by Robyn Donald
‘A milk tanker. The milk is collected from the dairy farms every day and taken to the factory, where it’s made into cheese and milk powder.’ He slid a sideways glance at her face, noting the colour only slowly coming back into the golden skin. Against the fragile temple tendrils of fine black hair clung, damp with the sudden perspiration the truck had caused.
‘Then there are the fertiliser trucks,’ he continued. ‘These hills are topdressed most economically from the air, and the fertiliser is brought in to the airstrips in trucks. Cattle trucks, of course, are frequent—double-deckers with a trailer, usually.’
‘I think you’re trying to frighten me,’ she responded coolly. ‘No doubt one gets used to anything in time.’
‘And no doubt money is a great sweetener.’ Strong tanned hands turned the wheel into a gateway lined with rounded trees, conifers of a type unknown to Arminel, their stiff drab olive leaves like tiny spears in the sunlight.
‘Te Nawe,’ he said calmly, as if he hadn’t just insulted her. ‘The homestead is half way up the hill.’
Arminel bit her lip as she looked around. First there were buildings, a great woolshed painted dull green, a whole complex of implement barns and yards and pens, a row of dog kennels and then, higher up, two houses which were comfortably embowered in well-established gardens.
Farther on, the homestead was situated on a plateau about three acres in extent, a big, sprawling building in Victorian style, with verandahs and bow windows and interesting little nooks surmounted by a folly of a tower which looked out beyond the fertile lands to the sea.
Arminel drew a deep breath as she leaned forward, her lips parted, for it was like a vision seen through a cascade of pink and white blossom, magnolia trees as big as oaks, their magnificent chalices held up to the blue spring sky, peach blossom and the white airy elegance of plum blossom. Beside the drive fluttered the dancing grace of a bank of lilac primulas, candelabra of blossom swaying gently.
Whoever had planted these gardens had known of the heart-lifting effect of clouds of blossom after the dreariness of winter. Arminel mentally saluted her—or him.
The drive wound around the front of the house, but Kyle took another turning alongside the building, coming to a halt in a large garage which, with the house formed two sides of a wide, paved courtyard. Spring flowers bloomed in gay beds, softening the weatherboard walls of the house and garage. From somewhere the scent of daphne was spicily fragrant on the cool air.
Arminel got herself out of the car, noting with some awe that the garage also sheltered another, smaller car as well as a mud-splattered Land Rover. What few things Rhys had let fall about his life had not prepared her for this untrammelled wealth. For a moment she almost turned back, but a glance at Kyle Beringer’s closed face as he took her suitcase from the boot stiffened her resolution. Rich or not, they were just people, she thought sturdily, and certainly Rhys had no snobbish objections to her on her background.
‘Ready?’
For what? The guillotine? The strain was making her frivolous, and that she could not afford. Nodding, she fell into place beside him, feeling very small and insignificant against his tall, lean frame.
The door was opened just as they came to it; opened by a rather thin woman with a permanent groove between her brows and eyes which were trying very hard not to show their owner’s avid curiosity.
Certainly not Mrs Beringer.
‘This is Arminel,’ Kyle Beringer introduced with offhanded courtesy. ‘Arminel, this is Judy Caird who runs the homestead.’
They murmured greetings, shook hands and then Mrs Caird said briskly, ‘Your mother is waiting.’
‘Then will you take Arminel to meet her while I put her suitcase away?’
‘Of course.’ As he turned away Mrs Caird reminded him, ‘In the gold bedroom, Kyle.’ He nodded and she turned back to Arminel. ‘This way, Miss Lovett.’
The house was beautiful, old and spacious, with high ceilings and walls panelled by a warm amber wood. In the wide hall a great chandelier hung like a sunburst, a modern thing which was perfectly at home in its mellow surroundings. A tall Korean chest stood against the wall, its brass hinges and fastenings not gleaming any brighter than the patina on the wood, dark yet glowing. Arminel tried not to look around her in ill-bred curiosity, but when her eye was caught by a landscape her steps slowed and her head turned.
‘Nice, isn’t it,’ Mrs Caird observed. ‘Kyle bought it. He buys quite a few paintings. Some people think it’s too bare, but that’s what the country is like around here.’
