by Anne Mather
Likewise, there had been no expense spared to provide a fitting meal for the occasion. Smoked salmon; cured hams; poultry, roasted with herbs, and served on a crisp bed of lettuce; beef, and lamb, and dishes of various salads, all served together with sausage rolls and vol-au-vents, and warm, crusty bread.
Most of the faces at the gathering were familiar. Local landowners mostly, with the family physician, the Reverend Morris, and various other professional couples whose association with Lady Elizabeth had been allowed to decline of late. There were old friends from the golf club, and several members of the Howarth Women’s Institute, but Helen was the only relative. It pleased her that this should be so only because it enabled her to put Rafe Fleming—and her feelings for him—in their proper place. She was relieved to see that among these people at least, he was received with due perspective. He was not ignored, but then neither was he treated as an equal. For the most part, he was relegated to the background, and that was very satisfying. Not that Rafe seemed to mind. On the contrary, he seemed quite content to stand aside and let her hold centre-stage. Whenever she looked in his direction, she found him standing with his shoulder propped against one wall or another, his brilliant eyes narrowed, and an aggravatingly enigmatic smile just touching his lips.
The Markhams were there—at least Ralph Markham and his daughter were. Meeting Antonia again after all these years was curiously daunting, and Helen decided it was the fact that Antonia was older than she was, and obviously more experienced. The memory of what Miss Paget had said about Antonia’s relationship with Rafe was an ever-present annoyance, but she refused to admit that it was this, as much as anything, that contributed to her rather strained conversation with the other woman.
‘I’m told you’re an antique collector now,’ Ralph Markham remarked, after the customary condolences had been offered and received, and Helen contrived a slight smile.
‘I—help run an antique shop,’ she amended modestly, wishing Frank Graham had not deserted her just at that moment.
‘But it’s your own antique shop, surely,’ put in Antonia, placing a long American cigarette between her teeth and gesturing to her father to light it. Her long scarlet-tipped nails were a vivid splash of colour against the darkness of her father’s suit, but the elegance of the woman was not in question. Her hair, curled so that it formed a golden halo about her rather pointed features, was a glorious contrast to the sombre tones of the black moire suit she was wearing. She was like Rafe in that respect, thought Helen tightly, though Antonia’s skin was much fairer, a porcelain frame for a full sensual mouth. She had been wearing a sable coat when she arrived, but she had discarded that on to one of the Regency sofas. Now a knotted string of pearls appeared, nestled in the hollow between her small breasts, a tantalising enticement that became visible every time she bent to deposit cigarette ash in the tray.
‘I own half the shop,’ Helen offered now, casting a frustrated glance over her shoulder. Where was everybody? Why didn’t somebody else come and talk to her? Couldn’t they see how she was struggling, just to be polite.
‘Yes. Rafe told me,’ Antonia observed now as her father drifted away to join a fellow member of the hunting fraternity. ‘You knew Rafe and I had had a—relationship? I imagine it’s common gossip around the shires.’
‘Oh, really I——’
‘Oh, really—you what?’ Antonia arched an inquisitive brow. ‘You’re not interested?’
‘No.’
‘No?’ Antonia shrugged. ‘Oh, well, it’s of little consequence. It was all over many moons ago. But it was fun, while it lasted.’
Helen’s lips twitched and she pressed them together to prevent their being observed and Antonia, sensing an atmosphere, gave her a curious look. ‘You’re engaged, I see,’ she commented, lifting Helen’s resisting hand and examining her ring with some admiration. ‘Who is he? Do I know him? Not someone from around here, I’m sure, or I should have heard of it.’
‘As a matter of fact it’s Adam Kenmore,’ replied Helen, with some reluctance. ‘I—met him in London. We’re hoping to get married later this year.’
‘Not Willie Kenmore’s nephew!’ exclaimed Antonia at once, and Helen realised with a sinking heart that the Markhams probably knew Adam’s uncle. From what she had heard, Uncle Willie was as keen on horses as the Markhams themselves, and it was just conceivable that they rode out with the same hunt. Even so, that was hardly reason enough for the sense of unease that gripped her at Antonia’s pronouncement. What did it matter if the Markhams knew Adam? He would meet them soon enough if he spent any time at Castle Howarth.
