Valentine's Night

by Penny Jordan

  Both her father and Simon hated any kind of inactivity, her father in particular, and Sorrel didn't think she'd ever seen him sit down and read anything other than farming journals. If he had been up here, by now he would be driving her mother mad, prowling round the kitchen, constantly going to check on the weather, grumbling and complaining.

  Andrew, on the other hand, was not a physically active man—a fact which was perhaps betrayed by his rather slender frame. At school he had hated sports, and now his whole life revolved around his bookshop. His only real hobby was attending various antiquarian book sales and mingling with other aficionados whose tastes matched his own.

  Quite often when she went round to his flat to spend the evening with him, he would be busy reading something he had just bought, and Sorrel had learned to take a small tapestry with her or one of her designs so that she had something to occupy herself with.

  Unlike Val, Andrew rarely offered to wash up or help her prepare the meals she cooked for them. He was an only child and his widowed mother had spoilt him. He still went to see her every Sunday to take her to church and have lunch with her. Sorrel had occasionally joined him on these visits, but she sensed that Andrew's mother had never really liked her.

  She had a god-daughter whose name she invariably mentioned in Sorrel's presence, remarking fondly on what a lovely girl she was, how domesticated and gentle, and what a wonderful wife she would make. Sorrel suspected that Mrs James would much prefer Andrew to be marrying her god-daughter.

  She glanced at the window again and saw with a sinking heart that it had started snowing. Val, whom she could have sworn had never raised his head from the diary he was reading, remarked conversationally, 'From the look of the sky, it seems as though it's going to be a good while yet before it lets up.'

  Which meant that it could be heaven knew how long before they could leave the farm. Tiny tremors of alarm sped down her spine, making her say sharply, 'Since when have you been an expert of Welsh weather?'

  She bit her lip, regretting her irritation. The last thing she wanted to do was to betray to him how nervous and vulnerable she felt. She had seen already how much he enjoyed teasing her.

  She waited tensely for him to make some taunting comment, but instead he simply closed the diary and got up, stretching lithely; she could hear the faint crack of his bones beneath the pressure of his luxurious stretch. If one looked at him with purely dispassionate eyes, as a male animal he really was superb, she acknowledged shakily. A woman would have to be carved in marble not to be aware and appreciative of that fact.

  'I'm not trying to be an alarmist,' he told her quietly. 'And you're right, of course, I don't know the first thing about local weather conditions here, but I do know a snow-heavy sky when I see one. You said the arrangement was that we'd stay up here for three days until the twins went back to university. 'As a precaution, and only as a precaution, it occurs to me that it might be a good idea if we started rationing the food a little.' He looked towards the window. 'If this keeps up, will your brother be able to get through?'

  Sorrel went and joined him. In the yard, the flakes fell thick and heavily, but outside, where the land was exposed to the wind, they were being driven into drifts, whirling in some mad dance that was slowly obliterating the landscape.

  'No,' she admitted honestly. 'He'll try, of course.'

  She bit her lip again, knowing how worried her family would be. Of course they would do everything they could to get through to them. This wouldn't be the first time the farm had been cut off by heavy snows.

  'I reckon we're all right for fuel. I found another four sacks of logs in one of the barns while I was looking for a spade, and there's an outhouse with some boiler fuel in it. It might be an idea to bring some of the logs in and dry them off a bit. They could be damp. So at least we can keep warm.'

  'And there's plenty of oil for the lamps,' Sorrel told him.

  'Food? How much of that do we have?' His eyebrows rose interrogatively.

  'A fair amount of staples—tea, coffee, flour, dried milk. And there's always an emergency supply of tins in one of the cupboards. Dad or Simon come up here to check the place over pretty regularly.'

  'We'd better just check and see what there is.'

  A horrible hollow sensation made Sorrel feel distinctly shaky. She had been so caught up in her own emotional problems that she hadn't given any thought to the. more practical aspects of their incarceration.

