Fire Mountain

by Rose elver

  Donovan Lyne was wearing a navy polo-necked sweater and cord slacks, the sleeves of the sweater pushed back up his tanned, sinewy forearms. The very sight of him after her restless, disquieting weekend turned Amelia's heart over. Casually she snapped off a low-hanging twig of blossoms, summoned a smile and called out, 'Good morning.'

  He did not reply but came and stood before her, feet slightly apart, with his hands in his pockets. For a few seconds his grey eyes held hers with complete dominance. 'Well?' he asked abruptly, as if they had taken up their conversation without any need for preliminaries or equivocation.

  `Professor, I ... I ...' she stopped, then resumed with considerable effort, 'I've thought it over very carefully, and I appreciate and thank you for paying me the biggest compliment of my life. But the answer is ... no.'

  The rest of the week had the strangest quality of illusion. Amelia felt that she was living two separate lives; the quiet, dowdy, conscientious assistant working beside the professor with unruffled composure, and the lonely girl behind the facade, lost in a wasteland of regrets.

  For one instant as she refused him she had imagined that his eyes had turned as bleakly grey as

  the North Sea, but it was so fleeting an impression that she supposed she must have been mistaken, for he had merely shrugged, saying with a short laugh : `Don't look so conscience-stricken, Amelia. You aren't being constrained to marry for Emma's convenience—nor as a duty to me ! So put your oversized conscience in cold storage, there's a good girl. I didn't ask you for reasons, whatever your decision. Let's forget it and get back to work.' And turning, he had strolled amiably beside her to the cottage.

  Having arrived so painfully at the conclusion that she must reject his offer, Amelia was perversely feminine in secretly hoping he would try and change her mind—or at the very least look a little vexed—but his immediate acknowledgement of her refusal was cold comfort; ample proof that he had considered the matter quite objectively all along. He was probably prepared for a refusal and had other alternatives for settling his private affairs before he left England.

  This was so wounding to her deepest feelings that it took her some days to settle down and give all her concentration to the book again. Her air of abstraction must have been more pronounced than usual, for she caught him watching her closely from time to time and she began to panic about her work, taking notes home and toiling late at nights to be able to keep a pace ahead of him. It would never do to have ,him think she was losing interest !

  Yet the week went by without her finding the courage to ask him to take her with him when he left. It seemed a terrible imposition, bordering on im-

  pertinence in the circumstances. When she was thinking it out it had appeared so simple to enlist his advice and help. Now she no longer felt she had the right to expect anything of him.

  It was not until the following week that he announced his intention of going up to town to the Fenn Foundation for a couple of days. He was in one of his restless moods, prowling about the office and frowning over a sheaf of typescript.

  `Just a few pages which will need retyping while I'm away. After that it will be mainly clearing up before I leave here.'

  Her heart plunged sickeningly. She must do something now ... now.

  `Professor?' Glancing up, she encountered a long, narrowed look which made her hasten on a stronger note, 'When you return to the Institute I'm leaving Whimpleford too.'

  His expression changed. The glint was back in his eye. 'Glad to hear it! From the agonised way you turned me down the other morning I assumed you'd opted for the quiet life at the Manor House again.'

  She felt a spurt of anger at his flippant tone but said quietly, 'I told you I was finished with that.'

  `It's a female's privilege to change her mind. However, I should have known you'd stick to your guns and get away from here.' He tossed the papers on his desk and added tersely, 'So it was just the notion of marrying me that proved distasteful—a salutary lesson for my ego ! '

  `Please, Professor ...' she began defensively, and he slumped in his chair and put his feet up on the desk

  and said : 'All right, Amelia, that chapter's closed. Made any plans about what you're going to do?'

  `Not yet. I suppose I—I couldn't go on working with you?'

  `You suppose right. You 'know the book's almost complete and will only need checking over. I phoned my department last week and they're already organised for my return to the fold.'

  `Oh,' her hopes sank. 'Well, would you give me a reference? If I had something to show for this past year, with your name to back me up, I could start looking for a job as soon as I get to London.'

