BOOKS BY ANNE MATHER 8 страница

"You can't give me orders," she protested. "I'm not Bolt!"

Dominic's expression was brooding. "I had noticed. Bolt isn't half the nuisance you are."

"I'm sorry."

Helen was rapidly losing what little composure she had. It had all been too much for her - his cruel indictment of her this evening, the tension that escaping from the house had brought, and flow this crash and the miserable ending to all her hopes seemed the last straw. Her shoulders sagged and she felt tears rolling helplessly down her cheeks. She had never felt so wretched.

Dominic heard a stifled sob and turned to look at her. His eyes narrowed as they took in the pitiful picture she made, snow still clinging to her clothes and her hair, and an utterly defeated expression on her face.

"Oh, Helen!" he exclaimed impatiently, and before she realised what he was about to do, he had swung her up into his arms and begun walking up the road towards the house.

Helen's arms were about his neck, her head was pillowed against his chest, and she felt a sweet warmth welling up inside her. But then she remembered his hip and said anxiously: "Please - put me down! I - I can walk. You- you shouldn't be carrying me."

"I'm not completely helpless," he remarked, his jaw taut, and although she tried to get him to look at her, he wouldn't. Helen submitted and gave herself up to the pure delight of just being in his arms and for several minutes they went on in silence.

They had topped the rise which had been the start of Helen's troubles when she heard the sound of a tractor and turning her head she saw Bolt driving towards them. He stopped just ahead of them and swung down, his face eloquent of his disapproval.

"I've been as quick as I could!" he exclaimed, shaking his head. "Give her to me. Is she badly hurt?"

"I'm all right, Bolt, really." Helen raised her head, but she realised that most of Bolt's concern was for his employer.

Dominic allowed Bolt to take his burden and Helen felt rather like an unwanted parcel.

"If you'll put me down, I can walk," she protested again, but no one took any notice of her. They walked the few yards back to the house and Helen was made overwhelmingly aware that Dominic's limp was now markedly pronounced and that Bolt somehow blamed her for it And it was her fault, after all, she thought miserably.

There was a certain anti-climax about re-entering the building and Bolt set her on her feet in the hall and said: "Go along up to bed, miss. I'll fetch you a hot drink in a few minutes."

"That's not necessary -" she was beginning, but she was talking to herself. Dominic had limped into the living room and Bolt had followed him, closing the door on Helen with a firmness that was almost a physical reproof. She looked up the stairs, tears coming to her eyes again. They were clearly not concerned that she might make another attempt to escape tonight, and who could blame them? Besides, she felt so shattered that she doubted if she would ever be able to summon up enough enthusiasm to ever try such a thing again.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Helen wasn't aware whether Bolt came up with a hot drink or not. Exhaustion closed her eyes almost as soon as her head touched the pillow and she didn't know another thing until a watery sun was pressing faint rays through the curtains drawn across her windows. She propped herself up on her elbows expecting to have a hangover from the headache of the night before, but she hadn't. And when she went to examine her forehead she found only a grazed bruise to signify the bump she had sustained, and her hair would conceal that.

She bathed and dressed in a short green pleated skirt and lemon shirt and was brushing her hair before the dressing table mirror when Bolt arrived with her breakfast tray.

"Mr. Lyall wants to see you", miss," he told her, as he set down the tray, and there was none of the usual warmth in his voice which she had come to expect from him.

"Do you know why?" she asked.

Bolt shook his head. "Mr. Lyall will explain when you see him, miss," he replied, and walked towards the door.

"Bolt!" Helen went after him. "Bolt, what's wrong? You're surely not - angry with me - for trying to get away?"

"No, miss."

"You are angry." Helen sighed. "Bolt, you said yesterday you didn't want to see me hurt. Surely you realise that the longer I stay here the more likely that possibility will be?"

"Yes, miss."

"Oh, Bolt, please! Try to understand-"

"I do understand, miss."

"So why are you - like this?"Her brows knit together. "Unless -unless you're soiry I didn't succeed?"

"Yes, miss."

Helen gasped. "You are? I mean - you wanted me to go?"

"It would have been the best thing."

"And you guessed I'd try," she murmured wonderingly. "It was you who left the keys in the ignition."

Bolt shrugged. "There are no thieves around here, miss. The keys are usually left in the ignition."

"Even so..." Helen shook her head. "I - I didn't realise you felt that strongly about it."

Bolt's jaw tightened. "You're doing no good here, miss. No good to anybody."

And with this cryptic comment, he left her.

