by Anne Mather
'I don't want to get married!' declared Helen unsteadily. 'I know that.'
'Why not, for heaven's sake?'
'You're not married.'
'I'm different.'
'No, you're not. You need women. Mrs Gittens said so.'
'Oh, did she?' Heath's eyes darkened. 'And what else has Mrs Gittens been saying?'
'Oh, nothing.' She shifted uncomfortably, realising her reckless words could cause the old housekeeper some embarrassment. 'She wasn't talking about you! It was just something I—I overheard.'
'Really?'
'Yes, really.' She looked up at him helplessly, more than ever at a disadvantage without shoes. 'Honestly, Heath, you've got to believe me. I'd hate you to confront Mrs Gittens with something like that. She'd die, she would, honestly!'
'Isn't it the truth, then?' Heath took the step that brought him closer to her, his eyes glinting dangerously, and Helen gasped.
'I'm not lying, if that's what you mean.'
'So she did say it?'
'Yes. No.' Helen shook her head. 'Oh, you're just doing this to confuse me! You don't really care what Mrs Gittens says about you. You don't care what anybody says about you.'
'I wouldn't say that.'
'I would.' She hunched her shoulders. 'Can I go now, please?'
Heath shrugged. 'I suppose you'd better.'
'Thanks.'
She made for the door, but he was swifter, reaching past her to turn the handle for her, his green eyes mocking as they surveyed her confusion. 'Don't hate me, Helen,' he said, surprisingly, and her face flamed with sudden colour.
'I don't hate you,' she exclaimed, but he deliberately inclined his head.
'You could—very easily,' he essayed, his warm breath fanning her bare shoulder, and her breathing was laboured as she ran up the stairs to her room.
Marion Marsden came to Helen's room when she was getting ready for dinner. 'I'm not intruding, am I?' she asked doubtfully, when she saw Helen was still in her dressing gown, and the girl quickly shook her head.
'Of course not. Come in,' she invited, stepping aside. 'You can help me to decide what to wear.'
Marion entered the bedroom, surveying its ample proportions with renewed admiration. 'This really is a lovely room, Helen,' she declared, spreading her arms expressively. 'You'll miss it when you get married. There aren't too many houses like Matlock around.'
Helen moved her shoulders half impatiently as she closed the door. 'Why is everybody talking about marriage all of a sudden?' she exclaimed. 'I don't expect I'll get married—at least, not for ages anyway.'
'Who else has been talking about marriage?' enquired Marion innocently, seating herself on the edge of the bed, but Helen was not prepared to tell her.
'You look nice,' she said instead, changing the subject. 'That shade of pink becomes you. I just wish I knew what I was going to wear.'
Marion tilted her head to glimpse her reflection in the mirrors of the dressing table and then sighed. 'I'm going grey!' she said, touching her cap of light brown curls resignedly. 'Be thankful you don't have to worry about things like extra inches and unbleached roots!'
'I wouldn't say that,' Helen sighed. 'Miss Patterson thinks I'm overweight.'
'Miss Patterson? Oh, you mean this woman Heath's employed to look after you?' Put like that it didn't sound half so intimidating, Helen realised in amazement. 'I met her at tea. I shouldn't worry about what she says. She's probably envious. After all, you have got everything going for you, haven't you?'
'Have I?'
Marion gave her an old-fashioned look. 'Stop fishing for compliments, Helen. You know you have. Now, what is it you're planning to wear?'
'No, really, Marion, I wasn't fishing for compliments, honestly.' Helen chewed unhappily at her lower lip. 'I just want you to be honest with me. Don't you think I'm—fat?'
Marion sighed. 'Of course not.'
'But I'm not slim, am I?'
Marion shook her head. 'You've got some shape, that's all. You're not thin, I'll grant you that, but you're certainly not fat. And with that hair…'
Helen swung round from the critical examination she had been giving herself in the wardrobe mirror. 'You don't think my hair needs cutting, then?'
'Cutting?' Marion snorted. 'Who gave you that idea? Not Heath, I'll bet.' She paused as the girl looked uncomfortable. 'Helen, your hair is one of your best features. You'd be mad to have it cut.'
Helen nodded. 'That's what I thought.'
