by Anne Mather
Shelley emptied her mind of other thoughts and gave him her full attention. ‘Your son died?’ She thought Marsha had said he had no family. ‘When?’
‘Oh—more than twenty-five years ago,’ replied Charles reminiscently. ‘Trevor—that was what we called him—Trevor died when he was a week old. I don’t think my wife ever quite got over it.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Shelley touched his sleeve. ‘What a terrible thing to happen!’
‘Yes, it was.’ Charles gave her a wry smile. ‘Perhaps if we’d had other children it would have helped, but we didn’t. Alicia—my late wife—refused to have another baby. It was such a shock to her, you see, after carrying the child for nine months.’
Shelley sighed. ‘I don’t think anyone ever quite gets over losing a child.’
‘No.’ Charles nodded. And then, with an obvious effort, he thrust his memories aside. ‘But this won’t do. I’m not supposed to be boring you with my troubles. Tell me, do you think you’re going to enjoy your stay in Wensleydale? It may be quieter than London, but I can assure you, we have our own ways of enjoying life.’
Shelley was glad when the evening was over. Just after ten o’clock Charles reluctantly took his leave, in answer to a telephone message relayed by his housekeeper, and soon after that, Jennifer said that she and Ben should go, too.
‘Ben’s got to take me home first,’ she murmured, linking her fingers with his. ‘And Daddy doesn’t like me to be out too late.’
‘I’m sure he doesn’t,’ remarked Marsha warmly, exchanging a measured look with her son. ‘Drive carefully, won’t you, Dickon? These roads were not built for that car’s turn of speed.’
‘You can trust me,’ responded Ben drily, submitting to his mother’s kiss of farewell. His eyes moved to Shelley, and she forced herself to meet his disturbing gaze. ‘Sleep well,’ he said, and she wondered if she was imagining the intimacy of his words. ‘I’ll see you—both—soon.’
CHAPTER FOUR
SHELLEY was sunbathing when she heard the sound of a car at the front of the house. It was a glorious morning, and as Marsha had shown distinct signs of frustration over breakfast, Shelley had pointed out that there was no need for her to neglect her work while she was staying.
‘Oh, bless you, darling!’ Marsha exclaimed, giving up her half-hearted efforts at reading the newspapers and hugging the younger woman. ‘I feel a heel abandoning you like this less than a week after your arrival, but I can’t wait to settle down in my studio!’
‘There you are then.’ Shelley smiled, tossing back the chunky braid she had made of her unruly hair. ‘I want you to stop regarding me as a visitor, and more as a rather grateful lodger. Honestly, I don’t need to be constantly entertained. I’m enjoying just being lazy for once. I’m going to get a book and stretch out on a chair in the garden. You forget all about me!’
‘As if I could do that!’ Marsha touched her cheek. ‘Oh, Shelley, I am fond of you. You don’t know what it means to me, having you here. Stay as long as you like. I want you to think of Craygill as your real home.’
It wasn’t easy for Shelley to relax after that. Although it was three days since the evening Ben had brought his fiancée to dinner, Shelley was dismayed to find she could still remember every word he had said, and whenever Marsha treated her with affection, she felt a hypocrite. She kept telling herself she had no real reason to feel that way, that his words had been ambivalent to say the least, but it didn’t work. She lived in a fitful state of apprehension lest he should appear again, and she despised herself utterly for allowing a—boy—of his age to disconcert her like this.
The vehicle’s engine had stopped now, and levering herself up on her elbows, Shelley tentatively ran a tongue over her upper lip. It could be Charles, she told herself fiercely. He had called in the day before and shared their morning cup of coffee, but would he come two days running? Of course, it could be the butcher, who came out from Low Burton twice a week, or even the gardener, Martin Ashcombe, who Marsha had telephoned only the previous day. Or it could be Ben, she acknowledged heavily, swinging her feet off the padded footrest and curling her bare toes in the grass. And if it was, he should not see her like this!
She was halfway to the french doors that led into the house through the living room when he appeared. He came round the side of the building, eschewing the need to alert Mrs Carr to his arrival, treading silently in his mud-smeared rubber boots. He was wearing a dark blue collarless sweat shirt and tight-fitting jeans, both of which clung to the lean muscularity of his body, and his hair was moist around his temples, revealing an earlier bout of exertion.
