Seen by Candlelight

by Anne Mather

  Closing the door after him, she heaved a sigh of relief. She sank down on to a couch and shivered uncontrollably. She felt sick and it was a mixture of fear and anti-climatic anticipation that had caused it.

  Of one thing she was glad. She had seen Paul’s fiancée tonight and now she knew her opposition. She was a very attractive woman, Karen had to admit, and had a neat, rounded figure. Restlessly, Karen rose and walked to the full-length mirror in her bedroom, twisting round before it and studying her own reflection. If Ruth was Paul’s idea of perfection, it was little wonder that he had been willing to divorce Karen. Whereas Ruth’s figure was delicately proportioned, Karen herself seemed tall and full-bodied; full breasts and curved thighs smoothed down to slender legs, and her hair was as straight as Ruth’s was curly. They had absolutely nothing in common and Karen felt sure that if she spoke to her she would like her even less.

  Ruth was the fragile lily, whereas Karen likened herself to a full-blooming rose. Which would stand the test of time? Karen hoped she would. At least her bone structure was good.

  But then, perhaps Ruth made Paul feel strong and protective, appealing to his masculinity. Karen had always been too independent and she wondered whether Paul wanted a more submissive wife, one he could bend to his will. Still, whatever else, the sexual side of their marriage had always been perfect, and he could surely not improve on that.

  Recalling their life together brought a lump to her throat. If Paul had not been so intent on making money, in improving an organization that was already powerful, they might have stood a chance.

  But what woman wanted to spend her days and nights alone, week after week, while her husband served his other mistress, his other obsession, the company?

  Even so, she knew that galling though it might seem, were he to command her now to come to him she would obey.

  A week passed slowly. Karen was busy and buried herself in her work. It was a way of dismissing reality from her mind and she hoped her work wouldn’t suffer in consequence. Tony Stoker rang up and thanked her for making his evening so pleasant. Karen was touched that he should be so thoughtful, particularly after Lewis’s unveiled hostility. Lewis sent her a basket of spring flowers with a note apologizing for his ill-humour on the night of the ball, and Karen felt relieved. It seemed that the business with Lewis was not going to get out of hand after all.

  About ten days after the ball, Karen found she had completed all the work she had in hand, and as it was all ready after lunch she decided against going in to the office. She could go in the following morning and see Lewis.

  Feeling at quite a loose end, she decided to get her old Morris out of the garage and go for a drive. It was a long time since she had driven out of London, and the day was fresh and spring-like.

  Donning her sheepskin coat over blue slacks and a blouse, she went down to the garages and rescued the car. She filled the tank with petrol at the nearest garage and drove out towards Guildford. The direction always intrigued her, for she had travelled this way many times with Paul.

  The old car spun along merrily. She was very fond of it, and it had never let her down yet. She had bought it second-hand soon after leaving Paul, and it came in handy on occasions like this. She seldom used it to run around London, however, for the parking problem was too prevalent. Besides, there were always buses, and on special occasions, taxis.

  She felt like a prisoner escaping for a while, and felt almost guilty about leaving London behind.

  The hedges were all splitting now with their new greenery and the sides of the roads and the passing gardens were a riot of colour. It gave her a sense of well-being that she had not experienced for a long time.

  She drove as far as Guildford, then made her way slowly back to London, but took the back roads through Old Woking and Chertsey. She found herself driving along the road off which branched the private road to Trevayne and her heart pounded sickeningly. Had her unconscious being brought her this way purposely?

  She reached the turning and slowed the car. The roads were quiet and on a sudden impulse she turned into the private road. She only hesitated a moment before accelerating up the hill to the wrought-iron gates. She stopped the car and sat looking up the drive. The house looked exactly as it had done when she left it. She might never have been away. Smoke curled from one chimney and the white façade was immaculate as ever.

  With a sigh she slid out of the car. She wondered who lived there now. Did they have any children? Was it a happy house? She hoped so. It had always been a wrench when she thought of Trevayne.

