An Exception to His Rule

by Lindsay Armstrong

  Isabel laughed. ‘Heaven forbid! Although he has been pretty good lately. But if you really want to know the reason for the speed and efficiency of this renovation, it’s quite simple.’

  ‘Your expert management of things?’

  ‘Well, that too,’ Isabel conceded. ‘But it’s money. It buys the best product, best workmen and in the long run it saves money.’

  ‘Spoken like a true capitalist,’ Harriet said but with affection.

  ‘All right.’ Isabel uncovered several platters on a long counter containing snacks. There were also plates and napkins plus bottles of champagne in ice buckets and gleaming glassware in amongst glorious vases of flowers.

  ‘How many people have you asked?’ Damien enquired as he pinched a smoked salmon savoury and had his hand slapped.

  ‘Just the neighbours—don’t,’ Isabel replied.

  ‘Just the neighbours!’ Damien echoed. ‘If you mean everyone we know around here that could be twenty to thirty.’

  ‘Twenty-five. When has that ever been a problem?’ Isabel enquired with her arms akimbo.

  ‘Beloved, I was merely thinking that you must have done an awful lot of work. And I happen to know you don’t like it.’

  ‘Ah. I gave someone a trial run. She’s applied for the cook’s position. No, she’s not here now,’ she said as Damien looked around, ‘but the proof will be in the pudding. There’s plenty more to eat.’

  One good thing about this party—people had been especially asked not to dress up since it was a kitchen party. So Harriet had been happy to attend in jeans and a lilac jumper. She’d been just as happy to leave after an hour although everyone else seemed to be content to stay on.

  But it was a hollow feeling she encountered when she was upstairs in the flat. Hollow and lonely—hollow, ruffled and restless. And all due to watching Damien at his best.

  Damien fascinating his neighbours with a blend of wit, seriousness, humour and setting not a few feminine pulses fluttering.

  One of them was Penny Tindall, although she’d fought to hide it, Harriet thought with some scorn.

  She almost immediately took herself to task for this uncharitable thought, not only uncharitable towards Penny but investing herself with a superiority she did not possess. If she did she wouldn’t be feeling miserable, lonely, stirred up and generally like crying herself to sleep all on Damien Wyatt’s account, would she?

  But she knew herself well enough to know that sleep would not come, so she took herself downstairs, closed herself into the studio, drew the curtains and sat down on a high stool. She’d just finished notating a beautiful ivory chess set and she pushed it aside to study an object she wasn’t all too sure about.

  It resembled some giant curved tooth set on a brass base and embellished with scrimshaw of African wildlife—an elephant, a rhino, a lion, a cheetah and a buffalo.

  She was handling it, turning it this way and that, when the door clicked open and Damien stood there.

  They simply stared at each other for a long moment then he said, ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘Of course.’ Harriet slipped off her stool and pushed her hair behind her ears. ‘I...I...’

  ‘Kitchen parties are not your cup of tea?’ he suggested as he closed the door behind him.

  ‘No. I mean...I haven’t got anything against them really.’ She grimaced. ‘That sounds a bit weird.’

  He didn’t agree or disagree. He simply looked at her with patent amusement. Then he looked at the objects on the table and noticed the chess set.

  ‘I was wondering where that had got to,’ he commented. ‘Charlie and Mum used to play a lot of chess. Charlie is a bit of a genius at it. Do you play?’ He lifted a king, rotated it then set it down.

  She nodded.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Well enough.’

  He studied her narrowly. ‘Why do I get the feeling that’s the guarded sort of response someone who is sensational at something gives you just before they set out to fleece you shamelessly?’

  Harriet maintained a grave, innocent expression—for about half a minute, then she had to grin.

  ‘You look like the proverbial Cheshire Cat,’ he drawled. ‘Did I hit the nail on the head?’

  ‘I’m not bad at chess,’ she confessed. ‘I used to play with my father.’

  ‘Don’t think Charlie has had time to play for years.’ He moved on and picked up the tooth-like object she’d been handling.

  ‘Hello!’ he said, as he picked it up. ‘Haven’t seen you for years!’

