Stolen Summer

by Anne Mather

  ‘Oh, well—come and meet him now,’ she invited incorrigibly. ‘He’s a widower, actually. His wife died several years ago. He has no family, and he’s awfully nice.’

  ‘Marsha!’ murmured Shelley warningly, but she had no choice than to go and be introduced, first to Ben’s fiancée, and then to the village doctor.

  Conscious that Ben’s eyes had been on her from the moment she came into the room, Shelley was careful to look only at Jennifer as they were introduced. She was a pretty little thing, Shelley conceded, aware that her opinion would not bear closer scrutiny, and she would probably make Ben an ideal wife. Being a veterinary’s daughter, she already knew the odd hours he would have to work, and no doubt she was prepared for the demands his job would make on their lives.

  ‘I believe you and Ben’s mother are old friends,’ she said now, after they had shaken hands, and Shelley immediately felt her age. ‘How long are you staying? Don’t you find Craygill rather boring after the exciting life you must have in London?’

  ‘Oh, Jennifer, don’t say that!’ exclaimed Marsha, making light of the girl’s rather tactless comments. ‘I’m hoping Shelley will stay all summer. If you start reminding her of what she’s missing in London, I shan’t stand a chance!’

  ‘I’m sure Miss Hoyt is appreciating the benefit of our rustic charms, Marsha,’ Charles Brandeth intervened smoothly. ‘How are you this evening, Miss Hoyt? I’ve been looking forward to making your acquaintance.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Shelley managed a small smile, and as Jennifer turned away to speak to Marsha, Ben took her place. His hand beneath her elbow sent tremors of apprehension up her arm, and his voice was disruptively intimate as he said: ‘Come and get a drink. I want to talk to you.’

  ‘I—can’t.’ Shelley’s breath caught in her throat as she looked at him. The message in his eyes was quite unmistakable, and although for the past two days she had been trying to convince herself that the compliment he had paid her when he was leaving the other morning had been objective, she could no longer delude herself that this was so. ‘Ben—please—’

  ‘Are you getting Shelley a drink, Dickon?’ enquired his mother behind them, and Jennifer started to laugh at something Charles had said. With a feeling of relief, Shelley moved so that Ben was forced to release her, and the situation resumed perspective as she restored a sense of balance.

  ‘You’ll never believe it, darling,’ exclaimed Jennifer, unaware that she did not have her fiancé’s undivided attention, ‘but Charles has just been telling me that Mrs Simmons called him out to look at Arthur! Arthur is Mrs Simmons’ cat,’ she added, for their guest’s benefit. ‘Isn’t it priceless! She behaves as if that cat was human!’

  ‘She’s a lonely old woman,’ responded Ben tersely, responding to his mother’s frantic gestures, and crossing the room to where a tray of drinks was waiting. ‘What will you have, Shelley? I think we’ve got most things here.’

  ‘A—glass of white wine would be lovely,’ replied Shelley nervously, linking her hands together. Then, finding his fiancée’s eyes upon her, she added quickly: ‘What do you do—er—Jennifer? Do you work with Ben and your father?’

  ‘No.’ Jennifer shook her head. ‘I work in a solicitor’s office actually. But I expect I’ll give that up after we’re married. Ben will need someone to answer his calls and take messages. Both Daddy and Uncle Bill are near to retirement, and when they do, Ben will be the senior partner in the practice.’

  ‘I see.’

  Shelley was nodding as Ben joined them with her drink, his fingers brushing hers as he handed her the glass. His hands were cool and hard, but they burned Shelley’s flesh, and she wondered if he was as aware as she was of the electricity flowing between them.

  ‘I was just telling Shelley that when Daddy and Uncle Bill retire, you’ll be taking on a junior partner,’ said Jennifer, taking hold of his arm, as if she couldn’t bear not to be in contact with him. ‘We’re getting married in October. You must come to the wedding.’

  ‘Oh—I—that’s very nice of you, but—’

  ‘It’s not a definite date,’ said Ben flatly, as Shelley struggled to find words to excuse herself. ‘It really depends on Jennifer’s father. You do want him to be at the wedding, don’t you?’ he added, as the girl clinging to his arm started to protest.

