Ishbel's Party

by Stacy Absalon

  There was barely time to whisk away the rugs and for Lorna to pat her hair into place before Molly was showing in the callers, three friends of Lorna's who had come in hopes of a game of bridge. At Lorna's bright-eyed look of anticipation Bethan didn't have the heart

  to put any obstacles in her way, and set up the card table for them.

  'But what about you, Bethan?' Lorna said suddenly as one of her three cronies began to shuffle the cards. 'Perhaps you'd like to take a turn?'

  'I'm afraid my accomplishments only run to chess,' she smiled. 'If it's all right with you, I think I'll go for a walk.'

  'Why don't you stroll down to the winery?' Lorna suggested at once. 'I'm sure you'll find it interesting, and if Siriol's busy you can tag on to one of her tours.'

  Bethan agreed it would be a good opportunity for her to see what went on in the making of the wine, though with some reservations which she kept to herself. If Fraser was anywhere about, she wouldn't go near the place.

  But there was no sign of him as she approached cautiously, leaving the house by the front door and walking along the lane to follow the signs to the visitor's car park. There were several cars there, and as she drew nearer a three-sided building, the fourth side open to the elements, one group of people was just emerging while another waited to be shown round.

  Siriol appeared behind the crowd that was leaving and, greeted Bethan with a warm smile. 'Hi! What a lovely surprise. Come to see where all the work's done? Hang on a minute. I'll just dish out the tickets for this lot and you can join us.'

  Bethan watched as Siriol too: the tourists' entrance fees, smiling and chatting a welcome. She was a very pretty girl with a natural, easy way with her, a fact that was appreciated by two young men in the party. She wore a casual but expensive outfit of trousers and waistcoat in a fine red wool over a white rollneck sweater, and for all she was so young, she handled her tourists confidently, showing no shyness. Bethan could well appreciate what an asset she must be to the business, and why Fraser had chosen her to be his wife

  despite the disparity in their ages. She was very conscious of her own shabby plainness beside the younger girl, and that was strange because she didn't usually spare a thought for her appearance. Perhaps it was that, if she were honest, she envied the other girl from the bottom of her heart. Siriol had Fraser's love. She was going to be his wife. Ten years ago Bethan would have given her soul to be in that position. Even now

  She brought that thought to an abrupt halt. Marriage and a family were not for her.

  She was glad to turn her thoughts back to Siriol who was telling her audience the grapes grown in the vineyard were the Muller Thurgau variety which had been found to be best suited to the English climate. She indicated a gleaming stainless-steel trailer drawn up at one side of the open-fronted room. 'That's the grape-trailer,' she explained, 'and it holds two tons of grapes.'

  `Why stainless steel?' someone asked. 'It must cost a bomb.'

  `Because the last thing we want is to poison our customers,' Siriol grinned, 'which is what would happen if the grape-juice or wine came into contact with iron. So we use only stainless steel, enamel, fibreglass, plastic or glass equipment.'

  `And when do you harvest the grapes?' someone else wanted to know.

  'Usually about mid-October. We have to wait for the grapes to reach the right sugar-content before they're picked. The sweeter the grapes, the higher the quality of the wine.' She leaned into the grape-trailer and pointed out a large stainless-steel screw running along the bottom. 'The auger there carries the grapes into the berry-mill here behind the trailer. This has to split the skin of every grape without damaging the pips or stalks, or the tannin would make the wine bitter. From the berry-mill the crushed fruit is pumped into the press.'

  She moved on to the next shining piece of equipment

  and by now Bethan found herself fascinated. This was again stainless steel, a large drum with a panel removed to show the inner workings, a large disc at each end which Siriol explained gradually moved in towards the centre while the drum rotated, slowly squeezing the juice out of the fruit. 'We usually do about twenty-five pressings on each load of grapes,' she went on, `by which time the pulp is bone dry, and this—known as pomace—goes back on to the vineyard as mulch.

