The Road to Forever

by Jeneth Murrey

  'No,' he was wry. 'She'll only think that at last I've come to my senses. She built up the fairy tale a long time ago. You and I were going to marry. Put on the ring, cariad, and we'll tell her that dreams do come true sometimes. Here, let me help you,' as she fumbled with the catch of the box and he slid the oval setting of rubies on a narrow gold band over her knuckle. 'Now, come along, I'll carry you, it'll look that much more romantic!'

  He picked her up and she immediately slid both her arms round his neck, hanging on tightly. 'There's no need to strangle me,' he protested.

  'Strangle you?' Lallie shook her head. 'As if I would! Strangling's too good for you, you deserve something a lot more slow and painful. No, I was trying to look like a bit of orange blossom. That's right, throw me on the floor in your temper! Tut, tut, you'll have to learn restraint, Mr Tudor, otherwise I shan't play your game. It needn't take longer than twenty-four hours for me to decide I'd die if I had to live here, then where would you be?'

  'Your tongue's too busy again,' and he bent his head, silencing her with his mouth on hers, but this time there was nothing gentle or kind about it. The pressure was painful as he forced her lips apart and although she struggled, kicking out with her good foot, pummelling with her fists and trying to twist her head away from him, it had no effect. He was holding her as if she weighed no more than a baby and doing it with just one arm, while his free hand had fastened about her throat, his thumb seductively rubbing at the hollow behind her ear. When he raised his head, her eyes were wet and she could only whisper.

  'Don't, Owen. Please don't do that to me.'

  'Come off it, Lallie,' he looked down at her mockingly. 'You've been around, you know what it's all about, so why the virginal shrinking? I'm not impressed, if that was what you hoped for.'

  'I won't play your game,' she threatened.

  'Yes, you will, my girl. You'll play any damn game I choose, because if you don't, I'll stop playing games and start in for real. Then you can measure up my performance against your ageing Romeo.' He was only whispering, but there was menace in his every hiss and she closed her eyes against the feral gleam in his.

  Sometimes, she told herself, it was better to stop fighting—safer. And this was one of those times, but even so, she wasn't completely beaten. She forced her bruised lips into a charming smile.

  'You've talked me into it!'

  CHAPTER THREE

  Dwynwen was lying in bed, shrunken and old, and as Owen lowered Lallie to the floor, she realised just how old Dwynwen must be. Seventy, she thought, or perhaps even seventy-five.

  She had stifled a gasp of dismay when she had first caught sight of the old lady, but she had painted a smile on her face and kept it going grimly. Dwynwen's high colour was gone, leaving her face pale and waxy, and as for her once plentiful white hair, there wasn't much plenty about it now; Lallie could see the shiny scalp through the strands. And Dwynwen's sturdy form had shrunk, there was hardly a bump in the bedclothes to show where she was lying. For the first time, Lallie felt afraid.

  She must have stiffened, because Owen's arm tightened about her in the old familiar, comforting way as it had done when she was a child and a favourite cat or dog had died.

  'It's all right, Lallie,' he murmured in her ear in a tone too low and muffled for Dwynwen to hear. 'She's on the mend.' Owen had always been kind to her when she was little, he had seemed to know how she felt then.

  'Hello, Dwynny.' Lallie watched the old housekeeper's black eyes lose their opaqueness and become once more sharp.

  'Come home, have you? Bad girl!' Dwynwen's voice had changed as well, it was throaty and she stumbled a bit over the words, but there was a faint tinge of her old vigour still remaining. Lallie slid down on to the unwrinkled coverlet.

  'About time,' she teased, while her heart ached. 'I can see you've been pining for me.'

  Dwynwen's eyes went to Owen, standing at the foot of the bed. 'You keep her here this time, my lad. We need her.'

  'Everything arranged.' He picked up Lallie's left hand and waved it under Dwynwen's nose. 'Shackled!' He sounded triumphant and Lallie awarded him top marks for acting ability, deciding to equal it and if possible, better it.

  'Oh, he's arranged it all right,' she grinned. 'He's immobilised me, nearly broken my ankle!'

  Dwynwen's eyes closed and then flicked open again. 'Do with a cup of tea,' she muttered. 'That Nerys makes it too weak.'

