Moon Witch

by Anne Mather

  'You must know it was J.K. who knew my grandfather.'

  'Yes, of course,' Helen nodded. 'I was forgetting for the moment. Whenever I've spoken to Jarrod about it, he has considered you very much his responsibility !'

  Sara swallowed hard. 'You've spoken to Jarrod!'

  She frowned. 'About me?'

  'Of course. There are such things as telephones, even here,' remarked Helen dryly, and Sara flushed. 'But come along. I'm being very rude keeping you standing out here like this. It's just that Jarrod is very dear to me, and I know he won't allow me to offer him any advice.'

  Sara bit her lip. 'You--you want to offer me advice, Mrs. Kyle?'

  Helen shook her head again. 'No. No, not now. Not now I've met you. I can see for myself that you're little more than a child, and my fears were all for nothing.'

  Sara drew back as they neared the steps. 'What fears, Mrs. Kyle?'

  Helen Kyle paused. 'Jarrod is almost thirty-five. Both J.K. and I want to see him happily married with a family of his own. I was afraid--oh, surely you can understand how it is! I was afraid you might be a different kind of girl, an older girl in experience, if you understand me, one who might try to jeopardise any plans Jarrod might have for marriage.'

  Sara felt the familiar twinges of nausea deep in the pit of her stomach, which always occurred when she was deeply disturbed.

  'You--you have nothing to fear from me, Mrs. Kyle,' she said tightly.

  'No. No, I can see that,' replied Helen Kyle, gripping her arm to assist her to mount the steps. 'I think we might conceivably become friends, which would please J.K. enormously.' She smiled for the first time since Jarrod went into the house. 'You must understand, Sara, I don't mean to be unkind.

  It's as well to iron out these difficulties from the very beginning. Then we understand one another. Don't you agree?'

  'Oh yes, Mrs. Kyle,' said Sara stiffly. 'We understand one another.'

  Her delight in her surroundings, in the luxurious opulence of Flamingo Lodge, had all been doused. When they entered the wide arched entrance which gave on to a cool mosaic-tiled hall, and turned into an exotically furnished lounge where Jarrod and Matt were having drinks, Sara could barely summon up enough energy to show any enthusiasm. Her cheeks were a little pale, and she badly wanted to cry for some inexplicable reason. But instead she had to accept a glass of fresh iced fruit juice, and answer when spoken to, while Jarrod and Matt and Helen chatted quite amicably about London and the family business, and the appalling state of the weather there.

  Several times Sara found Jarrod regarding her strangely, as though aware that all was not well with her, and she had to force herself not to allow her eyes to hold his, mirroring her own inner torments as they did.

  'I have dined,' Helen was saying now, 'and as you've had such a long journey, I thought you all might prefer supper in your rooms. Sophie has some delicious salad and there's plenty of shellfish to choose from. Which would you prefer, Sara? Crab, lobster, prawns?'

  Sara swallowed hard. 'Would--would you consider me very impolite if I said I wanted nothing?' she murmured awkwardly. 'I--I'm not hungry 1'

  Jarrod frowned now. 'You must be. You haven't

  eaten since lunch in New York!'

  'I can assure you I'm not,' replied Sara tightly. 'Could--could I go to my room? I--I feel rather tired!'

  Helen rang the bell nearby. 'Of course,' she said smoothly, and as the maid Sophie appeared, 'Will you take Miss Robins to her room, Sophie?' She looked at Sara. 'Goodnight then, Sara. I expect we'll meet at breakfast.'

  'Yes. Yes, thank you.' Sara nodded her goodnights, and followed Sophie out into the hall again, and up a flight of white-balustraded stairs. The stairs were of the same marble mosaic as the lower hall, and led up to a landing that ran from front to back of the house, with doors opening off both sides, rather like a gallery. Sophie led her to a room at the far end, where the lights from the hall could only faintly be seen, and the bulbs were more discreetly toned. The maid flung open her door, and Sara entered yet another luxurious bedroom. This time the floor was polished wood, strewn with rugs, while the bedspread and curtains were of a brilliant kind of folk weave. The furniture was rather old-fashioned, but highly polished. Beyond was a tiny bathroom, which Sophie said was her own. Her cases had been deposited in the centre of the floor, but were not yet unpacked, and Sara felt too tired to tackle anything of that kind tonight. Instead, she stripped off the slack suit, gave herself a thorough wash, and then put on the shortie cambric nightie which she had worn the previous night in New York.

