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

THREE days later, Ruth was sitting up in bed having breakfast when Mrs. Lawson came to tell her she was wanted on the telephone.

Ruth glanced at her watch. “It's barely nine o'clock,” she exclaimed. “Who is it? Are you sure it's not for Papa?”

“No, miss. It's a Mr. Hardy. Do you want to speak to him?”

Ruth thrust the breakfast tray aside. “Did you say Mr. – Hardy?”

“Yes, miss. Shall I ask him to ring back?”

“No. No, don't do that. I'll get it.” Ruth thrust her legs out of bed, reaching for the matching negligée that went with her wisp of nylon nightgown. “Thank you, Mrs. Lawson.”

As she ran lightly down the stairs to the drawing room Ruth realised that Mrs. Lawson was surprised at her behaviour. Normally, she refused calls before ten o'clock, preferring to have her bath and dress before facing the demands of the day. But this was different, and she refused to analyse why.

Breathlessly she lifted the receiver, and said: “Ruth Farrell speaking.”

“Hello, Ruth. Have I got you out of bed?”

“As a matter of fact you have.” Ruth tried to control her breathing.

“Don't you have extensions?”

“No, Pa – my father doesn't agree with them. He thinks the sound of a phone ringing is the most unpleasant way of being woken up.”

“He could be right.” Patrick sounded amused. “Well, I hope you'll forgive me for calling so early, but I wanted to ask if you'd have lunch with me.”

“Today?” Ruth felt as excited as a schoolgirl faced with an unexpected treat.

“Yes, today. Are you free?”

Ruth recalled that she was supposed to be lunching with Lucy Fielding, the wife of one of her father's directors, and immediately dismissed the engagement.

“Yes. Yes, I think so.” She hesitated. “Where are you phoning from?”

“My apartment.”

“Your apartment?” Ruth couldn't help being surprised. “I didn't know you had an apartment.”

“I didn't – until Monday. I leased it then.”

“I see.” Ruth swallowed hard. “It's – It's in London?”

His tone was dry. “Naturally. Queen Anne Gardens.”

“I know where that is. It's off Marylebone Road, isn't it?”

“I gather you know London very well.”

“I've lived here for thirteen years,” she answered defensively, stung by the sarcasm that was faintly evident in his voice.

“Have you? You don't look old enough.”

“You wouldn't think that if you could see me now,” she retorted, smiling to herself.

“I'm not without imagination,” he remarked quietly, and Ruth felt an awful weakness invading her lower limbs. She sank down on to a nearby chair and smoothed the transparent material of her negligée over her knees.

“Wh – what time do you suggest we have lunch?” she queried, changing the subject completely.

“Tell me where you live and I'll pick you up – say about twelve.”

“All right.” Ruth gave him her address, waiting while he made a note of it. “I'll see you later, then.”

“With luck.” He sounded pleased. “G'bye.”

Ruth replaced the receiver with fingers that were not quite steady. During the past few days she had succeeded in putting thoughts of him to the back of her mind, and if her dreams were haunted by the sound of his voice and crazy visions of a tropical landscape, she had put it down to nothing more than a fleeting obsession.

But now he was here, in London, and she was going to have lunch with him, and the knowledge filled her with expectancy.

First, though, she had to ring Lucy Fielding and make some excuse not to lunch with her, and then she went upstairs again and began examining the contents of her wardrobe. Mrs. Lawson came up after her and stood in the doorway looking concerned.

“Are you going out, miss?”

“Later, Mrs. Lawson. I suppose my father's gone already.”

“Yes, miss. He left just before nine.”

“Hmm.” Ruth nodded, and continued looking critically through her wardrobe.

“It's today you're having lunch with Mrs. Fielding, isn't it, miss?” Mrs. Lawson had an excellent memory – unfortunately.

Ruth swung round. “I was,” she admitted reluctantly. “But I'm not now. I'm lunching with Mr. Hardy instead. If Mrs. Fielding should ring to ask how I am, tell her I'm still in bed.”

Mrs. Lawson gave her an old-fashioned look. “Why? What's wrong with you?”

“I've got a migraine.”

“You don't get migraine.”

“She doesn't know that.” Ruth gave a mischievous smile. “You won't let me down, will you, Mrs. Lawson?”