Arminel nodded, remembering the high, swooping lines of the hills they had just passed through, the grassy slopes that looked too steep for anything but goats to keep their feet.
The painter had caught the spirit of the landscape, the uncompromising strength and vigour of it, refining the shapes and colours, freeing it of all extraneous detail. It had power and respect, and love of a kind, too.
‘We’d better get going,’ Mrs Caird said briskly.
The room where her hostess waited was at least twice the size of the sitting rooms Arminel had been accustomed to. Its light, sunny atmosphere didn’t really impinge, for her glance was caught and held by the woman who rose to greet her, setting aside an exquisitely worked tapestry as she did so. For a moment they measured each other, the tall woman in possession, the interloper, until Mrs Beringer said in a voice as colourless and cold as a mountain stream,
‘Welcome to Te Nawe, Arminel. Did you have a good flight over?’
‘A bit bumpy, but otherwise fine, thank you.’
Obviously Mrs Beringer was not going to let her disapproval get in the way of the courtesies. Arminel was not to be outdone. ‘It’s very kind of you to have me,’ she murmured, wondering how eyes which were exactly the same colour as Rhys’s could be so totally lacking in warmth and sparkle.
‘Not at all. I hope you enjoy your holiday here.’
Well, that put her in her place. ‘I’m sure I shall,’ she replied.
Her unwilling hostess turned to the housekeeper, ‘Miss Lovett must be impatient for some tea.’
‘I’ll go and bring it in,’ Mrs Caird promised, and went out, leaving Arminel feeling rather ridiculously as though her only friend had betrayed her. Not that Mrs Caird had been particularly welcoming, but at least she hadn’t radiated hostility like the Beringers.
‘Do sit down, Arminel.’
Mrs Beringer waited until Arminel sat down in a small, rather uncomfortable armchair before seating herself. Then she drew her tapestry into her lap and applied herself to it for a fraught few seconds before she looked up sharply, observing,
‘You’re extremely pretty, Arminel. Rhys has been singing your praises since he arrived back, but when Rhys is in the throes of a love affair he tends to see the whole world through rosy glasses. I believe he said you work in an office.’
It would be stupid to lose her temper at this none too subtle put-down. Arminel willed a smile to her face. ‘I work for a lawyer.’
Had. She’d had to resign her job, and right now that seemed the most stupid thing she’d ever done.
‘Interesting,’ Mrs Beringer said, meaning how incredibly boring and lower class. ‘With your looks, surely you could find yourself something a little more glamorous. Modelling perhaps?’
‘I like my work,’ Arminel returned with calm poise.
Mrs Beringer inclined her head gravely and resumed her stitching. ‘You don’t sound Australian.’
‘My parents were Devon-born.’
‘That would explain it, then. I believe Rhys mentioned that you’re an orphan.’
‘I don’t know.’ Sparks kindled deep in the cool blue depths of Arminel’s eyes, sparks which she kept hidden by demurely lowered lashes. This total lack of welcome chilled and frightened her, but anger smoothed over the cold desolation she was beginning to feel, warming her and giving her confidence.
‘Oh?’ Beautifully formed brows lifted slightly.
‘My pare
nts abandoned me, in their separate and individual ways,’ Arminel told her crisply.
The older woman made a distasteful motion with her mouth. ‘Dear me! How—how irresponsible of them.’
‘I’m afraid they must have both been irresponsible,’ Arminel agreed cheerfully. If she could only summon up some remnants of her sense of humour she might yet ride this inquisition. But oh, her heart cried, Rhys, why didn’t you tell me?
‘So you grew up in an orphanage?’
‘More or less.’
‘Tragic’ The tapestry was laid aside as Mrs Caird came into the room bearing a tray set with an impressive array of silver and china, which she set down on a table beside Mrs Beringer. There were three cups, so Kyle was going to join them. No doubt he would join his mother in trying to make this intruder feel suitably inferior and chastened.
Sure enough he arrived just after Mrs Caird left, his deep tones in the hall were heard as he said something to her before he pushed the door open and came in.