  Curiosity overwhelmed her inhibitions, and she crossed the gateway and looked up the drive. Feeling like a conspirator she viewed the front of the building thoroughly. And then, quite suddenly, she saw the low white saloon that was parked to one side of the curved forecourt. It was exactly like Paul’s car in which he had given her the lift.

  Frowning, she drew out her cigarettes and lit one. Of course, it couldn’t be Paul’s car, for what would he be doing here? Unless, of course, the people who had bought the house were friends of his. Perhaps he was visiting them with Ruth.

  She decided it would be safest to make a swift retreat before she was arrested for being a “peeping Tom”. She turned suddenly, and in doing so caught her heel in a clump of turf.

  Without any warning her ankle twisted painfully, and she was caught off balance and flung on to the gravel driveway. A sob stifled in her throat; she grasped her ankle tightly, willing the pain to go away. It was excruciating for a while and the tears came to her eyes.

  As the worst of the jab receded she sat up awkwardly and rubbed the ankle briskly. She lifted her foot into its normal position. The ankle was very tender and even her fingers were rough with it.

  She felt absolutely ridiculous sitting there and she prayed the pain would go away sufficiently to allow her to drive home. It was her right ankle and it was going to be awkward. Already the ankle was swelling and an angry redness disfigured the skin.

  She was mentally chastising herself for being so careless and for coming here, nosing, in the first place. It was so embarrassing whoever owned the house, and if anyone should come out she would look pretty stupid. Heaven help her if Ruth was there. She would really get a laugh at Karen’s expense. And if they were strangers they would want to know who she was and why she was snooping around in the first place.

  And then, as though to punish her even more, the front door of the house was opened. Trembling a little, Karen did not wait to see who it was. She reached for the gatepost and tried unsuccessfully to stand up. However, her legs were so shaky and her foot so painful that she lost her balance and fell again to the gravel, the sharp stones grazing her fingers.

  A man’s voice came to her ears. He was saying:

  “All right, Benson. I’ll let you know next week …” It was Paul’s voice and it suddenly broke off as though he had just caught sight of her.

  She did not dare to look, and closed her eyes in annoyance. Would he think she was following him or something? She heard the crunch of footsteps approaching her down the gravel drive. Then firm hands gripped her shoulders and she was helped to her feet and held firmly. She was turned to face him and she heard his sharp intake of breath.

  “Karen!” he exclaimed, as he looked down at her. “What in God’s name are you doing?”

  Karen’s face was pale, but she managed to say brightly:

  “Squatting, darling. I’m afraid I’ve made rather a fool of myself.”

  Paul held her for a moment and she was glad. She dreaded his letting go for she might collapse, and then he would have to see her foot.

  Paul frowned, obviously intrigued, and Karen decided she would have to make the effort.

  “I must apologize,” she said, flushing. “I stopped to look at the house and I slipped over. I … I’ll go now.”

  Turning on her good foot, she tried to limp to her car, but the foot refused to bear her weight and she fell, ignominiously, at his feet.

 
“Karen!” he exclaimed, sinking down on to his haunches beside her. “Are you ill? My God, look at your ankle!”

  “It’s nothing,” she began, feeling stupid and weak, but he ignored her protest and slid his arms beneath her, picking her up easily in his arms.

  For a moment they looked into each other’s eyes and her heart raced madly. To be so close to him was at once exhilarating and overpowering.

  He turned and strode back up the drive to the house, and carried her up the steps, across the terrace, and into the house, past the startled Benson who was wondering what was going on.

  “Why, it’s Mrs. Frazer!” he exclaimed, astonished.

  Karen managed to smile, although actually she felt as though she was dreaming and that all this was not real.

  “Hello, Benson,” she said. “It’s nice to see you again. Is Maggie well?”

  “Very well,” said Benson, still bewildered at this turn of events. “Is there anything you want, sir?”

  “Yes,” said Paul at once, halting in his tracks. “Ask Maggie to bring some cold water and an elastic bandage. I think Mrs. … I mean Miss Stacey … has sprained her ankle.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Benson, and hurried off down the hall to the kitchen, after closing the front doors.

