it. He drank wine with the meal, a red Bordeaux that helped the food down. Afterwards, he carried his coffee into the lounge and after dismissing Mrs Latimer he switched on the television.
He seldom watched television. When he was home, which was not often, he was invariably entertaining or being entertained, and on those evenings when he might have relaxed he brought work home from the office and retired to his study to concentrate in its quiet luxury.
But right now he was in no mood to work; to study the contracts he had planned to study this evening after dinner, after he had discussed the merits of his trip with Helen. He was impatient for her to return home, to confront her with his anger, to make it plain once and for all that as his wife she had a certain position to uphold and no matter how unsatisfying their relationship might be she had chosen it, and by God, she was going to honour it!
Unwillingly, he recalled the young woman he had seen so frequently during the last few weeks. Louise Corelli had certainly helped to make his stay in California more enjoyable, but that was quite different, he consoled his conscience. He was a man, after all, with a man's appetites, and out of the country, thousands of miles from home and friends, from anyone who might gossip about their association. Helen was here, in London, where every move she made was speculated upon by friends and enemies alike.
The evening passed incredibly slowly and Jake's temper mounted to simmer somewhere around boiling point. He had turned off a particularly nauseating interview on the television and was in the process of pouring himself another Scotch when he heard Helen's key in the lock.
His first instinct was to march out into the hall and demand an explanation like some Victorian father, but he was too well versed in the arts of political tactics to waste his energy so carelessly. So instead he finished pouring his Scotch, swallowed half of it at a gulp and carried the rest with him to stand before the marble fireplace, one foot upraised to rest on the polished brass fender.
Helen must have seen the light, for a few moments later after she had shed her wrap, the lounge door opened and she stood on the threshold looking at him, her eyes slightly wary, he thought.
It crossed his mind with clinical detachment that she was looking particularly beautiful this evening. Her gown was a caftan of peacock blue embroidered with silver dragons which he had brought her back from Japan six months ago. Its severe lines hinted at the swell of her breasts, the curve of her hips, the slender length of her legs. To his knowledge she had never worn it before and it annoyed him intensely that she should have put it on for Keith Mannering's benefit. The long lovely length of silver hair had been coiled into a Grecian knot on top of her head, while tendrils escaped at her ears to caress her cheeks and the nape of her neck. Hoops of beaten gold hung from her ears, the present he had bought for their last anniversary.
Jake allowed her gaze to fall before the penetration of his and she moved into the room with obvious reluctance. ‘Hello, Jake,’ she said, putting her sequinned evening bag on a side table with unnecessary care. ‘You're looking well. Have you had a good trip?'
Jake controlled the angry retort that sprang to his lips. ‘It was reasonably successful, yes,’ he responded expressionlessly.
‘Oh! Good.’ Helen was forced to look at him again, and he saw the troubled expression in her eyes. ‘I—er—I'm sorry I couldn't be here when you got back. I—I had an appointment.'
‘So I heard,’ he said, swallowing the remainder of his Scotch.
Helen coloured. ‘Yes, well, I'm sure Mrs Latimer provided you with an excellent dinner—'
‘To hell with Mrs Latimer!’ Jake's anger exploded.
Helen clenched her hands together. ‘Please, Jake—'
‘Please be damned!’ Jake tossed the exquisitely delicate whisky glass in his hand. ‘Where the hell do you think you've been?'
Helen swallowed with apparent difficulty. ‘Mrs Latimer must have told you—'
‘I'm not interested in what Mrs Latimer said!’ snapped Jake. ‘I want to know where you've been and with whom?'
Helen made a helpless gesture. ‘I've been to a party—with Keith Mannering.'
Jake uttered an ugly expletive and Helen winced at his language. ‘You bitch!’ he swore angrily. ‘I don't know how you have the nerve to stand there and tell me you've been out with another man, let alone Mannering!'
Helen squared her shoulders with an effort. ‘Why not?’ she asked succinctly.
Jake narrowed his eyes, thrusting his empty glass on to the mantelshelf. ‘Why not?’ he demanded fiercely. ‘What do you mean, why not? You're my wife; that should be answer enough!'
Helen toyed with the exquisite diamond ring which Jake had bought her on their engagement; her eyes were guarded and he suddenly wondered what she was thinking.
‘And you?’ she said quietly. ‘Is that answer enough for you too? That you're my husband?'
Jake's expression was grim. ‘What the hell do you mean by that?'
Helen raised her dark eyebrows. ‘I should have thought it was obvious. Do you think I am allowed to remain unaware of your conquests? Do you think I'm not constantly being sickened by so-called well-meaning confidences?'
Jake raked a hand through his thick hair. ‘My God!’ he muttered violently, turning away to stare unseeingly into the electric flames. ‘And you think my—actions—entitle you to act likewise, is that it?'
‘No!’ The brief remonstrance was sufficient to cause him to swing round and face her again. ‘No,’ she repeated heatedly. ‘I'm not like you! I'm not an animal giving in to every physical need of its body—'
‘And I am?’ His tone was ominous.
Helen flushed scarlet. ‘I honestly don't care what you are,’ she retorted, biting her lips. ‘But I can see no grounds for you to complain about my behaviour. So far as I'm concerned, these last three months have been the last straw! I see no reason for me to cut myself off from my friends just because I'm married to you—'
‘Might I remind you that your s
o-called friends soon deserted you after your father's accident?’ observed Jake cuttingly.
Helen winced as though he had struck her. ‘That's a rotten thing to say!’ she burst out tremulously.
Jake shrugged his broad shoulders, surveying her appraisingly. It was the first time he had seen her so animated. Normally he was unable to arouse more than a flicker of emotion in her controlled features.
‘But true, nevertheless,’ he remarked now, his eyes never wavering from her face. ‘Now what are you going to tell me? That I'm uncouth and a cad for mentioning such a thing? That I haven't the manners of that priggish lout, Mannering?'
Helen allowed her long lashes to veil her eyes. ‘Keith is a gentleman,’ she replied tersely.
Jake uttered a contemptuous snort. ‘Oh, he is? And what is your definition of a gentleman, I wonder? Someone who never eats peas with his knife? Or maybe someone who only makes love in his pyjamas, never in the raw!'
Helen took a deep breath. ‘You're crude!’ she exclaimed distastefully. ‘I'm going to bed.'
Jake crossed the room to her side in an instant, moving swiftly and lithely for such a big man. ‘Oh, are you?’ His mouth tightened. ‘You'll go to bed when I say and not before.'
Helen lifted her head incredulously. ‘Really, Jake, this is the twentieth century. You're not my keeper! You can't make me do what you want all the time.'
‘Can't I?’ His lips twisted. ‘I shouldn't bank on that if I were you.'
Helen moved towards the door, but he was in her path. ‘I don't like this conversation, Jake. I wish it had never taken place.'
‘So do I!’ he snapped sharply. ‘Might I remind you that your absence here this evening was responsible.'
Helen sighed. ‘I'm tired. Can't we discuss this in the morning? We'll both be more—well—reasonable, then.'
‘What is that supposed to mean?’ Jake glared at her.
Helen made a helpless gesture towards the glass on the mantelpiece and then seemed to regret the impulse. ‘It doesn't mean anything,’ she denied uncomfortably.
