'No,' he said quickly. 'You've got it wrong. I wasn't working when it happened. It wasn't a big jet.' He reached out to touch her arm in a gesture of apology—the first time that he had voluntarily touched her since she'd come to England. 'I wasn't even flying the plane. I was a passenger in a biplane at an air show,' he explained. 'Something went wrong and we crashed.'
'Oh, Nick.' Olivia was unable to keep the deep emotion she was feeling out of her voice, out of her eyes. But she saw Nick's face harden, and she quickly pulled herself together. 'What a terrible thing to happen. But you seem to have recovered very well. You were lucky to get off so lightly.'
Nick gave her a strange look. 'Yes.'
A biplane, he'd said. Olivia remembered the photographs of an old plane in his office and the propeller on the wall. At the time she'd been too full of emotion at meeting Nick again to do more than glance at them, but the plane must obviously have meant a lot to him. Gropingly she said, 'And—and the pilot? Is he OK too?'
'No.' His jaw tightened and he looked away. 'He wasn't so—lucky.'
'Do you mean that he was killed?' Olivia asked painfully when he didn't go on.
‘Yes.' Nick swallowed the test of his beer and stood up. 'The rain doesn't look as if it's going to let up. I'll phone the house and ask them to send a car for you.'
He went to walk past her, but Olivia reached up and caught his hand. 'The pilot—was he a close friend?'
Nick paused, looking down at her, his eyes so bleak and cold that she shivered inside. 'Yes,' he replied, 'I suppose you could call him a close friend. He was my father.'
CHAPTER FIVE
That afternoon's stately home was a National Trust property only just opened up to the public again after a winter in dust-covers, so that everything was bright and clean. Olivia was made welcome and given a guide to herself, but the rooms were high and large and there was little heating so it felt very cold. Because of the weather there were few visitors so the guide took her on a very leisurely tour. Olivia tried hard to concentrate and take notes, but her mind kept going back to Nick. After he'd telephoned for a car for her he had virtually ignored her, going over to the bar to chat with the landlord. Maybe he was already regretting having confided about the plane crash. Feeling completely unnerved, Olivia had gone out to the Ladies' and stayed there until she heard the car draw up outside.
'Where will I find you?' she asked Nick, trying to sound matter-of-fact.
'At the chopper if it's fine. Here if it's still raining; the pub stays open all day.'
She'd nodded and left him, unable to find the words there and then—to express her sympathy, to give comfort? Olivia gazed dutifully at a painting of the third Earl and wondered if she'd reacted as Nick had expected, or as he'd wanted. Somehow she didn't think the two were the same. And whatever reaction she'd had it would probably be wrong. The thought left a bitter taste in Olivia's mouth. But she comforted herself with the knowledge that at least he'd told her.
'And this is the Earl's cousin, Lady Marjorie.' The guide leaned towards her and lowered her voice as if she was imparting a secret. 'As a matter of fact it's thought that she and the Earl had a clandestine affair. At any rate she produced three children out of wedlock and the Earl paid for their education. But then, she was a relative so he would probably have done so anyway, I suppose. Of course she was quite shunned by society after that—although it would have been all right if she'd been married, of course.'
Olivia didn't see the logic in that. She gazed up at the face of the Earl's mistress. She was blonde, pale and insipid; but then, most of the women's portraits looked like that, as if the same artist had come and done a job lot. She certainly didn't look as if she had enough nerve to flout society and give up everything for love.
They moved on and Olivia's thought went back to Nick. Could she give up everything for him? she wondered. Life had been wonderful while they had been together in New York; she had had the best of both worlds—her work that was good and stimulating, a constant challenge, and Nick to make love to her whenever he was in town. And that side of their relationship had been more than wonderful; it had given her life an emotional meaning that she could have gone on through the years not knowing even existed. He had been a fantastic lover, so virile, so masculinely lustful. Sometimes he'd walked into her apartment and within five minutes they'd be in bed.
