Stolen Summer

by Anne Mather

  Marsha’s face, which only moments before had mirrored her dismay, cleared at once. ‘Do you mean that, Shelley?’ she exclaimed, her eyes wide and anxious. ‘I thought for a moment you were going to tell me you were leaving.’

  Shelley manufactured a smile from somewhere, and took the hand Marsha held out to her. ‘No,’ she said, reflecting that Jennifer had achieved the exact opposite to what she had intended. She squeezed Marsha’s fingers. ‘You’re my family. The only family I’ve got.’

  Ben and Jennifer departed a few moments later, and Shelley allowed Marsha to accompany them to the door alone. She was trying to come to terms with the fact that she had virtually committed herself to another six weeks at Craygill, and she wondered if Jennifer realised she was her own worst enemy.

  ‘I’m sorry about that, my dear,’ Marsha exclaimed, as she came back into the room. ‘Jennifer can be so tactless at times.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘It does matter.’ Marsha seated herself opposite and looked a little glum. ‘Sometimes I wonder if she’s right for Dickon after all.’

  ‘Marsha!’ Shelley swallowed quickly. ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Oh—’ The older woman sighed. ‘I sometimes feel as if I pushed him into it. But she seemed so sweet at first, and being a veterinary’s daughter—it seemed the perfect match. Now I’m not so sure.’

  Shelley moistened her lips. ‘Surely—surely Dickon made his own decision.’

  ‘Well, yes, he did, I know, but was it the right decision? I mean—what experience had he had?’

  Shelley hesitated. ‘I’m sure there were girls when he was at university.’

  ‘I’m sure there were.’ Marsha shrugged. ‘But I never met any of them. They weren’t—serious, if you know what I mean. The first girl he ever introduced me to was Jennifer, and that was mainly because she was Frank Chater’s daughter.’ Shelley shook her head. She didn’t want to hear this. ‘Marsha, I’m sure you’re exaggerating—’

  ‘No, I’m not. You know what I’m like. You know how I’ve tried to push you and Charles together. It’s crazy, isn’t it? Particularly when my marriage was such a disaster. But that was mostly my fault, and you and Dickon are not as selfish as I was.’

  ‘Oh, Marsha!’ Shelley sucked in her breath. She would never have a better opportunity to be honest with her friend, and she knew it. ‘Marsha, there’s something I have to tell you.’

  ‘What?’ Marsha leant towards her. ‘Don’t tell me you really are getting bored at Craygill? I’ll never hear the last of it if Jennifer’s proved to be right.’

  Shelley faltered. ‘I—I—’ She gripped the arms of her chair and sought desperately for the words. ‘Marsha, did you know Dickon was attracted to me?’

  ‘When he was younger? Of course.’ Marsha was unperturbed by her confession, and Shelley realised she had said it badly. ‘I told you he had a crush on you, didn’t I? Heavens, that’s not unusual. An impressionable boy and a successful woman! Oh, I see…’ Shelley’s anxious expression sent her off on another tack. ‘You’re suggesting that that may be why Dickon didn’t get seriously involved with any girl at college. You could be right. Oh, I don’t know what I’m worrying about. If he didn’t want to marry Jennifer, he’d have said so.’

  The moment had gone. Even without the sudden pealing of the telephone to signal its conclusion, the conversation was over, and Marsha went out of the room more cheerfully than she had come in.

  She was back seconds later however. ‘It’s Charles,’ she said, apparently indifferent to Shelley’s agitation. ‘Come on. He wants to speak to you.’ Her eyes twinkled. ‘He must have known we were talking about him.’

  Charles was ringing to invite her to a Mozart recital being held in the town hall at Low Burton. It was a charity affair, in aid of funds for local hospitals, and although Shelley wanted to refuse, she really had no excuse. Besides, it was to be on Tuesday evening and, with Marsha away, she might be glad of the company, she admitted doubtfully. In any event, it would deter Ben from repeating his invitation, and maybe it would help to persuade him she meant what she said.

  Marsha left early on Tuesday morning. She was driving to York to join the inter-city express for King’s Cross, and Shelley waved at the trim red XR3 until it disappeared from view.