“I suppose not.” Mrs. Lawson gave a reproving smile. “But who's this Mr. Hardy? Does your father know about him?”

“Actually, no. But don't worry, he's eminently respectable.”

“Is he?” Mrs. Lawson's tone was dry.

“Yes. You'll see him anyway, just to put your mind at rest. He's calling for me at twelve. Will you let him in?”

“All right, miss. It seems I shall have to.” Mrs. Lawson turned to go. “Will you be in to dinner this evening?”

“As far as I know, I shall.” Ruth didn't want to think about dinner. By dinner time this lunch would be over …

She was ready and waiting when he arrived. She had chosen to wear an apricot jersey mini-dress, and her ankle-length black fur coat was draped across the back of a chair in readiness. Her hair was loose, as usual, falling against her cheeks from a centre parting.

Mrs. Lawson showed Patrick upstairs into the drawing room where Ruth was waiting. It was obvious she was curious. Patrick was vastly different from her expectations and no doubt she was wondering how they had met.

“Will there be anything else, miss?” she asked politely, folding her hands.

“No, thank you, Mrs. Lawson.” Ruth shook her head giving Patrick a welcoming smile.

“Very well, miss.” Mrs. Lawson withdrew and Ruth relaxed.

“Will you have a drink before we leave?” she asked, realising that her voice sounded breathy, even to her. But in a navy suede suit and cream overcoat, with that slightly detached air about him, he unnerved her. His age had added maturity and it was this as much as anything, she realised, which made her feel at a disadvantage.

“No, thanks,” he replied now, looking round the room with interest.

“All right.” Ruth lifted the fur and began to put it on. “I am ready. I just thought you might prefer a drink here …”

He turned his attention to her. “Do you want a drink?”

In truth, Ruth felt badly in need of one, but she shook her head lightly. “No. Let's go. I'm hungry.”

The Mini was waiting outside and he put her into it before striding round to get in beside her. Ruth's lips twitched as she pictured Mrs. Lawson's surprise if she peeped through her curtains and saw their mode of transport. No doubt she imagined he drove an Aston Martin at least.

They managed to park quite near the restaurant in Soho he had selected. Small, and rather exclusive, Ruth was surprised he had known of its existence, until he went on to explain that its owner was a friend of his.

He was immediately recognised, of course, and clearly well liked. The owner appeared, and in the dimly lit bar, seated on tall stools, Ruth was introduced to him and to the bartender, who happened to be the owner's son. Then she had to listen while Patrick explained what he had been doing these past few years, and was roundly chided for being away so long without coming back to see them. Sipping her Martini, Ruth felt that familiar sense of inadequacy that she always seemed to feel in his presence assailing her. She didn't know why. He had no background to speak of, no inherited estates or titles to intimidate her, no money even; and yet he succeeded in making her feel the interloper, the outsider as it were. How could he return after five years in Venezuela and be able to take up exactly where he left off?

Of course she knew the answer. He was that kind of man. People and places did not intimidate him. He was intelligent, as well as interesting, and he knew that what he was doing was worthwhile, and not simply a way to fill his time. He worked because it was his career, his means of livelihood, and all of a sudden she wished she had some purpose in her life.

But then, had she been a working girl, he would probably not have invited her out to lunch in the first place. There might have been some problem of her getting the wrong idea …

Finishing her drink, she pushed her glass forward. “May I have another?”

Patrick interrupted what he was saying to look at her. “What? Oh, yes. Sorry. Same again, Frank.”

“Thank you.” Ruth accepted the second Martini moodily and as though aware of her increasing resentment, Patrick finished his Scotch and slid off his stool.

“Shall we go through to the restaurant?” he suggested quietly. “What can you offer us today, Marco?”

Feeling rather childish, Ruth preceded them through an archway into the small restaurant adjoining. As usual he had mentally put her in her place, and her appetite had depleted alarmingly.

After a consultation with Marco, Patrick decided upon Lobster Thermidor, and rather than spend a lot of time studying the menu, Ruth said she would have that too.

After Marco had gone to attend to the arrangements, Patrick lit a cheroot, and said: “I'm sorry if you thought I was rude just now. But it is five years since I've seen Marco, and Italians are such gregarious people.”

Ruth shrugged. “That's all right.” She was feeling so miserable that even his apology meant little to her.

