by Anne Mather
'In that area,' agreed Catherine, before adding dryly: 'But not on these roads.'
'Yes. Slow down, Owen.' Gillian seemed to realise the dangers to herself more than any of them, and with a resigned shrug of his shoulders, her husband applied the brakes.
They almost skidded on to the parking area in front of the Bay Horse. Despite the appalling weather, the small car park was full, and they had to cruise around for several minutes looking for an empty space. Eventually, Owen thought he saw one at the far side of the park. There was just room for them to squeeze in between the last car and the hedge, he assured Catherine, but her worst fears were realised when the offside wheels slumped into the ditch which had been hidden by the rain and the darkness, and an ominous grinding sound indicated something infinitely more serious than a puncture.
'Owen!' It was Gillian who voiced all their apprehensions. 'You idiot! You've landed us in the ditch.'
With great difficulty, she opened her door and scrambled out, followed closely by Catherine. The little car was tipped sideways into the ditch, its rear wheel turning freely, but when Owen joined them on the bank, all his earlier amiability had fled, and he viewed his error with resentful indignation.
'How was I to know there was a ditch there?' he muttered, scuffing his heel, but Gillian was ready for him.
'You should!' she declared. 'You've spent enough time at this pub in the past! Oh, Catherine, I'm so sorry! What are you going to do?'
'I suggest we go inside,' said Catherine reasonably, putting her hand on Gillian's arm. 'There's no point in getting soaked all over again. Come on. We can talk about it over a drink. I could surely use one!'
As expected, the bar was crowded, but Owen, urged on by his wife, forged a path to the bar, and came back with two gin and tonics and a pint of bitter for himself. Swallowing half his drink with one gulp, he surveyed his cousin with sheepish eyes, and Catherine made an effort not to show the annoyance she was feeling.
'Do you think it'll be all right?' asked Gillian, and they all knew to what she was referring. 'I mean—if we can get it out of the ditch?'
Catherine shook her head. 'I don't know. I heard a sort of grinding sound, like metal bending or something. I have the feeling the chassis's twisted.'
'You would say that, wouldn't you?' muttered Owen with a scowl. 'It wasn't my fault. I was only trying to park the damn thing.'
'I haven't said it was your fault, have I?' asked Catherine evenly. 'I'm only answering Gill's question. I don't think I'll be able to drive it home tonight, that's all. And in any case, how do you suggest we get it out of the ditch? No garage mechanic is likely to turn out in this weather, is he?'
'We could get a tow.'
'I think not.' Catherine sipped her drink with controlled deliberation, and then turning to Gillian added: 'Are you all right? That's the most important thing.'
'Me?' Gillian patted her stomach reassuringly. 'Oh, yes.' Then, realising how indifferent her husband had been, she remarked acidly: 'Not that Owen cares—the way he drives.'
Catherine licked her lips and looked helplessly about her, wishing herself anywhere but here. If only she had insisted in returning to the cottage after her ride, instead of accepting her aunt's invitation to supper. If only she had not agreed to accompany Owen and Gillian to the pub. If only she had not let Owen drive. If only…
They had attracted some attention, and Catherine being a virtual stranger was attracting more than most. Several pairs of eyes appraised her, and her own shifted uncomfortably towards the bar and Morris Evans's friendly face. The barkeeper raised his glass to her and as he did so, another vaguely familiar face was turned in her direction. It was the young geophysicist Rafe Glyndower had introduced to her, Jeff Mappin. She recalled his name quite easily. She guessed he must be staying at the pub, and on impulse she excused herself from Owen and Gillian and made her way towards him. Perhaps he would give them a lift back to the farm, she thought. Anything to avoid the inevitable recriminations which would ensue if they had to walk home.
It was only as she neared the man, however, that she realised he was not alone. As before, Rafe Glyndower leaned at the bar at his side, and an unreasonable sense of panic gripped her. Were they friends? Was Rafe Glyndower associating with the enemy now, so to speak? Or was this just another coincidence?