  ‘Well, of course I do, but—’

  ‘Dickon, don’t be so aggressive!’ Marsha came to soothe Jennifer’s ruffled feelings. ‘Honestly, these two!’ she exclaimed, to no one in particular. ‘They can’t even agree on a date for their own wedding!’

  ‘Personally, I have a great respect for elopements,’ put in Charles Brandeth provokingly. ‘No guests; no fuss; no—’

  ‘—thanks!’ declared Marsha, putting an end to his pronouncement. ‘You wouldn’t want to cheat me out of my part in my only son’s nuptials, would you? I want to see Dickon in a morning suit, Charles, walking down the aisle of the church in Low Burton. And Jennifer, of course. My dear, you’ll look delightful in white with your dark hair.’

  ‘Mummy’s already seen a dress she thinks would suit me,’ put in Jennifer eagerly. ‘It’s in Harrogate. Maybe you’d like to come with us one day to see it, Mrs Seton. I know Mummy would appreciate your opinion.’

  Shelley sipped her wine as the conversation ebbed and flowed around her. She took little part in it, and she was glad to withdraw inside herself and assimilate her position. Even so, she couldn’t help but notice that Ben spoke seldom also, and she was half afraid someone else would notice the intentness of his eyes when they rested upon her. She was imagining things, she told herself. She had to be. But the fact remained that he disturbed her in a way she found quite intolerable.

  Sarah’s appearance, to announce that dinner was served, interrupted her troubled speculations, and Ben’s mother was not slow to notice that the maid’s eyes lingered longest on her son. ‘Shall we go in?’ she suggested, touching Shelley’s sleeve and drawing her with her. ‘Really, that girl!’ she added, in an undertone. ‘It doesn’t seem to occur to her that I might object!’

  ‘Object?’ Shelley moistened her lips. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Sarah,’ hissed Marsha impatiently. ‘Haven’t you noticed the covetous glances she keeps directing at Dickon? I keep telling myself she’s only seventeen and doesn’t know any better, but she’s beginning to annoy me.’

  ‘Oh.’ Shelley felt a chill run down her spine. ‘I see.’

  ‘I blame Dickon partly,’ Marsha added, as they entered the dining room. ‘I mean—he teases the girl and she takes him seriously. But he is engaged now, and Sarah should realise he’s not interested in her!’

  ‘Yes.’

  Shelley absorbed what the other woman was saying with a distinctly hollow feeling. She wondered if Marsha would be confiding in her if she suspected Shelley’s own involvement. Unwilling, perhaps, but none the less fundamental because of that.

  Struggling with her conscience, Shelley tried to pay attention to her surroundings. The dining table looked lovely. Mrs Carr had arranged the place settings on Venetian lace mats, and the china and cutlery was reflected in the table’s polished surface. Scarlet napkins tucked into crystal goblets marked every place, and a centrepiece of roses and carnations seemed to oscillate in the glow of two tall candles.

  ‘It’s really not dark enough to need the candles, but I thought they looked pretty,’ remarked Marsha, directing everyone to their seats. ‘Shelley—you sit here beside me, with Charles next to you, and Jennifer, you sit opposite Shelley.’ She smiled up at her son. ‘I’m sure you can find your own place, darling.’

  With Marsha occupying the principal position at the head of the table, Shelley found herself almost opposite Ben as he took his place beside his fiancée. Marsha had arranged it so that as Charles had no one else beside him, he was obliged to talk to Shelley, and throughout the start of the meal, she seemed to spend her time answering his questions.

  ‘It must be very interest
ing, working in the media,’ he eventually commented predictably, and Shelley, who was used to this kind of query, gave a practised smile.

  ‘I like it,’ she said, though without the enthusiasm she had once possessed. ‘Any kind of communication is important in a society that seems to spend its time withdrawing from human contact.’

  ‘Is that what we do?’ Charles arched his rather heavily marked brows. ‘What makes you think so?’

  ‘Oh—’ Shelley was loath to get involved in dogma. ‘Isn’t it obvious? Every aim of Western civilisation seems designed to discommunicate man from his neighbour. The age of the computer signalled the start of increasing isolation.’

  ‘Do go on.’ Charles was intrigued, but Shelley was reluctant. A gap had occurred in the conversation Marsha had been having with Jennifer, and now everyone’s attention was focused on her.

