by Anne Mather
‘Even so——’
‘Even so—nothing.’ Melanie was adamant. ‘How do you think it would look if you didn’t go to your own grandmother’s funeral? You are her only surviving relative, aren’t you? Of course you must go. I insist!’
Helen bent her head. ‘I’ll think about it.’
‘You won’t think about it at all.’ Melanie was outraged. ‘Oh, I know why you’re looking so upset. You’re feeling guilty because you’re going to inherit whatever it is she has left. The house, for example. Didn’t you say you used to live there when you were a child?’
‘Until I was eighteen,’ agreed Helen reluctantly, forced to face the truth of what Melanie was saying. Castle Howarth would be hers now however little she wanted it. The property; the farms; the people on the estate; they would all now become so much more than the source of the generous allowance her grandmother had always made her.
It was thinking of that allowance that brought another surge of guilt to engulf her. Dear God, she had always taken that monthly cheque so much for granted. Of course, when she first moved to London, it had been a lifeline, but after she and Melanie opened the shop, there had been no real need for outside support. Yet, the cheques had continued to arrive, and she had continued to spend them, moving into a large apartment and buying more—and more costly—clothes. She ran a Porsche sports car instead of just a Mini, and she had her hair done regularly by the most fashionable hairdresser in town. She had spent her grandmother’s money like it was water, and it was only now that Nan was dead that she realised how selfish—and self-seeking—she had become.
‘So you will go,’ said Melanie softly, interrupting her friend’s train of thought, and Helen put her teacup aside and swung her feet to the floor.
‘Of course,’ she answered dully, feeling the faint throbbing in her temples that heralded a headache. ‘As a matter of fact, I think I’ll take the rest of the day off, if you don’t mind. I’m feeling pretty grotty. Is that okay?’
‘Need you ask?’ Melanie gave her friend a worried look. ‘Look—let me call you a cab, hmm? You can’t drive home in that state. You look positively ghostly!’
Helen nodded, pressing down on her hands and forcing herself to her feet. ‘As a matter of fact, I came by cab this morning,’ she said. ‘Adam is supposed to be picking me up at six o’clock. We were going to have a drink at his club, and then go on to that recital at the Farraday. You remember?’
‘Well, you won’t be going to any recital this evening,’ declared Melanie authoritatively. ‘Lord Kenmore is going to be disappointed. Do you want me to ring him? Or shall I just point him in your direction when he calls at six?’
Helen felt an unwilling smile lift the corners of her mouth. ‘I’ll ring him myself,’ she said, glancing at her watch. ‘It’s only half past three. He won’t have left yet.’
Then, she frowned as another thought occurred to her. If her grandmother had died during the night, why hadn’t she been informed immediately? It had to have been at least ten hours after the old lady’s death that any attempt was made to contact her. And it hurt. It really hurt.
Helen’s apartment was in Belgravia, a bare fifteen minutes’ ride from the shop, which was just off Bond Street. The taxi dropped her at the foot of the shallow steps that led up to swing-glass doors which in turn gave access to the marble-tiled lobby. A bank of lifts faced her, and managing to sidestep the uniformed commissionaire, who liked to chat to his clients, she slipped into one of the steel-lined cubicles.
Her apartment was on the twelfth floor of a fourteen-floor block. Letting herself into the split-level lounge, she thought how awful it was that her grandmother had never even seen where she lived. But in recent years, their relationship had not been the way it used to be, and apart from cards at Christmas and birthdays, their contacts had been few and far between. Something else she had to thank Rafe Fleming for, Helen thought with sudden bitterness. He had always come between her and her grandmother, right from the very beginning; and he continued to do so now, even though she was dead.
But not for long, Helen silently asserted. She had not had time to give the matter too much thought as yet, but her grandmother’s death was going to change a lot of things. Not least, Rafe Fleming’s situation. For reasons best known to himself, and for which Helen had always nurtured the gravest suspicions, Rafe had returned to Castle Howarth three years ago when Tom Fleming died. And, in spite of the perfectly good job he already had with Chater Chemicals, he had agreed to take his father’s place. To his credit, he had not asked for the job. Lady Elizabeth had made it clear that she had offered him the position. But the reasons why he should give up a career in microbiological research to take charge of a country estate had never been satisfactorily explained, and Helen had her own theories, which were hardly complimentary to him.
