Green Lightning

by Anne Mather

  'I don't know. I never thought.' Cursing herself, Helen bent over the fuel tank and removed the cap. Peering inside, she saw to her disgust that it did indeed appear to be empty, and she sighed. Damn it, why hadn't Miles refilled the tank? He had always done so in the past.

  'It is empty, I see,' the young man commented, making his own inspection before looking up at her quizzically. 'I guess you're going to have to push it some distance. There's not another garage until you reach Bishopston.'

  Helen pursed her lips. 'Thanks for the information,' she muttered.

  'My pleasure.' The young man swung open his door. 'Of course, I could always dump the bike in the back of the Rover and drive you there, if you'd let me. But if, as you say, you can manage without my assistance, there's nothing more I can suggest.'

  Helen pressed her lips together, looking down at the Honda with some frustration. She couldn't really blame Miles for not filling the petrol tank. She should have checked it herself before she left. Heath had always advised her to check the tank at regular intervals, and if she hadn't been so all-fired keen to get away this morning, she would have done so.

  'Well?'

  The man was waiting for her reply, and she looked up at him uncertainly. He looked harmless enough, she thought doubtfully. He looked rather nice, actually. Brown-haired, brown-skinned, with warm brown eyes to match; he didn't look like a villain, but how was she to judge?

  'I promise I'm not planning to abduct you,' he remarked suddenly, as if reading her thoughts and Helen flushed.

  'Am I so transparent?'

  'Well, you've evidently been told not to accept lifts from strange men,' he agreed drily. 'And I'd endorse that. But I'm not entirely strange. Your uncle's land and my father's has a mutual boundary.'

  'My uncle's land—' Helen broke off. 'You know who I am?'

  He grinned. 'At a guess, I'd say you were Helen Mortimer, am I right?'

  Helen gasped. 'Yes. But—' She paused. 'Who are you?'

  'Nigel Fox,' he replied, at once, and Helen's eyes widened.

  'You're—Sir Malcolm Fox's son?'

  'The same.' He gave a rueful grimace. 'So—will you accept my offer? Or do you still have doubts?'

  Helen hesitated. She had only his word that he was Nigel Fox, and in any case, his identity meant nothing to her. Heath knew the Foxes, of course. They belonged to the same golf club, they supported the same charities, and they had mutual business interests. But Heath had never spoken of the son, or encouraged her to get to know him.

  'Would you like to see my driver's licence?'

  Nigel Fox was regarding her with slightly amused eyes now, and Helen quickly came to a decision. He was not so big that she need have any worries of him overpowering her, and in any case, he'd be driving the vehicle, which would occupy his hands.

  'I'd like a lift,' she said determinedly. 'Thank you.'

  'Okay.' Nigel grinned. 'You get in while I put your motorbike into the back. Thank God it's not a bigger machine—these things weigh a ton!'

  Helen giggled as he hefted the Honda into the back of the Land Rover, and then came round to join her in front, wiping his hands on an oily rag. In a grey-checked shirt and tweed jacket, shabby riding breeches covering his thighs, he didn't look much like a baronet's son, but his smile was infectious as he slid behind the wheel.

  'Okay,' he said. 'Where do you want to go? To Carron, to the garage in Bishopston, or home?'

  Helen moistened her lips. 'Carron? That's your home, isn't it?'

  'That's right,' Nigel nodded. 'I thought you might like to come and have some breakfast before you continued on your way.'

  'That's very kind of you, but—'

  '—you'd rather go home.'

  'Well, I'd rather go to the garage in Bishopston,' confessed Helen ruefully. 'If you take me home, there's bound to be a post-mortem.'

  'Won't there be one anyway?' asked Nigel, starting the engine. 'I mean, it's nearly nine o'clock, and I'd guess you left home before your uncle was up.'

  'Oh, Heath's away,' exclaimed Helen carelessly. 'He's in South America. There's only Mrs Gittens, that's our housekeeper, and Angela of course.'

  'Angela?'

  'Angela Patterson,' replied Helen flatly. 'She's—staying with us at the moment. She's a—friend of Heath's.'

  'Heath?' Nigel frowned. 'Is that what you call your uncle?'

  'He's not my—' began Helen quickly, and then changed her mind. 'Rupert Heathcliffe,' she agreed, looking out of the window. 'Is this all your land? Do you farm it yourselves?'