'So—if you've finished admiring yourself…'
'I wasn't—' Helen coloured, and then saw Marion smiling at her and looked rueful. 'The dress,' she said determinedly. 'I'll show you what we bought.'
Under Marion's experienced eye, the two dresses and the caftan Angela had chosen were brought out for inspection. 'They are beautiful, aren't they?' murmured Helen wistfully, fingering the dark blue satin of a cap-sleeved dress with a scooped-out neckline, suitable for both day and evening wear. 'I like that one best,' she added, pointing to the other, a fine knitted silk, whose tubular shape accentuated every curve and sinew. 'It's really smooth, isn't it?'
'Yes.' Marion sounded less enthusiastic, turning from the dresses to survey Helen's youthful figure and then back again.
And as Helen watched her, her own enthusiasm faded. 'You see,' she declared, after a few moments, her confidence crumpling. 'You're doubtful whether they're going to fit me, aren't you? Why don't you admit it? I am fat, like Angela says.'
'You're not fat!' Marion spoke firmly. 'And the dresses are—beautiful, as you say. All I'm wondering is whether they're entirely suitable for a girl of your age.'
'What do you mean?'
'Helen, you're not that much older than Emma, and quite frankly, I wouldn't allow her to wear something like this.'
'Why not?'
'Why not?' Marion moistened her lips. 'Well, because they're for an older woman. Someone of your Miss Patterson's age, I'd imagine.'
Helen sighed. 'I'm not a child, you know, Marion.'
'I know. But you're not a sophisticated woman either. Where did you buy these things? Not in a teenage department, I'll bet.'
'We got them at Mallory's,' replied Helen defensively. 'I got a suit there, too.'
'Mallory's.' Marion shook her head. 'What's that? A dress shop in Bradford?'
'In Manchester, actually,' replied Helen tensely. 'Angela didn't like the teenage departments. She said the music was too loud and the clothes were cheap.'
'Well, so they are. Cheap, I mean. But that's because young people like a lot of clothes rather than one or two expensive items in their wardrobe. And in any case, there are establishments that sell good teenage clothes. Heath should have sent you down to me. I'd have kitted you out—and not in clothes more suited to a woman of my age, not yours.'
'Oh, Marion …' Helen hunched her shoulders. 'So what am I going to wear then? The caftan?'
'Not tonight,' replied Marion flatly. 'It's too warm.' She paused. 'Tell me, do you happen to have a skirt you could wear?'
'A skirt?' Helen's spirits drooped still further. 'Oh, not a skirt again!'
'So you do have a skirt,' Marion gauged accurately. 'Now, does Heath have a white shirt you could borrow? One with wide sleeves, for preference. Then I'll tell you what we're going to do.'
Helen gasped. 'How could I get a shirt of Heath's?'
'Ask Mrs Gittens,' advised Marion sagely. 'I'm sure she knows what Heath keeps in his dressing room better than he does. She'll get a shirt for you, if you ask her nicely. Now, hurry up. Do it. We don't have that much time.'
Twenty minutes later Helen surveyed her reflection with some disbelief. Who would have thought that a plain black skirt and a man's white shirt could look so attractive? she asked herself in amazement. And it was all due to Marion, and her instinctive eye for style.
The shirt Mrs Gittens had brought her was made of silk, but the housekeeper had made it known she did not approve of this clandestine use of her employer's belonging
s. 'What Mr Heathcliffe will say, I don't know,' she averred, refusing to respond to Helen's cajoling praise. 'I thought you and Miss Patterson bought some clothes that day you went to Manchester.'
'We did,' Helen admitted, unconsciously rubbing her cheek against the fine material. 'But Mrs Marsden thinks they might not be suitable, so she's going to help me to dress.'
'Huh!'
Mrs Gittens went away muttering to herself, but regarding her appearance now, Helen felt sure the old housekeeper would approve when she saw how Marion's plan had turned out. The plain white silk shirt was open at the neck to expose the creamy column of her throat. The hem of the shirt almost covered Helen's hips, but Marion had cinched it in at the waist, with a blue silk scarf of her own worn like a sash. The long sleeves hugged her wrists due to the addition of two carved silver bangles Heath had once brought her back from Morocco, and around her neck was a silver medallion, also borrowed from Marion for the occasion.
'Well? What do you think?' asked Marion now, touching the loose curls that tumbled in wild profusion over her shoulders. 'I think you'll agree, simple things dressed up with bits and pieces can prove quite attractive.'