  `I'll do better than that.' He paused reflectively, glanced at her anxious eyes and looked away. 'A friend of mine, Bill Austin, has been commissioned to do a series of monographs on the social structures of various primitive communities. He's up to his eyes in research and could do with an assistant. He and his wife, Polly, have a bungalow at Richmond, in the suburbs, and I'm sure Polly would enjoy having you staying with her.'

  `That would be wonderful ! ' Her face lighted with pleasure, and the sweetness of her smile came as much of a surprise to him as it had to Edward. He sat up, staring at her in a bemused way as she said delightedly : 'I'm very grateful to you for suggesting it," then hesitated. 'But I don't think I should plant myself on Mrs Austin like that. I'll find digs.'

  `Get to know Polly first,' he advised. 'Once you've got the feel of the place and the job you can make your own arrangements.'

  `I don't know how to thank you!'

  `A chaste salute on the cheek, perhaps?' he recommended sardonically. It was so unlike him that the colour surged to her face, and he thumped his feet off the desk and rose. 'Don't look so affronted, Amelia, it was meant as a joke.' Taking out a cigarette, he flicked the lighter to it and blew a furl of smoke. 'You ought to meet and talk things over with Bill and Polly. What about coming up to town with me?'

  `But the retyping on that chapter

  `It can wait. We'll leave tomorrow morning and be back on Thursday evening. I'll phone and warn Polly so that she can put you up for the night.'

  `Tomorrow?' said Amelia dubiously, her thoughts flying to her meagre wardrobe.

  `I'll pick you up at the Manor House about eight. Will that suit?'

  `Yes ... yes, of course. I was wondering about clothes.'

  `I take it you mean something -new?' he commented perceptively. 'Well, why not?'

  `There won't be time now.'

  `Hop on the afternoon bus to Whimpleford.' `But all this work

  `Can easily wait. I'd run you across myself, but my car's in the garage being checked over for the morning.'

  The thought of this waiting around Whimpleford for her while she rushed about the shops looking for something suitable was not a welcome one anyway, and Amelia said earnestly : 'The bus will be fine. I always use the bus. Well, if you're sure you don't mind.'

  `Go on, Amelia, get going.' He tilted the broad face of the watch on his wrist towards her. 'It's due at the end of the lane in ten minutes, you'll just make it.'

  `If you're sure you don't mind ...'

  `You've said that before! I've never known you flustered, Amelia.'

  As she collected her handbag and slipped out to the hall he was close behind her. He held her coat, handed her her scarf. He was laughing at her, albeit gently and with a friendly warmth that had subtly changed their relationship. She didn't stop to analyse it.

  CHAPTER THREE

  AMELIA caught the bus with minutes to spare and reached Whimpleford on a cloud of unfamiliar euphoria.

  In the department store in Market Square she bought a silky button-through dress in tawny brown with a demure turn-down collar of dark gold. It fitted her beautifully and had a classic simplicity of line; and to this she added the extravagance of a new wool velour stroller coat -which was a remarkably good match.

  She returned to the Manor House on the late bus, at a time she knew Emma and Edwa
rd would be in the club lounge, and went quietly up to her bedroom, hugging her purchases like a conspirator. There she spent a while ironing her black dinner dress, in case she needed it, polished up her old suitcase till it shone and packed a few changes of clothing.

  At dinner she told Emma and Edward that she would be away for a couple of days, staying with friends of Professor Lyne's in London.

  Emma stared at her for a moment and then started to laugh insinuatingly. 'Well, well! So you took my advice after all ! I didn't anticipate his asking you up to town, Melly, but I'm glad you're making an effort.' Amelia winced inwardly, but smiled and changed the

  conversation, refusing to satisfy her sister's sharp-tongued curiosity.

  Emma was still in bed the next morning when Amelia came downstairs, stroller coat over her arm and case in hand. Edward was crossing the hall and greeted her, looking rather startled at her appearance in the new dress with its long, slim-fitting lines.