  A lump seemed to have settled itself permanently in her throat, but she was determined she would not give in to tears. Tears were too easy a way out, and were for children, not young women. In ten days she would be eighteen. It was time she started acting like a young woman, instead of a stupid schoolgirl. Letting Helen Kyle's words bother her, that was the most stupid thing of all. After all, what had she said? That Jarrod was soon to marry and settle down; that she didn't want Sara interfering, even unwittingly, in his marriage plans; that some less scrupulous girl might have tried to capitalise on the situation.

  She climbed into bed, turning out the main light, but leaving a lamp burning beside the bed. She lifted the paperback she had brought with her from Malthorpe. It was a thriller, and just the sort of reading for someone in her frame of mind, she thought, but even so she found it impossible to concentrate. After reading one page half a dozen times without really understanding it, she gave it up and put her book down. She slid out of bed again, and opened the shutters. Even in the moonless dark she could pick out the lights of other villas lower down the hillside, and smell the delicious tang of the sea. Her room must have a marvellous view, she thought, trying to derive some satisfaction from the thought. But she felt little emotion about that. It came home to her very clearly that circumstances and surroundings were only relative, and that it was people and not things that made or broke one's life.

  With that profound thought she padded back to bed, taking another look at her immediate surroundings. She wished she had some cigarettes; she might have tried one, maybe it would have helped her to sleep. As it was she felt much too wide awake and restless. She thought of J.K. alone at Malthorpe, and shivered. If only she was still there! She had fooled herself on Jarrod's plane into believing she could enjoy this holiday. She had been very silly. And two weeks could seem a lifetime. Hadn't she already experienced that when her grandfather died?

  There was a sound outside her door, and a light tap, and thinking it was Sophie, she called, 'Come in!' To her astonishment, Jarrod entered the room, closing the door and leaning back against it, regarding her with dark brooding eyes. Sara became again conscious of her attire, as once before, only this time she had not even a housecoat to wrap about her. It was still in her case.

  'What do you want?' she exclaimed, and he said softly:

  'Don't shout! Unless you want the whole household in here!' He frowned. 'Get into bed!'

  Sara hastily scrambled under the bedclothes, drawing them up to her chin, drawing her knees up too, and regarding him over the top rather endearingly. Her hair fell forward, partly covering one cheek, and she brushed it back with a careless hand. 'Well,' she whispered, 'what is it?'

  Jarrod straightened, and walked across to the bed, looking down at her. 'What did Helen say to you outside?'

  Sara's revealing colour burned in her cheeks. 'Nothing much. Why?'

  Jarrod sighed. 'Oh, don't give me that,' he exclaimed, almost raising his voice, until she looked at him in surprise. 'You know damn nicely she said something to upset you, and I want to know what it was! What it was that changed you from a talkative teenager into a tongue-tied waif with no thoughts except escape--from all of us!'

  Sara sighed. 'Why don't you ask her?'

  'I'm asking you.'

  'Well, I can't answer you.' Sara compressed her lips. 'Now, will you please go?'

  'Blast you, no! I mean to have an answer!'

 
'Well, you won't get one from me,' retorted Sara, stiffening her shoulders. 'Go to bed! It's getting late! You must be tired, too.'

  Jarrod looked at her irritably. 'I am tired, I admit, very tired, but how the hell am I expected to sleep knowing you're worrying yourself sick over something! '

  Sara's lashes veiled her eyes. 'I--I'm not worried,' she said quickly.

  'Aren't you? Aren't you just?' Jarrod studied her downbent head and she, becoming aware of his scrutiny, moved uncomfortably.

  'Oh lord,' she said, 'why must everyone need to know the far end of everything to do with me? I don't ask a lot of questions! I'm not continually criticising you! Why must you always treat me like an infant?'

  Jarrod shrugged his broad shoulders. 'I guess because that's what you are,' he muttered a trifle harshly.

  'Am I?' She looked up at him. 'Am I really? Is that all you ever see me as? A dumb kid?'

  Jarrod's eyes held hers. 'I didn't say dumb!' he said shortly.

