Act of Possession

by Anne Mather

  ‘Come with me,’ said Reed softly, so softly she thought for a moment she had imagined it. She swung round, her pale face flushed with disbelieving colour, and he pushed himself up from the couch to meet her anxious eyes. ‘Come with me,’ he said again, pushing his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket. ‘Spend the weekend with me. No strings—just a friendly arrangement. I’d like to show you Stonor, and I’d really appreciate your company.’

  Antonia blinked. ‘You can’t be serious!’

  Reed sighed. ‘Let’s not get into another discussion of what’s right and what’s wrong,’ he said flatly. ‘Like I said, I want your company, that’s all. I’m not suggesting we share a room or anything crass like that. I like you; and I think that you like me. Why shouldn’t we spend some time together?’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ANTONIA’S room was at the back of the house. overlooking the terrace and the tennis courts, with the reed-edged sweep of the lake in the background. Immediately below her windows the flagged terrace had a southerly aspect, and beyond a low-walled boundary, manicured lawns sloped down to the water. The wood Reed had spoken of, formed a backdrop in the distance, but nearer at hand there were spreading elms and bushy poplars, breaking up the landscape with their different shades of green.

  Antonia leant her elbows on the opened window, hardly noticing the cool morning air through her thin nightgown. It was all so deliciously different from the smell of London, and she inhaled deeply, half-inclined to believe she was still dreaming.

  Behind her, the bed she had occupied beckoned invitingly. It was a huge bed, bigger than any she had slept in, even when she was married to Simon. The mattress was modern enough, firm, but delightfully comfortable, and the night before her tired body had appreciated it. But the quilted headboard was decidedly French in appearance, and very much in keeping with the other appointments of the room. The soft-patterned carpet, in muted shades of pink and grey, blended beautifully with the pale grey silk that lined the walls; there were spindley-legged tables beside the bed; a long polished cabinet, inset with drawers, with a mirror above; a chaise-longue covered in pale pink velvet with a matching padded stool; and an inlaid rosewood escritoire, ideal for writing letters.

  The dusky pink was picked up again in the curtains at the windows and in the thick satin bedspread, that had been turned down for her the night before. Beneath a downy quilt, pale grey silk sheets were quite shamelessly sensual against her skin, and Antonia remembered how incongruous she had felt putting on her simple cotton gown. Celia, she was sure, would wear silk or lace or satin to sleep in. But then, Celia was used to this kind of treatment; she was not.

  Antonia sighed now, turning away from the window and surveying the room with some misgivings. Not for the first time, she wondered what the real reaction to her arrival had been among the other members of the household. Last night, Reed had introduced her to his housekeeper, a diminutive woman, by the name of Rose Macauley, who had been very polite to her. But she knew that there were other members of staff—Reed’s conversation with his housekeeper had betrayed that—and Antonia couldn’t help acknowledging what she would think if she was put in their position. What could they possibly think but the worst? she asked herself unhappily, wondering if anyone would ever believe that Reed had not shared her bed.

  Not that Reed himself had seemed at all perturbed. On the contrary, he had got his own way, and in consequence he was very relaxed and very charming. His concern for her well-being, his insistence that she should go to bed as soon as her eyes started drooping, had made her feel someone very special, and although she had been a little doubtful, her suspicions had been ungrounded.

  Of course, it had been quite late when they arrived the night before. It was dark when the Lamborghini turned between white-painted gates and followed a gravelled approach to the house. The headlights had illuminated little beyond the grassy verge that sloped away at either side, throwing the row of trees into silhouette, as they formed a shadowy guard along the drive.

  After overcoming her opposition, Reed had suggested they had dinner in London before driving out to Stonor’s End. That way they would avoid the regular exodus from the city that generally occurred at weekends, he explained, and because she had still had doubts about accompanying him, Antonia had agreed.

  But after a delicious meal in a quiet, out-of-the-way restaurant, with several glasses of wine to augment the cocktail she had had before she started, Antonia was too relaxed and too sleepy to offer more than a salutory$$’ protest. Besides, her suitcase was in the boot of the Lamborghini, alongside Reed’s briefcase, and the idea of spending the weekend in London when she had an alternative was not appealing. Aware of Reed’s satisfaction when she snuggled down in the seat beside him, she had felt she ought to be more forceful, but it hadn’t lasted long. Lulled by the warmth of the car, the lazy music on the radio, and the comforting nearness of Reed’s shoulder, she had felt too contented to resist, and when she opened her eyes, they were miles along the motorway.