  'Some,' said Nigel, nodding. 'I was sent to agricultural college to learn all about modern farming methods, but a lot of the land has had to be sold to meet taxes. We still have one or two tenant farmers, people who've worked for my family since the year dot, but compared to the estate as it was in my grandfather's day, it's much depleted.'

  Helen inclined her head. 'I suppose you're sorry.'

  'Not really.' Nigel shrugged. 'What do we need all this land for? I'd prefer to have fewer responsibilities, and more time to do the things I wanted to do.'

  'Such as?' Helen was interested.

  'Oh—I guess I just like my freedom,' he responded easily. 'How about you? What do you do?'

  She bent her head. 'Not a lot. If Heath—if my uncle had his way I'd still be in school.'

  'In school?' He stared at her disbelievingly. 'How old are you?'

  'Nearly eighteen.' Helen was defensive. 'Heath believes in education. The trouble was, I didn't know what I was being educated for. I've never had a job.'

  He shook his head. 'There's no likely boy-friend on the horizon?' he queried, and she gave him a sidelong look.

  'No.' She paused. 'Are you married?'

  'Who would have me?' Nigel grimaced.

  'You are, as a friend of mine would say, fishing for compliments,' declared Helen, relaxing. 'I'm sure you know exactly how eligible your father's title makes you.'

  'Is that all?' He gave her a wounded look, and she laughed.

  'You know what I mean. Most girls would like to be called Lady something-or-other?'

  'Would you?'

  'Me?' Helen gurgled. 'Oh, no, not me. I just can't see myself as Lady anything, can you?'

  'I think you'd carry it off beautifully,' he declared gallantly. 'Well, here we are at Bishopston. Are you sure you wouldn't like me to take you all the way?'

  'Oh, no.' Helen looked about her eagerly, and was relieved to see a garage just across the road. 'This is fine. I'm very grateful, Mr Fox, honestly.'

  'Nigel.'

  'Nigel, then.' She pressed his arm impulsively before climbing out. 'I hope I haven't messed up your Land Rover. I'm very muddy.'

  'That's what Land Rovers are for,' said Nigel, hoisting the motorcycle out on to the road again. 'Here, I'll wheel it across to the garage for you.'

  The petrol pump attendant knew Nigel and attended to them straight away. 'Put it on our account, Ted,' he said, causing Helen to protest loudly, but he insisted, and she gave in.

  'You really have been a good Samaritan,' she exclaimed, pulling on her helmet again before mounting. 'I don't know how to thank you.'

  'Let me take you out to dinner tomorrow evening,' declared Nigel simply. 'I could pick you up at your place about seven-thirty. I'd book a table at the Bell in Starforth.'

  'Oh, I don't know …' Helen was doubtful, chewing on her lower lip anxiously as she considered his invitation.

  'You can introduce me to your uncle, and I'll assure him of my best intentions,' Nigel added whimsically, and she expelled her breath uncertainly as she gave the matter her full attention.

  'Heath will still be away,' she murmured, swinging her leg across the motorbike. 'I don't know what he would say.'

  'It's not your uncle I'm inviting,' Nigel reminded her softly. 'You're not a child, Helen. Surely you can make your own decisions? Either you want to come out with me or you don't—it's as uncomplicated as that.'

  She sighed. 'All right,' she said, after ano
ther moment's thought. 'Why not?' Heath was always encouraging her to go out with young people of her own age, and Nigel Fox was not more than twenty-three or four.

  'Great!' Nigel looked pleased. 'Seven-thirty it is, then. I'll see you tomorrow.'

  'Tomorrow,' agreed Helen, feeling a fluttering of excitement inside her. It was the first time she had made a date without Heath's permission, and she liked the feeling of independence it gave her.

  It was nearly ten o'clock when she got back to Matlock, and as she had half expected, it was Mrs Gittens who was most concerned about her disap­pearance. 'Wherever have you been?' she exclaimed, as Helen sauntered into the house after leaving the motorcycle propped up by the front door. 'As soon as young Miles confirmed that the Honda had gone, I started to worry, and I do think you could have phoned if you'd known you were going to be this late.'

  'I ran out of petrol,' exclaimed Helen, when she could get a word in. 'The bike just gave out on me. I had to walk miles to the nearest garage. And there wasn't a phone in sight.'