  `Very nice,' he said genially, 'smart as paint, old girl ! '

  Donovan Lyne's low-slung coupe swept round to the front steps. Amelia said : 'Goodbye, Edward, I'll be back tomorrow evening,' but he insisted on carrying her case out, and she hoped fervently that he wouldn't involve the professor in a lengthy conversation. However, they only exchanged the usual civilities about the weather as her case was stowed away. Edward held the door for her, the professor took the wheel beside her and the car moved swiftly down the drive of the Manor House.

  Swinging out through the tall wrought iron gates, Amelia sat back and relaxed with a happy sigh, smiling faintly at the ludicrous thought that these were the portals of a very exclusive sort of jail from which she was escaping. She glanced unobtrusively at the man beside her. He looked different ... his clothes, of course ! The unmistakable cut of his car-coat in a supple dark brown suede, over an immaculately tailored charcoal-grey suit, the glimpse of a dark blue tie and pale blue collar, an edge of the same blue with gold cuff-links at his wrists. Professor Donovan Lyne, the distinguished anthropologist, not the man

  at Appletree Cottage ... the man who had asked her to marry him.

  No, not the same man at all. A formidable stranger who had wished her good-morning rather abstractedly and lapsed into silence. He was stern and impressive, and returning to his exclusive academic world. She had been right to refuse him, Amelia thought. With her gauche shyness and lack of chic she would never have fitted into his world, never in a month of Sundays, she thought wildly. All the joyful anticipation of the morning seeped out of her.

  She took another quick glance. She might have been imagining it, but his profile looked unusually drawn. After she had left him perhaps he had had a call from someone who had upset him; or maybe he had worked till all hours of the night. Loving him as she did, and very sensitive to his moods, she was immediately filled with concern, but couldn't summon up the courage to ask if something was wrong.

  As though he had read her thoughts he turned his head briefly and smiled. 'All set to face the world, Amelia? Leave your hang-ups behind with the typewriter and enjoy yourself. If that's the outfit from yesterday's shopping expedition, I like it.'

  `Thank you.' She tightened her fingers on the handbag in her lap.

  `By the way,' he added lightly, 'I couldn't get through to Polly on the phone. She must have taken the receiver off. She does that sometimes when she doesn't want Bill disturbed, and invariably forgets to put it back on the hook—to the exasperation of all concerned.'

  `You mean ... she's not expecting me?'

  `She's not expecting either of us,' he chuckled. `Oh, but then I can't—'

  `Forget it, Amelia. She'll be delighted, she loves surprises.' A pause. 'I wanted a word with Bill about the job for you too, but it's had to wait.'

  Was this why he was out of sorts? Amelia felt troubled, not only at finding herself an uninvited guest to a stranger's house but because he sounded as if he were making a conscious effort at lightness.

  `Look,' she offered tentatively, 'I can easily find a hotel room just for one night.'

  No, don't suggest that ! Polly will be offended if you go off to a hotel instead of accepting her hospitality.'

  And there the conversation ceased. Well, she thought, one of his professed reasons for liking her was that she didn't 'chatter inanely', so she kept quiet after that, deciding to wait until she had met Polly Austin before she insisted on finding a room elsewhere. The main thing was that she was with him, and she would let him take the initiative to converse or not as he chose.

  Once they were on the motorway the coupe ate up the miles. About an hour later they passed a sign for an approaching service area and he broke the silence. `Like a break for coffee?'

  `If you like, but don't stop on my account. I had a good breakfast.'

  `Well, if it's all right with you I'd rather push on,' he confessed. 'Polly will be sure to do the honours when we arrive.'

  They left the motorway, entered the outer London suburbs near Richmond and at length turned into a tree-lined street which was obviously part of a private housing estate. The bungalow was on a corner and although the sky was overcast and it had begun to drizzle, the mellow red brick walls and red-tiled roof had a welcoming aspect. A crooked old lilac tree drooped from the trim hedge and a long trellis of rambler roses on the south wall was thick with glossy new leaves.

  The professor came round and opened the door for Amelia, turning up his coat collar against the rain. In his town clothes he appeared to be even taller and leaner—and for a second or two she felt a jaded tenseness in him as if he was forcing himself to make a great effort.

