Читать книгу A Woman Of Passion - Anne Mather, Anne Mather - Страница 6

THE man was there again. Helen could see him striding away along the shoreline, the creamy waves lapping the soles of his canvas boots. It was almost impossible to make out any distinguishing features from this distance, but he was tall and dark-haired, and the way he walked made her think he was not seeking recognition. On the contrary, if she was an imaginative female—which she’d always assured herself she wasn’t—she’d have speculated that he took his walk so early to avoid meeting anyone.

She had no idea who he was. And doubted that if she’d observed him at any other time of the day he’d have aroused any interest at all. But for the past three mornings—ever since her arrival, in fact—she had seen him walking the beach at six a.m. Always alone, and always too far away for her to identify him.

Of course, if she herself had not been suffering the effects of the time-change between London and Barbados, she probably wouldn’t have been awake at six a.m. But, as yet, her metabolism hadn’t adapted to a five-hour time-lag, and each morning she’d found herself leaning on her balcony rail, waiting for the sun to make its appearance.

And it was probably just as well that the man chose to walk along the shoreline, she reflected ruefully. Standing here, in only the thin cotton shift she wore to sleep in, she would not have liked to think herself observed. At this hour of the morning, when no one else in the villa was awake, she could enjoy the beauty of her surroundings unhindered. Once the children were awake—and Tricia—her time was no longer her own.

Yet she shouldn’t complain, she told herself severely. Without Tricia’s help, she had no idea what she’d have done. A young woman of twenty-two, with no particular skills or talents, was anathema. Would-be employers wanted written qualifications, not heartfelt assurances that she could do the job they had to offer.

Of course, until her father’s untimely death, she hadn’t given a lot of thought to earning her own living. She’d been reasonably well educated, though she’d be the first to admit she was no academic. Nevertheless, she had attended an exclusive girls’ school and an equally exclusive finishing-school in Switzerland, and she’d considered herself admirably suited to maintain her role in life.

Which had been what? She pulled a wry face now. Well, to find a man like her father, she supposed—or like the man she had thought her father to be—and get married, raise a family, and repeat the process with her own children.

She sighed. Only it wasn’t to be. She wondered if her father had given any thought to her dilemma when he’d taken his yacht out for the last time. Had he really jumped, or had he only fallen? With the sea calm and the yacht found drifting, unmanned, ten miles south of the Needles, it was hard not to think the worst.

Naturally, she had been distraught when they brought her the news. She couldn’t believe that her father, who had been an excellent yachtsman, could actually have drowned. And the fact that they’d not found his body had kept her hopes alive. Whatever the coastguards said, he wasn’t dead.

But he was. His body had been found a couple of days later, and the realisation that she was alone now had been numbing. Even at the funeral she’d half expected James Gregory to come striding into the chapel. It was strange how that had sustained her through all the interminable expressions of grief.

Afterwards, however, while the guests were making a rather unsympathetic attack on the splendid buffet the housekeeper had provided, Max Thomas, her father’s solicitor, had drawn her aside. And in a few short words he had swept the ground from under her feet. Her father, it appeared, had been destitute. For years he’d been Iiving on borrowed time, and now that time had run out.

Incredibly, considering the affluent lifestyle they had enjoyed, James Gregory had been in serious financial difficulties. The estate he’d inherited from his father—and which had supported successive generations of Gregorys—was bankrupt. In spite of the pleas of his tenants for an injection of capital, no help had been offered. And, although a couple of years ago he had had the idea of opening the house and grounds to the public, that too had proved unsuccessful without the proper investment.

Remembering all those holidays in the Caribbean, the winters spent in Gstaad, the summers in the South of France, Helen had had no doubt as to how her father had spent his money. And he’d never betrayed his anxieties to her. She’d always had everything she’d ever wanted.

Maybe if her mother had still been around things would have been different. There was no doubt that Fleur Gregory’s departure, when Helen had been barely four years old, had had a salutary effect on her father. Until then he’d seemed quite content to live in the country. But her mother had found country life boring, and she’d eventually run off with a wealthy polo-player from Florida she’d met at a party in town.

That was when James Gregory had bought the London apartment, but, from Helen’s point of view, living in London had seemed rather boring at first. She had missed her friends, and she had missed the horses, and although they continued to spend holidays at Conyers it had never been quite the same.

Of course as she’d got older and started school her attitudes had changed. Her friends had been in London then. They had been young people from a similar background. And the boyfriends she’d eventually collected had all been as fun-loving as her father.