Rafe had turned at her approach, and now he rested his back against the bar, elbows supporting himself. In dark grey trousers and a matching knitted sweater, he was achingly familiar, and recalling that scene in her office, Catherine couldn't prevent the wave of emotion that swept over her. She was intensely conscious of the shortcomings of her appearance, Gillian's jeans a little too short in the leg, and Owen's sweater outlining the roundness of her full breasts. And the worn hacking jacket was no competition for his own leather jerkin.
'It's—Miss Tempest, isn't it?' It was Jeff Mappin who spoke first, greeting her enthusiastically, not at all put out by this unexpected interruption. 'So we meet again. Is there something we can do for you?'
Catherine flicked a nervous glance in Rafe's direction before replying: 'I—er—I came down for a drink with my cousin and his wife.'
'Is that right?' Jeff looked sideways at Rafe. 'What a pleasant surprise.'
Catherine forced a smile, and obliged to acknowledge Rafe, she added: 'Good evening, Mr Glyndower.'
'Good evening, Miss Tempest.' He was chillingly polite, she noticed. 'I expect you're surprised to see us together again. You may assure your uncle I don't make a habit of fraternising with the opposition, but Jeff and I were at university together.'
Her deepening colour was an irritation, but she managed to say sharply: 'It's nothing to do with me, Mr Glyndower,' before burying her nose in her glass.
Jeff chose to intervene at that point, saying casually: 'So where are your cousin and his wife? Aren't they with you?'
'Oh, yes.' Catherine glanced uncomfortably towards Rafe once more. 'As—er—as a matter of fact, I came to ask you a favour.'
'Me?' Jeff sounded surprised, and she saw the way Rafe's lids descended, hooding his eyes with disturbing intent. 'What can I do for you?'
'It's my car,' murmured Catherine reluctantly, unwilling to discuss her problems in front of Rafe, but unable to see any alternative. 'Owen, he—well, he's managed to park it in a ditch. I think something's broken—underneath. I don't think it's fit to drive anyway.'
'You mean he crashed it?' demanded Rafe grimly, and she gazed at him defensively.
'No, not exactly.' She hesitated. 'It was an accident, that's all. He was trying to fit in on to the car park, and it—well, half turned over.'
Rafe's mouth thinned. 'What was he?—drunk or something?'
'No.' Realising she was defending herself to his companion, and not to the man whose help she had sought, she turned to Jeff once more. 'There's nothing can be done about it tonight, Gillian's pregnant and we have to get back to the farm, and I wondered if—'
'I'll drive you back to Pendower,' said Rafe, before Jeff could answer her. 'Jeff can see your cousin and his wife home.'
'Now wait a minute…' Jeff broke in indignantly. 'If Miss Tempest needs a ride back to Pendower, I can take her.'
'It's not necessary, really.' The last thing Catherine wanted was to ride all the way back to Pendower with either of them. 'I can stay the night at the farm, and borrow Uncle Mervyn's Land Rover in the morning.'
'I've said I'll drive you home,' declared Rafe, his eyes dark with impatience, and she gazed helplessly down into her glass. 'Jeff doesn't know these roads as I do, and on a night like this…'
'I know the roads pretty well by now, Rafe,' Jeff protested. 'I don't mind driving her home.' He grinned. 'On the contrary, I'd enjoy it!'
Rafe's lips tightened. 'Might I remind you, she's had one unpleasant experience this evening. I shouldn't like to risk her having another.'
Jeff looked indignant. 'Are you suggesting—'
'Don't be a fool!' Rafe's lips curled. 'You know what I mean. The
se roads can be treacherous, and with the Llanbara flooded…'
Jeff looked at Catherine. 'I suggest we let Miss Tempest decide,' he said, and there was a certain tightness about his own expression now.
'Oh, really…' Catherine didn't want to get caught up in any more arguments. 'I could stay at the farm…' Then she weakened before the anger in Rafe's eyes. 'But— if Mr Glyndower doesn't mind…'
'Okay.' Jeff's annoyance was tangible. 'Then at least let me buy you another drink before you leave. What will you have?'
Catherine accepted another gin and tonic, and was half relieved to hear Owen's voice behind her. He shouldered his way into their small circle, and then, realising who it was his cousin was talking to, effected a note of apology.
'I'm sorry, sir,' he said, looking awkwardly into his now empty glass. 'I was just about to tell Catherine here that I've found someone to pull her car out of the ditch.'