And it had been fun, too. Olivia's eyes softened as she remembered the surprises he'd pulled, the way he'd teased her. Once they'd been to see a film where the heroine came home to find her apartment full to the ceding with balloons, and Olivia had pretended to be disappointed that Nick had never done that for her. Nick had accepted it for the challenge it was, and she could tell by the devilish gleam in his eyes that she was in for a surprise. The next time he was due in she'd rushed home, throwing open the door, expecting to find the place full of big, beautiful balloons—but it was empty except for one pitifully small red balloon tied to the back of a chair. Slowly, her face changing from excitement, disappointment, to intrigued curiosity, Olivia had walked over to read the words painted on it. 'Prick me if you dare.' Smiling now, she'd found a needle and burst the balloon, jumping at the bang. Something fell out and she bent to pick it up. Inside folds of soft tissue paper she found an enamelled brooch. It bore her name in gold letters—surrounded by brightly coloured balloons. Nick had appeared in the doorway to the bedroom, and was watching her. She ran to him, her eyes wet with tears, and threw her arms round his neck. 'Thank you, thank you so much, my darling.'
He had lifted her off her feet and held her close. 'Now you'll always have balloons,' he'd said huskily, and kissed her with a passion that could only have one outcome.
'Perhaps you'd like to see the orangery now?' her guide asked, cutting cruelly into her thoughts. Adding, 'Is anything the matter?'
Olivia blinked rapidly. 'No, of course not. It's just rather cold.'
'Yes. Unfortunately we can't heat the house too much because it warps and splits the furniture, you know. But at least it's stopped raining,' the woman said bracingly. 'You'll be able to see the orangery at its best.'
It was another hour before Olivia was able to get away. The guide had been more than helpful, but then they were everywhere she went once they knew she was writing travel articles for an American magazine. The air smelt fresh and clean after the rain, the strong smells of wet grass and earth filling her senses. Olivia walked slowly down the long driveway to the gate; they had offered to run her back by car but she had refused, wanting some time to herself before she saw Nick again. A river not much bigger than a stream danced and rippled under a Palladian-style bridge that was much too grand for it. Leaning her elbows on the parapet, Olivia wished she were artistic. Maybe she would take it up when she went back to the States; but she would never find scenes like this to paint.
She sighed heavily; everything had seemed so easy before she'd set out for England. All she had to do was find Nick, convince him that she still loved him, and they would go back to the States and settle down, she to her journalistic career and he to flying. In her eager optimism it had all seemed that simple. But that accident had changed Nick, hurt him. It must have been terrible to have lost his father in that way. And yet it hadn't been his fault, so surely he couldn't be blaming himself for it? Olivia frowned, not understanding. How long ago had the accident happened? And what had happened to the plane to cause it to crash? It was possible to find these things out, of course; she could easily make enquiries. But had she the right to do that? Nick had relaxed enough to confide in her a little; oughtn't she to wait until he was ready to tell her more?
Olivia began to walk on again, feeling pressured, thinking that she had so little time. Two weeks had almost gone already, but at least today had been something of a breakthrough. That cheered her, until she remembered that she had soon to face Nick again and decide how she was to act towards him. Until now she had thought it best to treat his injury, and therefore his accident, lightly. But, lord, you couldn
't treat anything that involved the death of his father lightly!
He was waiting for her as she had come to expect, leaning against the helicopter, hands in his pockets, apparently no different from any other day. But Olivia had come to read his moods and she could tell by the set of his shoulders that he was bracing himself to meet her. Inspiration came to her and she hurried towards him.
'Oh, Nick, I'm so cold! They had no heating there and I'm sure I've caught a chill. I can't wait to get back to the hotel to take a hot bath.' She shivered and climbed into the chopper as soon as he opened the door. 'You had the best of it today,' she told him when he joined her. 'I wish I'd stayed in the pub by the fire.'
'Didn't you like the house?'
'Oh, yes, it was beautiful.' Her face became pensive. 'All the houses I've seen are beautiful, and full of gorgeous things, but most of them are so—impersonal. I feel as if I'm walking round a museum rather than a home. It's as if they've never been really lived in. And in some places I get to feel as if the visitors are only allowed in on sufferance.'
