"She sounds like something out of Dickens," he exclaimed. "Though I prefer her to Mrs. Rampton. She's a real garden-wall gossip."
"Not with me," Laura added. "When I meet her in the street she just nods and walks by."
"Poor you. Now you'll never be able to taste her leek pie." Tim licked his lips with a smacking noise. "She made it one Sunday when I popped over to see dad. Very tasty it was, too."
"If you come over next Sunday I'll make you roast duck with Curasao."
"Temptress!"
"Can you blame me? Having you here is the one bright thing about living in this place."
Tim squeezed her hand, and for an instant they were silent, held close by the bond of their birth. "Poor sweet," he said."I'll do my best to cheer you up."
True to his word, Tim came over to Eddlestone most Sundays, and Laura grew to count the days of the week until she could see him again. She was hardly seeing anything of her father, for even on the weekends he was at Mr. Andrews's beck and call. Tim did not seem to mind being without his father's company and Laura was aware of a constraint between the two men that she could not analyze away. Was it possible that her father— despite what he had said to the contrary—was upset that his son had left Grantley's and chosen to work for a rival concern?
But she was careful not to voice these thoughts to her brother; she cherished his visits too much to say anything that might stop him from coming over and pretended not to notice the tension between him and their father.
Most Sunday afternoons, if the weather was fine, Tim took her for a ride across the moors, and she was awed by the beauty of the scenery, understanding for the first time why her father loved this part of the country.
"If only the people weren't so dreary," she remarked one afternoon when they returned to the house for tea. "Are they as bad in Manchester?"
"Not the ones I know. They're the same as my friends in London. You're prejudiced, Laura. You should give yourself a chance to get to know them."
"I wouldn't know what to talk about. Manchester must be different from here. It's a bigger place and there's more to do."
"It still doesn't compare with London," he said. "Make no mistake about that."
"Then why did you go there? I'm sure you could have found a job in London if you'd wanted to leave Grantley's."
It was a long time since she had remarked on his taking a job in the Midlands, but though she waited for him to make some comment, his answer, when it came, seemed to brush her question aside.
"I'm not like you, Laura. I enjoy being a big fish in a little pond."
"Manchester isn't so little," she said.
"What I mean is that up here I'm seen as a sophisticated Londoner, and that gives me an edge with the birds!"
"What a thing to say!"
"But it's true. They line up to go out with me!"
"What do you use for money? Or are you getting all that much more than you did before?"
"Enough to make a difference," he answered briefly, then turned his face away as he reached for a cigarette, taking a lighter from his pocket at the same time.
It was one she had not seen before: slim and compact. She reached out and took it from him. "This is lovely, Tim. Did you get it locally?"
"Yes, a firm I know makes them. They're quite cheap."
His look was candid, his eyes—the same deep blue as her own—gazing at her guilelessly. He's lying, she thought, and stepped back a pace, looking at the lighter more closely. At first glance she had thought it to be gilt, but now she was positive it was gold. Quickly she glanced at her twin but his expression was still innocent, and she wished with all her heart that there was no rapport between them to tell her when he was being untruthful. Yet rapport was the wrong word, for it implied a mutual bond, whereas Tim did not possess the same sensitivity toward her—one reason he never believed her when she said she could always tell when he was being untruthful!
"It doesn't look cheap," she murmured, handing the lighter back to him. "It looks like gold."
"Just shows how wrong you can be." He put it into his pocket. "How's Mr. Wonderful these days?"
Blankly she stared at him, lost by his sudden change of conversation.
"Jake Andrews," Tim explained. "Is dad still running around in circles after him?"
She nodded, then added defensively, "There's still a great deal to do."
"With a chap like Andrews there always will be. From what I've heard about him he lives, eats and sleeps for his work."
"Pity you can't follow suit."
Tim grinned and rubbed a long, thin hand over his hair. Like hers, it was deep auburn in color, emphasizing the creamy complexion that made him look young and vulnerable. "To me, work is only a means to an end."
"What end?"
"Being rich enough to retire!"
She laughed. "That'll be years yet."
"You can never tell." He pushed back his chair and walked to the door. "I must be getting back."
" Can't you stay for supper? "
"I've a date. A genuine undyed blonde!"
"If you're seeing her next Sunday, why not bring her over? You know your friends are welcome here."
"I might not be here next Sunday. There's some extra work at the office and I promised I would go in over the weekend."
"Well, come over when you get the chance. I don't expect you to make it every weekend. Brother and sister is a bit too much like bread and bread!"
His chuckle and the way he hugged her told her without words that her easy acceptance of his absence was something he had not anticipated.
"You're a wonderful sister, Laura. Have I ever told you that?"
"Heaps of times—whenever I got you out of trouble!"
"Those days are over." He picked up his leather jacket. "Say goodbye to dad for me. Tell him I'm sorry I couldn't wait."
Watching him speed away, Laura had to forcibly stop herself from crying. Tim's regular Sunday appearances had been too good to last. She should have had the sense to realize they would not continue.
Without her brother's visits to relieve the monotony, the days dragged by. Luckily the weather was fine and for the next couple of weekends she turned her back on the narrow streets and escaped to the moors, reveling in the color and line of the scenery.