  ‘I’m sure you don’t want to hear my views,’ she averred, in some embarrassment, endeavouring to swallow a piece of asparagus that seemed to have lodged in her throat. She took a mouthful of her wine, wishing she had made some non-committal comment, and then was immeasurably grateful when Ben intervened.

  ‘I think what Shelley means is that computers are set to make a drastic change in our lifestyle,’ he remarked. ‘Right now, we are barely scraping the surface of what they can do for us. I was reading the other day, that by the turn of the century computers will handle a household budget, re-ordering any commodity as its needed from another computer at a store. They’re even talking of computers that can diagnose simple illnesses, to save doctors making house calls. You’d better watch out, Charles. You could be out of a job.’

  ‘Not me.’ Charles grimaced. ‘By that time, I’ll have retired, thank God!’ He shook his head. ‘It’s a frightening thought though, isn’t it? No need to go shopping; no need to visit your doctor. I guess it all began when the cinemas started to close.’

  ‘For which we can thank television,’ said Ben drily, and Shelley, who had disposed of the asparagus at last and was beginning to relax again, caught her breath. ‘You can’t avoid the fact that television has a lot to answer for,’ he added, holding her gaze with lazy irony. ‘Wasn’t it the medium that started this lack of communication? I seem to remember it being accused of killing the art of conversation.’

  ‘Well, yes. But people are better informed because of it,’ exclaimed Shelley defensively. ‘Do you have any idea how many prospective voters are reached at election time, by the simple formula of networking a politician’s views?’

  ‘And do you think that’s a good thing?’ enquired Ben sardonically. ‘Do you think it’s fair to expose the ordinary man in the street to a stream of fanatics spouting their own particular brand of insanity?’

  ‘People are free to choose,’ protested Shelley. ‘They can always turn the set off. They don’t have to listen.’

  ‘But they do.’ Ben arched one eyebrow. ‘Aren’t you forgetting? Not everyone is mentally capable of deciding what to believe and what not?’

  ‘That’s a very supercilious statement—’

  ‘It’s realistic—’

  ‘It’s intellectual snobbery!’

  ‘So you’d let anyone hear—or see—anything?’

  Shelley flushed. ‘I’m not saying that.’

  ‘What are you saying then?’

  ‘I’ve heard that some entertainers refuse to appear on the box because it kills their material,’ put in Charles soothingly. ‘What kind of programming are you involved in, Shelley? Does light entertainment come into your sphere?’

  ‘Oh, really!’ Jennifer raised her eyes heavenward. ‘I’m sure Shelley didn’t come here to spend her time defending what she does, Ben. She probably finds talking about her work just as boring as I do! This is a dinner party—not a political debate!’

  There was a pregnant silence after this pronouncement, and Shelley wished the floor would open up and swallow her. She had not wanted to talk about her work; she never did. But it was difficult to avoid the inevitable interest it inspired.

  ‘I’m sorry—’ she was beginning awkwardly, when once again Ben came to her rescue.

  ‘It was my fault,’ he said, giving her a rueful smile. ‘I’m afraid you’re probably right. I am supercilious.’ He glanced at Marsha. ‘That’s what comes of being my mother’s son.’

  ‘Don’t involve me in this,’ exclaimed Marsha, glad to use his words to ease the situation, and Sarah’s appearance to clear the plates, provided a welcome diversion.

  The conversation moved to the wine, and Marsha’s preference for French vintages. ‘Well, I may not be a purist like you,’ said Charles, ‘but I prefer the German wines myself. Did I tell you I’ve been invited to join a wine-tasting tour of the Rhine valley in October?’

  ‘No, you didn’t.’

  Marsha was fascinated, and Shelley was relieved to be able to apply herself to the slice of lamb on her plate. She would have liked to take no further part in the conversation, but Jennifer decided otherwise.

  Apparently sensing her fiancé’s hostility towards her, she leant across the table and said confidingly: ‘I hope I didn’t offend you just now. But you did come up here to get away from your work, didn’t you? Mrs Seton says you need a complete rest, that you haven’t to do anything at all for at least three months!’

  Shelley laid down her knife and fork. Put like that, it sounded as if she was on the verge of enforced retirement. She supposed Jennifer meant well, but she couldn’t help the unwilling suspicion that the girl was using every opportunity to point out the differences between them—not least, the fact that she was young and energetic, while Shelley was old and wearing out fast.

