Façade

by Jessica Steele

Why then, with Ellis, his long legs stretched out in front of him, looking as relaxed as she was feeling, she should suddenly put paid to the impersonal atmosphere she was enjoying, she could not have said. All she knew was that she could have bitten her tongue out when, with only a few more minutes to go before she would be on her way, it should be she who was the one to start getting personal, by asking him if he liked living in the country, when it was obvious that he did or he would not have bought a house there.

  'Neville Drury mentioned that you'd recently moved here,' she ploughed on by way of an explanation for her question.

  'I like to get down whenever I can,' Ellis replied smoothly. 'Though my work necessitates my spending a good deal of time in London.'

  Having realised her mistake, for any personal discussion about him would surely give him carte blanche to ask questions about her, to her alarm, the love she had for him had her unable to deny the need to know more of him than had been written in the press.

  'You've certainly got on well since you left Kinglingham,' her wayward tongue pushed on.

  But she could have groaned out loud when, not answering the questioning note, she heard that same questioning note in Ellis's voice as, not slow on taking the opening she had given him, suavely he let fall:

  'You don't appear to have done so badly yourself.'

  If he thought she was rising to that he was mistaken, she thought, starting to get agitated. Determined not to be drawn, she had no reply to make. But in having brought this conversation on herself by getting personal to start with, she was soon being led further down the slippery slope of her own making when Ellis waited no longer for her to make some reply.

  'So tell me a little about Sorrel Maitland,' he invited, her look of instant withdrawal not lost on him. But, as if to quiet her fears, as though to suggest that he wasn't so interested that he wanted to hear chapter and verse, he smiled as he said, 'There isn't time now for you to fill in all that's happened in eight years to change you from a beautiful chrysalis into a very beautiful butterfly, but I'll settle for what you did after we—parted company.'

  Sorrel had not the least intention of telling him anything. But those last two words had any last remnants of relaxed feeling shooting from her, and made her forget her intentions, as she suddenly erupted wrathfully:

  'Parted company! That's a polite way of putting the way you virtually tossed me out on my ear!'

  Her flare of anger went as suddenly as it had come. Her only fury then was that she had forgotten herself and had fired up at him. Though Ellis was not replying in kind. Nor was he making any attempt to defend how brutally cruelly he had treated her tender heart. For with his voice quiet, even, he asked softly:

  'Does it still matter to you, Sorrel? Does the memory of the way we parted still upset you?'

  For several stubborn moments, she refused to answer. But when he remained cool and calm and appeared in no hurry as he deliberately waited for her to come back with something, Sorrel started to see that Ellis Galbraith was no bad hand at psycho-analysis. She saw then how, ever since she had let him see that isolated moment of hurt to remember how they had parted company, little by little, by making her relaxed, at ease, with every friendly word he had spoken, Ellis had been chipping his way through to the inner Sorrel Maitland. It was time, more than time, she decided, that she did something about getting herself together. Time that she showed him just how little anything to do with him had the power to upset her.

  'No, it doesn't upset me,' she said at length. And she even managed a self-deprecating smile, as she added, 'I was in need of a shake-up eight years ago, wasn't I?' And with another self-deprecating smile, 'No self-respecting seventeen-year-old has any right to be…' her smile wobbled as she faltered, recovered, and tried again, 'to be that—that…'

  'Innocent? Trusting?' Ellis supplied.

  In charge of herself again, Sorrel shrugged. 'If you like,' she said. And since by the look of him he was going to insist on hearing more, she forced a light laugh, as she told him, just as though it was amusing to remember, 'After you pulled the rug from under my feet, I went home and did the usual howling my eyes out.' Her smile became brittle as the memory hit her of having no recollection of how indeed she had got home that day. 'Then,' she picked up quickly. 'I decided that you just weren't worth my tears—I decided instead to get on with my life.'