“Do you like this place?”

“I've never been here before.”

“The food is excellent.”

“Good.” Ruth played with her glass, avoiding his eyes.

“What's the matter?” He frowned. “You've become morose. Why? I thought you wanted to come out with me. You seemed bright enough when I called for you.”

Sighing then, she looked up. “I'm perfectly all right. And I shouldn't have come out with you if I hadn't wanted to.”

“Fine. Then let's behave as though we're enjoying ourselves. What sort of wine appeals to you? White burgundy – hock?”

“I don't really mind. You choose.”

He studied the wine list with frowning concentration. She knew she was annoying him by her attitude, but she couldn't seem to help it. It was ridiculous behaving like this. She had looked forward to their lunch together, and she was letting her own stupid emotions spoil it. If he wanted a casual companion then it was up to her to behave that way, or otherwise he would find himself some other girl more than willing to take what he was prepared to offer with no strings attached. And the idea of him with another woman was not to be considered.

Putting her glass aside, she said: “I'm sorry.”

He looked up now. His eyes considered her broodingly. “Are you?”

“Yes. I'm afraid I've been behaving rather childishly. Forgive me.”

He raised his dark eyebrows. “Why have you been behaving childishly?”

His question startled her. “Just put it down to pure bad humour,” she suggested lightly, but she sensed he was not wholly deceived.

“Very well. Now, shall we decide upon the wine?”

The meal was delicious and Ruth made a good imitation of enjoying it. But all she really did was push her food round the plate and put a couple of choking mouthfuls into her mouth. The wine helped to wash it down, and she managed to keep his attention distracted by talking about Venezuela and the problems of life in a foreign country.

They left the restaurant just before three, and Ruth stood waiting while he buttoned his coat and put up his collar. A chill wind was blowing and there were particles of snow in the air. It was a day for hugging firesides and she wondered what he intended to do now.

“Come on,” he said, taking her elbow between his gloved fingers. “I'll take you home. I have to meet a business colleague at four.”

“Oh, I see.” Ruth ignored the hollow sensation inside of her. “Well, I can get a taxi if you'd rather.”

“I have time,” he said firmly, and they walked swiftly along the street to where the Mini was parked.

The traffic took all his attention at this time of the day, and they hardly spoke until they were turning beneath the arched entrance to the mews where Ruth lived. He stopped the car by the door and Ruth turned to him politely.

“Thank you for taking me,” she said, rather stiffly. “I enjoyed it very much.”

“Did you?” His smile was ironic. “I'm glad. So did I.”

Ruth opened her door and slid out, half expecting him to do the same, but he didn't.

“Good-bye, then.”

“Good-bye.”

He inclined his head and then leant across to slam her door before turning in a semi-circle and driving away. She watched his brake lights appear at the entrance to the mews and then the Mini disappeared from view. Taking a deep breath, she opened the front door and went inside, running up the stairs to her room without stopping. When there was a knock at her bedroom door a few minutes later, Ruth was face down on the bed, sobbing her heart out.

The door opened a fraction and Mrs. Lawson's kindly face appeared. “Miss Ruth?” she said wonderingly. “Why, miss, whatever's the matter?”

Ruth lifted her head reluctantly. “Nothing's the matter,” she denied chokingly. “Oh, please, Mrs. Lawson, go away and leave me alone …”

If Mrs. Lawson informed Ruth's father that she had come back from lunch in a rather distressed state, he was tactful enough not to say anything, and Ruth was glad. By dinner time she had composed herself again, and the very last thing she wanted was to be reminded of the afternoon.

Instead, she devoted the whole evening to her father, talking energetically about one subject after another, anything to keep thoughts of Patrick Hardy out of her mind.

Towards the end of the evening, her father filled his pipe, and then said: “How does a trip to the States appeal to you?”

Ruth looked at him in surprise. “The States? Why?”

“I've been invited by Don Hamilton to go and take a look at his operation out there. It's a coast-to-coast organisation, so it will be a long trip. How does it grab you?”

Ruth rubbed her palms together. “I don't know,” she began slowly. “How long would we be away?”

“Three – maybe four months. I thought we might take a holiday in Mexico while we were over there. You've always wanted to visit Mexico, haven't you?”

