by Anne Mather
'Oh, shut up, Lucy, will you?' Rafe had heard this argument a dozen times before. 'I didn't come here to argue with you. Not about sex, at any rate. I just wanted to say that I wish you'd consulted me before arranging this dinner party.'
'Like you consulted me before taking Thomas away from St Matthew's, I suppose?'
Rafe sighed. 'That's different, Lucy, and you know it.'
'How is it different? You know how I feel about having Thomas at home all the time. He's too old—and he's a nuisance. And because he was disobedient enough to run away half a dozen times, you're punishing him by letting him have his own way!'
'This is his home,' Rafe remarked dryly. Then, realising that their son was yet another subject on which they would never agree, he went on: 'But to get back to tonight: why did you feel it was necessary to invite Norcroft's crew? Aren't John Norman and his wife enough? Must we appear to be in cahoots with the whole damn business?'
'You're too sensitive, Rafe,' Lucy retorted smoothly, stroking satisfied fingers through her cap of dark chestnut hair. Then she turned sideways. 'Do you like this dress? Do you think it suits me? I bought it yesterday in Pendower, of all places. A little boutique in the High Street, run by that friend of yours—Miss Tempest.'
Rafe's features revealed none of the sudden apprehension he was feeling. 'Did you?' he remarked, without expression. 'I wouldn't have thought a boutique was the .kind of place you would frequent.'
'Well, I wouldn't—ordinarily,' returned Lucy, enjoying her moment of triumph. 'But Laurence told me you had taken the mare down to Powys's place, for the — er—young lady—to ride, and I wanted a second chance to see for myself what it is about her that you so obviously admire.'
Rafe's fists balled in the pockets of his dark blue velvet evening jacket. 'What did you say to her, Lucy?' he enquired, with admirable restraint, but his wife did not answer him, merely smoothed the skirt of the lemon silk sheath and surveyed her reflection with evident satisfaction.
Rafe disciplined his emotions. He had no intention of letting her see that her words had in any way disconcerted him, and realising he could not force her to speak, he turned abruptly towards the door.
However, once she saw that she was in danger of losing his attention, Lucy became talkative. 'I asked her how Juniper was getting along, of course,' she said innocently. 'I explained that you'd originally bought the horse for me, but that I didn't care for riding, and how expensive it is these days to hire a stablehand.'
Rafe wrenched open the door. He could imagine how Lucy had explained the situation, and he could also imagine Catherine's reaction. He was amazed the mare had not been returned forthwith, thus destroying any further attempts his wife might make to humiliate her.
'Are you angry with me, darling?' Lucy's silky tones were irritating, and he was briefly tempted to humiliate her in the only certain way he knew. But right then, the idea of touching his wife was abhorrent to him, and without hesitation he walked into the corridor.
She followed him, however, and now she was on the defensive as she added vindictively: 'I'm not jealous, Rafe—you know that. I don't care how many women you have. That's of no interest to me. Just so long as they're not known to me…'She paused. 'I think I have the right to ask that.'
Their guests arrived within minutes of one another. First to come were the Warrenders, a retired Naval officer and his wife, old friends of Lord Penwyth, and Rafe's godparents. He was glad Lucy had had the good sense to include them. At least their friendship was genuine.
The Normans came next. Patricia Norman was Lucy's age, and they got along well together. Rafe had no quarrel with her husband, but his involvement with Norcroft was always present in their conversations, and lately John talked of little but the geological reports, which seemed to confirm his belief that there was lead in the valley. With them came the two men Rafe had least wanted to see, Norman's geophysicist, Malcolm Forrest, and his assistant. Until that evening Rafe had not been introduced to either man, but now he stared at the second man with unconcealed disbelief.
'Mappin!' he exclaimed, before Norman had had time to introduce them. 'Jeff Mappin! My God! Why didn't you let me know you were involved in all this?'
Jeff Mappin grinned and shook the other man's hand warmly. A tall man, almost as tall as Rafe himself, with unruly russet-coloured hair and hazel eyes, and more weight about him than he could have wished, he had changed little since their university days together, and his voice was wry as he ventured: 'I didn't like to, Glyn. I understood we weren't altogether welcome here.'
