The Longest Pleasure

by Anne Mather

  Helen managed a faint smile. ‘I wasn’t hungry last night.’

  ‘That was obvious.’ The cook folded her arms and regarded the girl curiously. ‘I suppose things have changed around here, since you’ve been away.’

  ‘Some,’ agreed Helen tightly, feeling her throat close chokingly over the piece of toast she was trying to swallow. She coughed, went red in the face, and took a mouthful of coffee to clear it. ‘I’m sorry,’ she apologised. ‘It must have gone the wrong way.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Mrs Pride looked suspicious. ‘I’d say it was the shock of finding Rafe had taken up residence in the house and all. He’s a good lad, and your grandmother thought the world of him, but you didn’t, did you?’

  Helen lifted her shoulders in what she hoped was a careless gesture. ‘I don’t—like him, no,’ she remarked evenly. ‘But I don’t have to, do I?’

  ‘No.’ Mrs Pride conceded the point. ‘And, I admit, he was a bit wild when he was younger. I know he used to tease you unmercifully. But I always thought he did it with affection. You know: like an elder brother might have done.’

  Helen was tempted to exclaim that no brother would have treated her as Rafe Fleming had done, but after her conversation with Miss Paget she was more cautious. ‘I imagine everyone forms their own opinion,’ she declared, taking another determined bite of toast. ‘This marmalade is delicious. Does Mr Dobkins still manage to produce fruit from the plants in the orangery?’

  ‘Not enough to matter,’ responded the cook with a grimace. Then, returning to her theme, she added: ‘You know, I think you’re being a bit hard on Rafe. He was real cut up when Lady Elizabeth died. He was with her, you know. At the end. Stayed up all night, just so’s she wasn’t alone. She told him to go to bed. I heard her. But, he said no, he’d stay until she went to sleep.’

  Helen’s heart constricted. Miss Paget hadn’t told her that. Neither had Rafe, for that matter. But then, he wouldn’t, she argued, feeding her resentment. It was one more reason for her to hate him. It was she who should have been with her grandmother at the end, not Rafe Fleming. The roads were clear enough on Sunday night. If he had rung her, she might have had time to get here.

  ‘Anyway,’ went on Mrs Pride, observing her strained expression. ‘I expect you’ll be glad of his support during the next few days. It won’t be easy, I don’t suppose, and he’s already done a lot of the work.’

  Helen abandoned any attempt to finish the toast and pushed it aside. ‘I’m sure I shall manage,’ she averred, pushing back her chair and getting to her feet. ‘I think I’ll go and finish my unpacking. Oh—and if—if Rafe comes back, will you tell him I’d like to see him in the library at half past nine.’

  Mrs Pride sighed. ‘If he’s back,’ she nodded. ‘But I doubt he will be.’

  Helen frowned. ‘Why? Where’s he gone?’

  ‘You’ve soon forgotten,’ Mrs Pride exclaimed. ‘It’s February, and it’s been snowing. There’s lambs trapped out on the downs. He would have been out with the others yesterday, but he insisted on going into Salisbury to see if he could find you. I believe you had to abandon your car, didn’t you?’

  Helen had the grace to colour slightly. ‘Oh, I see. I wasn’t thinking.’

  ‘No.’ Mrs Pride evidently agreed with her. ‘And Connie can finish your unpacking for you, when she gets here. There’s not a lot left to do, and what there is, we’ll cope with.’

  ‘Connie?’ Helen was confused.

  ‘Yes. Connie Sellers. You met her yesterday. She said you’d asked her who she was.’

  ‘Oh—Mrs Sellers.’ Helen felt as if she was behaving stupidly. And then, remembering that she had actually done all her unpacking, and that it had only been an excuse to get away, she added quickly: ‘Don’t trouble her. I—er—I’d prefer to do it myself.’

  ‘As you wish.’ Mrs Pride shrugged. ‘What did you think of her, by the way? She’s Bryan Sellers’ wife. You know—his mother used to have the post office in the village. Changed hands now, it has. Old Mrs Sellers was due for retirement when you lived here.’

  Helen tried to think. ‘Bryan Sellers,’ she echoed slowly, glad of the diversion. ‘Oh, I remember now. But isn’t he a lot older than she is? I seem to recall that he lived at the post office, with his mother.’

