by Anne Mather
The dining room had not been busy. There was no sign of Jake, and for a few minutes she had wondered whether she had dreamed everything that had happened the night before. But five minutes later he had appeared, lean and attractive, in an expensively casual suede suit, his bronze roll-necked shirt both a complement and a contrast. Was it her imagination, Rachel wondered, or did he look different this morning, very much the assured and successful businessman he must have been before his illness; or was that only due to Della’s influence? Whatever, she found it incredibly difficult to believe that a man of his experience and sophistication should find anything of interest in a nobody like herself, and when he stopped by their table she was almost off-hand in her acceptance of his suggestion to join them. It was left to Della to wish him good morning, and his dark gaze flickered only briefly over the girl before moving on to exercise his faultless charm on her employer.
Della, for all her angry disparagement of the night before, behaved as if there was nothing at all unusual in the elusive Mr Allan joining them for breakfast. Not even when the waiter almost performed a double take on seeing him sitting at their table did she show, by so much as a flicker of an eyelid, that she had noticed anything amiss. She ate her breakfast and exchanged small talk with their guest, and not until she was buttering her toast did she say:
‘Rachel tells me that you and she—have plans, Mr Allan. Or should I say Mr Courtenay?’
Jake’s eyes flickered over Rachel’s bent head. She had scarcely exchanged a glance with him throughout the whole meal, and she sensed his simmering impatience. But now she felt the smouldering penetration of his gaze, and the involuntary stiffening which had followed Della’s statement.
‘I suppose it was too much to hope that you wouldn’t have heard of me, Mrs Faulkner-Stewart,’ he responded quietly. ‘And yes, Rachel and I do have plans. We intend to get married, don’t we, Rachel?’
Now she was forced to look at him, and the directness of those glittering eyes was denigrating. ‘I—yes,’ she agreed tautly, drawing her lower lip between her teeth, and his mouth tightened as he turned back to answer Della’s next question:
‘Can you give me any idea when you intend making this official?’ she inquired, not entirely liking the sensation of being excluded which Jake had achieved when he looked at Rachel. ‘I mean, I have to find someone else to take Rachel’s place, don’t I?’
Rachel almost gasped. Only the night before Della had threatened to throw her out. Now she was behaving as if her departure would cause the most awkward situation.
Jake was unperturbed, however. ‘I’m taking Rachel to meet my parents today,’ he said, without giving Rachel any choice in the matter, ‘and I imagine we’ll be married some time within the next two weeks.’
‘Two weeks!’ Now Della was really shocked. ‘You can’t mean that!’
In fact, Rachel herself was astounded by this news. Two weeks! Did he really intend to make her his wife in two weeks?
‘I don’t see any point in waiting, Mrs Faulkner-Stewart,’ Jake continued implacably. ‘Our minds are made up, and after Christmas I may not have the time to spare to give Rachel the attention she deserves. Besides,’ he reached for Rachel’s hand, and her heart skipped a beat as those hard brown fingers closed round hers, ‘we don’t want to wait, do we?’
Rachel shook her head, but her expression was hardly encouraging, compounding as it did a mixture of uneasy embarrassment and self-consciousness, and Della’s lips thinned. ‘Well, I think you’re both behaving rather recklessly,’ she declared coldly. ‘You hardly know one another, and as I feel myself in loco parentis, as it were, so far as Rachel is concerned——’
‘Rachel is eighteen,’ Jake reminded her, equally coldly, and Rachel herself felt obliged to make a contribution:
‘I’m going to marry Ja—Mr Courtenay,’ she asserted, stiffly. ‘I told you that last night, Della.’
After that, there was little more to be said. As soon as breakfast was over, Jake advised Rachel to go and get her coat, and this she did with alacrity, wishing above all things to avoid another confrontation with her employer. But when she came downstairs again Jake was alone in the lobby, and he explained briefly that Della was still in the dining room, probably relating the news to her cronies.
And now they were on their way to meet his parents. He had offered her no further explanations, just installed her in this luxurious vehicle, and made himself comfortable behind the wheel. A fait accompli, but Rachel felt as nervous as a teenager on her first date.