'I know what you mean,' Nick remarked. 'It's because they want to preserve the houses for posterity, and the only way they can afford to do that is to let in the public, but constant visitors are wearing the places out anyway. It's a catch-22 situation, a battle they can't win.'
'Well, I'm surprised those poor guides don't all suffer from pneumonia,' Olivia said feelingly. 'I feel as if I've got it coming on already.'
'You've led a cosseted life, that's your trouble,' Nick said with a grin. He reached into the map drawer. 'Here, try this.' And he handed her a silver pocket flask.
'Oh, great. I hope it's a hundred per cent proof rye whisky.' It turned out to be brandy, but was just as good. Olivia took a deep draught and offered the flask to Nick. 'Do you want some?'
He shook his head. 'Not after drinking non-alcoholic beer all afternoon.'
'What did you do?' she asked curiously.
'Played darts.'
'You'll have to teach me that.'
Nick raised his eyebrows and switched on the engine, ending the conversation. But Olivia sat back, not bothering to put on her head-set, able to relax now; the tricky moment had passed. They flew back in silence, but it was a comfortable silence, not tense as it easily might have been. She felt tired and closed her eyes, the steady drone of the engines soon sending her to sleep.
The silence woke her. Olivia stirred reluctantly and opened her eyes. They had landed and Nick had switched off the engines and taken off his head-set. He was watching her, his eyes tender, as a father would look at a sleeping child, she thought—and immediately repudiated it. That wasn't how she wanted him to look at her. She said, 'Hi,' huskily, and deliberately ran the tip of her tongue across her lips.
His face changed and for a brief moment there was a flash of desire in his eyes, but then Nick turned away and said brusquely, 'We're home.'
She sat up. 'Not for me. I still have to drive into Stratford. How far do you have to go?'
'Only a mile or so.'
'Are you going straight home?'
'No. I still have work to catch up on in the office.'
'Is it my fault?' Olivia asked, getting out.
'No, there's always work to catch up on.' Nick made sure the chopper was securely locked, and carried her bag over to her car for her.
Olivia hesitated, not wanting to leave him, but not knowing how to stay. So instead she just got into the car and said, 'Don't work too hard,' before driving off.
It was ridiculous that she didn't know where he lived, she thought as she drove along. Especially if it was only a mile from the heliport. Being with him in the 'copter had brought her closer to Nick, but it wasn't close enough. She had to find some way to be with him in different surroundings, different circumstances. Coming to the outskirts of the town, she passed a Chinese take-away and a few minuets later turned round and went back to it.
The light was on in Nick's office when she returned half an hour later, a large bag of spicy food and a bottle of wine on the seat of the car beside her. The door to the building was unlocked, and she walked straight in, then leaned against the jamb in the open doorway to his office. 'Hello again,' she said brightly. 'Where would you like it—here, or in Reception?'
Nick had stiffened and was staring at her, a stunned look in his eyes.
'Don't get me wrong,' Olivia added before he could speak. She held out the bag and the bottle. 'I've bought us a Chinese; where do you want to eat it?'
'What the hell did you do that for?' he said roughly.
On an angry, almost defiant note, she answered, 'Because I'm tired of eating alone every night. Because I know we both like Chinese. Because I suddenly felt hungry. It's no big deal.'
Nick continued to look at her for a long moment, then his mouth twisted ruefully. Switching off the computer he was using, he stood up. He didn't apologise but his tone was conciliatory as he asked, 'How can you possibly be hungry after that huge meal you had at lunchtime?'
'I'm always hungry; surely you remember that?'
'You ought to weigh a ton.'
'But I don't.'
'No, you don't.' His eyes ran over her slim figure.
'Well, at least you noticed.' She smiled to take any sarcasm or forwardness out of it. 'Come on, where can we eat?'
'In the rest-room, I suppose.'
Nick led the way out to Reception and through the door on the left. It led to cloakrooms and then a pleasant room with armchairs, a table with half a dozen upright chairs grouped round it, and a television and music- deck in the corner.