'It's—it's great!' exclaimed Helen, turning impulsively to give the older woman a hug. 'I look—I look quite—quite—'
'—sexy, I know,' agreed Marion drily. 'Now, put on your sandals and let's go. We're already fifteen minutes late.'
Heath and his guests were having drinks on the patio when Helen and Marion came to join them. Angela was there, sleek and sophisticated as usual, in slinky black culottes worn with a matching strapless top, and Greg Marsden looked quite presentable this evening in a dark dinner jacket. Only Heath's attire gave any colour to the scene, his dark green velvet dinner jacket an attractive contrast to his cream ruffled shirt.
However, much to her dismay, it was Helen's appearance that attracted the most attention, and judging by Angela's expression, it was not to her advantage. Angela's lips parted in dismay when she saw the girl she had been brought here to chaperone, and her eyes turned swiftly to Marion Marsden, as if seeking an explanation.
Heath, conversely, showed no surprise at her style of dress, though his eyes did narrow slightly as he watched Greg Marsden's frank appraisal. It was as if he was judging the effect she was having on his guests, thought Helen half indignantly, and her colour rose accordingly to match her heated blood.
'I say, you look jolly dishy this evening, young Helen,' Greg exclaimed, breaking the pregnant silence which had heralded their appearance. 'What a pity there's no young man to appreciate it. You'll have to make do with me instead.'
Helen's smile was not forced. Greg could always be relied upon to keep the party moving, and shaking off the feelings of resentment Heath's attitude was arousing, she tried to equal his banter. 'You don't look so bad yourself,' she declared, ignoring the hostile looks Angela was casting in their direction. 'I always think a dinner jacket looks so well on a man.'
'It hides a multitude of sins,' remarked Marion drily, giving her husband a pointed dig in his stomach. 'Hmm, yes, Heath, I'd like a dry sherry, if you have one. How about you, Helen? What are you going to drink to celebrate your'—independence?'
Helen looked nervously towards Heath as he poured Marion's sherry from a bottle placed on the trolley Mrs Gittens had wheeled out for them. 'I'm not sure,' she murmured, not usually interested in alcoholic drinks. 'Perhaps I'll have a sherry, too. Or maybe a dry Martini?'
'Sherry,' said Heath flatly, handing her a narrow glass. 'You may look like an adult, but you're still under age.'
'Don't be a spoilsport, Heath!' Greg came to tuck his hand beneath Helen's elbow. 'Hmm, you smell nice, too. What is that? Chanel Number Five?'
'It's Charlie, actually,' admitted Helen, with some amusement. I'm glad you like it. You and Marion bought it for me last Christmas.'
'And that serves you right,' declared Marion delightedly, laughing at her husband's rueful face. 'What time is dinner, Heath? I must admit this country air does wonders for my appetite.' She paused before adding deliberately: 'Don't you feel the same, Miss Patterson?'
Angela turned from her contemplation of the rose garden and looked coolly into the other woman's face. 'I don't have a large appetite at the best of times, Mrs Marsden. I'm lucky that way.'
'Oh, I wouldn't say that.' Marion spoke pleasantly enough. 'If you had a man's hearty appetite to satisfy every day, you might find your attitudes changing.'
'I doubt it.' Angela's smile was wintry. 'One should always try to control one's appetites, don't you agree?'
'It depends what appetites one's talking about,' remarked Greg irrepressibly. 'Haven't you ever had a man to cook for, Angela? You don't mind me calling you Angela, do you? That is what Heath calls you, isn't it?'
Angela forced a polite laugh. 'Of course. Call me Angela by all means. And in answer to your question, I cooked for a man for many years: my father.'
'Oh, shame!' Greg grimaced, and then, to Angela's evident relief, he turned to Heath once more and they began a discussion about the cost of fuel, leaving the three women free to make their own conversation.
'Wherever did you get that outfit from?' Angela demanded of Helen, the moment they were alone together. Marion had gone to admire the flowering shrubs Arnold Wesley had planted around the croquet lawn, and as the two men were occupied, Angela's words were not audible to anyone else.
'As a matter of fact, Marion suggested it,' replied Helen unwillingly. 'She thought it looked very nice, and so do I.'
