Читать книгу Duelling Fire - Anne Mather, Anne Mather - Страница 8

SARA saw that she was in what appeared to be a library. There were bookshelves from floor to ceiling on three walls and a desk, set beneath long windows, on the fourth. An open fire broke up one wall of shelves, and as it was getting dark outside, it was reflected in the window panes, warm and inviting.

But Sara was scarcely aware of her surroundings. She was still puzzling what Jude had said to her, and it irritated her anew that he apparently had the knack of disconcerting everyone who came into contact with him.

‘What will you have? Sherry? Gin? Whisky?’

Her brooding introspection was interrupted by that lazily attractive voice, and she turned to find him examining the bottles contained in a small cabinet.

‘Do you have—Martini?’ she asked, choosing something innocuous, and his mouth turned down wryly as he completed his inspection.

‘Only vodka and Pernod,’ he told her without contrition. ‘Let me make you a cocktail. I do quite a passable Screwdriver.’

‘Sherry,’ declared Sara firmly, deciding she needed to keep her wits about her, and she watched him reluctantly as he filled her glass.

‘So—what do you think of us?’ he enquired, retrieving his glass, which contained the Scotch she had detected earlier. ‘Not quite what you expected, I imagine. Bearing in mind what you told me earlier.’

‘I wish you’d forget what I told you earlier,’ Sara retorted. ‘I—I was nervous then. It was a long time since I’d last seen Aunt—I mean, Harriet. Now that I’ve got to know her again, I realise how immature I must have sounded.’

‘I imagine anyone over the age of thirty would appear quite ancient to a schoolgirl,’ Jude remarked, propping himself against the bookshelves. ‘Won’t you sit down?’

He gestured towards a leather sofa set to one side of the fireplace, but Sara gave an involuntary shake of her head. She felt more capable of facing him on her two feet, and besides, she resented his arbitrary assumption of the role of host. It lent weight to her suspicion that his position at Knight’s Ferry was not a straightforward one, and the less pleasant aspects of this conclusion were not something she wanted to contemplate right now.

‘Tell me,’ she said, with great daring she thought, ‘what exactly do you do, Mr—er—Jude? My aunt—that is, Harriet—mentioned something about—horses?’

Jude’s mouth compressed. ‘Midnight? The mare?’ He shrugged. ‘She hasn’t foaled yet, if that’s what you mean.’

Sara moistened her upper lip. ‘That wasn’t exactly—–’

‘Oh, I see.’ His expression hardened. ‘You mean am I the stable hand?’ He finished the whisky in his glass. ‘Without wanting to disappoint you, no. That is not my primary function.’

Sara cradled her glass between her palms. The obvious rejoinder to this was beyond her ability, so instead she said, rather weakly: ‘Does Miss Ferrars have many horses?’

‘One or two,’ he replied after a moment, moving away from the bookshelves to fix himself another drink. ‘Five, to be precise. Why? Do you like horses? Do you ride?’

‘I have—ridden, yes.’ Sara was tentative. ‘Mostly abroad. Nothing very startling, I’m afraid.’

‘But you do like it? Riding, I mean?’

Sara shrugged. ‘Quite.’ She was reluctant. ‘Why? Does Harriet?’

‘Harriet?’ Jude put the stopper back into the whisky decanter and surveyed her mockingly. ‘I doubt if Harriet’s ever swung her leg across a saddle,’ he replied rather crudely. ‘Outdoor sports are not her scene.’

Sara pressed her lips together. So why had he asked her? she wondered impatiently. Surely he didn’t imagine she might consider riding with him. His arrogance was equal to it, and her eyes flashed fire as she met his cynical gaze.

‘You know Harriet very well, don’t you, Mr Jude?’ she declared with grim temerity. ‘I wonder if she realises how outspoken you are on her behalf.’

Jude laughed then, a faintly derisive laugh that brought the hot colour to her cheeks. ‘Oh, I think she might,’ he retorted, with gentle irony, and the door behind him opened before Sara could ask him what he meant.

Harriet’s appearance made Sara realise how conservative her own choice of dress had been. This evening, the older woman was wearing bronze tapered pants and a glittering sequinned jacket, with a wealth of chunky jewellery dispersed about her person. Her heels were higher than any Sara would dare to wear, but she moved easily, faltering only momentarily when her gaze met that of Jude.