Helen sat down to her breakfast with a heavy heart. For a week now, Bolt had been her shield against Dominic's indifference, her friend in spite of their unique positions. And now it seemed even his friendship was to be denied her. And what did Dominic want? What possible reason could he have for sending for her unless it was to issue some new punishment for last night's ill doings.

She examined the contents of the tray. Cereal, ham and eggs, toast and marmalade; they might as well have been sawdust for all the interest she had in them.

The idea of eating anything made her feel physically sick, but she did manage to drink a cup of coffee to calm her nerves.

When she eventually carried the tray downstairs she couldn't help but be relieved that Bolt was not in the kitchen. She quickly scraped her untouched food into the waste disposal and switched on, glad that Bolt was not there to see it. As she waited for the machine to do its work she noticed a neat pile of clothes laid on a chair. They were the things she had taken off the previous day after that scene in the sauna room, expertly laundered and ironed, and waiting for her. A lump rose in her throat She felt hopelessly emotional. How could she go and face Dominic Lyall like this?

Calming herself, she left the kitchen and crossed the hall to the living room. Opening the door tentatively, she peered inside, but Dominic was not there. Of course, no doubt he was working in his study at this hour. She knocked at the study door, but there was no reply. A look inside assured her that he was not there either. A frown crossed her pale face. Where could he be?

"Mr. Lyall's in bed, miss." Bolt was standing on the stairs. "If I'd known you'd finished your breakfast, I'd have come along to get you."

Helen's lips parted. "Is-is he ill?"

Bolt turned. "Come this way, miss."

They went back upstairs and turned left towards Dominic's rooms. Bolt opened a door and ushered her inside and she found herself in an austere bedroom, as unlike her own it was possible to be. The floor was polished wood, with only a couple of rugs for adornment, and the plain walls were bare. The bed was like the one in her room, but with a plain beige woven spread, and cool air issued from open windows. But although these things registered, Helen's eyes were irresistibly drawn to the man in the bed, propped on pillows, his dark face pale and drawn, a navy silk dressing gown visible above the bedclothes.

His gaze flickered over her to Bolt. "All right, Bolt," he said. "You can leave us."

"Yes, sir."

Bolt withdrew and Dominic returned his attention to Helen. "You must be wondering why I've had you brought here," he said quietly.

Helen's fingers curled into her palms. "Why are you in bed?" she burst out. "Is your hip very bad?"

Dominic's expression hardened. "Shall we leave my condition out of this?" he remarked harshly, "You're here because I've decided to let you go."

"To - to let me go!" Helen was astounded and looked it.

"That's right. Bolt has serviced your car and it's now in perfect working order. He's presently packing your cases in readiness for your departure."

Helen couldn't take it in. "But - but - what about you? I mean, are you ready to leave, too?"

Dominic shook his head. "I think not. We'll have to trust you not to reveal our whereabouts."

Helen licked her dry lips. Oh, God, she thought despairingly, she didn't want to go! Not now - with him here, in bed.

"What's wrong? Why are you in bed?" she exclaimed again. "Please, I want to know."

Dominic's lips thinned. "Why? Does it give you satisfaction to see how weak I am?"

"You're not weak-"

"Puerile, then. What does it matter? You'll soon forget all about me and my stupid ailments." His fingers clenched round the sheet.

"I won't." The words were torn from her. "Dominic, I—"

"Please leave." His voice was cold and final. "Goodbye. With the instructions Bolt willgive you, you should have no difficulty in reaching the main road."

Helen twisted her hands together. "I won't leave if you don't want me to," she whispered piteously.

But he was completely ruthless. "My dear girl, I never wanted you here in the first place!"

Bolt was coming out of her bedroom as she walked blindly along the landing. He had her suitcases in his hands and she thought that for a brief moment she glimpsed something like sympathy in his eyes. But then it was gone again and he was indicating that she should precede him down the stairs.

"I've got everything," he said, in that expressionless voice he had used earlier- "Willyou get your coat, or shall I?"

"I - I will." Helen opened the cloakroom door. "Oh, and there were some things I was going to thank you for attending to - "

"From the kitchen? They're in the case, miss. Is that all?"

Helen nodded and she had perforce to accompany him outside. Her car had been brought to the door, and she saw that he had taken the trouble to sluice it clean for her. He bent and put her cases in the boot and then handed her the key.

"The other key is in the ignition," he explained, thrusting his hands into his trousers' pockets. "Are you ready?"

Helen nodded again. She didn't trust herself to speak.

"Right." Bolt took out one hand and pointed in the direction she had taken the night before. "Follow that lane for about a mile and a half and you'll see a turning off to your left. Take it and you'll come to a village. That's Hawksmere. If you ask there, 'they'll put you on the right road for wherever you want to go."