  'Now we'll move on into the winery.' She led them through a side door into a long, barnlike building, scrupulously clean with whitewashed walls and enormous fibreglass vats ranged all down one side, stopping beside the first vat. 'Before we start to make the wine we fill the vat with carbon dioxide; this keeps the air away from the juice and prevents oxidisation. As the juice is pumped in from the press, the carbon dioxide is forced out of the vat through that valve at the top.

  'When the vat is full and any imbalances in the juice have been corrected, the juice is allowed to settle before it's pumped into a clean vat and the actual wine-making begins. We use a starter wine here to begin fermentation, as the wild yeasts in the new grape juice won't make good wine.

  And this is the point where H.M. Customs and Excise take an interest in us.' Siriol grimaced. 'They collect duty on every single litre we make, so every litre has to be accounted for. And it has to be paid before we sell a single bottle.'

  'How long does the fermentation last?' one of the young men wanted to know.

  'We try to regulate the temperature in here so it lasts two to three weeks,' Siriol answered. 'When it stops the wine is pumped into another clean vat filled first with nitrogen, again to prevent oxidisation. Any minor corrections the chemists' report suggests are made then, before the wine is filtered.'

  'And then you leave it to mature?' Bethan asked, full of admiration at Siriol's knowledge and very much aware of how closely the girl identified herself with her fiancé's business.

  Siriol smiled at her. 'Yes, for five or six months. We do the bottling in April or May.' She trooped them all down to the far end of the building. 'Last week this was a hive of industry, but we finished bottling last year's wine only yesterday.' She went on to point out the wine-filter—a curious, concertina-like instrument—the bottle-steriliser, bottle-filler, corker and labelling machine, showing them one of the corks they used that must, by law, have the registered name of the winery branded into it. And lastly she demonstrated the machine that put the lead capsule over the neck of the bottle before leading the way out to a small inner courtyard where vines grew around the walls and white tables and chairs were set out in the sunshine, and here they were invited to taste the wine.

  Bethan smilingly refused when Siriol offered her a glass. 'Don't you like wine?' the other girl asked in surprise. 'I noticed you didn't drink any at dinner last night.'

  'I know it must sound sacrilegious to you, but I can't say. I care for it,' she said lightly. She had drunk the occasional glass of wine in her teens but had never liked anything stronger, which made it all the more incomprehensible how she should have drunk herself into a stupor on the night of . In any case, she hadn't touched anything remotely alcoholic since.

  'But even if I don't care for the wine, I was fascinated by your description of how it's made,' she hastened to add. 'And I'm open-mouthed with admiration at your knowledge.'

  'If you had to rattle it off six times a day, you'd know something about it too,' Siriol grinned.

  'That might seem a bit like hard work for Miss Steele,' a voice behind them said and Bethan's heart

  sank like a stone. Why on earth hadn't she gone back to the house as soon as the tour was over? Why had she been stupid enough to hang around here for Fraser to catch her away from her duties?

  But Siriol's reaction to her fiancé's appearance was predictably different from Bethan's. Her face lit up. 'Darling!' She turned her face up and Bethan had to watch while he kissed her inviting mouth. But what an unkind thing to say,' she pouted. I'm not quite sure who he's getting at, Bethan, you or me. I'm darned certain nursing's a lot harder work than tripping out my piece for the visitors.' Her head turned as some of those visitors moved to
wards the doorway off the courtyard marked SHOP. 'Sorry, I'll have to dash. Now they've tasted the wine, they want to buy—I hope!' Giving Fraser's arm a final squeeze she hurried into the shop after her customers.

  Bethan too turned to leave but Fraser caught her arm, holding her back. `So you didn't heed my warning. The first chance you get you abandon my aunt to come snooping down here.'

  His grip on her arm hurt but it was his touch that disturbed her the most. 'I didn't abandon your aunt. It was on her suggestion I came to see the winery.' It took considerable effort to keep her voice level. Some friends arrived and I left her playing bridge. However, I'm sure it's time I was going back now.' She tried to detach his grip.

