by Anne Mather
Domine shrank back from the suppressed violence in his tone. ‘How can you say that!’ she gasped in horror.
‘Why not? It’s the truth! You know I’m too old for you, that your emotions are simply the awakening appetites of an adolescent for male adulation!’
‘That’s not true!’ she cried.
‘Then what is the truth?’ he asked contemptuously. ‘I warn you, a man can only be driven so far!’
Domine twisted her hands agitatedly. ‘You’re just using me in an attempt to pacify your own conscience!’ she said stormily, unable to quell the surge of indignation that enveloped her. ‘You persistently use my age as a weapon against me! Why? Why? Are you afraid to acknowledge that I’m a woman? Would it be so terrible? Do you fear some retribution from such a liability?’
‘For God’s sake, Domine, stop tormenting me!’ he swore fiercely. ‘Just let it go! I’ll keep out of your way in future. Obviously, I was mistaken in imagining I could salvage something from the mess I created!’ He bent and lifted his folder of manuscript, and as he did so a sheet of paper came loose and fluttered to the floor. Simultaneously, they both stooped to pick it up, Domine going down on her haunches to retrieve the slip of paper for him.
But James was stiff and unyielding, bending carelessly, brushing Domine aside so that she lost her balance and squatted in a heap on the carpet. Immediately he was all contrition, thrusting his papers on one side, and bending down to help her up.
‘Leave me alone,’ she said, near to tears, this final humiliation achieving what his earlier taunts had not.
‘Domine!’ he exclaimed entreatingly, ‘don’t upset yourself like this. God, I only want what’s best for you!’
‘For you, you mean,’ she retorted tightly, turning her head away, and with a stifled groan he knelt beside her on the soft carpet, turning her face to his with a controlled movement.
‘Domine,’ he muttered, a trifle thickly, ‘don’t make me hate myself!’
Domine stared at him. ‘I thought it was me you hated,’ she murmured, in a soft voice.
His eyes darkened, and there was a disturbing light in their depths. ‘I don’t hate you,’ he said, breathing rather heavily. His fingers gripped her wrists, the tips caressing the inner side where a pulse jerked unevenly. Then, as though unable to prevent himself, he bent his mouth to hers, pressing her back against the carpet with the whole weight of his body. Passion flared between them as it had done that day on the moors, and Domine surrendered herself to the searching, demanding compulsion of his kiss. He groaned her name hoarsely, burying his face in her hair, sliding the silk gown from her soft shoulders, and allowing his fingers to caress the length of her body. There was gentleness as well as passion in his touch, and the kisses he pressed on her eyes and cheeks and throat were deep and satisfying, arousing her as his violence had done, but more powerfully, so that she slid her arms round his neck, stroking his ears and his nape, twining her fingers in his thick hair. If the weight of his body pressing her against the carpet was pain, then there was pleasure in it, too, and she had no desire to resist. It wasn’t until his urgent hands unbuttoned the bodice of her pyjamas and his mouth sought the gentle curve of her breast that an awful awareness of what she was doing came to her, and even then she couldn’t blame him entirely. She had invited this, now she had to repel it if she wanted to maintain her self-respect.
With a sob, she pushed him hard away from her, and the unexpectedness of her rejection caught him unawares. She slid from his arms and ran across the room to the bathroom, unable to quell the sobs that rose in her throat. Entering the bathroom, without a backward glance, she slammed the door and rammed home the bolt with trembling fingers, then leaned back against the door as waves of hot humiliation swept over her. Her breath came in choking gulps and the tightness in her chest had nothing to do with pulmonary causes. Oh, God, she thought wildly. What have I done? What have I done?
There was no sound from the bedroom, and she must have lain there against the door for several minutes before she heard Mrs. Mannering calling her.
‘Domine! Domine! Are you in the bathroom?’
Domine swallowed. ‘Y—Yes! I’m here!’ she managed, her mouth dry.
‘Well, hurry up, child. Dr. Rivers is here to see you!’
