Stolen Summer

by Anne Mather

  ‘And—you think this garage may have what I need?’ she asked stiffly, feeling at a disadvantage and not liking it.

  ‘I should think so.’ The man inclined his head. ‘We have grass track racing in these parts occasionally, and Jack Smedley gets a lot of business that way. I shouldn’t think a broken fanbelt will present too many problems to him.’

  ‘Oh—all right.’ Glad for once of her five-feet nine inches which meant, with her heeled boots, that they were almost on eye-level terms, Shelley acquiesced. ‘Thank you,’ she added belatedly, as he closed the Land-Rover’s passenger door behind her, and she heard him say drily: ‘It’s a pleasure!’

  The Land-Rover was not a very salubrious form of transport. It smelled of what Shelley could only imagine were animals, and a glance over her shoulder essayed the information that some creature or other had been carried in the back quite recently. There was a mess of straw strewn over the floor, and distinct signs of a certain lack of continence. It made her wonder if she had not been a little premature in accepting a lift, and perhaps her erstwhile knight errant should have warned her of the disadvantages before he offered her a ride.

  But it was an uncharitable notion, and she speedily dismissed it. After all, the seat she was sitting on was clean, and it was saving her an obviously arduous climb. And the young man beside her probably found nothing distasteful about good, wholesome, country scents, and he himself was perfectly presentable.

  Permitting herself a brief glance in his direction, Shelley had to admit he was nothing at all like the image she had kept of her father’s brother. Yet he was, apparently, a farmer—or a farmer’s son. He obviously spent a lot of time out of doors, evidenced by his dark tan, which was so unusual against the lightness of his hair. And the shirt he was wearing, that was rolled back along his forearms and opened at the neck to expose the strong column of his throat, revealed the taut muscles flexing beneath his skin, skin that was lightly covered by sun-bleached hair. Her gaze dropped to his legs, long and powerful beneath the blue denim. They would be taut and muscled, too, she knew. He was probably the local heart-throb, she decided wryly, deliberately mocking her own unwilling interest. A nice boy, but definitely much too young for her, even had she been looking for diversion—which she wasn’t.

  Shaking her head, she looked away, but not before he had intercepted her appraisal. For a moment, her green-eyed gaze was caught and held by the silvery greyness of his. Then, feeling obliged to say something, if only to dispel her own disconcertment, Shelley found the words to break the pregnant silence.

  ‘It’s my first visit to Wensleydale,’ she said, transferring her attention to the window. ‘I didn’t realise it was quite so pretty. Do you—live around here, Mr—’

  ‘Seton,’ he supplied evenly. ‘Ben Seton. And yes. I live in Low Burton, actually.’

  ‘You do?’ Shelley looked at him again, but this time she avoided those disturbing eyes. ‘So you do know the area very well indeed.’

  ‘Well enough,’ he conceded, with a faint smile, and Shelley found herself resenting his cool composure. ‘Didn’t you believe me?’

  ‘Why shouldn’t I?’ Shelley lifted one disdainful shoulder. ‘This is hardly the sort of vehicle you’d abduct anybody in!’

  He grinned then, a satisfying relaxation of his features that caused an unwilling ripple of reaction to slide along Shelley’s spine. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, though she suspected he was nothing of the sort. ‘I’m so used to this old heap, I didn’t think you might object to it.’

  ‘I don’t—object to it.’ Shelley made an effort to be civil. ‘I’m sure it serves its purpose admirably.’

  ‘Oh, it does.’ The humour was still there in his expression. ‘Though I have to admit,’ he added, ‘it’s some time since I used the back for anything other than hauling animals!’

  Shelly pressed her lips together. ‘I only meant—it smells,’ she said shortly, and he inclined his head.

  ‘Not what you’re used to, I’m sure,’ he commented lazily, and sensitive to any scepticism, Shelley’s patience snapped.

  ‘No, it’s not,’ she retorted sharply. ‘I’m from London, actually. I’m a television producer.’ She waited for him to absorb this, and then continued less aggressively: ‘So you see, riding around in muck-laden farm vehicles is hardly an everyday occurrence for me.’

  ‘I’m sure it’s not.’ His response was as deferential as she could have wished, yet she still had the uneasy suspicion he was only humouring her. Did he believe her? Or did he think she was only making it up to impress him? It was infuriating to realise that she cared what he thought.

