Star Creek

by Pamela Kent

  Having made a cursory acquaintance with the gardens and discovered that they were beautifully laid out, and would be utterly enchanting in the summer, Helen decided to explore a little farther, and made her way as if by instinct down to the creek.

  Star Creek ... But it was impossible to imagine starlight penetrating that leafy stillness and looking at its own reflection in the water. The water was still and black, and gurgled very gently where little undercurrents interfered with the air and it got sucked into tiny, unseen pockets. The trees overhung the water, and their branches met in the middle. There was a footpath on one side of the creek, winding away into the woods, and on the other a narrow, pebbly beach had tiny wavelets breaking on it.

  Helen gathered primroses in the woods, and she had a tight cluster of the sweet-smelling, lovely things in her hands when she thought she heard voices—men’s voices—and discovered that a boat was being dragged up on to the pebbly beach.

  Two men alighted from it, one in waders, the other with infinitely black hair and a lean, dark face that was so like the face of Roger Trelawnce that Helen decided instantly he must be a close relative. He was younger than Trelawnce, and his darkness was a little more gipsyish; and he had flashing white teeth, and a gay, impertinent laugh.

  “There’ll be a moon tonight,” he said, as he carefully beached the boat. “It should be quite light.”

  “If it’s ever light in these woods,” his companion answered. He was a much older man, with greying hair. “The one thing I like about this part of the world is that it never changes.”

  The younger man agreed.

  “If the jerry-builder ever arrives here we’ll shoot him.” He tied up the boat to his satisfaction, and they started to walk up through the woods. “I wonder whether Tom will have turned up yet. The trouble with that fellow is that you can never quite depend on him.”

  “Oh, Tom’s always dependable,” the older man answered. “Roger wouldn’t use him if he wasn’t.” Stealing like a shadow behind them, careful not to implant her foot on a snapping twig, Helen kept the two men in sight. She was curious to find out whether they were going to the house, and she certainly didn’t mean to eavesdrop, although she couldn’t help overhearing a word or two as it was let drop.

  “I wonder whether Roger’s girl friend’s turned up yet? Some sort of an unwanted ward ... A bit hard on a chap who’s used to living alone!”

  The older man grunted uninterestedly.

  “I don’t suppose she’ll make any difference. It’s a big house ... she’ll go her own way, and Roger will go, his. It’s to be hoped she’s not the curious type, however.”

  “All women are curious,” the younger man offered it as his opinion with a fine air of contempt.

  “And some are damned attractive. You know I’ve never married, but there was one once...”

  The voices died away, because Helen dropped back deliberately, and by the time she reached the house there was no sign of either of the two men, although the front door was still standing wide open and her unwilling guardian was in the act of bidding good-bye to an immensely powerful-looking and rather rough type of a man—neither of the other two men had been rough, and from their speech they belonged to Trelawnce’s own world—in a blue fisherman’s jersey, who kept touching his forelock in an old-fashioned manner as the owner of the house accompanied him down the terrace steps.

  “See you later, Tom,” he called, as Tom disappeared hurriedly down the path; and then Trelawnce caught sight of Helen, her hands full of primroses, standing on the edge of the lawn and regarding him.

  “Hello,” he said. He looked full at her, and then at the primroses in her hands. “So you’ve been exploring already? You’ll have to be careful in our woods ... there are some nasty, partially exposed tree-roots that you could trip over.” He did not sound too pleased. “Just be careful where, and how, you walk.”

  “I will,” Helen answered.

  There was a warm glow in her cheeks, after her walk up through the woods, and although her hair had been caught at by brambles, and one of her sheer stockings had been badly snagged, she looked as enticing as a wood-nymph as she stood there. Trelawnce did not seem able to remove his eyes from her immediately, but when he did she thought his unusually hard, handsome face settled into an expression of grimness. “Have you been exploring the grounds as well?”

  “Yes. I explored them first. They’re lovely.”

  “A lot of people come to look at them in the summer. By the way,” he was staring at a wing of the grey stone house as if he did not really see it, “did Mrs. Pearce explain to you about meals, and so forth? You can dine with me in the evenings, but you don’t have to spend any more time in my company than you wish. You must look upon Trelawnce as a permanent—if you wish!—pied-a-terre; but the life you live here will be your own life, as if you were occupying a flat that had been specially converted for you. I shall not interfere with you, and you can come and go as you choose. Naturally I will make you an allowance that will enable you to do that very thing. But there is just one thing I must ask you to do...”

  “Yes?” she said, waiting for him to tell her whatever it was, and keeping her own eyes fixed on the grey wing of the house that had attracted his attention.

  “You mustn’t wander.” He spoke bluntly. “I don’t want you attempting to explore the house.”

  She was about to reply, indignantly, that of course she would do nothing of the kind if he did not wish it, when an unexpected movement at one of the windows—the window, in point of fact, that she was actually staring at—diverted her to such an extent that the indignation died as if it had never been born and never rushed up in her throat to seek an outlet.

  The movement was very slight—just the parting of a curtain; but she received the impression that a face looked out at her—and Trelawnce. And although it could, of course, have been the face of one of the maids, she did not think so. It was a pale face ... pale and smooth, and there appeared to be some light hair surrounding it. The head was bent, and the look was direct, and watchful.

