by Anne Mather
‘Before you go to see the old lady?’ prompted Rafe, reminding her of the unwelcome duty ahead of her, and Helen’s lips tightened.
‘I shall pay my respects to Lady Elizabeth in my own time, Mr Fleming,’ she retorted, using the formal mode of address deliberately. ‘Now, if you don’t mind …’
Rafe lifted his shoulders in an indifferent gesture, and then strolled carelessly out of the room. Helen closed the door behind him with a satisfying thud. Then, resting her shoulders against the panels, she took several steadying gulps of air. She had to get a hold on herself, she thought furiously. If Rafe Fleming could disconcert her that easily, what chance did she have of establishing her authority here? She had to remember who she was, and who he was, and if she could only survive until the funeral was over, her problems would resolve themselves. No one, not even Rafe Fleming, could force her to keep him on her payroll. If, as she feared, judging by the deterioration of this room, the house had to be sold, he could take his chances with the new owners. She would not stoop to blackening his character, even though it was what he deserved. But it was unlikely he would find another employer as trusting as her grandmother.
Reassured by this assessment, Helen left the door to walk to the windows. Already her presence in the room was causing a film of condensation to form, and after casting a regretful look at the snow, she turned to survey her domain. She hoped the bed was aired. Lady Elizabeth had had no liking for modern springing, and all the beds had feather mattresses. They could be cosy on cold winter nights, Helen remembered, when their downy softness closed around you. But they could also be very uncomfortable if the mattress hadn’t been shaken and the feathers lumped together beneath your weight.
The room itself was much as it had been when she first came to live with her grandmother. A carved fireplace, seldom used now, and screened by a tall earthenware vase, occupied a prominent position on one wall. The windows took up a second wall, and the door into the adjoining dressing room and bathroom opened from the third. The bed, a square four-poster, stood against the wall backing on to the hall outside, its faded pink tester and embroidered satin coverlet matching the carpet and curtains. There were several pictures on the walls: old oil paintings, most of them; hung there in the days when it was considered unfashionable to waste any inch of space.
Now, realising she was just wasting time, Helen bent and lifted one of her suitcases, putting it on the carved oak chest conveniently placed at the foot of the bed. It was the chest where she used to keep her toys, and she wondered if her grandmother had kept all her old dolls. But there would be time enough later to find out. Particularly if she was forced to consider selling the house and everything in it.
Helen was in the bathroom when she heard someone come into the bedroom and, expecting it was Miss Paget, she came to the dressing room door. But it was not her old nurse who was standing in the middle of the room, holding a tray of tea. It was a young woman, probably about her own age, whose cool blonde features wore an expression of impatience. She was of medium height, perhaps a little heavier than Helen, but not much. However, she was wearing a striped nylon overall over a skirt and blouse, and Helen was obliged to assume that she was another employee.
Even so, Helen couldn’t help feeling embarrassed at her own appearance. It was one thing to confront her old nurse in her bra and panties, with strands of dark hair escaping from the coil at her nape, and quite another to confront a complete stranger. Of course, the lace-trimmed bra and silk briefs were probably as respectable as a bikini, but they were not a swimsuit and she was not on the beach.
‘I’ve brought your tea, Miss Michaels,’ the girl said, the look she cast about her eloquent of her disdain for a room already strewn with Helen’s belongings. In addition, every flat surface was covered with ornaments or photographs, and the suitcase Helen had opened seemed to be occupying the only remaining space.
‘Please—just put the tray on the bed,’ said Helen quickly, wishing she had been more prepared. ‘Er—thank you, Miss—Miss——’
‘It’s Mrs Sellers,’ replied the girl unsmilingly, setting down the tray with evident misgivings. ‘Oh—and Mrs Pride said to tell you she’d like to see you, when you have a minute.’
‘I see.’ Snatching up a silk wrapper, Helen pushed her arms into the sleeves, and came more fully into the room. ‘Do—do you work here, Mrs Sellers?’
‘Yes, miss.’ She was non-committal. ‘Is that all?’