  Harriet’s eyes widened. ‘You know it?’

  ‘Sure,’ he said easily. ‘My mother showed it to me when she got it.’

  Harriet’s eyes widened further. ‘So you know what it is?’

  ‘Uh-huh. Don’t you?’

  ‘No. Well, a tooth of some kind from a whale maybe, but I can’t find any paperwork that goes with it so I’m a little frustrated.’

  He picked it up again. ‘It’s a tusk—a warthog tusk.’

  Harriet’s mouth fell open. ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Seriously. My mother was quite taken with African artefacts.’

  Harriet frowned. ‘Where are they?’

  ‘Haven’t you come across any more of them?’

  ‘No. Apart from this, nothing.’

  He sat down on the corner of the table. ‘We’ll have to consult Isabel.’

  Harriet stared at the warthog tusk with its delicate scrimshaw. ‘We’ll have to get in an African expert,’ she said.

  ‘Couldn’t you look it up?’

  Harriet shrugged. ‘Perhaps. How many do you think she had?’

  ‘Hundreds,’ he replied.

  Harriet paled. ‘But...that might mean I could be here for the next ten years!’

  ‘Now that,’ he agreed with a grin, ‘could be a problem. Talk about growing old on the job.’ But he sobered as she moved restlessly. ‘Not to mention the other complications it would cause.’ And the way his gaze roamed up and down her figure gave her no doubt that he meant complications in an extremely personal way.

  ‘Uh—look, I’ll think about it tomorrow,’ she said hastily. ‘Right now I should probably go to bed. I’ll need—’ she smiled shakily ‘—all my resources tomorrow if I’m to track down hundreds of things like warthog tusks.’

  She laid the tusk back in its box, briefly tidied the table top, and came purposefully round the table towards the door.

  Damien uncoiled his lean length from the stool and barred her way. ‘Am I getting my marching orders, Miss Livingstone?’ he said softly.

  Her eyes flew to his. ‘This was your idea—’ She stopped abruptly and could have kicked herself.

  ‘Mmm...’ He scanned the way her breasts were heaving beneath the lilac wool. ‘My idea for us to desist? So it was, but are you claiming you had another direction in mind for us?’

  ‘No. I mean—’ she bit her lip ‘—I don’t know of any other way there could be and that’s sad but probably a blessing in the long run.’

  He put his arms around her. ‘I didn’t mean to make you sad. I could so easily...turn things around. Like this.’

  His kiss, and although she’d known it was coming she did nothing about it, was like a balm to her soul.

  She no longer felt hollow and lonely and restless. She felt quite different. Smooth and silken as his hands roamed beneath her jumper and his lips moved from hers to the hollows at the base of her throat to the soft spot where her shoulder curved into her neck.

  Then he took her by surprise. He lifted her up and sat her on the table and she wound her legs around him—to have him grin wickedly down at her.

  ‘If you only knew what your legs do to me,’ he murmured, and his hands moved up to cup her breasts.

  Harriet paused
what she was doing, running her hands over the hard wall of his chest, and rested her hands on his shoulders. And she tensed.

  ‘What?’ he asked, his eyes suddenly narrowing.

  ‘Someone coming,’ she breathed and pushed him away so she could slide off the table and rearrange her clothes.

  ‘Someone’s always bloody coming,’ he grated.

  But whoever had been coming changed their mind and the footsteps receded.

  Harriet let out a quivering breath.

  ‘Would it matter if anyone saw us?’ he asked abruptly.

  She stirred. ‘Surely it would complicate things even more?’ She laced her fingers together. ‘Damien...’ She closed her eyes briefly. ‘I’m sorry this happened. I’m sorry it keeps happening but if there’s no future for us, if you’re sure, I need—I need to go away from Heathcote.’ Silent tears were suddenly coursing down her cheeks. She scrubbed at them impatiently. ‘I have nearly finished your mother’s things but if there are hundreds more...’ She gestured helplessly. ‘And the paintings. I don’t see how I can stay. Surely you m-must—’ her voice cracked ‘—agree?’

