Green Lightning

by Anne Mather

An expanse of sloping parkland separated the house from the road, liberally swept with spreading oaks and shady elms, ideal for the protection of privacy. Helen knew that Heath's grandfather had bought the house in the early part of the twentieth century, but although its walls were Georgian its interior owed much of its comfort to more recent innovations. Heath kept horses in the park, and the grounds around the house were private, but the rest of the estate was on lease to tenant farmers, whose produce helped to make Matlock Edge almost self-sufficient. They grew their own fruit and vegetables, they slaughtered their own meat and poultry, and dairy produce was always fresh and delicious, owing nothing to artificial preservatives.

  'Who else lives in the house?' Miss Patterson asked, as the Land Rover approached the white-painted gate that separated the garden of the house from the park. 'It's so big. It must have a dozen bedrooms! Surely you and your uncle don't live here alone?'

  Helen's lips tightened. 'Why not?' she demanded, stepping on the brakes with more aggression than caution, and throwing the other girl forward in her seat. 'Heath and I don't need anyone else. Apart from the servants, of course.'

  Miss Patterson took the time while Helen was climbing down and opening the gate to gather her composure, and when the younger girl got back into the Land Rover, she said tersely: 'You really must stop behaving like a schoolgirl. I imagine your uncle can't wait for someone to come and take you off his hands.'

  Helen's jaw clenched. 'My uncle, as you call him, made a mistake when he employed you, Miss Patterson. And if I don't like you, you'll very soon be making the return journey to London.'

  'I think not.' Miss Patterson was complacent. 'Mr Heathcliffe warned me that you might be difficult. He—er—he said you were a—spoilt brat, and that anything I could do to get you off his back was all right with him!'

  'That's not true!'

  The words burst from Helen's lips in angry denial, even as her brain warned her not to show her feelings to this woman. Whatever Heath had said, whatever she felt about it, she should not, she must not, let this Miss Patterson know she could get under her skin.

  'I'm sorry, but it is true,' declared Miss Patterson smoothly, lifting a languid hand and gesturing behind them. 'Oughtn't you to close the gate? I doubt your uncle wants his horses wandering over his flower beds.'

  Clenching her fists, Helen sprang out of the Land Rover, racing back to close the gate, blinking the smarting sting of tears from her eyes. Heath hadn't said that, she told herself fiercely, Heath wouldn't say that! But she was very much afraid he had!

  It wasn't easy hiding her feelings from Miss Patterson. She had never tried to hide her feelings before, always acting instinctively, spontaneously, never dissimulating or concealing anything from Heath. She had thought he had been that way with her, too. She had never dreamt he had thoughts and feelings so dissimilar to her own. She had certainly never expected him to talk about her to a stranger, or to speak of her in such a contemptuous way. She felt hurt and humiliated, almost as humiliated as that night at the pool, and it wasn't easy to cope with this situation under the mocking eyes of Miss Patterson.

  There was a sweep of gravel before the house, in the centre of which was a stone fountain. Helen drove the Land Rover grimly in the half circle it took to reach the front door, and then braked with rather more control before indicating that her passenger should alight.

  Miss Patterson got out surveying her surroundings with evident pleasure. Her gaze absorbed the jutting facade that flanked the door and the windows on either side, then spread to the long wings, with their leaded, mullioned panes. Above the first floor, a tiled roof sloped to attic windows and tall chimneys, unused now, and acted as a backdrop to the arching facade.

  'Beautiful!' Miss Patterson declared enthusiastically, and then turned, a smug smile lifting her lips, as the door behind her was suddenly opened.

  Helen, about to steer the Land Rover round to the garages, froze in her seat, but it was only the homely form of the housekeeper that appeared. However, her scandalised gaze took in the newcomer in her elegant suit and behind her the dusty Land Rover, with Helen clutching the wheel.

  'You didn't go to meet—oh, Helen!' Mrs Gittens exclaimed impatiently, and then came quickly down the shallow steps to meet the new employee. 'You must be Miss Patterson,' she added, holding out her hand. 'I hope you had a good journey. You must be tired after coming all that way.'