  Their arrival at the house had been achieved with the minimum amount of fuss. Her own appearance—late in the evening and probably unannounced—was dealt with without any particular disturbance, Reed issuing his orders smoothly, and Mrs Macauley expediting them with every appearance of co-operation. She had even smiled and asked about the journey as she showed Antonia to her room, and if she thought the suitcase she had insisted on taking charge of was rather big to transport its lightweight contents, she kept her opinion to herself.

  Antonia supposed she might have felt more embarrassed if she had not been so enthralled by her surroundings. She had thought Reed’s apartment was impressive, but Stonor House, as it was called, was far more imposing. Silk carpets; panelled walls; a huge stained-glass window at the first landing of the fan-shaped staircase; it was difficult to imagine someone actually lived here. Yet, later, when she had joined Reed for a drink in the library, she had had to revise her opinion. Although the walls were lined from floor to ceiling with leather-bound volumes, and the carpet on the floor was probably priceless, nevertheless, the room had a lived-in atmosphere. Apart from the familiar smells of alcohol and good tobacco, the squashy leather chairs that flanked the open fireplace had the comfortably worn appearance of having been well-used, and Reed was there to put her at her ease, with all the teasing eloquence of his race.

  Thinking of Reed now, she wondered if he was up yet. It was only eight o’clock and she suspected he would still be in his bed. The idea brought a disturbing awareness to the pit of her stomach, and she went hastily into her bathroom before the disruptive seed could take root.

  Like the bedroom the bathroom’s decoration was predominantly pink, with smoked glass walls to throw back her reflection from all angles. A round, step-in bath had a jacuzzi fitment, but she decided just to take a shower in case she touched the wrong handles.

  Afterwards, she dried her hair with the hand-drier provided, and then wrapping herself in the towelling bathrobe she found behind the door, she returned to the bedroom.

  Her clothes were through an archway which opened into a dressing area. There were long mirrors flanking a long, fitted closet where she had hung her few garments the night before. Mrs Macauley had slid one of the long doors aside to show her the vacant space, but now, when she opened the door at the opposite end of the unit, she found herself confronted by a colourful array. They were not her clothes, but they were a woman’s clothes, and she closed the door abruptly, and slid back the other panel.

  They needn’t be Celia’s, she told herself severely, as she stepped into tight-fitting jeans and a long-sleeved cotton shirt. But they could be, a small voice taunted, and she felt a sudden sickness at the thought that Reed might have shared her bed with his fiancée.

  She was standing at the mirror which hung above the long cabinet in her bedroom, brushing her hair, when someone knocked at her door. ‘Yes?’ she called tightly, not sure who it was or what she should do, and the door opened slowly to admit
a girl scarcely out of her teens. She was carrying a tray, and she looked in some confusion at the bed when she saw that it was empty. But then she saw Antonia, doing her hair, and her homely features softened to expose a friendly smile.

  ‘Mrs Macauley thought you might prefer breakfast in bed this morning, miss,’ she declared, in a lovely Oxfordshire drawl. ‘Mr Reed said that you were tired and not to disturb you, but Mrs Macauley thought you might like a cup of tea, it being a strange bed and all.’

  ‘Oh, I would.’ Dropping her brush on to the cabinet, Antonia turned to the other girl eagerly. ‘How kind of Mrs Macauley.’

  ‘You wouldn’t prefer to come downstairs, now you’re dressed, would you, miss?’ the girl asked doubtfully, but Antonia shook her head. ‘Then, I’ll put the tray here, shall I?’ she suggested, setting it down on the table at the nearside of the bed. ‘There’s some orange juice, and scrambled eggs too, just in case you’re hungry. And Mrs Macauley said if you’d prefer coffee, it’s no trouble.’

  ‘The tea is fine,’ said Antonia firmly, looking at the beautifully laid-out tray with some bemusement. ‘And—and everything else,’ she added. ‘Thank you. Please tell Mrs Macauley I’m very grateful.’

  ‘Yes, miss.’

