It looked as though he had always loved her, didn't it, she sniffed, wiping tears away with the back of her hand. Love for Sorrel Maitland hadn't stopped him falling in love with and getting engaged to someone else, had it?
When a couple of weeks had passed with no Ellis calling her on the phone or calling at her flat, Sorrel knew she had been right to think that it was all over. Ellis had accepted, as she had thought, that she did not want to see him again—that she would be happier for not seeing him. Oh God, what a lie that was!
At the beginning of the third week since she had sent Ellis out of her life, Sorrel booked a place at a secretarial college, to begin her refresher course at a date in September.
But September seemed an age away, and she needed to keep herself busy. Already her old sophisticated life style seemed to be years away. She had no wish to contact old acquaintances or to resume a way of life which, she had faced, had never been hers anyway.
With the thought in mind that she would spend some time redecorating her flat, that weekend Sorrel journeyed to her parents' home. Her father had always done his own decorating, he would tell her how to go about it.
Her mother was in the front garden when Sorrel drove by the low hedge that fronted the pretty cottage that had been her old home. But Helen Maitland, her head bent to her fine display of roses, did not see or hear her daughter until Sorrel had pushed her way through the wicket gate and was halfway up the path.
'Why didn't you…!'
'Let you know I was coming,' Sorrel finished for her, kissing her mother's cheek and then standing back to explain, 'I knew if I did that you'd drop everything and spend hours of this lovely weather baking a welcome in the kitchen.'
Helen Maitland had green fingers and loved her garden, but after a brief study of her daughter, she turned and led the way indoors, her only comment:
'You've lost weight. You could do with some home cooking.'
The rest of that Saturday passed pleasantly, with Sorrel telling her parents about her new flat, and picking her father's brains for tips on paperhanging. But on Sunday when he suggested, and was seconded by her mother, that she take herself off for a walk to get some colour into her cheeks, Sorrel, obeying some inner compulsion, went for a drive instead.
She knew what lay behind that compulsion when she found herself in Kinglingham. Always before she had avoided going anywhere near the area where she and Ellis had worked in such harmony. But that Sunday, Sorrel found the courage to go back.
When she saw that the old brick-built workshop had been pulled down and that a new and larger modern construction had taken its place in the shape of a dry-cleaners, she saw that it was over. There was not so much as a trace of anything there, real or imagined, of what she and Ellis had shared. Sorrel turned her car around and, moist-eyed, hoped with all she had that soon that ache inside would be gone, with no lingering trace to catch her out and wound at the least expected moment.
She left Salford Foley on Sunday evening. 'Stay until the morning,' her mother had tried to detain her. But she shook her head.
'It's been lovely,' she said. 'But first thing tomorrow I want to be in a wallpaper shop.'
Following her father's advice, given that she had one or two minor mishaps and encountered a snag in that whoever had built the house where she had her flat had never heard of straight walls, inside two weeks she had her small flat decorated throughout, and was looking around for something else which would keep her fully occupied until her college course started.
But with nothing presenting itself, the idea of going to Salford Foley for another weekend was rejected since, feeling restless, she was sure her restlessness would show. Her mother was bound to pick it up, and Sorrel did not want her parent to start to worry about her. A newspaper was to hand, and she took it up and scanned idly through the What's On columns.
An exhibition of china dolls did not appeal very much. Nor did the stamp fair. Her eyes skimmed the rest of the page, then backtracked to the Art section where an exhibition of landscapes was announced. That was one exhibition she very definitely was not going to visit, she thought.
But five minutes later she was wondering, why shouldn't she go? Was she such a coward that, just because Ellis happened to own a few landscapes, she was afraid she might bump into him?
What did it matter if he was there anyway? she counter-argued. She could well bump into him anywhere. Hadn't she decided to be a new person? Was that new person still going to cling on to the old and avoid going to any place where she thought Ellis might be? What was she afraid of anyway?