  He took in her tear-streaked face and the anguish in her eyes. And for a moment a terrible temptation to say Stay somehow we’ll work it out, Harriet rose in him. But another side of him refused to do it, a side that recalled all too clearly and bitterly how he’d been cheated and made a fool of...

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘This is my fault, what happened here tonight, not yours. It won’t happen again, so please stay. Goodnight.’

  He touched her wet cheek with his fingertips then he was gone.

  Harriet took herself up to her flat and cried herself to sleep.

  * * *

  A week later their truce had held. Not that Damien had spent much time at Heathcote. But they were able to interact normally, or so she thought. As in the instance when she was explaining to him about his mother’s artefacts.

  ‘Isabel forgot to tell me,’ she told him.

  He lifted an eyebrow. ‘What?’

  ‘Oh, sorry, I should have started at the beginning. Your mother sold all her artefacts just before she...er...passed away. Somehow or other, the warthog tusk must have been overlooked.’

  Damien grimaced and folded his arms across his chest. ‘No doubt to your great relief.’

  ‘Mostly,’ Harriet said. ‘I have to admit the thought of becoming an expert on apes and ivory et cetera was a little daunting.’

  ‘Apes and ivory?’

  ‘It comes from the Bible—Kings, First Book, chapter ten, verse twenty-two. “...the navy of Tharshish bringing gold, and silver, ivory, and apes, and peacocks.” From Africa to King Solomon.’

  ‘How did you come by that?’ he queried.

  ‘I did some research. It’s fascinating.’

  He studied her. She was now writing with her head bent and her expression absorbed. As usual, Tottie was lying at her feet. Her hair was loose and curly and she wore tartan trews and a cream cable stitch sweater. She looked at home on this cool autumn evening.

  And if she wasn’t close to becoming a part of Heathcote she wasn’t far from it—or was she already? he wondered.

  And was he mad not to make sure she stayed?

  At the same moment his phone rang. He pulled it out of his pocket and studied it with a frown then he answered it tersely. ‘Wyatt.’

  Harriet looked up and she tensed as he said, ‘What?’ and ‘When and where?’ in hard, clipped, disbelieving tones.

  And she realised he’d gone pale and his knuckles around the phone were white, and a feeling of dread started to grip her although she had no idea what news he was getting.

  Then he ended the call and threw his phone down.

  ‘What?’ she asked huskily. ‘Something’s happened.’

  She saw his throat working and he closed his eyes briefly. ‘Charlie,’ he said hoarsely at last. ‘His plane’s gone down. Somewhere in the north of Western Australia. They either can’t be more specific or it’s classified information.’

  He sat down and dropped his face into his hands then looked up. ‘It’s rugged terrain if it’s the Kimberley. Rivers, gorges.’ He drew a deep breath then crashed his fist on the table so that her coffee mug jumped and spilt. ‘And there’s nothing I can do.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Harriet murmured and slid her hand across the table to cover his. ‘I’m sure they’ll be doing all they can.’

  ‘There must be something I can do!’ There was frustration written into the lines and angles of his face. He got up and looked around as if he had no idea where he was. He said, ‘Excuse me, Harriet, but I can do more from my study and my computer.’

  She rose hastily. ‘Of course. I’ll bring you a nightcap in a while if you like.’ But she didn’t think he’d even heard her as he loped down the stairs two at a time with Tottie hard on his heels.

  Harriet marvelled at the dog’s sensitivity; she obviously had no doubt where she was needed most tonight.

  * * *

  And to keep herself occupied and keep at bay images of a fiery crash and Charlie’s broken body, she went downstairs to the studio to do some work of her own.

  She was cleaning a delicate china figurine with a cotton bud dipped in a weak solution when Isabel, looking as if she’d aged ten years in the space of a few hours, came over from the big house.

  ‘Any news?’ Harriet asked.

  Isabel shook her head and pulled out a stool. And she hugged her mohair stole around her.

  ‘How’s Damien?’

  Isabel shook her head. ‘He’s...it’ll kill him to lose Charlie. Me too, but more so Damien. They’re really close, despite the way they josh each other. They got even closer after what happened with Veronica and Patrick.’ Isabel stopped self-consciously.