  'It wasn't all that far, really,' Helen's adversary assured Mrs Gittens smoothly, allowing her hand to rest for just a second in that of the housekeeper. 'But I must admit I'm glad to be here. My spine feels as if it's been done some permanent damage!'

  'The Land Rover's built for practical purposes, not for comfort,' Helen began, only to have Mrs Gittens give her a reproving look.

  'I should go and put it away, if I were you,' she advised, eyeing her employer's niece with a knowing air. 'Mr Heathcliffe may be back directly, and I doubt he'll approve of your choice of vehicle to go and meet a visitor.'

  Helen hunched her shoulders. 'Her cases are in the back,' she declared, making no attempt to remove them, and with a sound of impatience Mrs Gittens went back up the steps and summoned old Arnold Wesley to come and give a hand.

  However, Helen could not let the old man haul the cases out single-handed. If it had been John Garnett, Mr Wesley's young apprentice, she would not have minded, but Arnold Wesley was only kept on because he had been at Matlock for more than fifty years. With a sign of frustration, she jumped out of the vehicle, dragged both cases out on to the gravel, and then jumped back in again and restarted the engine.

  Miles Ormerod, who looked after the estate vehicles and acted as chauffeur when the need arose, was in the garage yard, polishing the bronze Mercedes Helen was supposed to have taken to meet Miss Patterson. He grimaced when Helen stood on her brakes in the yard, and came round to open the Land Rover door for her as she switched off the engine.

  'You look flushed,' he remarked as she got out, and Helen glared at him. As children, she and Miles had often played together in the fields and woods around Matlock, and that familiarity lingered still in a certain kind of affection.

  'She's here,' Helen said now, thrusting her hands into the back hip pockets of her tight jeans. 'And she's just as repulsive as I expected.'

  'Repulsive?' Miles looked surprised. 'I thought you said Heath described her as slim and blonde and—'

  'Oh, he did!' Helen interrupted crossly. 'And she is. I just mean—well, she doesn't like me.'

  'Don't you mean you don't like her?' asked Miles gently, propping himself against the bonnet of the Land Rover. At nineteen, he was two years her senior, but for all that, their eyes were almost on a level. Helen was a tall girl, though by no means as willowy as Miss Patterson, and in recent months she had seen a different look come into Miles' eyes when he was alone with her. She knew he found her attractive, and she thought he was attractive, too. But for so long Heath had occupied all her thoughts, and she seldom saw Miles as anything more than a good friend.

  Now, however, she propped herself beside him, basking in the warmth of his understanding. Even Mrs Gittens had turned against her, she thought miserably, and if Miss Patterson told Heath about the Land Rover…

  'What's wrong?'

  Miles took the curling tail of her braid between his fingers and tugged sympathetically, and Helen turned to look at him. 'Why do you ask that?' she demanded, fighting back the impulse to confide in him, and his lips twisted wryly as he surveyed her troubled face.

  'I know you pretty well by now,' he essayed quietly. 'I guess it was something this woman said. What's the matter? Did she tell you she and Heath are more than just friends? Oh, come on, Helen, it won't be the first time, will it? There've always been women around Matlock Edge.'

  Helen's chin jutted. 'She said—she said Heath had said I was a spoilt brat,' she muttered in a low voice, then stared at Miles resentfully when he was unable to suppress his mirth. 'I didn't think it was funny!' she declared, straighteni
ng away from the Land Rover, and would have left him then, had he not turned and prevented her.

  'But don't you see?' exclaimed Miles, imprisoning her with one hand on either side of her. 'You are a spoilt brat! That's why you're so choked up about it.'

  'I am not!'

  Helen was indignant, but looking into Miles' grinning face, she felt a corresponding response rising up inside her. 'You're a pig!' she muttered, pushing her fist into his midriff, and then sobered abruptly when he bent his head towards her.

  His lips were soft and moist, pressing on hers with sudden urgency, but although Helen was glad of his friendship, this was a development she had not anticipated. It was true, they had fooled around a lot this year, and once or twice she had let him kiss her, but not like this. Now, Miles' lips were parting wetly, and his hand was groping clumsily for the full breasts outlined beneath the clinging material of her tee-shirt. He was pressing her against the side of the Land Rover, the metal was digging into her hips, and she realised with a sense of revulsion that he was becoming aroused.