Becoming irritated with herself and wishing she had never seen the arts notice, she recalled something she had read about two old friends who hadn't seen each other for years but who had, of all places, bumped into each other on the Great Wall of China, and she saw that the coincidence she was worried about, that of bumping into Ellis if she went to the art gallery, just wouldn't happen. Coincidences, she saw, just didn't happen like that. It was only when one didn't expect them to happen that they did. Why, she had to look no further than that coincidence of bumping into Ellis that first weekend she had gone to Rod Drury's home to know that.
And anyway, she thought when later, her confidence needing a boost, she was dressed in one of her smartest outfits and had left her flat, it was more than likely that if Ellis was not at this moment enjoying the peace and solitude of his country home, he was entertaining somewhere a creature not unlike that blonde she had seen him dancing with.
The art gallery was hushed and quiet when she went in, but within minutes Sorrel was thinking, I shouldn't have come. For Ellis was haunting her. In every landscape she saw him. Memory was there of him, of his home, of that Saturday when he had taken her into his home out of the rain.
Oh, Ellis, she cried inwardly. And at that moment she felt so in need of support that she moved to a wide pillar and in a spot where no one could see her, leant up against the pillar until the moment had passed.
When her weakness had gone, Sorrel decided that now the challenge to her courage was satisfied in that she had braved coming to the art gallery—had braved that chance in a million that Ellis might choose that particular gallery in which to spend his Saturday afternoon—she could now honourably go home.
But before she could make any move to step away from the concealing pillar, great clamouring alarm signals were going off in her head. For clearly in the quietness of her surroundings, suddenly she heard the voice of someone she guessed was the proprietor, warmly greeting someone who had just come in.
'Good afternoon, Mr Galbraith,' he said. 'The painting I telephoned you about…'
Frozen, rooted to the spot, she did not hear the rest of what the proprietor said. Panic-stricken, with no intention of going anywhere near to the front entrance, she searched feverishly for another way out.
As she tried desperately for calm, panic took her again when she heard that it was Ellis. 'I'll take a look now, Charles,' she heard him say. She'd know his voice anywhere!
Panic rioting through her, she retained enough brain power to realise that if Ellis was looking at a painting near the front door, then it had to be by way of a back door that she made her escape.
Hoping that Ellis had his eyes on the painting he was there to see, while keeping in a close line with the row of pillars, on winged feet she went down the length of the gallery. The thought just did not touch down that she could just as easily have gone the other way and have favoured Ellis with an airy wave should he take his eyes from his inspection of the picture and glance her way. Panic had hold of her as she saw a door to her left, and made for it.
Fire regulations alone, she thought, must decree that there was a second way out, and her hand was on the door handle. With a speed born of her panic, she swiftly had the door open, and the next second she had shot into a room on the walls of which hung framed paintings.
But she was to notice nothing of the content of the paintings. For as, winded, a gasp broke from her, with stari
ng, unbelieving eyes, she saw and recognised the man and woman who were also in the room and were seated on a chaise-longue. So at that moment was Sorrel recognising, too, that her thoughts earlier on coincidences occurring when one was not expecting them had been right.
For a venomous look in the eyes of the tight-mouthed woman who had started to rise told Sorrel that coincidence had played its hand once more. Because never had Cynthia Armitage or her husband ever shown the smallest interest in art—yet in an art gallery was where they both were! And by the look of it, Cynthia, her face starting to contort with fury, was not going to let Sorrel get away this time without hearing all she had been storing up to tell her.
'You again!' she shrieked, her strident voice echoing resoundingly in the hushed surroundings.
Another sort of alarm shooting in Sorrel, she sent a panicky look to the door she had left open. But Cynthia Armitage had witnessed her glance, and had wasted no time in going to place herself in between Sorrel and the door.
'Oh no, you don't!' she raged. 'You're not going to walk away this time with your nose in the air. By the time I've finished with you…'
'Everybody can hear you,' broke in her husband, trying to shush her.