  ‘I’m going to stay with Miss Manning at Craygill,’ she appended, refusing to admit she was trying to verify her statement. ‘Marsha Manning, that is. You may have heard of her. She’s a paint—’

  ‘I’ve heard of her,’ he interrupted carelessly, cutting off her explanation. ‘This is Low Burton, just ahead, by the way. Jack Smedley’s place is just off the square.’

  He slowed to take a particularly sharp bend and when the road straightened out again, Shelley saw the dry stone wall of a churchyard on her left. The road ran between the wall of the church and the wall of the rectory opposite, before cottages appeared on either side, their gardens bright with blossom. Shelley identified lobelia and aubretia, and showers of snow-on-the-mountain, before the cottages too gave way to narrow town houses, with leaded window panes and polished letter-boxes.

  Her attention to her surroundings precluded any further conversation, and she was relieved. She was not usually so touchy about her job, and she seldom, if ever, felt the need to brag about her importance. But this man—whoever he was—had the ability to tear away the façade she had erected around herself during the past ten years, and reduce her to the state of defending her position.

  A few yards further on they entered the small market square, with a clock-tower chiming the hour, and a handful of cars parked near a group of municipal buildings. There were shops, and a small supermarket, and a collection of public houses and, just around the corner, the blue-and-white sign indicating Smedley’s Garage.

  ‘Would you like me to find out if he has what you want?’ her companion asked, bringing the Land-Rover to a halt by the petrol pumps.

  Shelley hesitated only a moment, and then shook her head. ‘That’s okay,’ she said. ‘I can manage,’ even though she was tempted to take advantage of his offer. It would be easier for him to approach the garage owner, who he obviously knew, and explain what was required, but Shelley felt the need to demonstrate her independence. She had no intention of providing him with any more amusement. She had already proved herself to be both vain and shrewish, and no doubt his friends would enjoy his story of a helpless older woman, bowled over by his charm. Men always liked to exaggerate, and her behaviour would hardly invite his discretion.

  Now, opening her bag, she searched for her wallet. ‘Will you let me buy you a drink, Mr Seton,’ she began, determined to restore the relationship to its proper footing, but once again he prevented her.

  ‘That won’t be necessary,’ he said, a faint edge to his voice now, as he flicked the flap of her bag back into place. Closing his fingers over the soft leather, he successfully trapped her hand inside, and his eyes were steel-hard as they met her frustrated gaze. ‘Never let it be said that a dalesman couldn’t offer a lady assistance, without requiring some payment for it.’ Her hand struggled to be free, and he let go of the bag again. ‘Enjoy your holiday,’ he added, as she thrust open her door. ‘Who knows—we may see one another again!’

  ‘I should think that will be highly unlikely!’ Shelley muttered under her breath, as she climbed out of the Land-Rover. And, although she didn’t look back as she strode confidently into the garage, she was conscious of his eyes upon her, until she was out of sight.

  CHAPTER TWO

  IT was six o’clock by the time Shelley reached Craygill, and she unutterably relieved when, on the outskirts of the tiny hamlet, sh
e found the house she was looking for. Marsha had said to look out for two stone gateposts, because the sign indicating the house was worn and scarcely readable from the driving seat of a car. But Shelley saw the crumbling notice for Askrigg House as she turned between the stone sentinels, and she accelerated up the gravelled drive, to the detriment of the car’s paintwork.

  Marsha appeared at the door of the rambling old building as Shelley reached the circular forecourt before the house. Dressed in paint-smeared slacks and an equally disreputable smock, she looked so endearingly familiar that Shelley could hardly wait to get out of the car to embrace her.

  ‘Where have you been?’ Marsha exclaimed fiercely, after they had exchanged their initial greetings. ‘My dear, I’ve been practically frantic! Your daily woman said you left London at eleven o’clock this morning. I’ve been expecting you since four, and anticipating the worst since half-past-five!’