Domine managed to reply and hastily went to the basin and washed her tear-stained face. Then she rubbed it dry briskly, bringing up a red flush on her cheeks so that the redness of her eyes would be less noticeable. She fastened her gown closely about her, smoothed her hair, and emerged into the bedroom.
‘This—this is a late call, doctor,’ she managed lightly.
Dr. Rivers smiled. ‘I was in the neighbourhood. I’ve been playing chess with young Morley, and I thought I might call this evening and save myself a job tomorrow. You’re looking much better, young woman. I think tomorrow we might let you put on your clothes and get a breath of fresh air, eh?’
Domine nodded and smiled, but inside she was a mass of nerves. The last thing she wanted was to be allowed to go downstairs, to mix with the family again, now that she had destroyed completely all chances of any kind of relationship with James.
But she need not have felt any twinges of anxiety, for when Lily brought her early morning tea the next morning she also brought the news that Mr. James had departed early for London, and was expecting to fly to Rome later in the day.
CHAPTER NINE
DURING the first few days that Domine was back on her feet again Melanie saw to it that the younger girl performed no tiring tasks. Mrs. Mannering seemed indifferent to the girl’s weakened condition now that James had gone, and she had Domine running all the little errands she had used to do before. It was Domine who was given the task of taking up Lucia Marcinello’s breakfast, but after the first morning that this happened Lucia herself came downstairs for the meal and thus alleviated this chore. Domine spent quite a lot of time outside in the crisp December air, but as Melanie was always around to prevent her from exhausting herself, she spent most of her days exercising the horses or grooming them. Everyone seemed pleased to have her around again and even the two men who worked about the farm came to offer their good wishes.
Lucia spent most of her time in her room, only emerging for meals or occasionally to drive into one of the nearby towns. She had hired a car from a firm in Malton and once or twice she asked Domine to accompany her. But although Domine thanked her warmly, she always refused. Somehow she couldn’t bear to spend any time with the woman it seemed likely that James might eventually marry. Although he had said Lucia meant nothing to him his actions on her behalf had belied that statement, and Domine couldn’t believe he could prefer Yvonne Park to her. Of course, there was the possibility that someone new might loom on his horizon, but that didn’t seem particularly likely, not with Lucia here at Grey Witches.
The days passed slowly. Domine refused to consider what would happen when James returned at Christmas as he surely would. She thought of running away, but she had no money of her own apart from the build-up of a small allowance which Great-Uncle Henry had made her and which had stopped on his death. James Mannering had never got around to discussing allowances, and she had not liked to suggest such a thing when her position was so precarious and involuntary. And without money, there was little she could do. She would have to live while she looked round for a job, and she would have to have somewhere to stay. Lodging houses always wanted cash in advance and she would also need food for perhaps a month before obtaining her first pay cheque in a bank or a library. It was an impossible situation, and there seemed no way of resolving it.
During the second week after James’s departure, she was offered an alternative. Vincent had taken her out to a cinema one evening, and on the way home he astounded her by proposing. At first she hadn’t taken him seriously, but when she saw his hurt expression as she chided him about it, she realized he was perfectly serious.
‘But, Vincent, we’ve only known one another a little over six weeks,’ s
he exclaimed. ‘How can you possibly be sure about something as serious as this?’
Vincent drew up the Land-Rover in the shelter of some tall oaks, and extinguished the vehicle’s headlights, turning on the interior light instead. ‘I knew almost from the first moment we met,’ he exclaimed extravagantly. ‘You’re so different from the usual run of girls whose only desire is to have a good time. And in a job like mine, that’s important.’
Domine sighed, wondering how to let him down lightly. This was one possibility she had not even thought of.
‘But I don’t love you, Vincent,’ she began gently.
‘That will come—with time,’ he promised eagerly. ‘After all, love is something that grows out of knowing one another, out of living together. I doubt if many couples actually love one another before marriage. Oh, they imagine they do, but that’s not real love. Love is being with someone, sharing life with them. Sharing troubles as well as happiness!’
Domine half-smiled. So that was Vincent’s definition of love. Well, it was vastly different from her own.