As if sensing the troubled train of her thoughts, he spoke at last, shifting his eyes briefly from the road to encounter her anxious gaze. ‘My parents live in Somerset, a place called Hardy Lonsdale. I doubt if you’ll have heard of it.’
‘No.’ Rachel shook her head, her eyes darting uneasily over the lapels of his jacket, anywhere rather than hold his curious stare. ‘Do—are they expecting us?’
‘Yes.’ He inclined his head. ‘I phoned them first thing this morning. They’re looking forward to meeting you.’
Rachel looked down at the green corded pants suit she was wearing, wondering whether she ought to have worn something more formal. Jake’s suit wasn’t exactly formal, but he had the build and appearance to look good in anything he wore, while she … Her mouth felt parched. Dear God, this time yesterday she had been resigning herself to the fact that he didn’t even like her, and now …
‘Rachel!’ His impatient use of her name brought her face up to his, and she saw the sudden hardening of his jawline. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘N—nothing.’ She shook her head again, her hair brushing his shoulder, leaving one gleaming strand clinging to the soft suede. ‘I—why should there be?’
‘I don’t know.’ He swore softly. ‘But there is.’
With a violent tug on the wheel he pulled the car off the road on to the hard shoulder, and switched off the engine. Then, releasing his harness, he turned abruptly in his seat to look at her.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘I want to hear it. Is it something your redoubtable employer said? Or the fact that I didn’t tell you my real name?’
Rachel unfastened the straps that confined her, primarily because within them she felt trapped, and feeling trapped was the last thing she needed right now.
‘I—Della thinks we’re mad, of course,’ she said, almost stumbling over the words in her haste to get them out. ‘But then so will your parents, I suppose, and everyone else we come into contact with.’
Jake’s brows ascended. ‘Is that what you think?’
‘Don’t you?’
He studied her troubled face expressionlessly. ‘You’ve changed your mind,’ he said flatly. ‘I should have expected it.’
Rachel stared at him, her breast heaving with the tumult of her emotions. But she couldn’t let him get away with that. ‘I haven’t changed my mind,’ she declared tremulously, and he scowled.
‘Are you suggesting I have?’
‘I—why, no. Not exactly …’
Then what are you saying?’
Her tongue appeared to wet her upper lip, its tentative exploration an unknowing provocation to the man watching her. With a muffled exclamation, he hauled her into his arms, and his mouth imprisoned the moistness she had just created.
‘Oh, Rachel!’ he breathed, one hand sliding possessively along the curve of her spine. ‘Don’t do this to me! I can’t stand it.’
She was weak with longing for a satisfaction she had not received when he finally let her go, expelling his breath on a heavy sigh, resting his heated forehead against the coolness of the steering wheel. ‘Well?’ he said at last, turning his head sideways to look at her, and she allowed a faint smile to touch her lips.
‘Della—Della made it all seem—impossible somehow,’ she confessed, daringly running her own fingers over the muscular hardness of his thigh, and with a wry smile he lifted her hand and dropped it back into her lap.
‘Della would,’ he said, straight
ening his spine. ‘Does her word mean that much to you?’
‘Oh, no!’ Rachel curled her legs up beneath her, and knelt there facing him. ‘But—what she said, I felt—like a toy. Something amusing to be picked up for a while and then—dropped. Oh, she talked about you being too old for me, too, but that didn’t matter. It was—it was you being—who you are.’ She made a helpless movement of her shoulders. ‘Are you really a millionaire?’
For a moment Jake’s mouth hardened. ‘Does it matter?’ he asked flatly, and she searched awkwardly for words to express her feelings.
‘It—it’s all so new to me!’ she explained. ‘I can’t take it in. I mean, how will I fit in with the people you know? I’m not like them. I’ve never had any money. How much simpler it would have been if you’d been just—Jake Allan!’
‘Would it?’ His expression grew cynical. ‘I wonder how many girls would agree with you.’
