by Anne Mather
Mills & Boon is proud to present a fabulous
collection of fantastic novels by
bestselling, much loved author
ANNE MATHER
Anne has a stellar record of achievement within the
publishing industry, having written over one hundred
and sixty books, with worldwide sales of more than
forty-eight MILLION copies in multiple languages.
This amazing collection of classic stories offers a chance
for readers to recapture the pleasure Anne’s powerful,
passionate writing has given.
We are sure you will love them all!
I’ve always wanted to write—which is not to say I’ve always wanted to be a professional writer. On the contrary, for years I only wrote for my own pleasure and it wasn’t until my husband suggested sending one of my stories to a publisher that we put several publishers’ names into a hat and pulled one out. The rest, as they say, is history. And now, one hundred and sixty-two books later, I’m literally—excuse the pun—staggered by what’s happened.
I had written all through my infant and junior years and on into my teens, the stories changing from children’s adventures to torrid gypsy passions. My mother used to gather these manuscripts up from time to time, when my bedroom became too untidy, and dispose of them! In those days, I used not to finish any of the stories and Caroline, my first published novel, was the first I’d ever completed. I was newly married then and my daughter was just a baby, and it was quite a job juggling my household chores and scribbling away in exercise books every chance I got. Not very professional, as you can imagine, but that’s the way it was.
These days, I have a bit more time to devote to my work, but that first love of writing has never changed. I can’t imagine not having a current book on the typewriter—yes, it’s my husband who transcribes everything on to the computer. He’s my partner in both life and work and I depend on his good sense more than I care to admit.
We have two grown-up children, a son and a daughter, and two almost grown-up grandchildren, Abi and Ben. My e-mail address is [email protected] and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.
STORM IN A RAIN BARREL
Anne Mather
www.millsandboon.com.au
Table of Contents
Cover
About the Author
Title Page
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
Copyright
CHAPTER ONE
THE rain fell in a steady downpour, causing rivulets of water to run continually down the window, obliterating, if only momentarily, the dripping trees and sodden grass. The sky was dark and heavy, and every now and then a low rumble of thunder echoed round the heavens accompanied by a flicker of lightning which lit up the prematurely darkened room. There was a high wall all round the garden outside and Domine wondered why its presence, which had previously suggested the environs of a prison to her, should now represent all that was secure and familiar.
Why didn’t he come? she asked herself again. What could possibly have delayed him?
She moved from her seat by the window and walked restlessly about the room, hugging herself as though to ward off the sense of apprehension that assailed her. She glanced at the small wrist watch she wore. Was it really only a little after three-thirty? It seemed much more than two hours since lunch was over. If only it wasn’t so dark and dismal, maybe she might have felt better. As it was, the weather had added its own sense of gloom to an already gloomy occasion.
She returned to her seat by the window, pressing her nose against the pane, breathing a misty circle, and then drawing on it with an idle finger in the way she had often been chastised for doing. Impatiently, she rubbed out the clown’s face she had etched, and heaved a sigh.
How much longer was she going to have to wait?
Reaching for her handbag, she rummaged about in the bottom and came out with the packet of cigarettes which had been hidden there. It was strange to realize that after today no one would care whether she smoked or not. She grimaced. Unless James Mannering objected to girls smoking, of course. She quelled the sense of panic that rose within her, and hastily brought out a box of matches and lit the cigarette she had already placed between her lips. Drawing on it deeply, she removed it from her mouth with unsteady fingers and replaced the burned-out match in the box. It would not do, even now, for Sister Theresa to find her with cigarettes. The habits of nine years die hard.
She looked out of the window again. From here the sweep of the gardens could be seen, and away to the right, if she pressed her face against the pane she could glimpse the drive that led up to the main entrance of the Convent of the Holy Sisters.
Her sense of nervous tension intensified as the powerful roar of a car’s engine could be heard on the road outside the convent walls, but the sound eventually died away and she realized that whoever had been driving the car had swept on by, past the closed gates at the foot of the drive.
She shivered. Surely she would not have to wait much longer. Didn’t James Mannering realize how upset and disturbed she was bound to be? Did he imagine she would take the news of her altered circumstances impassively, without having the imagination to speculate on what would happen now?
She rose to her feet again and going across to the empty grate stubbed out her cigarette and put the stub inside the box of matches and replaced the box at the bottom of her handbag. Then she looked at herself in the tiny mirror attached to her compact. Mirrors were not in plentiful supply in the convent and the reflection she saw in the powdered glass was not very clear. What would James Mannering think of her? she thought dully. And what might she think of him? What could you think of a man you had never even met? Someone who had summarily been given responsibility for you?
She pushed back the untidy fringe of chestnut hair that strayed across her wide brow. She could see nothing of beauty in olive-tanned skin, and large brown eyes. Her brows and lashes were dark, which she supposed was an advantage, particularly as the only make-up the girls were allowed to use was powder and lipstick, and that in very small quantities. Her hair was long and thick, and rather silky when she brushed it thoroughly, but as it had always been confined in one rather chunky braid she had never had much chance to appreciate it.
