Charade in Winter

by Anne Mather

  With the removal of one anxiety, however, another took its place. The fact that Oliver had made no effort to speak to her about the correspondence led her to believe that he had not been troubled to read the addresses on the envelopes, and while this was a relief, there was still the problem of what to do when Willie wrote again, as no doubt he would. She was in a quandary, made no easier by a growing awareness that she was impatient to see Oliver again and disturbingly depressed when the days passed and she did not do so. It was no use telling herself that she was just one among many so far as he was concerned. She found herself listening for the Landrover, and starting every time the front door was opened. She ached to see him with an almost physical pain, and nothing he had done could alter the feelings he had so carelessly aroused.

  * * *

  On Friday evening, Alix and Lady Morgan were taking coffee together in the drawing room when he suddenly appeared, unshaven and haggard-eyed, his clothes filmed with dust. He stood leaning against the door frame, uncaring that his boots were coated with the mud which had followed a sudden thaw in the weather, a faintly selfderisive smile lifting the corners of his mouth.

  ‘It’s finished,’ he stated flatly, and his mother-in-law rose excitedly to her feet, her hands clasped together.

  ‘Oh, Oliver!’ she exclaimed. ‘How marvellous! You must be exhausted!’

  He straightened, raking back his hair with a weary hand. ‘I am pretty tired,’ he agreed, flexing his shoulder muscles. ‘Is everything all right here?’

  His dark eyes flickered over Alix, who sat nervously by the fire, as he said this, and she answered awkwardly: ‘Everything’s fine, Mr Morgan. Melissa’s working very hard.’

  ‘Good.’ He continued to look at her for another disruptive minute, and then switched his attention to the older woman. ‘Sorry to have neglected you, Grizelda. I’ll take you all out tomorrow, I promise.’

  ‘Tomorrow you should rest,’ declared Lady Morgan reprovingly. ‘When was the last time you ate? Or slept?’

  Oliver shook his head. ‘When I’m working, I don’t need food,’ he said. ‘As for sleeping, it gets damned cold up there when the fire goes out.’

  ‘I can imagine.’ His aunt made an impatient sound. ‘Now, do you want a meal? I’m sure Mrs Brandon can rustle something up while you’re taking a bath.’

  ‘Thank you for those kind words,’ he mocked cynically. ‘I gather from that that I’m not fit company at the moment.’ He grimaced at her discomfort. ‘Don’t look so upset—I was only teasing. But no, I don’t want a proper meal right now, Grizelda, I don’t think I could stomach it. A sandwich would be very nice, though, and I’ll take a bath as you suggested.’

  ‘Oliver!’ Lady Morgan sighed her frustration. Then: ‘I’ll have Myra fetch you a tray.’

  ‘No, don’t do that.’ His eyes turned back to Alix once more. ‘I want to have a few words with Mrs Thornton. She can bring the sandwich up to my room, can’t she?’

  ‘Well…’

  Lady Morgan looked vaguely disapproving, but Alix, opening her mouth to protest, closed it again as she encountered his hard stare. She had nothing to fear from him. He didn’t even like her.

  ‘That’s settled, then,’ he said, turning away. ‘Give me fifteen minutes, Mrs Thornton, then you can come up.’

  His aunt looked at him thoughtfully. ‘Will you be coming downstairs again, Oliver?’ she asked, and he shook his head.

  ‘I thought not, if you’ll forgive me. As you said, I’m tired.’

  Lady Morgan’s eyes softened. ‘That’s right, you get a good night’s sleep, Oliver. I’ll see you in the morning.’

  He nodded and smiled, and without looking at Alix again left them.

  After he had gone, Lady Morgan rang the bell for Mrs Brandon, and when that lady appeared, explained that Mr Morgan was back and would like a sandwich.

  ‘Yes, my lady.’ Mrs Brandon was always polite to her employer’s relatives. ‘I’ll send it up to his rooms, shall I?’

  Lady Morgan glanced quickly at Alix. ‘Er—no. Bring it here, Mrs Brandon. Mr Morgan will be coming down for it.’

  ‘Yes, my lady.’

