by Anne Mather
As Helen absorbed this disturbing piece of news, the housekeeper sighed reminiscently. ‘You used to be so jealous of him, didn’t you?’
‘Jealous!’ Helen was diverted. ‘No, I——’
‘Oh, come on.’ Mrs Pride would not be put off. ‘Admit it. When you came here and found young Rafe was already in residence, so to speak, you didn’t like it. You didn’t like it one bit.’
‘That’s ridiculous!’
‘Is it?’ Mrs Pride was unconvinced. ‘Why, I can remember how upset you were that first time you found him in the summer-house. You came storming into the house like a little tornado. And when Lady Elizabeth wouldn’t do as you asked and throw him out …’
‘That’s ancient history, Mrs Pride!’
‘But it happened, didn’t it? I suppose you sensed even then the special place he had in your grandmother’s affections. Oh, she loved you; don’t ever think otherwise. But Rate—well, Rafe meant something different. And now we all know why, don’t we?’
Helen refused to listen to any more of this. It was upsetting enough to learn that her grandmother had trusted her to tell her if there was a man in her life, without the disturbing addition of the apparently general interpretation of the reasons for her attitude towards Rafe.
Thrusting her legs out of bed, she said stiffly: ‘I’m sure he has qualities I’m unaware of, but I do want to get back to London today, if I can.’
‘Today!’ Mrs Pride looked astounded. ‘But—but——’
‘I do have a business to run, Mrs Pride,’ said Helen firmly, pushing her toes into her mules and getting determinedly to her feet. ‘Do you—do you think Mr Dobkins’ son could give me a lift to Salisbury. I had to abandon the Daimler last night because the battery was defunct, and a taxi seems an awful extravagance.’
Mrs Pride sniffed, her disapproval evident. ‘I’ve no doubt Rafe will take you to Salisbury, if you ask him,’ she replied, picking up the tray from the foot of the bed and setting Helen’s empty teacup upon it. ‘But I think you’re being foolhardy, rushing away the day after the funeral. It’s not as if you’re not welcome here. Rafe himself suggested that you might be staying longer than you’d anticipated.’
‘Oh, did he?’ Helen couldn’t keep the resentment out of her voice, and she guessed she was losing Mrs Pride’s sympathy, too. She wondered what the old housekeeper would say if she told her in detail what Rafe had done the night before. Would she still be as eager to encourage her to stay if she knew the real reason behind Rafe’s casual invitation?
‘You’ll not be leaving before lunch?’ Mrs Pride suggested now, and Helen hesitated only a moment before shaking her head.
‘No,’ she said at last. ‘No, I’ll probably need a couple of hours to sort out Nan’s things.’ Her throat tightened. ‘I’ll leave her clothes for you to dispose of. Anything—anything you’d like to keep, please feel free to do so.’
The housekeeper nodded, and stepped into the aperture left by the opening of the door. ‘You know best, I daresay,’ she murmured with a somewhat defeated lift of her shoulders, and Helen wished desperately that things could be different. But it was no use. Castle Howarth could never be hers now and, after last night, she could never come here again.
Entering her grandmother’s apartments some twenty minutes later, Helen was glad she had chosen to wear the fine wool jumpsuit she had travelled down in. The room was extra chilly, the curtains still drawn against the day and, even when she opened them, only a watery sun shed a shaft of brightness across the carpet.
It took all of her self-restraint to open the wardrobes and begin the task ahead of her. It was a painful duty she had to perform, and she thought there could be few sights more moving than a row of familiar garments, fragrant with the scent her grandmother always used to wear. Her fingers strayed over the pleated skirts and pastel-shaded blouses that Lady Elizabeth had invariably worn. There were longer skirts for evening, and the rich fabric of a velvet cloak, long-unused, but still redolent of her grandmother’s personality. Her furs, she had several, Helen regarded with some misgivings. Mr Graham had said her grandmother wanted her to have them, but Helen thought Miss Paget might have more need of them. All except the sable coat which had been Lady Elizabeth’s favourite. Helen put that aside to take away with her. She would never touch its silken pelt without thinking of her grandmother, and the way she had looked that day long ago when she came to fetch Helen home to Castle Howarth.