  The girl smiled and departed, and Antonia approached the tray with some amazement. The orange juice was freshly squeezed, and resided in a cut-glass container; the scrambled eggs nestled beneath a silver cover; curls of butter and lightly browned toast jostled a dish of strawberry preserve; and the bone-china teacup and saucer stood beside a squat bone-china teapot, fitted with a padded velour cosy.

  Antonia shook her head and sat down on the side of the bed to pour herself some tea. It was years since anyone had brought her breakfast in bed, and never had it been set out so attractively; and although she rarely swallowed more than a slice of toast before leaving for work in the morning, she couldn’t resist sampling the orange juice and the eggs.

  As she had anticipated, the juice was sweet and palatable, and took no effort whatsoever. The eggs, too, were light and fluffy, and despite her intention just to taste them, she found herself eating with enthusiasm. It must be the air, she told herself wryly, spreading strawberry preserve on a slice of toast. She couldn’t ever remember enjoying a breakfast so much.

  By the time she had finished the meal, and applied a little make-up, it was after nine o’clock, a much more respectable hour, she reflected. Checking her appearance before leaving the room, she was relieved to see the dark lines that had surrounded her eyes the day before had almost disappeared, and there was actually a little colour in the skin that covered her cheekbones. Her newly washed hair gleamed with health, and although she found her features ordinary, anticipation leant an unfamiliar sparkle to her eyes.

  Leaving the tray, and her unmade bed—an unheard-of luxury—Antonia opened her door and looked along the wide corridor. She knew the staircase was to her right. The night before, when Mrs Macauley had shown her to her room, she had taken especial notice of the fact that they had turned left at the top of the stairs so that later, when she wanted to go to bed, she did not need Reed’s escort to take her there.

  Now, closing the door behind her, she trod the soft cream carpet to the head of the stairs. Several other doors opened off the corridor, and she wondered if one of them was Reed’s. If her room was the one Celia used, it was quite likely, she thought, remembering the dismay she had felt earlier, before the maid had brought her breakfast. But as there was a matching corridor at the opposite side of the staircase, it was debatable. Would Reed be so unsubtle as to situate his and his fiancée’s rooms side by side, she mused unwillingly, when he must know what interpretation would be put upon it?

  The glossy wood of the banister rail ran silkily beneath her fingers as she descended the stairs. Below her, the shining expanse of polished wood revealed a conscientious attention to duty, the steady tick of a grandfather clock the only sound to disturb the silence. Unless one listened hard, she acknowledged; then one could hear the birds, and the distant barking of a dog, and even the lowing of cattle, grazing somewhere not too far away.

  ‘Are you looking for someone, Miss Sheldon?’ inquired a businesslike voice behind her, and Antonia realised she had been standing on the bottom stair, like someone in a dream.

  ‘Oh—Mrs Macauley,’ she exclaimed, finding the tiny housekeeper at her elbow. ‘I—is Mr Gallagher up yet? I was just wondering where I might find him.’

  ‘Sure, Mr Reed was up two hours ago, Miss Sheldon,’ responded Mrs Macauley, revealing a brogue Antonia had scarcely identified the night before. ‘He said you’d be sleeping till mid-morning most likely, but I thought you might find it strange here, after the clamour of London.’

  ‘And you were right.’ Antonia smiled. ‘I should thank you again for my breakfast. It was delicious. I … er … I left the tray upstairs.’

  ‘That’s all right, Miss Sheldon. Ruth will get it when she goes to make the bed.’

  ‘Um—it’s Mrs Sheldon, actually,’ murmured Antonia, a little awkwardly. ‘Do—do you know where—Reed is?’

  Mrs Macauley did not immediately respond to her enquiry. ‘Mrs Sheldon, is it?’ she remarked noncommittally. ‘And will your husband be joining us, Mrs Sheldon?’

  ‘No.’ Antonia was obliged to answer her. ‘I’m divorced, Mrs Macauley, and I don’t know where my ex-husband is.’

  ‘Ah …’ The housekeeper cupped her elbow in the palm of one hand and tugged thoughtfully at her ear with the other. ‘You’re young to be looking for another husband, Mrs Sheldon.’