  The housekeeper departed and Lady Morgan raised her eyebrows at Alix’s surprised stare. ‘Servants talk,’ she stated, without dissembling. ‘We don’t want that, do we?’ Alix shook her head, and she went on: ‘Oliver’s used to that sort of thing, you’re not. He should know better than to expose you to it.’

  Alix got jerkily to her feet. ‘Lady Morgan, I hope you don’t think—’

  ‘I don’t think anything, Alix. I just know you’re a very attractive young woman, and a sensible one too, I hope. With one unsatisfactory marriage behind you, I imagine, you would think very seriously before becoming emotionally involved again.’

  Alix inhaled deeply. Lady Morgan was quietly letting her know that she shouldn’t take anything Oliver said or did too seriously. And if she thought it necessary to warn her, she must think the warning was warranted. But why? Was she so transparent? Had Lady Morgan noticed her obsessive interest in the comings and goings at the Hall, or sensed her restlessness throughout those long evenings when Oliver had not appeared? It was humiliating to think that anyone might have suspected something which she had thought was successfully disguised.

  ‘Lady Morgan—’ she began, but the older woman had resumed her seat on the other side of the fireplace and now held up her hand repressively.

  ‘There’s no need to say anything, my dear. What either you or Oliver do is no concern of mine, I know that. I just wanted to make sure you understood.’

  Alix turned away, running moist palms down the sides of her maroon velvet pants. Were all divorced or separated women subjected to these oblique comments regarding their relationships with men? Why was it assumed that because a woman had been married she would welcome any man’s attentions? Women were not like men. They didn’t need a constant assuagement of the senses, and Lady Morgan, as a widow herself, should know that!

  Mrs Brandon returned with a tray on which reposed a plate of sandwiches under a persplex cover, and a jug of strongly-flavoured coffee. She glanced speculatively at Alix, still standing beside her chair, as she placed the tray on the low table beside Lady Morgan and accepted her thanks with an ingratiating smile. Then she departed again, leaving Alix to face the daunting task of delivering the tray.

  ‘You’ll come down again?’

  Lady Morgan was speaking and Alix gathered her thoughts. ‘What? Oh, yes. Yes.’ Then she spread her hands. ‘I don’t even know where his room is!’

  ‘No?’ Lady Morgan’s lips tightened. ‘Well, Oliver’s suite is partly above this room. If you turn left at the head of the stairs, it’s the last door at this end of the gallery.’

  Alix absorbed this, and with a feeling of apprehension bent to pick up the tray. If any of the staff saw her her reputation would be in shreds, and had it not been for Lady Morgan’s presence, she would have told him about Melissa’s accusations. Surely then he would have thought twice before insisting she played maid.

  In spite of the hall and stairs stretching out like a marathon course before her, she made the landing without incident, and walked quickly along to the door at the end of the gallery. She knocked lightly on the panels, deciding she wouldn’t give him a second chance if he didn’t hear her the first time. Lady Morgan could come and tell him his sandwiches were waiting for him downstairs, and that would solve the problem.

  But contrary to her expectations, he did hear her, and the door opened almost at once. She didn’t know what she had expected—a bath towel perhaps, draped carelessly about his hips, or silk pyjamas which would reveal far more than they concealed of his lean indolent body. Certainly not clean but faded denim jeans and a matching denim shirt, buttoned almost up to the neck. He was clean-shaven now, and only his hair, still damp from the shower and shining beneath the artificial lights, revealed that he had stripped and dressed again.

  ‘Come in,’ he said, stepping aside so
that she could enter the room, and she carried the tray into a comfortable, if slightly austere, sitting room. Apart from a honey-coloured carpet on the floor, there was a plain brown leather suite, a small writing bureau, and a couple of reading lamps illuminating well-filled bookshelves. The curtains were brown and cream, and matched the shades on the lamps, but there was none of the ostentatious luxury to be found downstairs.

  He closed the door and took the tray from her, carrying it across to a low table set between the armchairs. Then, ignoring the coffe’s appetising aroma, he straightened and said: ‘What’s the matter? Did you think I’d planned a big seduction scene?’

  His words were so close to what she had been thinking that Alix found herself denying them hotly, insisting that her only concern was why he wanted to see her.

  Oliver frowned, and gestured to one of the chairs. ‘Sit down, won’t you? I wanted to talk to you about Melissa, and in the morning I might not get the chance.’

