A year after Benjamin was born, Cynthia cajoled her father into selling up so that they could all move to London. Knowing he hadn't got long, after much thought, for Mr Ollerenshaw's sake, Sorrel went with them. By then she was occasionally picking up a paper to see Ellis's face looking back at her. He was making it to the top.
She had been in London only a short while when she again saw his picture in the paper, this time with a stunning, sophisticated-looking blonde by the name of Wenda Sykes. Ellis was engaged to be married.
That he had not married Wenda was reported too, news of their broken engagement being more food for the newshounds. Time had gone on then, with Ellis having made it to the top, when it seemed to Sorrel that she couldn't pick up a paper without seeing a picture of him staring back at her—and always with some glamorous woman.
When Albert Ollerenshaw had died and had left her more money than she had ever seen in her life, Cynthia Armitage had been more furious than Sorrel had ever seen her.
'I've put up with having that old devil under my feet all these years and he dares to do this to me!' she had shrieked with rage when the news had been broken that because of her spendthrift ways her inheritance and that of the children was tied up so that she couldn't get her hands on it all at once. 'And you, you sneaky bitch,' she vent her spleen on Sorrel, 'not only has the old swine left you more than you'll ever earn in a lifetime—you can have yours straight away!' There had been more, much, much more. Language such as Sorrel had never heard had come spewing from the over-indulged woman. But the upshot of it all had been her shriek of, 'The old bastard wants you to "live a little", does he? Well, you can find somewhere else to live, for a start!'
The sound of a car door closing and Neville Drury saying his adieux to a departing guest had Sorrel blinking and coming away from her reverie to realise that for the first time in years she had been crying—and that not all her tears were on account of the passing of Albert Ollerenshaw.
CHAPTER TWO
Sorrel had herself well in hand by the time she presented herself downstairs the following morning. Tears, she considered, were the privilege of adolescence, and anyway, what in goodness had she got to cry about? She had a nice home; money in the bank; and Rod Drury for an escort should she ever feel the need of masculine company.
Though she was not sure that she and Rod would not soon be parting company. If he looked at her very much more with that eager light in his eyes, it would leave her with no alternative but to bid him a permanent goodbye.
Sorrel's thoughts were interrupted when the Drurys' housekeeper appeared, to direct her to the breakfast room. 'The family have gone riding,' said Mrs Richards apologetically. 'Mr Roderick thought…' she broke off, hesitating.
'He thought I might not surface before midday,' suggested Sorrel with a warm smile to put the housekeeper at her ease.
Perhaps rising at midday was what most sophisticated types did, she mused as Mrs Richards went away to prepare the coffee and toast she had requested. Though, regretfully, since she had worked hard on her new image, the habit of getting up at the crack of dawn to see to Arabella and Benjamin was so ingrained that Sorrel knew she would never be so sophisticated as to laze away a whole morning in bed.
Her breakfast soon disposed of, and not unhappy with her own company, she put on her sunglasses and wandered outside into the sunshine. She had no intention at all of thinking about Ellis Galbraith. But, when strolling across the lawn towards an old apple tree, she found she was wondering, but for that one never-to-be-forgotten occasion, if he still worked late and rose early. Putting him firmly from her mind, she made a conscious effort to concentrate on Rod, and what, if anything, she should do about him.
She had met Roderick Drury when she had needed legal advice about the lease on her flat. But once the legal matter was settled, he had turned up on moving-in day, to see, so he said, that everything was in accordance with the terms of her agreement. He had proved himself more than useful when he had stayed to fix a few plugs and put up a bracket or two. But he knew nothing of her previous circumstances. So far as he knew, she was a woman of independent means. And that was all he was going to know.