  'Oh, my child! Mrs Gittens stared at her aghast. 'Dear heaven, Helen, anything could have happened to you! Where were you when you ran out of petrol? How far did you have to push that heavy machine?'

  'About four miles—'

  'Four miles!' Mrs Gittens gasped.

  'It would have been farther,' added Helen reluct­antly, 'but I got a lift.'

  'A lift? A lift who with? Helen, don't tell me you let some man pick you up!' Mrs Gittens pressed a hand to her cheek.

  'He did pick me up, yes, but—wait!' this as the housekeeper would have intervened again, 'he wasn't a complete stranger. It was Nigel Fox.'

  'Nigel Fox?' Mrs Gittens looked blank. 'Nigel Fox? Who's that?'

  'Sir Malcolm Fox's son,' explained Helen firmly. 'You know the Foxes—from Carron Hall?'

  'Those Foxes.' Mrs Gittens looked doubtful. 'Are you sure?'

  'Of course I'm sure.' Helen gave an exclamation of impatience. 'In any case, you can meet him yourself, if you want to. He's taking me out to dinner tomorrow night. He's calling for me at half past seven.'

  Mrs Gittens clasped her hands together. 'You're going out with him?'

  'Haven't I just said so?'

  'But what do you know about him?'

  Helen groaned. 'What do I need to know? He's nice. You'll like him. He's young and good-looking, and he's fun to be with.' She paused, and then when the housekeeper still looked unconvinced, she added: 'You know Heath's always saying I should have friends of my own age. Well, Nigel is my age—or near enough.'

  Mrs Gittens shook her head. 'I don't know what Mr Heathcliffe will say,' she insisted.

  'What can he say? He's not here,' exclaimed Helen shortly. 'For goodness' sake, Mrs Gittens, we're only going to the Bell in Starforth. He's not selling me to some white-slaver!'

  Angela reacted quite differently when she heard the news, and the younger girl reflected rather un­charitably that that was probably because she found Helen's presence inhibiting. If this friendship with Nigel Fox developed in the way Angela evidently hoped, it would leave the field clear for her to advance her relationship with Heath.

  However, in spite of Helen's determination to be her own mistress and accept this invitation, she found herself in something of a quandary when she went to bed that night. All day she had maintained, to herself and to others, that she wanted to go out with Nigel Fox, but in the unwelcome isolation of her bedroom, she acknowledged that her desire was half-hearted, at best. It wasn't that she didn't like Nigel. She did. He seemed a very presentable young man. It was just that for so long she had avoided this kind of a situation in case Heath got the wrong idea, and even though he had told her he had no use for her affection, she couldn't turn it off just like that. It was all too easy to remember how Heath had made her feel when he kissed her. None of the boys she had known and been friendly with had ever aroused the feelings in her that Heath did, and she didn't want him to think she had changed her mind. If she started going out with Nigel Fox on a regular basis, Heath might imagine she had stopped loving him, and for all her inexperience, she knew that was unlikely to happen.

  Yet wasn't this just what Heath himself wanted? He had told her, brutally enough, that he had didn't care about her in that way, that he regarded her as his niece, and nothing more. Wasn't she wasting her life by imagining he might change his mind, when no amount of pleading had softened his heart? She was his responsibility, that was what he had said, and the unspoken implication was that she was a responsibility he could do without.

  In spite of her misgivings, Helen did enjoy Nigel's company. He called for her, as planned, and met both Angela and Mrs Gittens before they took their departure.

  'Your Miss Patterson is quite a stunner, isn't she?' he commented as his elderly M.G. accelerated down the drive. 'A bit cool for my taste,' he added, grimacing at Helen, 'but probably appealing to someone who likes their wine chilled. I don't.'

  She smiled. 'You don't have to say that. I don't mind.'

  'I mean it.' He was very definite. 'You—you're like a fine burgundy, rich and dark and full-blooded.' He gave her a warm glance. 'There's nothing chilling about you, Helen, believe me!'

  It was good to know that Nigel at least did not find Angela more appealing. On the contrary, he did his best throughout the evening to make her feel she was the most attractive girl he had ever met, and Helen flowered visibly. Freed from the restraints placed upon her by Heath's presence, she allowed her own personality to flourish, and several pairs of male eyes sought their table every time her infectious laughter rang out.