  Alix subsided on to the couch to avoid the intimacy of facing him across the coffee cups, although her blood had cooled considerably since his mocking accusation. She ought to have known that Melissa always came first with him, and not allowed Lady Morgan’s insinuations to influence her in any way.

  Oliver remained standing, however, towering over her so that her eyes were on a level with his hips, and she had to force herself not to stare at the carved buckle of his belt.

  Now he said, ‘You said downstairs that the child is working well. Is that true? Has she stopped being awkward?’

  Alix nodded. ‘Yes. She’s been very good really.’

  ‘And Makoto? You’ve had no trouble with her either?’

  ‘No.’ Alix shook her head.

  Oliver digested this silently for a few moments, and then he said: ‘I wonder why she chose to be so disobedient last week. I thought, in the beginning, that she liked you.’

  Alix pressed her palms together. ‘So did I,’ she murmured uneasily.

  Oliver inserted his thumbs into the back of his belt, arching his spine as if it ached. ‘And you’ve no idea why she played you up?’

  Alix bent her head. ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Yes, I think it does. I don’t like to think that she’s capable of taking an unreasoning dislike to anyone.’ He sighed. ‘She’s been too much in the company of older people. Perhaps because Makoto was upset over the change of arrangements, she was being loyal to her.’

  ‘Yes.’ Alix felt uncomfortable, but she was finding it impossible to tell him the truth, particularly after what he had just said. He might think she was making it up. After all, he must be used to girls making a play for him. With a wife and a mistress in his past, he was not inexperienced in the ways of women.

  ‘What do you think?’ he asked now, and she wished for once that she had a little of Linsey Morris’s cheek. She wouldn’t hesitate, Alix was sure. She would tell him straight out that his daughter had thought she was his mistress!

  When she didn’t immediately answer, he lowered himself on to the couch beside her, his weight causing her to slide a little way towards the middle. She put her hands down on the edge of the couch to prevent herself from slipping any nearer to him, and he moved so that his thigh imprisoned her fingers. She looked up at him aghast, her cheeks flushed, and tugged her hand free.

  ‘If…if that’s all…’ she began nervously, her voice trailing away as he caught her fingers again, caressing her palm with his lips before pressing her hand against his chest.

  ‘I didn’t come straight home this evening,’ he told her softly as his eyes moved disturbingly over her, coming to rest briefly on the laced neckline of the velvet jerkin which matched her pants. ‘I went down to the Lodge to see Giles…and he told me a story.’

  ‘He did?’ Alix didn’t see where this was leading, and her main concern was to get away from him, away from the intimate pressure of his leg against hers.

  ‘Yes,’ Oliver was saying now. ‘I didn’t believe it at first, but now I’m not so sure. It’s a tale that’s circulating about you…and me.’

  ‘A-about you and me?’ echoed Alix falteringly.

  ‘That’s what I said,’ he averred, his breath warm against her cheek. ‘And I think you’ve heard it, too.’

  ‘I—have?’

  ‘I believe so,’ he asserted definitely, and looking down, he deliberately unfastened his shirt so that her fingers were resting against his still damp flesh. Then he looked into her eyes again. ‘Wasn’t that a rather provocative thing to do?’

  Alix gasped. ‘You think that I—oh!’ Her heart pounded indignantly. ‘I certainly didn’t suggest such a thing!’

  ‘You didn’t?’ Hooded lids narrowed his eyes. ‘Then who did?’

  His calculated cynicism caught her on the raw, and with an angry exclamation she dug her nails hard into his chest so that he uttered a violent oath and released her instantly. As she sprang to her feet, she saw in horror that blood was spurting from four distinct scratches, trickling down his chest and staining the blue denim of his shirt.

  Her momentary alarm at what she had done, however, gave him the advantage, and with a savage ‘Come here!’ he caught her wrist and jerked her down beside him again.

  Uncaring that his blood would stain her jerkin too, he forced her back against the yielding upholstery, and covered her parted lips with his own. Alix tried to fight him off, but the hungry pressure of his mouth released all the pent-up longing inside her, and with a little moan she wound her arms around his neck and gave herself up to the pulsating ecstasy of his kiss. He kissed her many times, long devouring kisses that sapped her strength and left her weak with longing for him.