  Lallie flicked her black head at Owen and he left the room, whereat she chuckled.

  'Obedient, isn't he?'

  The ghost of a smile touched the housekeeper's mouth. 'Always are,' and her eyelid drooped in a travesty of a wink. 'When they're getting their own way.' She struggled a brown, workworn claw out from under the bedclothes and grasped Lallie's wrist. 'Stay here with us, cariad, this is your place.'

  At any other time, Lallie would have denied it hotly. This wasn't her place, she was a stranger, despite all the years she'd lived here. She was just a stray they'd taken in and made welcome for the sake of her mother, she didn't really belong, not like Owen, Jonty and Dorcas. But now she meekly bowed her head and laid her hand on the frail old brown one.

  After all, she and Dwynwen were really in the same position, they neither of them belonged, not properly, and Dwynwen must have felt this even more than she had done herself, otherwise the old lady would never have worried so much about her future when she was too old to work any longer. To Lallie, being sent away had been a grief, but it hadn't been the end of the world, she had been young and resilient but that sort of threat hanging over Dwynwen's head, it must have been terrifying.

  Behind her smile, she worked it all out, surprised she'd never thought of it this way before. To her, Dwynwen had been a permanent part of the scenery, a fixture like a brick in the wall—to be there till the house crumbled away. She had based this supposition on the fact that in some tenuous fashion, Dwynny and Owen were related. She recalled Dwynwen talking about it, about her grandmother and greatgrandfather who had been Tudors, and Lallie, without any living relatives, had made more of this than she should have done.

  She had believed firmly in family ties, but apparently Dwynwen wasn't so sure of their strength and endurance. All the same, Dwynny should have known that Owen would never send her away from this house. Hadn't he built on this extension purposely—a bedroom, sitting room and bathroom, so that the old lady would no longer have to climb stairs, and hadn't he decreed there would be no big evening meal—that they should have dinner at mid-day so that the housekeeper should have the afternoons and evenings to herself?

  No, she was sure of it, this had nothing to do with Owen, he probably hadn't known anything about it, but—and here Lallie's eyes glowed venomously— he'd imported the person who had dropped the poison, and surely that person wouldn't have said anything without first having been given some encouragement to think herself in a position to do so.

  So it was Owen's fault, and that was another black mark against him. Damn him and his tomcatting tendencies! It wasn't so bad when he kept them separate—when he confined them to the occasional weekend away. He'd no right to bring them home!

  As if she'd conjured him up just by thinking about him, he came in with the tea tray. Dwynwen drank her tea, but when Lallie rose to go, she found her hand imprisoned in the old lady's. 'You'll stay, Lallie, promise?'

  'I've no option.' Lallie put on a cheerful front. 'Owen's been laying down the law ever since he found me in London, but it's not only that. I was getting a bit fed up anyway. Spring's coming and I wanted to be here to see it.'

  'Getting married?' Dwynwen touched the ring and looked up, almost slyly.

  'Of course!' That was Owen being firm and giving Lallie no chance of spoiling things. 'But not for a while yet, we can't have a wedding without you, old girl so you'd better pull yourself together and start getting well fast. I can't wait for ever.'

  'There was no need for you to be so damn coy with Dwynwen!' Lallie brought it out ferociously as they were sitt
ing at supper. She helped herself to another slice of cold ham—a large one—anointed it with mustard and pickles and reached for another slice of bread and butter.

  Owen raised his eyebrows, smoothing back the lock of russet hair which always dropped over his forehead. 'She likes it. It's what she expects—the sly glance, the innuendo, it's meat and drink to her.' He fetched himself another can of lager from the fridge, pouring some into his glass and shaking the tin at her. 'There's some left, want it?'

  At the shake of her head, he resumed pouring into his own glass. 'And you, my little pet, are supposed to blush with shy, maidenly modesty, but I won't demand the impossible from you. What was he like, your ageing Romeo? Did he make your flinty heart go pit-a-pat?'