Arminel’s glance flicked across the room, rested on him, then jerked away. He had changed from the dark business suit to casual clothes, trousers and a faintly striped shirt that revealed a splendid body. He owed nothing to his tailor; his masculine presence seemed to fill the room, virile, dominating, intensely dangerous.
Arminel took a sip of tea to moisten her dry mouth and waited for him to join his mother in the attack.
He nodded aloofly to her, and as he accepted a cup from his mother he asked, ‘Where’s Rhys?’
‘Over at Sandiman’s, shifting the flock to Creek Two. According to the forecast we’ll have wind and rain before morning and you did say Sandiman’s is too exposed.’
‘It is.’ He turned his head, addressing Arminel. ‘Every paddock is named. Rhys is moving a flock of ewes and young lambs to a more sheltered paddock. When did he leave?’
‘About two hours ago,’ his mother answered, her voice without expression. ‘He should be back soon.’ She sent a calm look across at Arminel. ‘The men work very long hours, quite often out before breakfast and not back until it’s dark. This is a busy time of year for us. Of course all times are busy, but spring especially so. Tell me, Arminel, do you ride?’
It was asked in exactly the same tone of voice in which her son had wanted to know if she drove. With an effort of will Arminel refrained from looking his way.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I’ve never been on a horse in my life.’ And was not mad keen to try, but that she didn’t say.
‘Oh dear,’ Mrs Beringer remarked, just failing to hide her satisfaction. ‘I’m afraid that will limit your excursions quite considerably. Te Nawe is well roaded, of course, but a lot of it is so steep that we still rely on horses to get around. It sounds as though you’ll be tied to the homestead. I hope you don’t get bored with our quiet life.’
‘I’m never bored,’ Arminel told her, anger making her reckless. ‘I find humanity too fascinating a study to become bored. And I enjoy long walks. Of course, I hope you will allow me to help you in any way I can. I assume that Mrs Caird doesn’t do everything?’
A large diamond flashed as Mrs Beringer’s fingers closed tightly on to the handle of her teacup. In a voice which for once had some emotion in it she said, ‘No, of course not. Like all old places the homestead needs constant upkeep. I’m sure I could find things for you to do, although one must be careful. It’s full of treasures.’
‘I learn quickly,’ Arminel told her. The tea was hot and necessary, giving her something to do with her hands. Probably that was why Mrs Beringer had decided to sew her tapestry; it gave her a subtle advantage.
‘Do have something to eat,’ her hostess said. ‘You’re very thin, aren’t you? Do you have to diet all the time to keep your figure?’
‘No. And no, thank you, I won’t eat now. You know how it is flying, they press food on to you whether you want it or not. If I am to eat dinner I’d better abstain now, although it looks delicious.’
As she spoke Arminel looked across at Kyle Beringer, meeting his sardonic scrutiny with cool composure. He was no help, but it seemed that he must have some rudimentary sense of fair play, because he wasn’t joining his mother in the attack.
After a long moment’s calm eye contact she lowered her lashes, angry because he frightened her. Mrs Beringer was someone she could cope with; it would not be pleasant living in such close proximity to a woman who was a howling snob. However, she would manage. But Kyle Beringer exuded a kind of subtle menace which set her nerves on edge, fretting and tearing at her poise so that she was too acutely aware of him on the periphery of her vision, watchful, his hard narrowed gaze never straying far from her face.
Fortunately now he and his mother spoke of other things; apparently he had been away from home for a few days and was now catching up on what had happened in his absence. Then, when the tea was drunk, Mrs Beringer suggested that she show Arminel her room, sweeping her out of the room and down the hallway.
‘Here it is,’ she said, pushing the door open. ‘I hope you like it. It has its own bathroom, through that door in the far wall. If there’s anything you want, you must let me know.’
‘Thank you.’ Arminel kept her eyes firmly fixed on the older woman as she went on, ‘I’ll have a shower and a short rest, if I may.’
‘Very sensible. We dine about seven-thirty, but someone will come and collect you before then.’
