Fever

by Charlotte Lamb

  A fortnight later she and Lucy flew off to the

  South of France to spend some weeks in a tiny cottage owned by a friend who had pressed it firmly on

  Lucy. Sara looked down at the blue sea as the plane banked in order to land. Since Rob's death she had barely thought of Nick. She had shut him up into a remote compartment of her mind and she firmly intended that in future he should stay there. It had been a reckless brush with passion, but she had escaped. She would never again allow herself to feel like that. She had learnt something about herself, anyway. She had never known herself to be capable of such a fierce sensual desire, but now she knew, and she would be very wary in the future. The blue sea and the green land came closer. Lucy stirred from her cold immobility and Sara touched her hand, wordless. Lucy gave her a brief tired smile. 'Look,' Sara said lightly, pointing through the win­dow. 'The sun!'

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The following April Sara drove into Suffolk to stay for a while at a country house in the flat saltmarshes near the coast. The owner was a retired army officer who had commissioned her to paint a landscape of his house and grounds after seeing one of her paintings in the home of a friend. It was his son who had negotiated with her. Jeremy Forcell was something in the City, she was not sure exactly what, and his knowledge of art seemed to her minimal, but he had a roving eye and had been distinctly impressed with Sara. She wickedly suspected that the very generous fee she had been offered owed more to his having fancied her than to his father's desire to own one of her paintings.

  It was nearly nine months now since Rob died. She and Lucy had spent a rather subdued few weeks in France and came back to London rapidly moving into a cold autumn, the drenched brown leaves whipped along the gutters by a bitter wind, the sky a permanent misty grey. The winter which followed had been grim. Lucy had got a job in a famous Lon­don store, more because she needed the company than because she needed the money, and although she would never be a lively spirited woman she had become gradually less like a ghost. Sara had worked obsessively, forcing herself to concentrate on it, and she was aware that her reputation among those who knew anything about the subject, was growing slowly.

  Greg had gone to France for three months to paint. He had earned a good deal in the previous year and he was in no urgent need of earning for a while, so he had taken a sabbatical in order to paint purely for his own pleasure. That, at least, was the story he preferred to have officially accepted. Sara suspected Greg was getting away from Lucy. He was finding it an intolerable burden to see her all the time, knowing she was alone in the house, fighting the temptation to let down his guard with her. Greg was tired. He needed a long rest.

  Sara found the house with difficulty. It was called Ravens Halt, but it lay buried in a network of tiny winding marsh roads which seemed to lead in circles with the sound and smell of the sea coming and go­ing as one drove.

  When Sara finally approached it the afternoon sun was sliding- down into the pearl white sea on the horizon and the house looked enormous framed in its spectral beech trees. As she came closer it dimin­ished into a rather plain Georgian house which owed much of its beauty to the parkland setting in which it lay.

  Colonel Forcell met her in a cluttered drawing-room, shaking her hand so vigorously that her fin­gers ached for minutes afterwards. He was a well-built iron-grey man with fierce blue eyes and a deep-toned voice like the note of Big Ben. 'Nice of you to come,' he intoned, as though she were an eagerly awaited visitor.

  His crisp very short hair was almost entirely silver and bristled as he moved his head. He insisted that she take some tea and then led her around his house showing her watercolours painted by members of his family—all female, she noted. He seemed to be­lieve that painting was an occupation only meant for women.

  'But you paint in oils,' he informed her, as though she might not know. 'Messy stuff, oils.' A look of dis­may came into his blue eyes. 'You don't paint in­doors, do you?' He looked at his carpets and she saw he was alarmed at the idea of gouts of sticky oil

  paints left on them.

  'That depends on the weather and how long you want me to take,' she said.

  'Ah,' he said, clearing his throat. 'Take as long as you like. I enjoy company.' There was a brief mas­culine gleam in the blue eyes as he surveyed her very feminine outline. He must have been quite a charmer in his youth, she thought, finding herself ludicrously smiling under his gaze. His son had something of the same effect. 'Yes, as long as you like,' he added, his eye reverting to his threatened carpets. Just so long as you don't drop oil around here, Sara thought for him, grinning.

