by Anne Mather
'So what?'
'Well, so girls of your age usually indulge in flirtations with the opposite sex.'
'Not me.'
'Why not you?' Marion sighed. 'I'm not suggesting you should consider marrying the young man—'
'Marrying? Marrying?' Helen gasped. 'Why does everything have to come back to marriage? I told you last night—'
'Oh, all right, Helen.' There was an edge to Marion's voice now, and Helen was contrite. She had not meant to be rude, but she reacted so strongly to any allegation that might mean she would have to leave Matlock Edge.
'I'm sorry,' she mumbled, just as Angela came elegantly out of the house, and Marion squeezed her arm reassuringly.
'It's okay,' she murmured, reaching for the seatbelt. 'I shouldn't have opened my big mouth. Heath will work things out his own way. He usually does.'
Helen objected to the suggestion that Heath might consider himself in command of her destiny. She wanted to control her own life. But with Angela Patterson climbing into the car at that moment, she could hardly voice her misgivings.
Bradford was busy with Saturday shoppers, and after parking the car, they found it difficult to stay together. 'Why don't we split up and arrange to meet for lunch later?' Marion suggested, after waiting for several minutes for Angela to catch up. 'Where shall we have lunch, Helen? Do you know a good restaurant? If we agree to meet at one o'clock, we won't need to spend our time looking for one another.'
'I'm agreeable,' said Angela coolly, evidently relieved not to have to accompany Marion around the shops, and Helen's brow furrowed as she tried to come up with an answer.
'There's the Crown,' she said doubtfully. 'I know Heath sometimes eats there when he's entertaining business colleagues.'
'What could be better?' exclaimed Marion eagerly. 'We'll meet at the Crown at one o'clock. I suppose any of these people could tell us where it is?'
'It's just over there, in Villiers Street,' declared Helen at once, and Marion nodded comfortably.
'All right,' she said. 'One o'clock it is, Miss Patterson. Don't be late—I expect I'll be hungry!'
Angela's smile was thin as she sauntered away, and as soon as she had been swallowed up by the crowds, Marion breathed a sigh of relief.
'Thank goodness she's gone!' she declared, grasping Helen's arm securely. 'Come on now, lead me to the nearest coffee shop. I'm badly in need of a sticky cream cake!'
'You mean, you and I are not splitting up?' asked Helen, after they were installed in a nearby coffee house, with chocolate éclairs in front of them.
'Of course not.' Marion grimaced. 'I thought you and I might do a little shopping, and I didn't want Miss Patterson vetoing my suggestions.'
The teenage boutique attached to one of the larger stores did not look half so tawdry with Marion by her side. In the space of an hour, Marion had approved her choice of several items to add to her wardrobe, among them a button-through jacket and drawstring pants, a camisole dress, that was laced to the waist, and another dress of printed chiffon, with a scooped neck and dropped waist. She bought a couple of sweaters, too, and a pretty chamois skirt, and a silky suede jacket with fringing around the hem.
'I don't know what Heath will say,' Helen protested doubtfully, as they unloaded their parcels into the boot of the Mercedes before going to meet Angela for lunch.
'I'm quite sure Heath will approve of the way you look,' declared Marion firmly. 'He approved of you last night, didn't he?'
'Oh, yes.' Helen was tempted to tell Marion exactly what Heath had said, but instead she kept his comments to herself.
Although it had been a promising morning, the weather changed as they were having lunch, and when they emerged from the Crown it had started to rain. 'Let's go home,' suggested Marion, tilting her head up to the sky. 'This isn't going to give up, and I don't feel like getting soaked, do you?'
'Not particularly.' Helen looked at Angela. 'Is that all right with you?'
'Perfectly.' Angela wrinkled her nose as a spot of rain invaded her nostril, and shrugging her shoulders at Marion, Helen led the dash for the car.
Even in the rain, Matlock was beautiful, Helen thought contentedly, as she drove the powerful car along the private road through the park. The trees were dripping moisture on to the backs of the horses sheltering beneath their branches, but although the sky was grey, the pasture was green and lush with grass.