But within two weeks the weather began to break, and on the third Sunday a leaden gray sky heralded rain, which began as she was cooking lunch and increased until it became a steady downpour. Tim had not telephoned to say he was coming over, and she had listened anxiously all morning for his call, trying to pretend to herself that she was not expecting him.
"You mustn't bank on seeing Tim regularly," her father said as he carved the roast. " I warned you about that when you first came here."
"I don't bank on it." She forced herself to concentrate on her food, though the meat tasted of nothing and every mouthful was an effort to swallow. "I don't even enjoy cooking any more," she burst out. "I asked the green grocer for eggplant the other day and he didn't even know what I was talking about!"
"Why not make up a list and go into Manchester? You can always borrow the car. Matter of fact, you can have it all the time if you like. I can always get one of the men to pick me up in the morning."
"It's sweet of you, dad, but I couldn't." She choked on the words, his kindness destroying her hard-won control. "It shouldn't be necessary to go into Manchester to get my vegetables. If I wanted caviar I could understand it, but eggplant!"
"Folk here aren't used to fancy foods. They've been brought up in a hard school. The Depression—"
"That was more than two generations ago!"
"Memory of poverty dies hard."
"Maybe," she sniffed. "But I don't see how you can call eggplant fancy food!"
"It isn't the fact that you can't buy eggplant that's bothering you, lass. If you could find yourself a decent job—one that would use your qualifications—you'd feel better."
She nodded silently and pushed aside her p
late, unable to eat any more.
"I'll go and prepare dessert."
"There's no hurry for a while."
"It's pancakes with lemon sauce."
"You spoil me," her father called to her departing back.
"It keeps me occupied," she answered, forcing herself to laugh.
As soon as their meal was over, her father stood up, hovering by the table in a state of painful indecision.
"Go back to your beloved factory," she said wryly. "You mustn't keep Mr. Andrews waiting."
" I'll be back for tea. A bit earlier if I can make it."
"Don't worry about me. I'm going to wash my hair."
Dropping a kiss on her forehead, he left, and as soon as Laura had cleared the table she went to her room and stared despondently at her reflection. Reluctant to trust herself to a local hairdresser, her hair had not been cut since she had left London, and now it hung to her shoulders in a heavy, Titian red cloud. Irritably she pulled it away from her face, debating whether or not to risk cutting it herself. But who was there in Eddlestone who cared if she looked a mess? Defiantly she picked up a pair of scissors and went into the bathroom.
Ten minutes later a mass of hair lay thick upon the floor and apprehensively she peered into the mirror. Surprised, she surveyed herself. A riot of soft curls clung to her head, emphasizing its well-rounded shape and the delicate curve of her neck. Because it was layered—albeit roughly—each lock picked up the light, so that each dark red strand was stroked with gold. Its brightness increased the blue of her eyes and the shorter style drew attention to her cheekbones, making her notice the delicate hollows that marked her cheeks.
Feeling unexpectedly lighthearted, she washed and dried her hair, relieved when it fell back into the same delightful line. In the act of putting on the sweater and skirt she had just discarded, she decided to wear something more glamorous. If she waited for a reason to dress up, her entire wardrobe would rot! She slipped into a blue wool cashmere dress that exactly matched her eyes, and as the soft material caressed her figure, molding itself to her small high breasts and the long line of her hips, she felt more feminine than she had since first setting foot in Eddlestone.
Deciding that since she was "in for a penny" she might as well be "in for a pound," she sat in front of her dressing table and treated herself to a complete makeup job, applying the stuff—out of bravado—with a more liberal hand than usual: blue shadow on the lids, mascara to heighten the length of lashes so thick there had never been need of false ones, the merest hint of glossy lipstick to draw attention to her curvaceous mouth.
"If only I were in London!" she thought, her pleasure dissolving as she stood up and caught a glimpse of gray roofs and even grayer sky. What a waste of time the past two hours had been: a charade to amuse no one but herself.
The sound of her father's car sent her hurrying down to the kitchen. How ridiculous he would think her when he found her dressed up like this! Quickly she put on the kettle and was setting the cups on the tray when she heard his key in the lock.
"I'm surprised the great dictator let you escape so early, "she called.
"He didn't," a deep voice said. "I came back with him!"
Laura looked up with horror and saw a dark-haired, well-built man framed in the doorway. At first glance he appeared stocky, but as he came forward she saw he was above average height but did not look it because of the width of his shoulders. This had nothing to do with padding, for he was clad in a thick gray sweater that matched his gray trousers.
The color of his clothes in no way detracted from the ruddy outdoor appearance he exuded, for his skin glowed with healthy color, its tan making his gray eyes seem lighter and more penetrating than they might otherwise have been. His mouth was large and, at the moment, showed a tendency to curl at the corners, as if he found life amusing. But this was offset by a firm square jaw and slightly heavy nose. No Adonis, she decided, as he caught her hand in a bearlike grip and pumped it up and down, but he was brimful of confidence and sex appeal. I bet he wows them at the local dance hall, she thought, and hastily pulled her hand away from his.