  Lallie choked on a mouthful and reached for the teapot. 'No, he didn't,' she said furiously when she had her breath back. 'I've told you and told you, there was nothing! I'll repeat it if you like, nothing! We've had all this out before, and I'd like it if you never mentioned the subject again. You didn't believe me then and you're not believing me now, so what's the point?' She poured her tea with a shaking hand. 'You obviously believe it, so it must be true, anything you believe is always the truth. Or is it that you need to believe it—that it brings me down to your level? If that's the case, I don't need to worry overmuch. If I tried for years, I'd never get down to where you are.' She took a gulp from her cup and shuddered at the sweetness. 'Owen, please listen to me. This is an impossible situation, you must see that. I can't live like this, not even for a few months.'

  'Then stop pretending, Lallie. Try being honest for a change, you'll find it a great relief.'

  She threw down her knife and fork and rose from the table swiftly, wincing a little as she knocked her ankle against the table leg. 'You want honesty, I've given it to you, but you weren't satisfied—it wasn't a good enough story—well, have the other one which I shall fabricate for you on the spot. My ageing Romeo was very nice, very kind and very considerate, and as well as him, there've been at least six others, all old men. I have a yen for them. Do you like that story any better?'

  'You little tramp!' He sprang to his feet and towered over her, his eyes blazing.

  'See what I mean?' She faced him and her face was a small, white mask of bitterness. 'You'll believe anything filthy about me, won't you? You want to believe it!' And she limped out of the kitchen and upstairs to her room where she flung herself on the bed. It would have been lovely to be able to cry, but the tears wouldn't come. They stayed—a hard lump in her throat hurting when she took a breath so that she thought she would choke. She heard her bedroom door open and swung round to see Owen.

  'Get out!' The words came out as almost a snarl. 'You're too young, Owen, you need another fifteen years to get into my bracket.' Her hand reached for the hairbrush on the dressing table. 'Out!' she repeated. 'I like them old, withered and at least fifty. You don't qualify!'

  As she said it, she knew she'd made a mistake. She should have ignored him completely or kept her temper and said something soft—perhaps she should have cried a bit. But it was too late, the words had been said and she couldn't take them back. They hung in the air like a curtain of stinging things. She raised her hand, gripping the hairbrush defiantly, lifting it above her head, but Owen caught her arm before she had a chance to throw it.

  'Don't try me too far, Lallie.' His face, like her own, was white with temper. 'You might make me want to find out for myself, and I don't think you'd like that. I wouldn't be very gentle in my present state of mind. Go to bed before you say another word, and while you're still safe. I came up here to arrange some sort of truce—as you said, this situation's impossible, so I think we should start tomorrow afresh. No yesterdays and no tomorrows—that way, I might keep my sanity and my temper. Will that do you?'

  Lallie nodded dumbly and watched him as he went out of the door.

  Lallie stood in the kitchen. She wasn't flustered or overcome by the woman who had come in to join her, she was merely filled with a depressing envy. So this was Owen's old school friend, his Mrs Stella Prentice? Lallie thought he should consult the nearest dictionary about the correct meaning of the word 'altruism'. He'd evidently made a mistake in using it, because in this case she didn't think it applied. No wonder he'd gone off early and left her to it!

  She had been expecting she didn't quite know what, but certainly nobody like this. Perhaps a faded, rather careworn widow, somebody who looked as though she'd been marked by life, and she couldn't have been more wrong. Stella might have been in school with him, which would make her about thirty-five, but she didn't look a day over thirty—and there was worse to come. She had just the looks which Lallie had always wanted for herself, silver-blonde hair, swept back in sculptured waves into a classical chignon, the type Lallie had always wished for but could never achieve—her own hair was too thick and heavy for it—and Stella had a complexion like a rose petal, several shades lighter than her own rather dark skin.

  And Stella was tall and graceful—at least five foot seven and with an adequate amount of all the usual ins and outs. Her bosom was a real bosom, it deserved the word! Lallie's envy grew. There was nothing much the matter with her own, of course, they were there—high and firm but small, all right as long as you didn't mind skimpy things—and Stella's legs, they were beautiful as well, long and slender, ending in long, slender feet. She was all woman and she made Lallie feel like an adolescent schoolgirl.

  Stella was smiling at her, a mistress—hired help smile—beautiful, understanding, firm and ever so slightly condescending.