  That it had been nowhere near as easy as she had made it sound, that remembering how terrible that time had been to live through should treacherously weaken her, and make her resolve to show him a hard front falter, was soon borne in on Sorrel, when after quickly dissecting what she had said, Ellis asked:

  'You came to London straight away?'

  'Not immediately,' she had answered before she had given herself time to think. 'I was…' She halted, wishing she had agreed that yes, she had come to London straight away. Too late now that she had told him she had not done so, to change her story. But to lie and tell him that she had gone straight from his employment into the employ of Cynthia Armitage brought her up short to realise that that could have him asking questions which she just did not want him to ask. Live without his love she could, but to live with the contempt he would show her when he unhesitatingly put her in the same stable as Wenda Sykes was something in her new-found resurgence of love for him which she could not take.

  Having been lost in her thoughts, Sorrel was miles away from remembering that she had broken off halfway through a sentence. But Ellis quietly prompting, when she did not look like resuming, 'Go on, Sorrel,' made her rapidly leave thoughts of how blacker than black Cynthia Armitage would make it sound if Ellis ever got to hear her tell it.

  'I—er…' she began, agitated that he should not know anything about her being a nanny, or about the quite ghastly daughter dear old Mr Ollerenshaw had managed to sire, she fell down in her desire that Ellis should know nothing either of how things had been with her when he had so summarily dismissed her. 'I was ill for a time,' she said, and barely knew she had said it, until his cool even manner left him, and Ellis, his face showing his surprise, exclaimed:

  'You were ill!'

  'Oh, nothing serious,' she replied, of no mind to tell him of the rapid weight loss that had gone with her total loss of appetite, or of those days spent staring into space with just him in her head, of those sleepless nights where he still filled her mind, and which had resulted in her looking so ill that her mother had taken her to see a doctor. ,

  Unaware of the pain that filled her expression at her thoughts, Sorrel came away from memories she did not want, but only to be weakened again by the concern on Ellis's face, as with a frown grooving his forehead, he asked:

  'What was the trouble?'

  She sighed, thinking that at least they had passed the danger area of Cynthia Armitage, but not liking at all that he was still applying pressure.

  'I'll see you have a doctor's report,' she said with quiet sarcasm. But she was not, she saw, going to be let off the hook. For Ellis took no heed of her sarcasm, as he said:

  'You never had need to use the medical fraternity during the time I knew you. So despite what you say, it must have been something serious.'

  'It wasn't,' she denied, getting fed up with him and his badgering away at her. 'If you must know,' she said heatedly, only the fact of his accusing her of running away keeping her there, pride demanding that instead of walking out right there and then she stick this out until he had got tired of it, 'if you must know,' she repeated snappily, 'I was…' Again she faltered. But she was grabbing at her courage as anger went, leaving her voice husky. 'I was in a bit of a mess—emotionally.'

  There, she'd got it out. Let him make of it what he would. Sorrel at that moment began to recover, and then did not care a defiant damn what he thought.

  Though the shocked breath she heard from his chair told her that whatever ailments which she might have suffered that had gone through his head, that he had been the cause of her needing to see a doctor, had never occurred to him. It
was there showing in his expression when she looked at him. A stunned look was there the moment before the utterly appalled words left him:

  'You had a—breakdown?

  It made her angry then that when he had slammed the door shut on the love she had told him she bore him, he should think her love had been such a poor thing that she could take his harsh rejection of all she had offered, without it affecting her. And she was on her feet, her anger spilling over, out of her control as she yelled at him;

  'Dammit, you were my world—I loved you!'

  Before the ring of her words had faded, Ellis was out his chair too. Her sophistication vanished when, her emotions on a see-saw, he took her trembling form in his arms.

  'Oh God, I never knew,' he groaned, some emotion in him too, as his cheek against her cheek, he breathed, 'I never knew you loved me that much.'