Helen nodded once more. "Thank you,” she managed chokily.

Bolt made a dismissive gesture. "It's nothing. Goodbye, miss."

"Goodbye."

Helen took one last look at the house and then at the man standing by the door and without another word clim-bed--into the driving seat, started the engine and drove away without looking back.

She reached Hawksmere before she was able to think coherently. The postmaster there directed her to the motorway, and she drove automatically, refusing to allow her aching brain to think of anything but her immediate problems. She was driving buck to London, that much was certain. Any idea she might have had about spending several weeks in the Lake District no longer appealed to her, and even the house in Barbary Square which her father shared with. Isabel offered a haven to her bruised emotions.

She didn't bother stopping for lunch on the way south. She wasn't hungry, and as the road opened up before her and the weather improved the further south she came, she put down her foot and the car sped over the ground.

It was a little after two when she drove into the Square and saw her father's grey Mercedes parked before their town house. Her nerves tightened. This was something else she had to face and she had the feeling that it wasn't going to be easy.

She drew up behind the Mercedes and climbed out, her limbs stiffened after four hours' solid motoring. She had a headache, too, but that was nothing to do with driving. It was pure nervous tension.

She locked her door and climbed the steps to the house, letting herself in with her key. The sound of the door opening brought a small dark woman into the hall and she threw up her hands in surprise when she saw Helen.

"Oh- oh, Miss Helen!" she exclaimed. "Oh, Miss Helen, thank goodness you've come home!"

Helen closed the outer door and leaned back against it for a moment, summoning all her small reserves of strength. "Hello, Bessie," she greeted her father's housekeeper quietly. "Has there been a panic?"

"A panic!" Bessie came towards 'her shaking her head. "Oh, miss, where have you been?"

"Good God! Helen!"

Helen looked up at the sound of her father's voice. He was descending the stairs at speed, staring at her as if he couldn't believe his eyes. She felt a twinge of shame when she saw the haggard lines around his eyes, and thea she was swept into his arms and hugged close against his broad chest,

"Oh, thank God, thank God! " he was murmuring, disregarding Bessie's presence entirely. "Where on earth have you been, you independent little fool! "

Helen felt the tears hovering behind her eyes, but they must not be shed. If her father thought she was crying because of seeing him, the little advantage she had gained would be lost for ever.

"Didn't you get my note?" she protested at last, as he held her at arm's length, staring at her as if he couldn't bear not to do so.

"Note? Your note? Of course I got your note. If I hadn't I'd have been half out of my mind by now. In God's name, where have you been? I've had half the private detective force in Britain looking for you!" Helen managed a smile. "Have you?" "Yes, I damn well have. And I've driven Isabel almost mad with it all. Where the devil have you been?" Helen released herself from his hands and glanced apologetically towards Bessie. "Do you think I could have some tea, Bessie?" she requested appealingly. "I haven't had a thing since -since early this morning."

"Of course you can." Bessie looked to Philip James for approval, and when it was given in the form of a brief cod, she hurried away. Then Helen's father led the way into the library, and closed the double panelled doors behind them.

"Now," he said, when she was seated in a comfortable armchair, "I want to know all about it."

Helen sighed, looking down at her hands. "Well - really, there's not much to tell."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

She shrugged. "I - I went to the Lake District."

"You did what?"

"You heard me, Daddy. I went to the Lake District. To - to that little hotel at Bowness where we used to stay when I was a child."

Philip James's eyes narrowed, and a frown came to mar his smooth forehead. "The Black Bull?"

"You remember it!" Helen forced an enthusiasm she was far from feeling. "Oh, we had some good times there, didn't we?"

Her father got up from the armchair he had placed opposite hers and walked impatiently across to the screened fireplace. Then he turned to look at her, one foot resting on the raised stone fender. "And you stayed there all this time?" he stated quietly.

"That's right." Helen uncrossed her fingers. "I expect it was the last place you'd think of looking for me."

"Indeed. The last place." He drew out a cigarette case and extracting a cigarette placed it between his lips. "And what did you hope to achieve by running away?"

Helen relaxed. It was going to be all right. Easier than she had thought, really. Her father was going to be angry with her, of course, once his initial relief at seeing her safe again had worn off, but she was confident she could handle it.

She looked at him affectionately. He wasn't so bad really, not deep down. And after the traumatic experience of this past week the problems she might have to face with him seemed trivial by comparison. A stirring of remembered agony brought a sudden devastating feeling of hopelessness and she tightened her lips and tried hard to think of what her father had asked her and nothing else.

"I - I needed time to think, Daddy," she said at last. "Time to be - on my own. To think things out for myself."

