by Lilian Peake
Mrs. Wallasey-Browne watched them speculatively.' ‘It looks, Muriel,’ she commented thoughtfully, ‘as though we might be linked by your son’s and my daughter’s marriage after all. How long do you give it before they announce their engagement?’
‘Tonight, I’d say,’ Angus put in jovially. ‘By heaven, they’re going it, aren’t they? Hope they don’t dally too long, Muriel. We’ve got to know the wedding date well in advance. We’ll have to start making arrangements on the spot.’
‘I wonder where they’ll honeymoon?’ Nan Wallasey-Browne mused.
Shelley rose, smiling wanly at her companions. ‘Please excuse me. I have a dreadful headache.’
‘Cool off in the cloakroom,’ Mrs. Allard advised.
‘Ask the housekeeper for a tablet, Miss Jenner,’ Nan offered. ‘She’ll know the kind to give you.’
‘Misery, isn’t it,’ Angus sympathised, ‘having to be sociable when you’re not feeling up to scratch?’
Shelley thanked them for their kindness and made her way to the door. In the cloakroom was solitude and a place to hide her burning cheeks. She had not recovered from Craig’s humiliating rejection. It would be hard, if not impossible, to forgive him for the pain he had inflicted, for the insult of his deliberately turned back and his slow, lazy steps walking away.
The woman in charge of the cloakroom took her ticket and handed Shelley her coat. ‘Leaving early, dear?’
‘Headache,’ was all Shelley said.
The door was opened for her by another guest and she walked along the drive, leaving the music, the dancing and the party spirit behind. Outside in the cool, sweet-smelling night air was tranquillity, if not peace of mind.
She was almost at the end of the drive when a car drew up.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’ Craig’s voice cracked through the driver’s window.
‘Home,’ she snapped.
‘Thumbing a lift?’ he enquired sarcastically.
‘I’m walking.’
‘Get in the car. I’ll take you.’
‘I’d prefer to walk.’ She lifted her head high and walked a few steps, but Craig flung open his door and was after her in a few seconds, catching her by the shoulders and jerking her round to face him.
‘Come off that pedestal, lower your well-shaped nose and do as I say.’
‘I told you,’ she struggled, ‘I prefer to walk and I’m going to walk!’
‘Are you coming quietly,’ he asked, holding her easily despite her twisting wrists, ‘or do I have to manhandle you?’
‘You are already,’ she said tearfully, and ruefully rubbed at her flesh where his fingers had bruised.
She went quietly then and allowed him to see her into the car. ‘Tell me,’ he said, driving on to the main road, ‘why did you allow your boy-friend to be hijacked from under your very nose by your sister? Don’t you care about the man enough to be cat-like back and use your claws to hang on to him?’
‘Janine wasn’t acting like a cat. Anyway, I was sorry for her. You deserted her. She had to have someone to take your place. I watched her and could see how upset she was. She was hiding her heartbreak—’
His loud laugh cut her off. ‘Heartbreak? You’re joking. Let’s put it bluntly. She was making a play for your man, and he wasn’t being exactly unco-operative, either.’
‘How can you talk about Janine like that? You’re treating her as I was treated. You’re no better,’ she stormed, ‘than the man I nearly married. A woman has only got to look at you in a certain way—’
‘Isn’t it time,’ he broke in, ‘you looked at a man in a certain way? Isn’t it time you lost your dignity, your “I’m too good for you” attitude?’
‘If you knew the agony I went through,’ she answered, self-pity swamping her, but he broke in again.
‘It never occurred to you, I suppose, that the trouble might have been within yourself?’
She covered her ears. ‘Stop probing and reminding me of things I want to forget. I’m not in the market for a man any more, so what does it matter if Janine does take Emery away? All this analysis and dissection, as if my emotions were something that can be cut up on a laboratory bench! And,’ she turned on him, ‘how can you set yourself up as judge and jury of my behaviour with men when yours with women doesn’t stand up to examination?’
He made no reply.
‘You’re not the marrying kind, you told me, yet you’ve been playing around with my sister for months.’