‘I—I believe Adam does have an uncle who lives near Chippenham,’ she admitted, but before Antonia could ask any more questions, a light hand touched her elbow. Relieved that someone had either accidentally—or deliberately—interrupted them, Helen turned to confront her saviour, only to find herself facing the man she had grown to hate.
She swallowed, giving herself time to control her reaction, and Rafe’s eyes moved past her to acknowledge her companion. ‘Antonia,’ he said her name politely, and the older girl inclined her head.
‘Rafe,’ she answered sweetly, taking a long drag on her cigarette and allowing the smoke to escape from her nostrils. ‘Long time, no see.’ Her blue eyes narrowed. ‘Have you forgotten the way to High Tor?’
Helen could not have been more astounded after what Antonia had just said, and she was momentarily diverted from the reason Rafe had approached her. But Rafe himself had no such misgivings. While Helen endeavoured to come to terms with the fact that Rafe had apparently ended their relationship, he replied carelessly: ‘I never did endorse your predilection for blood-letting, Antonia, much though I enjoyed those rides we took together.’
‘You always rode so well,’ inserted Antonia, the tip of her tongue appearing between her teeth. Her eyes sparkled with sudden malice. ‘But then, you don’t need me to tell you that, do you, darling?’ Her attention switched to Helen, and her lips curled. ‘I’m sure you have it on very good authority.’
Helen was rapidly chastened by this barbed exchange. It would have been patently obvious to a far less perceptive mind than her own that their baiting had a sexual connotation, and her throat tightened convulsively at her own involuntary involvement. Even though Rafe had released her arm as soon as he had attracted her attention, she now moved to put some further space between them, and her eyes were freezing as she addressed him. ‘You wanted to speak to me?’
‘Yes.’ Rafe pushed his hands into the pockets of his jacket as he turned to face her. ‘A Mr Toland has arrived from London with some papers Frank Graham has been waiting for. He thinks you ought to meet him. Do you want to come with me?’
Helen was momentarily confused. ‘Toland?’ she echoed, forgetting for a moment to whom she was speaking. ‘I don’t know anyone of that name? Who is he? And what papers are you talking about?’
‘Perhaps you ought to come and find out,’ suggested Rafe mildly, casting a speaking glance in Antonia’s direction, and Helen realised she was being indiscreet.
‘Oh … oh, of course,’ she mumbled unwillingly, wishing it had been anyone than Rafe who had reminded her. ‘Where is he? Just tell me where he is and I’ll find him.’
‘I think we should go together,’ responded Rafe firmly, taking her upper arm between his thumb and forefingers and compelling her towards the door. ‘You will excuse us, won’t you, Antonia?’ he apologised over his shoulder. ‘This is a family matter.’
‘A family matter!’ As soon as she could without attracting anyone’s attention, Helen prised his fingers from her sleeve. ‘You’re not family, Mr Fleming! Whatever ambitions you might have had to the contrary!’
Rafe’s features hardened almost imperceptibly but in spite of the insult, he refrained from retaliating. ‘They’re in your grandfather’s study,’ he said instead, escorting her across the polished expanse of the hall to the door of a room set beneath one angle of the staircase. The door was closed
, its leather-studded surface gleaming now after Mrs Pride’s ministrations, but Helen couldn’t prevent the shiver of apprehension that feathered along her spine at that moment.
‘You don’t have to introduce me. I can manage,’ she exclaimed tersely, taking out her uneasy feelings on Rafe. ‘Who’s in there? Just tell me that. Mr Graham, of course, and this Mr Toland. Is that all?’
‘Why don’t you open the door and see?’ he proposed coolly, making no attempt to help her. ‘Don’t worry, the family skeletons don’t make personal appearances. They just watch from a safe distance, enjoying the way their descendants go on making the same mistakes.’
Helen trembled. She couldn’t help it and, as if that involuntary evidence of her vulnerability softened his heart, Rafe took pity on her. ‘Don’t be a fool,’ he said. ‘Graham only wants to read the will. He apologises for the haste, but apparently Toland has to get back to London tonight. Mrs Pride and Paget are already in there. They’re waiting for us to make a start.’