‘Jake, you don’t think——’
Her eyes were wide and indignant, and he quickly shook his head. ‘No, I don’t think. If I did, do you think we’d be here now?’
Rachel looked solemn. ‘Just thinking about the kind of life you lead—it frightens me.’
‘It needn’t,’ he reassured her, his tone gentling. ‘But nevertheless, perhaps it will help you to appreciate the sense of what I said last night. We shouldn’t—jump the gun. We both need time to adapt, and that’s what I intend we should have.’
A provocative smile lifted Rachel’s lips. ‘What if—what if I can’t—satisfy you?’ she ventured softly, and with a determined effort Jake swung round in his seat and fastened his safety harness.
‘Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it, shall we?’ he suggested dryly, giving her a sidelong look. ‘Even you are not that naive, Rachel.’
Her cheeks deepened with bewitching colour. ‘But I don’t want to wait. Jake,’ she protested, her arm sliding along the back of his seat, and he was forced to remove it rather brutally before slamming the powerful car into gear.
Hardy Lonsdale was a pretty village, off the beaten track of tourists, and therefore practically unchanged for centuries. White-painted cottages edged the village green where a few hardy ducks waded from the pond, and even on this grey autumn morning it had a charm that appealed to Rachel. Two swinging signs indicated the liquid refreshment establishments of the hamlet, and Jake casually indicated one of these as they drove through.
‘Do you want a drink before we meet my parents?’ he asked, and she arched her eyebrows questioningly.
‘I thought you weren’t supposed to.’
‘I said you, not me,’ he corrected her, half mockingly. Then: ‘No, Rachel, I don’t need that kind of moral support. I know what I’m doing.’
‘Do you?’
She stretched out her hand towards him and he took it in a firm grasp, his thumb probing the sensitive area of her palm. ‘Oh, yes,’ he insisted softly. ‘I know.’
Rachel wished he would stop the car again and take her into his arms. Only there did she feel truly secure. Somehow, just looking at him, she could not believe this man really wanted her.
But he didn’t, and needing some kind of contact, she said: ‘Is it much further?’
Jake shook his head. ‘About a mile, I guess. My father bought the old priory when he retired, and he’s had it modernised for his own use.’
‘The priory?’ Rachel was intrigued. ‘Was it really once a priory?’
Jake nodded. ‘About two hundred years ago. Since then it’s run through a variety of uses—almshouse, riding stables: once I believe it was used as a private school for the sons of gentlemen!’
Rachel looked ahead with enforced eagerness as they left the village behind and turned almost immediately on to a narrow private lane which led to the gates of the priory. But she was nervous, and she couldn’t disguise the fact.
‘You’ve seen my father before,’ Jake remarked reassuringly, as they drove between iron gateposts and up a rhododendron-lined drive to the house. ‘At the hotel. Remember?’
‘So you did notice me,’ she murmured with an attempt at lightness, and he gave her a lazy smile.
‘I noticed,’ he agreed dryly. ‘Well, here we are!’
The priory still possessed a curious aura of asceticism. Maybe it was in the severe lines of the slate dark walls overhung with creeper, or simply that the cloistered portico was typically monastic in appearance. A gravelled forecourt fronted the building, and Jake parked the Lamborghini here alongside a grey Mercedes, which Rachel had seen before in the car park at the hotel.
Her hands trembled as she undid the safety harness, and she was glad of Jake’s helping hand to get out of the car. She cast another doubtful look at her trousers, checking that at least they were uncreased after the two-hour journey, and then accompanied him across to the door of the priory.
She had half expected his parents to come out to meet him, but no one appeared, and he opened the heavy studded door himself, and ushered her into the huge hall. Here the original intention of the building was less obvious. The stone floor was concealed beneath boxed wooden flooring that gleamed with the patina of age, and the rugs strewn about its shining surface were thick and colourful. The fireplace had been maintained, however, and presently logs were burning brightly, dispelling the gloom of the morning. The walls, too, had been lined with wood, but the tapestries which provided decoration were obviously very old. Several high-backed armchairs and a sofa invited relaxation, but Jake led the way across the hall to the carved wooden staircase which wound round two walls to the upper floor.
