The Call of Destiny (The Return of Arthur Book 1)

by Unknown

  To her great surprise though, it was nothing of the kind. Once started, she could hardly stop talking, and barely addressed a word all evening to anyone but Arthur, forgetting completely that the man to whom she was so cordially chattering was the same one whose proposal she had turned down only a month before.

  After dinner they had taken a stroll in the garden, at his suggestion. It had been pleasant, very pleasant. Indeed if she had found anything in him to criticise, it was his excessively cheerful manner and lively conversation. Where was the pale and wan lover? Where the downcast eyes and gloomy expression?

  ‘It’s so good to see you again, Guinevere,’ said Arthur as she blushed. Oh Lord, what a ninny she was. ‘You too.’ Here she had taken the opportunity of re-establishing their relationship on a correct footing, just in case he might be under any misapprehension. ‘I wouldn’t want to lose your friendship.’

  ‘Nor I yours,’ he responded.

  When all the guests had left she did not even have the heart to scold her father. What was there to complain of? Arthur’s conduct had been beyond reproach, he had handled himself like the gentleman he most assuredly was. That night, being so stimulated, she found it difficult to sleep. There were, aside from pleasant memories, some rather puzzling aspects of Arthur’s behaviour that needed thinking about – his whole attitude towards her, for one thing; he had acted more like a close friend than a rejected suitor. A lesser man than he might have displayed some resentment, or at the very least feigned indifference to show how little he cared. But Arthur had gone out of his way to demonstrate how much he enjoyed her company, which she found pleasing but at the same time disconcerting.

  All in all he had behaved impeccably, perhaps a shade too impeccably. Did he have to take quite so readily the hand of friendship she had offered him? Should he not have been just a trifle listless and melancholy, rather than so very joyful and animated? Why had he not toyed with his food at the dinner table, instead of eating like a horse? Could he have fallen out of love so quickly? There was not even the tiniest hint that he was pining for her. How could he be so fickle! What could it mean? Should a man as gallant as Arthur not have taken some pains at least to hint of a broken heart? That at any rate was how it seemed to her. The only reasonable assumption was that he was not heartbroken at all, and that, being rejected, he had all too casually abandoned his love for her.

  It was, to say the least, disappointing. How could men be trusted when even the best of them, it seemed, was so capricious? She could not help questioning whether he had ever loved her at all, whether indeed at this very minute he might not be complimenting himself on a lucky escape. In which case, should she not be doing the same?

  Twelve

  2023

  Lancelot and Helena had been childhood friends but had long gone their separate ways, he to the army, she into modelling. So Helena’s phone-call came out of the blue.

  She found it weird to be sitting across a table from Lance. How long had it been? Eight years? Nine? He had been a young teenager – fourteen or fifteen – when she last saw him. Now he was a man, and a very good-looking one. What else about him had changed, she wondered. Not a lot, it seemed; there was still that aura of melancholy about him, those brooding eyes, that reluctance to communicate. He had hardly said a word since they took their seats in the restaurant. Yet Helena knew instinctively that Lance’s aloof manner was a pose to protect a shy and vulnerable man.

  Whilst they were waiting for the first course she sipped a glass of wine, and Lancelot, who neither smoked nor drank alcohol, moved his knife and fork around. She could see he was searching for something to say.

  ‘I was ten when we met,’ she said, prompting him. ‘You must have been twelve.’

  ‘Were we really that young?’ She smiled. ‘Afraid so.’

  She sensed that he was doing much the same as she was, weighing her up, comparing what she was now and what he remembered of her. ‘You were pretty good at climbing trees – for a girl.’ Now it was his turn to smile, and when he did, she noticed particularly that his brown eyes remained strangely sad.

  ‘As good as you any day.’ They had always been competitive.

  ‘You were a real tomboy.’ He made it sound like a compliment.

  Was there a hint of affection too?

  Helena remembered wishing she had been born a boy, so she could always be Lance’s friend. ‘I suppose I was.’

  ‘Happy days,’ said Lancelot, for though he would never admit it he had missed Helena dreadfully when her parents moved from the country to London.