  Paul carried Karen into the lounge and laid her on the settee. She looked about her in surprise. She remembered this room well. She had decided on the blue and grey décor, giving the room a restful air. The walls were a pale blue and two Impressionist paintings relieved their almost stark blankness. A carved mirror almost covered a third wall and french windows opened out of the fourth on to a tiled patio which had screens which could be slid back on warm summer days. The couch she was now lying on was of a deep blue brocade, and was large enough to seat four people.

  The window hangings were of grey velvet, while the carpet was pearl grey Aubusson. White leather armchairs were set near the fireplace, which was concealed by a screen. There was no fire burning today.

  From her seat on the couch Karen could see out of the french windows, and saw the stretch of lawn leading down to the swimming pool, drained now, and the tennis courts beyond.

  She sighed and looked down at her swollen ankle. It was very awkward. The house was obviously just as she had left it and it intrigued her. Hadn’t Paul told her he intended buying Ruth a house in the Sussex Weald?

  She looked up at him. He was standing with his back to the fireplace.

  “I’m sorry to be such a nuisance,” she murmured, looking up at him.

  “That’s all right,” he replied, his eyes dark and unfathomable. “Would you like a cigarette?”

  “Thank you.” She took one and Paul put one between his own lips. He lit them from his lighter and then slipped it back in his pocket as he straightened up.

  “Tell me,” said Karen, unable to restrain herself. “Do you still own this house?”

  Paul drew on his cigarette, inhaling deeply and allowing the smoke to drift out slowly through his finely chiselled lips. His eyes returned to her.

  “Yes.” He looked at her gravely.

  Karen shrugged and shook her head. “But you told me you were going to buy a house in Sussex!” she exclaimed. “Have you changed your mind?”

  “No.” Paul was enigmatic.

  “Then why do you need this house?” she exclaimed in bewilderment.

  “I don’t need it,” he replied coolly. “I simply don’t want to sell it.”

  “I see. Curiouser and curiouser, as Alice said.”

  “You need not concern yourself,” he said abruptly. “The house pleases me. It always did.”

  “Oh,” she murmured. That quelled any ideas she might have had. Suddenly, her ankle twinged painfully, and she winced visibly, suppressing a cry.

  Paul frowned, seeing this, and walked swiftly to the door.

  “Hurry up, Maggie,” he called impatiently.

  “She’s probably being as quick as she can,” exclaimed Karen, turning round and looking at him, tall and handsome as he stood in the doorway.

  “That’s not quick enough,” he retorted bluntly, but had hardly finished speaking before Mrs. Benson came hurrying across the hall towards him, complete with a dish of cold water and bandages.

  “Where is Mrs. Frazer?” she exclaimed, brushing past Paul into the lounge.

  “I’m here, Maggie,” said Karen, smiling. “It’s good to see you again.”

  “You should come to see us more often,” exclaimed Maggie, tactlessly. “You know we’d like to hear how you’re getting on.”

  Paul strolled back to them. “I’ll do it, Maggie,” he said, before she had time to get down on her knees. He took the dish. “Do you think you could rustle up some tea for us?”

  “With pleasure,” said Mrs. Benson, smiling benignly at Karen. “The kettle won’t take a minute to boil. I’ll not be long, sir.”

  Paul nodded, and Mrs. Benson departed, closing the lounge door behind her. Paul dropped his cigarette into the empty fire grate, and hitching up his trousers, knelt down beside the couch. He rolled back the trouser leg of her slacks to her shin and had a good look at the reddened skin.

  With cool, exploring fingers, he examined the ankle.

  “There are no bones broken,” he said quietly.

  “Oh – good,” she managed to say, only conscious of the gentle touch of his fingers. It was a delight to feel his hands touching her again, and the subsequent pain as he bound up the ankle was of secondary importance. He soaked the bandage well before applying it to her ankle and he bound it firmly but not tightly. The coolness was very welcome, and when he had completed his task, he secured it with a safety-pin. Karen waited with clenched fists for him to pull down her trouser leg over the bandage, willing herself to remain calm. The moments of delight were over, and she must not betray her feelings.