Rafe shook his head, and John Norman took the opportunity to intervene. 'I gather you two know one another,' he remarked, attracting his wife, and Lucy's, attention. 'Well, that's a relief! At least I have one man in Penwyth who won't be driven off at gunpoint!'
'Oh, John…' It was Lucy who spoke then, looking at the newcomers with interest, asking to be introduced.
Rafe performed the introduction, though not without some misgivings. However, Jeff seemed to find his wife charming, and confided afterwards that he thought his friend was a lucky devil.
'All this—and Penwyth, too?' remarked Rafe, in a wry undertone. 'Oh, yes. Lucky indeed!'
Lucy had supervised the menu for dinner, and in consequence everything was superbly served. Mrs Jones, the mother of the girl who came daily to the Manor, helped out on these occasions, and it was due to her ministrations that the food was always well cooked and piping hot. Lucy was a good supervisor, but in practical matters she was less successful, and it took the experience of someone like Mrs Jones to put her plans into operation.
During the meal, the talk turned inevitably to the explorations being carried out farther up the valley. It was Lucy who led the conversation into these channels, and Rafe guessed she wanted to display her own enthusiasm for the project.
'It's a lengthy business, Lucy,' John Norman replied, in answer to her query as to the extent of their findings so far. 'My geologists are always cautious about committing themselves too soon. We've taken a number of core samples back to the laboratory for analysis, but so much depends on the area of the find. We have to decide whether it would be economically feasible to develop the site.'
'I understand you were responsible for Mr Norman hearing about the axe-head that was found, Mrs Glyndower,' Jeff added, with interest. 'How did you know what it portended?'
'I didn't.' Lucy exhibited her girlish laugh. 'As a matter of fact, I had a much more selfish idea.' She looked about her, well satisfied that she had the attention of everyone in the room, with the possible exception of her husband. 'Just recently, I'd read about a similar find in Yorkshire—oh, not a lead mine, or anything, but an old Roman spear, that had suddenly appeared in a stream near Richmond. The spear was sold at auction for quite a considerable sum, and I thought perhaps I might make a little money that way.'
Polite laughter rippled round the room, and Patricia Norman assured her that she would have done the same. 'It's amazing how these things suddenly come to light after hundreds of years, isn't it?' she exclaimed. 'One wonders why they've never been found before.'
'It's not so surprising really,' Jeff observed. 'The earth is constantly on the move. Cracks appear, for no apparent reason. Fissures, worn by years of erosion, suddenly open up. Like graves, expelling their dead, they spew out the history of the area.'
'Rather an unfortunate choice of terms, Mappin!' declared Commander Warrender tersely, pushing his plate aside. 'That was a delightful dessert, Lucy. Peaches really are my favourite fruit.'
'What he means is, the brandy went down very well,' remarked his wife dryly. 'But it was a delicious meal, as usual, Lucy. You really have superlative taste.'
Lucy smiled, content to receive the praise without any of the effort, and then suggested they adjourned to the drawing room for coffee and liqueurs.
Rafe found Jeff beside him as he poured Commander Warrender a generous measure of cognac. The other man refused his offer of the brandy, saying wryly: 'The wine
we had at dinner was enough for me. I've got to work tomorrow.' And then added: 'But I would like to talk to you, Glyn.'
'Of course.' Rafe crossed the floor to hand the glass to Commander Warrender, and then after ascertaining what the ladies would like to drink, came back to where Jeff waited. 'What can I do for you?'
Jeff sighed, glancing round at the mellow panelling of the room, admiring the distinctive blend of ancient and modern in its decoration. 'I gather you and your wife share conflicting interests about this business,' he remarked softly, and Rafe cast him a mocking smile.
'You gather correctly,' he agreed, unscrewing the cap from a bottle of crime de menthe. 'And believe me, if I had any choice in the matter, Norcroft would never have been allowed to set foot in the valley.'
'So I heard.' Jeff's tone was dry. 'Do you wonder I didn't try to contact you before this!'
Rafe laughed then, his blue eyes warm with amusement. 'Why should I feel aggressive towards you? You're only doing your job. Believe me, Jeff, if I'd known you worked for Norcroft, I'd have made a point of finding out.'
'Well, thanks.' Jeff gave a relieved grin. 'But it was your wife who invited us up here, wasn't it?'