  ‘Yes, they were.’

  He smiled at her, and this time his eyes lit up. They both relaxed and the ice was finally broken.

  ‘You mentioned something about a spot of hot water?’ Lancelot remarked casually over coffee.

  She was tempted to run out of the restaurant. But when she looked up, those dark eyes of his were filled with such concern that she opened her heart to him. ‘His name is Lambert Harford,’ she began haltingly. ‘I – well, I fell for him.’ She flashed a glance at Lancelot over her wine glass, but his face was impassive. ‘He took me everywhere and I was flattered. He introduced me to pot.’ She caught the fleeting look of disgust on Lancelot’s face. ‘I had never smoked a joint before,’ she said quickly. It seemed important for Lancelot to know that. ‘I thought what the hell, everyone does it, don’t they?’ She sipped her wine. What must he think of her? Nothing good, that was for sure.

  ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘I’m listening.’ He spoke gently, not sounding at all judgmental. She was grateful for that.

  ‘It wasn’t long before my head stopped working. Oh yes, I forgot to mention, he’s a photographer – professional. I let him take photographs. Nude ones.’ She avoided Lance’s eyes, her hands tightly clasped on the table. ‘It was stupid of me, of course. Somehow or other he convinced me it would help my career. No, to be honest, it wasn’t even that. Half the time I was so stoned I didn’t give a damn what I was doing.’ She blushed. ‘The photographs were what you might call uninhibited, not pornographic, or anything like that, but not how a girl wants to see herself in the tabloids either.’

  Lancelot could feel the anger gathering in his chest. ‘Has he sold them to a newspaper?’

  ‘He says he will if I don’t pay him twenty-thousand pounds.

  I haven’t got that sort of money.’

  ‘Tell him to publish the photos and be damned.’

  She shook her head. ‘I can’t do that. It would be embarrassing for me, and even more for mum and dad. They would be the ones to suffer most, especially my dad. I would lose modelling work but that’s the least of it.’ She thumped the table in frustration. ‘I’ve been such a fool.’

  ‘I’d like to help if you’ll let me,’ said Lancelot quietly. He watched her lips set in a stubborn line. That brought back memories, it was the way she looked when he would try to stop her climbing a tree.

  ‘I’m not asking for your help. It’s just advice I need,’ she insisted. ‘It’s my problem. I’ll deal with it.’ She could see from the way he looked at her that he didn’t believe she could. ‘My credit’s good,’ she explained. ‘I’m sure I can borrow what I need.’

  He could have told her it would be a waste of time and money, because you could never pay off blackmailers; they always came back for more. What was the use though? It would be a waste of time arguing with her, she was as obstinate as he was.

  So obstinate that it was not easy to persuade her to go out with him again. He waited for her in the restaurant. As she sat down, there on the table in front of her was a large manila envelope. ‘What’s this?’ she asked.

  ‘Prints. Negatives. End of story.’ Lancelot busied himself with the menu.

  Quickly she flipped through the contents. She knew she ought to be thanking him, when instead she was tormenting herself with the thought that he must have looked at the photos. Her face flushed redder by the second.

  He cleared his throat self-consciously. ‘He
assured me they were all there.’

  She could not look at him. ‘They are.’ He had seen them. He must have done.

  ‘I had no idea how many he took,’ he said, reading the menu with the keenest attention, ‘so there was no point in checking them.’

  He was telling her he hadn’t looked at them. Could it be true? She would not have believed most men but Lancelot she did, he wouldn’t lie, he would scorn to. She was so grateful she wanted to throw her arms round him and kiss him. ‘I don’t know how to thank you. I’m just so relieved. I’m quite overwhelmed. I don’t know what to say. How did you get them back?’

  ‘It wasn’t too difficult,’ he said, making light of it. ‘I phoned Lambert’s studio and said I was coming round for a chat. He was waiting for me with two friends of his. When I say friends, I think they were actually professional bouncers. They certainly looked it. Naturally I warned them I had boxed at Oxford, but for some reason they seemed to find that amusing, I don’t know why. They became quite aggressive.’