'You shut up and be quiet!' she shrieked at him. 'I'm talking to Sorrel Maitland, not you, and I don't care who the hell hears me! It's more than about time everybody knew what a cunning, conniving bitch little Miss-butter-wouldn't-melt Sorrel Maitland is!'
'Please,' begged Sorrel, colour draining from her face at hearing her name shouted not once, but twice. If Ellis was still in the building, he must have heard it. 'Please d…'
'Please,' Cynthia Armitage threw back at her, nowhere near started yet, 'I'll be damned if I'll do a thing to…'
Two men hurrying into the room made her break off and move away from the door. Though since she obviously had no objection to entertaining the whole street, she would soon have been back on course again, had not Ellis Galbraith chosen to take charge. With one look to Sorrel's by now ashen face, he gave her a look that could have been meant to be reassuring. But it did nothing to make her feel that she would not rather die than face the scene she just knew that there was no escaping from.
'If you'd like to attend to your other clients, Charles,' he. turned to address the man who had so swiftly followed him in, 'I'll deal with this.' And with another reassuring look to Sorrel, 'Miss Maitland is a friend of mine,' he told him.
That Ellis was clearly a valued client was plain to be seen when the look on Charles' face changed from one of being torn, to one of relief. He departed quickly, closing the door behind him in case the yelling broke out again.
It was a wise precaution. For no sooner had Cynthia Armitage recovered from this unexpected happening than she was off again in full throttle, and ranting at Ellis.
'Sorrel Maitland is a friend of yours, is she?' Her eyes had not missed the expensive cut of his suit. 'Well, if you take my advice, you'll give up her friendship if you know what's good for you!'
'I can only assume, from that statement, that Miss Maitland has declined to have your friendship,' said Ellis smoothly, not in the slightest ruffled that Cynthia Armitage was going an ugly shade of purple at his choice of words, as he added, 'From my short acquaintance with you, I can hardly say that I blame her.'
'Why, you…!' she bellowed, looking at her husband for support. But, not getting any, she went into a rage as she screamed, 'You won't be so cocky when she's conned you like she conned my father!'
Oh God, Sorrel thought, wanting to run somewhere and hide. Cynthia was going to tell him everything, she knew she was, and there wasn't a thing she could say or do to stop her. She felt too paralysed to move, too paralysed to speak, to beg Ellis not to listen to her, for she knew, even as the look in his eyes went like cold steel, that there was no way he could shut the goaded Cynthia up. Soon that steel in his eyes would change to disgust, not for Cynthia, but for her.
'Your words are slanderous, madam,' she heard him address Cynthia. 'I warn you now to be careful what you say.'
'Careful!' Cynthia snapped, her face working viciously. 'It's not me who needs to be careful, it's you, if you aren't to be taken in by that cunning, green-eyed, deceitful bitch!'
Sorrel saw a muscle jerk in Ellis's jaw. She saw his hands clench at his sides. And she wanted him- to go. But he was not going. He was staying right where he was, his chin tilted aggressively as he told Cynthia Armitage:
'If it's Miss Maitland's beautiful green eyes to which you refer, then I can tell you that never, and I presume to have known her far longer than you, have I ever seen cunning or deceit in them.'
'You wouldn't, would you?' bounced back shrilly. 'She'd keep it well hidden, wouldn't she, while she was trying to con you. You just be careful and follow my advice—never introduce her to your father, or she'd do him for thousands, like she took my father for thousands!'
Sorrel's knees threatening to buckle she saw the expression on Ellis's face change as Cynthia's tirade came to an end. There was an alert look to him as what had been said registered, and Sorrel knew then that it was only a matter of time before that alert look changed to a look of utter contempt.
'Ah, you didn't know that, did you?' Cynthia was going on triumphantly. She had not missed, either, that she had just given him food for thought. 'Didn't it ever dawn on you to wonder where she got her money?' she pounced. And drawing a quick breath, while she thought she still held Ellis's attention, she went storming on, 'Whose money do you think pays for the swanky apartment she lives in? Whose money do you think pays for every expensive rag she has on her back?' And while Sorrel was gripping hard on to the back of the chaise-longue, her worst fears were realised, as, not stopping for breath this time, Cynthia Armitage ranted on, 'My father—that's where her money comes from— my father! That woman,', she told him spitefully, untruthfully, though that hardly mattered now, Sorrel thought, 'has lied and cheated to get every penny she could!'