  And then, as Trelawnce closed the fingers of his one hand firmly and strongly around Helen’s arm, and led her quite purposefully away in the opposite direction, Helen’s pulses raced with a sudden, extraordinary sensation like excitement.

  “You must accept my word for it that I won’t do anything you don’t want me to do, Mr. Trelawnce,” she assured him, with a slight breathlessness as if she had been running.

  He frowned, and they walked quickly forward across the lawn.

  “I’ll show you some very fine specimens of camellias,” he said. “They grow magnificently in this part of the world, you know. And we have some very rare shrubs here. I’ll show them to you, too.”

  Helen decided not to mention the two men she had been impolite enough to spy upon down by the creek, but the voice of one of them kept ringing in her ears:

  “If the jerry-builder ever arrives here we’ll shoot him!”

  Having heard the voice, and seen the young man who delivered himself of that no doubt highly exaggerated statement, Helen could yet believe that he would be capable of it. Slim and dark and ruthless ... with a poor opinion of women, too—All women are curious, he had said cuttingly—it had seemed to her, careful not to reveal her presence, that he actually exuded a kind of quiet, controlled violence.

  And when he threw back his handsome dark head and laughed it was the laugh of a Cornish pirate inviting a recently taken prisoner to walk the plank, and an indication at the same time that he would thoroughly enjoy the spectacle.

  She wondered who he was, and was fairly certain that he was Perry Trelawnce.

  And the other man could be Colonel Wince. He had a clipped, military air about him, and even a tiny military moustache.

  She rather hoped they would turn up for dinner that night, and then she could prove herself wrong—or right.

  CHAPTER THREE

  SHE was able to prove her instincts correct before ever they w
ent in to dinner. Colonel Wince and Mr. Trelawnce—considerably junior to the owner of the manor—were in the drawing-room with Roger Trelawnce when she descended the stairs at a quarter to eight.

  Mrs. Pearce had , advised her that, although the drawing-room was seldom used, drinks were dispensed in it about a quarter of an hour before dinner when guests were expected, and so she made straight for it once she reached the hall. Nimo, lying in front of the logs in the hall fireplace, accompanied her, causing her a slightly nervous sensation as he sniffed at her, and his great head was almost on a level with her shoulder.

  The drawing-room had a certain stiffness about it, but it was beautifully appointed. There was a faint odour of crushed rose petals and beeswax overlying the scent of the apple logs in the grate, and the beeswax was responsible for the highly polished surrounds, and the fine polish on the furniture. Helen was able to imagine centuries of effort and a whole succession of housemaids on their knees creating a satin shimmer on the hardwood floor; and the rose petals must have been collected throughout successive summers and stored away in jars and pottery bowls, most of which were still in use.

  Roger Trelawnce had changed into a dinner-jacket, and he looked as if the cult of sartorial perfection was a kind of hobby with him, despite his empty sleeve and the amount of effort such standards must demand from him. Colonel Wince, also wearing a dinner-jacket, but with an air of having known ‘better days’ about him, as if his financial position was not as stable as he could wish at the moment, rose with alacrity when she entered the room, and greeted her with a mixture of kindness and courtesy and unconcealed pleasure.

  “How do you do, Miss Dainton?” he said. He retained her hand a little longer than was strictly necessary, as if he had once prided himself on having a great deal of influence with her sex, and was still quite an ardent admirer. “I understand you only arrived this afternoon? I expect that means you haven’t yet had an opportunity to decide how you’re going to like this part of the world?”

  Helen smiled at him. She had changed out of her navy-blue outfit and into a chic little dress of black lace.

  “On the contrary, I’ve decided I’m going to love it,” she told him “It’s so unlike Paris I feel as if I’ve been re-born.”

  “Ah, yes.” He screwed a monocle into his eye. “You’ve been living in Paris, haven’t you? I suppose I ought to say ... lucky girl! But the truth is, I’m not very familiar with Paris, and I only remember the odd weekend I spent there and all those hooting taxis, and a lot of other noise and confusion besides. It struck me as a very bewildering capital!”

  “The taxis don’t hoot nowadays,” she enlightened him. “And I think you’d find that a great many other things have changed as well.”

  “Have they? Well, the French ought to be grateful for that.” He gave his monocle an extra twist, for he was anxious to take in every detail of her appearance. “However, Cornwall’s good enough for me, and I think it’s good enough for a lot of people I know. They say you either love it, or you can’t get away from it fast enough...”

  “Do you mind if I interrupt?” a smooth voice said. “You’ve been hogging the conversation long enough, Colonel.”

  Perry Trelawnce was unexpectedly close to Helen’s elbow, and he stood looking down at her with bold dark eyes. They were much darker than his cousin’s, with none of the fascinating highlights or peculiar detachment of Roger’s somewhat more obliquely set ones. They concealed nothing that he saw no reason he should conceal, and on this occasion it was admiration.