  Her hands were clenched so tight the knuckles were white. ‘Oh no, Lance. What did you do?’

  ‘I knocked them out,’ he said, consulting the wine list. ‘What, all three of them?’

  ‘Only the two bouncers,’ said Lancelot. ‘I’m afraid I had to hit them quite hard. Lambert was very co-operative after that. He produced the photographs almost immediately. Of course he tried to keep the negatives, but I managed to make him see reason.’

  It was all too thrilling and too wonderful and, yes, too embarrassing for words. She touched his bandaged hand.

  ‘A couple of broken fingers,’ he said, drawing his hand away. ‘I never fought without gloves before. Those men had the hardest jaws.’

  It was unbelievable. To think he had done all this for her! It was so brave of him, so daring, so gallant. It was like having your very own knight in shining armour! Chivalry was still alive and well. Who would have thought it in this cynical and disillusioned age? Bending her head, she kissed his bandaged hand. Impulsively he reached out and touched her face, though whether it was a sign of affection or a simple acknowledgement of the kiss was not clear; whichever it was, in the sweet confusion of the moment she was overcome by an emotion entirely new to her.

  Lancelot wanted to ask her out again, but the incident had left him deeply troubled. Not for the first time in his young life he had committed the unpardonable sin; he had lost control. The two men had attacked him without warning, one with a table lamp, the other with a flick knife. Nevertheless the damage he had inflicted on them worried him. It was only later he learned that both men had spent several days in hospital with badly bruised faces, broken jaws and noses, and fractured ribs. No wonder he had hurt his hand. It shocked him to discover he was capable of such extreme violence. Even more shocking, he remembered nothing about it. One moment the two men were advancing on him, the next they were lying unconscious on the floor, the time between a blank.

  Had his mind blocked out an unpleasant memory? Or was there a more sinister explanation? Was there some malfunction in his brain creating a rift between thought and action? Again he asked himself the question that had troubled him so long. Had he inherited some weakness from his mother? It might not

  actually be a physical problem. Could be some kind of, well,

  not mental disturbance exactly, but that sort of thing. He had so many questions about his mother, and only his father’s stunted answers. Why had she taken her own life? Everyone who knew them said that she and dad adored each other. The closest his father had come to an explanation was to hint that pregnancy sometimes had strange effects on women. Was that the real reason, or was he hiding something? Was the delicate balance of her mind disturbed, not temporarily, but permanently? Did that explain those uncontrollable fits of anger that convulsed him from time to time?

  Helena now knew for certain that she had found the only man she would ever love, and was determined not to let him get away. Had he not, like the traditional valorous knight of story books, ridden to the aid of the damsel in distress and rescued her from the wicked ogre? Such a man was worthy of special effort, and she would not allow pride to stand in her way. If she wanted to see him again, it was up to her to make the running. If the knight would not come to the damsel, then the damsel would have to go to the knight. And so she did. For a time they were inseparable companions, though nothing more than that.

  Ban was delighted. The hooded, world-weary eyes of Helena’s father, Harold Pemberton, assumed a gentler look. With what he imagined were subtle hints, he recommended his daughter to find a nice young fellow and settle down. Helena was only too happy to oblige, if the right man came along. On that subject, however, there could be no compromise, for there was now only one right man.

  Though it pleased her to think of Lancelot as the hero of her girlish fantasies, she was not by inclination a romantic spirit, nor did she aspire – as so many women of her generation did

  – to success in some business or profession. To marry, settle down and have children was what she wanted above all else. A semi-detached in Battersea would comfortably accommodate her dreams for the future. But what about Lancelot’s dreams? Would he feel trapped in her vacuum-packed life? Would he warm to her dull friends? Would he eat dinner on his knees watching television? Would he walk the dog in the park? Would he kick a soccer ball with the kids on a Saturday morning? How would he earn a living? Would he make the army his career, or if not, be a lawyer or an accountant, or take a job in the city trading equities?