‘Hi,’ he said, arresting her withdrawal, and Shelley knew she could not avoid his company.
‘Hello,’ she responded, turning reluctantly towards him. ‘Did you want to see your mother? I’m afraid she’s working at the moment, but I’m sure she’ll want to know you’re here—’
‘She knows,’ said Ben flatly, stepping off the path and on to the grass. He surveyed her appearance with narrow-eyed appraisal. ‘As a matter of fact, she ‘phoned me earlier. She was concerned about you, and she asked me to come and take you out.’
Shelley’s lips parted. ‘To—take me out?’ she echoed.
‘She felt guilty,’ said Ben, stopping less than a yard away from her. ‘She said you were being so understanding about her work, but that as you hadn’t been out at all since you got here, you might appreciate a change of scene.’
Shelley looked anywhere but at him. ‘But—that’s ridiculous—’
‘Why?’
‘I told her. I don’t need entertaining.’
‘But I want to do it,’ declared Ben quietly. ‘So don’t turn me down, hmm? Just go and put on a skirt or something, and let’s go.’
‘Like this?’ Shelley was appalled. That morning she had felt so hot she had slipped on the sleeveless purple leotard she used to wear to aerobic classes in London, and without the tights that went with it, it was very skimpy. Already, her hands itched to tug the hem of the briefs into a more modest position, and it took an immense amount of will-power not to draw his attention to her discomfort.
‘You look okay to me,’ remarked Ben evenly, but she was aware of his eyes lingering on her breasts, partially flattened by the taut material of the suit.
‘You mean, I look rather silly, and therefore less intimidating,’ she said deliberately adopting her most patronising tone but Ben was not deceived.
‘You’ve never intimidated me, Shelley,’ he replied carelessly, and when she still refused to meet his gaze, he sauntered across to the lounger where she had been sitting, and stretched his length upon it.
‘Your boots are dirty!’ protested Shelley, forgetting all about her appearance as she went after him, and Ben looked up at her with mocking eyes.
‘So don’t keep me waiting,’ he said, stretching out his hand and grasping her resisting fingers. His hand was cool and firm, the bones hard and determined as they curled about hers. ‘Go on. Go and get ready. And don’t take too long about it. I do have work to do.’
The appearance of Marsha settled the issue. She came out of the house just as Shelley was dragging her hand from Ben’s grasp, and her delight at seeing her son made a nonsense of Shelley’s objections.
‘Of course you must go with him,’ she exclaimed, when the younger woman expressed the contention that she was happy just to sunbathe. ‘Really, Shelley, I’ll be happier knowing you’re with Dickon. And he doesn’t mind, honestly. He’ll be glad of the company.’
‘Marsha, I told you—’
‘I know, I know. You don’t want me to worry about you. But I do. And if I know you’re out enjoying yourself, I shan’t feel so guilty about working.’
‘Marsha.’ Shelley sighed. ‘Marsha, when you lived in London, I often spent hours at the studio while you were working—’
‘But you weren’t ill then—’
‘I’m not ill now!’ Shelley clenched her fists in frustration, as Ben, who had
got to his feet when his mother appeared, gave her an amused stare. ‘I just need to—to relax, that’s all.’
‘You can relax tomorrow,’ declared Marsha firmly. She eyed Shelley’s appearance critically. ‘But I should wear something else, if I were you. The farmers around here are rather conservative, with a small”c”, and that outfit is definitely not!’
In her room, getting changed, Shelley flung the despised leotard on to the bed. She wondered what Marsha would have said if she had admitted that the real reason she didn’t want to go out with her son was because she was afraid of what might happen. How would Marsha react to the news that her beloved ‘Dickon’ was not above making passes at his mother’s friends? And more significantly, how would she feel if she learned that Shelley found him more attractive than was sensible?
When she eventually went downstairs again, Shelley looked as conservative as her clothes allowed. But at least the all-in-one jump suit covered her body and legs quite extensively, and only the elbow-length sleeves exposed a pale length of arm. The fact that the suit was made of a rather brilliant shade of jade green was regrettable, but the sheen of the material muted the colour as she moved. Her hair was still plaited in the braid. She had decided it was too much trouble to take it out, brush it, and secure it in a knot. Besides, it was hardly attractive as it was and she was aiming for a severity of style.