Left alone, Arminel was at last free to allow her eyes to roam the incredible room. Her lips formed a soft whistle as her astounded gaze took in the black wallpaper feathered in gold. On the ceiling, too! Behind the bed was a magnificent, fanciful painting of flowers and wild beasts and people, a mysterious, evocative, vaguely erotic picture in vivid, exciting colours. The bed was an enormous double affair, fourposted, to show off a bedspread of quilted velvet, handmade from scraps of gold, black and scarlet material. Only the neutral gold curtains and black carpet provided any relief from the riot of colour and pattern, as well as two more exquisite Korean chests in black and gold.
It was a fantasy room, gay, brash, overwhelming. Whoever had decorated it had a strong sense of humour and an unerring eye for colour and texture and proportion. As well as a taste for the tactile and stimulating, Arminel decided, looking from that warmly sensuous painting to the seductive bedcover, the lush sensuality of the room. Welcoming, it possessed an aphrodisiac quality which she found strangely pleasurable.
Not a room to relax in, unless it was in the sweet aftermath of desire. A sudden terrifying image of herself and Kyle Beringer entwined in passion on the bed made her catch her breath in shock. Hot coins of colour sprang into her cheeks before she banished the thought. Her subconscious mind must be playing up because she felt threatened by him; if she kept this up she’d be paranoid by the time she left!
Hastily she unpacked her clothes, then, sponge bag in hand, made her way into the bathroom. It had been decorated with the same exuberant imagination, an identical sexy luxury. A peep into the cupboard revealed soaps and shampoos and bath oils, expensive, famous names. Well, they could keep them—she’d use her own far from expensive, but just as efficient, brand.
As she showered she found herself wondering who had decorated this exotic little enclave in a house which, as far as she had seen, was far more formally and conventionally furnished. Certainly not Mrs Beringer, unless she had some interesting quirks in her character! These two rooms revealed a warm, humorous outlook that appealed immensely to Arminel.
Later, relaxed and warm and glowing, wrapped in a quilted dressing gown, she drifted round her room admiring the scarlet and gold tulips in a bronze vase the exact colour of Kyle’s hair, the immense maidenhair fern that queened it over a corner, some carvings in stone with a distinctly Eastern look. In another corner a bookshelf held a collection of old favourites and some new, and there was a magazine stand with exactly the sort of magazines Mrs Beringer would take, fashion and the more opulent decorating ones. All very up-market. Nothing geared to the young and
poverty-stricken, Arminel decided with a wry smile.
Then tiredness, and the almost intolerable strain which had her in its grip since she had first met Kyle Beringer’s inimical gaze, made her yawn. Within a few minutes she was curled up in the bed, sound asleep.
A faint, insistent sound summoned her back. Opening her eyes, she stared for a few moments in bewilderment at the ceiling before realising that someone was knocking impatiently on her door.
Hastily, because it would be Rhys, she hauled her dressing gown on and flew across to open it, her expression alight with pleasure and anticipation.
‘Darling!’ he exclaimed, and caught her in his arms and kissed her with an eagerness that only intensified her caution.
His mouth was very sweet and she responded to it with more than her usual ardour, lifting her hands to cradle his face, sighing when he groaned, ‘Oh, it’s been too long. Too long, my darling girl. Let me look at you,’ as he held her away from him.
‘I’ve only just woken up,’ she protested, laughing, her mouth crimson as a petal. ‘I must look a wreck!’
‘You always look perfect.’ His expression was a compound of need and impatience; in his jaw a muscle flicked as he went on, ‘Oh, but I’ve missed you! God, I’m glad you’re here!’
From behind came a voice, drawling, with a steely note of contempt threaded beneath the surface mockery.
‘As she’s going to be here for some days yet why don’t you let her get dressed?’
Instantly Rhys’s hands clenched on to her elbows, but as if he was obliged to obey his brother they loosened and fell to his sides.
‘Sorry, darling,’ he said, ignoring Kyle, who had stopped close behind him and was standing with his eyes fixed on Arminel’s face. As she lifted her chin defiantly they swept her body, lingering on the delicate swell of her breasts until she felt as though the dressing gown was transparent.
‘I’ll come and get you in ten minutes,’ said Rhys, still watching her with that odd hungry look.