Читать книгу The Waterfall Of The Moon - Anne Mather - Страница 7

WHEN she finally returned to the house it was long past lunchtime, and Julie met her in the hall looking most concerned.

“Ruth!” she exclaimed. “Where have you been? We were getting quite worried about you.”

“I'm sorry.” Ruth managed a smile. “I'm afraid I went further than I intended.”

“You shouldn't go so far alone,” reproved Julie, shaking her head. “I didn't think you'd go riding at all when I couldn't go with you.”

Ruth hesitated. “No – well, it filled the morning in.”

“Yes,” Julie nodded, and Ruth guessed she knew nothing about Patrick Hardy's involvement. “Well, the meal will be cold now. Shall I ask Cook to make you an omelette or something?”

“Heavens, no!” Ruth took off her parka and slung it over the banister ready to take upstairs. “A sandwich in the kitchen would be fine.” She glanced round. “Er – where is everyone?”

“Mummy and Daddy and Patrick are in the library having coffee. I was watching for you. Patrick said if you weren't back in fifteen minutes he would go and look for you.”

“That was kind of him.” Ruth's tone was dry, but Julie didn't notice it.

“Yes. Well, come along into the kitchen. We can talk there. Mike came up this morning before leaving for London. I think he expected to see you, but he said he couldn't hang about because he has to be back in College tonight, or something.”

“Yes, that's right. He does.” Ruth nodded, accompanying her friend into the warm, delightfully odorous atmosphere of the kitchen. “I'm glad he's gone, though. Sometimes he can be rather intense.”

Mrs. Morris, the Stephensons’ cook, soon provided Ruth with a plate of home-cured ham and salad, and a jug of steaming coffee which the two girls shared. Seated at the table talking, Mrs. Morris dozing over her knitting at the fire, created a feeling of warmth and security, and Ruth felt some of the chill which had entered her stomach that morning leaving her. Not that she mentioned such things to Julie. Her brief association with Patrick Hardy would not bear examination, not yet.

“You are staying until tomorrow, aren't you?” Julie asked now. “It's almost three o'clock. It will be dark in an hour.”

Ruth hesitated. She didn't want to stay, but having committed herself to the extent of leaving it too late in the day to drive back in daylight, she didn't see what else she could do. Her father did not approve of her driving far at night.

“All right,” she agreed. “But I must ring Papa.”

Julie smiled at her friend's use of the Victorian form of address. Ruth had always called her father Papa, it was a kind of pet name, and had caused a good deal of amusement when they were at school.

As Ruth dressed for dinner that evening her misgivings returned in full measure. After all, she had told Patrick Hardy that she was leaving that afternoon. After what he had said this morning, she was quite prepared to believe that he would think she had stayed on for the sole purpose of seeing him again. Pacing about her bedroom, she considered making some excuse not to go down, but then squashed the idea. She was not a coward. She would go down to dinner and she would show him that she had absolutely no interest in him whatsoever!

Her choice of evening wear was limited. She had come down ostensibly for one night only, for the party, and apart from the dress she had worn then, she had nothing else suitable. Still, he had not seen her at the party and it was a most attractive gown. Made of cream velvet, gathered beneath her breasts to fall straight and smooth to the ankle, long sleeves reaching a point at the wrists, it was the perfect complement to her intense fairness, the low round neck revealing the creamy flesh of her throat.

Even so, she trembled a little as she descended the stairs and crossed the carpeted hall to the lounge where Julie's father and mother usually had an aperitif before their meal.

She was the last to arrive, and therefore she felt as if she had timed her entrance, which simply was not so. Nevertheless, her appearance did attract attention and she focused determinedly on Julie's mother, refusing to look in Patrick Hardy's direction.

However, Mrs. Stephenson was unaware that they had been introduced, and to Ruth's chagrin she drew her towards him, smiling and saying: “You haven't met Ruth, have you, Pat?”

Patrick, dark and slightly foreign-looking with that amazing tan, looked disturbingly masculine in his evening clothes. The men were not wearing dinner jackets, but they were both dressed in dark suits. Seemingly unperturbed by the situation, he said: “We have met, Marion. We had breakfast together, didn't we, Miss Farrell?”

Ruth's lips felt stiff. “Yes. Yes, that's right,” she said uncomfortably, aware that Julie was staring at her in surprise.

“Oh, I see,” Marion nodded. “You must both be early risers.” She smiled. “That's all right, then. We all know one another.”