“Yes, yes, I suppose so.” Ruth ran her tongue over her upper lip. “But three or four months! That's an awful long time.”

“You think you'll be bored, is that it? Me working all the time. No companionship for you. Well, how about asking Julie to come along for the ride?”

“Julie?”

Ruth was stunned. She couldn't help it. The idea of leaving London at this time was totally abhorrent to her, and although she knew it was crazy, she couldn't help it.

“Can I think about it?” she asked, at last. “I'm not being ungrateful, but you know I don't mind staying here while you're away.”

“I know that, lass. And I know Mrs. Lawson's more than capable of looking after you. But you've been looking a little peaky since your weekend in Wiltshire, and I thought you needed a complete break.”

“Oh, I'm all right.” Ruth got to her feet. “It's just the weather, that's all.”

“Well, you think about it,” adjured her father, puffing strongly at his pipe. “I think I should be ready to leave in about ten days, so you've plenty of time.”

Ruth did think about it. She lay awake nights wondering what to do. It was almost a week since she had had lunch with Patrick Hardy and sooner or later she would have to make a decision. She had mentioned the trip over the phone to Julie, and while she had sounded thrilled at being invited, right now she was becoming more deeply involved with Peter Forrester, and had no wish to go away for four months leaving the field free for someone else.

And then one afternoon, when Mrs. Lawson was out shopping and her father was at the office, the doorbell rang, and when Ruth went to answer it, expecting a tradesman, she found Patrick Hardy on the door step.

She was immediately conscious of her appearance, well scrubbed jeans and a skinny-ribbed sweater, her hair caught back with an elastic band for tidiness as she attempted to clear out the contents of her bureau in the bedroom.

“Hello,” he said, his voice as attractive as ever. “May I come in?”

“Of course.” Julie stepped back and they stood together in the minute hall as she closed the door again. “Er – won't you come upstairs?”

She led the way, hoping the seat of her trousers was not too faded. She had had them since she was at school and had a certain sentimental attachment for them. So often her father bought her new things when they were not necessary, and Mrs. Lawson's nieces benefited from being given Ruth's older clothes. But she had determinedly kept the jeans and wore them around the house.

In the drawing room she indicated a chair. “Won't you sit down?”

Patrick did not immediately comply. He was viewing her appearance with apparent interest, for he said: “Am I interrupting something?”

Ruth tugged the elastic band off her hair, wincing as it brought several hairs with it, and shook her head. “Nothing important,” she replied. “Will you have some tea? Or something stronger?”

“Nothing at the moment, thank you.” Patrick walked across to a cubist painting on the wall. “Is this a Picasso?”

“It's a print. Papa has the original put away in a safe.”

Patrick shook his head. “What a waste!”

“It's a very expensive painting. The insurance people wouldn't cover it without extensive burglar alarm systems, and as Papa wouldn't agree to those …” She shrugged. “How are you?”

“I'm fine.” He turned back to her. In dark pants and sweater, a thigh-length, black leather coat overall, he looked curiously alien with his distinctive tan. “How about you?”

“I'm fine, too.” Ruth sought about in her mind for something to say and fell back on the most obvious. “It's terrible weather, isn't it?”

He glanced towards the sleet-drenched windows. “I suppose it is. I'm quite enjoying it.”

Ruth nodded, giving him a nervous smile, and he went on: “You're wondering why I'm here.”

She shrugged. “Do you have a reason?”

“Of course. Did you think I was at a loose end and drove here on the off chance of filling in the afternoon?”

Ruth linked her fingers together. “You might have done.”

“Well, I didn't. I rang this morning, and when I could get no reply I decided to come round.”

“I see.” Ruth considered this. “Both Mrs. Lawson and I were out shopping this morning, I'm afraid.”

“Yes, I gathered that.” His tone was dry. Then he sighed. “Will you have dinner with me this evening?”

Ruth was astonished. “I – I –”

“I know it's short notice, but – well, actually I wasn't going to see you again.”

Ruth quivered, “No?”

“No.” He frowned. “After the last time, it seemed obvious that our association wasn't going to work.”

“Why not?”

He moved his shoulders restlessly. “You – seemed to want – more of me than I was prepared to give,” he replied, and she went scarlet.

“And – and now?”

He bent his head. “I guess these things don't always work out the way we'd like them to.”