  'No, but as good as. I'm eighteen in ten days, Jarrod!'

  Her eyes at last fell before his. She was no match for his unblinking gaze, yet she was aware that he was not as indifferent as he would have her believe.

  'What do you want me to say, Sara?' he muttered, going down on his haunches beside the bed, forcing her gaze to meet his. 'Is this some new game you're playing? Has your success with the boys from Malthorpe given you a taste for adventure, because I ought to warn you, it's a very dangerous game.'

  Sara shivered. 'But you play it,' she said, almost soundlessly.

  'With you?' He shook his head. 'No, honey, never that!'

  'Why? Am I so repulsive?' Sara was conscious of the depth of the water she was so carelessly entering.

  'You're not repulsive at all,' he said huskily, his eyes not mocking or derisive as she had expected, but gentle.

  Yet conversely, Sara did not want him to be gentle. She didn't want his pity, his compassion, his understanding of the emptiness inside her.

  'Oh, go away,' she said, pressing the knuckles of one hand against her mouth.

  'Sara,' he muttered, 'I'm trying to be patient, to understand this urge you have to try out your feminine appeal. Just don't try me too far!'

  'Why?' She glared at him. 'Why?' she taunted him again. 'What will you do? What will the gorgeous sexy Jarrod Kyle do?'

  Jarrod's eyes were no longer warm and gentle, but angry and glittering, and she felt suddenly excited, in a way she had never experienced before. She knew she ought to feel frightened, afraid of the anger she had aroused in him, afraid of what vengeance he might take. Yet she wasn't. Instead, she realised she wanted nothing more than that he should touch her, that she should feel those hard hands caressing her, and feel that angry, arrogant mouth against her own.

  But to her intense disappointment Jarrod got abruptly to his feet, and without speaking walked towards the door. Refusing to let him see how he had disturbed her, she turned her back on him, and she heard the door open very quietly, and close again with a definite click.

  Then the whole weight of her actions fell on her, and the tears which had threatened all evening began to fall without hope of quelling them. Not only had she allowed Jarrod to see that she was attracted by him, but he had rejected her, spurned her puny efforts at arousing him. All she had done was make a complete ass of herself, and ruined what might, possibly, have been a good holiday.

  What would J.K. think of her if he ever found out? Was Jarrod likely to tell him? J.K. who had thought Jarrod was not to be trusted! How wrong could you be! And Helen! Heavens, she had let everyone down, most of all herself. That night at Malthorpe, when Jarrod had looked at her so disturbingly, she had practically shown then that she was vulnerable. And now, tonight, she had behaved without rhyme or reason. With wanton carelessness! What must Jarrod think of her? He must despise her, utterly!

  With a groan, she buried her face in the pillow, trying to obliviate the knowledge that she had lost all her self-respect.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  THE next morning Sara woke with an awful feeling of apprehension. At first she couldn't remember why she should feel this way, and then remembrance of the previous evening came flooding back to torment her. Refusing to allow her thoughts to become all-enveloping, she slid out of bed and ran to the window.

  The view was as spectacular as she had imagined it to be. The thickly wooded hillside fell away below her window, dotted here and there with the tiled roofs of other dwellings. Colourful trees and shrubs threaded among the foliage, and she wondered what were all their names. There was a beautiful cascade of golden blossom just below in the gardens, and to the right she glimpsed a curved swimming pool edged about with bushes of oleander and rose. A tiled surround sported airbeds and bamboo furniture, upholstered in vivid shades of red and blue and green. It was the most picturesque scene she had ever looked on and even her depression lifted a little on a morning like this. A glance at the small clock on her bedside table told her it was only seven-thirty, but she felt she couldn't stay in bed any longer.

  Rummaging through her cases, she brought out a short semi-flared skirt of red crimplene, and donned a sleeveless white sweater to go with it. After a brisk wash in cold water and a hasty run of the comb through her hair she was ready, and she opened her room door quietly in case the rest of the household was still sleeping.

  She tiptoed along the landing, and down the stairs to the hall below. Glancing into the lounge which they had entered the previous evening she found it to be deserted, but there was the faint sound of activity to the left of the hall, so she walked across quietly to investigate. She found a small dining-room, but there was no one actually in the room. Instead, french doors stood wide open on to a terrace, with a carved wrought iron rail. A round table was set for breakfast, and Matt was sitting, lazily reading a newspaper as he ate a very English breakfast of bacon, eggs and tomatoes.