If Marsha had any objections to her appearance, she didn’t voice them. Instead, she escorted them around to the front of the house where the Land-Rover was waiting, and patted Shelley’s arm as she made to get inside. ‘You’ll enjoy yourself,’ she said, but it was more a plea than a statement, and Shelley sighed.
‘I’m sure I shall,’ she replied gently, feeling obliged to offer the reassurance, and Marsha smiled gratefully as she stepped back to close the door.
* * *
Two hours later Shelley was wondering why she had been so apprehensive. Contrary to her fears, she was enjoying herself, and she knew a sense of shame for having doubted Ben’s intentions. Since leaving Craygill, he had given her no reason to feel uncomfortable with him, and his behaviour and his manner had almost convinced her she had imagined his interest.
The scenery, too, had woven its own magic, and although the Land-Rover was hard and not absolutely sterile—though not as unpleasant as it had been that first afternoon he had given her a ride—Shelley bore its discomforts without protest. She could quite see why an artistic mind like Marsha’s should find the tree-covered fells and rolling hills infinitely more appealing than the bleak grey streets of the city, and her own feelings expanded to encompass the beauty of her surroundings.
They visited several out-lying farms, which Ben said were cut off in winter, and where he had sometimes had to dig his way through mountains of snow to reach an ailing sheep. Now, after a spell of warm, dry weather, the farmers were complaining of the shortage of water, but they were glad to see Ben, and treated him with evident respect.
While he examined a bull that had damaged itself trying to reach a herd of cows, and diagnosed the reasons why a flock of sheep should have lost their appetites and become lethargic, Shelley was offered tea and scones, and plied with questions. It was obvious her appearance would arouse a not-unreasonable spate of interest, and she patiently explained that she was a close friend of Ben’s mother’s, and that she was spending a few weeks in the dale to recover from a period of ill health. It was easier to say she had had a debilitating attack of bronchitis than to explain the real reasons for her breakdown, and Ben eyed her a little wryly when one kindly farmer’s wife offered her own remedy of vinegar, lemon and honey.
‘I didn’t know you had had bronchitis,’ he remarked, as they clattered over the cattle grid on their way back to the main road, and Shelley grimaced.
‘I haven’t,’ she said, pushing the bottle of linctus on to the shelf at the front of the Land-Rover. ‘But I don’t like talking about—well, about what really happened, and she was so kind I couldn’t refuse.’
Ben nodded. ‘They are friendly people. I’ve found that, too. Most dales people are. It’s their way of life.’
‘Well, not all,’ said Shelley ruefully, and beneath his enquiring look, she found herself telling him about her early childhood, and of the farm at Tarnside, where her father was born. ‘We never went back; not even for my grandmother’s funeral,’ she said, after explaining the hostility her father had encountered when his father died. ‘I wrote and told them when my parents were killed, but they never replied. I guess they were afraid I might need their help, financial or otherwise.’
‘Poor Shelley,’ he murmured, his tone warm with sympathy, and she looked away. The sudden intimacy of his voice was like an abrasion of her senses, and she despised the automatic awareness that set her pulses racing.
‘Are you hungry?’ Ben asked abruptly, and she made a dismissive gesture.
‘After being offered tea and scones at least half a dozen times, how could I be?’ she answered lightly.
‘But you didn’t always accept,’ Ben pointed out drily. ‘I thought you might enjoy a glass of beer and a sandwich at one of the local pubs. Or, if you prefer it, I could buy a couple of pies and some cans, and we could have a picnic.’
Shelley glanced reluctantly at him. The idea of a picnic was very attractive, much more attractive than sitting in some stuffy bar, combating the fumes of cigarette smoke. And after all, Ben might not wish to take her into a pub where he might be recognised. No matter how innocent their expedition might be, she had the feeling Jennifer would not be enthusiastic.
‘Which do you prefer?’ she asked, making it his decision. ‘I don’t mind.’