‘Oh, you’re here,’ she murmured, her fingertips brushing almost absently over his sleeve. Then she caught sight of Sara and withdrew her hand. ‘My dear, how lovely you look! Doesn’t she, Jude?’ She turned to the man with a strange expression, almost daring him to contradict her. ‘Don’t you think Sara looks delightful?’

‘I think the word is irresistible,’ remarked Jude obscurely, and Sara wished she could combat his mocking insolence. But Harriet took no offence at his ironic tone, and accepted the drink he proffered her with contemplative abstraction.

‘It seems a shame to waste it all on a family dinner,’ she remarked, tucking her arm through Sara’s. ‘But tomorrow evening I’ve arranged a little party, so we can look forward to that.’

‘Oh, really …’ Sara moved her shoulders in some embarrassment. ‘You don’t have to worry about me, Aunt—I mean, Harriet.’ She flushed again at the careless error. ‘I didn’t come here to—to be entertained. I just want to earn my keep in any way I can.’

‘You will,’ remarked Jude drily, swallowing the rest of his drink in an impatient gulp, and setting the glass down on the tray. ‘Well, I must be going, ladies. Forgive my abrupt departure, Sara, but it may reassure you not to have to eat dinner with the hired help!’

Sara was embarrassed, but fortunately Harriet’s reaction overrode her involuntary denial. ‘Jude, you’re not going out tonight!’ It was a cry of frustration, made the more so by Harriet’s relinquishing Sara’s arm to grasp that of the man.

‘I’m afraid so.’ Jude was firm, and he removed Harriet’s clinging fingers from his sleeve with cool deliberation.

Harriet sucked in her breath. ‘You’re taking the girl out?’ she exclaimed angrily, and Jude inclined his head as he combed back an unruly swathe of dark hair with impatient fingers.

‘Why not? She enjoys my company,’ he confirmed, evidently immune to her disapproval, and Sara, briefly meeting the hardness of those curiously light eyes, wished herself far from this room and its discomfiting revelations.

‘Does she?’ Harriet’s response was contemptuous, but with a great effort of will she managed to control the impulse to say any more. With her fingers locked tightly together, she gave him silent permission to leave them, and Jude cast Sara a mocking glance as he let himself indolently out of the room.

Alone, the two women exchanged awkward smiles. Sara was embarrassed at having witnessed such a scene, and Harriet seemed absorbed with her thoughts, and less than willing to share them. If only she knew Harriet well enough to offer some advice, Sara thought indignantly, her earlier sense of repugnance giving way to compassion. If what she suspected was true, and Harriet did nurture some affection for the young man, she ought to be warned of his insolence and his disloyalty, for whatever else could one call his overbearing arrogance?

‘Harriet—–’

‘Sara—–’

They both started to speak, and then broke off together in the same way. Sara, half glad that she had not been allowed to finish what she had started, insisted that Harriet have her say, and the older woman patted her arm before putting down her glass.

‘I just wanted to say you mustn’t take my arguments with Jude seriously,’ she said. ‘He and I—well, we’ve known one another a long time, and sometimes—sometimes, I’m afraid, I allow familiarity to get the better of me.’

Sara was taken aback. ‘Honestly, Harriet, you don’t have to explain yourself to me—–’

‘Oh, but I do.’ Harriet was quite recovered from her upset now. ‘I mean, I wouldn’t want you to think that Jude and I don’t—understand one another.’

‘Really, Harriet—–’

‘Jude’s a little wild sometimes, that’s all,’ the older woman carried on, almost as if Sara hadn’t spoken. ‘He likes to show his independence. That’s natural. We all like to show our independence sometimes, don’t we?’

Sara shook her head. ‘It’s nothing to do with me.’

‘Oh, but it is.’ Harriet hesitated for a moment, and then, as if having second thoughts, poured herself another drink. ‘After all, you’re going to be living here—for a while at least—and so is Jude. I don’t want you to—well, take sides.’

The qualification of Harriet’s comment did not register right then. What did was the information that Jude actually lived here, in the house. But where? And how? And to what purpose?

A tap at the door brought Sara round with a start, but it was only Janet come to tell her mistress that dinner was served.

‘Yon young devil’s gone out then, has he?’ she demanded, her sharp beady eyes searching the room. ‘Rob thought he heard the car five minutes since.’

‘Yes.’ Harriet finished her second Scotch and soda and returned her glass to the tray. ‘There’ll be just the two of us, Janet, so please, let’s hear no more about it.’