‘As—as what were you employed by my grandmother?’ Helen persisted, unwilling to let her go without at least learning her occupation. ‘Have you been here long?’
‘About six months, on and off.’ Mrs Sellers evidently resented this inquisition, but Helen refused to be intimidated.
‘On and off?’ she prompted, and the girl expelled an obvious sigh.
‘My husband works for Mr Robinson,’ she explained after a moment. ‘When Mrs Pride needs someone to help out, she asks me.’
‘Oh.’ Helen nodded. Amos Robinson, as she knew very well, ran the home-farm. That was how Sandra Venables had come to be employed. Her father had worked for Amos Robinson, too.
‘Can I go now?’
There was a definite edge to the girl’s voice, and Helen wondered why. As far as she knew, they had never met, and she couldn’t believe her grandmother would have discussed her with the staff. With Miss Paget, perhaps. She had been more in the nature of a friend—a companion. And Rafe, for reasons best known to herself. But not with this sullen female, surely. Mrs Sellers simply did not inspire anyone’s confidence.
‘Yes. Thank you,’ said Helen now, dismissing the young woman with some misgivings. If Mrs Sellers was an example of what she was going to have to face by becoming mistress of Castle Howarth, perhaps she ought to consider selling the place with rather more enthusiasm.
Still, the tea was hot, and there was a plate of Mrs Pride’s home-made Dundee cake residing on the tray. Anxiety had made her hungry, Helen found, and she ate two slices of the rich fruit cake before replacing the black jumpsuit she had travelled in. It seemed as appropriate as anything else, and at least it was warm. She had already been reminded that this was not a place where one could trail about in one’s underwear without inviting goosebumps.
It was completely dark outside by the time Helen made her pilgrimage to her grandmother. Although it was barely four o’clock, night had closed in. Casting one final look out of her windows before drawing the curtains, Helen guessed the snow had finally brought traffic to a standstill. Nothing moved in the black and white landscape; nothing, that is, except the snow itself.
To reach the main portion of the house, she had to open the door into the corridor that led to the huge reception hall. For years now, the door had been kept locked, ever since a would-be burglar had broken into the conservatory and ruined all Mr Dobkins’ plants. The fact that Miss Paget had heard him and raised the alarm was no guarantee he would not come back, the police declared. Thereafter, a complicated warning system had been fitted to the doors and windows, and the door between the family wing and the rest of the house had been properly secured.
It was strange, walking through the empty building after so many years. Strange, and eerie, Helen decided, even though the lights were on, and someone had made an obvious effort to clear the place of dust. She had never thought about the shortness of life before, but she discovered death made one aware of one’s own mortality. It was chilling to remember the generations of Sinclairs who must have trod these corridors who were now only dust in the mausoleum at the church.
The great hall soared above her, two storeys high, with the galleried landing circling its cathedral-like dome. The staircase alone was at least twelve feet wide, and the twin banisters which marched beside it had been carved by a master craftsman. As long as Helen remembered, there had never been a carpet on the stairs, but now a richly-patterned broadloom had been spread from top to bottom. It cushioned her feet as she began to climb to the first floor, and added to the sens
e of other-worldliness that just being here had created.
The bedroom where her grandmother was lying was directly ahead of her at the top of the stairs. The huge crystal chandelier which had once lighted the way to the ballroom was dark this afternoon, the only illumination coming from wall-lights set in their sconces around the gallery.
Helen pushed at the door with fingers that trembled just a little, and then stepped back in alarm when the door refused to open. But it was only the heavy velvet curtains that hung inside the room catching under the door that prevented her entry, and she knew an hysterical urge to laugh when they finally fell aside. Just for a moment she had imagined it was an inhuman hand holding her at bay and, after all her self-analysis, she was inclined to give it more significance than it deserved.
All the same, her knees were decidedly unsteady as she advanced towards the bed. To her relief, lamps and not candles burned beside her grandmother’s body. She didn’t think she could have borne their wavering light in her present state of suggestibility and, even now, she was very tense. She had never seen a dead body before. She had been too young when her parents died, and there had been no one else. Of course, she hadn’t told Rafe that—or anyone else, for that matter—and in consequence she was apprehensive and perhaps a little bit fearful.