‘I think what you’re talking about is liking one another,’ she murmured unhappily. ‘Loving’s altogether different. Loving is needing someone so desperately that you wonder how you can live without them! Love is like a fire in the blood that burns you up with its intensity!’
‘That’s infatuation!’ exclaimed Vincent chillingly. ‘And how would you know, anyway?’ His face darkened. ‘Unless—unless you imagine yourself in love with somebody else! Is that it? Is that how you profess to know so much about it?’
Domine coloured. ‘Maybe,’ she admitted tentatively. ‘At any rate, I know I don’t love you, and I’m not the one you should marry. Maybe you need someone like Melanie. She has all the attributes I have not, and she likes the life about the estate.’
‘Melanie!’ Vincent hunched his shoulders. ‘Melanie’s always wrapped up with her horses. Besides, I don’t think Mother would like Melanie.’
Domine shook her head in amusement. There was something so ludicrous about sitting out here, in the grounds of Grey Witches, discussing the merits of who Vincent ought to marry. With great daring, she said:
‘Do you think whether or not your mother approves is so important? I mean—your mother will die one day. Oh, I don’t mean to be unkind, but you must live your own life. Not the life your mother would choose for you. And anyway,’ she finished, ‘I think Melanie’s a marvellous person, and she’d make someone a marvellous wife and mother.’
Vincent frowned. ‘Do you really think so?’ he murmured. Then he seemed to pull himself up short. ‘But this is ridiculous! I don’t want to marry Melanie. I want to marry you. Oh, Domine, please say you will.’
‘I’m sorry, Vincent, but I can’t.’ Domine bent her head.
‘So there is someone else.’
‘You might say that.’
‘Who is it?’ Vincent stared at her, and realization seemed to dawn in his eyes. ‘You don’t—you can’t possibly imagine yourself in love with James Mannering!’
Domine’s colour deepened. ‘Why pick on him?’ she asked evasively.
‘Because, apart from myself, he’s the only personable male around here.’
Domine shrugged. ‘It could be someone I knew at the convent.’
Vincent breathed hard down his nose. ‘I don’t believe it. But this is even more ridiculous! James is thirty-six, almost thirty-seven. He’s ten years older than I am!’
‘Age has nothing to do with anything,’ Domine flared, unable to stand the comparison.
Vincent heaved a sigh. ‘You know you’re wasting your time, don’t you?’ He gave a harsh chuckle. ‘Mrs. Mannering has her sights aimed much higher. Haven’t you met the illustrious Miss Park?’
‘James won’t marry her.’
‘What makes you so sure?’
‘Would you install one woman in your house if you intended to marry another?’
‘Oh, I see. You mean Signora Marcinello?’
‘Precisely.’
Vincent shrugged. ‘It must be nice to be rich and affluent. To be sought after by the world’s most beautiful women!’ He glanced at Domine wryly. ‘So what will you do?’
‘At the end of six months Mr. Mannering will enable me to get a job,’ she replied quietly. ‘Not here. I don’t want to stay in the north. I’d prefer to live in the south.’ Far away from Grey Witches, she finished silently.
Vincent shrugged again. ‘Oh, well, if you’re adamant, there’s nothing more to be said. But promise me you’ll think about it.’
Domine promised, but her eyes were distant. How different two men could be. Vincent had not even kissed her, yet he had asked her to marry him, and James, to whom she had so nearly surrendered, wanted no part of her.
The next morning, she was out with the horses when she encountered the postman in the drive, on his way up to the house. Smiling, she said:
‘Can I take the letters for you, Mr. Meridew?’
Alf Meridew scratched his head. ‘Surely,’ he said, studying the mail in his hands, and then extracting several he handed them to her as she sat astride Rosie. ‘Lovely morning! Soon be Christmas. Think it’ll be a white one?’
‘I hope so,’ exclaimed Domine, with enthusiasm.
‘Well, I don’t,’ retorted Alf, with a grin. ‘My round’s twice as hard when there’s snow on the ground—or slush either for that matter.’