‘The living rooms are up here,’ he explained, when she followed him at his instigation, and then he stopped short as a woman came through the door below the stairs and stood staring up at them. She was small and thin, and rather disapproving in appearance, in her sixties, Rachel estimated, and judging by her apron, a member of the staff.
‘Good morning,’ she greeted them dourly.
Jake’s face relaxed into a reluctant smile. ‘Good morning, Dora. Is my mother in the drawing room?’
‘No, she’s not,’ responded Dora, without warmth. ‘She and your father are outside. They didn’t expect you so early, and Mr Courtenay’s mare is foaling.’
‘Oh, I see.’ He turned, and following his example, Rachel led the way back down to the hall. Standing once more on solid ground, Jake explained: ‘This is my old nurse, Dora Pendlebury, Rachel. She and her daughter both live at the priory. Dora looks after the house-keeping and Sheila, that’s her daughter works as my father’s secretary.’ He paused. ‘This is Rachel Lesley, Dora. My—fiancée.’
It was a unique experience, hearing herself described in those terms, and Rachel looked up at him before holding out her hand to the housekeeper. His eyes revealed that he was not unaware of the significance of his words and for a brief moment they shared an intimacy and was almost tangible. But when she turned back to Dora, Rachel surprised a curiously hostile reaction to their closeness, and a disturbing shiver of apprehension ran down her spine. They shook hands, and the housekeeper offered congratulations, but Rachel knew instinctively that Dora did not like her. She wondered why, and then dismissed the thought as Jake took her hand to guide her outside again.
‘Are you warm enough? Do you need your coat?’ he asked, as he closed the door behind them, but Rachel shook her head. The pants suit was warm, and the scarlet jersey she had teamed with it had a polo neck.
He led the way along a path that turned down the side of the building, and reached the stables by way of a kitchen garden where greenhouses bore witness to someone’s horticultural ability. The stable yard was cobbled, and Jake briefly explained that this had once been the bakehouse.
‘The ovens are still here,’ he said, ‘dating back to the eighteenth century, but they are used mostly for storing animal feed these days.’
Rachel knew his words were intended to reassure her, but she was tense as she accompanied him into a barn-like building, smelling of straw and
disinfectant. If Dora had been disposed to dislike her without cause, what might she expect from his parents?
Three men and a woman were crowded around the stall where the foaling mare was lying, but the woman turned when she heard their footsteps, and exclaimed delightedly when she saw her son.
‘Jake! Darling!’ she cried, coming to meet him with out-stretched hands. ‘You’re early! Did Dora tell you where we were?’
Jake released Rachel to take his mother’s hands, and while they exchanged greetings she hung back nervously, silently admiring the older woman’s appearance. Even in these coarse surroundings, Mrs Courtenay managed to look coolly elegant, her tweed suit and brogues, a fitting accompaniment to sleekly cropped grey hair and metal-framed spectacles. Rachel guessed she must be in her sixties, and yet she would have put her age nearer the fifty mark.
‘You must be Rachel.’
Unobserved, Jake’s father had come to join her, and now Rachel turned to him, flustered, realising she had been staring at Jake and his mother to the exclusion of all else.
‘I’m sorry,’ she apologised awkwardly. ‘Yes, I—I’m Rachel.’
Mr Courtenay smiled. He was very like Jake, as she had noticed that day on the car park, but like his wife, his hair was quite grey. ‘I’ve seen you before, haven’t I?’ he continued easily. ‘You were the young lady who spoke to Jake that day I came to visit him.’
‘That’s right.’ Rachel shook the hand he held out to her, but with a grimace, he drew her closer and kissed her cheek.
‘As we’re going to be related,’ he commented, as Jake and his mother came to join them. ‘Rachel and I have met,’ he added.
‘So I see.’ Jake’s eyes on her were disruptively possessive. Then he drew her forward. ‘This is Rachel, Mother. I hope you two are going to be friends.’