But her father had only been what she had made him, she reflected sadly, remembering how devastated she’d been to learn that her father had been borrowing money on the strength of securities he no longer owned. The estate had not one, but three mortgages hanging over it, and with the interest that was owing and death duties, there’d been precious little left.

The following months had been harrowing. Coming to terms with her father’s death would have been bad enough; coming to terms with the fact of his probable suicide had been infinitely worse.

Everything had had to be sold, even her car and the little jewellery she’d owned, and because her father’s only living relative was an elderly aunt, who’d disowned him long ago, Helen had had to deal with all the awful details herself. Max Thomas had helped, but even he had had no idea how distressing it had been. People who had once professed themselves her father’s friends had cut her dead in the street. Young men who’d phoned her constantly had suddenly been out of reach.

Not that Helen had particularly cared about her sudden loss of status. The hardest thing to bear was the absence of the one person she had really loved. She didn’t blame her father for what he’d done, but she did miss him. And she wished he had confided in her before taking that final step.

She could have contacted her mother’s sister, she supposed. Aunt Iris must have read about what had happened in the newspapers, but she hadn’t been in touch. Besides, Helen had shied away from the idea of asking for charity from the Warners. She and her father had had nothing to do with them in recent years, and it would have been hypocritical to ask for help now.

Nevertheless, things had been fairly desperate when she’d run into Tricia Sheridan in Marks & Spencer’s. In the four months since her father died she hadn’t been able to find a job, and although she had only been living in a bed-sitter, the rent had still to be paid. Office managers, store managers—all wanted more than the paltry qualifications she had to offer. The only position that had been open to her was a forecourt attendant at a petrol station, and she had been seriously thinking of taking it when Tricia came along.

Tricia, whose husband worked for the Foreign Office, had been living in Singapore for the past two years. She was older than Helen; she had been a prefect when Helen was still in middle school, but because of her prowess at sports all the younger girls had admired her.

She had singled Helen out for attention because Helen’s father had presented the school with a new gymnasium. A gymnasium he couldn’t afford, Helen reflected sadly now. But at the time she’d been so proud of his generosity.

Tricia had quickly discerned Helen’s situation. And had been quick to offer assistance. Why didn’t Helen come to work for her? she’d suggested. She needed a nanny, and she was sure Helen could cope.

It had all happened so quickly that Helen hadn’t really stopped to ask herself why—if five-year-old Henry and four-year-old Sophie were such poppets—Tricia didn’t have a nanny already. The other woman’s explanation that as they had been out of the country for some time they were out of touch with current agencies, hadn’t really held water, when she’d had time to think about it. She’d simply been so relieved to be offered a job that she’d agreed to her terms without question.

She supposed she’d had some naive idea that there were still people in the world who did do things out of the kindness of their hearts. Even after all the awful experiences she’d had, she’d actually been prepared to take Tricia’s offer at face value. She needed a job; Tricia was offering one. And the salary was considerably larger than any she’d been offered thus far.

In addition to which she would not have to pay the rent on the bed-sitter. Naturally, Tricia had declared, she must live in. Nannies always lived in, she’d said. It was one of the advantages of the job.

Helen wondered now whether she would have stuck it as long as she had if she had not given up her bedsit. In a short time she’d discovered that, far from being out of touch with the agencies, Tricia had, in fact, tried several before offering the post to her. Unfortunately, her requirements did not jell with most modern-day nannies. They were either too old, or too flighty, or they couldn’t follow orders, she’d declared, when Helen had mentioned her findings. But Helen had a theory that they simply refused to be treated as servants.

In any event, beggars couldn’t be choosers, and in the three months since she’d been working for the Sheridans, Helen had discovered it wasn’t all bad. Tricia was selfish and demanding, and she did expect the younger woman to turn her hand to anything if required. But, when their mother wasn’t around to encourage them, Henry and Sophie were fun to be with, and Andrew Sheridan was really rather nice.

Not that he was around much, Helen conceded, cupping her chin on her hand and watching the man who had started her introspection disappear into the belt of palms that fringed the far end of the beach. His work took him away a lot, which might have some bearing on Tricia’s uncertain temper. That, and the fact that he never seemed to take her seriously. As easy-going as he was, Helen could quite see how frustrating it must be to try and sustain his attention.

For herself, she imagined a lot of people would consider her position a sinecure. After all, she had her own room, she was fed and watered regularly, and the salary she was earning meant she could put a considerable amount each month into her savings account. If her hours were long, and a little erratic, she had nothing else to do. And at least Tricia didn’t feel sorry for her, even if she could be a little patronising at times.