Sighing, she put the compact away and began to compose what she could say to James Mannering when he arrived. It was difficult to decide with any certainty how she would treat him, she knew so little about him. Of course, as he had been a contemporary of her father’s, he must be over forty, and his work, as a playwright, was not encouraging. He was probably terribly sophisticated and ‘with-it’ and would use all those awful exaggerated adjectives she had heard artists use at the local coffee-bar whenever she and one or two of her friends had gone alone into town on special occasions like someone’s birthday. She supposed he was a kind of uncle really, except that they were not related by any blood tie. Why, why had Great-Uncle Henry done it? What had he hoped to achieve? After all these years—refusing to acknowledge him as his son, and then finally making him his heir!
She shook her head. Not that she cared about the money, particularly, except that had she been six months older everything would have been so much easier. She would have been eighteen then, and capable of refusing anyone’s charity.
As it was, she had had no choice but to fall in with the terms of her great-uncle’s will. She had not attended his funeral, but that had not surprised her. After all, in all the years
that she had been in his care, she had never once visited Grey Witches, the house her great-uncle owned in Yorkshire, and where he lived for nine months of the year. The other three months he devoted to Domine, and during those times they visited a hotel in Bognor which had become Domine’s only home away from the convent. There they had spent every Easter, summer and Christmas holiday for the last nine years.
She cupped her chin on her hands, wondering what would have happened to her nine years ago, had Great-Uncle Henry not stepped in. She could still remember the horror of the train crash which had killed her parents, still recall the screeching of the brakes, the groaning of the overturning carriages, the shrieking of the women, and the cries of the children. She shivered again. Oh, yes, she still got nightmares about that time and the awful impact it had made on her life.
Then, Great-Uncle Henry had been a deliverer, taking the eight-year-old Domine away from the loneliness and misery of the orphanage and installing her in the comparative comfort and pleasant surroundings of the Convent of the Holy Sisters. Not that Great-Uncle Henry had been a religious man, he had not; but he respected the church and all it stood for, and as he affirmed that he could not possibly have Domine with him all the time, they spent these holidays together. Soon now, Domine had been hoping to leave the convent and go on to college, or maybe even university. She was bright and intelligent, and the sisters had been confident she would do well. But all that had been changed by the sudden death of her great-uncle. He had been her father’s uncle, the husband of her grandmother’s sister, and therefore his interest in Domine had been all the more admirable as their relationship had only been by marriage. But he had had no children of his own, or so he had said, and he had given Domine the kind of moral background she needed, had given a stay to her existence. But now—
She started, almost guiltily, as the door opened and Sister Theresa stood there regarding her compassionately. ‘Well, Domine?’ she said, with a smile. ‘Are you ready?’
Domine’s eyes widened. ‘You mean—he’s here!’ Her heart fluttered wildly.
‘Yes, Mr. Mannering has arrived,’ replied Sister Theresa. ‘I believe he had some difficulty locating the convent in this driving rain. And after all, these roads are not very well signposted, are they?’
Domine shook her head. ‘I—I didn’t hear the car,’ she stammered.
‘Didn’t you? Well, perhaps the storm disguised its arrival. Or maybe you were not thinking about it,’ she murmured gently.
Domine swallowed hard. In truth, she had been so wrapped up in her own thoughts she had not been conscious of her surroundings. Nodding, she lifted her handbag and smoothed the skirt of the pleated pinafore dress she was wearing over a white shirt blouse. She felt young and gauche, and wished she had something a little more inspiring to wear. But perhaps it was as well that she had not. Any attempt at sophistication on her part would appear quite ludicrous.
She followed Sister Theresa’s flowing-robed figure along the stark tiled corridor and down a flight of stairs to the ground floor. Here a beautifully carved statue of the Mother and Child gave warmth to an otherwise bare hallway. The glowing colours of their robes and the gilding of their headdresses brought their cold features to life, and Domine twisted her fingers together nervously. She was not a Catholic, and until now she had felt apart from their religion, but suddenly its strength enfolded her.
Sister Theresa knocked at the door of the study where the Reverend Mother awaited them, and ushered Domine into the room. She entered rather tentatively, her eyes going immediately to the figure of the man who stood motionless beside Reverend Mother’s desk. He had his back to the door as she entered, and was staring out of the window that surveyed the same view that previously Domine had been contemplating. The rain had not eased at all, and lamps had been lit in the study to relieve the gloom.