'You can imagine horse-drawn carriages coming along this path, can't you?' Marion reflected, almost echoing Helen's thoughts, and she smiled.
'Heath used to have an old phaeton in the stables,' she recalled reminiscently. 'It was pulled by two horses. I believe they were the fastest form of transport years ago.'
Marion arched her brows. 'What happened to it?'
'Oh—' Helen grimaced, 'I overturned it once in the park. Heath disposed of it after that.'
'I can imagine!' Marion was horrified. 'You could have been killed!'
'Yes, that's what he said.' Helen brought the car to a halt at the drive gates, and got out to open them. 'At any rate, I didn't get to drive it again,' she remarked, climbing in again to take the Mercedes through. 'I was confined to riding my pony after that.'
Heath and Greg Marsden were still working in the study when they got back to the house. Leaving Helen to unload the boot in private, Marion led the way into the house, and by the time Helen joined them in the sitting room, Mrs Gittens was fetching afternoon tea.
'Mr Heathcliffe said to tell you he'd like to talk to you before dinner, Miss Patterson,' the housekeeper declared, addressing herself to Angela, and Helen's mouth went dry. She could guess why Heath wanted to speak to her companion, and she was guiltily aware of her own duplicity. But he had not given her a chance to explain, she defended herself fiercely, and then changed her mind again when she considered how embarrassing it would be. Time healed all wounds, and the pleasure she had had in Marion's company and in buying so many pretty things had soothed her indignation. She couldn't let Heath make such a mistake. She would tell him the truth as soon as she had finished her tea.
Angela disappeared after sipping only half a cup of tea and refusing all offers of wafer-thin sandwiches or biscuits. 'She's gone to prepare for her interview,' remarked Marion dourly, helping herself to another smoked salmon delicacy. 'Do you get the feeling that Miss Patterson would like to be mistress here herself?'
'She wouldn't be the first,' declared Helen carelessly. 'Heath's been fighting off suitors for as long as I can remember. I don't think he even notices any more.'
'I wouldn't be too sure.' Marion poured herself more tea. 'He's not getting any younger, you know, Helen, and he's got to get married, sooner or later.'
Helen stiffened. 'Why?'
'Why?' Marion shook her head. 'You know why. He needs someone to leave all this to, doesn't he?'
'A son, you mean?'
'Or a daughter. I don't think the laws of primogeniture would matter too much to Heath. But he needs a wife to give him a child, doesn't he?'
Helen hunched her shoulders. 'He'd never marry anyone like Angela Patterson.'
'Why not?' Marion shrugged. 'Oh, I'll admit, she's not my cup of tea, but you and I can't judge what will appeal to Heath.'
Helen could feel her whole body growing tense as Marion spoke. It was ridiculous, of course. Heath couldn't be attracted to Angela Patterson. She was too cold, too bitter, too everything that Helen objected to most. Only she wasn't the one who was involved here, she realised. As Marion said, how could she judge the kind of woman Heath might find appealing? She had thought he liked her, she had thought he considered her his ideal. She had soon been abused of that contention, and he had brought Angela here on the flimsiest of pretexts. What if he really liked her? What if he had brought her here to see how she fitted in? How she and Helen got along together? Maybe that was why he got so mad when she was rude to Angela …
'Are you all right?'
Marion was looking at her strangely, and Helen quickly pulled herse
lf together. 'Yes,' she exclaimed. 'Yes, of course. Why shouldn't I be?'
'I don't know.' Marion frowned. 'You've gone awfully pale, all of a sudden.'
'Don't be silly.' Helen got to her feet. 'I expect I was flushed from carrying all those things upstairs. I had to make two journeys.'
'Wait until Heath sees them,' remarked Marion sagely. 'At least he can't say that Angela taught you what to wear.'
'No,' Helen smoothed her damp palms down the seams of her skirt, 'he can't say that.' She edged towards the door. 'I'll see you later, Marion. I want to go and unpack.'
With the sitting room door closed, however, Helen did not make for the stairs. Instead she hurried along the corridor to Heath's study, pausing only a moment before knocking at the door.
'Later, Mrs Gittens.'