After Cynthia Armitage had dismissed her, she had returned to her parents' home for a few weeks. But she had been unable to settle, and had returned to London. To tell Rod anything of the threadbare bed-sitter she had moved into, or anything of the shop work she had taken while waiting for the slow working of his profession to finalise Mr Ollerenshaw's estate, would tell him too much about her. In her view, the less people knew about you, the less likely you were to form closer relationships, and to keep aloof from close relationships was the way she liked it. She had become a very private person.
Reaching the apple tree, Sorrel took off her sunglasses and sat herself down on the worn bench that seemed to have stood beneath the tree for as long as the house had stood.
The only close relationship she had, she reflected, was with her parents. It was funny how much her father had mellowed in recent years. Perhaps it was the responsibility of having a daughter to bring up that had made him the strict parent he had been in her growing years. He was more relaxed with her now at any rate, and she thought of it as a compliment to her that he had accepted that she was a person in her own right. Though both her parents were still very proud. They knew she had inherited some money, but beyond the acceptance of some pipe tobacco for her father and flowers for her mother whenever she returned to Salford Foley, they had determinedly refused to accept any financial gift from her.
Sorrel was just in the middle of thinking that maybe she would visit them again soon, when the sudden hurried beat of her heart told her that her eyes were not mistaken in that they had just spotted, and recognised, the tall casually dressed man who had just come from around the front of the house. He had spotted her too, and without altering his stride, he was making his way over to her.
In the shade of the apple tree, there was no need for her to don her sunglasses, but it was without obvious haste that she put them on. She had thought that when she and Rob returned to London that afternoon, it would be without her seeing Ellis Galbraith again.
By the time he had neared her bench, and without so much as a 'by your leave' had sat himself down beside her, Sorrel, her hair in an elegant knot, looking cool in her cream linen dress, had herself once more under control.
'The Drurys are all out riding,' she informed him, her voice unhurried, her manner easy.
She felt his eyes on her, and turned her head languidly, her heartbeats catching her out again as her green eyes feasted on that face that had once been so dearly familiar to her. That same hard jaw, that well remembered firm mouth—she looked at his dark eyes and the years fell away as she thought of how those eyes once crinkled in laughter.
That Ellis had no intention of looking from her, and did not like either that he could not read what was going on in her eyes, was evidenced by the short way he did no more than lift his hands to her face and remove her sunglasses.
'You don't need those,' he remarked. And while she fought a battle with a spurt of anger that would have ruined her cool front, he was advising her. 'I didn't come over to see the Drurys.'
'I'm honoured,' she drawled, not wanting to think that, by the sound of it, it was her he had come especially to see. 'That is—unless it's the downstairs maid you have your eye on.' Her eyes veiled, she saw the corner of his mouth twitch—but she didn't want him to be amused by anything she said either. In the old days they had always been idiotically grinning or smiling at some crack one or other of them had made. 'From what I hear, you have rather a reputation with women,' she added, thinking that might take the smile off his face.
It did. Though he was careless of his reputation, and was coming back with a deliberate, 'I prefer to use my eyes rather than listen to gossip.'
'Meaning?' she asked with a shrug that said she didn't care too much whether he answered her or not.
'Meaning that I'd have to be blind not
to notice the change in you in the last eight years.'
She so nearly tossed him an uncaring 'Good heavens, has it been that long?'—but Ellis had always been pretty astute. There was, she considered, a grave danger, in her need to let him see how completely she had got over her love for him and those insincere looks of love he used to send her, that she might overplay her hand.
'Surely you didn't expect me to remain the same innocent child I was at seventeen?' she asked, a look of being slightly appalled on her face.
'At seventeen, your innocence was your most precious possession,' he replied shortly. 'Your freshness shone from you—it gave you an added beauty.'
'You never said,' she quipped in light sarcasm, and saw his mouth quirk again—only for it to shape into a tight line, as sharply he grunted:
'Did marriage do this to you?' And while she was coping with the shock that he thought she was married, he was going on in the same sharp tone, 'Never did I expect to bump into you the way I did last night, to sit at the same table with you and listen to you prattle on in a way that just isn't you.'