  'For heaven's sake, what the hell do you think you're doing?'

  The harsh invective tore them apart as successfully as brute force might have done. Even so, Helen realised afterwards, Heath had only just been able to control the urge to strike the pair of them. Distracted as she had been by the unexpected fervour of Miles' embrace, she had failed to hear her uncle's car approaching, but turning now, she saw the dark green Porsche parked only feet away. Its door was still open where Heath had thrust it when he had emerged like a raging bull, and her eyes clung to the sleek lines of the vehicle to avoid looking into Heath's dark and furious face.

  'I asked what the hell you thought you were doing,' he snarled now, taking a step towards Miles, who stood mutely to one side. 'Damn you, Ormerod, do I have to thrash an answer out of you? How long have you been familiar with my niece? How long has this been going on?'

  'Nothing's going on, Heath,' mumbled Helen unwillingly, lifting her dark eyes to his face. She had never seen Heath so furious, and while she suspected it was mostly to do with her going to fetch Miss Patterson in the Land Rover, she didn't like the ugly look he was directing at Miles. 'Honestly. Miles was just—kissing me, that's all. Nothing to get so steamed up about.'

  It wasn't exactly the truth, but right then she only wanted to relieve Miles of the responsibility for what had happened. After all, she had invited it. She had come here, begging for his sympathy. If she had got rather more than she bargained for, she couldn't entirely blame him for that.

  As it happened, she might have saved her breath, however. Heath ignored her, stepping close to Miles, and forcing the younger man to tip his head to look at him. 'Just remember this,' he said savagely, 'if you so much as lay a finger on my niece again, I'll break your bloody neck! Do you hear me?'

  'I hear you.' Miles pushed his lips forward in a desperate effort of defiance, but Heath was already turning away.

  'Come with me,' he ordered Helen grimly, starting back towards the house, and with a little gesture of condolence to Miles, she had no choice but to obey.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Preparing for dinner that evening, Helen found herself going over those stormy minutes with Heath again and again, trying to discover how it was everything had gone so wrong. If only he had not come upon her and Miles like that; if only she had not stumbled into explanations he had not asked for; if only she had acted a little more maturely, she might not be feeling so miserable now.

  Sighing, she sank down on to the padded stool in front of her dressing table and surveyed her reflection with brooding disgust. Tears always left her looking all blotched and puffy around her eyes, and she had cried for an hour after Heath had let her go. Even her nose looked as if she was going down with a cold, and she doubted if even a heavy make-up could disguise what she had been doing.

  Resting her elbows on the polished wood, she sniffed dejectedly. Why was it that she always came out of their arguments feeling like a victim, while Heath could dismiss her one minute and talk casually to Mrs Gittens the next? It wasn't fair! She wasn't a child any longer. But Heath persisted in treating her like one, and she always seemed to end up proving he was right.

  It wasn't as if she had got angry with him for treating Miles like he had. On the contrary, if she was honest she would admit that she had been more than a little relieved when Heath had appeared, even if his entrance had precipitated another fight. Miles' behaviour had warned her of the dangers inherent in their relationship, particularly as she was not interested in him that way, and she thought she ought to be grateful to Heath for that.

  Nevertheless, her uncle had not been prepared to forgive and forget. The minute they were out of earshot, he had turned his contemptuous gaze upon her, and his belittling appraisal had done nothing to restore Helen's self-confidence.

  'How long?' he demanded, his green eyes raking her face with grim intent. 'How long has that oaf been allowed to touch you?'

  'He didn't—he hasn't—I mean, it wasn't what you thought, Heath,' Helen started unhappily. 'It was just—well, when I brought the Land Rover back, he—he sympathised with me.' She tucked her chin against her chest. 'I—I suppose I asked for it.'

  Heath halted abruptly by the gate leading into the orchard. 'What do you mean? Had you had an accident in the Land Rover? I've warned you about driving too fast before—'

  'I wasn't driving too fast,' protested Helen help­lessly. 'And I didn't have a crash.'