  He was very proud of his home. It had been in his family for a hundred and fifty years, he informed her.

  'Was it built for your family?' she asked.

  He shook his head. 'No, no, older than that. No, we bought it. The grounds are lovely,'

  'So I noticed,' she said. Have you any particular vista you want me to paint?'

  'I thought from the front with the beech trees and the stream,' he said a little uncertainly, eyeing her as though uncertain whether she would approve.

  'That sounds fine,' she agreed, and he looked re­lieved. He gave her his approving smile again.

  'Good, good. Saw your painting of Moberley's place. Liked it. Just the sort of thing I want.'

  Sara nodded, having heard all this from his son. 'I think I can get the effect you want,' she promised. 'I'll stroll round the grounds tomorrow, if I may, to take my bearings.'

  'Cover the ground,' he nodded. 'Good strategy.'

  In her comfortable, rather old-fashioned bed­room, she laughed as she remembered his conversa­tion. He was a sweetie, but she fancied she might get rather tired of his gruff barking if she had to listen to it too often.

  Miraculously, spring had come early to the low-lying countryside. Suffolk was not the warmest county in England, but it had its own special beauty in the spring when wild flowers sprang thickly in the salt-drenched grass, pale pyramidal orchids, blue-eyed grass, flags and purple fritillary. The mornings and evenings came in shrouding, damp mists which dripped from tree to tree and left glistening drops on blades of grass. Sometimes the sun swam like a red coin through the mist and some­times the day was sunless and cold. Sara drove around the district when it was too cold to paint outdoors and stared with awed admiration and in­credulity at the great medieval churches on their lifted hills above the sea, the light striking through their stained glass and giving an eerie beauty to their emptiness. They had been built in the days when this area was rich because of the quiet sheep still cropping today on the level fields. The wool merchants of England had wisely piled their trea­sures in heavens, building magnificent churches which lived long after wool had ceased to bring such wealth to the county. Now the churches lay in the empty fields like stranded galleons and the shiver­ing mists crept through them night and day.

  Sara had been at Ravens Halt a week and made little progress with her picture when Jeremy Forcell came down for the weekend. He was a very charm­ing young man, fair and tanned, with a quick smile and an eye which held a very male interest as he looked at Sara.

  'You don't want to work at a weekend,' he in­formed her on the Saturday morning. 'Put your brushes away and play.'

  'Play what?' she asked, looking at him through her lashes, a teasing smile on her lips.

  He grinned. 'This and that,' he retorted. 'There's a boat on the stream. Have you been out in it yet?'

  'It looked unsafe to me,' Sara said warily.

  'Rubbish,' Jeremy retorted lightly, and dragged her down to the wide weed-choked stream which ran through the grounds. The boat floated, but that was all that could be said about it. They had to bail most of the time since it shipped water at an alarming rate, but somehow this made them both laugh a good deal, especially when Jeremy scooped water over his own legs instead of throwing it out of the boat. They spent an enjoyable morning playing the fool in the boat and after a leisurely lunch they played the fool on the distinctly uneven
tennis court which hadn't been properly mowed for a long time. The ball flew all over the place and often did not bounce because it hit a patch of moss. But they en­joyed themselves,

  Jeremy played extremely badly, as Sara told him, but she suspected that that was largely because he spent so much time looking at the long smooth gleam of her legs as she chased the ball across the grass. She had brought no shorts with her, so she had borrowed a very brief white tennis skirt which belonged, Jeremy told her, to his sister Annabel, who was in London.

  'She won't mind,' he assured her.

  'Are you sure?'

  He nodded. 'Annabel has dozens of clothes she never even wears. She's an extravagant girl. That's why she's in London—keeping a watchful eye out for a millionaire.'

  Not believing his light chatter, Sara laughed. How sensible!'

  'She'll need one,' Jeremy groaned. 'Spends money like water. I can't imagine how my father manages to support her.'

  'She doesn't work?' As soon as she had asked the question Sara knew from his wry grin that it was a stupid one.

  'Annabel work? My dear girl, you're joking!'

  'How old is she?'