  ‘I’m not looking for another husband, Mrs Macauley,’ retorted Antonia shortly, rapidly revising her opinion of Reed’s choice of retainer ‘Do you know Mr Gallagher’s whereabouts, or shall I look for him myself?’

  ‘Sure, he’s been out with the horses since half-past seven,’ responded the housekeeper at once. ‘And if you’re planning on going down to the stables, I should put a coat on, if I were you. The sun’s out, but there’s still a nip in the air.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Antonia’s acknowledgment was decidedly frosty, and the housekeeper smiled. ‘Sure, I’m only thinking of the good of—both of you,’ she observed sagely. ‘Wrap up warm now. You wouldn’t be wanting to get a chill, now, would you?’

  Collecting her pale blue anorak from her room, Antonia had to admit it was difficult to remain aggrieved with Mrs Macauley. The woman said outrageous things, it was true, but Antonia sensed she really did have Reed’s well-being at heart. No doubt it was the housekeeper’s way of warning her off, Antonia reflected uneasily. And after all, she must be curious as to why her employer had brought a strange young woman into his home. It would be different if there were several guests; but there weren’t. There was only her, and the fact that she was divorced led to obvious speculation.

  Downstairs again, in the absence of any known alternative, Antonia let herself out of the front door, and pushing her hands into the pockets of her jacket, set off across the courtyard. Mrs Macauley had been right, she thought, as a chill breeze swept her hair back from her face. It was much cooler than it had been the night before, and although the sun was shining, it was not making any impact.

  The front of the house faced down the drive they had driven up the night before, and now Antonia could see the imposing sweep of grassland that stretched as far as the distant gateposts. To her right, white rails fenced in a handful of mares and their foals, and further afield, the cattle she had heard earlier grazed a lush green pasture. Like Reed had said, it was very peaceful and very rural, and she filled her lungs with enthusiasm as she breathed the country air.

  At one end of the long row of windows that confronted her, a wall, inset with an arched doorway, gave access to the garage yard. The Lamborghini was there, being hosed down by a boy of about sixteen, but he turned off the water at Antonia’s approach, and arched his brows rather insolently. ‘Did you want something?’

  ‘Yes. Mr Gallagher,’ replie
d Antonia, with some reluctance. ‘I’m looking for the stables actually. Is this the way?’

  ‘You’d be—Miss Sheldon, is that right?’ enquired the boy inquisitively, squeezing out his wash-leather in a bucket standing close by, and Antonia sighed.

  ‘Mrs Sheldon, yes,’ she agreed, glancing impatiently about her. ‘Can I get to the stables this way?’

  The boy hesitated, obviously wishing he could say more, but unlike Mrs Macauley, he did not have the confidence. ‘Yes,’ he said off-handedly, nodding towards another gateway across the yard. ‘If you go through there and follow the path, you’ll see the stables right ahead of you.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Antonia followed his instructions, aware as she did so that his eyes followed her until she was out of the gate. No doubt he was wondering exactly what her relationship with Reed was, she reflected, wishing she had anticipated this before she agreed to come.

  But then, she thought, she had not realised just how many people were going to be involved. Her visions of Reed’s country house might have run to a domestic of some kind, like at his apartment in London. She had not forseen a country manor, with all its incumbent employees.

  She saw Reed before she reached the three-sided collection of buildings that made up the stable block. He was in the yard, talking with an elderly man, who Antonia assumed must be the groom, and her heart accelerated annoyingly at the sight of his lean frame. In a suede jerkin and matching moleskin trousers, pushed into knee-length black boots, he looked perfectly at ease with his surroundings. The cream knitted sweater he was wearing, whose rolled collar brushed his chin, accentuated the darkness of his complexion, but otherwise he looked like an English country squire, returning from an outing with the hunt.

  The old man saw Antonia first, and apparently he drew Reed’s attention to it, for he turned and gave her a casual wave. What did he think he was doing? Antonia asked herself unhappily, slowing her step. How was he going to explain this visit—no matter how innocent—to Celia? And how was she likely to react to the fact that her downstairs neighbour was attracting far too much attention from the man she herself intended to marry? Reed could not expect to keep this a secret. Not when people like Mrs Macauley and the boy who had been cleaning the Lamborghini were so evidently intrigued by her identity. If she were Celia, she would resent it; was she any better than Simon, after all?