Philip James removed his foot from the fender and straightened. He was a man of medium height, but his stocky build made him appear taller than he actually was. "So," he said slowly, "I presume this conversation is indirectly to do with young Framley."

Helen shrugged. "In a way, I suppose,"

"You still insist that you don't want to marry him?"

"Yes."

"So who the hell have you been with?" her father demanded fiercely, "because I'll tell you something, Helen -you have not been staying at the Black Bull at Bowness!"

Helen was lucky that Bessie came in at that moment with the tea trolley. With the familiarity of long service, she bustled about, setting out cups and saucers, drawing attention to the plate of sandwiches and the mouth-watering toasted scones and newly baked spice cake.

"I thought you'd probably be hungry, miss," she explained warmly. "You tuck in. You look proper starved, you do. Hotel or no hotel., they haven't been feeding you properly -"

"Have you been listening at the door, Bessie?" exclaimed Philip James angrily, and the little housekeeper bristled.

"No, I have not, sir. I don't go in for eavesdropping. But can I help it if I hear you saying that Miss Helen hasn't been staying at some hotel or other?"

"That will do, Bessie,” Philip James shook his head resignedly. "You can go. Miss Helen can attend to her own needs."

The housekeeper tossed her head and left them and after she had gone Helen bent over the teapot, trying desperately not to show that she was shocked by what her father had said.

"I'm waiting, Helen." Her father resumed his scat in the armchair opposite, pressing out his half-smoked cigarette. "I want to know where you've been."

Helen hunched her shoulders. "How do you know I haven't been to Bowness?" she asked, playing for time.

"By die obvious methods. Inquiries were made. You were not registered."

"But how did you know that I might - go there?"

"I didn't. But when it became obvious that you hadn't left England, at least, not by the usual routes, I had to apply myself to the question as to where you might be."

"But Bowness!"

"Why not? We did have some good times there. I grant you that. It was an obvious possibility."

Helen moved her head slowly from side to side. So, if she had gone to the little hotel which had seemed such a haven a week ago, her father would have found her in a couple of days. It was incredible. She ought to have known that someone so astute in business would not be thwarted by a mere girl! She should have realised that and done something completely illogical. But then she would never have met Dominic Lyall, never fallen in love with him, and never suffered such pain and humiliation at his hands ...

The feeling of hopelessness deepened. Would she have wanted that? Never to know him? Never to share for a little time at least the lonely anguish of his isolation?

No. It had had to be. And now she was to know a similar anguish of her own!

"It seems a great pity to me," she said, with feeling, "that I can't go away for a few days on my own without you hiring a gang of detectives to look for me. What did you hope to achieve by finding me? What would you have done if you had found me at the Black Bull? "

Her father's nostrils flared. "Don't tempt me to demonstrate, Helen," he retorted, his patience slipping. "Now, I've asked you where you were and who you've been with. Are you going to answer me?"

Helen looked up, her long eyes slanted. "And if I say no?"

Her father got to his feet. It was as if sitting still irritated him. "Helen, for the last time -" "I haven't-been -with anybody."

"Do you expect me to believe that?"

"It doesn't really matter what you believe, does it?"

"Helen, I warn you -"

"Oh, Daddy, please! Can't I even have a cup of tea without this inquisition?"

Her father thrust his hands into his trousers' pockets. "All right, all right," he agreed, forcing himself to remain controlled with obvious difficulty. "All right. Have your tea. I can wait."

Helen poured tea, added milk, and then sipped the liquid slowly. There was something enormously revitalising about a hot cup of tea and she soon finished it and poured another. She was conscious of her father standing watching her. She could feel his antagonism growing stronger by the minute. She knew he would have liked to have hauled her out of the chair and shaken her until she gave in and told him where she had been. But she was not a child any more and such tactics did not work with her. He already knew that. She possessed too much of his own stubbornness and determination.

The food on the trolley did not appeal to her. She was empty, it was true. But it was an emptiness of the spirit rather than the body. The image of Dominic as she had last seen him, pale and drawn against his pillows, haunted her, and now that she did not have the concentration of driving to distract her she felt lost and despairing. She was desperately concerned about him, and the knowledge that he had denied any further contact between them was a shattering reality.

"Well, Helen? Are you going to tell me where you've been?"

Her father's voice brought her back to an awareness of her immediate surroundings. Helen looked up at him reluctantly.

"I don't want to argue with you, Daddy," she said quietly. "Can't you just accept that I've - well, spent a few days on my own?"

"And where did you spend those few days? At a hotel?"

Helen hesitated. "Where else?"

"That's what I'm asking you."

