Leopard In The Snow

“By then you will no doubt be free to go back to him.”

She trembled. “What do you mean?”

“Simply that I intend to make arrangements to leave the country. Until I do, you will remain.”

Helen gasped. “But that could take months!”

“Weeks, anyway,” he conceded dryly.

The door opened suddenly behind her and she started nervously. It was the manservant, Bolt, who stood on the threshold, his massive shoulders coated with snow.

“Ah, Bolt, you’re back.” Dominic Lyall greeted the man with a warmth he had not shown to Helen. “Did you find the car?”

Bolt grinned. “Yes, sir. The suitcases are in the hall. If you’ll give me a moment to shed my coat, I’ll show the young lady to her room.”

Dominic Lyall nodded. “Do that, Bolt. And by the way, our house guest’s name is Miss James, Miss Helen James. She’ll be staying with us rather longer than we expected.”

Helen had no idea what message flashed between the two men, but Bolt’s only show of surprise was a faint drawing together of his brows. He tossed Helen’s keys and said: “Yes, sir.”

“I’ll take those,” went on his employer, catching the keys as Bolt tossed them to him. “I’ll explain the situation later, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

Bolt was infuriatingly complacent, and Helen, standing watching the two men, felt absurdly near to tears. This couldn’t be happening to her. It really couldn’t. Dominic Lyall wasn’t seriously intending to keep her here until he made arrangements to leave the country, was he?

“I don’t want to see my room!” she burst out tremulously. “You can’t keep me a prisoner here, you can’t!”

Dominic Lyall’s mouth had a slightly cruel twist. “And how do you propose to prevent me?” he enquired, in a soft, menacing tone.

“I – I’ll run away –”

“Again?”

“I’ll go to the nearest farm – or village. I – I’ll phone for help!”

“There are no phones here, Miss James.”

“I mean – in the village.”

“Do you know the way to the village?” Dominic Lyall asked quietly.

“It shouldn’t be too difficult to find.” Helen’s voice broke.

“In these conditions?”

A sob rose in her throat. “You’re mad! Mad!” She caught her breath. “I don’t want to stay here. I just want to go to Bowness. I promise I won’t tell a soul I’ve seen you. Just let me go!”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible, Miss James.” Her tormentor turned to Bolt. “We must move the car tomorrow. Before the thaw sets in.”

Bolt nodded. “I’ll see to it in the morning.”

Helen felt a devastating sense of hopelessness. There seemed no way out of this bizarre situation. Out of her own mouth she had condemned herself. If she had not told him of her flight from her father – if she had not recognised him – if, if, if …

“You can’t stop me from trying to escape,” she declared tremulously.

“I shouldn’t advise it,” Dominic Lyall commented, flexing his back muscles.

There was a definite look of weariness about him now and Helen realised with a pang that it was standing so long that tired him. She ought to have felt glad that he was not as invulnerable as he would like her to believe, but she didn’t. A traitorous sense of compassion was stirring within her, and she wondered what it was that had made him spurn the world he knew for this almost ascetic isolation.

Bolt, too, was aware of his master’s discomfort, and with the familiarity of years of service said with anxious reproof: “It’s almost time for your treatment, sir. If you’ll go down, I’ll be with you as soon as I’ve shown Miss James to her room.”

Dominic Lyall’s expression showed vague self-derision as he looked across at Helen. “You see how it is with me?” he demanded bitterly. “I’m like an old piece of machinery that needs constant oiling, aren’t I, Bolt?”

Helen’s lips parted. “You’re not old!” she exclaimed, unable to prevent herself.

“At least as many years older than you were when first you heard my name,” he stated grimly, as a spasm of pain crossed his lean face. “If – you will – excuse me …”

He left the room limping heavily, his hip twisting in a grotesque distortion of itself. Bolt watched him go, an expression of such love and devotion on his face that Helen felt almost an interloper. The cheetah, too, moved silently after its master and then Bolt turned back to her.

“One moment, miss,” he said, unbuttoning his fur-lined overcoat and taking it off. “If you’ll come with me.”

Helen wanted to protest. She ought to protest. She should say all over again that this was crazy, that they couldn’t keep her here against her will, that she would find some way to get away whatever they told her. But she didn’t. Instead, she watched Bolt pick up her suitcases and then followed his enormous frame up the wide oak staircase, her feet sinking into the pile of its leaf-brown and gold carpet.

Like the hall, the staircase was panelled, and halfway up there was a circular window overlooking the back of the house. It was difficult to see anything through the swirling flakes that were still falling, but the brilliance of the snow did give an artificial illumination to the scene.

At the top of the stairs, a long landing led in either direction. A balustrade overlooked the well of the hall below, and Helen silently admired a crystal chandelier suspended there. Bolt led the way along the landing to the right of the stairs passing several doors before halting at the room which was to be hers. He opened the door, switched on the lights and allowed Helen to precede him inside.

There was a soft olive green carpet on the floor and this colour was echoed in the olive and cream bedspread and the long wild silk curtains drawn across the windows. The furniture, the bed, the triple-mirrored dressing table, the wide wardrobe, were made of a dark mahogany, slightly larger than life but not out of place in this high-ceilinged apartment. A radiator ran beneath the window and the room was beautifully warm.

Bolt stood down her suitcases and indicated a door near the wardrobe at the far side of the room. “The bathroom, miss,” he explained, looking round to assure himself that everything was in order. “I’ve put hot water bottles in the bed and they can be refilled later if you need them.”

Helen bit her lip. “Thank you, Bolt,” she said, amazed at her calm acceptance of the situation. Then, as he moved to the door: “By the way …”

“Yes, miss?” He surveyed her politely even while she sensed his impatience to go his master.

“Are you – do you intend to – lock me in?”

Bolt half-smiled, and swung the door closed behind him, and only then did she see the key on her side of the door.

Now that the manservant was gone, Helen moved to the windows, drawing aside the curtains to peer out. Her room appeared to be at the back of the house, but apart from a few snow-clad trees there was little to be seen. She allowed the curtains to swing closed and turned to survey her domain.

She thought a trifle hysterically that no hotel bedroom could be more luxurious and no proprietor more concerned for the comfort of his guest than Bolt. It was ludicrous! The more she thought about it, the more fantastic it seemed. She smoothed her moist palms down the seams at the sides of her trousers. How long was she expected to stay here? How long would it take Dominic Lyall to settle his affairs to his satisfaction and leave the country?

She paced restlessly about the floor, trying to quell the panic that was rising again inside her now that she was alone. Did he really mean what he had said? Or had it been a deliberate ruse to frighten her for his own amusement? She doubted the latter somehow, and yet he was a cultured, civilised man! How could he so cold-bloodedly decide to detain her here against her will until it suited him to let her go? What kind of life had he led these past few years to destroy the pangs of his conscience?

She looked at her watch. It was after six o’clock. Dominic Lyall had said that he had a meal at eight. But right now she doubted her ability to eat anything. And where was he? What sort of treatment did Bolt mete out?

She stopped before her mirror and surveyed her dishevelled appearance without pleasure. Her trouser legs were creased from when she had rolled them up, her hair was wind-blown, and her cheeks bore the scratches she had received when she had plunged headlong through the hedge. She raised a trembling hand to touch a strand of silky black hair. What was she going to do?