  'Why would he need to sympathise with you, then?' Heath grated, his lean face taut with impatience. 'What's happened, Helen? What have you done? You might as well tell me, before Mrs Gittens does.'

  Helen lifted her face unwillingly. Comprehension was dawning, and she didn't like what she was thinking. 'You mean—you mean—you haven't seen Mrs Gittens?'

  'No. I drove straight to the garage. Why?'

  'Oh, Heath!' Helen's shoulders sagged. 'But—I thought you knew. I thought that was why you were so mad—'

  'I knew? I knew what?' snapped Heath irritably, grasping her by the shoulders. 'For heaven's sake, Helen, get to the point. What is it I'm supposed to know?'

  Helen shook her head. 'Don't you remember?'

  'Remember what?'

  'Where—where you asked me to go this afternoon?'

  'Where I asked you to go?' declared Heath blankly. 'No, damn you, I don't—yes! Hell, yes, of course I do!' He stared down into her troubled face with growing comprehension. 'The Land Rover!' he snarled. 'You went to meet Angela Patterson in the Land Rover!' His fingers dug painfully into the soft flesh of her upper arms. 'I'd forgotten all about her!'

  That was reassuring, at least, thought Helen trem­ulously, but her reassurance was shortlived. Her words had driven every trace of warmth out of Heath's face, and the hard green eyes were like lasers boring into her.

  'You little bitch!' he swore violently. 'You self-willed little hellion! You deserve a damn good hiding, and one of these days I'm going to give it to you!'

  His ill-chosen words brought her back from the brink of self-pity, and dragging together what little confidence she had left, she faced him bravely. 'It'll take a better man than you, Rupert Heathcliffe!' she declared courageously, and tearing herself out of his grasp, she ran the rest of the distance to the kitchen door. There was a back staircase that led from the kitchen to the upper floors of the house, and ignoring Cook's startled face, Helen took it. She doubted Heath would follow her, and she was right; but she didn't stop until the door of her room was closed securely behind her.

  Now she got up from the stool and surveyed her domain with troubled eyes. It was more than three hours since she had had that confrontation with Heath, and she was dreading the prospect of joining him and Angela Patterson for dinner. Mrs Gittens had brought her this news, tapping tentatively at Helen's door and clucking her tongue reprovingly when she saw Helen's tearful face.

  'You should have known better,' she declared, tidying up the clothes Helen had left strew
n across the soft pink carpet, and shaking her head at the silk wrapper which was all the girl was wearing. 'You'd better get some clothes on. Your uncle's sent me to tell you he expects you to join him for dinner this evening. He wants you to meet the young lady who arrived this afternoon.'

  'I have met her,' muttered Helen sulkily, sitting crosslegged on her bed, but Mrs Gittens only gave her an old-fashioned look.

  'From what I hear, you refused to speak courteously to the young woman,' she responded drily. 'And if you don't want Heath coming up here and dragging you down by the hair, I'd suggest you made a little effort to be civil.'

  Helen sighed now, running the tips of her fingers across the quilted damask covering the wide bed. She supposed she would have to change into something suitable for the evening, but how she wished she dared ignore the summons. The idea of eating dinner in Angela Patterson's company was not appealing, and whatever Heath said, she would never forgive him for speaking to her the way he had.

  Her room at Matlock Edge overlooked the side and back of the house. Away to her right, the wooded slopes of Jacob's Hollow cast long shadows as the evening sank into dusk, and bats had started their wild erratic swooping between the trees. Below her, at the back of the house, were the tennis lawns and swimming pool, the trellises that hid the changing cabins from view bright with creamy yellow roses.

  The room itself was spacious, and the furnishings matched their surroundings—long fitted wardrobes, a square dressing table, with leaved mirrors, and a huge bed, big enough to accommodate half a dozen people.

  Helen remembered how lost and frightened she had felt when Heath first deposited her in that bed. But he had always been able to soothe her baby fears away. She knew he had stayed with her many nights, nights when she had awakened screaming from a terrifying nightmare to find he was there to comfort and reassure her. Later, when he had returned to his own room, she had missed his calming influence, but she had always known he was just along the corridor, and she could always go to him if she was frightened.