Dinner was served in an attractively furnished room, with half panelled walls and a beamed ceiling. The rectangular table and heavy chairs matched their surroundings, as did the long serving cabinets and gleaming candelabra.

During the meal, Sara made a conscious effort not to think about Jude, or of his relationship with the woman she had always regarded as her aunt. After all, her position had not significantly changed. She had come here to be Harriet’s companion, and the fact that there was someone else living in the house should make no difference. She sighed, as she helped herself to spiced chicken, creamy in its rich white sauce. Why should she feel so surprised anyway? Harriet was still a very attractive woman. It was natural that she should enjoy a man’s company. But what really disturbed Sara, if she was totally honest, was the identity of the man involved, and the fact that he must be at least fifteen years younger than Harriet.

When dinner was over, they adjourned to the sitting room where they had had tea. The tray containing the coffee was set between them, and Sara relaxed before the comfortable warmth of the fire. It was going to be all right, she told herself firmly, and ignored the little voice that mocked her inexperience.

While they were eating, Harriet had said little of consequence, the comings and goings of Janet, and the young village girl, who Harriet explained came up daily to help her, serving to make any private conversation impossible. But now that they were alone again Harriet became more loquacious, casting any trace of melancholy aside, and applying herself to learning more about Sara herself.

‘Tell me,’ she said, confidingly, leaning towards her, ‘you’re what? Twenty-one years old now?’

‘Almost,’ Sara agreed, and Harriet continued: ‘Twenty, then. Reasonably mature, in these permissive days. You must have had lots of boy-friends, mixing with the kind of people your father generally cultivated.’

Sara shrugged. ‘Not many. Daddy—Daddy was quite strict, actually. He—he didn’t encourage me to accept invitations from other journalists.’

Harriet seemed pleased. ‘No?’ She hesitated. ‘I suspected as much. Charles, in common with others of his kind, probably followed the maxim, do as I say, not as I do!’

‘Daddy wanted to protect me.’ Sara could not let Harriet cast any slur on her father’s reputation, no matter how deserved. ‘But it wasn’t necessary,’ she added, pleating the skirt of her dress with sudden concentration. ‘I was quite capable of taking care of myself. Boarding school taught me a lot.’

Harriet nodded. ‘So—no boy-friends?’

Sara shrugged. ‘Some.’

‘But no one serious.’

‘No.’ Sara didn’t quite know whether she liked this form of questioning, but then she consoled herself with the thought that no doubt Harriet wanted to assure herself that no young man was likely to come and take her away, just as they were getting used to one another.

‘Good.’ Harriet smiled now. ‘I think we’re going to get on very well.’

‘I hope so.’

Harriet finished her coffee, and then lay back in her chair, regarding Sara with apparent affection. ‘You know,’ she said, ‘I’ve always wanted a daughter. Someone to talk to, to share my thoughts with, someone young and beautiful like you …’

‘You’re very kind.’

Sara grimaced, but Harriet was serious. ‘I mean it,’ she said. ‘Once I hoped, but—it was not to be.’ She shook her head. ‘You don’t know what it means to me, now that you’re here.’

‘I just hope I can make myself useful.’ Sara paused. ‘You still haven’t told me what you would like me to do.’

‘Oh, don’t worry about it.’ Harriet lifted her hand, as if it was of no consequence. ‘There’s plenty of time for that. Settle down first, get the feel of the place, adjust to our way of life. Then we’ll start worrying about what there is for you to do.’

Sara sighed. ‘I don’t want to be a parasite.’

‘You won’t be that, my dear.’

‘No, but—well, if there’s not a lot for me to do here, perhaps I could take a job, even a part-time one, to help support—–’

‘I wouldn’t hear of it.’ Harriet sat upright. ‘I’m not a poor woman, Sara. One extra mouth to feed is not going to bankrupt me. And besides, there’ll be plenty for you to do, you’ll see.’

Sara was doubtful. Her foolish ideas of changing library books, reading to her aunt, or taking her for drives in the country, seemed so remote now and she didn’t honestly see what she could do to earn her keep.

‘Now, you’ll need some money,’ Harriet went on in a businesslike tone. ‘I propose to make you a monthly allowance, paid in advance, of course, and deposited to your account at the bank in Buford.’

‘I do have a little money,’ Sara protested, but Harriet waved her objections aside.