  She had told him, Sorrel thought, anger surging upward again. She had told him how it was with her. 'You knew,' she accused hotly, pulling her cheek away from his, her eyes hostile. 'But you decided it was just kid's stuff.' She had a clear picture of that morning when he had sacked her and had walked coldly from her, and had left her absolutely shattered standing there. 'You knew, but you didn't care what went on inside me,' she threw at him. 'You…' A dry choking sob caught at her unexpectedly, and she broke off.

  Ellis bringing her head down to his shoulder, cradling her to him, whispering, 'Hush, darling,' in such a gentle way, made Sorrel pull back her head, her eyes full of unshed tears. And again Ellis was gently kissing her, as last night he had kissed her, his kiss beautiful, as though he would draw from her all the pain he had inflicted.

  A sigh shuddered through her when his lips left hers, but his kiss had had some healing effect in that her temper had gone, her anger had gone. But still within the circle of his arms, she felt her world right itself again, and albeit she drew a shaky breath, she was then able to mumble:

  'I never meant to—tell you any—of that.' Her voice went to be a whisper as, looking away from him, she added, 'I wish I hadn't.'

  'Don't,' he said promptly, one hand coming to stroke down her cheek. 'I'm glad I know.'

  'Why?' she asked, her solemn eyes returning to his.

  As solemnly, Ellis looked back at her. Quietly then he answered, 'I've only recently started to see what I should have seen a long time ago. Your eyes were always laughter-filled in the old days—it wasn't until we met up again and that laughter had gone from your beautiful eyes that I started to see what you're at pains to keep hidden.'

  Her heart starting to pound, Sorrel lowered her eyes so that he should read nothing more there. Was he saying that he had seen that she loved him? She was ready to deny all charges as she asked the diverting question:

  'What have my eyes, laughing or otherwise, got to do with what I've told you?'

  'They reveal a sensitivity you try to hide,' he answered unhesitatingly. 'A sensitivity which in those days of my having my sights pinned on succeeding in the business world, cravenly, I missed seeing.' She felt calmer as she realised that he had missed seeing how much he meant to her now. 'What you've just told me,' he went on, 'has given me a further insight into just how very great is that depth of sensitivity in you, Sorrel.'

  Sorely then did she need some trite remark. But in the absence of being able to find anything killing, she was of the opinion that Ellis could no longer accuse her of running away if she left now.

  She made a move to pull out of his arms, and when he let her go without making her struggle to be free, she was able to tell him:

  'I'm not that sensitive any longer, Ellis.'

  She did not like that small shake of his head, any more than she liked his correcting statement. 'What you mean is that you don't want me or any other man to see sensitivity in you. But it's still there, as fragile and as deep as ever.'

  From the smile in his eyes she saw that he did not need a reply. He knew, and no amount of her denying it would convince him otherwise. She settled for a different tack.

  'I no longer love you, if that's what you're trying to suggest,' she lied coldly. But she wondered, a shade panicky, if Ellis knew she was lying when his hands came to rest on her shoulders, keeping her there, as he asked:

  'But you don't hate me either, do you?'

  For a second or two she contemplated telling him that she felt dead inside where he was concerned. But, remembering her heated response to his lovemaking that night in her flat, remembering his smile, his 'Ah yes,' when she'd tried to reiterate that her response was only put on, she had more than a little idea that he wouldn't swallow that.

  She tried one of her practised dismissive shrugs, and was offhand as she told him, 'How can I hate you, Ellis? Without you, it would have taken years for the little village girl to grow up.'

  His hands tightened on her shoulders as a glint suddenly appeared in his eyes at her display of arrogance. 'You're laying the charge—the responsibility—at my door for the phoney image you present to the world?' he asked, not, she guessed, at all enamoured with her phoney image.

  For a bonus she gave him one of her phoney practised smiles. But she was admitting he was responsible for nothing, when, pulling away from him a second time, her laughter tinkled as she told him:

  'If you don't like the image, Ellis, I can think of half dozen or more men who do.'