‘We’ll have a picnic then,’ said Ben, accelerating down the hill into the village of Garthwaite. Then, stepping on his brakes, he drew up outside the Farmers Arms. ‘The landlady here makes a meat-and-potato pie that will make your mouth water,’ he told her. ‘Hang on a minute. I won’t be long.’
When Ben came back, he was carrying four frosted cans of lager and two interesting packages. ‘Two pies, and two slices of Mrs Marrick’s famous apple cake,’ he remarked, handing them over, ‘And I know exactly the place where we can eat them.’
He drove out of Garthwaite on the road that ultimately led to the falls at Aysgarth. Some distance from the village, however, he turned the Land-Rover on to a narrower track that led down a wooded hillside. Twisting and turning, sometimes almost back on itself, it eventually emerged on a grassy slope, overlooking a rippling stream, where a wealth of forsythia and wild poppies grew vividly on the bank.
‘What a beautiful place!’ Shelley exclaimed, unable to prevent her enthusiasm from showing, and Ben grinned.
‘Pretty, isn’t it?’ he conceded modestly, and she pushed open her door and got out.
‘Is this the start of the river we saw earlier?’ she asked, walking to the edge of the stream, but Ben shook his head.
‘Just a tributory,’ he replied, joining her and lifting the four cans of lager out of her grasp. ‘I’ll put a couple of these in the water. It may look enchanting, but it’s pretty cold, believe me!’
Shelley took a deep breath and then expelled the air from her lungs with real enjoyment. ‘Do you know, I do feel hungry,’ she said. She grimaced. ‘I can’t remember the last time I did.’
‘That’s good.’ Ben dropped down on to the grass and held out his hand invitingly. ‘Come on. Let’s eat. Food always tastes better in the open air.’
Shelley didn’t know whether his intention was to pull her down beside him or not, but instead, she handed him the two packages he had brought from the pub. Then, as he opened the bags, she seated herself on the bank, accepting the pie he offered without meeting his distracting gaze.
The pie was good and still warm, and she munched away happily, content just to enjoy the day. She didn’t remember ever eating a meat-and-potato pie before, but it tasted delicious, and so did the beer. Ben had opened two cans and set one beside her, and from time to time she t
ook a mouthful of the icy liquid. It was cool and sharp, a fitting accompaniment to the rich flaky pastry, and she licked her lips ruefully when it trickled down her chin.
The apple cake defeated her, but by this time Ben had finished his meal and his beer, and had stretched out on the grass. He had loosened the buttons of his shirt, which exposed his chest halfway to his waist, and he was presently scratching himself with a lazy hand.
‘Did you enjoy it?’ he enquired, turning his head towards her, and she wondered if he was as aware of his own sexuality as she was.
‘Very much,’ she answered, somewhat stiffly, struggling to combat the effect his lean brown body was having upon her, and with an indifferent shrug, Ben closed his eyes.
Swallowing the last of her beer, Shelley endeavoured to relax. It was very quiet, and very peaceful, and the measured sound of Ben’s breathing had a soporific effect. Before long, Shelley could feel her own eyelids drooping as the rich food and the unaccustomed amount of alcohol made her feel sleepy, too. Perhaps she would just doze for a few minutes, she thought, putting the can aside and resting back on her elbows. It was very hot, and she hadn’t been sleeping at all well lately. A nap in the sun seemed very attractive, and letting her elbows slide, she subsided on the grass…
She was dreaming—a delightful dream, in which she felt secure and loved. There was a man; she couldn’t see him very clearly, but he was with her; he was kissing her; he was giving her this delicious feeling of warmth and security. It wasn’t Mike. Mike had never made her feel like this. Even when he had made love to her, she had always known there was a part of herself that was not involved, that had stood apart and viewed what she was doing with a certain sense of detachment. But there was no detachment now—just an enveloping feeling of excitement and anticipation, that spread throughout her whole being in increasing waves of emotion.
It was the strength of these emotions that awakened her, and when she first opened her eyes, she couldn’t understand where she was or what was happening. She was not alone; she realised that straight away; but the lips that were caressing the curve of her cheek were not familiar, even if the effect they were having was not unwelcome. A hand was pushed inside the collar of her jumpsuit, resting in the hollow between her shoulder and her nape, and the intimate caress of those fingers was what had aroused her latent passion.