She sighed. "I'd rather not discuss it, if you don't mind."

"If I don't mind!" Her father's fists clenched. "Helen, explanations have to be made. Not just to me, but to the force of detectives I've hired to find you. What am I supposed to tell them?"

"Couldn't you just say that it was all a terrible mistake? That I wasn't missing at all? I mean, you had my note -"

"Do you think I showed them that?" her father scowled. "What do you take me for-a fool?"

Helen put down her empty cup. "Well, I'm sorry, Daddy, but you'll have to think of something. I don't want to talk about it."

"Why not? What happened? Helen, I may not be very astute where you're concerned, but I do know when you're putting on an act. Something's upset you - or someone! And I mean to get to the bottom of it." His eyes narrowed. "What's that bruise on your forehead? How did that happen?"

Helen touched the gra2;e with tentative fingers. "It's nothing. I bumped my head, that's all." "How did you bump your head?"

"How does anyone bump their heads? Oh, Daddy, please! I'm tired and weary. Couldn't I just go to my room?"

"Did somebody hit you? Is that what happened? Because I warn you, Helen, if that's what did happen, and I find out who it was -"

"Don't be so dramatic, Daddy. Look, you knew how I felt about Mike before I went away. I won't be manoeuvred into this marriage, I won't. And nothing you can say can make me!"

Her father paced irritably before her. "And why not? What's wrong with Michael? My God, you've spent enough time with him. I thought you were fond of one another, and so did his father."

"We were - we are, I suppose. But Daddy, being fond of someone is nor sufficient grounds for marriage -" "Why not? You don't suppose Isabel and I-" "What Isabel and you choose to do is your own affair. I want no part of it."

"Now wait a minute." Her father's face was growing red. "If you don't want to marry Michael it must be because you've found somebody else." "Oh, really, Daddy!" "Well? What's wrong with that?" "Who else am I supposed to have met, with you and Mike's father breathing down our necks every minute of the day?"

Philip sniffed. "I don't know. You could have managed it somehow." "Well, I didn't."

He looked at her squarely. "And you can tell me honestly that you've spent these last few days alone - or at least, without the company of a man?"

Helen bent her head quickly so that he should not see her face. "Yes."

"I don't believe you. I didn't believe you before, and by God! I don't believe you now. Helen, if you're lying to me-"

"What is going on here?"

The cool languid tones of Helen's stepmother were like drops of water on the heated air. For once Helen was inestimably glad to see her, although Isabel's next words were hardly welcoming.

"So you're back," she observed dryly. "I might have known. Well, Philip, is this any way to greet the prodigal lamb?"

Philip hunched his broad shoulders as he looked at his wife. "Keep out of this, Isabel," he grunted. "You're back early, aren't you? Didn't you get a game? "

"Your solicitude is overwhelming, darling, but it was too cold. Keen as I am, golf is not a game to be played with freezing fingers." She cast a speculative glance in Helen's direction. "Well, and where have you been? Spending a crafty week with the gamekeeper?" "Isabel!"

Her husband's voice silenced her and Helen got unsteadily to her feet. "May I go to my room, Daddy?" she requested quietly.

Philip James made an angry gesture. "Oh, yes - yes I go! But don't think you've heard the last of this." "No, Daddy."

Helen walked to the door with as much composure as she could muster. It was all coming back to her. The cut-and-thrust world she had been brought up in was taking over, and she hated the artificiality of it all. Maybe Dominic was right to opt out. Maybe she should do the same. One thing was certain - nothing would ever be quite the same again.

During the next couple of weeks, Helen tried to take up the strings of her old life. Her friends, learning she was back, were eager to invite her to dinner or to parties, but she had lost all enthusiasm for such outings. Even so, she made the effort. She wanted to feel at peace with herself again. She wanted to put all thoughts of that week in the Lake District out of her mind - but it was impossible. Dominic dominated her thoughts. She ate hardly enough to keep a bird alive, and she slept badly, and gradually the strain began to show.

It was Michael Framley who first noticed the change in her.

She had begun seeing him again, partly because both he and her father seemed to expect it, and partly because Mike himself was such an undemanding companion. He must have been just as curious to know the reasons for her disappearance as her father had been, but he was considerate enough not to ask the inevitable questions and Helen thought that one day she might tell him what had happened. She could talk to Mike; but whether he would show his usual understanding when it came to such a personal matter she had her doubts.

One afternoon, after he had taken her to an exhibition of art at the Hayward Gallery, they had tea at a small restaurant just off the Embankment. It was quite a warm afternoon for early March, and there were daffodils showing yellow heads in the gardens outside.

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