  ‘Oh, love, I’m sorry!’ Leaving her suitcases at Marsha’s suggestion, Shelley ran a weary hand over the untidy coil of her hair as she accompanied her friend into the house. There was ivy on the walls, and honeysuckle growing over the door, but she scarcely registered her surroundings. ‘It was further than I thought, and I was feeling so tired, I thought I wasn’t going to make it. Then, about a dozen miles back, the fanbelt broke, and I had to—to get a lift into Low Burton, to find a garage that could fix it.’

  ‘Smedley’s, no doubt,’ remarked Marsha, nodding as she led the way through a darkly panelled hall into a pleasant, airy, living room. ‘Oh—Sarah!’ This as a plum-cheeked girl straightened from setting a tray of tea on the low table in front of the fireplace. ‘Will you collect Miss Hoyt’s luggage from her car, and put it up in her room? And tell Mrs Carr we’ll probably want dinner a little later than usual. Say—about eight o’clock.’

  ‘Yes, Miss Manning.’

  The girl gave Shelley a swift assessing look as she left the room. She was evidently curious about her employer’s new house guest, and Marsha pulled a rueful face when Shelley arched her brows enquiringly.

  ‘Don’t mind Sarah,’ she said, as soon as the door had closed behind her. She helped Shelley off with her thigh-length jacket and folded it over the back of a chair. ‘If you intend to dress as a fashion model here, you’ll have to get used to people staring.’ She smiled to allay Shelley’s protests. ‘Oh, darling, it’s so good to see you. Even if it could have been in happier circumstances!’

  ‘I’m fine—really,’ said Shelley, sinking down gratefully into the soft cushions of a chintz-covered armchair. ‘Mmm, you’ve no idea how good it is to relax at last! I seem to have been travelling for days!’

  ‘It must have been infuriating, losing the fanbelt so close to your destination,’ agreed Marsha, sympathising. ‘Who gave you a lift?’

  ‘Oh—just a man,’ said Shelley dismissively, annoyed with herself for re-opening the topic. For some ridiculous reason, she was loath to discuss that particular episode at the moment, probably because Ben Seton had already occupied far too much of her time. ‘What a comfortable room this is, Marsha,’ she added, changing the subject. ‘And what a clever idea—filling the fireplace with flowers!’

  Marsha was diverted, and seating herself opposite, beside the tea tray, she became absorbed with the cups. ‘Milk and sugar?’ she asked. ‘Or would you prefer something stronger?’

  ‘If I have something stronger, I’ll probably fall asleep,’ confessed Shelley lightly. ‘Honestly, tea is just what I need.’

  ‘Good.’ Marsha filled two cups and after offering Shelley a hot, buttered scone, she lay back in her chair and regarded her friend with evident satisfaction. ‘You’re here at last,’ she said, her grey eyes warm with affection. ‘And not before time. Shelley, why didn’t you tell me what was going on?’

  Shelley sighed, nibbling the half scone she had accepted without any real appetite. ‘There was nothing to tell,’ she answered flatly. ‘It was just an accumulation of circumstances, and Mike’s wife dying like that, seemed to bring them all to a head.’

  Marsha shook her head. ‘I thought you were in love with him.’

  ‘So did I.’ Shelley lifted her slim shoulders. ‘But I wasn’t.’

  Marsha shook her head. ‘You’ve lost weight.’

  ‘A few pounds.’ Shelley was offhand. ‘I could afford it. I spend too much of my life sitting down.’

  ‘Nevertheless…’ Marsha finished her tea and propped her elbows on her knees. ‘The—specialist you saw would not have ordered you to take a complete rest if he hadn’t considered you needed it.’

  ‘The shrink, you mean?’ prompted Shelley drily. ‘Don’t be afraid to say it, Marsha. I guess I got myself into quite a state, one way and another. And having Guy Livingstone on my back hasn’t helped. He can’t wait to step into my shoes.’

  ‘Mice on a treadmill!’ Marsha sighed. ‘Shelley, don’t you sometimes wonder if you were really cut out to be a career woman! I mean—don’t get me wrong—but there is another life, outside your profession.’

  ‘That! From you!’ Shelley put the remains of her scone aside and looked at her friend incredulously. ‘You’re not exactly a walking recommendation of the eternal wife and mother!’

  ‘I know, I know.’ Marsha was not offended. ‘But just because my marriage to Tom didn’t work out, doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate the institution when it does.’ She shrugged. ‘I suppose, living around here, has given me a different outlook on life. Oh—I’m not saying that if Tom and I were still together, things would be any different. But he did give me Dickon, and I’m eternally grateful for that.’