‘Keep it,’ she said. ‘You don’t know when a little capital might come in handy. Take the allowance, Sara. It would please me.’

Sara shook her head a trifle bemusedly. She was grateful to Harriet, more grateful than she could ever say; but vaguely apprehensive too, although of what she could not imagine. It was like a dream come true, this house, her room—Harriet’s kindness. Surely even Laura could have no complaints in such idyllic surroundings.

Jude had not returned when Sara went to bed. Janet brought hot chocolate and biscuits at ten o’clock, and by the time Sara had drunk hers, her eyes were drooping. It had been a long day, and in many ways an exhausting one, not least on her nerves, and she was relieved when Harriet suggested she should retire.

‘You must get your beauty sleep, darling,’ she remarked, lifting her cheek for Sara to kiss, and the girl hid her slight embarrassment as she quickly left the room.

The stairs were shadowy, now that the chandelier was no longer lit, but her room was warm and cosy. Someone had been in, in her absence, and turned down her bed, the rose-pink sheets soft and inviting, folded over the downy quilt.

Sara quickly shed her clothes and replaced them with a pair of cotton pyjamas. Then, after cleaning her teeth and removing her make-up, she slid between the sheets with eager anticipation. It was so good to feel the mattress yielding to her supple young body, and she curled her toes deliciously against the silky poplin. Sleep, she thought, that was what she needed. Right now, her mind was too confused to absorb any deeper impressions.

She must have fallen asleep immediately. She scarcely remembered turning out the lamp, but she awakened with a start to find her room in total darkness, so she must have done. She knew at once what had awakened her. The sound was still going on. And she lay there shivering unpleasantly, as the voices that had disturbed her sleep continued. She couldn’t hear everything that they were saying. Only now and then, Harriet’s voice rose to a crescendo and a tearful phrase emerged above the rest. For the most part it was a low and angry exchange, with Jude’s attractive tenor deepened to a harsh and scathing invective.

Sara located the sound as coming from a room some distance along the corridor. Harriet’s room perhaps, at its position above the stairs: a likely explanation why their voices carried so well. The echoing vault of the hall would act as an acoustic, throwing the sounds back at her with unwelcome resonance.

Drawing the quilt over her head, she endeavoured to deafen herself to the exchange, but it was impossible. Phrases like: You don’t care how you hurt me! and Jude, please! were unmistakable, and Sara would have rather slept in the stables than be an unwilling witness to such humiliation.

The sounds ceased with sudden abruptness. A door slammed, footsteps sounded—descending the stairs?—and then silence enveloped the old house once again. Sara expelled her breath on a gulp, and only as she did so did she realise she had been holding it. It was stupid, but even her breathing had thundered in her ears while they were rowing, her heart hammering noisily as she struggled to bury her head in the pillows.

Turning on to her back, she now strained her ears to hear anything at all, but there was nothing. Only the haunting cry of an owl as it swooped low over the house disturbed the stillness, and her limbs trembled weakly as she realised it was over.

What time was it? she wondered, and gathering herself with difficulty, she leaned over and switched on the bedside lamp. The little carriage clock glinted in the shadows, its pointers showing a quarter to two. Goodness, she thought, switching the light out again, it was the middle of the night!

Of course, it was impossible to get back to sleep again. The first exhausted hours were over, and had she not had the proof of seeing the time for herself, she would have guessed it was almost morning. She felt wide awake, and restless, and with what had just happened to disturb her thoughts she knew it was hopeless to expect to relax.

After lying for perhaps fifteen minutes, staring into the darkness, she leaned over again and switched the lamp back on. The clock chimed as she did so, just one delightful little ring to mark the hour, and she gazed at it disconsolately, wishing it was later. It wouldn’t be light for hours and she had learned to hate the darkness since her father’s death. She remembered everything connected with that night so clearly, not least the clammy coldness of her father’s skin when she had tried to wake him …

Unable to bear the connotation, Sara swung her legs out of bed and pushed her toes into her slippers. She needed something to make her sleep, but the tablets the doctor had given her she had flushed down the lavatory. And in any case, lately, she had not needed anything. Living with Laura had helped her get things into perspective, and time and healthy exhaustion had done the rest. But tonight was different. She was in a strange house, in a strange bed—and the argument that had woken her had implications she could not ignore. Was this what her father had meant when he had spoken of Harriet having troubles of her own? Had he known of Jude’s existence? Or the relationship between them?