  'Twenty,' Jeremy said. 'Well, that's what it says on her birth certificate and I must admit I seem to have known her around that long, but she acts more as though she were twelve.'

  Sara laughed. 'Pretty, though, I imagine?'

  'Now why should you imagine that?' The bright­ness of his eyes told her that he imagined she was inferring Annabel's looks from his and she shook her head teasingly at him,

  'If she hopes to catch a millionaire she'll need to be.'

  Jeremy looked amused. 'Oh, Annabel is pretty.' He glanced at her with that glint in his eyes. 'But you're a knock-out—but you know that, don't you?'

  'Do I?' she asked demurely.

  'I can't be the first man to tell you so.'

  'I don't believe everything I hear.' Her smile faded slightly as she thought of one man who had told her she was beautiful, but then she pushed the thought away and deliberately smiled at Jeremy again.

  'You can believe that,' he told her. 'Any mirror would tell you. In that tiny skirt you're incredibly sexy. I can't believe you're a painter. Are you good?'

  Sara opened her eyes wide. 'You mean you don't know? I thought you'd seen some of my work.'

  'Dad did,' he shrugged. 'But then his idea of art beings and ends with The Stag at Bay.'

  Sara shook her head reprovingly. 'So wrong. Your father likes soft little watercolours. I think he would rather have something like that from me—more feminine than oils.'

  Jeremy looked surprised. 'Did he say so?'

  'No, I read his mind.'

  'Can you read mine?' He leered dramatically at her, his eyes sweeping over her curved body in the

  short-sleeved white shirt and brief skirt.

  'I wish I couldn't,' she retorted, moving back to­wards the house.

  Jeremy's laughter came after her. Although he was making very obvious passes at her, he was an even-tempered man, charmingly casual, light-hearted and distinctly labelled 'Not to be taken seriously'. Sara had enjoyed her day with him, but she suspected that too much of his company would bore her. She was used to brittle repartee from Greg in certain moods, but Greg was basically an entirely serious man. The light teasing obscured his real nature, and Sara preferred it like that.

  He stayed until the Monday and Sara was per­manently in his company. She observed with in­terest his relationship with his father, surprised and impressed by it. Jeremy behaved perfectly in his father's company, treating the Colonel with the calm respect of a junior officer to a senior, a relation­ship which Sara saw at once exactly suited the Colonel's frame of mind. Jeremy noted her eyes on them and when they were alone on the Sunday afternoon he commented on it rather wryly.

  'Don't miss much, do you?'

  She opened her eyes. 'Meaning?'

  'You remind me of the old saying about a child among us taking notes. Your eyes are as sharp as needles.'

  'Careful they don't prick you, then,' she retorted, looking at him with a teasing little smile.

  The already familiar rakish smile drifted over his face. He lowered his tone and his face. 'Perhaps they already have.'

  'You are a terrible flirt,' she returned with amused dryness.

  'You're not?' His brows curved upward, their fairness lost in the pale tan of his skin.

  'Do you think I am?' She looked surprised and Jeremy gave her a wicked grin. . 'You know damned well you are.'

  That surprised her because she had always thought of herself as serious-minded. To cover her chagrin she changed the subject. 'What exactly do you do in the City?'

  'Work like a slave,' he groaned, his face changing. 'Nine to five drudgery five days a week.'

  How terrible,' she mock-sympathised.

  'Don't laugh,' he muttered. 'You've no idea of the amount of tedium one can suffer in the cause of earning a living.'

  'No?' she asked, her eyes ironical.

  He met her glance and grinned. 'I don't quite like your expression, Miss Nichols. I hope you're not implying that I'm tedious?'

  She didn't answer, grinning. 'If you don't like your job, why not change it?'

  His eyes had a serious look for a fleeting second. 'I didn't say I didn't like it. It can be very satisfying, but I have a boss who has some resemblance to Simon Legree. I hear his whip cracking behind me from morning to night.'

  'Poor Jeremy,' she soothed. 'I hope you'll go back to London nicely rested and relaxed, anyway.'