Ruth moved back to Julie's side and accepted a glass of sherry from her father. Then dinner was announced and they all walked into the dining room which adjoined the lounge, where the buffet tables had been laid out the night before. To Ruth's relief, conversation was general and there were no awkward silences. Like herself, the Stephensons found Patrick's experiences in South America fascinating, and in spite of her antagonism towards him, Ruth found herself listening with increasing interest.

Once she looked up and found his eyes upon her and for a brief moment she was hypnotised by their grey penetration. Then Julie's father said something and his attention was distracted, but the small incident served to unnerve her and she spent the remainder of the meal with her eyes glued to her plate.

When dinner was over, they all adjourned to the lounge for coffee, and Ruth seated herself beside Julie on a low couch. Julie's father and Patrick Hardy were standing by the windows. Their conversation had turned to farming matters, and Mrs. Stephenson came to join the girls, shaking her head in resignation.

“Sooner or later your father always brings the conversation round to the practical applications of modern research in methods of breeding,” she remarked, sitting down beside them. “Poor Pat! I'm sure he's not really interested in such things.” She sighed. “Still, I shouldn't grumble. We did well to get through dinner without James mentioning the hormone treatment he's considering using in the battery houses!”

Julie giggled, and Ruth was unable to prevent herself from casting a surreptitious glance towards the windows. But the two men seemed engrossed in what they were saying and did not appear to have noticed Mrs. Stephenson's slightly caustic comments.

When her mother picked up a magazine and began flicking through the glossy pages, Julie turned to Ruth and murmured in an undertone: “You didn't mention that you'd had breakfast with Patrick this morning.”

Ruth moved her shoulders carelessly. “I forgot about it.”

“I gather he didn't live up to your expectations,” remarked Julie wryly.

“I wouldn't say that,” Ruth was determinedly casual.

Julie raised her eyebrows. “Even so, last evening you seemed fascinated by him –”

“Don't be ridiculous!” Ruth glanced uncomfortably towards Julie's mother, but fortunately she seemed not to have heard them. “I was curious to know who he was, that was all. I told you at the time.”

“I know.” Julie studied her friend's hot cheeks speculatively. “Oh, well, if that's how you feel.” She shrugged. “How about playing some records in the library?”

Ruth jumped at the chance to get out of the same room as Patrick Hardy, but Mrs. Stephenson looked up as they got to their feet. “Where are you two going?”

“To play some records,” replied Julie. “You don't mind, do you?”

Her mother frowned. “Not exactly.” She looked towards her husband and Patrick Hardy. “But really, James can't monopolise Pat all evening. I'm sure the man must be bored to tears as it is. Why don't you bring some records in here, Julie? Some of your less noisy ones, I might add. You young people could dance.”

“Oh, Mummy, really!” Julie was not at all suited. “How can Ruth and I dance in here – in front of you?”

“Well, why not? Young people don't seem to require partners these days, do they?”

Julie sighed and Ruth felt a twinge of impatience. It seemed they were not to escape so easily.

“All right,” said Julie at last. “I'll get the records.”

“Good.” Her mother smiled up at Ruth. “Come and sit down again, and tell me where you went this morning.”

“This morning?” Ruth subsided rather quickly.

“Yes. On your ride.”

“Oh – oh, yes.” Ruth gathered herself. “I'd forgotten.”

Julie came back with several records of groups popular at the moment and some more orchestrated pieces. Ruth joined her by the stereo equipment and managed a rueful grin. “Never mind,” she whispered. “I'm sure your parents will soon get tired of listening to these.”

“Let's hope so.” Julie was glum, but before they had time to put any records on the turntable the sound of a car accelerating up the drive came to their ears.

“I'll get it,” exclaimed Julie eagerly, and was out of the door before anyone could protest.

“I wonder who it can be,” remarked Mrs. Stephenson, laying aside her magazine, and the men were distracted from their discussion.

“Probably Hayes about the point-to-point,” replied her husband. “He said he'd let me know when it was to be held.”

But when Julie came back into the lounge she was accompanied by a young man whom Ruth recognised as Peter Forrester, one of the guests at the party last evening.

Mrs. Stephenson smiled a welcome. “Oh, hello, Peter. This is a pleasant surprise.”