  'I like your dress,' Nigel said on one occasion, his eyes moving caressingly over her bare shoulders, and she looked down pleasurably at the creamy chiffon. It was one of the items Marion had chosen, and its off-the-shoulder style and dipped waistline were very becoming, accentuating her dark colouring and the golden texture of her tan. Without Marion's inter­vention, she would have to have worn one of the dresses Angela had chosen, and she knew the other girl's eyes had narrowed when she appeared dressed as she was.

  They finished dinner about half past nine, and walked for a while in the garden of the hotel. It was pleasant meandering along the shrub-lined paths that led down to the river, and Helen was quite regretful when it was time for her to leave.

  'I have enjoyed myself,' she told Nigel, when he delivered her back to Matlock. 'Thank you for taking me. I haven't had so much fun for ages.'

  'Then we must do it again,' he declared, his arm along the back of her seat, his fingers playing lightly with the frilly neckline of her dress. 'How about next Tuesday? Do you fancy seeing a film in Bradford? We could have a Chinese supper afterwards, if you like.'

  'Oh …' Helen moistened her dry lips, 'I'm not sure about that.'

  'Why not?' His expression was shadowed in the muted light from the dash. 'You've just said we've had fun together. Why shouldn't we have fun again?'

  Helen hesitated. 'Heath will be back by then,' she volunteered awkwardly. 'I'd have to ask him.'

  'Okay, so ask him.' Nigel was impatient. 'I don't see how he can object. I'm only inviting you to the movies.'

  Helen nodded. 'All right,' she said after a moment, 'I'll see what I can do. Can I ring you later? When I know for sure.'

  'I'll ring you,' said Nigel firmly. 'That way I'll be sure you don't forget.' He paused. 'Goodnight, Helen. You really are terribly sweet.'

  His lips brushed hers lightly and then settled there, and the arm which had been along the back of her seat closed about her, bringing her closer. His lips were firm and warm, not at all like Miles' but not like Heath's either, and although she tried to relax with him, eventually she had to pull away.

  'I'd better go in,' she said, rather breathlessly, fumbling for the catch of the door, and Nigel leant across to assist her.

  'Until Tuesday,' he said, his lips touching her cheek, and Helen nodded her head quickly before scrambling out on to the drive.

  She encountered Mrs Gittens in th
e hall, and the housekeeper looked her over with a mixture of disapproval and relief. 'So he brought you back safely,' she remarked, hiding her affection for the girl beneath a brusque inconsequence. 'It's just as well for him. Your uncle was disappointed to learn that you were out.'

  'My uncle—Heath!' Helen gazed at Mrs Gittens disbelievingly. 'Is Heath back?' Her eyes darted anxiously towards the stairs. 'I didn't know he was coming home today.'

  'He wasn't and he hasn't,' declared Mrs Gittens flatly. 'He rang.' She glanced at the tall grandfather clock that stood at the foot of the stairs. 'About two hours ago.'

  'Oh, no!' Helen's spirits drooped abruptly.

  'Oh, yes. He wanted to speak to you, but as you were out, he spoke to Miss Patterson instead.'

  'What did he want? What did he say?' Helen stared at her anxiously. 'Where is Angela? I'll ask her myself.'

  'You won't. She went to bed half an hour ago,' stated the housekeeper quellingly. 'But I shouldn't worry—he wasn't on long. I think he just wanted to assure himself that everything was all right. He said he expects to be coming home next Friday.'

  'Next Friday!' echoed Helen in dismay. 'But he was only going for a week.'

  'I can't help that. Something must have happened to delay him,' said Mrs Gittens firmly. 'Now, you'd best get along to bed. I don't want Miss Patterson telling your uncle I'm encouraging you to stay out late.'

  'It's not late.' Helen's eyes sought the clock now. 'It's only half past ten.'

  'Late enough for a girl of your age,' declared Mrs Gittens tartly. 'And it's just as well Mr Heathcliffe isn't here, if you ask me. Next time you let a young man kiss you in his car, have the foresight to use a comb on your hair before coming into the house!'

  Helen remembered this as she stood before her dressing table mirror a few minutes later. Her hair was a little untidy, and her mouth was bare of any lipstick. She looked as if she had been kissed, she reflected, and was amazed to find she suited the condition. Nigel's lovemaking had put colour in her cheeks, and she realised, with a pang, that only the news that Heath had rung had robbed her face of a vivid kind of beauty.