The albums of photographs presented a dilemma. She supposed that by rights they were Rafe’s now. Certainly they contained pictures of his relatives, not least, his grandfather, when he was just a boy. Looking at those old photographs, Helen knew a twinge of conscience for the way she had cast doubt upon his parentage. The picture of Gilbert Sinclair, taken on his eighteenth birthday, bore a strong resemblance to Rafe as he was today, the old black and white photograph throwing the distinctive paleness of his hair into contrast.
Among the later pictures, she came upon one taken the summer she was fifteen. She would have turned the page, but something—some latent sense of masochism perhaps—made her look at the page again, and when she did so, another photograph, this time of herself and Rafe, caught her attention.
It had been taken on the tennis court. She remembered now. He had just beaten her in straight sets, and he had his arm along the back of the bench behind her, as they posed for the camera. She recalled the elation she had felt then at the unintentional intimacy of that innocent embrace, and how she had built the incident up in her mind until she had convinced herself that he had been as aware of her as she was of him. Only, of course, it hadn’t been true, she reflected bitterly, turning the page. She had been merely a source of amusement for him and Sandra Venables, her infatuation possessing nothing more than nuisance value. He had regarded her as a child, someone to whom he had promised to be polite for her grandmother’s sake. And when she broke the rules, when she stepped over the line that divided an irritation from a complication, he had lost no time in apprising her of the fact.
She closed the album abruptly, her hands a little sticky as she set it back on its shelf at the top of the closet. Why had she allowed herself to be reminded of that incident now? Just when she wanted to forget what had happened between herself and Rafe, those old photographs had brought it all back into focus.
She closed her eyes against the images of herself and Rafe writhing on the bed, but it was no use. As she sank down into the little basketwork chair, which her grandmother had sometimes used when she was sewing, the whole scene re-enacted itself behind her tightly closed lids, and she felt again the treacherous response of her body. Oh God, she thought, as hot tears forced their way on to her sooty lashes, why him? Why Rafe? Why was he able to arouse this shameful need in her, when every other man she had known had left her cold? What chemistry occurred when they were together? What power did he exercise that she should humiliate herself again and again?
Whatever it was, she had to fight it. He was not the kind of man to play games with. Oh, he had said he was prepared to do as her grandmother had wished and marry her, but what kind of a marriage would it be? He wasn’t like Adam. He never had been. The incident with Sandra Venables should have taught her that. He was attractive, it was true; dangerously so. He could seduce her senses into a mindless craving that only he could assuage. But it was because of this she knew how foolish she would be to trust him. He was clever; he had used exactly the right approach with her, waiting until she was weak and susceptible, and ripe for the taking. And she had met him half way, she couldn’t deny that. As soon as he touched her, her senses had ignited, and whether it had been sorcery or alchemy, or simply her own desperate need for comfort, he had proved, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that she could easily become addicted …
The door opened suddenly, without warning, and Helen, her elbows resting on her knees, her head buried in her hands, looked up to find Rafe in the opening.
He was the last person she wanted to see, particula
rly in her present state of mind. Meeting his assessing green gaze, she thought how galling it was that far from looking embarrassed at his intrusion, he had evidently come to find her. There was no surprise in his eyes, just a fleeting trace of sympathy that was quickly banished by her resentful stare. Already he was behaving as if Castle Howarth belonged to him, she thought bitterly, and his careless interruption jarred like a raw nerve.
But swift though her outrage was, she couldn’t deny he was good to look at. In tight-fitting jeans that moulded his thighs with loving tenacity, and a loose white-knitted cotton jerkin, fastened at the neck with black leather laces, he was insufferably attractive and, in spite of her efforts, she could not ignore him. The brown column of his throat rising from the opened jerkin was an insistent reminder of how sleek and supple his flesh had felt against hers. It was frightening how accurately she could picture the lean hard beauty of his body. It was no effort at all to remember how he had made her feel when he had bucked and plunged in the throes of his passion, when the muscles beneath his skin had moved like oiled satin. He had wanted her then. She had the bruises to prove it. But what was he thinking now …?