'Yes.' Rafe carried two narrow glasses of the green liqueur he had just decanted across to the ladies, and ignoring Lucy's inquisitive stare, returned to his previous position. 'Tell me, Jeff, are you married? I seem to remember you were engaged to some girl who worked at Guy's, weren't you?'
Jeff pushed his hands into his trousers pockets, his expression reminiscent. 'Cecily? Oh, yes, we were engaged. But it didn't work out.'
Rafe frowned. 'No?'
'No.' Jeff chuckled. 'There was this girl at the lab. where I worked. A real—swinger, you know what I mean? Well, I guess I got careless. Anyway, Cecily found out and…' he snapped his fingers, 'that was that.'
'I'm sorry.' Rafe offered wry sympathy. 'And there's been no one else?'
'Lots of them,' retorted Jeff humorously. 'But I'm not married, if that's what you mean. Not yet. Although I have to confess to considering it more seriously lately.'
'Oh, yes?' Rafe raised his own goblet of brandy to his lips, and Jeff nodded reflectively.
'Yes. I'm not getting any younger, I realise that. I'm thirty-three, you know.' Then he grinned, adding with a grimace: 'Of course you do. We're the same age, aren't we? Well, anyway, I think I'm getting too old to play the field. The idea of settling down appeals to me.' He laughed. 'My God! Imagine Mappin saying that! I must be getting old. Or else it's seeing all my friends with wives and families…'
'Yes.' Rafe cradled the crystal goblet between his fingers. 'Or maybe it's just the result of ageing hormones!'
'Hey! Do you mind?' Jeff looked indignant. 'You don't sound as if you care.'
Rafe considered the liquid in his glass. 'Let's say I have reservations…'
'About what?'
'Rafe! Rafe!' Lucy's complaining tones brought an escape from a direct answer. 'Darling, must you monopolise Mr Mappin all evening? What are you talking about so earnestly? Can't we all share your confidences?'
'Glyn and I were just idling over old times,' declared Jeff smoothly, relieving the awkward moment, although his eyes revealed his own lack of understanding. He paused. 'As a matter of fact, I was just admiring your taste in decoration. Where did you find these lampshades? They're beautiful!'
Fortunately he had chosen a subject close to Lucy's heart, and she spent the next quarter of an hour describing the difficulties she had experienced in matching the shades with the heavy damask draperies at the long windows. It meant Rafe was relieved of the necessity of explaining himself, although later in the evening Jeff did contrive to have another word alone with him.
'I'm staying at the local pub,' he said, as Malcolm Forrest and the Normans made their farewells to Lucy. 'You know the place—the Bay Horse? Why don't you come down one evening and have a drink? I'd like for us to have more time to talk.'
Rafe nodded. 'I'd like that, too, Jeff,' he agreed, smiling, in control of the situation once more, and Jeff looked pleased.
'Your wife's been telling me you have a son,' he said. 'I'd like to meet him. What a pity he didn't join us this evening.'
Rafe's mouth thinned. 'Yes—well, I'm afraid Tom was sent to bed an hour before you arrived. Lucy doesn't believe in involving children in late-night parties. Besides,' his tone was wry, 'he disgraced himself at teatime by stuffing himself with fruit cake, and then trying to speak when his mouth was full.'
'I see.' Jeff looked sympathetic. 'What a shame!'
'Yes.' Rafe hesitated. 'I'll bring him over to the site to meet you, if you like. He'd enjoy the outing. He doesn't get many treats, poor little devil!'
Jeff grimaced. 'I'll look forward to it,' he said. 'And don't forget about that drink.'
'I won't,' Rafe promised, and Jeff shook his hand before going to bid his hostess goodnight.
Rafe poured himself another glass of brandy. He was drinking too much, he reflected dourly, but tonight he felt he needed it. He'd have the devil's own headache in the morning, no doubt, but at least he might get some sleep, a commodity which seemed in short supply these days.
Their guests had gone by eleven, Jeff gaining Rafe's promise to visit the site within the next few days before leaving. Lucy went straight towards the stairs as Rafe bolted the heavy door, and turning, he guessed she was as aware of his alcoholic state as he was and eager to escape from it. He let her go. He had no desire to rekindle their earlier relationship, which had been a one-sided affair at best. Her emotions were very shallow things. He doubted she had any depth of feeling for anything other than material interests. She did not love him. She did not love their son. All she craved was wealth and security.