'And what was wrong with one of those dresses we bought in Manchester?' Angela drew a deep breath. 'Can you imagine how embarrassed I'd have been tonight if anyone else had been present?'
'What do you mean?'
'Your uncle employed me to give you guidance about what to wear,' hissed Angela impatiently. 'I dread to think what his opinion is. I shall have to explain to him tomorrow that evidently you're not prepared to take one iota of notice of me!'
'The dresses we bought are too old for me,' muttered Helen in a low voice. 'Marion said—'
'Marion said!' echoed Angela scornfully. 'What does Marion know? That dress she's wearing was probably fashionable twenty years ago.'
'That's not fair!' Helen was indignant, but Angela only screwed up her nose.
'You can't believe Marion Marsden is any judge of style or fashion.'
'I like this,' declared Helen mutinously, looking down at the unbuttoned neckline of the shirt. 'It's—it's me.'
'Sloppy,' said Angela contemptuously. 'Exactly like you. But if that's the way you want to look—'
'Are you ready for dinner, Mr Heathcliffe?'
Mrs Gittens' homely voice provided a welcome intrusion, and Heath glanced round briefly at his guests before acknowledging that they were. 'Come along, Marion. The food's on the table,' exclaimed her husband incorrigibly, and Helen had to smile at Angela's hastily disguised frustration.
It was after the meal was over that Helen found herself alone with Heath for the first time that evening. Coffee was being served on the terrace as it was such a beautiful evening, but when she would have followed Angela and the Marsdens, his hand about her wrist detained her. The feel of his strong fingers circling her arm just below the broad silver bangle was disturbing, even through the fine silk, and Helen's pulses raced alarmingly as she anticipated a closer intimacy.
'I just wanted to say I applaud the improvement,' he commented quietly, his free hand flicking carelessly at the collar of her shirt. 'I shall compliment Angela in the morning. She's done a good job.'
Helen was so choked up, she didn't know how to respond and taking her silence for acquiescence, Heath abruptly let her go. 'You'd better join the others,' he said, a sudden harshness to his voice. 'I want to have a word with Mrs Gittens. She really excelled herself this evening, don't you think? The Chateaubriand was—'
'Angela didn't—I mean—I—I—'
'Not now, Helen.'
Heath was already striding across the hal
l in the direction of the kitchen, and the indifference of his dismissal made Helen's already bruised emotions simmer. He didn't want to hear her explanation, she thought indignantly. He was quite certain that Angela had to be responsible for any improvement in her appearance.
All right, Heath, she said to herself silently, you know best. I just hope Angela appreciates your confidence in her!
CHAPTER SIX
It was late the following afternoon before Helen saw Heath again. On Saturday morning she was late for breakfast, and by the time she came down Heath and Greg were already closeted in the study. As the two men were unavailable, Marion suggested a shopping trip to Bradford, and although Angela was evidently not enthusiastic, she agreed to come along.
'Quite frankly, I'd as soon she stayed at home,' confessed Marion, seating herself beside Helen in the Mercedes. Then: 'Are you sure Heath lets you drive this? It's an expensive piece of machinery for you to be around.'
'Don't you trust me?' Helen smiled. 'No, honestly, I've driven this car since I first got my licence. I used to think Heath trusted me, too.'
'Used to think?' Marion's brows drew together. 'What's changed your mind?'
'Oh, this and that.' Helen didn't really want to discuss it. 'Where is Angela? We've been waiting for ten minutes.'
'Didn't Heath use to have a young man to drive you around?' Marion asked curiously. 'I seem to remember—'
'Miles Ormerod,' agreed Helen, interrupting her. 'Oh, Miles is still around. He just doesn't work weekends, that's all. Unless Heath asks him specially, I mean.'
'Didn't you use to have a crush on him?' murmured Marion innocently, and Helen's fingers tightened on the wheel.
'Who told you that?' she demanded. 'Heath, I suppose. Well, you're wrong. Miles and I are just friends: good friends, as they say in all the best magazines.'
Marion shrugged. 'No need to get so heated about it, Helen. It's quite natural—'
'What's quite natural?' Helen turned to look at her accusingly. 'That I should fool around with Miles Ormerod?'
'Well, he is about your own age,' observed Marion mildly, 'and as I recall, he's quite a handsome young man.'