  But although Marsha’s destination was familiar, Shelley felt no pangs of regret as she turned back into the house. She missed her apartment, of course, but that was mainly because of the things she kept in it. London, itself, held no such nostalgia, and she now understood Marsha’s decision to make her home in the country.

  The day passed slowly. In the morning, Shelley lazed in the garden, coming alert every time a vehicle passed on the lane below. But although two vans turned into the gates of Askrigg House, they were only tradesmen, and Mrs Carr dealt with them without troubling her guest.

  To Shelley’s relief, Mrs Carr herself served her lunch, and when she casually asked where Sarah was, she learned that the girl had called in sick the previous day. ‘A tummy bug, or so her mother says, but I don’t believe that,’ declared the housekeeper staunchly. ‘On Sunday afternoon, after Miss Manning’s son and his fiancée had left, Miss Manning told her she wanted to have a word with her. Well, Sarah said it was her night off, and it was, so Miss Manning put it off until Monday morning.’

  Shelley’s tongue circled her upper lip. ‘So—you think Sarah called in sick to avoid an interview with Miss Manning?’

  Mrs Carr grimaced. ‘Can you think of a better reason?’

  Shelley shrugged. ‘She could really be ill.’

  ‘And pigs might fly,’ said Mrs Carr scathingly. ‘No. That young woman knows she’s in trouble. You mark my words. I wouldn’t put it past her to stay away from work for a week.’

  Shelley sighed, resigning herself to the fact that Marsha was unlikely to forgive this latest infringement. Sarah would have served herself better if she had reported for duty and made some attempt to defend her behaviour. By staying away from work, she was virtually admitting her guilt, and wasting Marsha’s time into the bargain.

  Charles called to take her to the recital at half-past-six. The performance was due to begin at seven o’clock, and as they took their seats he suggested that she might like to join him for supper afterwards.

  ‘We should be out of here by half-past-nine,’ he explained, admiring the flawless column of her throat revealed as she removed her jacket. ‘I’ve asked my housekeeper to prepare a cold buffet. Premature perhaps, but with Marsha in London, I hoped you would forgive me.’

  Shelley smiled a little tensely, all too well aware that Ben might be at the recital too, and remembering what had happened after her last outing with Charles. But she couldn’t disappoint him, and adjusting the pointed collar of her dress with nervous fingers, she accepted his invitation.

  She started to relax after the first half hour, and in the interval she accompanied Charles into the bar laid on for the occasion. He introduced her to a great many people, some of whom she remembered seeing at the operatic society’s performance of Camelot some weeks ago, and Charles was evidently delighted to have her as his companion for the second time.

  ‘I was beginning to think you’d never agree to come out with me again,’ he declared, as they drove to his house afterwards. ‘But Marsha suggested I should persevere, and she was right.’

  Shelley sighed, wishing Marsha would mind her own business. The last thing she wanted was for Charles to think there was any future in their relationship, and it didn’t seem fair to accept his hospitality without making that clear.

  ‘I think you ought to know, I have no intention of getting seriously involved with anyone,’ she told him firmly, as they turned between the gates of a rambling Victorian mansion, situated on the outskirts of the small town. ‘And if that means you’d like to take me straight home, then I’ll quite understand. I just don’t want you to get the wrong idea.’

  Charles brought the car to a halt before the garag
e and then turned his head to look at her. His expression was shadowed in the light of the dash, but his tone was considering as he gave his response. ‘That’s a very sweeping statement,’ he commented, his hands resting on the wheel. ‘How do you know?’ He paused. ‘Unless there’s someone else, of course.’

  Shelley stiffened. ‘Did Marsha tell you that, too?’

  ‘Hardly.’ Charles lifted his shoulders dismissingly. ‘I shouldn’t think she even suspects. But then, they do say the onlooker sees most of the game.’

  Shelley’s brows drew together. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Let’s go inside and have some supper,’ suggested Charles, turning off the ignition and opening his door. ‘Mrs Sears will have gone to bed by now, and I’m sure you must be thirsty after all that Mozart. I know I am.’

  Shelley had little choice but to accompany him, and for once she wished she had her own transport. Until Charles chose to drive her back to Craygill, she was forced to accept his hospitality, unless she called a cab, which would be rather ungracious.