  Val followed her over to the old-fashioned oak cupboards beneath the dresser. She kneeled down to open the door, for some reason acutely conscious of him as he kneeled beside her. It was ridiculous to let him unnerve her like this. And why? Because through a series of misunderstandings and quirks of fate they had ended up spending the night together.

  It hadn't been a quirk of fate that had been responsible for the removal of her clothes, Sorrel reminded herself angrily, wondering why, when she had been asleep at the time, she should have this disconcertingly real sensation of remembering how those long, deft fingers had felt moving against her skin.

  Stop worrying about it, she cautioned herself. It obviously meant nothing to him that they had virtually slept naked in one another's arms, and he was deriving a huge amount of amusement from her own embarrassment and anger over what had happened, so the best thing she could do was to put it out of her mind.

  And yet, as she reached into the cupboard, she tensed for a second, remembering that now inexplicable feeling she had had that she could confide in him, turn to him, trust him.

  Trust him? She must have been mad! Her face burned as she remembered with self-loathing how many of her inner fears she had revealed to him.

  'Is there anything in there?'

  His words made her start and realise that she was so completely wrapped up in her thoughts that she hadn't made any attempt to check. She felt inside the cupboard.

  'Yes. There are some tins at the back here.'

  'Right, let's get them out and see what we've got.'

  It proved to be quite a worthwhile haul. Five tins of new potatoes, four of a particular brand of minced beef that Simon loved, half a dozen tins of soup and three of vegetables.

  'Looks as though we're in luck.'

  Sorrel noticed him checking on the condition of the tins as she handed them to him.

  'Well, at least we're not going to starve,' he told her. 'With these, plus the stuff you brought with you, we should be able to keep going for quite a while. How long do you think we're likely to be snowed in for?'

  'It's hard to say,' Sorrel told him honestly. 'Normally when we get snow at this time of the year, it doesn't stay very long, but the temperature's still below freezing.'

  'Umm… It's a pity you didn't think to bring a radio with you,' he commented dispassionately. 'What do you think your family will do once they realise they can't get through to us?'

  'Dad and Simon will do their best, but they won't take any unnecessary risks. It isn't worth it. A snow plough will probably clear the main road, but I doubt if it will come up the lane.'

  'Well, it looks as though we'll just have to sit it out and wait,' Val pronounced. Oddly, he didn't seem at all perturbed at the idea and, having replaced the tins in the cupboard, he asked Sorrel, 'Has anyone ever thought of writing a history of the family? With the help of those diaries…'

  'Not really. None of us has that kind of talent.'

  'One of my sisters is a writer. I'm sure she'd be very interested in seeing them.'

  'I don't think Mum and Dad would want to send them out of the country,' Sorrel began to tell him.

  'No, I wasn't suggesting that. Nadia and her husband have been promising themselves a visit to Europe for some time. The only thing that's stopping them is the thought of being away from the twins.'

  He saw Sorrel's look and grinned. 'It isn't only your branch of the family that's got them, you know. Nadia and Rosy are twins, and then Nadia has twin boys, James and Nathan, and Gwen has a full house… a pair of each.'
r />   'What?'

  He laughed again at Sorrel's expression. 'You should have heard her when she discovered that her second pregnancy was twins as well… Mike said he'd never heard such language.'

  They sounded a close family—much like her own—and Sorrel felt a brief stirring of curiosity about them. Because the relationship between Val's family and her own was not a close one, she had not hitherto thought of them as family, but now suddenly she did. It was odd to think of a part of their family living on the other side of the world.

  'What made you decide to try and trace us?' she asked him curiously.

  He got up, helping her to her feet at the same time. The warm grip of his fingers made her tingle, and she snatched her hands back.

  'Perhaps I had a premonition that I had a very beautiful distant cousin who was about to make a big mistake in her life and—'

  'If you're referring to my marriage to Andrew,' Sorrel interrupted him indignantly, 'it is not a mistake.'