  But suddenly his fingers gripped her foot tightly, and she looked down to find that he was making no effort to rise from his position. Instead, he was caressing her foot with a strange intensity and when he looked up and met her startled gaze his eyes darkened passionately.

  Karen’s limbs turned to water at that look, and she shook her head incredulously as his hands slid up her body to her shoulders, and he stretched his length beside her, seeking her mouth with his own.

  “Paul!” she breathed hesitantly, turning her head away, but one hand gripped her throat and he turned her mouth to meet his. Her lips parted involuntarily and his kiss seemed to draw the very strength out of her body. It was a very satisfying kiss, hardening and lengthening, until Karen felt herself sliding down into an oblivion of feeling where nothing mattered but that Paul should go on making love to her. He was not gentle, only demanding, and she responded with equal fervour.

  They had both fogortten the imminent arrival of Mrs. Benson and only the sound of the tea trolley being wheeled across the hall brought them back to reality.

  With a sound that was almost a groan, Paul dragged himself up from the couch, away from her, his fingers not quite steady as he straightened his tie and ran a hasty hand over his thick black hair.

  Karen sat up again on the couch. Her face was flushed from his kisses and her hair was in wild disorder after being pressed against the cushions. With the prosaic admittance of Mrs. Benson, she tried rather unsuccessfully to smooth her silky hair, but it clung against her cheeks. She wondered what Mrs. Benson could be thinking as she put the trolley beside the couch so that Karen could pour the tea. She must be aware that something had been going on and Karen knew she was infinitely curious. But, like the well-trained servant she was, she merely said:

  “Will you pour, madam?”

  “Yes, thank you,” said Karen, smiling self-consciously at her. “It looks very nice.” On the trolley was a teapot, milk jug, sugar basin, cups and saucers, and a plate of freshly baked, buttered scones.

  “Very well, madam. Ring if you need any more tea.”

  Mrs. Benson withdrew after scarcely glancing at Paul, who was helping hims
elf to a drink from the cocktail cabinet.

  Karen poured the tea, feeling very strange. Now that it was over, she felt ashamed and annoyed with herself for responding so completely to him. He would probably think she was the epitome of everything he most abhorred, for although he had kissed her, she felt sure he was hating himself for doing so.

  Forcing herself to be natural, she said: “Do you want any tea?”

  Paul swung round, a glass in his hand. “No, thanks,” he muttered, in a low voice.

  Karen shrugged and sipped her own. The tea was relaxing but the thought of food nauseated her. She finished the tea and replaced the cup on the trolley. Paul lit a cigarette and then he said:

  “I must apologize,” in a tight voice. He ran a finger round the inside of his collar. “I’m afraid … I made a fool of myself.”

  Karen’s cheeks burned. “Don’t perturb yourself,” she said quietly. “It was a mutual reaction to a set of circumstances.”

  Paul took a mouthful of his whisky, and drew on his cigarette.

  “I’m … er … I’m glad you realize that was all it was,” he said awkwardly. “I was afraid you might for a moment think …”

  Karen interrupted him. “Don’t go on, Paul. It’s quite all right. I know how you feel.”

  “Damn you, do you?” he muttered angrily. His eyes narrowed disbelievingly. “I really don’t believe that you do, Karen. Don’t you secretly cherish the thought that I still really love you and that I’m simply burying my sorrows with Ruth?”

  Karen’s eyes widened. What had brought this on?

  “Paul!” she exclaimed reproachfully.

  Paul bit his lip angrily. “Oh, Karen, don’t play the innocent with me. It just isn’t you! You have always believed you could act as you like, treat people as you like. Well, in my case, it’s simply not coming off. I’m marrying Ruth because I want to, not to forget you. And any part of me that reacts to you is inspired by a purely sexual reaction. Do you understand? You’re a very beautiful woman. I’ve always thought so.”