Still, she wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for Tricia, she reminded herself firmly, lifting her face to the first silvery rays of sunlight that swept along the shoreline. The fine sand, which until then had had an opalescent sheen, now warmed to palest amber, and the ocean’s depths glinted with a fragile turquoise light. Colours that had been muted lightened, and a breeze brushed her calves beneath her muslin hem.

It was all incredibly beautiful, and the temptation was to linger, and enjoy the strengthening warmth of the sun. Helen felt as if she could watch the constant movement of the waves forever. There was a timelessness about them that soothed her nerves and renewed her sense of worth.

But she had spent quite long enough thinking about the past, she decided. Turning back into her bedroom, she viewed her tumbled bed with some remorse. It would have been so easy to crawl back into its comfort. Why was it she felt sleepy now, when an hour ago she couldn’t rest?

The room, like all the rooms in the villa Tricia had rented, was simply furnished: a bed, a couple of rattan chairs, a chest of drawers. There was a fitted wardrobe between this room and its adjoining bathroom, and louvred shutters on the windows to keep it cool. The bedrooms weren’t air-conditioned, even though Tricia had kicked up something of a fuss when she’d discovered this. However, the maid who looked after the villa had remained impassive. There was nothing she could do about it, she said. Perhaps the lady would prefor to stay at the hotel?

Tricia hadn’t preferred. It was far too convenient to have their own place with their own kitchen, where Henry and Sophie could take their meals without constant supervision. In addition to which, the place belonged to a business friend of Andrew’s. And he would not be amenable to them transferring to an hotel.

As she took her shower—tepid water, but refreshing—Helen remembered that Tricia’s husband was joining them today. He hadn’t accompanied them out to the Caribbean. Tricia had explained that there were meetings he had to attend, but Helen suspected Andrew had simply wanted to avoid such a long journey with two demanding children. As it was, she had had to spend most of the flight playing card games with Henry. Tricia and Sophie had fallen asleep, but Henry had refused to close his eyes.

Still, they were here now, and for the next four weeks surely she could relax and enjoy the sun. She’d already discovered that it was easier entertaining her young charges when the beach was on their doorstep. So long as Tricia didn’t get bored, and insist on giving parties every night.

The shower left her feeling refreshed and decidedly more optimistic, and after straightening the sheets on the bed she pulled on cotton shorts, which were all she wore over her bikini. It had been Tricia’s suggestion that she dress like one of the family. Any attempt to dress formally here would have seemed foolish.

It was only a little after half-past six when Helen emerged from the villa and crossed the terrace. Her feet were bare, and she took care not to stand on any of the prostrate beetles, lying on their backs on the tiles. These flying beetles mostly appeared at night, attracted by the artificial light, and, although she knew they were harmless, Helen had still to get used to their size and speed of movement. She had a horror of finding one in her bed, and she was always glad when Maria, the maid, brought out her broom and swept them away.

Beyond the terrace, a stretch of grass and a low stone wall was all that separated the grounds of the villa from the beach. Although she would have liked to go for a walk along the beach herself, Helen knew the children would be getting up soon and demanding her attention. It was no use expecting Maria to keep an eye on them when she arrived to prepare breakfast. Likeable though she was, she was also lazy, and looking after infants was not her job.

Perching on the wall, Helen drew one leg up to her chin and wrapped her arms around it. The sun was definitely gaining in strength, and she could feel its heat upon her bare shoulders. Although her skin seldom burned, she had taken to wearing a screening cream this holiday. The sun had a definite edge to it these days, and she had no wish to risk its dangers.

All the same, it was amazing to think that the temperature in England was barely above freezing. When they had left London three days ago, it had actually been snowing. But February here was one of the nicest months of the year. There was little of the humidity that built up later on.

The water beyond the beach was dazzling. It was tinged with gold now, its blue-green brilliance reflective as it surged towards the shore. Helen had already found that its power could sweep an unwary bather from her feet. Its smoothness was deceptive, and she had learned to be wary.

Fortunately, there was a shallow pool in the grounds of the villa where the youngsters could practise their strokes. They’d both learned to swim while they were living in Singapore, and although their skills were limited they could safely stay afloat. Helen had spent most of yesterday morning playing with them in the pool. Tricia had gone into Bridgetown, to look up some old friends.

‘Helen!’