  'No, it isn't,' Val agreed, suddenly grim. 'To call it a mistake suggests that you don't know what you're getting yourself into, but you do. Dammit, Sorrel, you're deliberately trapping yourself into a relationship which will give about as much pleasure as… For heaven's sake, can't you see what you're doing?' he asked her explosively.

  'Yes. This marriage is what I want. All right, so it might not appeal to you, but I'm not you, Val. I have different needs… different wants—'

  'You don't know the first thing about what you need or want,' he interrupted her bluntly.

  Sorrel compressed her lips and glared at him.

  'That is the most chauvinistic thing I've ever heard. Just because I'm a woman, you assume that I'm not capable of knowing my own mind.'

  'Rubbish!' The curt objection silenced her. 'That is about the most specious argument I've ever heard. If you really want my opinion, then I'll tell you that I consider women to be far stronger than men… far more capable of knowing what they want from life… far better adjusted to cope with life's knocks. Mature women, that is, but you aren't mature, are you, Sorrel? You're still an eleven-year-old child clinging to a fear that you should have outgrown years ago.'

  'That's not true.'

  'Isn't it?' he challenged her.

  Sorrel had had enough. She would have given anything to be able to turn her back on him and storm out, but there was nowhere to go other than an empty cold room, or upstairs to the bedroom. She wriggled uncomfortably, suddenly aware that she didn't want to go up there, where she might fall prey to the odd sensations of warmth and pleasure that were all rooted in her body's awareness of how much it had enjoyed its physical contact with Val.

  'It's a subject on which we'll just have to agree to differ,' she told him with as much dignity as she could muster.

  'Coward,' he taunted her, and Sorrel mentally cursed his three elder sisters and the knowledge they had given him about the mental processes and emotions of the female sex.

  'You're a fine one to talk,' she threw at him. 'Thirty odd, and still single.'

  'Not because I see myself as a perennial bachelor,' he assured her, surprising her. She had decided that he must be the kind of man who enjoyed having a changing parade of women through his life, and that he did not have the emotional stability or desire to commit himself to one woman.

  'No?' she enquired sarcastically. 'Secretly you're just dying to settle down and produce heaven alone knows how many sets of twins, is that it?'

  'Don't knock it,' he advised her, his Australian accent suddenly exaggerated. 'Lady, that's exactly what I plan to do.'

  'You're planning to get married?' For some reason she was shocked. 'You're engaged?'

  'I don't believe in engagements. Once you've found the person you want to spend your life with, there shouldn't be any need for time to think about it. How long have you been engaged?'

  She glowered at him and said stiffly, 'Two years.'

  His eyebrows rose. 'Not exactly an enthusiastic lover, is he?'

  'I've already told you…'

  'You're not lovers? Yes, I know. Wake up, Sorrel, before it's too late.'

  Although she told herself that he had simply been getting at her, Sorrel couldn't help reflecting on what he had said as she worked on her tapestry. Val was still immersed in the diaries. It had stopped snowing and the sun had come out, but Sorrel doubted if the temperature had risen.

  'Frost tonight,' Val remarked laconically. 'I'd better go and light a fire in the bedroom. We'll need it.'

  Sorrel kept her head bent over her work, but her hands trembled and she stabbed her finger quite painfully with her needle. If he thought for one moment that they were spending another night together…

  She heard him go upstairs and guessed from the sounds from above that he was cleaning out the fire. She had to admit that if she had to be snowed up with a strange man, then Val at least projected an aura of self-confidence and practicality that made the ordeal seem less intimidating. She tried to imagine how Andrew would have reacted in the same circumstances, and had to acknowledge that her fiancé would not have been a tower of strength. Then she frowned, annoyed with herself for comparing Andrew to Val, and even more annoyed with herself for finding Andrew wanting.

  It was not his fault he wasn't the kind of man a woman could lean on if she wanted to. She had not chosen him for his macho male characteristics, after all. She had chosen him because… Her needle slipped and she cursed mildly under her breath, not wanting to admit that she was suddenly not quite sure why she had chosen him.