'You know nothing about me,' said Sorrel, her tone as sharp as his before she could stop it.
'I know that you obviously married money,' he retorted. Then, as suddenly, his manner was again relaxed, and quietly he was asking, 'What went wrong, Sorrel?'
'Wrong?' she queried, still trying to get over his insistence that she had somewhere along the way found it in her to trust some man enough to marry him.
'You aren't wearing a wedding ring.' His voice was gentle when he asked, 'Did he give you a hard time? Did you divorce him?'
That gentle note weakened her when she did not want to be weakened. 'You think I've been married?' she asked, no sharpness in her as she went on, 'You think I've been through the divorce courts?'
His voice was sharp-edged again, his eyes hard on her as shortly he said, 'Haven't you?'
She looked from him, shaking her head, not seeing his reaction or knowing if indeed he had reacted at all, as she told him, 'I've never been married.'
A long silence stretched between them after that. Sorrel had been happy before Ellis had come and parked himself beside her. She wished he would go. She was starting to feel edgy when over the last six months life had gone placidly for her.
But, on the point of telling him that she wanted something from her room, before she could make her intended languid movement to get to her feet, she was again having to hold down a spurt of temper, when she heard that Ellis had the utter gall to ask suddenly:
'So what happened to you, Sorrel Maitland, after…'
She stopped him right there. 'After you sacked me?' she questioned, her control on her anger coming too late. Though she was in control again, when coolly she told him, 'I didn't, as you obviously expected, throw myself in the nearest river.' She even managed a smile, a flick of a glance at him, as she said, 'I grew up, Ellis.'
It was the first time in years that she had said his name. It had her feeling all choky inside. But in the way he had always been able to, Ellis made her want to smile, when, an eyebrow ascending, he drawled laconically:
'You've certainly done that.' His eyes went over her figure. 'Your—shape—was quite something before, but…'
'You're too kind,' Sorrel murmured, and came so very near to joining in with his laugh, as again her sarcasm amused him, that she made that movement to stand up. 'If you'll excuse me,' she said politely, then felt her flesh begin to tingle when his hand came to her arm to stay her.
'Don't go yet,' he said. 'I haven't seen you in years.'
Sorrel had become adept in hardening her heart. 'Forgive me,' she said insincerely. 'But I received the impression, the last time we met, that if you didn't ever see me again, that would be all right with you.'
'My God, you've grown a hard edge,' he said shortly, his hand refusing to let go her arm. And, short with her still, angry with her, she thought, he barked the question, 'When did you stop laughing with your eyes?'
'I wasn't aware that I'd ever started,' she replied, liking the feeling of hate that stirred in her towards him, needing that hate when he would not let her go. But suddenly he was changing tack, and was bluntly asking:
'Do you intend to marry Rod Drury?'
'I'll think about it, and let you be the first to know,' she said smartly. She saw that this time he was not amused by her sarcasm. Though, having had just about enough of his questions about her and her life, and since she didn't want to ruin her image by an undignified tussle to get her arm free, she turned the tables on him, and just as smartly asked, 'What about you—didn't I read somewhere that you were once engaged?'
His look was thoughtful, and she guessed before she heard it that she wouldn't like what was coming. 'Been keeping tabs on me, Sorrel?' he had the nerve to ask.
She smiled, but it was an effort. 'You never used to be conceited,' she said acidly, and saw his eyes smile briefly at her charge before, all at once, those dark eyes went hard.
'I was engaged,' he said concisely. 'But it came to nothing.'
'Slip the noose, did she?' Sorrel's insincere smile was still there. But that was before, that hard look still about him, Ellis had her gripping hard on to the seat at the side of her, the side he could not see, when bluntly he replied:
'My financial position when I became engaged wasn't anywhere near what it is now. Wenda and I parted company when I discovered she was getting everything I couldn't give her—financially—by batting her eyelashes at some old boy with one foot in the grave.'