Still, that was all in the past now, she reflected bleakly, closing the door behind her. Then, shedding her sheepskin jacket, she walked along the galleried landing, which overlooked the generous proportions of her living room two steps below. But for once the beauty of her apartment gave her no pleasure. She had designed the colour scheme herself, sticking to cream and gold and pastel colours, so that the room had an air of space and elegance. The long windows overlooking the immediate environs of Cavendish Court and the busy city beyond added another dimension, and at parties her view was usually a talking point. But this afternoon, with darkness shrouding the streets below and the threat of snow in the wind, Helen couldn’t wait to draw the curtains and put on the lamps. Anything to banish the feelings of sorrow and remorse which had been her constant companions ever since she received that shocking message.
Dropping her coat on to a pale green suede sofa, Helen crossed the room to pour herself a stiff drink. Two decanters, one containing brandy, the other Scotch, stood on a silver tray, and she added two cubes of ice to a measure of the latter before lifting the crystal tumbler to her lips.
The raw spirit caught her throat, and she coughed as it took her breath. But it did the trick, and pretty soon a soothing warmth invaded her stomach. Helen rarely drank alcohol. A glass of wine at dinner was all she usually required, and the spirits were kept here mainly for Adam and her friends. Still, she poured herself a second drink before reaching for the telephone. She had to talk to Adam, and she didn’t want to break down in the middle of their conversation.
As she had surmised, Adam was still at his office in Regent Street. She didn’t exactly know what he did there—something to do with the property he owned, which was quite considerable. In any event, he spent two or three days every week at his office, and the rest of the time he was a free agent. Helen had often accused him of only going into the office to thwart any charge that he was a complete playboy, and Adam invariably agreed with her. They both knew he was happiest at the wheel of his yacht or skiing down a mountainside in Italy. ‘It’s what comes of being the last in a line of aristocratic layabouts!’ he generally responded, and he said it so disarmingly she always forgave him.
‘Helen!’ he exclaimed now, after his secretary had put her through. ‘I didn’t expect to hear from you. Is something wrong?’
Helen took a deep breath. ‘I won’t be able to go to the recital with you this evening, Adam. I—well, I’ve had some rather bad news, and I don’t feel like going anywhere.’
‘If you say so, old love.’ Adam’s voice was reassuringly sympathetic. ‘What’s happened?’
‘It’s my grandmother,’ said Helen quickly. ‘She—she died this morning. I got a telegram at the shop.’
‘At the shop?’ Adam paused. ‘Do I take it you’re not at the shop now?’
‘No. I’m at home. Melanie insisted. I took a cab.’
‘You should have called me,’ exclaimed Adam at once. ‘You know I’d have run you home. Heavens, it must have been quite a shock. Isn’t that the old lady who lived near my uncle’s place at Warminster?’
‘Not far from there,’ agreed Helen flatly, taking another mout
hful of the whisky. ‘Anyway, I just wanted you to know not to pick me up from work. I think I’ll have an early night instead. I’ve got all sorts of arrangements to make for tomorrow.’
‘Is that when the funeral is?’
‘No. Not until Friday actually. But, I’ve got to go down there.’ Her voice broke and she took another steadying breath before continuing: ‘I am her next of kin, you see.’
‘Well, of course, old love.’ Adam was warmly understanding. ‘I’ll take you down there myself. Do you want to leave in the morning? We can stay at my uncle’s place, if you’d rather. Dear old Willie! I doubt if he’ll even notice that we’re——’
Helen took a deep breath. ‘No, Adam.’
There was a moment’s silence, and then he said rather stiffly: ‘No?’ and Helen made a helpless gesture.
‘I don’t want you to come with me, Adam,’ she said, realising as she did so that this was really why she had needed the whisky. ‘Oh—I know you mean well, and I’m grateful for your offer, but this is something I have to do alone.’