  ‘Not quite that,’ Shelley said now, cradling her glass between her fingers. ‘I just have to take things easy for a while. I’ve been—overworking.’

  ‘She’s not an invalid!’ said Ben shortly, regarding his fiancée with impatient eyes. ‘Mental stress involves the brain, not the body!’

  ‘I know that.’ Jennifer returned his gaze defensively. ‘But you have to admit—Shelley—does look tired. And pale. She’s not well. Anyone can see that.’

  Ben looked down at his plate. ‘She looks all right to me,’ he replied flatly, and then turned his head to look at his mother. ‘By the way, did I tell you I saw Martin Ashcombe on Tuesday? He says he’ll be happy to come and look after the garden. It’s exactly what he needs to keep him occupied.’

  ‘Oh, good!’

  As Marsha exclaimed her relief at finding a gardener, Shelley allowed the breath she had scarcely realised she was holding to escape her. But she was aware that Jennifer was still watching her with a faintly resentful air, and she wondered if the girl was preparing another offensive.

  Refusing a dessert of fresh strawberries and cream, Shelley was relieved when she could leave the table and accept Charles’s escort outdoors. Coffee and liqueurs were served in the garden, on a wrought iron table set on the sloping lawns, where the scent of honeysuckle and stocks filled the air with their sweetness. Cushioned garden chairs had been set nearby, and the sun’s warmth still lingered on their framework.

  Charles installed Shelley in a sheltered comer, and then went to get them both some coffee. As Marsha was busy with the cups and Jennifer was helping her, Shelley was aware that Ben was alone, too, and catching her unwary eye, he strolled across to where she was sitting. Squatting down beside her, he attracted her attention by the simple method of stroking his finger along her forearm, and she drew her arm away to avoid his disturbing touch.

  ‘How do you feel—really?’ he asked, his eyes dark and intent, and Shelley managed a slight laugh.

  ‘You mean—because I look so—pale and tired?’ she countered tautly. ‘Oh—I’ll survive. I’ll just keep on taking the tablets!’

  ‘That’s not what I meant and you know it,’ he retorted harshly. ‘It’s been rough for you; I know that. And if you do look pale and tired, it’s not an unattractive disposition.’

  Shelley bent he
r head. ‘Oughtn’t you to be helping your fiancée with the coffee?’ she suggested carefully. ‘Charles is getting mine. I think your mother has asked him to look after me.’

  ‘I’m sure she did.’ Ben’s tone was flat. ‘What do you think of him?’

  Shelley lifted her shoulders. ‘He’s—a charming man.’

  ‘You realise my mother is trying to play matchmaker, don’t you?’ Ben declared shortly. ‘She’s hoping you may ultimately find Craygill more attractive than the big city.’

  ‘That’s not very likely, is it?’ murmured Shelley steadily, fighting the insidious thought that in some circumstances it might be. ‘I think you’re exaggerating, Ben. Marsha knows my work is in London.’

  Ben expelled his breath on a sigh. ‘And you’re a career woman, like my mother, right?’

  ‘Right,’ she conceded, looking nervously towards the group around the table. ‘Oh—here’s Charles with my coffee.’

  In actual fact, Charles was still some yards away as Ben smothered a sound of impatience and got abruptly to his feet. ‘We can’t talk now,’ he said, causing her to glance incredulously up at him. ‘I’ll call for you tomorrow. You can come with me when I visit some of the out-lying farms. It will give you a chance to see something of the area—’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Why not?’ His lean face was taut with exasperation, his eyes dark between their silvery fringe of lashes, but Shelley could not answer him.

  ‘Here’s Charles,’ she said, as the sturdy doctor covered the remaining feet between them, and Ben permitted Brandeth only a brief acknowledgement before striding away towards the others.

  ‘I suppose you’ve known Marsha’s son for a number of years,’ remarked Charles, subsiding into the chair beside her, and Shelley made an effort to drag her gaze away from Ben’s retreating back.

  ‘Oh—yes,’ she responded, raising her cup to her lips with some uncertainty. ‘He—er—he was still at school when I first met him. He’s—grown up a lot since then.’

  ‘Yes.’ Charles nodded. ‘He’s a fine young man. And exactly the age my son would have been, had he lived.’