  The meal Charles’s housekeeper had left for them was quite substantial. A pork pie, some quiche, cold meats and salad: Mrs Sears had obviously expected Shelley to be hungry. But although she accepted a slice of quiche and admired the decoration of a sherry trifle, Shelley did not feel comfortable, and only the wine proved a palliative to her confused nerves.

  ‘You look troubled,’ Charles said at last, when she refused his offer of a second glass of wine, and set the half-eaten slice of quiche back on the table. ‘You needn’t be. I don’t intend to carry tales.’

  Shelley stared at him blankly. ‘Charles, I don’t—’

  ‘You and Ben,’ he said briskly. ‘I’ve seen the way you look at one another. Oh—I’m not saying it’s gone any further than that, yet,’ he added succinctly. ‘But I imagine he’s the reason you’re so adamant about not getting involved.’

  Shelley was stunned, and looked it. ‘But how—’ She shook her head. ‘I mean, we never—’

  ‘I should have suspected something that night I took you to see Camelot,’ replied Charles drily. ‘Ben wasn’t exactly pleased to see us together, was he? And the evening when I came to dinner…’ He studied the wine in his glass with a rueful expression. ‘He could hardly take his eyes off you.’

  ‘My God!’

  Shelley gazed at him disbelievingly, and Charles sighed. ‘I’m a doctor,’ he said. ‘I’m paid to diagnose people’s problems. I suppose I’ve got so used to discriminating between what’s real and what’s imagined, I do it automatically. Sometimes I’m wrong. This time I don’t think I am.’

  Shelley expelled her breath weakly. ‘But you haven’t told Marsha.’

  ‘No. Why would I? It’s nothing to do with me.’

  ‘But you’ve told me.’

  ‘Yes.’ Charles nodded. ‘Because you’re involved. And,’ he lifted his shoulders, ‘because I’m curious.’

  ‘Curious?’

  ‘Well,’ he hesitated, ‘I’m assuming from that blank statement you made in the car that you and he have no intention of—forgive the pun—consummating your relationship.’

  ‘No.’ Shelley could have lied and denied all knowledge of the matter, but she knew he wouldn’t believe her. ‘No, we haven’t.’

  ‘Might I ask why not?’ Charles frowned. ‘It surely can’t be because of that silly child, Jennifer!’

  ‘Jennifer’s not a silly child,’ retorted Shelley firmly. ‘And—and partly, it’s to do with her, of course.’

  ‘But not all?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You don’t love him?’

  ‘Please!’ Shelley’s face flamed. ‘I don’t think this has anything to do with you.’

  ‘No, it doesn’t.’ Charles was unperturbed. ‘But humour me—why should two people who evidently do care about one another choose not to do something about it?’

  Shelley hesitated, and then, because it would be a relief to tell someone, she gave in. ‘Ben doesn’t love me,’ she said heavily. ‘He thinks he does, but he doesn’t. It’s one of those teenage fascinations he hasn’t grown out of. I’ve known his mother for a lot of years, you see. When my parents were killed just after I left university, Marsha became my friend, and we’ve been friends ever since. Ben was just a boy, then. About fifteen, I suppose. I never thought of him in that way. It would have been ludicrous!’

  Charles inclined his head. ‘So when did you become aware that he wasn’t a boy any longer? When you saw him again at Craygill?’

  ‘Not exactly.’ Shelley paused, and then added reluctantly: ‘My car broke down on the way to Marsha’s. Ben stopped and gave me a lift. I—didn’t immediately recognise him.’

  ‘But he recognised you.’

  ‘Of course.’ Shelley thrust impatient fingers into her hair, causing several strands to tumble confidingly beside her ears. ‘I hadn’t changed that much. He had.’

  ‘I see.’ Charles nodded. ‘How intriguing!’

  ‘It wasn’t intriguing at all.’ Shelley was indignant. ‘It was embarrassing, actually.’

  ‘Because you were attracted to him? Before you knew who he was, of course.’

  Shelley sighed. ‘You should have been a psychiatrist.’

  ‘Why? Because I’ve made a perfectly reasonable deduction? Tell me, if Ben hadn’t been Marsha’s son, would you have felt differently?’

  ‘Yes. No. I don’t know.’ Shelley was confused. ‘You’re missing the point. Ben isn’t in love with me. He just thinks he is.’