‘Why?’ Adam took only a second to absorb what she was saying before adding tersely: ‘Helen, I don’t think you realise what you’re saying. Aren’t you letting your emotions get the better of you?’
‘Perhaps I am.’ Helen sighed. ‘But—well, my grandmother never knew you, Adam. She never even met you! I can’t go down to Castle Howarth now and introduce you as the man I’m going to marry. I—I can’t!’
‘You mean, because of what people will say?’ He sounded surprised. ‘I didn’t realise you were ashamed of me.’
‘Oh, don’t be silly!’ Helen’s nerves were already stretched to their fullest extent, and offending Adam was the last thing she had intended. ‘Darling, try to understand, please! The people on the estate are a close-knit community. Like a family, almost. They—they wouldn’t take kindly to—to a stranger attending my grandmother’s funeral.’
There was another pregnant silence, and then Adam seemed to relent. ‘Oh, well—if that’s how you feel,’ he conceded. ‘I don’t want to make the situation any more painful for you than it is already. But I want to see you before you leave, early night or not.’
Helen’s shoulders sagged. ‘All right.’ She paused, and then added: ‘Do you want to come for supper? It can only be steak and salad, I’m afraid, but you could bring a bottle of wine.’
‘I know just the one,’ declared Adam at once, his good humour quickly restored. It was one of the things that had first attracted her to him: his unruffled temperament and buoyant personality. ‘How does six-thirty sound?’ he suggested. ‘Too early? Or too late?’
It was earlier than she had anticipated, but bearing in mind the fact that she intended he should leave earlier, too, she did not demur. But then another thought struck her. ‘The recital!’ she exclaimed. ‘What about the tickets?’
‘I can listen to Vivaldi any time,’ Adam assured her carelessly, dismissing her concern about the performance. ‘See you in a couple of hours, my sweet. I’m looking forward to it.’
He rang off, but Helen replaced her receiver with rather less enthusiasm. It was sweet of Adam to want to show her how much she meant to him, of course, but for once she wished he had been more perceptive. She would have preferred to be alone this evening. She didn’t feel like talking, or stirring herself to make a meal for the two of them. All she really wanted to do was have a bath and go to bed, and try to forget that the woman who had been the only mother she had ever known had died that morning, alone and unloved.
By the time Adam arrived, however, Helen was feeling distinctly more relaxed. A long, lazy bath, followed by another Scotch—this time with soda—had done much to ease her introspection, and although she had spent little time over her appearance, she was reasonably sure Adam would not be disappointed.
Maturity—and the hectic life she led—had succeeded in banishing any lingering doubts she might have nurtured over her face and figure. The breasts she had once fretted over were now full and rounded, accentuating her narrow waist and the long, seductive length of her legs. Her face, while not being conventionally pretty, was nonetheless striking for all that, her wide almost purple eyes fringed by silky black lashes. A narrow nose, high cheekbones, and a generous mouth, completed features with the delicacy of colour of a magnolia, but it was the glorious abundance of her hair that she was sure caused her a second glance. It was still as dark and lustrous as it had ever been, and in spite of the ups and downs of fashion, she always wore it long and coiled into a knot at the nape of her neck. She still plaited it from time to time, allowing the thick chunky braid to hang over one shoulder. But as she seldom liked to be reminded of the naive girl she used to be, she usually chose a style with less significance.
When she opened the door to her fiancé, however, her cheeks were still flushed from her bath—and the amount of alcohol she had consumed. The unusual colour gave her face a feverish fragility, and Adam’s eyes darkened appreciatively as he reached for her. But for once, Helen evaded his embrace, averting her face so that his mouth merely grazed the warm skin of her temple.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked, and she thought, rather guiltily, it was a measure of his concern for her that he showed no impatience at her withdrawal. She must have hurt him, and yet his refined handsome features revealed only sympathy and compassion. She wished she could confide in him. She wished she could tell him how she was feeling. She wanted to be totally honest with him. But something—some awful flaw in her character perhaps—prevented her from explaining the real reasons why she and her grandmother had lost touch with one another.