"I'm not surprised you're annoyed with me," he went on. "Your father hasn't had a weekend off since you arrived. That's why I wanted to come back and apologize personally."
His easy acceptance of her rude comment about him put her at a disadvantage, and she busied herself setting another cup on the tray.
"There isn't any need to apologize, Mr. Andrews. I realize there was a great deal of work to be done."
"There still is." His smile showed very white teeth. "I can't promise not to go on being a dictator, but I'll try to see your father has part of his weekend free!"
"You're most kind," she said with steely politeness, and then looked behind him to her father who had just come in. "If you could take Mr. Andrews into the lounge, I'l 1 make some sandwiches.''
The two men disappeared, though as she cut bread, boiled some eggs and peeled tomatoes, she could hear her father's voice punctuated by a deeper one that occasionally gave a hearty burst of laughter.
By the time she wheeled in the trolley the dining table was covered with blueprints, which her father hastily pushed aside.
"I thought you'd finished working for today," she said pointedly.
"This isn't work. We were just going over a couple of things."
Laura picked up the teapot. "How do you like your tea, Mr. Andrews?"
"As it comes, thanks."
"I meant did you want Indian or China," she asked coolly.
"Indian," he said equably.
"Milk or lemon?"
Thick eyebrows rose, signaling awareness of her manner. "Milk. I've always found lemon goes best with China tea. Don't you?"
She flushed. "Yes. But it's a question of taste."
"And taste is dependent on how and where you were brought up." He took the cup she proffered and set it on the small table beside him. "Don't you agree?"
"No. Taste is often something we inherit—like a fondness for acidy foods or a loathing for cabbage."
"I don't agree with you. If children were given a carrot as a treat instead of a bar of candy, they'd be spending their pocket money at the greengrocer's instead of the sweetshop!"
"Whether or not a person prefers China tea to Indian is solely a matter of their taste buds," she persisted. "It has nothing whatever to do with the way they were brought up."
"I'm afraid we'll have to agree to differ."
Pink cheeked, she busied herself with another cup, aware that he had made her sound pompous and stupid. What on earth had made her bring in two kinds of tea when they normally used only Indian? Even as she asked herself the question she knew the answer. She had hoped to make Mr. Wonderful Andrews—as Tim called him— look suburban and ignorant; and all she had done was to make herself look far worse.
Avoiding the pale gray eyes, she held out the plate of sandwiches. Carefully one large blunt-fingered hand took a wafer-thin slice of bread.
"Please take more than one," she said quickly. "They're very small."
"So they are." Obeying her injunction, he helped himself liberally, half emptying the plate.
Watching him as she sipped her own tea, she could understand why her father liked him, for there was a forthrightness in his manner that, while it did not appeal to her, would go down well with other men: particularly those with whom he worked. He was nothing like her idea of a general manager and seemed more cast in the mold of a shop steward! Wryly she conceded how annoyed her father would be if he guessed the route her thoughts had taken. He would call her narrow and prejudiced and he would be right. Living here was bringing out the worst in her. If she wasn't careful she would end up even disliking herself!
In an effort to make amends, she came into the conversation. "You're very young to be general manager. You must feel proud."
"I try not to be. They always say that goes before a fall!"
"Not with you," John Winters intervened. "I'm prepared to bet this
will be one factory in Britain where we won't have any strikes."
"Only if I'm allowed a free hand. Once the London top brass and city types start interfering, I wouldn't a nswer for the men."
"My father's a Londoner!" Laura put in.
"Not by birth—nor inclination!" The curve of the wide mouth indicated that the remark was not to be taken seriously, yet somehow it dissolved Laura's intention to be polite.
"You sound extremely parochial, Mr. Andrews."
"I am, as far as this job is concerned. I've lived here all my life and I understand the way the men think. I speak their language and—"
"We're all British,"she cut in.
"But the problems in this part of the country are specific ones." He helped himself to the remaining sandwiches. "But you don't want to bother your head with talk of politics and strikes." He swallowed the last bite. "These were very tasty. Your father told me you're an excellent cook, and I can see he wasn't boasting."
Annoyed at the way the man had changed the subject, almost as if he did not feel she had the brains to sustain a discussion with him, she refused to be sidetracked.
"I still don't see why you're so scathing of city types and London businessmen. They're no different from the people up here."
"Then how come you haven't settled down and made friends? I gather you don't find it easy to communicate with the locals!"
Laura was too flabbergasted to reply. She had hoped their discussion was generalized and now found it to be highly particular.
"There aren't many young people here," her father said quickly. "If Laura were working she'd find it easier to mix."
With an effort Laura made herself keep quiet, wishing angrily that her father had not attempted to make any excuses for her lack of friends. What she did with her life was no concern of the blunt, ignorant young man in front ofher.
She bit hard on her lip. Blunt he might be, but ignorant he wasn't. The way he had teased her over the question of behavior and taste indicated a subtle mind that should not be underestimated. And there was no doubt he was using it against her! Mrs. Rampton had obviously broadcast an account of her meeting with her "stuck-up young neighbor," and had no doubt embellished it, too.
Rachel Lindsay - Rough Diamond Lover Page 3