  ‘He’s told me about her. So Patrick was the baby?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ Isabel touched a finger to the figurine Harriet had finished cleaning and had dried. ‘Hello, I remember you,’ she said to it and again looked self-conscious. ‘You must think I’m crazy,’ she said to Harriet this time, ‘but I do remember this figurine. It always sat on its own little circular table in the upstairs hall. That’s where Damien’s mother always kept it, but Veronica...’ She trailed off.

  Harriet said nothing.

  Isabel shrugged. ‘I don’t know why I shouldn’t tell you, seeing as you know some of it. It also helps to think of something else. If you’ve wondered why a lot of this stuff was more or less hidden, that was Veronica’s doing. She didn’t like antiques or objets d’art. A very modern girl was our Veronica, in more ways than one.’ Isabel’s tone was loaded with disapproval. ‘Mind you,’ she added, ‘Damien said no to a lot of her plans for the modernisation of Heathcote.’

  But then she sighed. ‘One should never pass judgement on relationships because it’s almost impossible to know the full story. And it’s hard not to be biased, anyway.’

  ‘How old is Patrick now?’ Harriet asked.

  ‘Let’s see—nearly three.’

  ‘I don’t suppose Damien has any reason to have any contact with him?’ She rinsed out a couple of cloths and suspended them from pegs from a dryer over the sink.

  ‘No. Well, not directly.’

  Harriet washed her hands and stood drying them on a red and white checked towel as a frown grew in her eyes.

  ‘He and Charlie worked out a plan. Because things are and always will be pretty tense between Veronica and Damien, I imagine—and because I can’t quite hide my feelings—’ Isabel grimaced ‘—Charlie sees Patrick fairly frequently. To make sure he’s OK and to give him a constant man in his life, I guess you could say. Charlie somehow or other had a better understanding of Veronica than me or Damien. That sounds odd.’ Isabel gestured a little helplessly.

  ‘I do
n’t think so. I think that’s...Charlie,’ Harriet said slowly. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if Charlie keeps a sort of weather eye out for Damien.’

  ‘Oh, I think he does.’ Isabel rested her chin in her hands and studied Harriet. ‘You’re pretty perceptive yourself, my dear.’

  Harriet grimaced. ‘I don’t know about that. So she—Veronica—didn’t marry Patrick’s father?’

  Isabel shook her head. ‘She hasn’t remarried.’

  ‘Is there any chance of them getting back together?’

  ‘No.’ Isabel said it quite definitely. ‘It was one of those white-hot affairs that was too explosive to last, even apart from the drama over Patrick. Of course the double, triple even quadruple irony to it all is that Patrick was named after my father, Damien’s grandfather.’

  Harriet let the towel drop onto the counter. ‘Oh, no!’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Isabel shrugged. ‘Not that there would be any point in changing his name and he’d been christened by the time they found out, anyway. But it does...it was such a mess.’

  Harriet sat down. ‘Do you think he’ll ever marry again?’

  Isabel stretched then she rocked Harriet to the core. ‘Yes. If you would have him.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ‘I...I BEG YOUR pardon?’ Harriet stammered.

  But Isabel simply looked at her wisely.

  Harriet got up and did a turn around the studio with her arms crossed almost protectively. ‘It couldn’t work. The reason he came back from Perth—not that he ever got there—was to tell me why it couldn’t work.’

  ‘Why couldn’t it?’

  ‘He doesn’t want to be married again. He’s suspicious and cynical now and, even without any of that, he’s a difficult, unbending kind of person and he admits that his habit of command was probably one of the reasons they fell out so badly.’

  ‘Probably,’ Isabel conceded. ‘He’s very much like my father, his grandfather, the first Patrick. The one who started it all. Dynamic, forceful—’ Isabel nodded wryly ‘—difficult. Whereas my brother, Damien’s father, was more interested in culture and the arts, passionate about sailing, that kind of thing. He was so nice—’ Isabel looked fond ‘—but it’s true to say we went backwards during his stewardship and it took all of Damien’s grandfather’s genes plus plenty of his own kind of steely determination to pull the business out of that slump.’