The sight of her grandmother, lying quietly beneath the embroidered bedspread, reassured her. Nan could have been asleep, she thought, impatient with herself. How could she have imagined she could be afraid of someone who had loved her? If Nan had done her no harm in life, why on earth should she be afraid of her in death?
Kneeling down beside the bed, she gazed at the much-loved figure. Oh, Nan, she thought, feeling the prick of tears behind her eyes, if only I had been here when it happened!
CHAPTER FOUR
HELEN saw Miss Paget for a few moments before dinner. The old lady knocked at her door soon after six o’clock to ask if she would like her meal serving on a tray, but Helen demurred.
‘We’ll eat dinner together,’ she said, and Miss Paget’s lips twitched a little involuntarily before she nodded her head in acquiescence.
‘As you wish,’ she agreed, the note of studied politeness still in her voice. ‘I’ll tell Mrs Pride. She wondered which you would prefer.’
‘Oh! Mrs Pride!’ Helen belatedly recalled the message the maid had given her. But since returning from seeing her grandmother, she had been sitting silently in her room, and she had completely forgotten the cook’s inquiry. ‘Yes. Yes, would you tell her, please? And—and would you also ask her to forgive me for not going to see her. I—well, I’ve had other things on my mind.’
‘Yes.’ Miss Paget received her explanation without comment. ‘Is seven o’clock acceptable?’
‘The usual time? Of course.’ Helen wished she knew how to get under her reserve. ‘I’ll look forward to it.’
However, when Helen made her way to the dining room some three-quarters of an hour later, she discovered they were not eating alone. Three places were laid at one end of the long rectangular table, and even as she was absorbing this astonishing phenomenon, Rafe Fleming appeared in the doorway that led to the adjoining library.
Helen’s anger was swift and overpowering. Who had invited him to join them? She had been anticipating an intimate dinner with Miss Paget, but how could she talk privately to the old lady with Rafe present? Or had Miss Paget brought him here? Was she so alarmed at the prospect of spending the evening alone with her erstwhile charge that she had begged Rafe to join them? Of course, he could have invited himself? He was very sure of his welcome here, and he might have decided to observe Helen’s difficulties first-hand. It was not a satisfactory explanation, but it was the one she liked best.
‘Do you want a drink?’ he inquired, propping his shoulder against the doorframe, and she saw the whisky tumbler hanging from his fingers. He had changed his clothes, she noticed inconsequently. The leather jerkin and woollen trousers had gone, and in their place was a flecked grey suit, with a loose-fitting jacket and narrow trousers. The fact that he wore the suit with a black collarless body shirt should have reassured her that he had no taste, but it didn’t. In fact, he looked disturbingly handsome, and the fact that Adam would not have been seen dead in such an outfit was no consolation.
‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded, taking refuge in an outright attack, and he straightened to regard her with weary tolerance.
‘I asked if you wanted a drink,’ he reminded her, raising his glass to his lips and throwing the remainder of the liquid in it to the back of his throat. Then he lowered the glass again, and arched a brow that was several shades darker than his hair. ‘Well? Do you?’
‘Where is Miss Paget?’ exclaimed Helen, not answering him. She pushed her hands into the pockets of her jumpsuit to hide their trembling and squared her shoulders. ‘Did she invite you here?’
‘Do I need an invitation?’ he countered, and then casting a glance over his shoulder, he stepped back into the room behind him. ‘Excuse me. I need another drink.’
Seething, Helen could only stand there while he sauntered across to the drinks cabinet and poured himself a generous measure of her grandmother’s Scotch—her Scotch, she corrected herself fiercely. He had a nerve, she fumed. She wished she had the guts to go and snatch the glass out of his hand.
‘Good evening.’
Miss Paget’s entry behind her provided a welcome diversion, and Helen turned eagerly. ‘Apparently we have a visitor,’ she said, trying not to sound too disapproving. ‘Mr Fleming is joining us for dinner. Did you know?’