'It's where the pilots can relax in between charters,' he explained, drawing peach-coloured curtains across the big picture window. 'Do you want some music?'
'Great.' She looked round. 'I hope you have some plates and forks.'
He found some in a small kitchen opening off the room. 'Here we are, and some glasses for the wine. We'll Ik; able to eat and drink in a civilised manner.'
'Not like that picnic we had that time when we were in Vermont. Do you remember? We forgot the glasses and had to drink champagne out of the bottle.'
'I remember.'
And afterwards they had made love under the trees; did he remember that, too? Perhaps he had, because Nick's tone was brusque and he immediately turned away to find a corkscrew.
'How are your articles going?' he asked, coming to sit opposite her.
A definite change of subject, Olivia thought wryly, but she said, 'OK. I've sent a couple off. One on American connections with Stratford, and the other on the River Avon; its history, the places to see along its banks, hiring boats, that kind of thing.'
'Is that where you've been going on the days you haven't been flying?'
'Yes.' Olivia helped herself to sweet and sour and rice from the foil dishes. 'But I've been driving around the Cotswolds, too.' She paused, a far-away look in her eyes. "There's something about these hills. I can't explain it. But they fascinate me.'
Nick gave her a quick look. 'A sort of timeless feeling?'
'Yes! Maybe that's it.' She looked at him eagerly. 'Do you fed it, too?'
Before answering, Nick poured wine into their glasses. 'I think I've always felt it; it's bred into me.'
'Why? You don't come from round here, do you?'
'Yes, and my father did, and all his ancestors before him for a few hundred years.'
'But your surname; surely it's French?'
'Yes, but we came over at the time of the Norman Conquest in 1066. So after nine hundred years I think we can safely be classed as of British stock.' His eyes shadowed. 'Or at least I can.'
'Why only you?'
He looked at her contemplatively for a moment then gave an almost imperceptible shrug. 'I'm the last of my line.' Then he laughed in self-mockery. 'What a pretentious thing to say. I just meant that I have no close family now: brothers or sisters, uncles or aunts.' He spoke calmly but there was a note of loneliness in his voice he wouldn't hide.
But you c
ould have your own family. The thought leapt to Olivia's mind as it must have been in Nick's. She waited for him to say as much, but when he didn't she avoided the subject and said, 'Can you really trace your roots back to the Norman Conquest?'
It was an idle question but his reply amazed her. 'Oh, yes, there's a family tree in the library that goes right back to…' He paused suddenly, as if he'd inadvertently said something he hadn't meant to, but finished smoothly, 'To the Domesday Book. But it's probably incorrect, of course.' He reached for the dish of prawn balls. 'Have another one of these, they're delicious. Which take-away did you get it all from?'
'A Chinese,' Olivia answered, refusing to be sidetracked. 'Which library is this family tree in? Do you mean the record office in Stratford? I'd like to see it.'
'No, it's in a private library, not open to the public, I'm afraid.'
'How about journalists?'
'No, not open to anyone.'
'Not even to a friend of yours?'
Nick's face hardened. 'Why so interested, Olivia?'
'I'm from the New World; my ancestry only goes back as far as my great-grandfather. I'm overcome with awe at the idea of being able to trace your roots that far back. I'm intrigued. I thought it was only kings and emperors who were able to do that. But if you want to keep it some big secret, then sure. OK. Fine. It's great Chinese and I got it from the restaurant named on the bag. I wish I'd thought to collect a menu so that you could—'
Reaching out, Nick put his hand over hers. 'Olivia, don't. Please. I'm sorry.'
She bit her lip, looking down at his hand, feeling its warmth and strength. Oh, God, I want you, she thought miserably. Putting down her fork, she picked up her glass and took a long swallow, then said brightly, 'No, it's my fault. I never could mind my own business. Just tell me to shut up next time.'
He sat back, taking his hand away, and Olivia felt as if all the warmth had gone out of her heart. "There's no big secret about it,' he said. 'It's just that the family tree is an old, fragile document that has been shut away for safe keeping.'
Sally Wentworth - Yesterday's Affair Page 7