  Sara ventured into the room tentatively, and Matt, seeing her shadow, said: 'Well, hello, Sara! Coming to join me?'

  'Thank you. I'd like to,' Sara nodded, and crossed to the french doors. Then she caught her breath as she ran to the rail and gazed down on the blue waters of the Caribbean, spread out below them. Her room, situated at the side of the house, had merely given her a glimpse of the sea on the horizon, but here the land fell away more steeply, and a sandy basin below them gave on to the creamy surf of the blue water. Palms planted just below the terrace added their own touch of tropicality to the view, and Matt smiled at her enthusiasm.

  'Some place to eat a meal, eh?' he remarked, folding his newspaper.

  Sara glanced round, her eyes alight with wonder. 'It's like a scene from a film,' she exclaimed. 'How on earth can Jarrod bear to leave all this and return to England!'

  She realised as soon as she had spoken that they were not alone, and she turned to face Helen Kyle with some trepidation. Only yesterday she had practically told Jarrod's mother that she addressed him as Mr. Kyle, and now here she was, saying Jarrod as naturally as though she had never used anything else.

  'Oh--er--good morning, Mrs. Kyle,' she said awkwardly.

  Helen Kyle gave her a slight nod. 'Good morning, Sara. You're an early riser, too, I see.'

  'It--it was too nice to stay in bed,' said Sara, somewhat defensively, and then leant against the rail, trying to recapture her excitement at the view.

  Helen Kyle seated herself at the table, and when a white-coated manservant appeared, she said: 'What would you like for breakfast, Sara? We have the usual English things, or there's rolls and butter, fruit juice; you choose.'

  Sara turned and as Matt held out her chair, sat down too. 'Could I have some fruit juice, and some rolls?' she asked.

  'Of course. You heard that, Remus?'

  'Yes'm.' Remus beamed and disappeared to get the necessary cutlery. He returned to lay Sara's place, bringing a jug of steaming coffee and some cream. Sara wished Helen had not appeared just then. She could have enjoyed a relaxed meal with only Matt for company. With hi
m she had no inhibitions, and his lazy manner appealed to her.

  'What do you plan today, Matt?' Helen was asking now.

  Matt shrugged. 'I don't know exactly. Jarrod said something about taking out the yacht. Unless he

  changes his mind.'

  'A yacht!' exclaimed Sara. 'Oh, where is it?'

  'There--out in the bay!' Matt raised his arm and pointed, and Sara could see a white hull and some silvery attachments gleaming in the sun 'The Sea Witch! Do you sail?'

  Sara grimaced. 'Well, it's not exactly common to people like me,' she laughed, relaxing a little.

  'Matt's father owns a shipyard,' remarked Helen Kyle conversationally. 'In Norfolk, isn't that so, Matt?'

  Matt nodded, and Sara frowned. Somehow she had thought of Matt as being like herself, and to discover that his father owned a shipyard placed him in an entirely different light.

  'It was Arnold, Matt's father, who built the Sea Witch,' Helen went on. 'Beautiful, isn't she?'

  'Yes,' said Sara doubtfully, and caught Matt's eyes upon her.

  'What's wrong?' he asked. 'Does it surprise you that unlike Jarrod I'm not following in Father's footsteps?'

  Sara shrugged. 'I suppose I didn't think of you as --well, being anything other than--than'--she glanced at Helen--'than Jarrod's assistant.'

  Helen seemed to understand this more easily than Matt did. 'Matt prefers the world of high finance to the quiet backwaters of the Broads, even though Arnold gets orders from all over the world, don't you, Matt?' She patted his hand. 'As Jarrod's assistant he is a person in his own right.'

  Sara sighed. 'Yes, I suppose so,' she murmured quietly.

  'Where is Jarrod, anyway?' asked Helen suddenly.

  Matt finished his coffee. 'He went out with Aristotle an hour ago. I believe they were heading for the beach. They took oxygen cylinders with them.'

  Sara's eyes were wide. She had thought Jarrod still in bed. To know he was up and about, and likely to appear at any moment, petrified her. However would she face him after last night?