‘Jealous?’ he taunted, turning right into the drive leading to Mapleleaf House and pulling up outside the lodge. ‘Would you rather I played around with you? Just give me the signal, the age-old signal that a woman gives a man she desires...’
Shelley wrenched open the car door and slammed it behind her. She raked with frantic fingers for the key, hoping to get into the house before Craig could stop her. But he was too quick for her fumbling fingers. He swung her round and had her pinned against the door, his arms on each side of her. In the moonlight his face was taunting.
‘Why don’t you leave me alone?’ she cried. ‘I don’t want any man mauling me about, especially you. Keep your womanising activities for women like Sylva. Don’t degrade me with your attentions!’
His lips disappeared, his eyes glittered. ‘My word, you’re a sour, acid-tongued shrew, and I’m not taking that sort of abuse from any female, let alone you.’
He seized her by the arms, his fingers digging into her flesh. He pressed his body down so hard she had to fight for breath. His mouth crushed hers, forcing back her head painfully against the wood of the door. His lips were savage and merciless, reducing her to limp, yielding submission. Her hands sought and found his waist. She had to hold on to him, otherwise she would have sunk to the ground.
At last he lifted his head, but he did not let her go. She started crying, she couldn’t stop herself, her whole system was so shocked. She sobbed, ‘B-be gentle with m-myself, you told me.’ She lifted brimming eyes. ‘Isn’t it time you were g-gentle with me?’
He gazed at her in the moonlit darkness, he looked a long time. Then he murmured, ‘So it’s gentleness you want, is it? I’ve got plenty of that, too.’
When he gathered her into his arms, she went without resistance. She had none left. If he had lifted her and carried her into the house she could not have stopped him. His lips were soft and seeking and drew such a response from her that she knew, even in her relationship with her exfiancé, that she had never reached the heights to which this man, if he ever chose to do so, could take her.
Reason stirred, began to assert itself and finally took command. This man was ‘not the marrying kind’. Nor would she ever let herself consent to be one of his women, only to be thrown aside when another took his fancy. She had, by desertion, been turned into one man’s cast-off. It must never be allowed to happen to her again.
She indicated by the increasing rigidity of her body and a drawing away of her lips that she wanted him to stop. Slowly he straightened and his hands fell away.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said in a tight voice. ‘The answer’s no.’ With a hard, narrow glance at her face, he turned and went away.
CHAPTER EIGHT
A week after the night of the dance, Muriel Allard announced that she was off on her travels again.
‘Don’t tell my son till I’ve gone, dear,’ she told Shelley. ‘I know he’ll oppose my going, but he’s so immersed in his writing and researching he won’t even notice my absence for a day or two. He’s kept to his room lately and I’ve only met him now and then at breakfast.’
Shelley had not seen Craig, either. Since the dance he had stayed away from her, but was it only his work, Shelley wondered, that had made him keep his distance?
Shelley asked, hiding a frown, ‘Where are you going this time, Mrs. Allard?’
‘I shall fly to Paris and then make up my mind. Don’t worry, I’ll let you have my address in case anything urgent crops up. But you can cope, can’t you, dear? You alw
ays have done before. And,’ brightly, ‘you can always ask my son to help if a particularly difficult problem crops up.’
Shelley’s heart sank. Work with Craig again? No, she would rather struggle against any odds than call on him for assistance, even if it meant working the clock round seven days of the week.
‘Now,’ said Mrs. Allard, ‘this camping trip with the boys at the start of the summer holiday. Mr. Lightfoot, the physical education teacher, usually takes them. They’re the boys, you know, whose parents are abroad and unable to send for them for a week or two after the end of term. To keep them occupied, we arrange for them to camp for a few days.’ She picked up a piece of paper. ‘Unfortunately, Mr. Lightfoot has sent me a note informing me that this year, for the first time, he’s unable to oblige.’ She put down the letter and looked consideringly at Shelley. ‘Have you ever been camping, dear?’
If Shelley’s heart could have sunk any lower, it would have done. Now what was Mrs. Allard going to ask of her?