Peter Forrester was a thin, attractive young man in his late twenties. Recalling what she knew about him, Ruth decided he looked very much the outdoor type he was. His father farmed the land to the north of Julie's father's estate, and Peter had been to agricultural college and was at present acting as bailiff for another landowner in the district. Ruth also knew that he was very fond of Julie and that she would probably finish by marrying someone exactly like that. Julie was a country girl at heart, and although she enjoyed coming up to town and staying with Ruth and her father, deep down she preferred the open spaces.

Peter looked awkwardly round the company, and said: “Well, actually, Mrs. Stephenson, I didn't realise that Ruth was staying over for another night. I thought Julie might be on her own. I was going to suggest taking her out for an hour or two.” Julie visibly brightened, but her mother merely nodded. “Never mind, Peter. Now you're here, you can stay. Julie was just about to put on some records, weren't you, darling?”

Julie hesitated, looked mutinous, and then acquiesced. “Yes, Mummy,” she murmured resignedly.

Ruth was feeling rather de trop. “If you'd like to go out with Peter, Julie, I don't mind,” she began.

“Nonsense.” Julie's father entered the conversation. “Julie knows better than that –”

“Perhaps I might make a suggestion.” Patrick Hardy's voice was quietly compelling. “Why don't we all go out for a while? We could drive into Devizes and stop off somewhere for a drink.”

Julie's mother looked at her husband questioningly. “Do you want to do that, James?”

Ruth's nails curled into her palms. No one was asking her opinion, and the very last thing she wanted was to be thrust into Patrick Hardy's presence for several hours.

James Stephenson considered the suggestion frowningly. “Well, I'm not really enthusiastic,” he admitted. “I was looking forward to a quiet evening.”

“Good.” His wife looked as though this submission had pleased her. “I don't particularly want to go out either. But you four can, can't you?”

Ruth felt terrible. She couldn't be placed in such an intolerable situation! “I – I don't particularly want to go out either,” she said.

“Don't be silly, Ruth!” Mrs. Stephenson overruled her protest. “Of course you do. We're just too old, that's all.”

Ruth looked helplessly towards Julie, but Julie was far too delighted with this turn of events to do anything to help her. There seemed nothing for it but to agree.

“Fine.” That was Patrick Hardy again. He walked across to where the three young people were standing. “I suggest you and Julie go in your car, Forrester, and Miss Farrell and I will go in mine.”

Ruth looked up at him angrily, trying to compel him to look at her and witness her frustration. But he seemed indifferent to her feelings completely, and she was forced to accompany the others into the hall to collect their coats.

In fact, Ruth had no coat, only a tweed cape which she wore for all occasions, but at least it was warm and she shrugged herself into it, spurning anyone's assistance.

“There's a good pub outside of Sharning,” said Peter, helping Julie on with her coat. “The Beeswing, do you know it?”

“I'm afraid not.” Patrick pulled on a dark grey overcoat with a fur lining. “But you lead the way – we'll follow.”

“Okay.” Peter was obviously feeling pleased with himself. “Ruth knows the Sharning road and it's just beyond the village.”

“Right.”

Patrick nodded and they all went outside to get into the cars. Ruth had to wait while Patrick brought his car out of the garage and the others waved and drove off as the Mini came to a halt beside her. Patrick pushed open the door from inside and Ruth got in quickly, folding her long skirts about her legs.

“I hope you don't find this too confining,” he commented dryly, as she was wondering how he managed to get behind the wheel. “But I needed some form of transport and as I don't intend to do any great distance this seemed ideal for towns.”

Ruth knew she couldn't ignore him completely, so she said: “I have a Mini myself,” in rather terse tones.

Sharning was the next village to Cupley where the Stephensons had their estate, and it wasn't long before the lights of the houses came into view. The tail lights of a car ahead turned out to be Peter Forrester's and pretty soon they were turning between the gates of a well-lit hotel. They parked the cars, and the two girls walked ahead into the building.

“You don't mind, do you, Ruth?” Julie whispered rather anxiously as they entered the foyer, and Ruth knew she couldn't disappoint her.

“No, of course not,” she denied. “Is this where we leave our coats?”

It was a larger hotel than Ruth had expected with several bars and a small dance floor in the lounge. A three-piece group was playing and the room was filled to capacity. Patrick suggested that they had a drink in one of the bars and went into the lounge later, and the others agreed.

Because of the throng of people and the hum of noise, it was possible for Ruth to relax somewhat. Peter was quite an amusing companion when he lost his initial shyness, and Patrick had his own brand of humour to offer. Certainly Ruth's lack of conversation did not appear to be noticed and she sipped her way through three vodka and tonics quite happily.