  'Oh, yes,' he agreed with his eyes on her. 'I've had a marvellous weekend. How long arc you staying?'

  'Until my work's finished.'

  'How long will that be?'

  She shrugged. 'That depends. A few more weeks. The weather hasn't been ideal, but it's getting bet­ter every day.'

  'May I come down next weekend?' he asked.

  She looked down. 'It's your home.'

  'You know what I'm asking,' Jeremy said very softly.

  She looked up. A frown crossed her face. 'I have no interest in a serious relationship, Jeremy.'

  Laughter showed in his eyes. 'My God, neither have I, woman.'

  She laughed back then, relaxing. 'I see.' Her tone was rueful and mocking.

  'And so?' he pressed.

  'And so why not?' she retorted.

  He kept his word and reappeared the following weekend, surprising his father, who had not expected him to come again so soon but who glanced from him to Sara with sudden realisation before, tramping off discreetly to leave them alone. She had got on very well with the Colonel during that week.

  One rainy afternoon she spent tour hours painting a delicate little watercolour for him and saw his heavy face light up.

  'My word, that's good,' he had said, confirming her suspicion that he was drawn to the delicacy of the medium. When she gave him the small picture he seemed quite touched, coughing loudly because he could not think of a thing to say, and he took her, off with him to choose a place to hang it among his other family watercolours. Several times since she had found him standing in front of it, gazing at it, and she found it rather sad that in all probability he would always prefer it to the oil painting she was doing for him.

  Jeremy monopolised her that weekend. They walked and talked, drove around the windy Suffolk lanes, listened to records and argued about cricket, for which Jeremy had a passion. Sara had teased him by saying it was a silly game, amused to see him flare up angrily, for once excited in his disbelief at her viewpoint.

  'Doesn't your sister ever come down to see her father?' Sara asked him.

  Jeremy shrugged. 'Now and then. Annabel is a town bird. The country bores her.'

  'It doesn't bore you?'

  His eyes had that quick gleam, 'Not when you’re around.'

  She pushed that aside. 'Apart from that?'

  Jeremy looked pensively at the flat green fields and grey sky. 'I am rather fond of the place. No, I don't get bored altho
ugh I like London. This is my home, and there's a special feeling for a place you've always known. Don't you think?'

  She nodded. 'I'm sure there is, but I've always lived near London.'

  'Got a flat?' he asked. 'You haven't told me much about your own family. Are there many of you?'

  'Just me and Greg, my stepbrother,' she said. 'Our parents are dead. I've no other relatives.'

  He frowned; 'You don't surprise me. You've got a rather self-contained face.'

  'Such shrewdness,' she mocked lightly.

  'My old dad has taken quite a fancy to you,' he said. 'I've never known him so taken with anyone. Usually he's something of a recluse, not a gregarious type at all.'

  'He's a darling,' Sara said impulsively. 'Under that bristling manner he's really as soft as butter.'

  'Hey!' Jeremy gave her a quick look. 'I don't see you in the role of stepmother, you know.'

  Her lips twisted. 'What role do you see me in?'

  He didn't answer, grinning wickedly at her.

  'Think again,' Sara retorted reprovingly. She was not sure exactly how serious he was about his interest in her, but somehow did not imagine he had marriage in mind. Although she enjoyed the light flirtation she was having with him she did not want to get any deeper involved. Jeremy was charm­ing as an occasional companion, but there it stopped.

  When he had returned to London, however, she found the house very empty without him. His amus­ing banter was infectious. She missed him. She worked on her canvas at a steady pace, knowing it would soon be finished but wanting to give the Colonel good value for his money. The effect she wanted to obtain was not easy. She was hoping to persuade him that an oils could be as visually effective as the softer, more subtle watercolours he really preferred, and that involved far more concentrated attention to detail.

  She was surprised when Jeremy appeared on the Friday afternoon, throwing her a coaxing grin. 'I want to take you up to town,' he told her. 'Anna­bel's throwing a party. Will you come?' 'I haven't got a suitable dress,' she said regret­fully. In fact, she was delighted at the idea of a party. She had spent weeks now in a deep attention to work and she was in the mood to have fun.