Catherine frowned. 'Who?'
'Lewis Edwards,' conceded Owen reluctantly, identifying one of the labourers from Meredith's plantation. 'He says his Land Rover will have it out in no time—'
'I understood the chassis was suspect,' observed Rafe then, and Owen cast his cousin a look of impatience.
'We don't know that, sir,' he explained. 'In the rain and all, it was impossible to tell.'
'Then I suggest you leave it where it is until the morning,' remarked Rafe, exerting the assurance of his position. 'You have no objections, I'm sure, Powys, and Miss Tempest has already made other arrangements.'
'What other arrangements?'
Owen was suspicious and Catherine said hastily: 'Mr Mappin is going to take you and Gillian home, and—and Mr Glyndower is going to run me back to Pendower.'
'I see.' There was a wealth of meaning behind those words, but Rafe's tone was smooth, as he added:
'I'll arrange with the garage to have the car shifted in the morning. I think that would be safer, don't you? Just in case there's any serious damage.'
Owen's protests were silenced, but Catherine did not mistake the resentment in his gaze. He thought she had betrayed them yet again, and it was useless trying to make him see that he was to blame.
Gillian came to join them, and Jeff bought them all a drink. Clearly both Owen and his wife were discomfited in the presence of the squire, and Catherine couldn't wait to leave. She drank her second gin and tonic in the swiftest possible time, and then asked politely if they could be going soon.
'I have a busy day tomorrow,' she said, realising her explanations were an attempt to justify herself in Jeff Mappin's eyes. She had liked him, and in other circumstances…
'I hope we meet again,' he said, as they were leaving, making his intentions very plain, and Catherine nodded before bidding him and her relatives goodnight.
It was still pouring with rain when she and Rafe emerged from the inn, and he asked her to wait in the shelter of the porch while he brought the car to the door. It took only a couple of minutes before the green Volvo drew to a halt beside her, and Rafe thrust open the door from inside and bade her join him.
In spite of the coldness outside, it was warm in the car, and Catherine guessed he had not been long at the pub. There was the faint aroma of tobacco and damp leather, and the more distinguishable perfume that Lucy used. It reminded her of his wife and her visit to the boutique, and made her draw back even farther into her corner.
As if aware of her withdrawal, Rafe glanced her way as he left the car park and turned the Volvo on to the Pendower road. 'I'm sorry if my company is abhorrent to you,' he said, 'but I meant what I said about these roads.'
Catherine expelled her breath on a sigh. 'I know you did,' she conceded. 'It—it's a dreadful night, isn't it?'
'I've seen worse.' His tone was abrupt. Then, brusquely: 'I've embarrassed you. I'm sorry. But I couldn't let Jeff take that chance, not when he's already driven up from Cardiff this afternoon.'
'He has?' Catherine was surprised. 'I didn't realise.'
'No—well, he wanted to get back, and—my wife invited him for dinner.'
'And you came down to the pub afterwards, for a drink,' she murmured, and he nodded.
'Yes.'
Catherine peered blindly through the streaming windows. 'Do you think the road is flooded?'
'It wasn't an hour ago. I doubt if the river's that high. But there may be water coming down off the top, and I'd hate you to end up in the ditch a second time.'
'Would you?' Catherine turned to look at him profiled in the dashboard lights. 'I'd have thought that might please you.'
'Why?'
His voice grated, and she shook her head. 'I slapped your face.'
'We both know why.'
'Yes.' She bent her head. 'Because—because you assumed too much.'
Rafe said nothing in response to this, and she turned her head to the windows again. They were climbing the , winding pass out of the valley near the very spot where Thomas had darted across the road in front of her and Robert. At least he would not be out on the road tonight, at the mercy of the elements as they were.
The silence was oppressive, and taking another tack, Catherine asked: 'Have you known Mr Mappin long?'
Rafe hesitated. 'About fifteen years, I guess,' he said at last. 'Why? Do you find him attractive?'
Catherine gasped. 'I—he seems very nice. I—I hardly know him.'
Rafe moved his shoulders in a dismissing gesture. 'Will you go out with him, if he asks you?'
Catherine stared at him. 'Why should you assume he might?'