  Hard to imagine. Somehow a collar and tie, a nine-to-five routine and a houseful of children did not seem to be Lancelot’s cup of tea. She asked herself, could a knight in shining armour ever be Battersea man? Time alone would tell. Meanwhile, resolved to press matters, she made it clear to Lancelot that she wanted to go to bed with him.

  His reaction took her by surprise. ‘It may sound silly to you,’ he said, ‘but I don’t think a man and woman should sleep together until they are married.’

  Helena’s eyes grew large. Was he ending their relationship? Or could it be Lancelot’s way of proposing? ‘Fine,’ she said, a determined look in her eye, ‘let’s get married.’

  That he had not expected. ‘I don’tthink I’m ready for marriage just yet,’ he said, having the grace to look apologetic.

  ‘When will you be?’ She knew it was foolish to try and put him in a corner but she could not help herself.

  Lancelot mumbled something inaudible. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘In a couple of years . . . or so . . . is what I said.’

  Was he serious? ‘You expect me to wait two years for sex!’ She made him sound unreasonable, priggish even. It was, he thought, very unfair of her. What was he to do? He was trapped between Scylla and Charybdis, either to be drowned in the whirlpool of sex, or swallowed by the monster of marriage, both terrifying prospects. Yet for all his reservations and misgivings the inevitable happened. An excellent Italian meal, a little more red wine than usual, Helena more beautiful than he had ever seen her, and the two of them fell into bed. The next morning both were thoughtful and subdued. Everything that had seemed so simple to Helena the night before was infinitely more complicated the morning after. Last night she had given herself to the man of her dreams; the question was, whom had she woken up with? Was this man lying in bed beside her still the man of her dreams? Or was he just a man she had spent the night with? How could you feel close to someone when you were not at all sure who they were? This was not remotely how she had expected to feel.

  Lancelot too was far from happy. Why, lying next to this lovely girl, did he feel intimacy and estrangement in equal measure? Why was he feeling ashamed of himself? Was it because he had taken advantage of Helena’s unconditional love? Was it that he did not appear to feel what a man in love was supposed to feel? Or was it that he had betrayed his own long-held principles?

  It had certainly been pleasurable, if not the mind-expanding experience he had hoped it would be. In the
morning the mysteries of the universe were still mysteries, and life every bit as inexplicable as it had been the night before. More depressing still, in the intimacy of their sexual union he had never felt more isolated. What was he afraid of? Of feeling too much? Or too little? Lancelot was beginning to fear that he was destined never to love anyone, or worse, that he was incapable of loving. Lying next to Helena, the image came to him of another woman, a woman he would always worship, but had never known. Through a veil of water, his mother gazed at him with sad eyes.

  Helena’s mother, Francesca, was the first to suspect what had happened. ‘What’s wrong, darling?’

  The tears streamed down Helena’s face. ‘Nothing.’

  Francesca put her arm round her daughter. ‘I’ve never known you to cry about nothing.’

  ‘I don’t know how to tell you,’ wailed Helena.

  ‘Try saying, I’m pregnant,’ said her mother briskly. Helena wiped her eyes.’How did you know?’

  ‘Is it Lancelot?’

  ‘Yes.’ Somehow mothers always knew. ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Have the child, of course,’ said Helena firmly.

  Francesca took that for granted. She had something else in mind. ‘Are going to tell him?’

  That question had already given Helena many a sleepless night. ‘I haven’t decided yet.’

  Though she would never say so, Lancelot, in Francesca’s opinion, was a poor marriage prospect. For one thing he was far too self-involved, and for another he was altogether too attractive. Any woman who married him would spend her life fighting off the predators. Besides, he had the look of a wanderer, and she doubted he would ever settle down to family life. Her conclusion was that Helena would be better off saying nothing about the baby, at least for the time being. This was, in any case, 2023, not 1923; the world had changed, there were plenty of single mothers these days, and precious few marriages. Why did Helena have to marry Lancelot? Why did she have to marry anyone? The child could be raised by her mother, with her grandmother’s help, and would have all the love and security in the world.