‘Rafe?’ Miss Paget’s nervous fingers toyed with the fringe of her shawl. ‘Oh—didn’t he tell you?’ She moistened her lips as the object of Helen’s fury resumed his indolent stance. ‘I—he lives here.’
Helen sighed. ‘I know that,’ she said, somewhat tersely. What did Miss Paget think she was? An idiot? ‘I—just wondered why you had invited him to join us this evening. I had—hoped we might have an opportunity to talk.’
Miss Paget looked from Rafe’s knowing face to Helen’s, and then back to Rafe again. ‘I’m afraid you don’t understand, Helen,’ she said uncomfortably. ‘When—when I said Rafe lived here, I didn’t mean—on the estate.’
‘You didn’t?’
Helen was confused, but before she could begin to comprehend what Miss Paget was telling her, Rafe intervened: ‘What Paget is struggling—unsuccessfully—to convey is that I live here, in the house,’ he told her. ‘The old lady had one of the guest rooms and the maid’s room adjoining it turned into a self-contained suite. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but this is where I always eat. When I’m at home.’
Helen stared at him. ‘You—live—here?’ She couldn’t believe it.
‘For the past two years,’ said Miss Paget, evidently relieved that the onus had been taken from her. ‘It was what your grandmother wanted. She liked having a man about the place again.’
Helen said nothing, but her expression was eloquent of her feelings. So, he had actually insinuated himself into the house, had he? While she had been working to make a go of the shop, he had been working his way ever further into her grandmother’s confidence. Heavens, no wonder he had had the nerve to go through her grandmother’s correspondence looking for her address! He was probably used to taking advantage of his position! But not for much longer …
‘You look pale, Helen,’ he remarked now, and her nails drew blood in her palms. God, how she wanted to wipe that smug expression from his face. And she would—just as soon as her grandmother’s body was out of the house.
She didn’t remember how she got through dinner. Mrs Pride served the food herself, and Helen knew she must have said something to her, but she didn’t remember what. The meal—a savoury minestrone soup, followed by a joint of beef—was as appetising as Mrs Pride’s meals usually were, but Helen was too choked to even taste what she was eating. She swallowed little, pushing the food around her plate so that it would look as if she had eate
n more than she had. But she was aware that Rafe was not deceived, and even Miss Paget looked a little anxiously at her plate, as if she was in some way to blame for Helen’s lack of appetite.
Refusing any dessert, Helen made her escape as soon as the meal was over, saying she would take her coffee in the sitting room. ‘If that’s all right with you,’ she remarked to Rafe, as she got up from the table, her eyes glittering with malevolent sarcasm, and he made a careless movement of his shoulders.
‘Why not?’ he drawled, making no attempt to deny that he had the right to choose, and her blood boiled.
‘Perhaps you’d join me, Miss Paget,’ she invited tensely, turning to the other occupant of the table. ‘I would be grateful.’
Miss Paget looked flustered, but as Helen had suspected, she had no convenient excuse. ‘Well—if you’d like me to,’ she mumbled, gathering the folds of her shawl about her shoulders, and Helen inclined her head. ‘I would.’
It was Helen’s first visit to her grandmother’s sitting room since she got back, and it was heart-achingly familiar. A piece of the crochet-work Nan used to enjoy was still lying on the arm of the chair she always sat in, and her spectacles were propped on the mantelpiece. It would have been so easy to give in to the emotional demands of the situation, but Helen could not permit herself that indulgence. If she allowed her feelings to get the better of her, she would never be able to meet Rafe on his own terms. Somehow, until this was over, she had to keep her feelings under control and, to do that, she had to know more about Rafe’s influence over her grandmother.
Miss Paget came into the sitting room with evident reluctance, and Helen made an effort to put her at her ease. ‘I believe it’s still snowing,’ she said, nodding towards the curtained windows. ‘What a pity we didn’t have a white Christmas.’
Miss Paget gave a birdlike nod, and seated herself in the chair Helen indicated. ‘We had a white New Year,’ she offered, holding out her hands towards the logs smouldering in the hearth. ‘Was it cold in London?’