  'Good morning, Lallie, you look just as you've been described to me, Owen has a wonderful gift for verbal sketching, I think I'd have known you anywhere. I'm sure we shall get along splendidly.'

  'Good morning, Stella.' Apparently Christian names were going to be the order of things and a small fib this early in their acquaintance wouldn't hurt, so she fibbed. 'I'm sure we shall.' But Stella had other ideas.

  'Mrs Prentice, dear.' Stella looked rueful and the smile was kept going, although her pale blue eyes had hardened. 'I like to start as I mean to go on and it's better to get these things straight right away. I'm sure you'll understand, but I always insist on formality. You see, I've had quite a bit of experience in the hotel trade and I've always found it pays to insist on formality. You know the saying about familiarity leading to contempt—I assure you it's true, and I've found that a familiar staff is a sloppy staff.' It was quite a long speech, but Stella did it beautifully. Her diction was elegant and precise and although she hadn't lost every bit of her Welsh accent, it came over as a gentle lilt which made her speaking voice very attractive.

  Lallie's nostrils thinned and she had to lower her eyes to hide the fighting gleam behind her lashes, while the whole of her body tensed with anger. She wasn't a snob, that sort of thing had never gone down well with the Tudors, they might be farmers and they'd made a lot of money at it, but they never chucked their weight about. So, she was staff, was she—she firmly repressed a desire to go straight up to her room, pack her case and ring for a taxi. The thought of Dwynwen helped in her decision not to budge. She couldn't leave Dwynny to the mercies of this arrogant bitch!

  But why hadn't Owen explained to his Stella about the situation? And then she remembered, he'd had no chance. Stella had gone on holiday before Dwynwen's heart attack, so Stella, only just back from wherever she'd been, would have only the local gossip to rely on. That gossip would have been fairly comprehensive, but not all that reliable, and it wouldn't have contained any details of Owen's 'master plan'; that was a strictly private matter between herself and him.

  All this flashed through her brain at the speed of light, together with the comforting thought that six years in London had given her a thin veneer of sophistication behind which she could take shelter. Only it was too thin really, only an eggshell thickness which would shatter at the first knock. So, instead of uttering the first biting words that came to her lips, she choked them back and raised limpid,
innocent eyes to Stella, who didn't realise the danger when those eyes turned gold.

  'As you wish,' Lallie murmured, 'but I think it's carrying formality a bit far and I don't think Owen would understand. He'd think we didn't get on if he heard me calling you Mrs Prentice. Besides, if I called you that, I'd have to call him Mr Tudor, and I don't think I could be that formal with a man who used to bath me when I was little. But if you want to call me Miss Moncke, I shan't mind in the least, although I'd still think it was ridiculous. This isn't a hotel and I'm not exactly staff—I'm Lallie, come to take over until Dwynwen's well and able to cope once more.'

  All through this, Stella kept her smile going and Lallie gave her top marks for a more than adequate layer of sophistication; she even envied that as well.

  'Ah yes,' Stella allowed herself to be diverted, it was easier than squabbling about what they should call each other. 'How is Dwynwen?'

  'On the mend.' It was Owen's phrase and Lallie echoed it, adding her own comment as an after thought. 'Sitting up and taking nourishment—and now, if you'll excuse me…' she nodded to where a lump of dough was sitting on the floured board, ready to be rolled out, 'I have to get on with dinner or we'll be having it at teatime.'

  'Dinner.' Stella became businesslike and judicious. 'Now that's one thing I'd like you to change, and as soon as possible. I'm sure it would be no trouble to you and so much better for Owen. It would be much better to have the main meal in the evening, don't you think? About half past seven would be a very good time. Owen's so rarely here for a meal at midday and it would give you more time to get on with your household chores.'

  Lallie dropped her meekness like an outworn cloak and with it went any intention of trying to preserve the mistress/staff relationship which Stella was trying to establish. 'Not on your life!' she wagged her head firmly. 'I'm not slaving over a hot stove all evening or spending half the night washing up. Breakfast's at seven-thirty, dinner's at one, tea is at five and there's a cold supper laid out any time after nine-thirty. It's all part of Owen's Law, he fixed it that way, and that's the way I like it.'