‘No, I haven’t,’ Shelley answered. ‘Why, Mrs. Allard?’
‘The thought just occurred to me...’
Shelley knew she was now supposed to ask, ‘What thought, Mrs. Allard?’ so she did.
‘That you might enjoy taking those dear little boys this year. It would be such a change for you, plenty of open air and exercise. You’ve been looking a little pale lately, you know. I think you need a change.’
A rest, Shelley thought, not a change, a rest from unhappiness and the strain of loving a man who doesn’t return my love.
‘I don’t think I could manage on my own,’ she began, but Mrs. Allard cut in,
‘I would never have dreamed of your going on your own. I was thinking of—’ She paused. ‘Haven’t you a young man amongst the staff? That nice art teacher, Mr. Slade? He would go with you, dear, I’m sure he would! In fact,’ she picked up the internal telephone, I’ll ask him now.’ Before Shelley could stop her and say, I haven’t agreed to go myself yet, Muriel was in touch with the staff-room and asking to speak to Emery. The conversation lasted a few minutes and when it was over, Muriel was smiling.
‘He said he would be delighted to accompany you. The time is well in advance of his own holiday, which is just fine.’ She sighed with satisfaction, as if she had pulled off a big financial deal.
So next day Muriel Allard went away, leaving her desk piled with unfinished work. Shelley, with immense reluctance, took her place once again at the headmistress’s desk. At least, she thought wearily, the new members of staff had been appointed, except for the deputy head. This last appointment Muriel had decided to postpone until the start of the autumn term.
Shelley carried the weight of the administration on her sagging shoulders, longing to run to Craig for advice and assistance, but denying herself the luxury even of phoning him. Janine had not seen him lately, either. His book seemed to be occupying him to the exclusion of everything else.
Emery visited Shelley one morning. He hitched himself on to the headmistress’s desk and said, ‘What’s all this nonsense about taking some perishing little boys camping?’ Shelley looked up with surprise. ‘If you feel like that about it, why did you agree to go?’
‘What else could I say to the old girl? She put me on the spot. You were taking them, she said, and would be all on your own, and since I was friendly with you, I was the obvious choice. What could I say to that? Politely decline the invitation and let my girl-friend go hang? I could just visualise you struggling singlehanded with that little lot. I know how Lightfoot’s come back exhausted every time he’s gone.’
Shelley’s heart began to submerge again. ‘I’d rather you didn’t come, Emery, if you’re going to come reluctantly. It just wouldn’t work that way.’
What am I saying, she thought, talking him out of it so that I’d have to cope on my own? But he said, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll go with you. For old times’ sake, if nothing else.’
What, Shelley wondered, did that mean?
‘Come on,’ said Emery, ‘place those cold lips against mine and thank me nicely.’
Shelley smiled and reached up, pulling his head down to give him a light, quick kiss—and the door opened. They broke apart and stared into the narrow, flinty eyes of the headmistress’s son.
Emery slid off the desk and rambled self-consciously past the newcomer. ‘See you later, Shelley,’ he said, and the door clicked shut.
Craig, who was wearing no jacket and had partly unbuttoned his shirt in the heat of the afternoon, came slowly across the room to stand beside Shelley, towering over her. She looked up nervously, feeling like a juvenile delinquent who had been caught committing a crime while out on parole. That he was going to make the most of her agitated state there was no doubt.
‘Good thing I came in when I did, isn’t it?’ he asked curdy. ‘If I’d delayed my entrance by no more than a few minutes, I’d have found you flat out on the desk entwined in your boy-friend’s arms.’
Slowly the colour rose in her cheeks. His proximity, his arrogant good looks, the magnetism that emanated from him making her want to reach up and pull him down as she had pulled Emery, temporarily deprived her of the power of speech. After a few moments she managed a halting, ‘I’m sorry.’
He had, it seemed, decided that he had reduced her to a sufficiently abject state because he changed the subject, asking abruptly, ‘Where’s my mother?’
Which presented yet another problem—how to tell him where his mother was without exacerbating his already simmering anger?