Henry’s distinctive call interrupted her reverie, and, turning her head, she saw both children standing on the veranda, waving at her. They were still in their pyjamas, and she got resignedly to her feet. Until it was time for their afternoon nap, Tricia expected her to take control.

‘Have you been for a swim?’ asked Sophie resentfully, as Helen walked along the veranda to their room. She pointed at the damp braid of streaked blonde hair that lay over one shoulder. ‘You should’ve waked us. We could have come with you.’

‘Woken us,’ said Helen automatically, realising as she did so how quickly she had fallen into the role of nursemaid. ‘And, no. I haven’t been for a swim, as it happens.’ She shooed them back into their bedroom. ‘I had a shower, that’s all. That’s why my hair is wet.’

‘Why didn’t you dry it?’ began Sophie, then Henry turned on his little sister.

‘For God’s sake,’ he exclaimed, ‘give it a rest, can’t you?’ He flushed at Helen’s reproving stare. ‘Well—she’s such a stupid girl.’

‘I’m not stupid!’

Sophie responded loudly enough, but her eyes had filled with tears. She always came off worst in any argument with her brother, and although she tried to be his equal she usually lost the battle.

‘I don’t think this conversation is getting us anywhere, do you?’ declared Helen smoothly. ‘And, Henry—if you want to make a statement, kindly do so without taking God’s name in vain.’

‘Mummy does,’ he muttered, though he’d expected Helen’s reproof. ‘In any case, I’m hungry. Has Maria started breakfast?’

‘I doubt it.’ Helen started the shower as the two children began to unbutton their pyjamas. ‘She hasn’t arrived yet, as far as I know.’

‘Not arrived?’ Henry sounded horrified. ‘But I want something to eat.’

‘Then we’ll have to see what she’s left in the fridge,’ said Helen calmly. ‘Now, come on, Sophie. You’re first.’

By the time the children were bathed and dressed, Helen had already refereed a dozen arguments. Anyone who thought having children of a similar age automatically meant they would be company for one another couldn’t be more wrong, Helen reflected drily. In some circumstances it might work, and she was prepared to accept that there must be exceptions, but Henry and Sophie were in constant competition, and it didn’t make for amiable dispositions.

To her relief, Maria had arrived and was making the morning’s batch of rolls, when they arrived in the kitchen in search of breakfast. ‘Morning, Miss Gregory,’ she greeted Helen with a smile. ‘You’re up and about very early.’

‘I guess it’s because I still haven’t got used to the fact that it’s not lunchtime already,’ replied Helen. She rubbed her flat stomach with a rueful hand. ‘It’s the hunger that does it. We’re all ravenous!’

‘Well, sit down, sit down. I’ve a batch of rolls in the oven that’ s almost ready. Why don’t you have some orange juice, while you’re waiting? Or there’s some grapefruit in the fridge, if you’d prefer it.’

‘I don’t want grapefruit,’ said Sophie, wrinkling her nose, but Henry only looked at her with contempt.

‘I do,’ he declared, though Helen knew he didn’t like it. ‘You’re just a baby. You still drink milk.’

‘I drink milk, too,’ said Helen firmly, before it could deteriorate into another argument. ‘Would you like orange juice, Sophie? That’s what I’m going to have.’

‘Mmm,’ Sophie was off-hand, until she saw her brother’s face when Helen put half a grapefruit in front of him. Then she gave him a mocking smirk, and sipped her juice with exaggerated enjoyment.

Helen was helping herself to a second cup of coffee when Tricia appeared in the kitchen doorway. She wasn’t dressed yet. She was wearing a trailing chiffon négligé, and her reddish hair hadn’t been combed and stood out around her head. A tall woman, whose adolescent athleticism hadn’t continued into adulthood, Tricia had a constant battle to remain slim. It was a fact that she resented and which caused her some irritation. She regarded the little group around the table now without liking, and when Sophie would have slid off her chair and run to greet her mother she waved her back.

‘D’you have any aspirin, Maria?’ she asked, with a weary tilt of her head. ‘I’ve got the most God-awful headache. It must have been that seafood you served us last night. Are you sure it was fresh?’

It was hardly the way to gain Maria’s sympathy, and before the woman could make any comment, Helen pushed back her chair. ‘I’ve got some paracetamol,’ she offered. ‘It’s good for headaches.’ Particularly hangovers, she added silently, recalling how Tricia had drunk the best part of two bottles of wine the night before.

‘Oh, have you?’ Tricia turned to her with some relief. ‘D’you think you could bring them to my room? I think I’ll stay in bed this morning.’