Heath's impatient tones were audible through the solid panels, but Helen knocked once again. If she went away now, she thought uneasily, she would not get another chance to speak to Heath before he spoke to Angela, and in spite of her dislike of the other girl, her conscience would not let her leave it be.
'I said later, Mrs Gitt—' Heath broke off abruptly as he swung open the door to find Helen outside. 'Oh, it's you,' he added, without enthusiasm. 'What do you want? Didn't Mrs Gittens tell you I'd be tied up until later?'
'Yes, she told me.' Helen had the greatest difficulty in keeping her tone polite when he spoke to her like that, even though she was aware of him with every fibre of her being. He had discarded his tie and his shirt was unbuttoned almost to his waist, and the warm male scent of his body was enhanced by the heat of the room behind him. Her fingers itched to touch him, even though she told herself it was crazy, and the smooth brown skin that circled the base of his throat drew her unwilling eyes.
'So?' Heath was speaking again, and she took a trembling breath. She could just see Greg in the room behind him, poring over some papers, and she clung to his presence, like an antidote to her own foolishness.
'I—I wanted to speak to you,' she said now, meeting Heath's critical gaze, and then felt unwelcome emotions stirring at the sudden frustration in his eyes.
'What about?' he demanded.
'It's—it's private.' She hated his impatience with her. 'Surely you can spare a moment. It might be a matter of life or death!'
'Is it?' Heath's eyes were more grey than green at that moment, and she wilted beneath his cool appraisal.
'No—'
'Then it can wait,' he declared, stepping back into the room, and before she could defend herself, he had closed the door upon her.
In her own room, Helen gave way to her own frustration and flung all the boxes and carriers she had previously laid reverently on the bed on to the floor. Heath was impossible, she thought bitterly. He deliberately went out of his way to humiliate her. She didn't want to think what Greg Marsden must have thought of the way Heath had spoken to her, and his rudeness was beyond bearing. What was he trying to do? Make her hate him? He had said it would be easy, and right now, she believed him.
She went down to dinner wearing the two-piece suit of jacket and drawstring pants. It was an attractive outfit, made of rose pink cotton, and it accentuated the darkness of her hair and the creamy tan she had already acquired.
All the time she was dressing for dinner, she had half expected Heath to come charging into her room, accusing her of goodness knows what misconduct, but he had not appeared, and she had eventually come to the conclusion that she had been over-sensitive. Perhaps Angela had taken the credit, after all. If Heath was paying her compliments, it was surely doubtful whether she would refuse them.
As on the previous evening, Heath's guests were gathered for dinner, this time in the leather-scented atmosphere of the library, where Greg was dispensing his host's hospitality. 'Hey there, young lady, what can I offer you this evening?' he demanded, when Helen appeared rather apprehensively in the doorway. 'Heath hasn't yet come down, but I'm sure he wouldn't object if I provided his favourite niece with an appetizer.'
'His only niece,' murmured Helen, rather doubtfully, glancing about her as she entered the room. Exchanging a smiling glance with Marion, her eyes moved on to Angela, draped with her usual grace in one of the armchairs. 'It's not like Heath to be late when he has guests.'
'He was late going up to change,' said Angela, speaking for the first time, and Helen's nerves tightened at the decidedly smug expression on the other girl's face. 'Your uncle and I, we—er—we spent some time in the garden. After he'd finished his discussions with Mr Marsden.'
'Oh, hell, call me Greg, Angela,' exclaimed Marion's husband, handing Helen a dry sherry. 'Do you want a fill-up?' he enquired of his wife cheerfully. 'Might as well make the most of it, while Heath's not here.'
Helen sipped her sherry nervously, convinced that Angela's behaviour boded no good for herself. What had she and Heath talked about in the garden? Why was she sitting there looking like the cat who had just sampled the cream? Whatever conversation she and Heath had had, had not ended on the embarrassed note Helen had expected, and even though she told herself she could not be blamed for Heath's mistake, Helen still had the uneasy feeling she had not heard the last of it.
Heath appeared as Mrs Gittens was announcing dinner, apologising for his lateness. 'I got a call from South America, just as I was about to come down,' he offered in explanation, and Helen, darting a glance at his dark face, could see no evidence of the anger she had expected him to exhibit. On the contrary, his eyes moved over her almost absently, and she moistened her lips weakly as she followed Marion in to dinner.