  ‘You don’t have to get married to have a baby,’ pointed out Shelley wryly. Then, smiling, she added: ‘How is Dickon anyway? I’m looking forward to meeting him again.’

  ‘And he’s keen to meet you,’ declared Marsha eagerly. ‘Do you remember when we all went to that exhibition of mine at the Shultz Gallery? He talked about you for days afterwards. I think he had quite a crush on you!’

  Shelley laughed. It was the first time she had really relaxed for months, and it was so good to anticipate the weeks ahead, with nothing more arduous to occupy her mind than how she was going to fill her days.

  ‘He’s engaged now,’ Marsha continued reflectively, her thoughts evidently still with her son. ‘She’s a nice girl. Her name is Jennifer Chater. She’s the daughter of one of his partners in the practice.’

  ‘The veterinary practice,’ said Shelley nodding. ‘When will he be home?’

  ‘Oh, Dickon doesn’t live here,’ said Marsha quickly. ‘In winter, we often get snowed in, and he has to be available for calls. He bought a house in Low Burton, just after he joined Langley and Chater.’

  ‘Low Burton,’ echoed Shelley faintly, wondering if she would ever hear the name without thinking of Ben Seton. ‘And—will he and Jennifer live there, after they’re married?’

  ‘Initially, perhaps,’ agreed Marsha doubtfully. ‘But it’s not very big. Not big enough for a family,’ she added, her eyes twinkling. ‘I can’t wait to become a grandmother! But I don’t suppose I have any choice.’

  ‘Are they getting married soon?’ asked Shelley, willing to talk about anything that would not remind her of the young man in the Land-Rover, and Marsha shrugged.

  ‘Provisionally the date is set for sometime in October,’ she replied. ‘But it really depends on Jennifer’s father. He hasn’t been at all well lately, and consequently Dickon thinks they ought to wait and see what happens.’

  ‘I see.’ Shelley sighed. ‘Is he coming over this evening?’

  ‘He was, but now he’s not.’ Marsha sounded regretful, but Shelley couldn’t deny a sudden feeling of relief. Although she didn’t feel nearly as exhausted now as she had earlier, she was glad there was only to be the two of them for dinner. ‘As a matter of fact, he rang, just before you arrived,’ Marsha added. ‘I thought it might be you, but of course, it wasn’t. He had intended to join us for dinner, but something’s come up. He said to
give you his regards, and that he’ll probably see us tomorrow.’

  * * *

  In spite of being tired, Shelley did not sleep as well as she had expected. She and Marsha had enjoyed a leisurely dinner, served by Marsha’s housekeeper, Mrs Carr, and then adjourned to the living room to continue their conversation over a nightcap. The brandy, plus the half bottle of wine she had consumed, should have assured her of a decent night’s rest, but once her head touched the pillow, Shelley’s brain sprang into action. No matter how determinedly she endeavoured to relax, the events of the day persistently disturbed her rest, and the absence of any sounds but the wind through the beech trees at the bottom of Marsha’s garden and the occasional cry of an owl, accentuated the strangeness of her surroundings. She was used to the sound of traffic, to the constant hum of a city that never sleeps. Here the stillness was almost deafening, and every creak of the old house was magnified a dozen times.

  She eventually got up and took a sleeping pill, just as the birds were beginning their dawn chorus. She supposed it was around four, but she was too weary to pay much attention to the time. She crawled back under the feather duvet and lost consciousness almost immediately, only to wake with a dry mouth and an aching head, when someone pulled back the flowered curtains.

  It was Sarah, Shelley saw through slitted lids, and she thought how appropriate it was that the girl should be the one to see her like this. Struggling up against her pillows, she was instantly aware of how haggard she must look without make-up, and with the vivid tangle of her hair loose about her shoulders. No fashion model now, she acknowledged drily, as Sarah’s sharp eyes took in her appearance. Just a rather worn-looking woman, stripped of the protection her sophistication had given her.

  ‘Good morning, miss.’ Sarah left the window to come back to the bed, and now Shelley noticed the tray of tea the girl had set on the table beside her.