She temporised with, ‘She’s not here, Mr. Allard.’
‘You have a genius for stating the obvious, Miss Jenner. I’d be grateful if you would enlarge on that statement.’ Shelley could not remain seated. It made her feel at too much of a disadvantage, so she urged back the chair and stood, unsteadily because in putting her head that much nearer to his, she had also placed it within snapping distance—and that he would now proceed to do his best to snap it off she had no doubt.
It was necessary to avoid his eyes, because to look at him in his present mood would be to reveal to this merciless man just how much she was afraid of him.
She said hoarsely, ‘Your mother’s abroad, Mr. Allard.’ There was a long pause, then, ‘So she’s gone again, leaving you in the hot seat?’ Shelley nodded. ‘Why wasn’t I informed of her departure?’ Shelley was silent. ‘You’re her secretary. I’m sure she must have told you to tell me.’ Shelley held her breath. ‘Which means you “forgot”,’ he smeared the word with disbelief, ‘either deliberately, to annoy me, or accidentally, which reflects on your proficiency as a secretary.’
Shelley looked down at the pile of letters she had been attempting to answer. Her refusal to respond must have infuriated him, because his hands came out and he swung her round. ‘Will you answer me!’
She kept her emotions under iron control, emptied her face of all expression and told him, ‘She’s gone to Paris. She said she would inform me of the address at which I could communicate with her whenever necessary.’
The hands gripping her shoulders were beginning to hurt. ‘You still haven’t answered my question.’
Shelley’s head lowered as she murmured, ‘Your mother told me not to tell you until she had gone.’
The hands moved away. ‘I see. When did she go?’
‘Last Monday.’
‘Four days. Why didn’t you tell me earlier?’
‘You were busy with your writing.’
‘You could have interrupted me to tell me that.’
If she told him, I didn’t want to bring you down here to do your mother’s work because then I would have had to work with you, and the last thing in the world I want is to have you near me...
‘I decided to try to manage on my own.’
‘And can you?’
She raised her head. ‘Yes, thank you.’
He walked to the window and gazed out at the flower-filled gardens. ‘I’m at a crucial stage in my book.’ He turned. ‘Could you carr
y on a few more days?’
‘I can carry on indefinitely, Mr. Allard.’
He gave her a look which told her that he did not believe her. ‘By that time,’ he continued, ‘I should be free to take over down here. Until then, if you could carry the bulk of the work and come to me for advice and, if necessary, help whenever you need it, I should be grateful.’
‘I won’t trouble you, Mr. Allard.’
He came close. ‘You’re damned sure of yourself, aren’t you, Miss Jenner?’
There was no possible answer to such a question, so Shelley did not attempt to find one. He looked at her for a moment and went out. Shelley sank on to the chair and held her head. She had discovered one thing—there was no such sentiment as forgiveness in the whole length and breadth of Craig Allard’s body.
Janine passed her hairdressing exams. She was so delighted she decided to have a celebration party.
‘Who’s doing the catering?’ Shelley asked dryly. ‘An outside firm?’
Janine put her arms round Shelley’s neck. ‘My sister Shelley’s a good cook. She’ll bake some cakes if I ask her nicely.’
‘But, Jan,’ Shelley removed the arms that were threatening to choke her, ‘I’m so busy at school at the moment, with Mrs. Allard away.’
‘All right, I’ll make them myself.’
Shelley sighed. ‘You know you’re atrocious at cookery. You’re pushing me into a corner, aren’t you?’
Janine grinned. ‘Yes. I knew you were a good, kind sister...’
‘How many are coming?’ Shelley asked resignedly.
‘Ten, perhaps more. A few from the tennis club, a couple of the other hairdressing assistants and their boy-friends.’
‘Don’t go on,’ Shelley groaned, ‘or I’ll withdraw my offer of help.’ She paused. ‘What about Craig?’
‘Oh, I expect he’ll come,’ Janine said airily. ‘You’ll be asking Emery, won’t you?’
‘Why? It’s your party.’