  ‘He did. For years and years,’ said Mrs Pride forcefully. ‘The oldest bachelor in the village, that’s what they used to say. But—well, when his mother had to go into hospital, he was fair game, wasn’t he? And worth a bob or two, if I’m any judge.’

  ‘Um—Mrs Sellers said her husband works for Amos Robinson,’ said Helen doubtfully. ‘I wouldn’t have thought he was over-generous as an employer. And if she works here …’

  ‘Ah, well, now that’s a different story,’ remarked Mrs Pride softly, tapping her forefinger against her nose. But before she could expand upon her tale, there was the sound of stamping feet outside, and presently the heavy oak door from the yard was propelled inwards.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  IT WAS Rafe. He came into the kitchen, kicking off his rubber boots as he did so, and making straight for the blaze in the hearth. Standing in his socks, he warmed his hands over the fire, apparently uncaring of the chilled stone beneath his feet.

  Trapped by a sense of duty, Helen was obliged to watch as he unzipped his fur-lined green parka and ran a smoothing hand over the wind-tousled lightness of his hair. A few flakes of snow were still clinging to his head when he entered the kitchen, but she saw them melt and darken the hair beneath as the heat from the fire did its work.

  He had seen her, of course, even though she wished she could dissolve from his sight as easily as the snowflakes had dissolved from hers. But it wasn’t until he had warmed himself that he turned to look at her, and by then Mrs Pride had stepped into the breach.

  ‘You’re soon back,’ she exclaimed. ‘I was just telling Helen I didn’t think she’d see you this morning.’

  ‘Oh—Robinson and his shepherd had done most of the work yesterday,’ declared Rafe dismissively. ‘As luck would have it, Reuben had brought most of the ewes in on Monday, as soon as he sensed the change in the weather. He always says he can smell snow, and after what’s happened, I’m inclined to believe him.’

  ‘Well, my old father used to say that bad weather had a scent to it,’ confirmed Mrs Pride nodding, and Rafe grinned.

  ‘Like bad eggs,’ he prompted teasingly, and the cook gave his shoulder a playful slap as she went to pour him a cup of coffee. Helen, aware that Mrs Pride’s action had left her in Rafe’s uninterrupted line of vision, pushed her hands into the pockets of her pants. She was determined not to let him see that he in any way disconcerted her, but she was supremely conscious of his regard. The unzipped parka hung loosely from his broad shoulders, revealing the dark red shirt and tight-fitting suede pants beneath, and although she had no wish to do so, she couldn’t help noticing how fit and powerful he looked. His hair was too long, she thought, seizing on the one flaw she could see. But it was more a question of needing a hair-cut than any deliberate effort on his part to effect a particular style. In all honesty, it was not unattractive, and she despised herself anew for finding anything appealing about him.

  As if aware of her discomfort, he shed the heavy parka now and tossed it carelessly on to a chair. His action exposed the muscular strength of his forearms, bared by the rolled-back sleeves of his shirt, and drew her attention to the slim gold watch that circled his wrist. A gift from her grandmother? she wondered tensely, forcing herself to remember what he had done, but Rafe’s expression revealed nothing. Pulling out a chair from the table, he dragged it nearer to the fire, and then straddled it so that he could still face her.

  ‘So,’ he said, and for a moment she wondered if he was aware of what she was thinking after all. But his next words dispelled that anxiety: ‘You wanted to see me,’ he glanced over his shoulder, ‘if I didn’t misunderstand what Mrs Pride said just now. Was it something in particular you wanted? Or dare I believe you ar
e actually desirous of my company?’

  Helen held up her head. ‘There are—there are things we have to discuss,’ she replied tersely, aware that Mrs Pride was unashamedly eavesdropping. ‘If you’ve finished outside, perhaps you could meet me in the library at half past nine. There are one or two arrangements I’d like to go over with you.’

  Rafe arched brows that were several shades darker than his hair. ‘You’d better make it half past ten,’ he said annoyingly. ‘I’ve promised Dobkins that I’ll clear the drive. Even with the mechanical digger, it’ll take me at least an hour.’