  ‘So you didn’t tell anyone about what happened at the tower?’ he muttered, as he released her lips to bury his face in the hollow between her breasts.

  ‘No,’ she protested, looking at him through half-closed lids, and with a groan he sought her mouth again.

  He was trembling, one leg imprisoning both of hers, when he raised himself slightly to look down at her. ‘So who did?’ he persisted. ‘Grizelda?’

  ‘No.’ Alix stretched out her hand to touch the blood on his chest, smearing it between her fingers. ‘Giles must have told Mrs Brandon that I was with you, and she—she probably told him that we—slept together.’

  ‘What?’ Oliver stared incredulously down at her.

  ‘It’s true,’ she said softly, raising her fingers to her lips and touching them delicately with her tongue. ‘Just because I make my own bed—’

  ‘Oh, God!’ he groaned, crushing her mouth beneath his. ‘I want to sleep with you, Alix, and I don’t much care whose bed we use.’

  Alix responded to him urgently for a few seconds, and then, when he pushed her jerkin aside and bent to kiss the smooth skin of her midriff, she managed to say the words which she knew he had to hear: ‘Oliver—Melissa thought we slept together, too.’

  There was a moment when his tongue continued its sensuous trail to the hollow of her navel, and then suddenly he was still, and his hands gripping her hips hardened.

  ‘What did you say?’ he demanded harshly, lifting his head.

  Alix was terribly loath to repeat what she had said. Lying here in Oliver’s arms, she was where she most wanted to be, and right now she was uncaring of the consequences. But he had to know, and in normal circumstances she doubted she would have dared to tell him.

  She licked her lips, and said quietly, ‘Melissa—Makoto heard gossip in the kitchen, and—well, I suppose she felt justified in telling her.’

  Oliver swore, and pushed himself up until he was kneeling beside her. ‘You mean Makoto told Melissa that you and I—oh, God! How could she?’

  Alix trembled. ‘That—that was why Melissa was so awkward with me. Because—because she was jealous, I suppose.’

  ‘Jealous!’ Oliver said the word contemptuously, getting up from the couch to pace restlessly about the room. ‘My God, save me from jealous women!’

  Alix pulled her jer
kin down over the waistband of her pants. ‘I’m sorry,’ she muttered, swinging her legs to the ground, an awful feeling of emptiness making her feel faintly sick. ‘I’d better go—’

  ‘No! Wait!’ He came towards her and for a dizzy moment she thought he intended to take her into his arms again, and tell her that regardless of what Melissa felt, he loved her. But all he said was: ‘Tell me exactly what happened. How did you find out what Melissa had heard? Did she tell you?’

  Alix controlled her features. ‘Indirectly,’ she admitted expressionlessly. ‘She told me how it was common knowledge that I didn’t always sleep in my own bed.’ She paused, and then rushed on: ‘It’s all nonsense, of course. I’m used to making my own bed, and I’ve made it every day since I’ve been here. I don’t know how—how anyone equates that with an accusation of only using it when you’re not in the house.’

  Oliver frowned. ‘Myra usually makes the beds,’ he said, ‘it’s possible she invented the whole thing.’

  ‘Because she’s jealous, too?’ asked Alix, unable to prevent the bitterness in her voice, and he gave her an angry look.

  ‘I’ve never slept with Myra either, if that’s what you’re implying,’ he stated grimly. ‘Ludicrous though it may seem to someone like you, I am no in the habit of having casual affairs with women. Until recently I was married, and I’m old-fashioned enough to respect those old vows, however much my wife may have abused them!’

  Alix stared at him painfully. So Melissa’s mother had not been one of many, but a special case! So why wasn’t he marrying her now? Or were his words intended as reproof for her behaviour?

  ‘Lady—Lady Morgan is waiting for me downstairs,’ she said jerkily. ‘I—I’ll leave you to eat your sandwich in peace.’

  ‘Alix—’ He started after her and then halted impatiently. ‘Alex, go back to your husband. When this job is over, I mean. It would be much the safest way.’

  Alix caught hold of the handle of the door. ‘Why?’ she asked him tremulously. ‘Because you don’t trust me not to presume on our—working relationship after I get back to London?’