  That was Val's fault, for filling her mind with all sorts of doubts. Self-doubts, she acknowledged painfully, doubts that had no right to be there. She was not the sort of person, who, having once embarked on a course, liked to be deflected from it. Marriage, to her, was a serious responsibility. Once married, she would have made a commitment to Andrew for all of her lifetime, and she wondered shakily why such a thought should suddenly induce a feeling of panic and dread.

  Val came back downstairs with the previous night's ashes, which he left in the porch.

  'Snow's drifted half-way up the outside wall,' he told her briefly when he came back with fuel and logs. 'So much for clearing the yard this morning.'

  'The fresh air will have done us both good,' Sorrel told him absently. 'And at this time of the year, at least once the thaw sets in, the snow should disappear quickly.'

  'Before that fiancé of yours discovers you've been here alone with me,' he teased her.

  Immediately anger flashed in her eyes.

  'I've already told you, Andrew will understand the situation. You make it sound as though I deliberately sneaked away to… to…'

  'To sample the kind of pleasure he can't give you?' Val suggested.

  'What? No! That wasn't what I meant at all, and you know it.'

  She heard him whistling as he went upstairs—an unfamiliar tune, but one which held undertones of some kind of triumphal march.

  Oh, wouldn't she just love to bring him down a peg or two!

  It was only sensible that they should use up the fresh food first, keeping the tins as an emergency reserve.

  The low temperature and the cold box supplied by her mother were ensuring that their supplies were kept fresh. She was going to cook chicken for dinner, casseroling it in the range.

  'Smells good,' Val commented appreciatively. 'Anything I can do?'

  Sorrel shook her head. The chicken would virtually cook itself; she had filled the casserole with vegetables and thickened it with some of the flour. If there had been any of the elderberry wine left… She blenched a little at the memory of it. Her mother had only put a couple of bottles in with the supplies, saying that Valerie might appreciate a glass of something to drink after dinner. Sorrel doubted that her mother had anticipated them disposing of both bottles in one go!

  As the sky grew dark and the atmosphere inside the kitchen somehow became more intimate, she could feel her stomach muscles clenching. It was no exaggeration to say she was dreading
what lay ahead. Of course, she intended to make it clear to Val that tonight was not going to be a repeat of what had happened last night.

  The tension which was gripping her seemed to be having no effect on Val whatsoever. He ate his evening meal with every evidence of enjoyment while she—while she could barely force down a mouthful.

  'Not hungry?' he asked her, watching her push her chicken around on her plate.

  'There's something we need to discuss,' she told him firmly, taking a deep breath. 'About the… sleeping arrangement.'

  His eyebrows rose, inviting her to continue.

  'I'm sure that both of us can see that it wouldn't be… wise to—' Oh, heavens, why was it that, however she phrased it, her words were going to imply an intimacy that just hadn't existed? 'To both sleep in the one bed… so I think that tonight you should have the quilt and sleep down here, and I'll have the bed, and then tomorrow I'll sleep downstairs… and with luck by then it might have started to thaw.'

  'Want some coffee?' Val asked her cheerfully, getting up and collecting her plate as well as his own.

  Well, at least she had said what she wanted to say, and thankfully he hadn't made the kind of outrageous comments she had expected.

  She should have felt relieved, because she had been working herself up to this moment all evening, but if anything she felt more tightly strung up than before. She wanted to ask Val if he was in agreement with her suggestion, but sensed that to do so would be to imply that somehow or other she wasn't as sure of herself as she should be, and so she kept silent.

  Val whistled as he washed up, and then settled quite happily back to his reading until at about ten o'clock he started to ask her about her grandparents and the kind of life they would have lived up here.

  As she answered his questions, Sorrel discovered that gradually she was relaxing. He had a way of drawing people out, she recognised, of being so interested in what they were saying that it was easy to talk to him, and almost before she knew it it was eleven o'clock.