  Helen’s lips pursed. ‘Couldn’t Dobkins do it himself?’ she demanded.

  ‘With his arthritis!’ Rafe gave her a disparaging look. ‘Come off it. The old bloke couldn’t even climb into the cab. No. I’ll do it. I’m afraid you’ll just have to wait.’

  ‘He is pretty hopeless these days,’ Mrs Pride interjected, turning to hand Rafe his coffee. ‘Billy Dobkins, I mean,’ she added, when Rafe gave her a mock-wounded look. ‘You’ll not know, of course, Helen, but he’s been in and out of hospital for the past two years.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Helen did feel sympathy for anyone crippled with arthritis, but she wished Rafe had not been the one to tell her about Billy. He seemed to use every opportunity to point out her own lack of knowledge of the people on the estate, and she could quite see why her grandmother had depended on him so completely. He could turn his hand to anything, from rescuing sheep in a snow-drift to helping the old gardener at his job. With the work he had done as agent, he would know everything there was to know about her grandmother’s affairs, and Helen guessed his intention had been to make himself indispensable.

  ‘Very well,’ she said now, realising there was no point in arguing with him in front of Mrs Pride, but when she would have walked out of the kitchen, his hateful voice arrested her.

  ‘You could help,’ he said carelessly. ‘That is—if you’ve nothing better to do.’

  ‘Help?’ Helen gazed at him disbelievingly, and he inclined his head.

  ‘If you don’t mind using a little physical effort,’ he conceded, taking a swallow of coffee before continuing: ‘There are plenty of paths want clearing. You know—a little snow-shovelling!’

  He was baiting her. She was almost convinced of it. And she was tempted to tell him that that was why she employed people like him. But before she could make up her mind, the outer door opened again, and a slim figure wrapped in a sheepskin jacket and a headscarf came into the kitchen. Even before she drew the woollen scarf from her head, Helen had recognised the coolly insolent features of Connie Sellers, but what she was not prepared for was the glowing smile that lit the girl’s face when she saw Rafe. Her whole appearance underwent a miraculous change, and if Helen had not met her the previous day, she could have been forgiven for totally misinterpreting her personality. As it was, she was immediately struck by the significance of the situation, and by the unwilling conclusion that Rafe was something more to Mrs Sellers than her employer’s agent. The knowledge was wholly distasteful. In spite of the years between, it was too painfully reminiscent of the relationship he had had with Sandra Venables, and with a feeling of contempt Helen turned towards the door.

  ‘So you’re not going to help?’

  Rafe’s mocking inquiry caused her a moment’s pause, but then, without giving him the satisfaction of having her answer him, Helen cast him what she hoped he recognised as a killing look, and walked out of the room.

  All the same, her arrogance cost her a few bad moments. She was trembling quite badly by the time she got to her own room, and closing the door heavily, she leant her weight against it. It had always been like this with Rafe Fleming, she acknowledged frustratedly. No matter how self-controlled she believed herself to be, he was able to tear her defences aside and make her feel a fool. She had no doubt that even at this moment, he was enjoying the joke at her expense, and certainly Connie Sellers, if not Mrs Pride, would be sharing his amusement at her discomfort. God, how she hated him! she thought savagely. He was conscienceless; despicable; and she couldn’t wait to have him at her mercy!

  By the time she had calmed down, it was almost a quarter to ten, but she still had three-quarters of an hour to kill before her interview with Rafe. It seemed an awfully long time, particularly as she had little liking for her own company. Being alone allowed too many unwelcome thoughts to enter her head, and she half wished she had agreed to Rafe’s suggestion. She would have done, most likely, if Connie Sellers hadn’t showed up, she reflected bitterly. But the other girl’s appearance had successfully ruled out any softening on her behalf.

  Now, however, Helen went to the windows and, rubbing a circle in the condensation, she peered wistfully through the glass. It would be nice to go for a walk, she thought ruefully. The idea of finding Miss Paget and trying to make amends with her was her only alternative, and it was definitely not an appealing one. Besides, Miss Paget might refuse to talk to her, and she had no intention of entering into another argument with her so long as Rafe’s position was so nebulous. Once the funeral was over, once her grandmother’s will had been read, she would have a better idea about how she was going to deal with him, but until she did, it would be more discreet to hold her tongue.