  That should kill stone dead any glimmer that might have come to him of where her heart lay, she thought. She would have gone strolling casually to the door then had he not halted her, no trace of anger there that the glint in his eyes denoted, when he asked smoothly:

  'That includes the man who pays your rent, does it?'

  Wanting to be gone, Sorrel repressed a puckering of her brow as she wondered what thoughts were going through his head now. But her false smile was still there as, 'Naturally,' she agreed.

  Sorrel did not like at all that, as phoney smiles went, the one that Ellis favoured her with then beat hers into a cocked hat. And smooth wasn't the word for the way he sardonically let the words fall:

  'Let us hope, my dear Sorrel, that the gent has the patience he's going to need while he waits until you're prepared to give him what he's paying for.'

  As a snide remark to her still virgin state, Sorrel did not think much of it. Her head was high in the air when, seeing there was nothing more to be said, she sailed haughtily to the door.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  When Rod Drury drove her back to London on Sunday, Sorrel was never more glad to return to the solitude of her flat. She desperately needed time to be by herself to think.

  Ellis had insisted on driving her back to the Drurys' yesterday, but she had been in no mind to have any sort of further conversation with him—he, for once, had been like-minded. He had dropped her off with barely another word passing between them, and she had hurried to her room to change out of her never-to-be-the-same-again trouser suit. And no sooner had she repaired the ravages of her day and was once again looking more like the girl she had set out to be, than Rod and his family were back, Rod coming straight to her room to enquire with some concern whether she, like them, had got caught out in the rain.

  'Rainwater's good for the complexion,' she had remarked lightly, her meeting with Ellis and all that had followed already secreted away in a very private compartment.

  'Your complexion doesn't need any help,' Rod had replied, his eyes serious, troubled, so that for a moment she worried that he might be as deeply hurt as she had been by not having a love returned. But he had smiled then, and had told her, 'Everybody's gone full pelt to take baths. There'll be no hot water left by now. Come and talk to me while the steam builds up again.'

  After that, it seemed that she hadn't had a minute to herself in which to try and get her thoughts together. For half an hour later she and Rod were joined in the drawing room by Moira Drury. When he had gone to take his bath, it had not been deemed polite to just get up and return to her room.

  Then more relatives had trickled in, and by the ti
me Sorrel had thought that she could decently make it to her room, Rod, having had the quickest bath on record, she was sure, was bathed and changed and had come to sit on the arm of her chair, and, by now sensitive to that troubled look in his eyes, she was loath to make him look in any way discomfited by straight away getting up and leaving the room.

  More than pleased with the way the staff had coped last night, Moira and Neville Drury had decided to give them a breather on Saturday night by taking their guests en masse out to dinner. And with more champagne flowing, and no one in any hurry to leave the hotel that had been chosen for their repast, it was gone midnight when they all returned to the house.

  By that time the emotions of the day, notwithstanding having to act as though she had nothing more important on her mind than what she might wear tomorrow, had left Sorrel quite exhausted with keeping her end up, and she went to bed too mind-weary to get her thoughts into any sort of shape.

  Sunday had started out as damply as Saturday had turned out to be, and with people housebound, although Sybil would have taken off like a shot had anyone suggested a ride, it again seemed to Sorrel that she would be being impolite if she stayed up in her room for any length of time.

  Resigned to the fact that any thinking she had to do would have to be left until she got home, she was relieved when not long after lunch, Rod told his parents that they would be on their way.

  With everyone coming out to wave them off, Moira's sincere, 'I'm so glad you were able to come,' made Sorrel wonder as she thanked her for an enjoyable weekend—not totally a lie, for the Drurys were a happy family—if Moira knew the doubt that they would meet again, and half an hour seemed to pass before Rod set the car in motion.

  She was glad to reach her flat. Though before she could be left alone with her thoughts, first Rod insisted on escorting her right to her door.

  'You've enjoyed the weekend as much as you told my mother you had?' he asked the moment they had halted, that same serious troubled look there she had seen before.