Sorrel had been ready to faint before Cynthia Armitage, an unmistakable light of victory in her eyes, had come to an end. But the assassination of her character to the man who mattered most in her life had not finished yet, as, ignoring or not seeing the narrow-eyed look Ellis was favouring her with, Cynthia went on to taunt him:
'What do you think of her now? What do you think of a beautiful green-eyed bitch who worms her way into an old man's affections the way she did? An old man, I might add, who was in his dotage and susceptible to women of her sort—what do you think of someone like her who gets a befuddled old man to leave her a packet in his will when he died?'
Her damnation complete, Sorrel was not sure that she was not going to faint. The blackening of her had been vile, but thorough. And now, it seemed, Cynthia had no more to say but was eagerly awaiting for Ellis, won over to her side by all she had told him, to add his own comments for the villainous female she had outlined.
Her mouth arid, Sorrel could not look at him. She did not want to hear what he had to say. Had her legs felt stronger she was not sure that she would not have gone running out of there to avoid hearing his castigation. But if stay she must, then there was no way she was going to look at him and see that mortifying contempt she knew had to be there in his eyes. She had thought she could not take his contempt, but, since she could not run, it would appear that she had no choice.
CHAPTER TEN
In an agony of torment, Sorrel felt beaten and degraded. But she was never more aware that the way she was feeling then would be as nothing compared to the way she would be feeling when Ellis had finished wiping the floor with her. She did not have to wait long for him to begin.
But, when she had been expecting him to lash her, to destroy her with comments on her avaricious likeness to his ex-fiancée, to her utter astoundment she heard that it was not her whom Ellis was rounding on but— Cynthia Armitage!
Stupefied, Sorrel's eyes shot startled to him when his voice curt, hostile, as she had thought it would be, though not for Cynthia, she heard
him say:
'If you have not quite finished your attempt to ruin Miss Maitland's good name, then before you add anything else I think I should warn you that one more outrageous word in the same vein—to me or to anyone else—and I will personally sue you for defaming her.'
'You will what!' Sorrel was not the only one to look at Ellis in amazement. 'Didn't you understand what I was telling you!' Cynthia Armitage shrieked. 'That girl there sucked up to my father until he…'
'I heard every lie you uttered,' Ellis cut her off, his voice ominously quiet. 'Indeed, against all inclination, I gave you more than a fair chance to reveal some trace of mitigation for the harridan you are, but I saw none. And now I've heard enough.'
'No, you damn well haven't!' screeched Cynthia, throwing her husband a hating glare that the best he could do to back her up was to stand there shuffling his feet. 'My father left her…'
'If your father made a bequest to Miss Maitland,' Ellis cut her off sharply, his patience fraying, 'then I have every confidence that he did so because he knew her for the kind and sensitive person she is.'
Gaping, stunned by what was happening, Sorrel realised that Ellis had soon sorted out who the man was whom she had told him she loved dearly; for he was going on:
'I know for a fact that Miss Maitland was very fond of your father. Which is more…'
'And his wallet,' broke in Cynthia, her face ugly with rage that things were going very differently from the way she had expected.
But Ellis had had enough. Without wasting time in further argument, he went striding to the door. 'You will oblige me by leaving these premises, and taking that,' he added, pointing to the uncomfortable-looking Leslie, 'with you, before I lose my temper and throw the pair of you out.'
Still clutching hard on to the back of the chaise-longue, Sorrel had time only to register that if Ellis had not yet lost his temper then she didn't want to be around when he did, when she saw Leslie Armitage had taken note of the hard glint in Ellis's eyes that said he had meant exactly what he had said, and had moved to take hold of his wife's arm.
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