Then Patrick suggested they tried the lounge again, and they left the bar to push their way into the larger room. It was not quite so crowded as it had been earlier and Peter drew Julie determinedly after him on to the dance floor.

Left with Patrick, Ruth panicked. “If you'll excuse me,” she began, “I must go to the cloakroom –”

Patrick's fingers caught her upper arm. “Why?”

Ruth flushed. “Why do you think?”

“Can't you wait?”

Ruth was taken aback. “If you must know – no!”

“I don't believe you,” he murmured, looking down at her burning cheeks. “I don't think you want to go at all. I think you're avoiding being alone with me.”

“Are you going to let me go?” she demanded hotly.

“No. At least – not yet. Come on, I want to dance with you.”

She was forced to go with him. His hold on her arm was very sure and in any case she didn't want to cause a scene. Once on the dance floor he drew her closely into his arms, and while some of the couples were dancing apart from one another, he refused to let her go.

And after a while She didn't want him to. There was something infinitely desirable about being as close to him as this, her hands imprisoned against the silk material of his shirt, feeling the heat of his chest and the heavy beat of his heart beneath her fingers. He had his arms about her waist, and they moved slowly in time to the music.

“Now this isn't so bad, is it?” he queried softly, against her hair.

Ruth shook her head. “No,” she conceded huskily.

“I'm sorry,” he said.

“Sorry?” Ruth tipped her head to look at him. His face was very close and she quickly averted it again. “Sorry about what?”

“About this morning,” he replied quietly. “I'm afraid I was very rude.”

Ruth quivered. “That's all right.”

“Well, thank you. I behaved quite boorishly. I don't usually – but I had my reasons.”

Ruth's palms were moist. “Yes?” she prompted, relaxing against him completely.

His withdrawal was immediate, a physical detachment of his body from hers. But when he spoke again, he sounded as amiable as before.

“I'll try and explain. The last time I was in England, about five years ago, Marion spent the whole time trying to marry me off to some distant cousin of hers.” He sighed reminiscently. “Oh, Celia – that was her name, by the way – was a charming girl, and I've no doubt she'd make some man a charming wife, but not me!”

Ruth knew something was expected of her and assuming an indifference she did not feel, she said: “And you thought I was another candidate, is that right?”

It was amazing, she thought to herself, how inconsequential she could sound when something inside her seemed to be screwing her up in little knots.

“That's correct,” he smiled, and it was a disturbingly intimate smile. “But then this afternoon Marion explained who you were and of course I felt rather a fool.”

“Who – who I was?” Ruth was confused. “Who am I?”

His eyes glinted with humour. “Don't you know?”

“You tell me.”

“Well, you're Joseph Farrell's daughter, of course. An heiress, no less, and certainly in no way likely to be looking for the first unattached male that comes along. Besides, I'm sure that when you marry, your father will make sure your husband to be has more to offer you than a physio-chemist's salary!”

Ruth digested this. “I see,” she said slowly.

“So I suggest we forget what happened this morning, and start again,” he continued. “It will teach me not to be so conceited, as you said!”

Ruth didn't know why, but she suddenly felt badly in need of a drink. Pressing her hands against his chest and separating herself from him, she said: “Do you mind if we go and sit down again now? It's rather hot in here.”

“Not at all.” He released her at once. “We'll go and get another drink. The others will find us later. I must admit I'm finding it pretty exhausting myself.”

In the bar they found a table and Ruth swallowed her fourth vodka and tonic as though it were her last. But something unpleasant had happened to her, and she didn't want to think about it.

No longer under the strain of imagining he was being manoeuvred into marriage, Patrick became relaxed and charming, the perfect companion in fact, although Ruth couldn't appreciate it. She watched him when he was not looking at her, noticing every small thing about him, from the slightly darkening line of his jawline to the long flexible fingers holding his glass. He wore a signet ring on the smallest finger of his right hand, and a plain gold watch on his wrist. There were hairs on his wrist, too; wrists that were already tanned like the rest of him, and she wondered whether he spent much time out in the hot South American sun.