Domine smiled at him, and bidding her good morning, he went off on his way, and Domine cantered Rosie back to the stables. As she dismounted, she idly flicked through the letters in her hand. Occasionally Susan wrote to her, but there was none bearing Susan’s scrawling handwriting today. However, there was a letter addressed to her, a rather official-looking communication with the name of a firm of solicitors stamped in the top left corner.
Domine stared at this letter in surprise. She had never received any letters from this firm of solicitors before. Certainly, they were not the Leeds-based solicitors who had handled the particulars of her great-uncle’s will. This firm was in business in Bognor, and her heart fluttered slightly at the implications.
With a strange desire for secrecy, she stuffed the letter into the pocket of her pants, and leaving Rosie she entered the hall and placed the rest of the letters on the salver resting on the table there. Then, almost guiltily, she ran up the stairs to her room, and closing her door ripped open the envelope.
The paper the letter was written on was the finest vellum and had an expensive feel to it. The contents were brief, and to the point. Domine read the letter once, gave an involuntary gasp, and sinking down on to the bed, she read it again. Even the second time it seemed unreal and unbelievable, and she was trembling when she re-read it a third time. It began:
My dear Miss Grainger,
It was recently brought to our notice by Mr. Amos Lancer, owner of Cromptons Hotel, Bognor, that his patron, Mr. Henry Farriday, had not made his usual arrangements for his Christmas vacation there with your good self. His instructions were to inform us if this event ever took place, and as you will realize, our investigations brought us into contact with the firm of Grant, Campbell and Dawson who advised us of your late great-uncle’s demise, and subsequent reading of the will they hold. However, it is our duty to inform you that your great-uncle made a second will with us in which you, yourself, are the sole major beneficiary, and as this will is dated later than that held by the said solicitors, Grant, Campbell and Dawson, it can most definitely be held up as the late Henry Farriday’s last will and testament.
There were further particulars about dates and information about minor bequests her great-uncle had made to his staff, but the main portion of the letter was what Domine was most interested in. It was an incredible thing to happen, and yet this was possibly just the sort of situation Henry Farriday would have wished. Certainly, it looked as though Mrs. Mannering’s suspicions had been justified all along, and that he had indeed avenged the humiliation she had bestowed upon him.
Domine was still sitting there, staring at the letter when Lily called that breakfast was ready and it took a great deal of courage to hide the letter in her suitcase and descend the stairs as though nothing momentous had happened. But during the course of the meal of which she ate little, the whole weight of the problem she was now faced with descended upon her. How could she possibly tell Mrs. Mannering she was no longer the real mistress of Grey Witches? How could she take over the management of an estate of this size when she had no earthly idea how to run it? What perverted streak in her uncle’s make-up had caused him to do such a thing?
She poured herself a second cup of coffee and leaning over to Melanie, she said: ‘Could you possibly give me a cigarette?’
Melanie looked surprised, but apart from a sardonic quirk of her eyebrows, she said nothing, merely handed over her case that had a lighter combined. Domine lit one, inhaled deeply, and then exhaled with exaggerated effort. Lucia studied her expression thoughtfully, and frowned.
‘Surely I have not seen you smoking before?’ she exclaimed. ‘What has caused this sudden desire for nicotine?’
Domine shrugged, tapping ash unnecessarily. ‘No particular reason,’ she denied. ‘I just felt like one.’ Then she smiled to take the sharpness out of her reply.
Mrs. Mannering eyed her strangely. ‘Is something troubling you, Domine?’ she queried, with resignation. ‘You’re not sickening for anything again, are you?’
Melanie grimaced in her aunt’s direction. ‘Such concern!’ she commented dryly. ‘What’s the matter, Aunt Geraldine? Can you feel another headache coming on?’
Domine rose abruptly from the table, and left the room. She felt she couldn’t bear their bickering this morning. She needed to talk about this to somebody, but to whom? Who could she confide in? Certainly not Mrs. Mannering, or Melanie either for that matter. Vincent? She frowned. Not after his proposal last evening. Somehow that had alienated their relationship. She sighed. Why was it always sex that caused rifts in people’s lives?