  ‘Because of this earlier attachment?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Charles looked thoughtful. ‘Some might say that the length of the—so-called infatuation disproves your theory.’

  ‘Well, it doesn’t matter anyway,’ retorted Shelley abruptly, getting to her feet. ‘Will you take me home now?’

  ‘Presently.’ Charles was infuriatingly complacent. ‘Tell me why it doesn’t matter first.’

  Shelley groaned. ‘I should have thought the situation was blatantly obvious. I’m older than he is; I’m his mother’s friend, not his; and can you imagine how Marsha would react if she—suspected our relationship was anything but platonic?’

  ‘I see.’ Charles nodded. ‘So you’re prepared to destroy the happiness of three people, just to satisfy some ridiculous sense of propriety.’

  ‘Three people?’

  ‘Well, you don’t imagine Ben will make Jennifer happy, do you? If he doesn’t love her.’

  ‘You don’t know he doesn’t love her!’ Shelley’s fists clenched. ‘You’re basing your opinion on looks exchanged across a dinner table, and the unlikely humour of someone waiting outside a theatre in the pouring rain—’

  ‘Not just on that,’ Charles amended drily, coming to his feet. ‘I saw you both in Low Burton on Saturday. Standing outside Hobsons, in the square. Are you going to deny he had his arm about you, or that either of you was aware of anything but yourselves?’

  It was after eleven when Charles deposited Shelley back at Craygill. ‘Thanks for the lecture,’ she said, trying to make light of their conversation and failing abysmally. ‘Seriously, though, you won’t discuss this with Marsha, will you?’

  ‘I’ll treat it as a confidence,’ he assured her, touching her cheek regretfully before she got out of the car. ‘But don’t ruin your life to please someone else, Shelley. You’ll only regret it, and there’s nothing like bitterness for destroying your youth.’

  Mrs Carr had left a light burning in the hall, and after locking the door behind her, Shelley walked slowly into the living room. She was not tired. The conversation she had had with Charles had left her in a state of some agitation, and she thought perhaps a nightcap might help to calm her down.

  A lamp provided a pool of light beside the chintz-covered sofa, and Shelley assumed Mrs Carr must have left it on, also for her benefit. What she was not prepared for was the man standing motionless in the shadows beside the window, and she started violently as he moved into the lig
ht.

  ‘Ben!’ she exclaimed, relief that it was no one else almost overwhelming her. ‘Oh, God, you startled me! I thought for a minute you were Mike!’

  ‘Would you have rather that it was he?’ he enquired bleakly, the lamplight revealing hollows in his cheeks, which in day-light were not so evident. He shrugged his shoulders, taut beneath the casual elegance of a suede blouson. ‘Did you have a pleasant evening?’

  Shelley sighed. ‘What are you doing here, Ben? Does Mrs Carr know? Or did you let yourself in with your key, after she’d retired for the night?’

  ‘My mother’s house is still my home, Shelley,’ he retorted harshly. ‘I don’t have to have anyone’s permission to come here. But, for the record, Mrs Carr let me in. It was she who told me where you were.’

  Shelley moistened her lips. ‘So why did you stay? You must have guessed I wouldn’t be back until late.’

  ‘Yes.’ Ben inclined his head. ‘You’re right, of course. Except that I didn’t come for the evening. I came for the night!’

  Shelley caught her breath. ‘You’re crazy!’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well—because you can’t—you can’t stay here.’

  ‘Why can’t I?’ Ben’s mouth hardened. ‘I do have a room of my own, you know.’

  Shelley shook her head. ‘This is madness!’

  ‘Mrs Carr didn’t seem to think so. Why shouldn’t I spend the night in my mother’s house?’

  Shelley twisted her purse between her fingers. ‘Your mother would not approve.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t she? She was all in favour of you staying with me.’

  Shelley sighed. ‘That was different. She wouldn’t expect you to hang about here all evening, waiting for me to come back from—from the recital.’

  Ben glanced briefly at his watch. ‘Is that where you’ve been? I thought the recital was expected to be over by nine-thirty.’

  Shelley bent her head. ‘It finished about a quarter-to-ten. I went to Charles’s house for supper afterwards.’