Looking down into her almost empty glass, she tried to school herself not to think of such things. It was ridiculous really. Here she was, imagining herself in the position of wanting the inaccessible. It wouldn't last. At the moment he was different from the men she knew, that was all. A novelty, in fact, and like all novelties it would wear off. But in the meantime it was agonising …

Breakfast the following morning was a family occasion, and not a bit like the previous day. It was the first day of the working week for Julie's parents, and they each were preoccupied with their individual activities. Marion Stephenson ran various committees in the district and helped with the Meals on Wheels service, while her husband had his estate duties to attend to.

Patrick Hardy did not put in an appearance, and Ruth told herself she was glad. She would be able to leave without meeting him again, and she refused Julie's suggestion that she might wait until after lunch to drive back to town. It was a relief to bid them all good-bye and get behind the wheel of her Mini. Julie was disappointed, of course, but Ruth made a mental note to telephone her as soon as she got home and make some arrangement for her to come and stay.

Her father's house stood in a mews off Eaton Square. Tall, narrow windows flanked a white front door which was guarded by tubbed acacias. Once used as a coaching stable, it had been superbly altered and modernised by an architect friend of her father's, and now it was a very attractive dwelling. The ground floor had been given over to garages and the servants’ quarters, and a whitewood staircase led to the first floor drawing room. It was spacious and elegantly furnished, her father never did anything by halves, but although its contents were rare and expensive there was never any feeling of coldness or impersonality. It had always been a home in every sense of the word.

Her father was not at home at this time of day as Ruth had expected, but Mrs. Lawson, the housekeeper, came upstairs to see if she had had lunch.

“No, I haven't,” said Ruth, shedding her cape in the centrally heated atmosphere. “But don't bother with a lot for me, Mrs. Lawson. I'm not particularly hungry.”

Mrs. Lawson folded her hands. “Did you have a nice weekend, miss?”

“Yes, very nice, thank you.” Ruth lounged into a soft leather chair. “Tell me: is Papa dining at home this evening?”

The housekeeper nodded. “As far as I know he is, miss. Why don't you give him a ring? I'm sure he'd be glad to hear from you. He misses you, you know.”

Ruth traced the pattern of the grain with her finger. “You think so?”

“Of course.” Mrs. Lawson drew in her lips. “He doesn't work all the time, you know.”

“I know.” Ruth reached for the phone. “All right, Mrs. Lawson. Thank you.”

Joseph Farrell's office building stood in a side street off the Bayswater Road. The receptionist who answered recognised Ruth's voice at once and said: “I think Mr. Farrell's left the building, miss, but I'll just make sure for you.”

A few minutes later, Ruth heard her father's voice, still bearing traces of his Lancashire background. “Is that you, Ruth? You're back then.”

“Yes. Were you going out? Have I stopped you?”

“It can wait. It was nothing important. I was just going for a beer with Andy.”

“Was that to be your lunch?” exclaimed Ruth reprovingly.

“I suppose so. That and a pie, I shouldn't wonder.”

“A pie and a pint,” said Ruth, unable to hide her amusement. “Well, how about taking me to lunch instead?”

Her father hesitated. “I could do, I suppose,” he conceded slowly. “But I have this meeting at two o'clock …”

“Oh, Papa!” Ruth heaved a sigh. “Then you don't have time, do you?”

“Not really, lass.”

“All right, forget it. What time will you be home this evening?”

“Not late. About six, I should think. D'you want me to take you out to dinner instead?”

“No. No, it doesn't matter.” Ruth recalled the way her father liked to relax after a busy day at the office. “I'll see you tonight then.”

“Fine. Fine. Had a good weekend? Did you give my regards to Jim?”

“James, Papa, James! Julie's father doesn't like being called Jim!”

“Huh!” Her father sounded unimpressed. “Jim was good enough for your grandfather, and it's good enough for him.”

“All right, all right. See you later.”

“You will.”

Julie replaced the receiver and sat staring at it with a rueful sense of pride. Joe Farrell cared for nobody's arrogance, and nobody got away with anything like that with him. He had no time for snobbishness and conceit, he said he couldn't afford such luxuries, and that was in part responsible for his tremendous success. He could, and would, talk to anyone, and anyone could talk to him. No one in the Farrell organisation could say they had never met the boss; he made it his business to know everyone.

Leaving the drawing room, Ruth carried her case up a second flight of stairs to the turquoise and white luxury of her bedroom. Dropping the case on the silken bedcoverings, she walked into the bathroom and turned on the taps. A bath would relax her, would perhaps lift the weight of depression from her shoulders that had settled like a shroud since she drove away from Julie's home that morning …