'She—married him?' asked Sorrel, but saw Ellis shake his head.
'She had no need—she'd done her work well. When he passed on, his fortune passed on to her—he left her everything.'
Sorrel hadn't inherited anywhere near a quarter of Albert Ollerenshaw's wealth. But in her view what he had left her still represented a fortune. It took her a deal of effort to make her voice sound cool and uncaring, as she said:
'You sound as if you have a down on any girl who might chance to be left something in an old man's will.'
'When there's no chance about it, it's disgusting,' he told her coldly. 'When Wenda latched on to that ailing old man, he didn't stand the smallest likelihood of seeing what she was after.'
'She—was kind to him, I expect,' said Sorrel, feeling sick inside.
'You can say that again,' he said grimly.
But Sorrel was surfacing from seeing that if Ellis ever knew how she had come by her own fortune, then he would instantly put her in the same money grasping category as his ex-fiancée.
'Sour grapes because you lost your love?' she found enough challenge to ask. But she heard that sour grapes had nothing to do with the stand Ellis had taken, when, looking entirely unconcerned, he dismissed her charge.
'When the old boy died, she had the impudence to seek me out.'
'But you told her what for?' Sorrel suggested—and, innocently, softly, she asked, 'Wenda wasn't your—er— secretary, was she?'
Ellis had never been slow on the uptake—he was not slow now. 'I didn't have to sack her,' he returned.
Looking away from those penetrating eyes that seemed to want to hold hers, she saw with relief that a jodhpur-clad Rod was just appearing through the French doors of the drawing room.
Languidly then, she rose to her feet. 'You do have the darndest luck with your women, Ellis,' she murmured— and had to be glad she had her back to him when his reply met her ears:
'You were never my woman, though, Sorrel, were you?'
Only by the skin of my teeth, she thought, and moved away. She met Rod halfway across the lawn and for the first time she was grateful that in his pleasure on seeing her, as he looked down into her face, Rod draped an arm across her shoulders.
A minute later she took a peep to the seat beneath the apple tree. Ellis was no longer there.
Rod Drury apologising profusely for not being there when she had come down that morning made Sorrel forget any thoughts that might have lingered about El
lis Galbraith's expressed statement that he had not come over to see the Drurys. That statement was confirmed by the fact that he had not stayed around to greet any of them when they had returned from exercising the horses.
Lunch was a pleasant meal, with Sorrel more relaxed than she had been yesterday. Moira Drury seemed warmer too, so she could only guess that her stiff attitude yesterday had rather put Rod's normally warm-natured mother off.
Though with Rod sending Sorrel fond looks across the table every now and again, she was beginning to think that if his parents caught the way he looked at her, they might start to get the idea that she was something more to him than just a casual girl-friend.
To her discomfiture, this was borne out towards the end of the meal. The wedding anniversary party Moira and Neville were planning for a few weeks' time had been the topic of conversation for some minutes when Moira, perhaps reading correctly the signals her son's eyes were giving her, promptly invited Sorrel down for that weekend so she could join in the celebrations.
'It's very kind of you to ask me,' Sorrel replied, with two very good reasons presenting themselves why she would not be accepting the invitation. For one, this short visit had shown her that Rod was more interested in her than she had thought, and for the other she had no wish whatsoever, since in all probability Ellis had been invited to the party too, to see him again. 'But I'm not sure if I'm free that weekend.' Her smile was apologetic as she explained, 'I haven't brought my diary with me.'
'If you remember,' Rod came in promptly, 'that's the weekend I asked you to keep free.' And with a disarming smile, 'I sort of guessed that once Mother had met you, she would want you to be part of the celebrations.' And while Sorrel's brain was rapidly trying to think up something that would not cause offence to either Moira or Neville, the smile Rod usually wore for her faded as he reproached, 'You did promise to keep those dates free, Sorrel.'
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