  But he held on to her easily. If Lorna's playing bridge then she won't thank you for disturbing her yet,' he said surprisingly. 'So in the meantime I'm sure you won't object if I find you another job to do to earn your keep.' He dragged her across the courtyard to a gate that led out into the vineyard, pausing only at a tool-store to pick up a hoe.

  The rows of vines were planted about eight feet apart, each vine about four feet from its neighbour, trained on to wires supported by stout posts. They were

  some way down the long rows before Fraser stopped and thrust the hoe into her hands.

  The one job there's no end to at this time of year—keeping the weeds down round the vines. And don't bother to remind me about your supposed "accident". I'm sure it's as fictitious as your nursing experience, to make sure you won't be called upon to do anything too strenuous. Well, I'm calling your bluff. It won't do you any harm to learn what it's like to actually work for your living.' He turned on his heel and left her staring helplessly after him.

  She could hear voices in the distance and guessed there were other workers out there somewhere but she couldn't see them, and even if she could, how would they be able to help her? She began to work, pushing out of her mind Dr Fielding's warning that on no account was she to get overtired. Fraser wouldn't have believed her anyway, and she had her pride. She would show him she wasn't afraid of work.

  It was a simple enough job, loosening the weeds and leaving them on top of the ground to shrivel and die, but very soon her back and arms were aching and her hands, softened by the weeks in hospital, began to smart as blisters formed. Sheltered as the vineyard was on .its south-facing slope, the sun beat down on her bare head until it swam, and perspiration trickled down her back and between her breasts.

  She lost all count of time, moving like a robot as she kept doggedly on, her body one huge ache, her muscles screaming protestingly. There was only the row of vines stretching into the distance so far her glazed eyes couldn't see the end. Only her will kept her going, the determination not to give in, and she didn't even see the sun beginning to sink behind the trees or notice there were no more voices calling to each other.

  It wasn't until a heavy hand descended on her shoulder and she was whirled round to stare into Fraser's furious face that the pounding in her head and

  the weakness of her body overcame her will. Her last

  thought was, 'Now he'll have one more thing to score

  against me,' as she slid into unconsciousness at his feet.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  AT first he thought she was faking to gain his sympathy. Angrily he reached down and shook her, but she didn't move. Her greenish pallor, her flaccid limpness convinced him the faint was genuine and a sickening fear punched him below the belt. Swearing, he gathered her up into his arms.

  It was about a quarter of a mile back to the house but she felt no weight at all, her bones as frail as a bird's, only a tiny pulse fluttering at her temple to show she was still alive. How did she manage to look so innocent and childlike? he thought savagely,, looking down at the thick, gold-tipped lashes fanning against her bloodless cheeks, her rusty-gold head pressed against his chest.

  The shock had been like a kick in the gut when she'd walked into Lorna's sitting-room yesterday; thinner, although she'd always been delicately built; different with her hair cut short instead of lying in a fiery cloud on -her shoulders, but he'd known her instantly and it was like being caught in a timeslip, the fingers of that old obsession clutching at him again.

  In God's name! why had she come here, disturbing his peace of mind when it had taken years to get her out of his system? Hadn't she wrought enough havoc ten years ago?

  He'd watched her 'grow from a sweet, appealing kid to a highly desirable young woman, not exactly pretty but with a heart-jerking vulnerability that got under the skin, and with a delicate bone structure that promised true beauty at full maturity.

  Even at sixteen or seventeen he'd sensed in her the capacity for passion beneath her shy coltishness, and

  the first time he had kissed her that passion had burst into flame with an urgency that had shaken and delighted him. And like a fool he had believed it was a response she felt for him alone.

  That evening of Ishbel's eighteenth birthday party when Bethan had enticed him into the summerhouse at Merrifields should have warned him she was her mother's daughter and not as sweetly innocent as she appeared. He could have taken her then without protest, and might well have done had not Lisa Farraday's fortunate appearance reminded him he had a more urgent priority.