Helen gazed at him aghast. ‘Us?’
‘I’m afraid so.’ Reaching past her, Rafe took hold of the handle of the door and propelled it inwards. ‘After you, Miss Michaels, if you’re ready.’
It didn’t much matter if she was ready or not, thought Helen wearily, stepping ahead of Rafe into the room. So, he had got what he wanted after all. Her grandmother had rewarded his insidious influence. She wondered how much it would cost her to get rid of him now.
The study, which her grandfather had used in his lifetime, was as big as the library in the west wing and very similar. There were lots of books here, lining the walls and provoking a strong smell of old leather. The room still retained the faint odour of good tobacco, though the scent of cigars was evidently the result of the squat Havana her grandmother’s solicitor was presently stubbing out.
He was seated at her grandfather’s desk, a solid, if scarred, square of mahogany set beneath the long windows. The chair he was occupying had been her grandfather’s chair, the worn green hide a testimonial to its frequent use. Helen could remember hiding in here as a child, crawling into the space left by the knee-hole, and pretending there were hostile Indians, instead of a harassed Miss Paget, searching for her.
The man standing to one side of the desk had to be Mr Toland, of course. Tall and angular, with thinning grey hair and a protruding Adam’s apple that bobbed up and down above his high collar, he regarded their arrival with some impatience, and she found herself apologising for keeping them all waiting.
‘Not at all, not at all.’ Frank Graham shifted his rotund bulk from the chair to acknowledge her entry, and cast a rather reproving glance in his colleague’s direction. It drew attention to the fact that the two men bore a strong resemblance to Laurel and Hardy, and in her agitated condition Helen had to suppress an hysterical gulp.
‘Let me introduce Mr Toland to you, Helen,’ Frank Graham went on, resuming his seat with evident relief. ‘My client’s granddaughter, Miss Michaels,’ he informed the other man, and Helen’s hand was encased in a hand as hot as his appearance was cold.
‘Delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Michaels,’ Toland responded politely, evidently deciding, by the warming gleam in his eye, that he liked what he saw. ‘Won’t you sit down.’
‘Yes. Come and sit here, Helen,’ put in Mrs Pride, making room for her on the horsehair sofa, between herself and an anxious Miss Paget. In her mourning clothes, the elderly governess looked even more like a bedraggled sparrow, the moisture outside having hollowed her cheeks and caused wisps of damp grey hair to straggle about her cheeks.
Only Rafe seemed entirely at his ease. He apparently had no qualms about what they were about to hear. Like the interloper he was, Helen mused, he stood arrogantly apart, arms folded, feet set wide, waiting without impatience for the lawyer to begin.
‘Well,’ said Frank Graham at last, ‘as we’re all here …’ He smiled and took up an envelope from the desk, opening it with the late Sir Gerald Sinclair’s silver paper-knife. ‘I assume you’re all aware of why I’ve brought you here. You must forgive me for calling you away from your guests, Helen, but my colleague …’he gave Toland a passing look, ‘my colleague has to attend court in London in the morning, and with the unpredictability of the weather …’
‘Mrs Sellers will see Miss Michaels’ guests have everything they need,’ Rafe inserted, before Helen could respond. His green eyes were enigmatic on hers. ‘Isn’t that so?’
‘If you say so.’ Helen couldn’t keep her resentment from showing, and Miss Paget shifted a little nervously on the couch beside her.
‘Oh, good.’ Clearly the solicitor had seen nothing amiss. Withdrawing the surprisingly thick sheaf of papers from the envelope, he laid them on the desk, and then took what seemed to Helen an inordinately long time to extract a pair of spectacles from his pocket and push them on to his nose.
Dear God, she thought tensely, why doesn’t he get on with it? What were all those papers, for heaven’s sake? If she had considered her grandmother’s will at all, it had been in terms of one—maybe two—sheets of paper, making a few bequests before naming herself as the sole beneficiary of the estate. Of course, if she had given the matter more consideration, she might have anticipated that there would have to be some account given of the properties owned and the deeds held, etc. But nothing had prepared her for that chunky pile of documents which bore more resemblance to an unpublished manuscript than a will.