‘Mrs Pride says you plan to leave this afternoon. Is that true?’
His cool words were sobering, and Helen hastily smudged her thumbs across her cheekbones, hiding any trace of the tears she had shed earlier. ‘I—yes,’ she said, pulling a tissue from her pocket and making a play of wiping her nose. ‘I assume you have no objections.’
Rafe propped his shoulder against the frame of the door.
‘Would it make any difference if I had?’
Helen bent her head, avoiding an answer. ‘Did—did Mrs Pride tell you I was hoping to get a lift into Salisbury?’
‘Yes.’ Rafe’s voice was flat. ‘But I knew that.’ He paused, and then said quietly: ‘You said you were staying until Sunday.’
Helen got abruptly to her feet. ‘I’ve changed my mind.’
‘Why?’
‘Why?’ Helen cast him one incredulous look before moving towards the dressing table. ‘You ask me that!’
‘I see.’ Rafe inclined his head. ‘You’re leaving because of what happened last night. Isn’t that rather childish?’
‘Childish!’ Helen turned to support her hips against the rim of the dressing table, and her indignation was obvious.
‘Yes, childish,’ echoed Rafe wearily, shaking his head. ‘Okay: so you regret what happened. So do I. You needn’t be afraid I’ll try to repeat the experience.’
‘Oh, I’m not afraid of that?’ she retorted, stung by his assumption that she might let him, and Rafe’s brow arched interrogatively.
‘No?’
‘No.’ Helen turned her back on him and fiddled with the bottles and jars occupying a cut-glass tray. ‘I just want to get back to town.’
Rafe made a sound of derision. ‘Not so sophisticated, after all,’ he remarked softly. ‘You’re running away.’
‘I am not.’ Helen was incensed. ‘You can’t conceive that I might prefer other company!’
‘Like your fiancé?’
‘Adam will be pleased to see me, yes.’ Helen avoided his eyes, reflected in the bevelled mirror. ‘I’ve—missed him.’
‘Have you?’
His mocking tone was gentle, but mocking nevertheless, and Helen lost her head. ‘Last night—last night, you took advantage of me!’ she choked vehemently. ‘It won’t happen again.’
His sudden intake of breath was the only evidence she had that he had heard her. When he spoke again, there was no trace of emotion, contentious or otherwise, in his voice. It was as calm and composed as his expression, and her racing pulses slowed when he said:
‘Let me know what time you want to leave.’ Then, straightening from his lounging position, he added: ‘I assume Graham’s got your address and telephone number. You realise there may be occasions when he’ll need to get in touch with you. The trust fund, for instance. And your allowance.’
‘I’ll let him have the address of my solicitor,’ she responded tautly, aware of an enveloping chill at his abrupt detachment. The feeling was unwarranted, and she despised herself for allowing him to get under her skin. What had she expected? she asked herself fiercely. What did she want anyway? She should be thankful Rafe was allowing her to leave with just a semblance of her self-respect intact. He could so easily have torn her pride to shreds.
‘Okay.’ With an inclination of his head, Rafe withdrew, but as the door closed behind him, Helen gave way to shuddering sobs that shook her body. They were no less convulsive because they were silent, and when they were over, she felt drained.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
RALPH Markham drove Helen to Salisbury.
He called just before lunch to offer his apologies for having to leave without saying goodbye the previous afternoon, and Helen could tell from his expression that he already knew who the new master of Castle Howarth was.
As Rafe was apparently not at home, Mrs Pride suggested Helen should invite their guest to lunch, and although she was loath to get involved in a discussion about her late grandmother’s affairs, she felt obliged to behave as naturally as possible. She could imagine the mileage Ralph Markham would gain out of being able to say that she had been too upset to see him. But Helen intended to leave Castle Howarth with dignity. No one should be able to say she begrudged Rafe his good fortune—whatever her private feelings might be.