  More fortunate than he'd realised at the time while he was still burning for Bethan's pearly-white body, for when the task he'd set himself had been more easily accomplished than he'd expected and he'd got back to England after his sudden trip to Australia, it was to find Bethan had already begun to show that instability that was a legacy from her mother.

  His lips tightened grimly as he remembered his stunned incredulity when he'd heard that Bethan was up on a charge of manslaughter. At first he'd been convinced there was some terrible mistake, until they'd told him the facts, that at she had drunk herself out of her mind, had taken her brother's car without his permission and had killed a child in her mindless progress. Even then, when his first shock at something that seemed so uncharacteristic had subsided, he'd felt pity for her and a deep concern, believing he knew what the knowledge that she had taken a life would do to a girl as sensitive as Bethan. But he'd been wrong about that too. Bethan's sensitivity had been only in his own imagination. If she could show so little concern for the man who had been the only father she had known, how could she care about some child who was a stranger to her?

  God, but she'd got off lightly! Merely a conviction for drunken driving because her defence had pleaded

  that the child had contributed to its own death by being out at that time of night on a bicycle without lights. All it had cost Bethan was her driving licence—Charles Latimer had paid her heavy fine—and in return she had laid on him a death sentence, for a few days before her trial the stepfather she had professed to love so much had had a massive stroke. But neither before the trial nor after when she had walked free from the court had she once been to see him. Instead, not caring if he was alive or dead, she had taken off for America to her bitch of a mother, and a way of life that sickened him even to think about it if only half of what had been gossiped about her at the time was true. Fraser only hoped Charles never heard any of the stories, for he had survived—though only half alive—for another four years. He specially hoped and prayed Mark Latimer's drunken boast that he'd had Bethan himself more than once hadn't come to Charles's ears. It had taken Fraser a very long time to get over that particular piece of information himself.

  But he had got over it. He'd cut himself off from the social circle that had once included Bethan so he didn't have to listen to any more stories of her flitting from lover to lover like her mother, had worked like a slave to drive out the disillusion, and in the process had improved the Laurie holdings out of all recognition. He hadn't lacked for female company but had made sure his relationships with women were of the fleetingly casual variety.

  It was only recently he'd felt the need for something more permanent, the need to delegate some of his responsibilities and settle in one pl
ace, the need for a home and family of his own. He still hadn't finally decided where that home would be but he had chosen the wife who would share it. Siriol was ideally suitable. The only child of an industrialist, she was wealthy enough in her own right not to be merely attracted by his money. She was young enough to be malleable but

  sophisticated enough not to expect him to dance attendance on her like some love-sick calf. His life was mapped out the way he wanted it to go and he was damned if he'd let Bethan Latimer's sudden, unwelcome reappearance disturb things.

  Angrily he shouldered open the back door of Vine House and faced the accusing looks of the two women hovering in the kitchen.

  'She's hurt!' Molly Flowerdew stepped forward to brush back the sweat-dampened tendrils of hair clinging to Bethan's paper-white forehead.

  'She's only fainted,' Fraser said tersely.

  'But what happened? Where was she?' Lorna demanded. When dinner time was approaching and Bethan still hadn't returned from the winery she had sent Fraser in search of her.

  A dull flush stained Fraser's cheekbones. 'I set her to work in the vineyard this afternoon. She was still there.'

  Both women stared at him in horrified disbelief. 'Fraser, you didn't! Are you mad?' He had never seen his aunt so angry. 'Get her up to her room at once. Molly, call Dr Stratton and tell him what's happened, then come upstairs and help me to undress her.'

  Wordlessly Fraser carried his burden across the hall and up the stairs, wanting to be irritated by the women's panic but deeply uneasy himself at Bethan's continuing unconsciousness. He laid her on the bed and stood looking down at her, feeling unaccustomedly helpless as he willed her to come round.

  'Whatever possessed you, Fraser?' His aunt's voice behind him startled him, the fact that she had struggled up the stairs unaided a measure of her anxiety. 'Dr Stratton specifically said she was not to get overtired.'