The meal was delicious: iced melon, with slices of home-cured ham, chicken breasts cooked in wine and cream, and to finish, a choice of sherry trifle, raspberry mousse, or lemon meringue pie. Helen actually enjoyed her food for once, and she was content to take little part in the conversation that accompanied it. Instead she allowed Marion and Greg to direct the course of the discussion, and by the end of the evening she was pleasantly relaxed and sleepy from the amount of wine she had consumed.
After coffee had been served in the drawing room, Helen excused herself and went up to her room. Heath and his guests would probably sit for ages yet, she reflected, but she was tired. Although she had slept in that morning, she had not slept awfully well the night before, and she was glad that tonight at least she did not have to worry about Heath. Evidently he and Angela had had a pleasant conversation before dinner, and she refused to consider Marion's comments as anything more than idle gossip.
Taking off her earrings, she was examining her complexion in the mirror when a knock came at her door. Dropping the plain gold circles on to her dressing table, she went to answer it, stepping back aghast when she saw who it was. 'Heath!'
'Yes, Heath,' he agreed bleakly. 'Can I come in?'
Helen thought quickly. 'It's late. I—couldn't it wait until morning?'
'You haven't started to get undressed,' observed Heath, stepping past her into the room without waiting for an invitation. 'Shut the door, Helen, I want to talk to you, and I'd prefer it if our conversation was not overheard.'
Helen sighed, but after a few moments of silent hostility, she obediently closed the door. 'Very well,' she declared challengingly. 'What is it you want to say? You're being very mysterious. Won't your guests wonder where you are?'
'One of them, at least, knows where I am,' retorted Heath coldly. 'Angela, if you haven't guessed. But of course you must know why I'm here. You're not entirely without perception.'
'Thank you.' Helen's fingers betrayed her trepidation as she played with the cord that tied her pants. 'But you're wrong. I have no idea what you're so upset about.'
'Upset?' His mouth compressed angrily. 'Don't pretend with me, Helen. You know damn nicely what I'm—upset—about. You deliberately misled me, and I want an explanation.'
It took a great deal of courage to move away from the door, but Helen did it, passing him without looking at him to lift the brush from her dressing table. 'I didn't mislead you abo
ut anything, Heath,' she averred, starting to brush her hair. 'If you remember, I did try to talk to you this afternoon, but you were too busy.'
'The devil you did!' He snatched the brush out of her hand. 'How was I supposed to know what you came to see me about?'
'You didn't give me the chance to tell you, did you?' retorted Helen hotly. 'As I recall it, you slammed the door in my face.'
'I was tied up at that moment—'
'That wasn't my fault.'
'You could have waited.'
'Where?' She stared up at him indignantly. 'Outside your study? What would you have had me do, lie down on the doormat, where you'd obviously like to keep me?'
'That's not true!' Heath's eyes darkened with anger. 'You should have told me last night that the clothes you were wearing were not new.'
'They were new to me,' declared Helen defensively.
'But Angela hadn't chosen them.'
'Angela said they were sloppy,' retorted Helen shortly. 'Why should I tell you that?'
He took a deep breath. 'Why did you do it?'
'Why did I do what?'
'Why did you refuse to wear the clothes Angela had chosen for you?'
She bent her head. 'They don't suit me.'
'What do you mean?'
'They're too old for me.'
'Too old?' Heath stared at her disbelievingly.
'Yes, they are.'
'Is that new?' He gestured to the suit she was wearing.
Helen hesitated. 'Yes—'
'So why didn't you wear it last night?'
She shrugged. 'I didn't have it last night. I—Marion and I bought this today.'
'I see.' Heath tapped the back of her hairbrush against his palm. 'And what does Marion think of these clothes Angela chose for you?'
'She agrees with me.'
'I suppose you told her some sob story about Angela not being sympathetic to your way of thinking; that you resent her because she's everything that you're not.'
'No!' Helen looked at him resentfully. 'That's a rotten thing to say.'
'But you did talk about her, didn't you?'