  `Make a run for it and ring the bell. I'll get your case.'

  Amelia hurried across the pavement and up the flagged path to the front door. She heard the chimes ringing, and pressed into the tiny porch out of the wet. There were muffled voices and footsteps, and the door opened on a plump middle-aged woman in slacks and a hand-knitted yellow sweater, her ample form bulging comfortably over the ties of a flowered apron. Her lips rounded 'Oh ! ' in surprise and her hands flurried round behind her to untie and whisk off the apron.

  `Sorry ! ' Her hazel eyes sparkled cheerfully at Amelia. 'I was hoping you were the milkman. No, I don't mean that, of course ... oh, dear ! ... do come in. Do you want to see Bill—?' and then, with her

  whole face lighting up and laughing : 'Don! You wretch, I wasn't expecting you today! What are you doing here? Come in, come in, you'll get soaked.'

  Amelia backed into the hall, out of the way, as Polly fell into the professor's arms, lifting her face and pulling his head down to kiss him. A short, stout, balding man with rimless spectacles came into the hall and as he pumped the professor's hand vigorously Mrs Austin turned and clasped Amelia's arms, squeezing them gently and saying with undeniable delight, 'You must be Amelia Leigh! Of course you are ! Don's told us all about you. I've been nagging him for months to bring you to see us. How long can you stay, Amelia? Bill, this is Don's Amelia.'

  Don's Amelia ... the words echoed round in her head as Bill Austin shook her hand in a crushing grip, and her eyes went involuntarily to the professor's to find them glinting with the friendly amusement and warmth they had shared the previous afternoon. Her spirits began to rise again, and her awkwardness and restraint dissolved as they shed their coats and were ushered into a long, comfortable sitting-room overlooking the side garden.

  Amelia almost disappeared into the downy depths of a large old-fashioned chair covered in a soft cream coloured slip-cover like the rest of the suite. Jade green wall-to-wall carpeting and a scatter of bright cushions gave the room a light, airy appearance in spite of the clutter of books and magazines, bundles of knitting wool, little tables, china ornaments, vases of flowers and potted plants.

  Polly was still overwhelming Professor Lyne with

  a stream of affectionate inquiries and reproaches. He put one arm round her plump waist and his hand over her mouth, giving her a little shake.

  `You took the phone off t
he hook yesterday—right?'

  She drew his hand away, looking up at him in comic dismay. 'Oh, good heavens ! Yes ! Bill's been up to his eyes in it, and it's the only way to stop the beastly jangle. Are you staying in town or going back today?'

  `We planned to stay overnight and drive back to Whimpleford tomorrow evening.' He flung himself into a chair and stretched out his long legs.

  `Meetings at the Foundation?' Bill Austin asked him.

  `One this afternoon and one tomorrow morning. Will you put Amelia up for the night?'

  `Of course,' Polly beamed, 'and you too. It won't be the first time you've slept on the couch.'

  `Not me, Polly, my pet. I'll go over to my flat. It needs looking over anyway before I move in again in a few weeks.'

  `Oh, Don ! ' she wailed. 'Why didn't you let me know? Nobody's been near the place for about three months, it'll be dusty and unaired and cold and cheerless. Must you go there?'

  `I've been getting soft in the country after years in the jungle, one spartan night under my own cheerless roof will do me good,' he grinned. 'I want to open it up and see what needs to be done, arrange to have it thoroughly spring-cleaned, get the telephone recon-

  nected and have some of my books and papers uncrated.'

  `Marguerite and I planned to give it a real going over pretty soon so that it would be all spick and span when you arrived,' sighed Polly. `Ah, well, I know it's no use trying to budge you, you stubborn creature.'

  `Polly, you're an angel, but I can't let you and Marguerite wear yourselves out doing a thankless job like that for me.'

  Amelia, who had been watching the professor in silence, noticed lines about his mouth and eyes and a thin crease between his brows. Who was Marguerite? It suddenly struck her how little she' knew of his friends and his personal life, how little he had talked of them. All she knew of his background came from newspaper reports and a magazine article she had once read.