The man turned as Sister Theresa closed the door, and looked piercingly at Domine with eyes that were a strange light shade of blue. Cold eyes, they were, she thought palpitatingly, and could see no warmth in his face. He was not a handsome man, his features were harsh and darkly tanned, lines deeply etched beside a mouth which had a sensual curve. He was, she supposed, a little under six feet in height, with broad shoulders but an otherwise lean body. His hair was very dark and straight, and sideburns grew low on his cheeks. She couldn’t begin to guess at his age, although he was younger than she had vaguely imagined, certainly younger than her father would have been had he lived. And certainly he was not the artistic aesthete of her imaginings. He dressed like a business man in a dark suit with a matching waistcoat, and wore a thick dark car-coat overall. At the moment, his coat was unfastened, and his hands were thrust deep into the pockets of his overcoat. Raindrops glistened on his dark hair, and Domine reflected that he had not wasted any time discussing her with Reverend Mother. She wondered what Reverend Mother thought of him, and gathered from the old woman’s expression that she was still rather doubtful about delivering her charge into this man’s hands.
However, she appeared to disguise her thoughts, for she rose as Domine approached her desk, and said: ‘Ah, there you are, my child. As you can see, Mr. Mannering has at last arrived to take you home.’
Home? The word stuck in Domine’s throat. Where was home now? Some place belonging to this man? The hotel in Bognor? Or Grey Witches, finally?
‘Yes,’ she faltered now. ‘How—how do you do?’ Awkwardly she held out her hand, and with an imperceptible shrug James Mannering shook hands with her. His hands were the only artistic thing about him, she thought, long and lean, with smooth, rounded nails.
‘Hello, Domine,’ he said dispassionately. ‘Are you ready to leave?’
‘Oh, but—’ began Reverend Mother, glancing at Domine and then back at James Mannering. ‘I mean—won’t you stay and have tea with us? It—it would give Domine a chance to get to know you. After all, you are a complete stranger to her, are you not?’
James Mannering compressed his lips for a moment. ‘Yes, we are strangers, Reverend Mother,’ he agreed, ‘however, I don’t believe we could possibly begin to get to know one another with a third party present.’ His gaze flickered almost sardonically. ‘Besides, as you know, I was delayed in arriving because of the weather and I should prefer to return to London before dinner time.’
Domine felt an awful tightening of her stomach muscles. Until this moment she had been so concerned with meeting the man himself that she had not fully realized what being his ward would mean. She would be subject to his desires in everything, and wherever he said she should go she would go. She shivered, and Reverend Mother intercepted her nervousness. With a stiffening of her shoulders she said:
‘Nevertheless, Mr. Mannering, I must insist that you have tea with us. As you are a stranger to all of us, I should like to discuss Domine’s future with you. It is natural that we should want to know what your plans for her are, and what arrangements have been made for her to continue with her studies. Domine has always been one of our most intelligent pupils, and it would be a shame if she were to waste her talents—now.’
James Mannering drew out a cigar case and glanced at Reverend Mother rather shrewdly before extracting a cigar and placing it between his teeth. ‘Very well,’ he said laconically. ‘Very well, by all means have tea. But I’ll just have this’—he indicated the cigar—‘if you don’t mind?’
The question was unnecessary, Domine felt sure. James Mannering was the kind of man who would respond to few restrictions. She had the feeling he would smoke his cigar whatever Reverend Mother might say.
Reverend Mother bit her lower lip rather sharply, and walking to the door she opened it and called: ‘Sister Theresa! May we have the trolley now, please?’
Domine hovered in the centre of the carpet aware that James Mannering’s eyes lingered on her rather speculatively, and she wondered how on earth she would ever get used to being his ward. Even six months seemed to stretch endlessly ahead of her. Mannering responded to a suggestion from Reve
rend Mother that he should sit down, and lounged into a deep leather chair by the window while Domine perched on the edge of a high-backed chair which was placed beside the desk. Sister Theresa wheeled in a tea trolley containing cakes and sandwiches, and Domine was forced to accept a sandwich and nibbled it without enthusiasm. The grimness of the day seemed to have intensified a hundredfold, and she could hardly believe all this was actually happening. There was an air of unreality about the whole affair, and for the first time she pondered the man’s reactions to being landed with a teenage ward without a real knowledge of the world outside the convent walls. During the past few minutes she had become aware of her own ignorance of life in general, and a feeling of despair gripped her. If she had been the kind of girl who sometimes came to the convent, girls like Susan Johnson, one of her friends, she would have felt able to cope, but Susan had a normal home and background, with two elder brothers to have fun with, to share experiences with, while Domine had had no one for the past nine years but a rather elderly gentleman whose ideas of entertaining the young were confined to trips to the cinema or the theatre, and occasionally a visit to some charity function. She had listened to the other girls gossiping about clothes and pop-records and boy-friends, but apart from this she had no knowledge of their world.
Reverend Mother began to question James Mannering about his plans for Domine, but his replies were non-committal and after a while the old woman seemed to realize she would learn little this way. Instead, she turned her attention to Domine and said:
‘Have you made any plans yet, Domine? Have you thought about what kind of occupation you might find?’
Domine hesitated, conscious of Mannering’s interested attention. ‘Obviously, it’s a little early for me to have made any plans,’ she began awkwardly, ‘however, at the end of the six months—when Mr. Mannering’s responsibility towards me ceases—I expect I shan’t find it too difficult to take up some kind of office work. My examination results were good, and I have the qualifications for bank or library work if I need it.’