  Admiration for the delightful slenderness of her build, her bright brown hair, wide grey eyes and dazzling skin. If she was wearing Paris make-up it was infinitely discreet, just as the lines of her dress were discreetly elegant. And she carried about with her a faint, but delightful perfume...

  “Muguet,” Perry murmured knowledgeably, wrinkling his nose. “I feel I’m walking in the Bois, or the Champs Elysees!”

  “Then I’ll have to transport you back to England,” she replied, coolly meeting his eyes. “It’s Old English lavender water!”

  The colonel chuckled. Roger Trelawnce looked mildly amused, and a manservant who must have been off duty when Helen arrived announced the service of dinner. Roger Trelawnce protested:

  “But you haven’t had a drink yet,” to Helen. “What will you have?”

  “Nothing,” she replied, “thank you.”

  She walked ahead of them across the hall to the dining-room, and although she appeared so assured, and her carriage was excellent and her head well held, she was actually feeling acutely self-conscious and very nervous deep down inside her, for she was unaccustomed to being the only member of her sex with three strange men prepared to devote quite a large portion of the evening to studying her, and deriving a certain amount of pleasure from her society.

  At least, Colonel Wince was quite obviously prepared to enjoy himself—and she decided his life was more or less devoid of females nowadays, and this was a novelty to him. And Peregrine Trelawnce undoubtedly looked upon himself as irresistible to women, and was looking forward idly to an easy conquest. He was the only one of the three men who had not taken a great deal of pains with his dressing, and he even wore a paisley silk neckerchief tucked into the pullover he wore beneath a tweed hacking-jacket with leather protectors at the cuffs and elbows. His hands were scrupulously scrubbed and manicured, but he had the air of preferring the out-of-doors to indoors; and although carefully shaved nothing could deprive him of that dark, gipsy look, especially when he smiled and his white teeth gleamed a little crookedly.

  His cousin, on introducing him, had not looked too pleased, as if they were hardly on the best of terms with one another. And now he left the entertainment of his ward to the other two, occupying the seat at the head of the table in silence and austerity, a faintly aloof look on his face, although from a woman’s point of view he was almost romantically attractive.

  Helen, pretending to be hardly aware of him, noticed that the manservant enabled him to cope more easily with his main course by cutting his meat up for him; but otherwise he managed perfectly, his one hand plainly trained to serve him in a way that would make up for the lack of a fellow to go with it, and without any noticeable awkwardness or difficulty. She had already observed that he lighted a cigarette with the utmost ease, and now he prepared a peach for himself when the dessert course arrived.

  Helen, who was woman enough to be aware of almost agonizing sympathy for him and his handicap, felt her breath catch in admiration for the way in which he had overcome it.

  And very, very fortunately for him, he was a rich man, apparently. He wasn’t dependent on a good right hand.

  After dinner they returned to the drawing-room, and she poured coffee. It was already dark outside, although the night was warm—exceptionally warm for May and the french windows were open.

  “Care to have a look at the grounds by moonlight?” the younger Trelawnce enquired, when he had emptied his cup and returned it to the tray, and was standing beside Helen’s chair.

  Roger Trelawnce and the colonel seemed to be having a very deep and earnest conversation at the opposite end of the room.

  She looked up at him.

  “Is there much to see by moonlight?” she asked.

  “If you mean, will I let you stub your toe on a tree root, or fall down a flight of steps and break your neck, I promise you I won’t,” he replied.

  “Very well.”

  She rose and accompanied him down the length of the room, and they passed out on to the terrace. The warmth and the soft, seductive feel of the night wrapped them about; there was a smell of violets hidden in hollows, of bracken and moss and cowrie shells, and a diffused tanginess that had to travel over a couple of wheatfields, and a field full of maize and barley, as well as the woods down at the edge of the creek, after it left the shelving sand at the foot of the cliffs on which the incoming tide was at present lapping softly.

  They descended the terrace steps and walked a
cross the lawn. Helen was quite happy without a coat, although her companion glanced at her lightly clad shoulders and rested a hand on the one that was nearest to him for a moment.

  “Would you like to fetch a coat?”

  She shook her head.

  “No, thanks. I’m beautifully warm.”

  She glanced up at the dark wing of the house that contained the window that had caught her attention before dinner. There was no sign of any light, although she had the queerest sensation that someone was watching them as they crossed the lawn. The moon was no more than a placid silver crescent in the periwinkle-dark sky, and as they neared the woods the girl’s feet faltered, and she showed a disposition to turn back.

  “I don’t think we’d better go any further,” she said. “Besides, I’ve been down to the creek once since I arrived this afternoon.”

  “What?” He had been walking beside her in a thoughtful mood, his dark head bent and his eyes fixed on the short, sweet turf over which they were moving, but her words seemed to arouse in him a kind of shocked surprise. “When did you go down to the creek?” he demanded. “And why?”

  It was her turn to look surprised.

  “I went down out of pure curiosity,” she answered, “about six o’clock this evening.”

  “Then you must have seen me and Wince?”

  “I did. You were beaching your boat, and you said something about women and their undying curiosity.”

  He frowned, and it was a very black frown indeed. Although the light was so poor she could distinctly see the somewhat harsh line his closed lips made as they clamped themselves together in a displeased way.