‘I’m just—tired,’ she said now, leading the way down the shallow carpeted stairs into the centre of the living room. ‘It’s been quite a day. But then, you know that.’
‘Yes.’ Adam followed her, taking off the camel-hair overcoat he was wearing over a tweed suit, and dropping it on to a low padded stool. ‘Poor Helen! It must have been quite traumatic. Didn’t anyone warn you the old girl was ill?’
‘I don’t know that she was,’ replied Helen shortly, feeling her tension coming back in spite of herself. Shrugging, she curled her silk-trousered legs beneath her and sank into the corner of one of the suede sofas. ‘I told you. I got a telegram to say she was dead. That’s all I know about it.’
Adam frowned, taking up a position in front of a carved cabinet. ‘You mean—you haven’t phoned?’ he exclaimed in surprise. He shook his head. ‘I assumed you would.’
‘No.’ Helen bent her head and then, remembering her manners, she added swiftly: ‘Help yourself to a drink. I’m sure you must be frozen.’
‘Well, it is damn cold out tonight,’ agreed Adam, taking her at her word and turning to the tray. ‘But I managed to park in the square, so it wasn’t too far to walk. I shouldn’t be surprised if we have snow before morning.’
‘I hope not.’ Helen spoke automatically, but she meant it. She didn’t want to have to take the train to Yelversley. With her own car, she was so much more independent.
‘You’re driving down then,’ Adam remarked, taking a mouthful of the Scotch he had poured before coming to join her on the sofa. ‘You will drive carefully, won’t you, darling? The M3 is so frantic!’
‘I’ll be careful,’ said Helen, with a tight smile, wondering what he was really thinking. He hadn’t questioned her decision not to phone, yet he must be curious as to why she wouldn’t have done so. Perhaps if Adam had been more inquisitive, she would have found it easier to be entirely honest with him, she consoled herself uneasily. As it was, he allowed her to direct the conversation, and it was so much simpler not to have to explain.
‘I thought we’d eat about seven o’clock,’ she said now, changing the subject completely, and Adam groaned.
‘Dammit, I’ve left the wine in the car!’ he exclaimed, pressing the heel of his hand against his forehead. ‘That’s what comes of being too eager. I’ll have to go and get it.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ sa
id Helen at once. ‘As a matter of fact, I’d just as soon have water. I’ve got a bit of a headache.’
‘From the whisky, no doubt,’ remarked Adam drily, and Helen’s eyes darted to his face. ‘I smelt it,’ he added. ‘As soon as I came in. I guess the old lady’s death meant more to you than I thought.’
That was a bit too close to the truth for comfort and, uncoiling herself, Helen rose to her feet. ‘You could be right,’ she declared, purposely keeping her tone light. And then, making for the door, she added: ‘I must check on the steaks. They should have defrosted by now.’
Adam came into the kitchen as she was spreading the thick slices of meat under the grill. It wasn’t a large kitchen, used primarily by Mrs Argyll, Helen’s daily. Because she was out a lot of the time, Helen didn’t employ a full-time housekeeper, but the friendly little Scotswoman could turn her hand to anything. If she knew her employer was to be home for the evening, she generally left a casserole in the oven, or a cold meal that could be easily heated in the microwave oven. But this evening she had expected Helen to be out, and Helen would have to explain why two healthy steaks had disappeared from the freezer.
‘Something smells good,’ Adam observed now, perching his fastidious frame on one of the leather-topped stools beside the breakfast bar. ‘At least we’ll never starve after we’re married.’
‘Cooking steaks and tossing a salad are hardly culinary feats,’ responded Helen wryly, glad he was not pursuing his earlier topic. ‘You’re a much better cook than I am, and you know it.’
‘More inventive, perhaps,’ Adam conceded, taking another swallow from his glass. And then, just as she was about to make some teasing comment, he added: ‘Tell me: this affair of your grandmother; it won’t make any difference to our plans, will it? I mean, you won’t have any qualms about selling the estate?’