In fact, she had already decided that Miss Paget could complete the disposal of her grandmother’s belongings. After Rafe’s departure and the breakdown that followed, she had sorted through the remainder of Nan’s effects without emotion. The storm of tears had left her numb as well as empty, and only when she encountered her grandmother’s jewellery box, pushed to the back of a drawer, did she feel a twinge of anguish. Realising she could not face touching such personal items at this time, she put the jewellery box in her suitcase. Maybe tomorrow, or the day after, she would feel differently. Right now, she needed all her strength to make an honourable retreat.
‘You’re leaving today,’ exclaimed Markham, when Helen explained what she had been doing. ‘That’s rather sudden, isn’t it? I’m sure young Fleming would be only too happy for you to stay on.’
Ignoring his patronising tone, Helen gave a small smile. ‘I am a business woman, Mr Markham,’ she said, with creditable coolness, refilling his glass from the whisky decanter. ‘That’s why my grandmother put Rafe in charge of the estate. I’m afraid she knew I was unlikely to change my way of life.’
Markham’s expression mirrored his surprise, and a reluctant trace of admiration. ‘Well, I must say you’re taking this rather well,’ he commented, tasting his drink with evident satisfaction. ‘In your position, I think—in fact, I’m sure—I’d have felt pretty peeved. I mean everyone expected you to——’
‘Really?’ Helen managed to sound as if she was surprised now. ‘Well, you know, Nan was much cleverer than any of us. She knew I could never settle down to life at Castle Howarth again, not after living in London for so many years.’
Yet, even as she said the words, Helen realised they weren’t true. They never had been. Oh, she had settled into her life in London, and she had made a success of her independence. But coming back here, even for this short space of time, she had known a sense of home-coming she had never felt anywhere else. And before the terms of her grandmother’s will had crushed her hopes for ever, she had known she could never sell Castle Howarth, not if there was any way to keep the estate intact.
‘So I suppose it was quite a relief to find you didn’t inherit that responsibility,’ observed Markham now, somewhat disgruntled. ‘But it must have been a surprise to learn that Rafe was related to the family. What is he? Your uncle?’
‘My second cousin, actually,’ said Helen, rather less composedly. She glanced towards the dining room door as Miss Paget appeared in the aperture. ‘Oh—lunch is ready. Shall we go in?’
Because of Miss Paget’s presence, the
conversation was more general during the meal. Although a place had been set for him, Rafe did not appear, and Mrs Pride pulled a face when Miss Paget asked, somewhat anxiously, where he was.
‘I told him lunch would be on the table at twelve-thirty,’ the cook declared, setting a casserole in the middle of the table, and inviting everyone to help themselves. ‘You might as well begin. Otherwise the food will get cold.’
‘I expect he’s encountered some problem or other,’ Miss Paget remarked, giving both Helen and Ralph Markham an apologetic glance. ‘Dear me! You may have to delay your departure until tomorrow,’ she added, her gaze returning to the girl opposite. ‘It could be this evening before he gets home.’
Before Helen could absorb the import of this announcement, Ralph Markham intervened: ‘Is there some problem?’ he asked, ladling several spoonfuls of the deliciously-flavoured casserole on to his plate. ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’
‘I don’t think so,’ replied Miss Paget primly, but Helen was of a different mind.
‘I had to abandon my car in Salisbury when I came down,’ she explained, ignoring the old lady’s disapproving expression. ‘I need a lift, you see. I—Rafe was going to take me.’
‘And he will,’ inserted Miss Paget quickly, but Markham was already offering his services.
‘I have to go into Amesbury this afternoon anyway,’ he remarked, forking a cube of pork into his mouth. ‘I’ve got the Volvo outside, and Salisbury’s hardly out of my way at all.’
‘That’s very kind of you.’
Helen was relieved, but Miss Paget was horrified. ‘You can’t leave without seeing Rafe, Helen,’ she protested, casting her a speaking look, but in spite of her feelings of a few moments ago, Helen was undeterred. It had occurred to her that Rafe might be using his absence to force her hand, and while the prospect of leaving was painful, it would be even more painful to stay.