Again there was no answer, and a tightening core of tension balled inside her. He took too much upon himself, she thought resentfully. It was nothing to do with him whom she liked or whom she went out with. Those days of the lord of the manor being able to direct the private as well as the working life of his tenants were dead and gone, and he had no right to question her like this.
Recklessly, she said: 'Did your wife tell you she came to the boutique last week? Oh, yes, I'm sure she must have. She bought a dress, and you must have seen it.'
Rafe's long fingers spread and flexed on the wheel. 'Yes.' he agreed quietly, 'she told me.'
'Did she also tell you what she said to me?' Catherine's dark brows arched interrogatively. 'That the mare was her horse, not Thomas's? And that you were desperately short of stablehands?'
Rafe's breath whistled in his throat. 'You didn't believe her.' It was a statement, delivered with hard emphasis. 'You know she was lying.'
'Was she?' Into her stride, Catherine was not so willing to let him off the hook. 'How do I know that?' She paused. 'You may be the one who's lying, for all I know.'
Rafe's fists clenched on the wheel now. 'I can't force you to believe me, of course.' he said roughly. 'I have no proof.' He glanced sideways at her. 'You must make up your own mind.'
'Yes.' Catherine chewed on her lower lip, and then, choosing her words carefully, she added: 'Did you know your car was seen outside the boutique?'
Another silence, and then he said heavily: 'Does that worry you? You should know by now, nothing ever happens in Pendower without everyone knows about it.'
Catherine digested this. 'And it doesn't worry you?'
'Damn it, of course it worries me!' he snapped, his patience shredding. 'I don't like the idea of being a topic of discussion, a source of gossip for the people in the valley! But it's done now, and I can't better it.'
Catherine slumped lower in her seat. 'I see.'
'Do you?' His voice was still harsh. 'What do you see, I wonder? What do you really know about me, or my life?'
Catherine sniffed. 'All right, all right. I'm sorry if I've been the cause of some—embarrassment to you, but— well, I didn't ask you to come to the shop.'
'No, you didn't.' His tone was flat. 'I haven't forgotten that either.'
There was something in his voice now that stirred unwilling emotions inside her, and almost instinctively, she stretched out her hand and touched the sleeve of his jacket. 'I'm sorry, Rafe,
' she murmured huskily, her fingers curving over the taut muscles. 'It was kind of you to offer to drive me home, and I'm just being a bitch. I'm sorry.'
'For God's sake, Catherine—' He wrenched her hand almost convulsively from his arm, and she shrank wretchedly into her corner, as the lights of Pendower appeared ahead of them.
Pembroke Square was only a stone's throw from the market place, and in no time at all the Volvo was dipping its lights before the cottage.
Eager to escape from the car, Catherine sought for the handle, and she had thrust the door open and climbed out almost before the vehicle had stopped. Holding on to the door, she bent to make an enforced statement of gratitude for his having run her home. But his seat was empty, and she straightened to find him facing her across the roof of the car. She stood there for several seconds, just looking at him, with the rain pouring down on them, his expression strained in the light from the street lamps, and then she managed to say tremulously: 'You don't have to wait, you know. I—I have my key.'
Rafe shook his head, and on trembling legs she made the circuit of the car to where he was standing, on the pavement in front of her gate. Fumbling in her bag, she brought out the key, and showing it to him, added: Th-thanks again. And—and goodnight.'
Without answering, Rafe took the key from her unresisting fingers and walked up the path to her door. Inserting the key in the lock, he swung the door open, and then said quietly: 'Can I come in?'
Catherine's mouth was dry. It was difficult to say anything. Instead, she went ahead of him into the hall of the cottage and switched on the light. The almost harsh illumination streamed out on to. the path, and Rafe, stood there, bathed in its radiance.
'Well?' he said, and she moved aside automatically, so that he could step into the narrow hall.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The door closed behind him, and finding her breathing suddenly difficult to control, Catherine went ahead of him into the living room, switching on the lamps and quickly drawing the russet-brown curtains across the windows. The fire she had tended before she went out was still smouldering in the grate, and she opened the flue to allow the cold air from outside to draw it away. As she attended to her duties, she was conscious of Rafe behind her in the doorway of the room, watching her, his back propped against the frame.