‘But you said you’d take us into town this morning,’ Henry protested, not yet old enough to know when to keep his mouth shut, and his mother turned on him angrily.

‘What a selfish boy you are!’ she exclaimed. ‘Always thinking of yourself. Perhaps you’d like to spend the morning in bed as well. It might make you realise I’m not doing it for fun.’

‘Oh, Mummy—’

‘I don’t think Henry meant to upset you,’ put in Helen hurriedly, earning a grateful look from her young charge. ‘Why don’t you go back to bed, as you say, Tricia? I’ll get the paracetamol, and then bring your breakfast on a tray. I’m sure you could manage a croissant, and Maria’s brought some mango jelly and it’s delicious.’

‘Well…’ Tricia adopted a petulant air. ‘That does sound nice, Helen, but I don’t know if I’ll be able to eat anything. My head’s throbbing, and I’m sure I’m running a temperature. I may have to call the doctor if it doesn’t let up soon.’

‘I’m sorry.’

Helen could sympathise with her. Having a headache in a hot climate always seemed so much worse. The light was so bright, for one thing, and there seemed no escape from the heat.

Tricia sighed. ‘Perhaps if you brought me some coffee?’ she suggested. ‘And a little orange juice to wash the tablets down. Oh—and maybe a lightly boiled egg, hmm? And do you think you could find a slice of toast?’

‘Leave it to me.’

Helen ushered the other woman out of the room, before she could remember the threat she’d made to Henry. Then, when Tricia was safely installed in her bedroom, she returned to the kitchen to find Maria grinning broadly.

‘Just a lightly boiled egg,’ she declared wryly. ‘And some coffee and some orange juice and some toast…’ She paused to give Helen a wink. ‘Did I miss something?’

Helen wouldn’t let herself be drawn. All the same, it wasn’t the first time Tricia had spent the morning in bed. When they were in London, she had seldom seen her employer before lunchtime. If Tricia wasn’t attending some function or other, she rarely got up before noon.

When the tray was prepared, she collected the paracetamol from her room and delivered it in person. Tricia was lying back against the pillows, shading her eyes with a languid wrist, which she removed when Helen came into the room.

‘Oh, there you are,’ she said. ‘What have you been doing? I’ve been waiting ages.’

‘Just five minutes,’ Helen assured her, depositing the legs of the tray across her knees. ‘Now, if you want me, I’ll be on the beach. I’m going to take the children to search for shells.’

Tricia shuffled into a sitting position, and reached for the orange juice. ‘Well, don’t be long,’ she said, swallowing the tablets Helen had given her with a mouthful of the juice. ‘You’re going to have to go and pick Drew up from the airport. I can’t possibly do it. His plane is due in just after two.’

Helen stared at her. ‘But that’s this afternoon. You’ll probably be feeling perfectly all right by then.’

‘I won’t. I never feel all right until the evening,’ replied Tricia firmly. ‘And driving all that way in these conditions—well, it’s simply out of the question.’

Helen took a breath. ‘He’ll be expecting you to pick him up,’ she said carefully.

‘Then he’ll be disappointed, won’t he?’ Tricia regarded her testily. ‘My God, you’re almost as bad as Henry. Does no one care that I’ve got a migraine? I can’t help it if I’m not well.’

‘No.’ Helen moistened her lips. She’d already learned that there was no point in arguing with Tricia when she was in this mood. ‘Well—will you take care of Sophie and Henry, then? I don’t think Maria is willing—’

‘Can’t they go with you?’

Tricia stared at her impatiently, and Helen realised she wasn’t being given a choice. She couldn’t leavethe children to look after themselves. But it was almost an hour to the airport, and Sophie, particularly, didn’t travel well.

‘Can we leave it until nearer lunchtime?’ she suggested, hoping against hope that Tricia might have changed her mind by then. She’d have thought her employer would have been keen to see her husband again. It was several days since they’d come away.

‘I expect you to go and meet Drew,’ Tricia informed her inflexibly, and Helen couldn’t help thinking that there was no sign of the frail invalid they had encountered earlier. ‘Must I remind you that if it wasn’t for me you might not have a job? Let alone a well-paid one in enviable surroundings.’

‘No.’ Helen felt her colour deepen. ‘I mean—yes. Yes, I do appreciate it.’ She turned towards the door. ‘I’ll-tell the children.’

‘Good.’ Tricia attacked her egg with evident enthusiasm. ‘Just so long as we understand one another, Helen. I don’t like pulling rank here, but it really had to be said.’