Her reverie was interrupted as the solicitor at last seemed ready to go on. ‘As you will see from the papers I am holding, Helen, your grandmother’s last will and testament cannot all be read here. Her affairs, both personal and business, require a far more studied perusal than the simple assessment I could give you. In consequence, with your permission, I propose to deal with the salient bequests only, leaving that detailed scrutiny until you—are better equipped to deal with it.’
‘Very well.’ Helen’s tongue circled her lips. ‘Please: go on.’
She would probably not have noticed the look that flashed between Rafe and the solicitor at this point had not Miss Paget chosen just that moment to clear her throat. As it was, Helen followed the direction of the old lady’s gaze in time to intercept an oddly conspiratorial exchange between the two men. It was as if the solicitor was seeking Rafe’s permission to proceed, and Helen’s blood seethed at the unwarranted courtesy. What kind of a character had her grandmother painted for the man, for goodness’ sake? She had known Frank Graham for as long as she could remember, and he had always seemed such a shrewd person. Surely he had not been taken in by Rafe’s facile charm. He should have detected long ago the game the younger man was playing.
‘Ergo, I suggest I deal initially with the bequests made on behalf of Miss Paget and Mrs Pride,’ the solicitor continued smoothly, unaware of Helen’s indignation. ‘If you will allow me to make those bequests clear, I don’t think we need take up any more of the ladies’ time.’
‘Oh, that’s all right,’ said Mrs Pride airily, evidently more than a little curious herself as to the reasons for Mr Toland’s presence, but Frank Graham’s manner was deceptive.
‘Ah, but I’m sure Miss Michaels would feel happier if you were in charge, Mrs Pride, instead of leaving things in the undoubtedly capable, but much less experienced hands of Mrs Sellers,’ he essayed inflexibly. ‘And Miss Paget, too, I know, would dearly love to accelerate this rather harrowing experience.’
Mrs Pride was silenced, and Helen acknowledged, rather unwillingly, that the solicitor was nobody’s fool. Which didn’t augur well for the future, or for the reasons why Rafe had been singled out to remain.
Lady Elizabeth had left the woman, who had worked as cook-housekeeper at Castle Howarth for the past thirty years, an annual gratuity of some three thousand pounds. ‘To enable you to take an early retirement, Mrs Pride, should you so wish,’ Frank Graham told her in the aftermath of her instinctive gasp. ‘A not inconsiderable sum, having regard to this being a lifetime’s
endowment, and allied to a permanent lease of one of the cottages, presently standing vacant on the estate.’
‘Oh my, oh my!’ Mrs Pride had extracted her handkerchief and was presently making a concerted effort to blow her nose. ‘Fancy that!’ she exclaimed. ‘Just fancy that. A private income. Whatever next?’
‘Of course, should you wish to remain in your present position, I am sure—Lady Sinclair’s heir will have no objection,’ the solicitor added, and Helen instantly stiffened. Lady Sinclair’s heir! What kind of language was that? She was Lady Sinclair’s heir. Why use such pedantic terminology when a simple name would have sufficed?
There was a similar bequest for Miss Paget, although in her case she was to be assured of a home at Castle Howarth for as long as she lived. Tears ran down the old lady’s face as she listened to the arrangements Lady Elizabeth had made on her behalf, and she wept quite openly as Mrs Pride assisted her out of the room.
‘I miss her so much, you see,’ she sniffed, giving Helen a rueful look before swiftly averting her eyes. ‘So much.’
Helen would have comforted her, but she could tell that so far as Miss Paget was concerned, the conversation they had had a couple of nights ago had created a gulf it was going to take some time to bridge. She was not ready yet to forgive the things Helen had said, and until the situation was clarified, Helen decided it was easier not to try and force the issue.
Rafe closed the door behind the two women, and then returned to his previous position. His turn next, thought Helen cynically. How transparent the man was!
‘So, now, we come to the crucial point in the proceedings,’ said the solicitor slowly, and the reluctance in his voice to go on gave Helen an unpleasantly hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach. What now? she wondered sickly. Surely Nan hadn’t left the man an embarrassingly large legacy. Obviously it was going to be of more significance than either Paget’s or Mrs Pride’s, but she hoped not enough to make her grandmother the laughing-stock of the county.