  But, a walk would be appealing, she decided firmly. And, what the hell! it was her property, after all. No one could stop her from doing what she wanted to do, and by attempting to avoid Rafe, she was letting him call the shots. To the devil with it, she was going out, and if Rafe made any more sarcastic comments, she would just ignore him, as she should have done in the first place.

  The expensive leather boots she had worn the previous day seemed totally inadequate for her needs, so she rummaged in the bottom of one of the closets in the dressing room and triumphantly came up with a pair of knee-length rubber boots she hadn’t worn since she was last here. They were a little mildewed, but she managed to remove most of it with tissues, and a thick pair of socks removed any anxiety that they might be damp. She had to wear the bright orange parka, however, despite its incongruity in Miss Paget’s eyes, but she left her head bare. It wasn’t snowing at the moment, and there was always the hood on her parka if the weather did change.

  She felt a totally unwarranted feeling of excitement as she stepped outside. It was as if the events of the past nineteen hours had combined together to create a weight of depression which had settled on her shoulders ever since she arrived at Castle Howarth. But now, suddenly, she was shedding that burden, for a short period at least, and she felt almost light-hearted as she let herself out of the side entrance.

  It was very cold, and her breath caught in her throat at the change of atmosphere. It was obviously warmer indoors than she had credited it with being, and she pushed her gloved hands into the pockets of her parka as she crunched across the frozen snow. But it was good to be outdoors, even if the familiar surroundings of the house were obscured by an enveloping cloak of white. Just the sense of freedom she was experiencing was enough to make her feel slightly euphoric, and even the sight of Rafe in the distance, driving the bright yellow digger, was not enough to lower her rising spirits.

  Helen skirted the stables, only occupied these days by her grandmother’s somewhat battered Daimler—and maybe the Range Rover Rafe had been driving, she amended reluctantly—and, avoiding the places where the snow had drifted, she made her way through the sunken garden to where the gazebo wilted under a mantle of snow. The latticed framework was festooned with icicles, but it was possible to step inside. However, the wind had made a mockery of the wood that formed the lower half of the walls, blowing through the slats and leaving piles of snow all over the floor.

  Still, this place held a lot of happy memories of her, notwithstanding the fact that she had first met Rafe here. She used to come here to read or do her homework when she was older, and on a warm, sunny afternoon there was nowhere more appealing.

  Right now though, the wind was an annoying companion, she learned, fe
eling its fingers tearing at the neatness of her hair. In no time at all it had loosened several strands from the coil at her nape, tossing them across her face and into her eyes so that she wasn’t immediately aware of anyone’s approach.

  ‘So you changed your mind,’ Rafe remarked, almost startling her out of her skin, and she turned to him with some impatience.

  ‘Must you sneak up on people like that?’ she snapped, pulling off her gloves in an effort to restore the errant strands of hair to their proper place. It was infuriating enough that the wind seemed determined to turn her hair into a haystack, without Rafe’s sardonic appraisal to add to her frustration.

  ‘I didn’t—sneak up on you,’ he retorted, coming up the steps to fill the frail structure of the doorway. By so doing, he successfully cut off her only means of escape, and she wondered if that was as deliberate as his pursuit of her here. Remembering the last time he had come to find her unannounced, she knew a not-unnatural thrill of apprehension. But she was not a schoolgirl now, she reminded herself severely, and she was not afraid of his overt masculinity.

  ‘You had no right to follow me!’ she declared, abandoning her efforts at restoration and putting on her gloves again. ‘I suppose it was too much to hope that I might take a walk unobserved!’

  ‘In that outfit—I should say so,’ responded Rafe drily, his gaze running over her with annoying provocation. ‘But, as it happens, I didn’t follow you for any personal reasons.’ He glanced up at the roof of the gazebo as he spoke, and then stepped backwards down the steps. ‘I guessed where you might be heading, and I just wanted to warn you that this place isn’t exactly sound any more. There were some high winds last autumn, and Dobkins was all for pulling it down.’

  ‘For pulling it down!’ Helen was horrified. ‘Surely there was no need for that! Can’t it be repaired?’