Climbing the stairs, Rafe turned in the direction of his father's rooms. The old man seldom left them these days, avoiding guests with whom he found it difficult to communicate, spending his days reading or working out chess problems on the board that was constantly at his side. The stroke which had partially paralysed him had also given him an excuse to escape from the problems that beset him, and Rafe guessed he was happier now than he had been for years. His mind did wander, and from time to time he suffered losses of memory, but his son was shrewd enough to realise that these failings were most usually evident when some decision was required of him.
When Rafe entered his father's bedroom, he found old Lord Penwyth sitting up in bed, a book propped carelessly on his knees. The lamplit room had an air of warmth and isolation, and for a moment Rafe wished he had such a place to retire to. Morgan had made up the fire earlier, and now the glowing embers of the logs in the grate cast rosy shadows on the ceiling. The bed, a four-poster, was enveloped by its warmth, and the old man lying against the lace-edged pillows had no need of the shawl about his shoulders. There was an aroma of tobacco, however, and Rafe looked suspiciously towards his father. He had been warned about smoking in bed, but the old man seldom took anyone's advice, least of all Lucy's.
Lord Penwyth was seventy, and looked older. He had married for the second time in his late thirties, his first wife having died in childbirth. The child had died too, but Rafe's mother had succeeded in producing a healthy son. The fact that she also had predeceased her husband, was no small sorrow to him and her death had indirectly precipitated the stroke which had paralysed him. Without her steadying influence, he had begun to drink too much, leaving more and more of the estate's business in Rafe's hands, until that terrible afternoon when his horse had thrown him, and he had suffered the attack. Rafe knew his father had not wanted to recover. With the only woman he had ever loved dead, he had not wanted to live. But, as always, fate did not decree to order.
Now, the old man looked up at his son's entrance, his lined features breaking into a smile as he saw the identity of his visitor.
'Have they gone?' he asked, and Rafe nodded, crossing to the hearth to warm his hands over the embers.
'Warrender came up to see you, didn't he?' he asked, supporting
himself with one arm along the mantel, as the heat made his head swim, and Lord Penwyth put his book aside.
'Yes, he came,' he agreed. 'He said Lucy had invited some of those chaps from the mining company: You didn't tell me that. I understood only Norman and his wife were invited.'
Rafe pulled a wry face. 'Does it matter? As it happens, I knew one of them—a fellow named Mappin, Jeff Mappin. He and I were at Oxford together.'
'Hmm.' His father hitched the shawl more securely about his shoulders. 'Is that why you're in your cups? Because this Mappin fellow is an old drinking partner?'
'In my cups?' Rafe shook his head. 'What an expression, Father! And no, I can't blame Jeff for the state I'm in. He's a much sober—soberer character than I am.'
Lord Penwyth exhibited his impatience. 'Then you should have more sense!' he declared, revealing no trace of senility at the moment. 'Drink never did anybody any good, and I should know.'
Rafe grimaced. 'I'm not drunk, Father, I know what I'm doing. It's you I worry about. Have you been smoking in here?'
'Stop trying to change the subject,' declared Lord Penwyth shortly. 'Rafe! For God's sake, don't let her break you, boy! She's not worth it.' He muttered irritably to himself. 'She will, you know, if she gets the chance. Just like she's trying to break Tom's spirit.'
Rafe's mouth tightened and he straightened away from the mantel. 'I'll look after Tom,' he declared, focussing with difficulty. 'Are you all right? That's what I came to find out.'
Lord Penwyth sniffed. 'I'm well enough. Well out of the way, I always think. I don't envy you, boy. I don't envy you at all.'
'No.' Rafe looked at the old man half impatiently. 'I sometimes think you're well enough to handle your own affairs.'
His father lifted a protesting hand then, however, resting back against his pillows and shaking his head. 'Oh, no.' he demurred. 'It's in your hands now, boy. Your hands. Just take it easy. We'll make it—we always do. There've always been Glyndowers in the valley, and there always will be.' Rafe wished he could feel as sure. Maybe as long as his father was alive perhaps, but after that…
